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

Why going back is so hard....

On Friday, I will return to work after ten weeks of long walks in the forest, afternoon glasses of cinnamon iced tea with cookies, hours spent watching the birds at the birdfeeder, opportunities to make memories with my kids and grandkids and the blessed luxury of reading a book without watching the clock.  Thus, I will return to work with heavy, dragging footsteps.  Oh yes, I love my job; the kids are funny and warm and refreshingly honest and idealistic, and they teach me new things every day.  But…

This is what teachers do:  In April and May, when others are digging out of the winter doldrums and doing spring cleaning or home improvement projects, we who spend at-home time grading and planning lessons tell ourselves, “That project can wait until summer break.”  But when school lets out, do we dive right in and start completing all those tasks we set aside for summer?  No.  For the first two weeks we revel in not having to live our lives according to a bell schedule.  We sleep in till oh, say, 7:00a.m.  Eventually, the true meaning of “vacation” sets in, and we begin to relax… and read… and have long, luxurious lunches with friends and dinners with family that have been postponed for weeks, sometimes months.

On some days, we actually make lists of those projects that need to be completed.  In fact, I feel productive just for making the list.  But let’s face it, if I am faced with a choice between spackling a mouse hole or taking my granddaughter to the beach, I’m going to opt for the latter every time.

This insouciant behavior does, however, eventually lead to sudden anxiety and a sense of panic when we realize—oh expletive! I have only one more week to spackle and paint and I wanted to get to the beach one more time and see one more movie in the theater and is there any money left for new clothes? (no) and I never did get to the Huntington Library this summer.  Sigh.

I am especially guilty of the ‘not getting around to stuff,’ even though I tell myself every summer that I will go off the mountain to have adventures at least several times a week (Safari Park in San Diego to see the giraffes, the Sawdust Festival in Laguna to traipse for hours through the booths and chat with the artists).  But more often than not, what I look forward to most is simply staying home, having lunch on the back deck with the cats and the bluejays, sitting in the front porch swing later and reading for hours as the sun filters through the oak tree canopy and the red-shafted flicker complains to the acorn woodpeckers. 

I try to feel guilty about not spending more time on home improvement projects, but I just can’t.  Because when the school year gets into its full, exhausting swing, I won’t be longing for the days of spackling and painting. I’ll be longing for those long, quiet days of uninterrupted time to read… and write.

The bird in the basement....

           Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
That on a wild secluded scene impress
Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
             ~ William Wordsworth, "Lines (composed a few miles above Tintern Abbey...)"

As I rolled slowly around the last switchback turn, a young deer suddenly leapt out onto the highway from the brush at the side of the road.  I hit my brakes hard—not out of concern that I would hit him, but because I’ve been taught by Bob Walker, my favorite old timer on the mountain, that “there’s never just one.”  I slowed to a crawl, scanning each side of the road for the mother as the little one bounded ahead of me on legs seemingly made of rubber.  Eventually he had the good sense to veer off into the forest again, and I resumed my short journey to the post office.

That was yesterday.  This morning at 5:00a.m. I shared a banana with a polite but hungry raccoon who had grown frantic scavenging because she had three small kits to feed.  A few hours later, on another trip to the post office and in the exact same spot where I saw the deer, I watched a mama mountain quail scurry across the road.  And I stopped again and watched as her chicks turned tail at the sound of the truck and scuttled into the bushes.  I knew they would wait until it was absolutely quiet again before attempting to cross over, and their mother, by clucking, would be the one to signal the all-clear.

And this afternoon I watched in dismay as Luna Cat slunk into the cabin and down to the basement, a dark-eyed junco hanging from her jaws.  I followed her down, scolded her, and she dropped the bird at my feet.  Immediately it flew up, beating its wings frantically against the basement window.  As I approached slowly, the bird stopped fluttering and became still, turning its head to watch me with one tiny onyx dot of an eye.  I cupped my hands around its body, leaving its head exposed, and slowly walked up the stairs, out the door and into the forest (leaving poor Lu still downstairs, prowling and puzzled, searching for her bird).  I stood for a long minute, the bird now nestled on one open palm, talking softly and stroking him with a finger to pull away the pin feathers he’d lost in his brush with death.  When he was ready, wits about him now, he simply flew away.

I had this experience with a hummingbird once.  I had removed all the screens to rinse the dust off after washing windows on a brilliant summer day, and the hummingbird just flew right in.  The scenario played out in the same way; the bird, with wings whirring, pushed its body forward against the clear glass, confused, becoming still as I moved toward it.  I cupped it in my bare hands, walked outside and for an instant marveled at the miracle of holding this creature—until it dashed off without so much as a buzz by of thanks.

Two weeks ago, as I was showing the cabin to some prospective buyers, a bluejay hopped into the cabin through one of the French doors left open.  I reached down to shoo him out, but the motion startled him and he flew up to a kitchen window.  Wrapping my hands gently around his folded wings, I carried him back to the yard and set him down.  After a moment, he flew to the safety of a low tree branch.  The potential buyers were amazed.

“Yes,” I laughed, “I’m the bird whisperer.”

I’ve held a baby ‘possum in my hands as well, though I had the presence of mind to pull on my thick leather work gloves before I scooped it up.  The mother ‘possum, heavily laden with five other joeys on her back, hadn’t managed to make it back to my neighbor’s shed under cover of darkness.  The sun had risen and people were about—including some excited children—when Junior toppled off, and she was frantic, unwilling to subject the clinging babies to the danger of the humans and equally unwilling to leave the wayward child behind (a situation that, sadly, I’ve had some experience with myself).  I picked up her pink-nosed, beady-eyed child and followed her as she trundled toward their home, setting him down just outside the shed and then backing away to watch her turn and gather him in.

It’s been hot in recent days, even up here on the mountain, and after over-doing it yesterday, I chose a quiet day today, mostly reading and writing.  During a peaceful interlude of dividing my attention between the huge thunderheads rolling by and the acorn woodpeckers pecking at the hanging feeder, I wondered again what I will do to find these miracles when I no longer live on the mountain.  I have been witness to amazing things here—bears on my back porch, a baby bobcat chasing a lizard nearly at my feet, a small fox lunging through three-foot snowdrifts on a full moon night to sniff hungrily at my French doors, bighorn sheep standing proudly at dawn to face the rising sun, the gorgeous buck who simply walked out of the forest and into my backyard in search of water (which is always left out for anyone who needs a drink), the mama raccoons who’ve brought their babies at dusk so that I can see and remark upon their cuteness, countless shooting stars, a lunar eclipse…. 

And yet, as I continued to reflect, the stories of the stranded baby ‘possum and the hummingbird came to mind.  Those experiences did not occur here on the mountain.  I rescued the hummer when we lived in Chino, the ‘possum after we’d moved to a housing track in Rancho Cucamonga.

And so I guess… miracles are everywhere.  Of course, it’s easier to see these things here on the mountain where Nature still retains the luxury of being wild and unfettered, so it might be that I will have to look a little closer, be a bit more attentive to the world around me once I settle in the valley again.  But I’m sure I will have adventures there as well.  Thank goodness Nature is immutable, that we can go away for years at a time, as Wordsworth pointed out, and still return to the same “steep and lofty cliffs” to find them virtually unchanged.  There’s a certain comfort in that, as if it were possible to place a bookmark in time, and by returning to the physical place, return to some point in our past.  It sounds like magic, I know, but that’s why the mountain is so alluring… because the magic is so strong here.  

Leaving before it's time to go....

The family member of a close friend killed himself last week.  His funeral is today.

It’s been a long time since I wrote about suicide.  Most of my bi-polar and depressive friends have been doing just fine on their meds or using the strategies they’ve learned in therapy so that they can quickly arrest a descent into the ominous dark spiral.  I’m grateful for that.  I love all of them and would be devastated if any one of them chose to take the shortcut-of-no-return, as J did.

This was a young man who had been troubled for a long, long time, though he was not without love and support and encouragement from patient, sincere, understanding family members.  But… in spite of their best efforts, he began to feel helpless in the face of the events which comprised his life… and one night when that feeling overwhelmed him, he opted for permanent relief from the pain….

And so my friends, this is just the gentlest of reminders:

We can never control the circumstances of our lives.  We can only control our response to those circumstances.  This is true for all of us, whether we’re happy and well-adjusted or have been bashed around by the harsh, capricious nature of life in this world.

As I wrote in The Dogs WhoSaved Me, forty+ years ago I was a clinically depressed teen who had lost all reason to live.  Well… save one: Rufus, the dog who taught me what loyalty and unconditional love are all about kept me from leaving before it was really time to go.  Back then, if someone had told me, “Just hang on, K; in a few short years you’re going to have four incredible kids and even more grandkids and you’ll go to college and earn a master’s degree in literature and become a published author,” I would have told them they were nuts.  And yet here I am with a thousand blessings to be thankful for every single day.

We cannot know, day by day, which way the path of life will turn or what obstacles will appear before us.  But from this side of life I can see that there is balance in all things.  For every rotten tomato life throws at us, a golden apple will fall from a tree nearby and roll onto the path at our feet.  We just have to keep our eyes open, keep looking for the beauty (because believe me, it’s there, even when the dark clouds above us shut out the light for a bit and we can’t quite see it) and above all, keep making forward progress—even if it is measured in inches—so we don’t miss the good stuff.  And trust me, there’s a whole lot of good stuff along the way.  Sometimes we just have to hunker down in the bottom of the boat and wait until the storm passes.  (Hug yourself and rock if it helps.  Don’t laugh; Dr. Temple Grandin would agree with me.  I did this in a figurative sense when I would sit on my bedroom floor and listen to music for hours.  Better yet, hug a fur person.)  Just… don’t give up and jump overboard.  Your feelings are real, and I would never discount them.  I’ve had them myself.  I know how much it hurts.  But when the pain seems unbearable, gather around you those things that you love and hang on; clear skies and a gorgeous sunrise are just a few moments away….

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!  

Losing track

They call them “God’s candles,” the yuccas that bloom seemingly overnight all over the mountain in the spring.  As one who trudges reluctantly to bed while it is still light in order to wake again in darktime, I don’t think of them as candles to illumine the night, but rather as natural glow sticks (given the way in which they nearly hum with light when the unfiltered sun crests the ridge and finds them in the morning) to guide the robins and tanagers and black-headed grosbeaks back to the high slopes after spending an easier winter in the foothills.

And I know, when I drive to work each morning and see those tall, lustrous blooms beside the road, that in a very short time—a few blinks of the eye, a few tea bags expended—that it will be summer again.

Summer, when I can spend long hours writing again.

Summer, when I can spend long hours reading again.

Summer, when I can wander off, as I did today, after a morning of cleaning windows and answering email, to walk in the forest and find new trails by just pulling over where I haven’t pulled over before and following the stream, rock-hopping in the shade of towering trees as the breeze blows the scent of pine and sage across my face and the falling water reminds me once again that Nature has her own song.

Summer, when there is time and opportunity to wander in the late evening, to watch for bats or the little fox that lives by the waterfall or the rise of the moon over the eastern ridge.

Summer, when there are no bells, buzzers or alarms to regulate my choices, where spontaneity allows for long visits with friends or journal entries that go on for pages or a song session with the guitar that lasts for hours.

It’s easy, in summer, to lose track of time, immersing myself in the moment at hand with all its sights and scents and songs, and in doing so, lose track—if just for that moment—of all the tiny turbulences that disrupt the peaceful flow of life.  And it’s easy, in those long, reflective, contemplative and tranquil moments, to believe—whether truth or fantasy—that I can return home and write words that have as much beauty as they have meaning.

Death of an Icon

Losing Ray Bradbury from this world is like being told that hot fudge sundaes have ceased to exist and I will never have the experience of eating one again in my life. Losing his creative and imaginative writing, his brilliant and adoring words, is tantamount to losing something that is both tangible and visceral. Great writers die and their works live on, but Bradbury’s presence and persona imbued him with a god-like aura, I think because wherever he went, he simply oozed joy and love and enthusiasm.
During the science fiction phase of my young adulthood, I read and loved The Illustrated Man and The Martian Chronicles. In college, first one professor then another told me Bradbury stories. This man who loved the idea of dinosaurs and time machines and rocket ships refused to drive cars or fly in planes. He was a hopeless romantic. He loved everyone. He swore like a sailor. A prof at UCR had us read a short story by Bradbury in which he reverses history (with the deployment of a time machine) and Ernest Hemingway does not blow his brains out with a shotgun. My hero.  (For time travel enthusiasts who ascribe to the "butterfly effect," please note that the term was coined from Bradbury's short story, "A Sound of Thunder.")

Though he traveled the world (and especially adored Paris), Bradbury loved living in Southern California and agreed to countless speaking engagements here. When he came to speak at nearby Chaffey College, my friend Lana and I went to see him. We arrived an hour early and sat in the front row. Though mesmerized by his often shouted remarks (“I love America! I love the freedom of our democracy! If you don’t like the sons-a-bitches, you can vote them out and vote the bastards in! And if you decide you don’t like the bastards, you can vote them out and vote the sons-a-bitches back in! It’s wonderful!”), I did have the presence of mind to notice him take one sip from a tall glass kitchen tumbler that had been placed on his lectern. Afterward, as the auditorium cleared, I told Lana I wanted to take it, but I’d never stolen anything before, so I was deeply conflicted. Just then a stagehand appeared to clean up, and I asked him if I could have the glass if I promised to replace it. He handed it to me. It sat on the highest shelf of my kitchen cabinet for a year—until Lana’s daughter dragged it down to get a drink of water, dropping it in the sink, where it shattered. Nothing lives forever….

In the fall of 2010, I saw Bradbury speak at the Duarte Authors Festival. Wheelchair bound, he was frail and attended by several handlers. But he had lost none of his enthusiasm. He told story after story of living life as a writer, admonishing the crowd repeatedly to “love each other, love everyone.” That was how he lived his life.

Geez, Ray, a light has gone out down here. But… I’m curious. What are you doing now? Smoking cigars with Hemingway? Buzzing around from planet to planet? Riding on the backs of dinosaurs? Enjoy yourself. It’s going to take me the rest of my short time here to read what I haven’t yet read of your life’s work. May I be so prolific, so imaginative, so original in my own writing. Farewell for now, my friend.