Who Is Matt Eicheldinger and Why Does He Make Me Cry Every Day?

 

Seriously, I don't know how his posts starting coming up in my Instagram feed, but suddenly one morning there was this earnest-looking dude holding a coffee mug, apparently sitting outside his house, and with a friendly wave he began a short chat with, "Hi, my name is Matt, I'm a teacher, and today's story is called...." I don't remember which story I heard first, but Matt already had me at "I'm a teacher...." Plus the coffee mug. Plus sitting outside. Plus... Well, you just have to hear the sincerity in his voice.

Anyway, Matt isn't just a teacher (although if that were his only gift, being the great teacher that he is--just listen to some of the stories from his classroom--we would be, as a society, super-blessed). He is also a terrific story teller. And a writer. And an artist. And now an author. But that's not why he makes me cry.

I mean, not yet. His books haven't made me cry yet. I will confess that as soon as I started seeing Matt's daily heartfelt, inspirational videos on Instagram, I became a full-on fangirl, so when Matt Sprouts and the Curse of the Ten Broken Toes released, I immediately bought a copy, read it, and reviewed it. Yes, it's a middle-grade book. So? I love children's literature (and I write it, so there's that). And it's the kind of book my youngest son would have absolutely loved when he was that age--lots of hijinks and mayhem and not much girlie stuff. So yeah, five star review for Matt Sprouts. Oh--and did I mention it has illustrations drawn by the author himself?

But as I said, that's not what makes me cry. Although Matt does have a book coming out soon entitled Sticky Notes that I'm pretty sure I'm going to have to read with a box of tissues next to me, such is the tender Irish heart in me.

Matt makes me cry nearly every day because he tells stories (often originating in his classroom, though some are lessons he's learned in life) that are simple and true. About kids learning how to be better humans. About kids demonstrating empathy. About kids who thought they failed but succeeded in coming away with a wider, wiser perspective. About striving as a teacher to get through the toughest days while still being kind and compassionate. These aren't smarmy stories. Mostly, they're touched with a bit of humor and Matt's goofy expressions as he mimics the way kids talk. (And they're spot on!) But his stories always have some take away, some thought-provoking message that touches my heart, reminds me of my best days teaching, and of course, brings me to tears.

In recent years, as I have learned to overcome that childhood sense of shame instilled in me for crying or exposing my emotions, I have been more open about how often I cry. (Daily. Sometimes hourly. I buy several boxes of Kleenex tissues--thank you, Kimberly-Clark--every week.) The way I figure it, I held back tears for decades, so there clearly must be an ocean full of tears just waiting for the tide to turn (coupla times a day, no?) to be released. Okay, maybe not an ocean. Maybe just the Salton Sea. But still.

So, as a storyteller myself, and wanting to leave you with some satisfying take away, I will (almost) end with this: Find Matt Eicheldinger and follow him. He's on Instagram and now Facebook. There are some YouTube videos. He's probably on Threads by now. (Isn't everybody except me?) Possibility Twitter, but I'm no longer a partner to those shenanigans, so I don't know.

Anyway, follow him. Get your daily dose of "we're gonna be okay" stories. Keep a tissue handy if you have any Irish or Italian in you. You can thank me later.

Addendum for readers who don't know me personally: This review of Matt's work is wholly unsolicited. I received no compensation for spending 45 minutes writing this when I could have been doing something fun like pulling weeds. In fact, by now Matt Eicheldinger probably thinks I'm stalking him because I feel compelled to comment on nearly every story he tells. (What can I say? I'm a writer; I can't help myself.) But... this is what I do. Like Madeleine L'Engle, Matt tried for years to get his first book published, but it wasn't like other books out there, so he had no takers. (Boy howdy, I've been there!) Truly, though, that first book deserves all the attention it's finally getting, and I'm here to help with that however I can. But also I love you (whoever you are), and I think your life might be enriched by Matt's storytelling. So get it. It's free. And it feels good. And who doesn't want that?  

How Books Are Made, Part II

 

In my previous post, I talked about the creativity that goes into the making of a book. But I didn’t talk about the practical side of bringing that creative spark into fruition (if you’ll allow the mixed metaphor there).

It’s one thing to have an idea for a book. It’s an entirely different matter to spend hours at a keyboard (or with pen or pencil and paper), day after day, week after week, month after month until that original idea has been fleshed out into a story with a beginning, a middle, and an end, hopefully containing some tension and conflict throughout, and a resolution that satisfies the reader—plus maybe, just maybe, giving readers something to “take away,” a lesson to ruminate upon or a miniscule bit of wisdom that might, in the tiniest way, influence their choices for the better. One hopes.

When I began the Dragon Singer Series, I was still teaching, so my writing time—after being away from home all day, then returning to walk an anxious, troubled dog, and feed the cats, and eat dinner, and watch the news, and maybe toss in a load of laundry—was limited. In addition to that, I began Fey Girl, the first book, in pencil, writing in a composition book that my granddaughter, Ellie, had given me. I wanted to channel my inner ten-year-old, and I remembered writing some stories in a composition book when I was that age—some of my first! And so I began.

The process was interrupted often. Given my schedule (rising at 4:00a.m. to get to the gym before work or to ride my bike to work and arrive at 6:45), I was tired by early evening. Things happened. I had house guests. I came down with pneumonia a few times. I struggled through winter depression.

Finally, in June of 2016, I retired from teaching. In that summer, I sold a house, bought a house, moved 40 miles east—and slept as often as I felt like it. Then, at long last, I joyfully returned to my writing life in earnest.

As soon as Fey Girl was finished, I began writing the second book, making steady progress and finishing it within a year. The third book took less than a year. The fourth, even less than that. While I was working on Book Two, my dear friends John and Lisa Durham introduced me to John’s niece, Annie Katz, a writer and novelist and earth mother who became my best and truest critique partner. We began exchanging projects, giving each other feedback, and engaging in long phone conversations about the best way to publish. She is all about independent publishing. Another friend believes one is not a “professional” writer until one has been published by a traditional publisher. (Well, I’ve done that, so….)

In a nutshell, here’s the difference:

A traditional publisher takes the author’s manuscript and has a team of printing experts design an interior (choosing the type of font, the type of paper—weight and color, the margin size, the spacing between lines, as so forth). Another team of experts designs the cover. (Will the title be larger than the author’s name? Yes, if it’s a first-time author, no, if the author is Stephen King. What will the balance of text-to-graphics be? What colors will work best?) While this process is happening, the publisher may decide—based on “marketability”—to change the book’s title. Or add a subtitle. Or edit—or delete—some of the content. But hey, when the book is finally ready (one to two years after acceptance), it will be released across the country simultaneously, available online but also on bookstore shelves, all at once, all on the same day.

An indie author can’t do this, since the big bookstore chains (well, I guess there’s only one left, isn’t there?) will not carry (unless asked by customers) independent authors on their shelves. Nor do indie authors have the opportunity to list their books in the lovely, slick catalogs that publishers send out to bookstores.

However—independent authors have full control over every aspect of how their books are published, from interior design to cover design, and we even determine the list price.

This is why I made the choice to publish the Dragon Singer Series independently. The more I spoke to Annie Katz and others (including my buddy, writer/actor/director/funny guy Tim Chizmar), the more reluctant I became to give up creative control. I had a vision for these books, and I couldn’t bear the thought of being told, “We’ve decided to add/subtract/edit…” or whatever a marketing department might choose for MY books. (For the purpose of brevity, I will not include all the struggles I had to this end with the publishers of my first and second books. If you’re curious, just ask in the comments below. But… boy howdy….)

Of course, in making that crucial decision to self-publish, this also means that the entire process rests in the hands of the writer (unless one chooses to outsource the work, which is possible, but also expensive).

The only thing I didn’t do was create the illustration and design for the covers. (Thank you, artist-designer Allie Myers!) Everything else—fonts, font size, paper, margins, interior design—that’s all me. And believe me, it’s not a matter of “select all” on MSWord and typing in a few choices. There is a lot to very carefully complete. Plus don’t even get me started on how the format of an “ebook” differs from the format of a paperback. Good grief!

So, yeah, even though the fourth and final book in the Dragon Singer Series was completed months ago, it has taken me quite a number of weeks to find an illustrator and work on the interior design.

Finally, though, the first book is finished, and I am so, so proud of it! Allie’s cover is beautiful, and I am satisfied that my young (and older) readers will feel comfortable with my choices for the interior design—if they’re even paying attention. Maybe they’ll just immerse themselves in the story and keep turning those pretty white pages….

Fey Girl, Book One in the Dragon Singer Series, is set to be released at 12:01a.m. on Tuesday, October 17. Please celebrate with me on that day! If you get crazy (or extraordinarily kind) and decide to read the first book, just know that Allie and I are already working hard to get the second book ready for publication. This one should be easier than the first; I kinda know what I’m doing now. Kinda….

Back cover of Fey Girl

How Books Are Made, Part I

 

"Hiccup" and "Toothless" from How to Train Your Dragon

It starts with a spark of creativity, a tiny seed of an idea that begins to take root and grow in a writer’s brain. At first, it’s easy to ignore the tender little seedling trying to find purchase in a place already teeming with ideas. Those initial ideas definitely get overshadowed by projects that have already made it from brain to keyboard (or yellow pad or sketchbook, in my case). I can pretty much guarantee that the majority of working writers have at least a dozen ideas growing in addition to the three or four projects they’re working on. I do.

Take this post, for instance. The initial idea formed about a month ago. In that time, I have jotted notes for the next blog post (and the one after that), finished and submitted three poems for publication, revised and submitted an essay for publication, worked my tail off to format a book for publication (more on that in the next post), and written countless journal pages. That’s just the physical work I’ve put in. The extra ideas that haven’t been harvested yet? They’re still growing in my brain. Some of them are really getting out of control in there….

It still amazes me to think how my published books came into being. In the 1970’s, I was teaching Lamaze childbirth classes, and my students felt the available books were too technical. I was freelancing at the time, miraculously getting published on a regular basis, and they suggested I write a book with all the information I dispensed in class, posed in less clinical terms than others had used. I gave it some thought (and growth time), and two years later my first book was published.

When I began researching, at my mother’s request, the alleged crimes of her grandmother, I knew eventually I had enough material for a pretty compelling memoir. Many years later (when Mom would finally allow it), The Tainted Legacy of Bertha Gifford came into fruition.

The Dogs Who Saved Me came about during a long summer afternoon spent organizing photographs. I had so many pictures of the various dogs I have companioned with, I realized there were enough to make an album of just dogs alone, and as I leafed through the finished project, considering all their incredible stories, I knew I wanted to record them. That book took two years to write.

This next book—the one that I am just weeks away from seeing released on Amazon—did not begin as a book idea or even a writing project. It began as a song. No. It began with a cat that looked like a dragon. Or more accurately, a dragon that looked like a cat. Here is that story:

When I moved waaaay up to a cabin in the mountains, I took two black cats with me: Old guy Boo Radley and newly adopted Sugar Plum (aka “Sug”). Sadly, in my second year on the mountain, Boo died. Where Sug had previously bonded with Boo, now she began to bond with me in earnest. And it was cold in the winter months, so she would come to the loft at night, jump on the bed, and I would hold the blanket up for her to climb under and snuggle down. Often, in the depth of darkness and quiet only a mountain retreat can offer, I would sing to her. In the beginning, I sang her “Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ral” and other sweet Irish songs I had learned as a child.

Then several things happened in succession. My dear friend and fellow author Michael Welker (Blockbuster Blueprint) suggested I watch the animated feature How to Train Your Dragon, mostly because he thought I’d love the soundtrack, which I did. (Loved the film, too; ya gotta love a rescued critter/underdog/unlikely love story/unlikely hero movie.) Sometime in the ensuing days, I walked into the main room of the cabin to find little Sug face to face at the French doors with an enormous black bear. Sug was standing her ground, back arched, fur and tail puffed to maximum bigness, and hissing as she bared her teeth. She looked, in that moment, for all the world like a tiny dragon. Later that night, as we hunkered down in bed, I began to hum a random tune I’d come up with. Suddenly there were words for it:

Dragon song is an old one

Sing the tale told so long

Dragon song is an old one

Old one, sing the dragon song.

At some point before this, I had attended a writers group meeting in which the guest speaker had noted, in suggesting ways to market one’s books, that the creation of a series (rather than a stand-alone novel) brings readers back looking for the next chapter in the saga. I had dismissed the idea at first. (Writing a series—keeping every detail of every character and plot point clear and correct throughout all the books—is much more challenging than writing a single, all-encompassing story.)

But that night, singing this new song to my tiny cat who apparently had the spirit of a dragon abiding within her, a seed was planted.

Hard to believe that seed began to take root over a decade ago. Well, the original idea became a book. (More on how that happened in the next post.) Originally, I had decided just three books—a compact trilogy—would do nicely. (No way would I attempt an on-going series, given all the other projects I want to tackle.) But as I worked on the second book, I realized that the four seasons had become a theme, so that now there are four books in what will be, when they are published, the Dragon Singer series. The books are written for a middle-grade audience. Which means, I suppose, that any avid reader over the age of say, eight, who loves cats and good dogs and dragons and music will probably enjoy them.

Did I mention that the first one is nearly ready for release in a matter of weeks, if not days? Watch this space!

Books in 2021

 

Some years ago, I began the habit of stacking up books in my to-read pile as autumn approaches. I hate the short days, when I can’t be outside as much, but if I have a book to look forward to reading, the long evening hours are well spent.

Here are a handful of books I’ve read in recent months that I absolutely loved.

Beautiful Ruins, Jess Walter

In a casual conversation, a somewhat happy-go-lucky friend mentioned that he had just finished reading a book that made him cry.

“What the heck? Really?” I queried. “What book was that?”

“Beautiful Ruins,” he responded. “Have you read it?”

“No,” I replied, “but I’m about to.” I downloaded it to my Kindle and started reading it that night. Why did I love it? For the characters. All of them, and there are many, therefore multiple points of view, but that is never off-putting to me. I want to hear everyone’s side of the story.

The Lincoln Highway, Amor Towles

This novel was also recommended by a friend who loves books and knows me well. It is similar to Beautiful Ruins in that there are multiple points of view, and most of the characters are easy to love, easy to sympathize with. The setting of this novel could have taken place in current times, but I’m so glad Amor Towles chose to set it in the 1950’s, the decade of my childhood. The writing is lovely, the characters so memorable and the book so long, a reader will genuinely miss them for days after finishing the book. I still do….

Project Hail Mary, Andy Weir

This novel is science fiction. But keep in mind, there is classic sci-fi, and then there are books like A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Project Hail Mary isn’t quite Hitchhiker’s Guide, but it’s also definitely not Dune or The Martian Chronicles. Andy Weir, by the way, is the guy who wrote the novel The Martian, upon which the movie starring Matt Damon was based. I didn’t read that one. I only read Project Hail Mary because a friend sent it to me with a note saying “Trust me. Just start reading.” So I did, standing over my kitchen table, the cat still playing with the shipping debris. I read the first 20 pages that way, then made some lunch and sat down and read another 30, then realized the entire day was whiling away as I read this quirky, funny, harrowing, charming novel. I finished it in a matter of days (despite its length at 496 pages), then wrapped it up and sent it to a friend with a note that said, “Trust me. Just start reading….” He loved it so much he called me from Texas when he’d finished it. Our two-person book club spent an hour and a half talking about it. (Just to mention here: I rarely read sci-fi anymore, but I re-read Dune in the summer of 2021 because the absolutely fabulous film was set to air months later. Loved Dune even more the second time ‘round.)

A Valley of Light and Shadow: Las Vegas Writers on Good and Evil

In between novels, I read through the essays and memoir pieces in this anthology. The book is published in collaboration with the Las Vegas Book Festival, and it highlights the writing of authors who live or have lived in Sin City. In a conversation with my friend, the multi-talented Tim Chizmar, he mentioned he’d written an essay for the current volume. Since the proceeds of the book support writers, I bought a copy on Amazon, expecting to read a few essays about how, ‘Yeah, it’s hot here and there aren’t a lot of jobs besides working in the casinos.’ This book is definitely not that, and Tim’s essay was so compelling—about the profound life changes he went through over the course of a five-year period, how he hit rock bottom—then discovered he was headed for whatever was below rock bottom—then somehow survived, learned, grew, flourished and became successful all over again—well, it made me cry and applaud in equal measure. I highly recommend this book for lovers of human interest stories and also for my fellow writers; there are fine examples of the personal essay and memoir writing here, and money spent on the book will help support their craft.

The Sweetness of Water, Nathan Harris

Where do I begin? The sweetness of his words, the sweetness of his characters, the agony and sweetness of a time in our history…a time that somehow seems to keep repeating itself. This book is lovely in a thousand ways. I understand why Oprah snagged it for her book club, why Barack Obama said it was one of his favorite books of 2021. I’m right there with ya, Mr. President. If you love writers who can magically craft a sentence that stops you in your tracks for the sheer beauty of it—like a gorgeous sunset or the unexpected sighting of a wild animal—read this book. Then come weep with me.

Daughter of the Morning Star, Craig Johnson

Speaking of beautiful craftsmanship in writing, please never pigeon-hole Craig Johnson as simply a “mystery” writer or a writer of “Western” novels. The Longmire series definitely has a contemporary Western flavor, and each book has a stand-alone, mostly who-done-it mystery to be solved. But this series isn’t just beef & barbecue. It is rich in many sophisticated flavors as well. I began reading the Longmire series some years ago, based on the recommendation of a friend whom I trust—otherwise, I probably would have passed, assuming that the novels were gratuitous-violence-heavy and formulaic. No, in fact, they are not, and this was a delightful discovery. In fact, from the first pages of the first book, I was surprised and delighted by the extent of Craig Johnson’s expansive lexicon, his sensitive treatment of all things Native, and his extraordinary ability to weave a compelling story. I’ve read all the books up to this most recent one, but Daughter of the Morning Star is absolutely my favorite. Here’s why: In it, Johnson deals with a harrowing and heartbreaking truth, one that is astounding in its scope but shameful in its lack of coverage by the popular press. It is this: The suicide rate for Native teenagers is two and a half times greater than the national average, and the murder rate for Native women is ten times the national average. Every year, Native women go missing at a horrifying rate, but these cases rarely make the news. In Daughter of the Morning Star, Johnson dishes out these statistics unapologetically as he draws us into the life of Jaya One Moon, a rising high school basketball star. Native culture and beliefs are woven in with sensitivity (not appropriated), and we see in Jaya a woman whose great strength is no match for the dark forces that threaten her. Still, she perseveres. Another reader characterized this novel as haunting. It is exactly that. Hauntingly beautiful in its realism.

 

Books, Part Two: Finding the Shadow of the Wind

Back in December, before Christmas, before the pandemic shut-down, in those chilly, blissful days when Dark Time came early, and I would hustle the cats inside to cuddle up and read with me, my book club made a donation of books—some new, some used—to a local group home that serves children who have been separated from their parents due to abuse. The residential facility, located on beautiful, sprawling acreage, was just getting its library reorganized after some renovation, so the books were greatly appreciated.

 

Most of the books were purchased new from money we’d collected in a bake sale, but we did have several boxes of books donated. A small group of members went through these donations, checking to be sure they were appropriate for children and teens, and also making sure the books adhered to the guidelines we’d been given by the group home: No dark subject matter, no gratuitous violence, no themes of death or dying or separation from parents. We ended up with a small box of rejected books that sat on my kitchen floor, just inside the door, until well after Christmas, New Year’s, and maybe even Easter, if I’m being honest.

 

My intent was to donate those books, a few at a time, to the Little Free Library I mentioned in my previous post. And I did. Every time I took a drive up to drop something off for Harry or his cat, Asher, I took another few books. Finally, there was one book left in the bottom of the box.

 

I pulled it out when I was getting ready to head up to Harry’s again, intending to put Sophie Quire in the library as well. But you know how that goes if you’re a bibliophile; we’re always curious. I flipped it over and read this on the back of the book:

 

Barcelona, 1945: A city slowly heals from its war wounds, and Daniel, an antiquarian book dealer’s son who mourns the loss of his mother, finds solace in a mysterious book entitled The Shadow of the Wind, by one Julian Carax. But when he sets out to find the author’s other works, he makes a shocking discovery: someone has been systematically destroying every copy of every book Carax has written. In fact, Daniel may have the last of Carax’s books in existence. Soon Daniel’s seemingly innocent quest opens a door into one of Barcelona’s darkest secrets—an epic story of murder, madness, and doomed love.

 

Intrigued (who wouldn’t be?) I opened the cover and read the first paragraphs:

 

    I still remember the day my father took me to the Cemetery of Forgotten Books for the first time. It was the early summer of 1945, and we walked through the streets of a Barcelona trapped beneath ashen skies as dawn poured over Rambla de Santa Monica in a wreath of liquid copper.

    “Daniel, you mustn’t tell anyone what you’re about to see today,” my father warned. “Not even your friend Tomas. No one.”

    “Not even Mommy?”

    My father sighed, hiding behind the sad smile that followed him like a shadow through life.

    “Of course you can tell her,” he answered, heavyhearted. “We keep no secrets from her. You can tell her everything.”

    Shortly after the Civil War, an outbreak of cholera had taken my mother away. We buried her on my fourth birthday. I can only recall that it rained all day and all night, and that when I asked my father whether heaven was crying, he couldn’t bring himself to reply.

 

And then, as the saying goes, I was hooked.

 

My desire to read the huge tome (of 487 pages in very small font) created a bit of a dilemma. If you are an avid reader who loves nothing more than to spend an afternoon browsing through a used book shop, please take a moment here to close your eyes and take a nice deep breath. As you exhale, thank the Universe (or whomever you would like) that you do not have a lung disease. Because if you were me, you wouldn’t be able to have that joy, that luxury, of walking through the aisles with row upon row of titles, pulling first this one, then that one off the shelf, loading up your arm or basket or bag with 5 or 6 or 10 because they’re priced at a dollar a book.

 

I can’t do that. Dust will kill me. Dust in books is really, really bad. And this book in particular was very, very old and very, very dusty. Just reading the first page started me coughing. So I did what I’ve learned to do in that situation. I put on the N95 mask I use for cleaning the house, took the book in the bathroom, plugged in my blow dryer, and blew the dust out while flipping through the pages. Works like a charm.

 

I’m so glad I did. Because when I finally started reading it, I needed it desperately. I needed its rich, dense prose, so carefully crafted, to lose myself in. I needed the twists and surprises of the plot to keep me turning pages. (I didn’t really need to be staying up past my usual bedtime every night, but that’s okay; I’m a grown-up. I have choices.) I needed to have that story to look forward to as cases of the virus continued to climb and the country went into lockdown and I couldn’t go to my book club meetings or have tea with friends or see my kids or grandchildren. In the days that I slowly made my way through it, savoring every page, that one author’s craftsmanship kept me from despair.

 

It's amazing how powerful books can be, isn’t it?

 

Books, Part One: Rescuing Sophie Quire

Lately, my life has been fraught with drama, including an equal measure of bad and good news. News I can't talk about just yet. Some I'm excited about, some I'm downright ecstatic about (No, Ann, I still don't have a boyfriend), and some that is heartbreaking. My brain has been set on overdrive, fueled by frenetic energy, so it's been difficult for me to downshift long enough to write stuff. But I've been reading. Boy howdy, have I been reading. What would we all do without the escape of reading?

So in the next few posts, I want to talk about some of the books I've been reading. This is my favorite story about the stories, but I can't wait, so I'm sharing it first.

In the town directly north of mine, on a winding back road, there is a "Little Free Library." If you don't know about the Little Free Library project, click here for the back story. It's pretty amazing. The "library" pictured above is the one I mentioned. It's been erected at the side of the road I drive to get to my friend Harry's house in Cherry Valley.

Some weeks ago, while driving back from dropping off a few groceries for Harry, I came around the corner and saw a book lying in the middle of the road a few feet from the Little Free Library. Of course I pulled over and got out to pick it up; my bibliophile friends would be scandalized to see a book tossed out like that, like so much trash. I know I was. But I'm sure it was there by accident. Or was it?

The title was Sophie Quire and the Last Storyguard. "Storyguard"? From the font and the whimsical picture on the book jacket, I could tell the book was children's literature. Of course I did what all book lovers do: I flipped it over and read the back cover. Not wanting to stand in the road and examine it further, but definitely wanting to read it, I tossed it on the floor of the car and drove off.

Upon my return home, I promptly forgot about it, and it remained in the car for quite a number of days (because, you know, the pandemic and all; no one's going anywhere much). Finally, I remembered it and brought it into the house.

Mystery #1: When I rescued it, the book had been lying in the southbound lane of traffic. The Little Free Library is on the opposite side of the road, and it has been sturdily built, with a door that closes tightly. I mean, it's not like the book fell out. And the paper book jacket wasn't torn or dirty, as it might have been if it had fallen from a car and slid along the pavement. It was as if someone had intentionally dropped the book smack dab in the middle of the road.

Mystery #2: There was, however, damage to the jacket--and not the unintentional sort. The jacket was riddled with holes. When I pulled it off to examine the actual cover of the book, I could see many, many punctures.

It looked as if someone had gone after the book with an instrument such as a pen, jabbing it over and over and over on the front, on the back, and even along the spine.

What the heck?? Who does this to a book?? What's the opposite of bibliophilia? (Let me know if you discover an antonym; I did not in my quick search just now.) Did this book's attacker dislike the main character? Or the ending? Or the fact that he/she/they had been forced to read a book?

I'm struggling to live with my unsatisfied curiosity, but alas, chances are I will never be able to solve those two mysteries.

What I can tell you, though, is that the book was delightful. Here's part of the description from Amazon.com:

"Sophie knows little beyond the four walls of her father's bookshop, where she repairs old books and dreams of escaping the confines of her dull life. But when a strange boy and his talking cat/horse companion show up with a rare and mysterious book, she finds herself pulled into an adventure beyond anything she has ever read."

Cool, huh? And yes, that does say "cat/horse companion." I don't want to give any spoilers away, but the book is filled with fantasy and whimsy and adventure--and a few very tense scenes. Oh, and a very strong female protagonist.

I loved it, loved the premise, the solid storytelling, the narrator's at times snarky voice, and I loved that the heroes were children.

I know you want to read it now, and I would loan you my copy, but as soon as I finished it, I dropped it off at the Little Free Library in Cherry Valley. I hope it's not languishing there. I hope some young person, intrigued by the brightly painted red and white stand, pulled it out, read the back cover and maybe the first page, and decided to take it home.

When lilacs....

Yesterday the crows brought a dead rat into the back yard, dropped it on a planter, then spent the day snacking on it. I didn't begrudge them the treat—lately they've been living mostly on a diet of earthworms because the streets and yards are littered with them after it rains, and boy, has it been raining. But the planter they were using as their dining table is going to be where I plant some vegetables in another month, so I didn't want the remnants of that rat to linger. At night, the coyotes and the bobcats often use our street as a wide safe highway between the arroyo and the upper marsh-like area (which is a full on pond right now), so after dark I relocated the rat from my back yard to the street in front of my house. When it was still there this morning, I decided Thomas and I would go for a short walk and relocate him to the rugged area around that "pond." So if any of my neighbors happened to glance outside this morning at 5:45, they would have seen me walking cheerfully along, dog leash in my left hand, dead rat hanging from the right. All in a day's work.

Yesterday was a good day. It has been—finally—a bit warm in the past few days, so just after sunrise (when all danger of large scale predators had passed), I opened the back slider wide to let the cats sit on the patio and dream of flying up to snatch the little bluebirds out of the bird bath. Then I sat down to do some writing. It was a bit breezy, and wafting in on the draft through the house was the sweet scent of peach blossoms from my tree. Oh man... that was a heady scent.

An hour or so later, Thomas and I took a long walk down one of our many country roads (as I like to think of them; they're actually fire roads and access roads Edison uses to maintain the power lines). Fifty yards off the trail, I saw it—a lilac bush in full bloom. A flood of memories rushed back of a kind poet decades ago gathering a fistful of lilac blooms in a canning jar to set beside the bed where I lay in very troubled sleep. I woke to their perfume, and it changed everything. It was that same poet who convinced me that studying literature in college could be a way out of my seemingly dire circumstances. Had he not encouraged me to do so, I would never have discovered Whitman's "When Lilacs Last in the Dooryard Bloom'd." So of course, I had to bring some home. My kitchen is filled with their scent this morning.

For the past few days, I've been reading another stellar novel by Catherine Ryan Hyde. This one, Say Goodbye for Now, is about two young boys who become united through first a kind act and then a brutal one. The setting is 1959 and one of the issues addressed is the reality of race relations at the time. This book has touched me in deep ways. As I sat on the patio swing in late morning, after the dog walk, reading with the music of my neighbor's back yard fountain as soundtrack, I found myself crying again and again as the struggles of these sweet boys bumped up against the struggles in my own life. Finally I put the book down and dozed in the warm air, my first nap on the swing in over a year.

The great thing about life is that it keeps moving forward. While we welcome winter with its relief from the relentless heat after weeks of cold and darkness, it is always good to feel the warmth of the sun again, to smell the flowers, to see what Nature has been up to while we hibernated. Because growth occurs in the dark times, too, even if we're not aware of it.

Sustenance

Today’s blog post is dedicated to my long-time friend, Barbara Tinsley. A score of years ago or so—when our grandchildren were children—Barbara was a regular reader of one of the papers in the City News Group trio, and she became a fan of my weekly column. Over the years, we’ve had great conversations about life, kids, grandkids, and other joys. Her official duty as the unofficial president of my fan club is to poke and prod me when I neglect my blog (which has now taken the place of my weekly column). Thank you, Barb, for your friendship, which is so dear to me, and Happy, happy birthday!

People have asked if, when I retire, I’ll still get up at 4:00a.m. No. Absolutely not. I’m planning on sleeping in until 5:00 or maybe even as late as 5:30. Because “we were meant to see the beginning of the day/Ibelieve it was planned to lift us this way.” And because the best quiet time to write is before my head is filled with the daily news and dire predictions. I still won’t use an alarm clock (as I do not now), and I will still spend the last moments before I drift off with nothing electronic going except a soft bedside light—to illuminate the pages as I read myself off to dreamland. Here’s what I’ve been reading lately, in no particular order of love:

Plainsong by Kent Haruf. If you read novels for the sheer joy of discovering characters, read this book. I tried to read it slowly as it is not terribly long, and I fell in love with the characters so immediately, I never wanted it to end—and when I finished, I couldn’t start another book as I missed my newfound friends. Love, love, loved it. I want every reading friend to read this book, and I might have to guilt some people into it. (Barb, I put this one first as I really think you would love it.)

Ordinary Grace, by William Kent Krueger. See the description above, and add a couple of murders and a plot twist or two. If you’re sharp and you read a lot of mystery, you’ll connect the dots before the intense climax, but that doesn’t really matter to this novel; it’s all about the characters. My bestie Donna sent this novel to me as a sweet gift, and I loved it so much I don’t think I can ever repay her.

Millersburg, by Harry Cauley. I am proud to say that actor, writer, director Harry Cauley is my friend, and we became friends because, well, I was a gushing fan girl over his novel, Bridie and Finn, and his memoir, Speaking of Cats. When I finished Plainsong, I dropped it off with Harry because I knew he would love it, and we subsequently had a phone conversation or two about it (Harry agreeing that it is “just lovely”). When I started Ordinary Grace, I remarked to him that it was similar to Plainsong, but with murder, and he replied, “That sounds like my novel, Millersburg.” How did I not know of this other novel of Harry’s? I hit Amazon immediately upon hanging up the phone. So once again, see the description above. Yes, there are two murders that occur, but the novel isn’t about them. Its subject is the people whose lives surround the circumstances of the murders, and it is Harry’s inimitable style and grace that makes this little book so satisfying. Again, I didn’t want it to end. (Harry also had a birthday this week. At 85, he is still writing up a storm, and I am the one who pokes and prods him to finish another novel because I just love his writing.)

The Buried Giant, by Kazuo Ishiguro. I would not have come to this book were it not for my book club. (Bless you, ladies.) If you’re a reader of great fiction, you may recall that Ishiguro is the author of The Remains of the Day (from which the screenplay was adapted). This book is nothing at all like that one. This book…. Oh, shoot, I don’t even know how to describe it. This book is imaginative fiction in its most brilliant and haunting form. Ishiguro, truly, is a genius, and is considered one of the greatest contemporary British novelists. (He was born in Japan but grew up in England.) This novel, to me, is an allegory—of sorts. And I really don’t want to comment further, other than to say there is an amazing storyline here… and ogres… and pixies… and dragons… and, of course, the buried giant. Here are my two favorite passages:

[King] Arthur charged us at all times to spare the innocents caught in the clatter of war. More, sir, he commanded us to rescue and give sanctuary when we could to all women, children and elderly, be they Briton or Saxon.

We must hope God yet finds a way to preserve the bonds between our peoples, yet custom and suspicion have always divided us. Who knows what will come when quick-tongued men make ancient grievances rhyme with fresh desire for land and conquest?

These books have sustained me in recent times. It is always heartening to know that, whatever calamity befalls me in the course of a day, at long last—in the remains of that day—I will rest upon my bed, a cat on either side, a dog nearby, and immerse myself in the brilliant stories of others. That, indeed, is lovely.

How Purrl made it work

2013 turned out to be a transitional year for me, and frankly, I'm so glad it's over.

At the end of 2012 I was diagnosed with "damaged" lungs.  To my way of thinking, this is a misnomer, given the fact that I was probably born with holes in my lungs.  So I came into 2013 trying to adjust to the truth (no cure, and it's progressive) and limits (uphill climbs beat me like a stick) of my "disease."  (Can't we call it a "condition"?  "Disease" sounds icky.)

In January, I left my cabin in the wilderness and became a flatlander once again, buying a three-bedroom home built in 1957 (one of my favorite years) with an insurmountable (at least for a six-pound cat with stubby legs) block wall around the back yard.  How am I adjusting?  I'm saving money toward retirement.  But I can't see the stars at night (well, your night, my morning--4:00a.m.).  I have a garden growing, and my tomatoes last summer were amazing.  But I am without the quiet and serenity of the mountain, and heading out my door for a walk no longer means sighting wildlife or standing underneath a waterfall.  Now it means following the sidewalk to the next housing tract... and the next.  But I'm eight minutes from work, so I'm no longer spending several hundred dollars a month in gas.  "No place is perfect," a friend told me recently.  So true.

With my new home and yard came the prospect of getting a dog, which I did last spring.  If you follow the blog, you will have read about Suede renamed Seamus, the chocolate lab that was abandoned at my local shelter.  Seamus was (almost) the perfect dog and would have been my constant companion... if he just had not been encouraged at some point in his life to chase kitties.  I adored him, and we walked every day, and having him beside me filled a void that had been there since 2006.  But alas... his presence in our home was terrifying for Sugar Plum.  Sugie tried several times to creep out and face her fear, but every time she did he would alert to her and try to chase her.  Sug shut down, refusing to come out from under the bed.  She wasn't eating or drinking.  She ended up very sick, and I ended up on the floor in fetal position, worried for her and heartbroken to know that Seamus would have to adjust to a new home all over again.

But as it turned out, the Universe had special plans for Shay.  With the help of my dog-loving friends (thank you forever, Donna Staub!), I found a couple who had recently lost their beloved chocolate lab.  They opened their loving arms to Shay and made him a family member overnight, and their yellow lab loved him as she had her previous companion.  Through much grief came a happy ending and the best forever home a dog could ever dream of.

After some weeks, Sug recovered.  And then I brought Purrl home.

Since losing my beloved Boo, I have made several attempts to bring a new cat into our home, so that Sug could also have a companion.  It never worked out because eventually the other cats tried to dominate Sug (and I would awake to the ferocious fury of cats brawling, teeth and claws maiming everything in sight, including me).  After three tries, I knew my only hope of making it work was if Sug could still feel like the queen of the house and another cat would defer to her.

And that's how Purrl made it work.  She was a tiny kitten, abandoned in a Target parking lot and rescued by the sister of a very sweet friend.  Purrl (Purrlie/Purrl-O/Purrl Jam) was probably about ten weeks old when I brought her home, mewling and crying in a carrier.  Instead of diving under the bed, Sug ran up to see what all the fuss was about, then hissed at the baby... but didn't fear her or reject her.  Within days, Purrl was pouncing on Sug's stump of a tail, and Sug was patiently allowing it.  Now both girls meet me at the door when I come home, and both sleep on the bed with me at night.  Of course, Purrl snores.  But then, how do I know I don't?

Oh, and one more good thing happened in 2013:  GhostGrandma, my YA novel, released on October 31.  I'm happy now for all the hours of this past summer I spent re-writing and editing it.  I've gotten some nice reviews, and teens seem to like it.

On January 1, I will begin writing a new book, a memoir about my experiences living in on the mountain.  At this point, I'm thinking (as I naively did with The Dogs Who Saved Me) that it will be an effortless expression of my passionate love of the wild.  My goal is to write three hundred words a day every day in 2014.  Check back with me; I'll keep you posted.

Under the apple boughs

A year ago British author Peter Maughan contacted me through Amazon and asked if I would read one of his novels as he was in need of reviews.  I downloaded The Cuckoos of Batch Magna but just couldn't get to it until summer.  When I finally read it, I fell in love with Peter's writing.  It was easy to give Cuckoos a 5-star review because it is just plain adorable (if a book can be such).

In September, I learned of and purchased another work by Peter which is a much shorter piece, maybe 60 pages if it were in page form.  (It's available for Kindle.)  This one is entitled Under the Apple Boughs, and I just have to say, if you want to completely immerse yourself in lyrical writing for a couple of hours, if you want to stroll the lanes of rural England in your imagination and view the sights through the eyes of an author who loves where he lives, spend $4.00 and download this narrative.

Peter's work has been characterized as "The Wind in theWillows for grown-ups."  Exactly.  Except... there is a thoughtful, gracious yet self-effacing intelligence in this writing that is nothing less than literary brilliance.

I began reading Apple Boughs after a particularly grueling week which was rife with heartbreak.  Sometimes, as Yeats lamented, 'the world's more full of weeping than we can understand.'  Beginning the narrative was like discovering the door to the SecretGarden and walking through to find the garden reclaimed and vibrant with trees and flowers and birdsong.  For three nights running, just before sleep, I would disappear behind that gate and wander slowly with Peter through the gardens of his imagination.  Our time together ended far too soon, but by the end of it I felt my soul had healed a bit.

If you're looking for a last minute gift for someone with a Kindle who loves the written word--especially if they love pastoral work--it takes only a couple of clicks to gift this book.  Heck, just get it for yourself and you can "lend" it to a friend for free later.

Oh, and if you're still in the spirit of giving after you read (and love--I promise) Apple Boughs, take a second and post a sentence or two in review of it so that we can share Peter's love of words with others.

May the spirit of the season abound in love!

Why this author is giving away free books

The first time I noticed an author doing a "giveaway" on Goodreads, I have to confess, I was kind of resentful.  As it turned out, I had just finished reading that same novel--a book I'd spent a few dollars of my exiguous fortune on--and now here was the author just giving it away for free.  "Hey, I'm a teacher living on a single, limited income that keeps shrinking!  Give me that book!" is what I thought at the time.  But then... I looked into what the giveaways are all about, and I finally understood.  For Indie and DIY authors, offering a book or two for free in a giveaway provides an opportunity to let a whole lot more folks know about the book.

In my case, with The Dogs Who Saved Me, I was reluctant to do a giveaway, because 100% of the profits from this book are being donated to animal rescue groups, and I didn't want to take one penny away from that.  However... after a conversation with Indie marketing guru Martin Lastrapes (who just happens to be my favorite Indie author), I realized that by offering a couple of copies of Dogs for free, I could generate more interest in the book, which would generate more revenue for a local rescue group (HOPE rescue in Upland, CA), so I jumped on board.

I am pleased to say that there are currently 500+ readers who have entered the giveaway.  Even more exciting is the fact that 72 readers on Goodreads have added the book to their "to read" lists, and several have sent me messages to say that if they don't 'win' the book, they will buy it right away as they find the premise intriguing.  Yes!  Success!  And think about it--if those 72 readers like the book and recommend it to friends, the snowball will continue to grow (hopefully), garnering new readers and more support for the rescue groups that do so much by sheer power of animal love and enthusiasm.  Bless them!

So--if you haven't yet read The Dogs Who Saved Me and would like to enter the giveaway, there's still time!!  (At this writing, 6 hours and 30 minutes--so get on it!)  Click on the link below and enter.  There are no strings attached!!  You will not be asked to write a review or give a speech or compose a lively verse about the book, nor will I or the great folks at Goodreads save your info and try to strongarm you into buying books... or ocean view property in Missouri....  If you don't have a Goodreads account, consider establishing one, as there are many, many good books available through the giveaways for free, plus great conversations taking place all the time with intelligent readers.

Okay, I'm done yakking.  Here's the link:
Goodreads giveaway of The Dogs Who Saved Me

Books, Dogs and HOPE

Forgive me for being absent from posting for a while.  I’ve had my writer’s hat on, certainly, but my time has been spent, in recent days, working more on the business side of the craft than on the creative side.

I’ve got some great news flashes I’ve been wanting to share with you, Dear Reader, but first let me describe where I am—because I really can’t write a blog post without talking about the mountain.  I know you understand….

At the beginning of the summer, I bought an inexpensive HP laptop so that I could do this:  I’m sitting in the swing on the front deck.  It’s about 3:00 in the afternoon.  A light breeze is blowing through the oak tree canopy surrounding the cabin, cooling my skin and mimicking the sound of water rushing over rocks in a faraway stream.  Punctuating that sound is the chatter and call of some  bluejays, chickadees, wrens, woodpeckers, dark-eyed juncos, a titmouse or two, and something that sounds like a guinea pig making its “week-week-week” sound.  Sugie hears them, too.  She’s sprawled out in the dappled shade a few feet from the swing pretending to relax, but she is ever-vigilant.  Beware, my feathered friends; do not land too close.

So.  Part of what has kept me busy in recent weeks has been writing book reviews.  Some writer friends have had books released (hurray!), and summer gives me (too much?) insouciant time to sit as I am now, enjoying the outdoors while turning pages.  (It’s okay to be envious; that will all change in winter when it’s snowing and the swing is packed away in the garage.  Of course, then I’ll be sitting in front of the fire….)

Libby Grandy, a long time blogger and Chicken Soup author, has seen the release of her first novel, Desert Soliloquy.  I was privileged to read it in manuscript form, but the book had been so diligently edited I really didn’t have much of a critique to make.  I love a good mystery, and this one is tightly woven.  She does not go over the top with red herrings (hate that), but keeps the suspense taut—not only with the mystery of the attempted murder but also with the deeper, perhaps more mysterious question of who the protagonist will choose to spend her life with.  Loved it—and hate the fact that Libby has a second novel nearly ready for publication but feels inclined to wait until next summer for its release.  But I want to read it nowwwww.

Paula Priamos, also a blogger and a professor of all things literary, just saw the release of her memoir, The Shyster’s Daughter.  I’ve been waiting for this book for nearly two years, ever since Paula’s husband, author James Brown (The Los Angeles Diaries), bragged about it at a writers conference.  I have to warn you, if you read memoirs because you enjoy reading light-hearted tales told by upbeat people who managed to keep smiling through hard times, better buckle your seatbelt for this one.  Priamos’ writing is stark and tight and gripping.  And geez, does she ever have a story to tell about growing up in SoCal with her high-profile attorney father, an inappropriate uncle, and other characters guaranteed to ensure a kid’s quick loss of innocence.  I had kind of a weird, schizophrenic response to the book as I read it; I’d read a few pages, mutter “oh my god” out loud, put the book down because it reminded me far too much of my own childhood, then pick it up and start reading again.  It’s the most compelling memoir I’ve read in years.

Since I’m talking books, please indulge me for a moment.  The Kindle version of MartinLastrapes’ book, Inside the Outside, made it all the way to Number One on Amazon’s Horror list a few weeks back.  As you may know (because I seem to mention it often), Martin was a student of mine way back when I taught English 1A for Chaffey College.  All I said was, “Martin, you could be a writer,” and look what the kid did.  Geez….

Finally (and can I have a drum roll here, please?), my memoir, The Dogs Who Saved Me, came out this month.  I want to shout “Hurray!” in jubilant celebration… but I think I’m still recovering from writing this book.  I was so cavalier two summers ago when I began work on this project.  “I’ll just write about my dogs!” I thought.  “Easy peasy!”  No.  This was the most challenging writing task I’ve ever assigned myself.  Little did I know how tough it would be to recall those dark adolescent days and other points in my life in which I needed the unconditional love of a dog to sustain me.  Now, though, I’m glad I kept trudging through it (with frequent breaks, I kid you not, to simply walk away from the keyboard, out into the forest, to let the tears fall until I could breathe normally again).  My intent with this book is to honor the dogs who quite literally saved my life.  I think telling their stories does that.  But… to honor them further, I’ll be donating all the royalties from this book to animal rescue.  The first royalty check will go to HOPE rescue in Upland, California.  HOPE is comprised of a tiny crew of amazing and selfless people who work tirelessly to rescue dogs and cats slated for euthanasia or that have been found on the streets.  My little Sug was just such a cat, taken in by HOPE, placed in foster care where she was loved and spayed and brought to good health, then made available for adoption.  Had she gone to a public shelter, she would never have made it out alive.  And what would I do without her?  Recently the good folks at HOPE rescued a beautiful Beagle mix puppy from a high-kill shelter and a volunteer is now fostering her.  I love these peeps, so every time someone buys a copy of Dogs, I get all happy, because I know that the royalty from that sale will enable HOPE to do just a bit more of the heroic work they do.

So you can see why I’m busy trying to promote this book.  I’ve set up some readings/signings, which I’ll be announcing here.  I always love doing these events (what author doesn’t?), but they’re especially fun when I know that the end result will enable me to contribute to the fur community.  Win!  Win!  Win!  

Giddiness Prevails!

Bear with me for a moment while I take deep breaths…. I’ve spent the weekend celebrating my daughter’s acceptance into a Master of Fine Arts program… and also celebrating 70-degree temps for the first time since October… and bringing the bench swing back up to the porch from the garage…. Oh—and Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Cat’s Life released this week, with my story, “The Legacy of Boo Radley.” And my Author’s Page went up on Amazon (which is indescribably encouraging, because I can see that Tainted Legacy is still selling all around the country). What else? Oh! The Grandson is here for the weekend (which is how I got the swing back up the stairs to the porch—and several other chores accomplished).

I’m excited about the weather warming for many reasons. A few are:

I’m out of firewood. (Could buy another half cord for $150, but I’d rather spend that money on something that doesn’t go up in smoke.)

“Scruffy,” the cat abandoned in the forest by some idiots, has a better chance of survival. He/she is responding to food and affection, looking healthier every day.

The wildflowers are beginning to bloom. 

I can spend more hours working on the dog book. Some of you know that my cabin in winter gets so cold that I can’t stay at the keyboard for long before my fingers are so stiff from the cold I have to stop typing. As the weather has warmed (except for last Saturday, at 20 degrees), I’ve been able to work on that memoir. I want to be close to finishing by summer.

I’m grateful this week to several people who have been especially supportive of my work, particularly Laura Hoopes, who helped me get the Amazon Author’s Page going. Her memoir will release on May 2, and I’ll be talking about it here.

I’m also grateful for the readers who have checked out my blog from afar. This week, I had two pageviews from Germany, two from France, two from Russia, two from Slovenia and one from Iran. Who are you, my exotic readers? Thanks for stopping by!

One more note that I’ve been meaning to tell you about: Some weeks ago, Gary Sutton sent me a copy of his new novel, Oskaloosa Moon. Gary is a savvy businessman who usually writes about that field. However, to pay dubious respects to his roots, he wrote Moon. I have to admit, I was skeptical at first; can a businessman write an engrossing novel? But I have to tell you, I fell in love with this book from the preface. If you are a reader of novels, I promise you will love this book. I have provided a link to Amazon here—if you buy it and don’t love it, let me know; I’ll buy it back from you!  (Just click on the book.  I know; it's way too easy....)