While walking

in whipping wind

a palm frond squawk-squawks:

new kind of crow

In a time and place

There are things I love about the desert. It's close to the bone, a lean landscape pulled taut. Hills rise like a knobby spine. Joshua trees dance their arabesques, luring you away from concrete into still stretches of sand. Here and there you find ocotillo, palo verde, maybe a ghost flower.
There is space to breathe, to think, to imagine.

So with anticipation, I attended an author event, featuring NO PLACE FOR A PURITAN: The Literature of California's Deserts, during UC Riverside's Writer's Week.

The writers talked about the desert as a place that has a profound effect on themselves and their writing.

That sense of place is crucial to any piece of writing. It doesn't matter if it's a suburban sprawl, a city slum, the tundra or forest. The reader needs to feel settled in a particular place and time to be grounded.

The desert, of course, brings baggage with it into any story. It is fearsome--widely-known for killing heat, sparse water and poisonous creatures. It is sometimes an outpost for eccentric loners and a seasonal playground for the rich and famous. But it also overwhelms with stark beauty.

Ruth Nolan, who edited the anthology and is pictured here (photo courtesy of Ruth), wrote in the introduction of NO PLACE FOR A PURITAN about her first sighting of the desert when she was ten: "We descended toward the small town of Victorville, racing past Joshua trees whose thick-needled fists etched the sky gracefully and fiercely against the sunset. I knew then and there that I'd found my place, my calling, my landscape."

Ruth, an associate professor of English at the College of the Desert, has several published collections of poetry and is working on a novel.

I asked her later why it's important to have a sense of place in writing, what it imparts to the reader, how it enriches the work. Here is her answer:

"Connecting to, and evoking a sense of place, which in my case happens to be the Mojave Desert and neighboring Inland Empire, is essential to everything I write. My deep, lifelong bond with these geographies and their many variations and nuances forms the heart and soul of my poetry and prose.
I'm particularly inspired these days by the Salt Song Trail of the Chemehuevi Indian people; a mapped-out, geographical circle of places and locations in the California desert near and along the Colorado River. These ancient "bird songs," sung to this day, trace the actual and symbolic seasonal migrations of birds in the region, and form a continuous circuit of stories that sustain and inform the culture.
For me, long hours, days, weeks, and years spent circling the vast and imposing Mojave...has given me an anchor on which to roam an ocean of worlds, a dry lakebed of sight and sound and metaphor that helps me make sense of an erratic human world and create my own storied landscape...Place is a canvas on which a writer sets their world, be it literal or abstract, or both, and invites the reader to step in, to share the journey, learn the song, feel the words, open the heart, feel the pulse."

Now that's a poet's way of talking about place, for sure. I also jotted down some quotes from other panelists.

One thing you need to understand about Tod Goldberg is he is a funny man. The author of BURN NOTICE, LIVING DEAD GIRL and director of the UCR/Palm Desert MFA Program in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts, sprinkles quips into most everything he says. Here's a sample: "You're always ruled by the politics of place. What the desert provides me as a writer is a blank landscape to write about regret and mental decay and loss." (When he needs to think about a story) "I drive with the top down on the convertible--cuz I'm that guy. Place becomes the jumping off point in my work."
Goldberg doesn't, however, let actual place straight jacket his work. For instance, he put a non-existent oil company in "The Salt," a story set at the Salton Sea.
"What is wonderful about being fiction writers, we have the license to do what we want. You are allowed to make stuff up. Fiction writers can not be beholden to telling the truth."

Deanne Stillman grew up in Cleveland but never felt at home, she said. The author of TWENTYNINE PALMS: A TRUE STORY OF MURDER, MARINES, AND THE MOJAVE and a faculty member of the UCR low-residency MFA program, said that changed when she went to New Mexico to study with Tony Hillerman. "I could see in person how place shaped story and characters. As soon as I saw my first tumbleweed, I knew I'd come home."

Also on the panel were Michael Jayme, author of THIS TIME TOMORROW and assistant professor at UCR, and publisher Malcolm Margolin of Heyday Books, which specializes in California history and culture.

NO PLACE FOR A PURITAN, features dozens of writers including Sylvia Plath, John Steinbeck, Hunter S. Thompson, Joan Didion, Susan Straight, Gayle Brandeis and Barry Lopez. It is available from Heyday Books and is co-published by the Inlandia Institute and Santa Clara University, made possible in part by a grant from the James Irvine Foundation.

Keep an eye out for my upcoming interview with Gayle Brandeis, whose MY LIFE WITH THE LINCOLNS, is set in Chicago during the Civil Rights era. Gayle and I will give away a signed copy of the book.

What about you? Has place been important in any of your writings or dragged you into something you read and left you breathless?

Is Mark McVeigh spectacular or what?

My plan was to wish you a spectacular weekend with this sunset photo I shot. I thought I'd write a haiku. But then Mark McVeigh shot my plan out of the water.

The fabulous editor with his new agency is offering a 15-minute chat with people who send ten new followers to his blog. How spectacular is that? Certainly right up there with sunsets.

So click on over, mention me if you like, and post the link yourselves. Please leave me a comment if you follow him so I can count you. I leave you with pretty skies and best wishes, as well.

Monday addendum: I've got my interview time with Mark! *gulp* But while I don't need anyone to follow him for me, there are other bloggers still looking for ten. So you could give someone a helping hand. And if you have any ideas for questions, leave them for me today. I'll probably think of the most important thing I need to ask after it's over. No, no. I'm a professional. *small squeek*

Putting on the blog

Writers-who-blog are popping up in the thousands, which raises questions. Why do we blog? Who reads us? How can we possibly interact/comment on all that's going on? How do we know we're doing it right?

Several interesting discussions have come up this week. Check out Roni at Fiction Groupie for an editor's take on behaving badly online and what the fallout might be; Lisa and Laura Write for dealing with time issues and Hilary Wagner for being prolific or pathetic.

After reading sorry-I've-got-nothing-to-say blog posts or sorry-I-haven't-time-to-comment posts, I think we should cut ourselves some slack. And whatever you do, don't throw any old thing up there because you think you must post or comment; it's a public forum and will be noticed and, perhaps, noted.

I'd like to make a modest proposal. Nobody must post every day. If you post at least once or twice a week, you keep your blog presence and give your readers something worth the visit and time to drop a comment. Since our Google reading lists show when new posts come in, there isn't any need to remember that somebody posts on certain days of the week, either.

How often do you post and why? Do you have any ideas for how to deal with the volume of blogs you follow? Is it worth it? And, for the record, I think it's worth it. I love the people I've met and the things I've discovered. But sometimes I'm stretched as thin as a piece of gum starting to shred.

Big step, little step and step-up-to-the-plate contest and surprise!

Squelching through a muddy patch in a river bottom, my friend and I discovered the tracks of previous visitors.
They're sort of ghostly, don't you think? Does this not raise speculation about who passed this way? Or warm fuzzies about springtime and baby feet? I think this photo is a great writing prompt if anyone is inclined.
Thinking about the steps we take brings me to a most-awesome contest. Really. This tandem affair offers prizes that should propel any writer along the journey.
Two fantastic bloggers Elana Johnson and Shelli Johannes-Wells have week-long contests underway. First requirement is to follow them both. At stake in Elana's is a query critique by one of five literary agents. Five more winners will receive a query crit from Elana and a copy of her eBook, From the Query to the Call. Shelli is offering a query and first chapter critique from an agent, marketing consultation and books. For details, read their blogs and enter!
Even if you don't win, contests like this are an excellent kick-in-the-pants to polish your query and first chapter. Be ready for any steps towards living your dream. Good luck and great journey, everyone!

Addendum extraordinaire:

FAT TUESDAY SURPRISE!

The mailman came to my door, wiping his brow, and saying, "That's a heavy one."

He delivered my Mardi Gras contest winning prize from amazing writer/blogger Tere Kirkland at The Lesser Key.

The parades are rolling on the streets of New Orleans, and I'm rolling in beads and pralines and chicory coffee and gumbo mix and hot stuff! It's the best thing, other than being there. Thank you soooo much, Tere. My day is made.

Love At First Sight Blogfest Today!

Happy Valentine's Day! Spice it up with Courtney Reese's Love At First Sight Blogfest.

This is an excerpt from an adult urban fantasy, currently "shelved." I've never put up such a long scene before but it's the best I've got for this fest. Brief background: A day before this scene, Felyne was beaten by unseen assailants, likely of the supernatural kind.

Felyne wandered on the pier, past the steel roller coaster. She glanced up at the Ferris wheel, the first solar-powered one in the world, according to the sign. The sun was low, a golden backdrop to the amusement rides.

"You like Ferris wheels?" asked a male voice close to her ear.

She whirled to face a guy, who had a shaved head, muscular neck and eyes so blue they reminded her of periwinkles.

"Sure. Doesn't everyone?" Had he followed her? Was he a threat or just a guy with a strange pick-up line?

"I had a girlfriend once who said they make her dizzy. Me, I love looking down from nine stories high, seeing the coast as far as it stretches. Best part is when it stops at the very top." He tilted his head back to gaze up at the giant wheel.

Felyne snuck a better look at him. He wore a gray sweatshirt, faded jeans and flip-flops. Like a surfer. No neck tattoos or piercings. He had really defined cheekbones.

He caught her checking him out. "Wanna ride with me?"

It was a simple question but unexpected. Her heart increased its tempo. She stuttered a lame excuse about getting home.

"The sun's about to set, best time to go up," he said. "It doesn't take all that long, and, hey, I'm paying."

He dazzled her with a smile that seemed to light his entire face.

She didn't protest as he led her to the ticket booth. In a hazy mix of confusion and anticipation, she climbed into the grape-colored gondola with him. The ride operator shut the small door. The gondola inched off the platform and stopped a few yards off the ground as an older couple settled in the next car.

"I'm Bryan." He looked at her expectantly.

"Oh, hi, I'm Felyne."

The Ferris wheel jerked and swept upward. Then it hit her. She had gotten into a ride with a stranger, and they would soon be at neck-breaking heights. What if his dazzle was just that, a means to catch her off guard?

She clutched the seat, white-knuckled, and looked around, wondering if she could escape if necessary.

He stretched out a foot and nudged her tennis shoe. "You seem really tense. Scared, even. You sure you like to ride these things?"

Make him talk. Find out who he is.

"I'm fine. So what about you? Surfer or party DJ?"

He laughed. "DJ? Not ever. I do surf. Grew up here," he gestured at the town that sprawled along the shore. "I run my own landscape business so I can surf when swells hit."

"I always wanted to try it. Surfing, I mean."

The sun was just a sliver of red on the horizon and quickly gone. In its place, the sky glowed like a huge crimson curtain. The ride stopped. All was still. Then a seagull shrieked.

Bryan said abruptly, "Come here."

She was only a few feet from him. What did he want?

She slid over a bit. He pointed up the coast to the Santa Monica Mountains. A line of pelicans glided close to the water with the grace of dancers and the precision of pilots.

She pulled off her sunglasses and leaned closer to Bryan to watch them. He smelled salty like the sea and fresh as a morning after rain. It made her want to inhale deeply, and she inched a little closer.

When he turned to look at her, flashing that bedazzling smile again, he was so close she noticed one of his teeth had a chip out of it and his chin was bruised, as though he'd been hit hard in the mouth.

Had he been in a fight?

She slid away from him, wincing from her own bruises.

"Man, you are as skittish as a stray cat," he said. "You know, I'm the one who should be nervous, approaching a looker like you."

Her heart sped up another notch. A lot of people found her looks more unnerving than attractive.

His long fingers drummed against his denim-covered thighs and then began to fidget with a woven Tibetan bracelet on his wrist. He had big, strong hands.

The Ferris wheel moved again. The fading sunset and carnival lights whirled.

Bryan studied her. "You have the most amazing eyes I've ever seen. Amber like a lion's but with golden depths."

Damn. She wasn't wearing the contacts and had taken off her sunglasses without thinking. She pulled them out of her pocket and put them back on, dimming what light there was.

"Who are you? What do you want?" she blurted, ready to defend herself.

The smile vanished from his lips and eyes. "I wanted to ride the Ferris wheel with you. I guess that was a fatal error."

The rode in silence until the gondola came to a halt. The operator held open the door.

She got out, knees wobbly, body aching. She'd been more scared than she realized.

"I don't know what your deal is, but good luck with it." He stared at her a moment, shook his head and walked away.

She watched him go with relief. And regret, she had to admit, as she saw his back disappear in the crowd.

Of forest fungi and Love at First Sight

Out of rain-soaked, black earth this plate-sized mushroom popped in a wooded part of a river trail. I have no idea if it's edible, psychotropic or poisonous since I'm neither a mycologist nor a hunter-gatherer of wild 'shrooms.

I just like its substantial presence, porcelain-like cap and those orangey gills. And I thought it would be fun to follow the toadstools of my last post.

It's almost Valentine's Day and folks would be better off not serving their lovers a platter-full of wild mushrooms, unless it's a fatal attraction. However there are two blogs where you can get yourself a swoon-filled serving of romance.

Karen Amanda Hooper is celebrating Loveapalooza week with prizes. And Courtney Reese is featuring Love At First Sight Blogfest on Sunday. I've signed up on both widgets and encourage you to, too. Karen seeks a love quote or crush, while Courtney wants scenes of that magic moment.

As prep for this, here's a peek into one of my favorite books, AWAY by Jane Urquhart. In this story, the women of a certain family have always lived in northern latitudes near icy waters and are haunted by the tale of an ancestor who lost her heart and her name to a dying sailor. She had pulled him from the wreckage of a ship--from whiskey barrels, bobbing silver teapots and cabbages. Here are a few of Ms. Urquhart's eloquent words:

Clearing a path through cabbages and teapots, she had dragged her treasure up onto the beach to let it dry in the sun. She had put her two warm hands on either side of his cool face and ran her thumbs along the bones above his eyes, the delicate skin of his eyelids. She traced his collarbones with her fingers and tentatively touched the soft hair on his belly. Disturbed by the chill of the sea that had enveloped his body, she lay down beside him on the beach, loosened her long red hair across his shirt, and placed her head on his chest. He stirred as she did this and spoke the word "Moira" once again. When she dropped her arm lightly across his narrow hips a cold hand came up to meet hers. The sun rose higher in the sky, drying her skirt, his trousers, causing the silver vessels to wax radiant.

*sigh* Is that not gorgeously written?

I think I hear the Nutcracker Suite

Sometimes things pop up when and where you least expect them. It's good, since I've had several interviews pop up for writing gigs.

That's what has been happening last week and this one, meaning I've barely had a moment to read or write blogs. I will be back to visit y'all soon.

I did want to stick my head in for an instant and shout out: I have 150 followers, or blogging friends, which is amazing and awesome and I want you to know it really means a lot to feel the support! Thank you so much.

And I also need to shout out to Shelley, the Storyqueen, who kind of dared me to finish my novel-in-progress in five days. That would have been as likely as turning these toadstools into carriages but I did write about 2,500 new words over the weekend thanks to her nudge. So thank you, Shelley! I'm getting close. I swear.

Hands on

Do you know this bird?

From this angle, perhaps it's hard to be sure, because it's signature beak, with pouch, is seemingly smaller than in reality.

I found this brown pelican perched on the end of a pier, enjoying the sun and not inclined to find me at all spooky.


Years ago, I had an even closer encounter with a pelican. I was jogging on Santa Monica beach with a friend when we saw a pelican being thrashed in the shorebreak. We waded in, my heroic friend jumped into a wave and grabbed the bird. We saw it was wrapped in fishing line, which had pinned its wings.

Once on the sand, I held the the bird's body, while my friend unraveled the line. Those birds are bigger and heavier than you might image, and he wasn't at all relaxed like the bird in my photo. But eventually, we folded the wings back in place, me still hanging on, while my friend tried to remove fish hooks that were embedded inside that pouched beak.

Oh, my. There were maybe a dozen hooks, some very old and rusty and not easily dislodged. By this time, we had drawn a small crowd. Someone with a pocket knife helped cut line and pry at the hooks.

Bird lice start running up my arms. Eek. Yuck. Freak out. But I didn't let go. I am forever grateful to a woman who brushed them off me as they came.

After we had done all that could be done, everybody stood back, and I released my grip and scooted back myself. At first, the pelican just stood there, shivering. Then he spread his wings. I was astounded at how immense they were. The sea breeze ruffled his feathers. He just let it blow across him. As minutes ticked by, I began to worry that he was too injured to fly. But then in the blink, a heartbeat, he flapped off, straight across the sea. And was gone.

I like to hope he didn't succumb to injuries but lived a long life for a pelican.

Yesterday, I was on a different pier (I get around) and it was dark. I had taken a deliciously mysterious after-sunset walk by the shore and then wandered onto the wooden pier. I was thinking about my novel-in-progress, which takes place in and around the sea. I looked up to enjoy a scarf of clouds and then saw the Big Dipper. Suddenly, I had an idea for my novel and pulled out my tiny notebook and started scribbling, while glancing up. I drew another crowd--or at least I stopped a group of people walking the pier who all stared up to see what wonder I must be seeing. I mean, I was taking notes, right? Ha!

Have you, my eccentric writing friends, drawn a crowd lately?

Oh! and P.S. I meant to thank two wonderful bloggers for giving me awards recently. I received both awards before so I won't do any passing along this time. But if you haven't visited these ladies, please do. Jemi Fraser included me in the Circle of Friends and Carolina Valdez Miller bestowed a Silver Lining. Thanks again!

Fighting the funk

I'm in a funk. The sky's gray, and so is my mood. I don't like to feel weighted down--lead in my boots, stones sewn in my hem, burdens of a lifetime on my back.

The manuscript that looked so shiny and fun the other day, now lies like a pile of rubbish--shredded scenes, dingy dialogue, pointless plot.

I could use Cher to slap my face and shout, "Snap out of it!" Lacking that, I've looked around for something bright and hopeful.

I found these photos I shot the other day in a bank parking lot. (Sorry to my readers still blanketed by winter.)

Poppies, with their shocking colors and delicate petals bobbing on long stems, are pretty much a pick-me-up.

Flowers of any kind are astonishing. However did such temporary flashes of brilliance, coupled with practical propagation, evolve?

Thoughts such as these always bring me back to the realization that I get to live in this extraordinary world and should damn well make the most of whatever time is allotted me.

I'm going to eat a chocolate croissant for breakfast and run barefoot in my dreams. I'm kicking off the lead boots and yanking the stitches from my hem so the stones can clatter back to the earth where they belong.

And I'm determined to look kindly upon my poor manuscript and see its moments of brilliance (I hope) even as I remedy its flaws.

So what do you do when you need to snap out of it?

To write or not to write, is that a question?

B.J. Anderson posed the question: Why do we write? And she turned it into a contest.

I have to say I'm just wired that way. For instance, I was walking on Venice Beach, shooting pictures, when I overheard the gulls chatting. My brain said:

the gulls erupted

in a chorus of laughter,

yelps and whistles

A little later, I noticed that when the tide rushing in met the tide flowing out, it created something new. I wrote in the tiny notebook that lives in my pocket:

The wrestling tide sent up a rooster tail of spray.

I love the sense of wonder I feel when my mind gives me new imagery or introduces me to some fascinating character who sweeps into my life and dogs my steps--even if it makes me loopy in public. How about you? Don't forget to visit B.J. to enter her cool contest.

Over the moon

Wolf Moon at Venice Beach. Technically, I shot this the day before the biggest, closest full moon of the year, but it was a mighty pretty sky, including the sea haze.

Did you go crazy or get creative with this moon?

I was dealing with life stuff away from home, but I did some reading and finished Diana Wynne Jones' House of Many Ways, a sequel to Howl's Moving Castle. As usual, she delighted me with imaginative story and humor.

Then I picked up The Dead & the Gone, the companion to Life As We Knew It by Susan Beth Pfeffer. The moon seems a little sinister after Pfeffer hit it with an asteroid, pushing it closer to earth and disrupting tides, atmosphere, magma--shoving us into a volatile world. And if you think this is just sci-fi/fantasy, remember that scientists are concerned about future hits by large asteroids. They aren't unknown. In 1908, an object from space decimated 770 acres of forest in Siberia. Pfeffer's books are worth reading for more than pulse-pounding disaster, but for what they say about human expectations and what really matters when the world as we know it becomes inhospitable.

Now for some non-dystopian, crazy fun with the Over the Top Award, which I received from Yat-Yee Chong. Thank you!

The rules are: Answer the questions with one word and pass the award along to five bloggers.

Your cell phone: Awesome.

Your hair: Baby-fine.

Your mother: Tough.

Your father: Distant.

Your favorite food: Pecans.

Your dream last night: Lost.

Your favorite drink: Water.

Your dream goal: Author.

What room are you in: Studio.

Your hobby: Photography.

Your fear: Rottweilers.

Where do you see yourself in six years: Published.

Where were you last night: Venice.

Something you aren't: Extroverted.

Muffins: Cinnamon.

Wish list item: House.

Where did you grow up: Coastal.

Last thing you did: Walked.

What are you wearing: Sweater.

Your TV: Netflix.

Your pets: Gone.

Friends: Supportive.

Your life: Complicated.

Your mood: Determined.

Missing someone: Daughter.

Vehicle: Miata.

Something you aren't wearing: Heels.

Your favorite store: Book.

Your favorite color: Aqua.

When was last time your laughed: Today.

Last time you cried: Book.

Your best friend: Caring.

One place you go to over and over: Seashore.

Facebook: Unused.

Favorite place to eat: Pho.

I pass this along to five bloggers who go over the top in entirely different ways--from gorgeous writing to words to chew on:

Julie Dao

Donna Hole

Stephanie Thornton

Liza Carens Salerno

Myra McEntire

Do with it as you will, my friends. No strings attached.

Finding an opening to fit the payoff

On the way to critique group yesterday I saw this scene and had to jump out of my car and shoot it on my handy cell phone. Flowers and snowy mountains are the bounty of California after it rains. The payoff.

At critique, I read the first chapter of my novel-in-progress, Sea Daughters, and got good feedback. But no one addressed an issue nagging in the back of my mind. I've been thinking it was a slow opening, and, these days, that can get a rejection in five minutes flat.

I decided to speak up and then found out there were concerns. One person suggested a starting point that I think will increase the mystery and tension immediately. The material was all there, but it needed an adjustment--move one thing up front, delete another scene.

The current SCBWI Bulletin has an article "Page One" by Karen Schwabach that suggests you should write the first page last, after you know what you are offering the reader, because it is a promise, a contract you need to keep. Does the beginning hint at what the story will be, where it will end?

I may write and rewrite the opening more times, but I feel like the changes I'm making today are a big step in the right direction. Have you found your opening only after you secured your ending?

P.S. I am going to be offline a couple of days. Happy writing, everyone.

Moment of inhale

Rocks shift. Clacking, grating underfoot. Overhead, two gulls flap and screech at the wind. The air is filled with wild hints of briny depths.
Breakers rear and roar, then finish with a swish and hiss. Fingers of white water drag small rocks in a clattering mass.

Everyone is looking for what the sea spit out. Kelp is strewn like golden entrails. A few tough shells, built for battering, lie spent in the tiny patches of sand.

I find a quarter, it's markings obscured by a layer of hard green and brown tarnish.

The sea gives and takes back and gives again.

Yesterday, the sea gave me setting and atmosphere for my novel-in-progress. I may not have written words in the manuscript, but I found them while I basked in the sun that followed the storms. I hope you found inspiration in those moments of inhale, too.

P.S. After posting this, I realized I should mention that I also went to a boat marina to pick up some more inspiration for that story. I wandered into a yacht dealership, not the sort of place I frequent, and met a very nice man who tried to answer my questions and gave me a magazine full of useful information and pictures. You never know what you will find by looking and reaching out. *smiles*

Watching the rain fall

Rain continues in California, and I am a lucky one who has weathered these storms without disaster or even minor disturbance. That is water, not icicles, streaming from the roof of the lovely Spanish-style apartment building where I live.

Most years, rainfall is miserly in this semi-arid zone, which is why I wrote this haiku the day before the rains began:

with a cloud of dust

a blue heron lands upon a

Montezuma cypress

So I am thrilled to find our very seasonal greenery already blanketing brown hillsides. Some years it turns our golden California into an almost-Ireland for a little while.

Meanwhile, the writing is coming in its own deluge. Yesterday, I wrote 2,000 words on that novel in progress I had started during NaNoWriMo. And since I know where the next couple of chapters are going, I think the next few days might be productive, too.

Oh, and I made a big pot of soup and applesauce cake. Perfect rainy day fare.

I hope everyone is staying safe and finding their own stride. Have a good weekend.

Between storms

between storms I walk,

jumping new streams, inhaling

sweet sharpness of cedar

We have been drenched by rain in sunny Southern California, resulting in flooding, accidents and downed trees, but also in the delight of blustery wind, pink cheeks, pattering hail and sparkling freshness. I walked, I clicked photos, I wrote.

Most especially, I've written almost 3,000 words in the last couple of days after two dry weeks. Yay, me. Hope you're refreshed, too.

C'mon, get happy

Happiness is contagious, so here's to spreading it around like swirls of frosting. This bright award came to me from Stephanie Thornton at Hatshepsut: The Writing of a Novel. Stephanie is a history teacher who is funny, informative, and she sometimes teases with fascinating tidbits about a mysterious Egyptian ruler. A big thank you to Stephanie for the award and for saying something nice about the occasional bursts of little poems I write here.

In the spirit of passing this along, I am to tell you ten things that make me happy. These are NOT in order of importance, just random.

1) Writers who blog and enrich my life with their stories.

This morning I went to Lisa Schroeder's blog and watched a video of her doing drive-by booksignings. It made me smile. Then I read the links to interviews of her by other bloggers. And I smiled some more. Lisa said in one that she doesn't try to write messages in her YA books, which are often about learning to deal with loss. She said she would just like readers to gain a new appreciation for how precious life is, to realize that each day is a gift.

2) Friends and family.

Last night I went to a welcoming of the New Year, somewhat belatedly, at the home of one of my critique partners. There was amazing food and good company. We were all asked to bring a photo of a pet and a story to go with it. This turned into a blast. People, even the non-writers, came up with such fun and winsome tidbits to share. Laughter is a tonic like no other.

Pretty much nothing brightens my day more than hearing my daughter's voice on the other end of the phone and listening to her comments on life. She is a keen observer of the world.

3) Books. Maybe I should say right here that you can bury me with books, just in case there's any chance I can take them to the afterlife.

4) Art, whether it's beautiful or striking or haunting or thought-provoking. What I love is to see creativity through someone else's eyes.

5) Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I will watch it and laugh and cry until they bury me with all those books.

6) Listening to birds in the morning. Hearing the trees alive with cheerios, chirps, whistles and shout-outs.

7) Saying hello to a stranger on the street and having them smile in return.

8) A magnificent thunderstorm.

9) Walking barefoot in the sand.

10) Sunrise. Sunset.

Of course, I'm to pass this happiness along. This is always too hard, but I will name a few, and I know not everybody does awards, so there is no pressure to accept or pass this along. Only if you please.

Bish Denham at Random Thoughts

Valerie Geary at Something to Write About

Laura Canon at The Paris Hat

Melissa at Chasing the Dream

Shannon Messenger at Ramblings of a Wannabe Scribe

Sherrinda at A Writer Wannabe

Yat-Yee Chong

Wishing everyone a week of happiness and peace.

A little haiku for friends

Today's post is simple but from the heart. I promised Shannon Messenger some poetry in honor of Lisa Schroeder's release of CHASING BROOKLYN.

In the spirit of fun, I was going to post some zombie haiku, but with the suffering in Haiti right now, I'm in no mood for zombies. So instead, I've dusted off two other haiku and found some photos in my vault that at least catch the spirit of the sea and the solace I find there.

pewter sky and sea

cut by the steel-edge

dive of a pelican

translucent waves break,

churn past black mussel hedges

of a limpet town

(I know, I know. This is a sea anemone that I shot in San Clemente and not the tide pool I found in Ireland that inspired those words. But you forgive me, right?)

Shannon has a great interview with Lisa, tons of fun and a contest going on at Ramblings of a Wannabe Scribe, so go check it out. And be sure to visit Lisa Schroeder for her current guest author musing on dreams. Lisa's books, by the way, have nothing to do with zombies. They are lyrical tales of loss and love and renewal. Please forgive me if I'm the one rambling today.

(Blogger is really messing up the line breaks. I don't know if I can fix it)

Surviving planet Earth

Tuesday's devastating earthquake in Haiti, not to mention massive tsunamis in recent years, makes chillingly real the premise of Susan Beth Pfeffer's Life As We Knew It. The book came out in 2006, but I just read it so it's on my mind. We live on a planet in a universe where nature can upturn our lives in moments.

Pfeffer's YA novel, which was followed with The Dead and the Gone, grips you by the throat and keeps you struggling for breath as a girl and her family try to survive the climatic aftereffects of an asteroid striking the moon.

This story is more than a disaster tale, although there is plenty of devastation. At its heart it's a tale about family and love and hope, even when it seems there can be no hope left in the world.

Besides recommending this as a good read to anyone who has yet to discover it, I think as writers we can learn a thing or two about crafting a gripping tale with emotional heart.

I'm keeping it short and bittersweet today, but I do want to shout out a big hello and welcome to all the new people who have left comments and/or made themselves followers. I'm always humbled and honored you enjoy coming here.

The Fire in the Lake

Sometimes

I dance with bears

or run with wolves.

I've been known to

sing with meadowlarks,

see through hawks' eyes

and leap with dolphins.

Sometimes

I can not

dance

or run or sing or see or leap

Until I find

the fire

in the lake.