Elizabeth Atkinson's Blog, page 6
March 17, 2016
DREAM JOB
When I was a kid, the alarm clock felt like a punishment.
Not only did it abruptly screech at me every morning in the middle of a deep, cozy, dream-filled sleep — but it meant I had to rush to eat breakfast before I was hungry, and then make the dreaded daily march to school… the very last place I wanted to be.
I always envied people who thrived at school. For me (especially in my younger years) it was a noisy, crowded, glaring, sterile, loud, hollow, insensitive, boring place I was forced to attend by the bossy world of adults.
I remember I would often look back longingly at my cozy bed of dreams, as I reluctantly closed the bedroom door behind me, and head into the world of rules, judgement, rigid structure… and overwhelming anxiety.
And the real problem was, I didn’t see an end in sight.
Even if I eventually finished school – a huge if in my mind – the adult world seemed to be just more of the same. My mother hurried off in the morning to teach in another district, and my dad endured a long commute into Boston to a stressed-filled executive job.
But then I saw her – the woman with the world’s best career. And there was hope!
It had to have been a Sunday night (mid 1970s) because my parents were watching 60 Minutes (as they did, and still do, every Sunday evening) when a segment on the TV caught my eye.
A glamorous older woman, perfectly coifed in rolling waves of white hair, wearing a silk bathrobe over matching pjs and delicate fluffy slippers — literally dripping in diamonds — was luxuriating in a four-poster canopy king-sized bed, as her formal staff stood at the ready.
An internationally celebrated author, this astounding woman wrote cheesy serial romance novels from the comfort of her opulent boudoir as her devoted employees tended to her every need. Sheer genius!
Not only was she super rich and extremely happy, but she had been anointed by the Queen of England herself as Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire for lounging in bed to record her fantasies! And the French gave her an important medal too.
Be still my heart. Dame Barbara Cartland was my new forever hero. The woman who was living the dream. My dream.
Fast forward a few decades and finally, I’m a published author too. I wear Eddie Bauer instead of Yves St. Laurent, and my only jewels are the same pair of silver-hammered earrings that go with every piece of (Eddie Bauer) clothing I own. I’ve sold far less than 100,000 copies of my books, nothing close to the estimated one billion copies Lady Cartland sold her in lifetime. My staff consists of a self-cleaning oven and an electric toothbrush. But I’m thrilled and delighted with my success!
Except for one thing: I can’t stay in bed after I wake up.
I need to make my own coffee and take a morning walk with the dog to feel alive. And even if I did stay in bed, everything aches. So I have to get up!
But thank you, Dame Barbara (who lived nearly 99 supreme years), for giving me a goal and showing me a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. And from one sister writer to another, I think you’d appreciate this sweet view from my bed…
Not only did it abruptly screech at me every morning in the middle of a deep, cozy, dream-filled sleep — but it meant I had to rush to eat breakfast before I was hungry, and then make the dreaded daily march to school… the very last place I wanted to be.
I always envied people who thrived at school. For me (especially in my younger years) it was a noisy, crowded, glaring, sterile, loud, hollow, insensitive, boring place I was forced to attend by the bossy world of adults.
I remember I would often look back longingly at my cozy bed of dreams, as I reluctantly closed the bedroom door behind me, and head into the world of rules, judgement, rigid structure… and overwhelming anxiety.
And the real problem was, I didn’t see an end in sight.
Even if I eventually finished school – a huge if in my mind – the adult world seemed to be just more of the same. My mother hurried off in the morning to teach in another district, and my dad endured a long commute into Boston to a stressed-filled executive job.
But then I saw her – the woman with the world’s best career. And there was hope!
It had to have been a Sunday night (mid 1970s) because my parents were watching 60 Minutes (as they did, and still do, every Sunday evening) when a segment on the TV caught my eye.
A glamorous older woman, perfectly coifed in rolling waves of white hair, wearing a silk bathrobe over matching pjs and delicate fluffy slippers — literally dripping in diamonds — was luxuriating in a four-poster canopy king-sized bed, as her formal staff stood at the ready.
An internationally celebrated author, this astounding woman wrote cheesy serial romance novels from the comfort of her opulent boudoir as her devoted employees tended to her every need. Sheer genius!
Not only was she super rich and extremely happy, but she had been anointed by the Queen of England herself as Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire for lounging in bed to record her fantasies! And the French gave her an important medal too.
Be still my heart. Dame Barbara Cartland was my new forever hero. The woman who was living the dream. My dream.
Fast forward a few decades and finally, I’m a published author too. I wear Eddie Bauer instead of Yves St. Laurent, and my only jewels are the same pair of silver-hammered earrings that go with every piece of (Eddie Bauer) clothing I own. I’ve sold far less than 100,000 copies of my books, nothing close to the estimated one billion copies Lady Cartland sold her in lifetime. My staff consists of a self-cleaning oven and an electric toothbrush. But I’m thrilled and delighted with my success!
Except for one thing: I can’t stay in bed after I wake up.
I need to make my own coffee and take a morning walk with the dog to feel alive. And even if I did stay in bed, everything aches. So I have to get up!
But thank you, Dame Barbara (who lived nearly 99 supreme years), for giving me a goal and showing me a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. And from one sister writer to another, I think you’d appreciate this sweet view from my bed…
March 2, 2016
And then there was Jeff
Anyone who knows me well may be surprised to hear I’ve invited a long-term house guest to stay the winter in Maine.
As close friends and family could tell you, I cherish my privacy and the quiet beauty of the woods. But I just didn’t have the heart to send Jeff away.
And now I’ve grown quite fond of him – or, at least, the sight of him.
I discovered Jeff last December early one morning in the kitchen as I reached for the coffee pot. He looked exhausted, even discouraged, as he slowly crawled across the counter.
I poured a tiny puddle of water a few inches from his microscopic legs, assuming he had to be thirsty. Unfortunately, the deluge startled him and he jumped backwards, clearly zapping any remaining energy he had left.
“Sorry,” I whispered, and decided to leave him alone while I ate my breakfast.
After I pulled on my jacket and snow boots to walk the dog in the woods, I glanced back at the counter and noticed Jeff leaning over the puddle. He appeared to be drinking!
For the next few mornings, as soon as I woke up, I checked on Jeff to make sure he was okay. Sometimes I found him by the salt shaker, other times near the faucet.
Then one morning I couldn’t find him anywhere, and panicked a little, until I carefully scanned every inch of the kitchen. He was hanging upside down from my beet plant on the windowsill, as if fast asleep.
A beautifully shaped delicate green bug, I had assumed Jeff was an aphid. I don’t know why I assumed that, other than Jeff is what I thought an aphid looked like. Observing him in this troublesome position, I decided to google aphids to see how they normally spend the cold winter months, and whether it involved hanging upside down.
But I quickly discovered Jeff didn’t look anything like an aphid – and, in fact, appeared to be a stink bug!
Immediately, I felt disappointed… but how ridiculous. I was allowing the label (a label created by humans, not other bugs) to change my perception of my tiny friend.
Suddenly I felt even more protective of Jeff and read everything I could about stink bugs. It turns out he was comfortably hibernating and would stay put (in the safe, quiet, warm corner he had chosen) until late April – at which time he would need to be transferred outside to do what stink bugs (and most species) do in the spring.
No matter how misguided our human intentions may seem to each other – whether based on religious, political, social, or philosophical beliefs – I’ve always felt most everyone (deep down) wants to do their part to make the earth a better place. Preserving our planet is our shared humanity.
But lately, I’ve had my doubts. And I’ve found myself questioning my place in a world that seems to be spinning tragically out of control. Do I make a difference? Are my actions valuable? Should I keep trying? Is it all worth it?
…and then there was Jeff.
As close friends and family could tell you, I cherish my privacy and the quiet beauty of the woods. But I just didn’t have the heart to send Jeff away.
And now I’ve grown quite fond of him – or, at least, the sight of him.
I discovered Jeff last December early one morning in the kitchen as I reached for the coffee pot. He looked exhausted, even discouraged, as he slowly crawled across the counter.
I poured a tiny puddle of water a few inches from his microscopic legs, assuming he had to be thirsty. Unfortunately, the deluge startled him and he jumped backwards, clearly zapping any remaining energy he had left.
“Sorry,” I whispered, and decided to leave him alone while I ate my breakfast.
After I pulled on my jacket and snow boots to walk the dog in the woods, I glanced back at the counter and noticed Jeff leaning over the puddle. He appeared to be drinking!
For the next few mornings, as soon as I woke up, I checked on Jeff to make sure he was okay. Sometimes I found him by the salt shaker, other times near the faucet.
Then one morning I couldn’t find him anywhere, and panicked a little, until I carefully scanned every inch of the kitchen. He was hanging upside down from my beet plant on the windowsill, as if fast asleep.
A beautifully shaped delicate green bug, I had assumed Jeff was an aphid. I don’t know why I assumed that, other than Jeff is what I thought an aphid looked like. Observing him in this troublesome position, I decided to google aphids to see how they normally spend the cold winter months, and whether it involved hanging upside down.
But I quickly discovered Jeff didn’t look anything like an aphid – and, in fact, appeared to be a stink bug!
Immediately, I felt disappointed… but how ridiculous. I was allowing the label (a label created by humans, not other bugs) to change my perception of my tiny friend.
Suddenly I felt even more protective of Jeff and read everything I could about stink bugs. It turns out he was comfortably hibernating and would stay put (in the safe, quiet, warm corner he had chosen) until late April – at which time he would need to be transferred outside to do what stink bugs (and most species) do in the spring.
No matter how misguided our human intentions may seem to each other – whether based on religious, political, social, or philosophical beliefs – I’ve always felt most everyone (deep down) wants to do their part to make the earth a better place. Preserving our planet is our shared humanity.
But lately, I’ve had my doubts. And I’ve found myself questioning my place in a world that seems to be spinning tragically out of control. Do I make a difference? Are my actions valuable? Should I keep trying? Is it all worth it?
…and then there was Jeff.
February 17, 2016
an inconvenient phobia
It’s difficult to talk about what you dread, because it usually involves admitting failure or a weakness of some kind… which is embarrassing, even shameful. I sometimes have to secretly push through dread, as I suspect a lot of others do too, but I dread to admit it. Especially the most irrational kind of dread: a phobia.
Like most people, I have a few quirky phobias – but the truly challenging phobia I’m forced to face on a regular basis involves my career. In fact, it’s a requirement for anyone who writes books. It’s such a peculiar phobia, that people often don’t understand how deeply it can paralyze me. And by confessing it here, I’m actually exposing myself to even more scrutiny, which is exactly the crux of my phobia.
Let’s face it… book signing events can be awkward to do and awkward to watch. But the awkward “please buy my book” part isn’t the part I actually dread. Most people would assume my phobia involves speaking in public, but I don’t mind public speaking at all and enjoy reading my books out loud. I’ve even given talks to an auditorium filled with hundreds of kids without notes. Not a problem.
What I dread is the part after the talk… the part when I have to pick up a pen and sign books: Scriptophobia
Scriptophobia isn’t the fear of writing (which would be an extremely inconvenient phobia for a writer)… rather it’s the fear of writing by hand in public or in front of other people.
Ever since I was a kid I’ve had lousy handwriting as well as the inability to write fluidly. So I have to really psyche myself up to put the pen to the page and spell my name as legibly as possible, so it doesn’t look like a doctor’s prescription. Writing by hand, even when I’m alone, tires and frustrates me. It always has. And for as long as I can remember, whenever someone has watched me write, my fingers freeze.
When I have to sign a credit card or check, I place something (like a bag) between the cashier and my hand to hide my hand while I write. And if someone is also asking me questions while I write, there have been times when I begin to write down the actual words the person is asking. On more than one occasion this has happened at a book signing where I’ve had to fudge my mistakes.
And this brings me to the last reason I dread signing books – I feel like I’m defiling, even ruining, the book. I can’t imagine why someone would want me to scribble all over their new book in my horrid handwriting!
A few years ago I realized I had to adopt a strategy to deal with my scriptophobia as it was growing worse with each new release. As soon as I saw dozens of kids line up to have their books signed, my heart would pound and my hands would shake. But I knew if I wanted to be successful as a writer, I had to accept that signing books is part of the job and somehow conquer my phobia.
So what did I do?
– I shared with my family that I have this embarrassing problem. They laughed (a lot) which made me laugh. It is kind of funny for a writer.
– I now have a two-word signature phrase for each book, followed by my name, to keep the signing short.
– I try to write smaller and tighter letters, which helps me concentrate.
– As soon as someone hands me a book, I have them slowly spell the dedication name, then I ask them a generic question to distract them from silently staring at me while I sign.
– And if I’m particularly anxious and tense I pop a mint in mouth, so I can’t talk which helps me focus on physically writing.
Sounds crazy, irrational, and ridiculously silly? Most phobias are, but most of us have them, so there’s no reason to be embarrassed – or worse – ashamed. It will probably never go away completely, but you can own it, defuse it, and get control over it.
What’s your most inconvenient phobia?
Like most people, I have a few quirky phobias – but the truly challenging phobia I’m forced to face on a regular basis involves my career. In fact, it’s a requirement for anyone who writes books. It’s such a peculiar phobia, that people often don’t understand how deeply it can paralyze me. And by confessing it here, I’m actually exposing myself to even more scrutiny, which is exactly the crux of my phobia.
Let’s face it… book signing events can be awkward to do and awkward to watch. But the awkward “please buy my book” part isn’t the part I actually dread. Most people would assume my phobia involves speaking in public, but I don’t mind public speaking at all and enjoy reading my books out loud. I’ve even given talks to an auditorium filled with hundreds of kids without notes. Not a problem.
What I dread is the part after the talk… the part when I have to pick up a pen and sign books: Scriptophobia
Scriptophobia isn’t the fear of writing (which would be an extremely inconvenient phobia for a writer)… rather it’s the fear of writing by hand in public or in front of other people.
Ever since I was a kid I’ve had lousy handwriting as well as the inability to write fluidly. So I have to really psyche myself up to put the pen to the page and spell my name as legibly as possible, so it doesn’t look like a doctor’s prescription. Writing by hand, even when I’m alone, tires and frustrates me. It always has. And for as long as I can remember, whenever someone has watched me write, my fingers freeze.
When I have to sign a credit card or check, I place something (like a bag) between the cashier and my hand to hide my hand while I write. And if someone is also asking me questions while I write, there have been times when I begin to write down the actual words the person is asking. On more than one occasion this has happened at a book signing where I’ve had to fudge my mistakes.
And this brings me to the last reason I dread signing books – I feel like I’m defiling, even ruining, the book. I can’t imagine why someone would want me to scribble all over their new book in my horrid handwriting!
A few years ago I realized I had to adopt a strategy to deal with my scriptophobia as it was growing worse with each new release. As soon as I saw dozens of kids line up to have their books signed, my heart would pound and my hands would shake. But I knew if I wanted to be successful as a writer, I had to accept that signing books is part of the job and somehow conquer my phobia.
So what did I do?
– I shared with my family that I have this embarrassing problem. They laughed (a lot) which made me laugh. It is kind of funny for a writer.
– I now have a two-word signature phrase for each book, followed by my name, to keep the signing short.
– I try to write smaller and tighter letters, which helps me concentrate.
– As soon as someone hands me a book, I have them slowly spell the dedication name, then I ask them a generic question to distract them from silently staring at me while I sign.
– And if I’m particularly anxious and tense I pop a mint in mouth, so I can’t talk which helps me focus on physically writing.
Sounds crazy, irrational, and ridiculously silly? Most phobias are, but most of us have them, so there’s no reason to be embarrassed – or worse – ashamed. It will probably never go away completely, but you can own it, defuse it, and get control over it.
What’s your most inconvenient phobia?
February 2, 2016
Romance 101
I know I’m in the minority, but Valentine’s Day has always been one of my three top holidays.
As a kid, I loved watching my parents’ expressions as they read their spectacular homemade cards declaring my eternal adoration.
When I was older, nothing made me happier than receiving a flower and a smile from a boy I liked a lot.
I’ll never forget the February 14th that my husband (before we were married) arranged for a private sleigh ride (with bells!) in the woods of rural Minnesota.
But nothing will ever compare to the words and gifts my own children created when they were little, so excited to share their pure, sweet love.
Some years have yielded greater returns than others… but I never lose the faith and always look forward to celebrating the universal language of ♥ every 2/14.
A few of my romantic recommmendations:
~ Looking for a perfect Valentine’s Day movie? BROOKLYN (possibly the most romantic movie I’ve seen since ROMAN HOLIDAY)
~ Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day music? Van Morrison… Moondance, Brown Eyed Girl, Sweet Thing, Astral Weeks, Have I Told You Lately, Tupelo Honey and this great version of Crazy Love w/Bob Dylan…
~ Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day food? Fondue
~ Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day book? THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL of course! Remember your first crush? Your first best friend? Your first dance? Celebrate the people in your life with a sweet, tender, funny story filled with love!
In honor of Valentine’s Day, three separate Book Giveaways for THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL will be offered through February 14th!
1) GOODREADS (starting Thursday 2/4) HERE
2) INSTAGRAM (starting Monday 2/8) HERE
3) My BLOG! (starting NOW!) HERE Contact me through my website and type “SUGAR MT” in the subject line and one person will be randomly chosen to win a signed copy of THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL and my new novel THE ISLAND OF BEYOND before it’s publicly released on April 1st!
HaPpY ♥ DaY
Love is an irresistable desire to be irresistably desired.
(Robert Frost)
As a kid, I loved watching my parents’ expressions as they read their spectacular homemade cards declaring my eternal adoration.
When I was older, nothing made me happier than receiving a flower and a smile from a boy I liked a lot.
I’ll never forget the February 14th that my husband (before we were married) arranged for a private sleigh ride (with bells!) in the woods of rural Minnesota.
But nothing will ever compare to the words and gifts my own children created when they were little, so excited to share their pure, sweet love.
Some years have yielded greater returns than others… but I never lose the faith and always look forward to celebrating the universal language of ♥ every 2/14.
A few of my romantic recommmendations:
~ Looking for a perfect Valentine’s Day movie? BROOKLYN (possibly the most romantic movie I’ve seen since ROMAN HOLIDAY)
~ Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day music? Van Morrison… Moondance, Brown Eyed Girl, Sweet Thing, Astral Weeks, Have I Told You Lately, Tupelo Honey and this great version of Crazy Love w/Bob Dylan…
~ Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day food? Fondue
~ Looking for the perfect Valentine’s Day book? THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL of course! Remember your first crush? Your first best friend? Your first dance? Celebrate the people in your life with a sweet, tender, funny story filled with love!
In honor of Valentine’s Day, three separate Book Giveaways for THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL will be offered through February 14th!
1) GOODREADS (starting Thursday 2/4) HERE
2) INSTAGRAM (starting Monday 2/8) HERE
3) My BLOG! (starting NOW!) HERE Contact me through my website and type “SUGAR MT” in the subject line and one person will be randomly chosen to win a signed copy of THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL and my new novel THE ISLAND OF BEYOND before it’s publicly released on April 1st!
HaPpY ♥ DaY
Love is an irresistable desire to be irresistably desired.
(Robert Frost)
January 20, 2016
Ocean or Mountains?
A question that comes up again and again when I speak on panels or at book signings is What magazine do you recommend for writers?
People are often surprised by my answer: PSYCHOLOGY TODAY
Want to find out how what makes a narcissist tick? Or why some people lie to make friends? Or the difference between a hoarder and a collector?
For professional psychologists, this magazine may be psycho-pop babble. But for those of us who write character-driven novels, it’s chock full of potential personality traits and all the ensuing symbolism — which leads to motivations and interesting plots!
Recently, a short PT article particularly interested me, because it addressed something I’ve been questioning about my own preferences…
From SOME LIKE IT FLAT by Rachel Uda:
“People who scored high on measures of introversion showed a preference for visiting mountainous areas… while extraverts favored being near the ocean.”
I happen to divide my time between the Atlantic Ocean in Massachusetts and the White Mountains of western Maine and New Hampshire. To be honest, whenever I walk along the ocean I feel little to no emotion. The endless water and waves are calming to look at, but I don’t feel drawn to the sea or interested in the vast flatness it offers.
On the other hand, whenever I hike in (or just gaze at) the mountains, whatever ails me disappears…
Being in the mountains can turn my lousy attitude into joy, a feeling of despondency into triumph. But I’m not exactly sure how that happens, or why I don’t experience a similar soulful transformation by the sea.
According to the article, this phenomenon occurs because I’m a classic introvert: “You’re more likely to be secluded [in the mountains], which is why we think they appeal to introverts. Near oceans, you’re more likely to see and interact with others.”
True… but there has to be so much more to it than that simplistic explanation. The mountains literally rise out of the earth and form spectacular monuments, reaching for hope, inspiration, and whatever lies beyond our very tiny lives. Perhaps appealing most to people who seek out safety and shelter with the potential for a dramatic climax?
On the other hand, the ocean is wide open and vulnerable, exposed to the elements and the sun… but also represents hope and inspiration to many. Perhaps for those who seek out physical risk and adventure without the emotional peaks?
And what about childhood experiences and attachments, not to mention people who have allergies in the mountains and those of us who burn on the beach?
Who really knows what makes an individual tick… but as a writer, I never get bored trying to figure it out.
So what about you? Ocean or Mountains?
People are often surprised by my answer: PSYCHOLOGY TODAY
Want to find out how what makes a narcissist tick? Or why some people lie to make friends? Or the difference between a hoarder and a collector?
For professional psychologists, this magazine may be psycho-pop babble. But for those of us who write character-driven novels, it’s chock full of potential personality traits and all the ensuing symbolism — which leads to motivations and interesting plots!
Recently, a short PT article particularly interested me, because it addressed something I’ve been questioning about my own preferences…
From SOME LIKE IT FLAT by Rachel Uda:
“People who scored high on measures of introversion showed a preference for visiting mountainous areas… while extraverts favored being near the ocean.”
I happen to divide my time between the Atlantic Ocean in Massachusetts and the White Mountains of western Maine and New Hampshire. To be honest, whenever I walk along the ocean I feel little to no emotion. The endless water and waves are calming to look at, but I don’t feel drawn to the sea or interested in the vast flatness it offers.
On the other hand, whenever I hike in (or just gaze at) the mountains, whatever ails me disappears…
Being in the mountains can turn my lousy attitude into joy, a feeling of despondency into triumph. But I’m not exactly sure how that happens, or why I don’t experience a similar soulful transformation by the sea.
According to the article, this phenomenon occurs because I’m a classic introvert: “You’re more likely to be secluded [in the mountains], which is why we think they appeal to introverts. Near oceans, you’re more likely to see and interact with others.”
True… but there has to be so much more to it than that simplistic explanation. The mountains literally rise out of the earth and form spectacular monuments, reaching for hope, inspiration, and whatever lies beyond our very tiny lives. Perhaps appealing most to people who seek out safety and shelter with the potential for a dramatic climax?
On the other hand, the ocean is wide open and vulnerable, exposed to the elements and the sun… but also represents hope and inspiration to many. Perhaps for those who seek out physical risk and adventure without the emotional peaks?
And what about childhood experiences and attachments, not to mention people who have allergies in the mountains and those of us who burn on the beach?
Who really knows what makes an individual tick… but as a writer, I never get bored trying to figure it out.
So what about you? Ocean or Mountains?
January 7, 2016
COVER REVEAL!
Thank you to the fantastic MR. SCHU who revealed the cover of my Spring 2016 novel, THE ISLAND OF BEYOND, this morning on his world-famous BLOG!
(Check it out HERE)
TA-DAH!!
Coming this SPRING 2016 from Carolrhoda Books!
Two boys,
from two worlds,
spend an unforgettable summer together
on an island where time stands still…
Eleven-year-old Martin Hart can hardly imagine a worse summer.
Martin’s dad wants him to like “normal” boy things—playing sports and exploring the outdoors—so he sends Martin to his great-aunt Lenore, who lives on a tiny island called Beyond.
But nothing about Beyond is what Martin expects.
This unique coming-of-age story will keep readers turning the pages as Martin conquers his fears, forges extraordinary friendships, and surprises everyone — including himself.
My two favorite tweens (niece & nephew) diving into
THE ISLAND OF BEYOND
(Check it out HERE)
TA-DAH!!
Coming this SPRING 2016 from Carolrhoda Books!
Two boys,
from two worlds,
spend an unforgettable summer together
on an island where time stands still…
Eleven-year-old Martin Hart can hardly imagine a worse summer.
Martin’s dad wants him to like “normal” boy things—playing sports and exploring the outdoors—so he sends Martin to his great-aunt Lenore, who lives on a tiny island called Beyond.
But nothing about Beyond is what Martin expects.
This unique coming-of-age story will keep readers turning the pages as Martin conquers his fears, forges extraordinary friendships, and surprises everyone — including himself.
My two favorite tweens (niece & nephew) diving into
THE ISLAND OF BEYOND
December 30, 2015
The Lost Art of Boredom
Like most people my age, I remember very few New Year’s Eve celebrations (or anything for that matter) from years past. However, I do recall one particular NYs Eve 39 years ago when I babysat overnight.
I had helped with this particular baby only a couple times before for brief afternoons while the mother did something or other around the house – now that I think back, she probably just needed time for herself. So I was a bit surprised when she asked me, at only 15 years old, to watch their precious bundle on my own until the next morning (and year).
Babysitting overnight was still pretty uncommon back then, and considered to be a great gig as you continued to earn money while you slept — an additional $8 for 8 hours of dreaming on the couch. Nevertheless, I remember I wasn’t sure about accepting the job as there was a boy I liked and hoped to spend New Year’s Eve with at a high school party. In the end, either the boy showed no interest or the extra cash proved too enticing.
I don’t remember many details about that evening – including their family name – but I do recall that the couple seemed really young and very cool. Definitely, a new generation of parents different from mine or from my friends’ parents. Their house, an artsy cottage tucked in the woods down a dirt driveway, smelled of eucalyptus and fresh herbs. But what I recall most clearly – and probably the reason I remember that December 31st evening at all – was the realization (i.e., shock) that they didn’t own a television.
I had arrived early, around dinnertime, because they had plans to drive all the way into Boston for the night… so there were many, many hours to fill until the appointed time of 10am the next morning. And it hadn’t occurred to me to bring something to read or do. As soon as the mom informed me there was no TV set, she quickly added, “But we have a stereo and a great collection of albums.” It sounded like something my older brother would say… not a mom.
After feeding the baby and getting her to bed I scanned the bookshelves, but nothing caught my eye. I flipped through their magazines & newspapers (and, I’m sure, poked in other places) but again, nothing of interest to an extremely bored 15 year-old girl. I knew all my friends were out having fun, so no one to call on the phone. Eventually I gave in, dropped down onto the hardwood floor, sifted through the records, and made a stack to fill the long, lonely night ahead.
I remember I chose one of my favorite albums to play first, an album I had heard many times before – but something strange happened. With nothing to do looming for hours on end, I sat in front of the stereo and played one particular song from that album over and over again for the rest of the evening… until I had created my own story between the lines of the lyrics. And to this day, I’ve always felt that was the night I began to understand what it meant to enter a story, from an imagination wiped clean of distractions, in order to tell it…
I had helped with this particular baby only a couple times before for brief afternoons while the mother did something or other around the house – now that I think back, she probably just needed time for herself. So I was a bit surprised when she asked me, at only 15 years old, to watch their precious bundle on my own until the next morning (and year).
Babysitting overnight was still pretty uncommon back then, and considered to be a great gig as you continued to earn money while you slept — an additional $8 for 8 hours of dreaming on the couch. Nevertheless, I remember I wasn’t sure about accepting the job as there was a boy I liked and hoped to spend New Year’s Eve with at a high school party. In the end, either the boy showed no interest or the extra cash proved too enticing.
I don’t remember many details about that evening – including their family name – but I do recall that the couple seemed really young and very cool. Definitely, a new generation of parents different from mine or from my friends’ parents. Their house, an artsy cottage tucked in the woods down a dirt driveway, smelled of eucalyptus and fresh herbs. But what I recall most clearly – and probably the reason I remember that December 31st evening at all – was the realization (i.e., shock) that they didn’t own a television.
I had arrived early, around dinnertime, because they had plans to drive all the way into Boston for the night… so there were many, many hours to fill until the appointed time of 10am the next morning. And it hadn’t occurred to me to bring something to read or do. As soon as the mom informed me there was no TV set, she quickly added, “But we have a stereo and a great collection of albums.” It sounded like something my older brother would say… not a mom.
After feeding the baby and getting her to bed I scanned the bookshelves, but nothing caught my eye. I flipped through their magazines & newspapers (and, I’m sure, poked in other places) but again, nothing of interest to an extremely bored 15 year-old girl. I knew all my friends were out having fun, so no one to call on the phone. Eventually I gave in, dropped down onto the hardwood floor, sifted through the records, and made a stack to fill the long, lonely night ahead.
I remember I chose one of my favorite albums to play first, an album I had heard many times before – but something strange happened. With nothing to do looming for hours on end, I sat in front of the stereo and played one particular song from that album over and over again for the rest of the evening… until I had created my own story between the lines of the lyrics. And to this day, I’ve always felt that was the night I began to understand what it meant to enter a story, from an imagination wiped clean of distractions, in order to tell it…
December 18, 2015
One True Heart (& in the news)
After taking a last walk along the Merrimack River basin by Plum Island this morning,
Obi and I have packed the car,
anxious to return to Maine…
. . . to celebrate the holidays with family & friends!
It’s been a busy month of book events, contests, author visits, interviews, and announcements including:
SCBWI 2015 Book Launch Party!
Cybils Nomination
New Hampshire Writers’ Project
Conway Daily Sun:
…with another interview in the BRIDGTON NEWS!
As well as BOOK SIGNINGS –
– with the last one of the year on Sat 12/19 at White Birch Books in North Conway, NH! For more info, click here
Thanks to everyone for your kind support and warm reviews of THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL!
Perhaps my favorite comment came in an email recently:
“I finished Sugar Mountain and loved it… a really good cast of characters glued together by Ruby’s true heart.”
However you choose to celebrate the solstice…
may you always stay true to your heart.
~HAPPY WINTER~
Obi and I have packed the car,
anxious to return to Maine…
. . . to celebrate the holidays with family & friends!
It’s been a busy month of book events, contests, author visits, interviews, and announcements including:
SCBWI 2015 Book Launch Party!
Cybils Nomination
New Hampshire Writers’ Project
Conway Daily Sun:
…with another interview in the BRIDGTON NEWS!
As well as BOOK SIGNINGS –
– with the last one of the year on Sat 12/19 at White Birch Books in North Conway, NH! For more info, click here
Thanks to everyone for your kind support and warm reviews of THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL!
Perhaps my favorite comment came in an email recently:
“I finished Sugar Mountain and loved it… a really good cast of characters glued together by Ruby’s true heart.”
However you choose to celebrate the solstice…
may you always stay true to your heart.
~HAPPY WINTER~
One True Heart
After taking a last walk along the Merrimack River basin by Plum Island this morning,
Obi and I have packed the car,
anxious to return to Maine…
. . . to celebrate the holidays with family & friends!
It’s been a busy month of book events, contests, author visits, interviews, and announcements including:
SCBWI 2015 Book Launch Party!
Cybils Nomination
New Hampshire Writers’ Project
Conway Daily Sun
…with another interview in the BRIDGTON NEWS next week!
As well as BOOK SIGNINGS –
– with the last one of the year tomorrow (12/19) at White Birch Books in North Conway, NH! For more info, click here
Thanks to everyone for your kind support and warm reviews of THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL!
Perhaps my favorite comment came in an email recently from my sister:
“I finished Sugar Mountain and loved it… a really good cast of characters glued together by Ruby’s true heart.”
However you choose to celebrate the winter solstice…
may you always stay true to your heart.
HaPpY HoLiDaYs!!
Obi and I have packed the car,
anxious to return to Maine…
. . . to celebrate the holidays with family & friends!
It’s been a busy month of book events, contests, author visits, interviews, and announcements including:
SCBWI 2015 Book Launch Party!
Cybils Nomination
New Hampshire Writers’ Project
Conway Daily Sun
…with another interview in the BRIDGTON NEWS next week!
As well as BOOK SIGNINGS –
– with the last one of the year tomorrow (12/19) at White Birch Books in North Conway, NH! For more info, click here
Thanks to everyone for your kind support and warm reviews of THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL!
Perhaps my favorite comment came in an email recently from my sister:
“I finished Sugar Mountain and loved it… a really good cast of characters glued together by Ruby’s true heart.”
However you choose to celebrate the winter solstice…
may you always stay true to your heart.
HaPpY HoLiDaYs!!
December 3, 2015
Nose to Nose
‘Tis the season of aromas, odors, and smells — turkey roasting, snow falling, challah baking, a fire burning, hot cocoa, backed up septic systems, cinnamon sticks, Christmas trees, forgotten gravy at the back of the fridge, scented candles, the old furnace kicking in — smells about which we all have strong opinions. And those opinions, many experts believe, vary according to our associations with each whiff… but I’m not so sure I agree.
I recently became interested in olfactics (the study of smells) when our dog was repeatedly sprayed by Pepé Le Pew a couple of months ago. Convinced the skunk was a chew toy, Obi refused to let it go. That’s another stinky story, but what I found most interesting about that pungent event was our friends’ different reactions to the lingering stench permeating our skin, clothes, hair, and every corner of our house for two weeks.
To my surprise, more than a couple people insisted, “Doesn’t bother me – I like the smell of skunks!” One person even admitted he loves the stuff. When asked for more info, none of them could recall a “positive” or out-of-the ordinary experience with a member of the Mephitidae family. So where was the association?
I had never heard of anyone actually enjoying eau de skunk, but I have known people who love the smell of a mildewed basement (ick) or even moth balls (double ick) — while others are inexplicably repulsed by the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee or the smoky scent of bacon!
So it got me wondering about my own peculiar olefactory likes and dislikes:
~I particularly love the smell of gasoline, popcorn, lilacs, and magic markers…
~However, the smell of wintergreen, Lysol, black tea, and licorice all make me gag.
~But I’m not bothered by the smell of tar, boiled cabbage, cigarettes, or a ‘naturally’ fertilized farm.
So why is that true for me, but not for you?
And while we’re on the topic, how can we be attracted (instantly) to a person based on our olfactory perception of the way they waft, despite the fact that (more often than not) we know that same person would make a terrible partner?
According to the experts, we begin to develop our sense of smell – our preferences and dislikes – in the womb as a result of what mom consumes. However, those same experts can’t agree on exactly what happens after we’re born… or the degree to which nurture vs nature shapes our individual sense of smell. We know scents can influence weight loss and gain, illnesses, arousal, learning – practically every human experience – but how does that happen and, again, why does it happen?
I don’t know if we’ll ever discover the secret formula, or if a formula even exists — but like so many other mysteries in life, I think this one is better left to the philosophers and poets…
I recently became interested in olfactics (the study of smells) when our dog was repeatedly sprayed by Pepé Le Pew a couple of months ago. Convinced the skunk was a chew toy, Obi refused to let it go. That’s another stinky story, but what I found most interesting about that pungent event was our friends’ different reactions to the lingering stench permeating our skin, clothes, hair, and every corner of our house for two weeks.
To my surprise, more than a couple people insisted, “Doesn’t bother me – I like the smell of skunks!” One person even admitted he loves the stuff. When asked for more info, none of them could recall a “positive” or out-of-the ordinary experience with a member of the Mephitidae family. So where was the association?
I had never heard of anyone actually enjoying eau de skunk, but I have known people who love the smell of a mildewed basement (ick) or even moth balls (double ick) — while others are inexplicably repulsed by the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee or the smoky scent of bacon!
So it got me wondering about my own peculiar olefactory likes and dislikes:
~I particularly love the smell of gasoline, popcorn, lilacs, and magic markers…
~However, the smell of wintergreen, Lysol, black tea, and licorice all make me gag.
~But I’m not bothered by the smell of tar, boiled cabbage, cigarettes, or a ‘naturally’ fertilized farm.
So why is that true for me, but not for you?
And while we’re on the topic, how can we be attracted (instantly) to a person based on our olfactory perception of the way they waft, despite the fact that (more often than not) we know that same person would make a terrible partner?
According to the experts, we begin to develop our sense of smell – our preferences and dislikes – in the womb as a result of what mom consumes. However, those same experts can’t agree on exactly what happens after we’re born… or the degree to which nurture vs nature shapes our individual sense of smell. We know scents can influence weight loss and gain, illnesses, arousal, learning – practically every human experience – but how does that happen and, again, why does it happen?
I don’t know if we’ll ever discover the secret formula, or if a formula even exists — but like so many other mysteries in life, I think this one is better left to the philosophers and poets…
Photo Source: Google Images
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