Finalists in what, you ask? Continue reading
Perhaps it’s big magic, perhaps it’s many small great things, but for the good of the commonwealth, I choose to think it’s the origin of us all.
Before the fall, when the summer sun seems like the light of Paris, and cerulean and lavender seem like every day true colors, circumstances of childhood don’t matter. If we have bags, we travel. Our nemesis – winter – is conquered, and we believe that today will be different. Continue reading
I don’t talk with my hands.
Why should I? I’m a writer and a lover of words. No hand expressions are needed if the words are right when talking about writing.
Oh, how wrong I am. Continue reading
We writers aren’t allowed to be introverts anymore.
Back in the day, a writer was a man most times (women were home frying the bacon and changing the diapers) with thick dark hair that he pulled with one hand as he wrote down his words furiously on paper with his special pen.
Then that man walked dejectedly to the local pub or bar and drank away his creative problems. Somehow, he produced a masterpiece with a good editor, and then his publisher made sure the book sold tens of thousands of that hard-earned tome.
Those were the good ole days.
Now men and women write on fast-paced computers, editing with a keystroke, and banging their heads against the monitor between washing the sheets and emptying the dishwasher. Continue reading
I never would have guessed that the third stage of publishing a kid’s picture book – the stage in which I actually read said book to kids, would produce knocking knees and sweaty palms.
But last week I found myself at my grandson’s elementary school, nearly ending my children’s book career at the front desk. Continue reading