R.L. Toalson's Blog, page 3

The Story of Two Cats: a Serendipitous Happenstance

We were out at the zoo, talking about animals, when my second son said, “Can we go to the animal shelter today?” We pass the shelter on our way to the parking lot, and we all enjoy looking at cats and dogs.

Almost exactly a year before, we’d adopted an orange kitten named River. He is a good cat—the kind that wants snuggles often and yet roams at will outdoors and always finds his way back home. Independent and yet relational.

My oldest son sidled up next to me on the way inside the building....

Time Flies When You Enjoy Your Work: an Ironic Truth

“Can I show you this real quick?”

My oldest son held out the old phone we gave him for his creative projects and a bit of technology time for which he has to complete a number of things before it’s earned. I was putting the last touches on dinner—some baked chicken, some roasted beets and zucchini, and slices of watermelon for dessert. I was moments away from calling in the rest of my sons, from hearing them all complain about how gross dinner looks, from sitting down and trying to remain pre...

The Importance of Reading Aloud to Kids

When my oldest son turned ten, he told me he now wanted his privacy during bath time.

This, of course, is a normal part of growing up; children like the presence of their parents, the stability they can offer in the moments of a day when they are young—and then one day they no longer need us. But I was not quite ready.

For the last seven years I had sat in the bathroom while he bathed and I read a book aloud, just him and me. We read fun books together—The Incorrigible Children of Ashton Plac...

How Stories Bind Us Together and Promote Empathy

When I was a child, I didn’t know what it was like to live in tribes or be forced to marry foreigners or give up your homeland. But I discovered the novels of Scott O’Dell and realized there was a whole other world out there that was different from the one I’d known.

In high school, I was drawn to Maya Angelou and Toni Morrison, who wrote about growing up black; I felt a kinship with them because I had never read stories that felt so real and representative of my experience in a low income (o...

The Fortuitous Journey of My Life: a Reflection

I recently had the privilege and pleasure of returning to the library I visited every Saturday as a kid. My mom is the library director there, and she asked me to do an author event. I readily agreed. With a crowd of old school friends, old teachers, and strangers, I talked about my journey from small-town girl to published author.

I came from humble beginnings, but I always knew I wanted to be an author. I soon learned that people like me—the poor—weren’t supposed to be authors; we were supp...

Days off from School: a Short Examination

Days off from school are the best. Not only do you not have to get up early and eat breakfast when you’re not even hungry and get dressed into school-appropriate clothes—you don’t even have to get dressed at all!

On days off from school, you can wear your pajamas all day if you want to. You can eat breakfast as early or late as you desire; you can even eat all day (as long as you don’t have a mom like me). You can sleep for as long as you need.

My sons, when they have a day off school, are ex...

How Novels in Verse Help Reluctant Readers

I work tirelessly, it seems, to keep my sons immersed in books; to encourage them, when bored, to pick up a book; to foster their love of reading. It’s important that my boys love reading; books, I believe are important for teaching kids as well as connecting them to the world around them. Reading well—measure by literacy rates—has the potential to lift children from the generational cycle of poverty.

I know. I was one of them.

But one of my sons has historically been a reluctant reader. He l...

The Hammock: a Tale of Coming Full Circle

Not too long ago, someone tagged me with a photo of my first traditionally published book, The Colors of the Rain, which she was reading in a hammock.

She was reading in a hammock. She was reading my book.

In a hammock.

When I was a girl, I often wandered out to the hammock strung between two oak trees beside my lifted-foundation home. When I wanted to get away from the house that felt too empty without my father’s large presence inside. When I wanted to escape from my mother’s figure bent ov...

To All the Kids Who’ve Been Left Behind: You Will Survive

The problem is you’re not really sure if he left because of you.
The problem is you love him but you also hate him.
The problem is you’re afraid.
The problem is you’re afraid they’ll all see what he saw and leave you, too.
The problem is you have trouble remembering the good times without the bad ones.
The problem is he didn’t always touch you gently.
The problem is sometimes you wished him gone—and now he is.
The problem is you miss him when you want to forget him.
The problem is this hole f...

On Writing What I Know: a Look at Fathers

A friend of mine had just introduced me to a poet. We were at a conference; I had, moments ago, finished my first book signing and was feeling fragile and shaky as often happens when I’m not sure I deserve something—like a book publishing or people lining up for me to sign it or the opportunity to write at all.

One of the poets, a short, graying, brilliant man, said, “Did the dad leave his son in this one?”

Well, yeah.

“Why does it always have to be the dads?” he said.

He didn’t mean the word...