Elizabeth Atkinson's Blog, page 8
July 6, 2015
Unforgettable
I have no idea what I was doing a year ago today on my birthday, but I know I’ll never forget this July 6th… because 5 nice guys are here packing up our house.
It takes a lot of living to understand the nuanced differences between so long and goodbye. So long is for now. But goodbye is forever.
This week I’m saying so long to a town full of good friends and neighbors – people I know I’ll see in years to come. But I’m also saying goodbye to a very cozy house where my husband and I raised our two kids and two dogs for the past two decades – a cherished place (and era) I will visit again only through memories… sweetened with time.
While I’m excited about the next chapter in my life and whatever that may bring, letting go never gets easier. Because so long is for now. But goodbye is forever.
It takes a lot of living to understand the nuanced differences between so long and goodbye. So long is for now. But goodbye is forever.
This week I’m saying so long to a town full of good friends and neighbors – people I know I’ll see in years to come. But I’m also saying goodbye to a very cozy house where my husband and I raised our two kids and two dogs for the past two decades – a cherished place (and era) I will visit again only through memories… sweetened with time.
While I’m excited about the next chapter in my life and whatever that may bring, letting go never gets easier. Because so long is for now. But goodbye is forever.
1996 ~ West Newbury, MA ~ 2015
June 25, 2015
Reviews!! THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL
“A HOT NEW RELEASE” ON AMAZON!!
From KIRKUS REVIEWS:
“Even when dreams do come true, they might not look exactly as imagined. When narrator and native ‘New Hampshirite’ narrator Ruby and Eleanor, whose family has emigrated from Sri Lanka, visit a fortune teller for a free reading, they are thrilled with the very nonspecific fortunes they hear and immediately embark on a plan to make those fortunes come true. Ruby’s greatest wish is to go to the Snow Ball Dance with her crush, JB Knox, and Eleanor would do anything for a sewing machine. What they don’t foresee, however, is how their lives will change in other ways beyond the fulfillment of their dreams. Even when their dreams look like they’re never going to be realized, their close friendship saves them from hopelessness. Atkinson offers two adorable characters who are as different as they are brave and builds a sweet tale of inspiration and triumph over factors usually far beyond kids’ control….”
From DIANE DEBROVNER, Deputy Editor of PARENTS MAGAZINE:
“You’ll be instantly drawn into the lives of Ruby and her best friend Eleanor when just a little bit of magic sets them on a quest to make their dreams come true. Having lived in the shadow of ritzy Sugar Mountain and the seemingly perfect kids who vacation there, Ruby ultimately learns who matters most. The Sugar Mountain Snow Ball celebrates friendship, family and new beginnings — and the voices of Atkinson’s characters will linger in your mind long after you’ve finished the book.”
From CYNTHIA DEFELICE, award-winning author of more than 30 middle grade books:
“In prose as smooth as a dripping icicle, Elizabeth Atkinson tells the tale of one eventful winter in the lives of sixth grader Ruby and her friend Eleanor. Beginning — and ending — with lost socks and readings from the mysterious psychic Madame Magnifique, this story is about discovering what it means to have your dreams come true.”
Coming October 2015 (for ages 9 – 12)
Pre-Order your copy HERE
From KIRKUS REVIEWS:
“Even when dreams do come true, they might not look exactly as imagined. When narrator and native ‘New Hampshirite’ narrator Ruby and Eleanor, whose family has emigrated from Sri Lanka, visit a fortune teller for a free reading, they are thrilled with the very nonspecific fortunes they hear and immediately embark on a plan to make those fortunes come true. Ruby’s greatest wish is to go to the Snow Ball Dance with her crush, JB Knox, and Eleanor would do anything for a sewing machine. What they don’t foresee, however, is how their lives will change in other ways beyond the fulfillment of their dreams. Even when their dreams look like they’re never going to be realized, their close friendship saves them from hopelessness. Atkinson offers two adorable characters who are as different as they are brave and builds a sweet tale of inspiration and triumph over factors usually far beyond kids’ control….”
From DIANE DEBROVNER, Deputy Editor of PARENTS MAGAZINE:
“You’ll be instantly drawn into the lives of Ruby and her best friend Eleanor when just a little bit of magic sets them on a quest to make their dreams come true. Having lived in the shadow of ritzy Sugar Mountain and the seemingly perfect kids who vacation there, Ruby ultimately learns who matters most. The Sugar Mountain Snow Ball celebrates friendship, family and new beginnings — and the voices of Atkinson’s characters will linger in your mind long after you’ve finished the book.”
From CYNTHIA DEFELICE, award-winning author of more than 30 middle grade books:
“In prose as smooth as a dripping icicle, Elizabeth Atkinson tells the tale of one eventful winter in the lives of sixth grader Ruby and her friend Eleanor. Beginning — and ending — with lost socks and readings from the mysterious psychic Madame Magnifique, this story is about discovering what it means to have your dreams come true.”
Coming October 2015 (for ages 9 – 12)
Pre-Order your copy HERE
June 16, 2015
Wheels of Joy
I’m not much of a biker by anyone’s standards, but I consider speeding down a hill as fast as I can to be one of the great thrills in life – transporting me directly to my childhood…
I have many friends who take biking seriously with all the right gear, entering races and joining clubs…
…but I like to putz and hum as I ride quiet back roads, often dirt roads,
with the occasional downward streak.
Truth be told, I prefer going helmet-less too, but I grew up in an era when safety wasn’t the concern it is today…
And there’s nothing more refreshing than a sweaty bike ride followed my an ice cold dip in the lake,
to ensure a deep, full night of sleep on the porch.
What gives you pure childlike joy?
(photo credits: Google Images)
June 2, 2015
my not so secret SUPER POWER
It isn’t something I’ve just recently discovered, although it was years before I recognized it to be a super power.
Ever since I can remember it’s been part of who I am – and growing up, I assumed it was part of everyone else as well.
But then one day I mentioned it to a friend and she said it had never happened to her.
So I asked other people, and while some admitted they had experienced it occasionally, no one I knew dealt with it on a monthly, weekly, or even daily basis.
What is this super power I possess, you ask?
I’m GENERIC. Out-of-focus. The Queen of Mistaken Identity.
How do I know this?
My earliest memories include:
1. Being regularly confused with other people –
“Is this your jacket, Amy?”
“No, and I’m not Amy.”
2. Being constantly told I look like someone else –
“You look exactly like my cousin in Toronto. Are you from Toronto?”
“No, and I’m not your cousin.”
3. Being often ignored, or overlooked, in groups larger than 3 people-
“Has anyone seen the new movie at the Screening Room?”
“Yes, I did.”
“No one? You have to see it.”
MORE PROOF: When I joined the social media world in 2008 (with the release of my first novel) which included those gigantic photos of my face, I can’t tell you how many personal messages I received asking how I’ve been all these years – from strangers all over the country.
“Sorry,” I would have to reply,
“I’m not the Elizabeth Atkinson from 4-H Club in Shawnee, Oklahoma,
but hope you’re enjoying life!”
Just recently, our friendly, chatty carpenter (who had been working on our house for a couple of weeks) walked into my office looking bewildered.
“I just had a 5-minute conversation with your neighbor thinking it was you the whole time.”
“Which neighbor?” I asked.
“I don’t know – she was waiting for her little girl at the bus stop near your driveway.”
That neighbor is more than a half foot taller/larger than I am and probably 15 years younger… my kids no longer take the bus to school because they’re adults.
The same day, a man in a wheelchair zoomed right up to me in the grass seed aisle at Lowe’s.
“Is that you, Susan?”
“Nope, I’m not Susan.”
He persisted. “Really? You aren’t Susan?”
I hesitated, because I wasn’t sure anymore. Am I Susan?
And this is exactly why I consider my opaque existence to be a super power… how I turned my formerly self-perceived lemon-ness into delicious lemonade:
I’m non-threatening, even approachable! People trust me so much they dismiss my true existence. Consequently, I’m able to observe and study and even morph into other lives without even trying.
And that, for a storyteller, is pure gold.
Ever since I can remember it’s been part of who I am – and growing up, I assumed it was part of everyone else as well.
But then one day I mentioned it to a friend and she said it had never happened to her.
So I asked other people, and while some admitted they had experienced it occasionally, no one I knew dealt with it on a monthly, weekly, or even daily basis.
What is this super power I possess, you ask?
I’m GENERIC. Out-of-focus. The Queen of Mistaken Identity.
How do I know this?
My earliest memories include:
1. Being regularly confused with other people –
“Is this your jacket, Amy?”
“No, and I’m not Amy.”
2. Being constantly told I look like someone else –
“You look exactly like my cousin in Toronto. Are you from Toronto?”
“No, and I’m not your cousin.”
3. Being often ignored, or overlooked, in groups larger than 3 people-
“Has anyone seen the new movie at the Screening Room?”
“Yes, I did.”
“No one? You have to see it.”
MORE PROOF: When I joined the social media world in 2008 (with the release of my first novel) which included those gigantic photos of my face, I can’t tell you how many personal messages I received asking how I’ve been all these years – from strangers all over the country.
“Sorry,” I would have to reply,
“I’m not the Elizabeth Atkinson from 4-H Club in Shawnee, Oklahoma,
but hope you’re enjoying life!”
Just recently, our friendly, chatty carpenter (who had been working on our house for a couple of weeks) walked into my office looking bewildered.
“I just had a 5-minute conversation with your neighbor thinking it was you the whole time.”
“Which neighbor?” I asked.
“I don’t know – she was waiting for her little girl at the bus stop near your driveway.”
That neighbor is more than a half foot taller/larger than I am and probably 15 years younger… my kids no longer take the bus to school because they’re adults.
The same day, a man in a wheelchair zoomed right up to me in the grass seed aisle at Lowe’s.
“Is that you, Susan?”
“Nope, I’m not Susan.”
He persisted. “Really? You aren’t Susan?”
I hesitated, because I wasn’t sure anymore. Am I Susan?
And this is exactly why I consider my opaque existence to be a super power… how I turned my formerly self-perceived lemon-ness into delicious lemonade:
I’m non-threatening, even approachable! People trust me so much they dismiss my true existence. Consequently, I’m able to observe and study and even morph into other lives without even trying.
And that, for a storyteller, is pure gold.
May 21, 2015
Bird Land
As someone who spends a lot of time outdoors, I wish I could get into birding. People who “bird” seem to enjoy it so . . . like understanding a secret language the rest of the world can’t hear.
Like most people, I can easily recognize a crow or a gull or a hawk when I see one – what I like to call, “large font” birds. But I don’t know a Scarlet Tanager from a Rose-breasted Grosbeak, or the chirp of a Purple Martin from a Meadowlark’s song.
Knowing my desire to become a birder, a friend of mine recently invited me to view a Great Blue Heron rookery in a wildlife management area above the Parker River.
We hiked a short distance through the forest until we reached the wetlands, acres of woods flooded under slick green water, thick with weeds and rotting logs ~ a magical, mysterious world unto itself.
Birds of all shapes and sizes fluttered from one end to the other as they sang and chirped at full volume, the frogs below providing percussion. Clearly, this vast aviary was the perfect place to get inspired.
My friend pointed to a cluster of dead trees like ancient pillars (remnants from another time) standing in the middle of the shallow, tangled lake.
Enormous prehistoric birds stood above their large, messy nests – dozens of magnificent Great Blue Herons.
Occasionally one would take flight or arrive from somewhere else, their giant wings flapping slowly the same way I imagine pterodactyls probably flew. A breathtaking sight to behold.
Immediately, I wondered what the herons were thinking about, if they had built nests near their best friends, if they helped each other watch over their eggs.
Crouched on the shore, I let my binoculars slide down to the ground . . . and I watched what it was like to be a heron.
Meanwhile, my friend recognized several other bird species and pointed them out to me – she mentioned the characteristics of one in particular she planned to look up later, noting the color of the feathers, beak, and legs.
And I wondered why I didn’t want to identify and label any of the birds, why I preferred to just listen to their symphony of voices as I watched the huge herons interact.
The next day I returned to the same lookout with my dog, Obi, determined to spark an interest in birding, so I too could better enjoy my time spent in the wilderness.
As Obi dug holes and chased chipmunks up the hill in the woods, I crouched down in the same spot by the shore of the wetlands, grasping my binoculars, notepad, and a pen.
However once again, I found my mind wandering . . . watching the various birds carry on with their apparently very busy lives.
I had so many questions for all of them: Was bird life as fun as it seemed? Did the world look better from up above? Where did they go during a crackling thunderstorm on a hot summer night?
And most importantly,
did they have any idea how lucky they were
to fly?
That’s when it occurred to me that maybe there were different ways to go birding, and that my way was probably okay.
Even if I didn’t know the difference between a Yellow-throated Warbler and a Cedar Waxwing, or recognize the shriek of a Barn Owl, or where the Indigo Bunting had recently migrated from – I still love birds.
And I would do anything to understand their secret language the rest of the world can’t hear.
Like most people, I can easily recognize a crow or a gull or a hawk when I see one – what I like to call, “large font” birds. But I don’t know a Scarlet Tanager from a Rose-breasted Grosbeak, or the chirp of a Purple Martin from a Meadowlark’s song.
Knowing my desire to become a birder, a friend of mine recently invited me to view a Great Blue Heron rookery in a wildlife management area above the Parker River.
We hiked a short distance through the forest until we reached the wetlands, acres of woods flooded under slick green water, thick with weeds and rotting logs ~ a magical, mysterious world unto itself.
Birds of all shapes and sizes fluttered from one end to the other as they sang and chirped at full volume, the frogs below providing percussion. Clearly, this vast aviary was the perfect place to get inspired.
My friend pointed to a cluster of dead trees like ancient pillars (remnants from another time) standing in the middle of the shallow, tangled lake.
Enormous prehistoric birds stood above their large, messy nests – dozens of magnificent Great Blue Herons.
Occasionally one would take flight or arrive from somewhere else, their giant wings flapping slowly the same way I imagine pterodactyls probably flew. A breathtaking sight to behold.
Immediately, I wondered what the herons were thinking about, if they had built nests near their best friends, if they helped each other watch over their eggs.
Crouched on the shore, I let my binoculars slide down to the ground . . . and I watched what it was like to be a heron.
Meanwhile, my friend recognized several other bird species and pointed them out to me – she mentioned the characteristics of one in particular she planned to look up later, noting the color of the feathers, beak, and legs.
And I wondered why I didn’t want to identify and label any of the birds, why I preferred to just listen to their symphony of voices as I watched the huge herons interact.
The next day I returned to the same lookout with my dog, Obi, determined to spark an interest in birding, so I too could better enjoy my time spent in the wilderness.
As Obi dug holes and chased chipmunks up the hill in the woods, I crouched down in the same spot by the shore of the wetlands, grasping my binoculars, notepad, and a pen.
However once again, I found my mind wandering . . . watching the various birds carry on with their apparently very busy lives.
I had so many questions for all of them: Was bird life as fun as it seemed? Did the world look better from up above? Where did they go during a crackling thunderstorm on a hot summer night?
And most importantly,
did they have any idea how lucky they were
to fly?
That’s when it occurred to me that maybe there were different ways to go birding, and that my way was probably okay.
Even if I didn’t know the difference between a Yellow-throated Warbler and a Cedar Waxwing, or recognize the shriek of a Barn Owl, or where the Indigo Bunting had recently migrated from – I still love birds.
And I would do anything to understand their secret language the rest of the world can’t hear.
(photo source: google images except pics 2 & 3)
May 4, 2015
Crushed
Have you ever had a sweet, special memory tucked away for years and years – which you assumed you shared with someone else – only to discover it’s existed in your imagination alone? And then you begin to question whether it ever happened at all?
A pivotal time of my childhood occurred in 4th grade when my family settled in a small, bucolic New England town.
I grew up in an era when adults made decisions based on their grown-up needs, and expected the children to adjust. So instead of moving from North Carolina to Massachusetts before school started in September, we moved at the beginning of October when it made sense for my father’s career.
No one would have ever questioned that decision – in fact, most people believed uprooting kids during a school year built character. “Coddling” did not.
Already shy and nervous, I dreaded the move and the prospect of having all eyes on me as the new kid. But what I remember most about that first day is being seated in the second row in front of a very cute blond boy.
After being introduced to the class, I immediately noticed the boy – I’ll call him Sam – smile kindly at me as I slipped self-consciously into my little desk. He didn’t openly stare, as the rest of the class seemed to be doing.
Right away the teacher told everyone to get out a pencil, but I didn’t have one. Again, my parents figured I would ask what supplies I needed that first day, and we would scavenge the house (or go to the store if necessary) later that evening. However, this meant I would have to raise my hand and announce I needed a pencil – a terrifying prospect for an introverted girl who preferred to be anywhere other than school.
Just as I was about to gather the courage to raise my hand, Sam seemed to sense my anxiety and tapped my shoulder. When I turned around, he slid his “cigar box” of supplies toward me and asked if I wanted to borrow a pencil. Needless to say, I was smitten.
For the next several years of our lives, at least through middle school, I was often assigned to sit next to Sam as we were almost always seated alphabetically. Unlike other boys, who enjoyed teasing like it was an organized sport, Sam was nice to me – explaining directions I didn’t understand, giving me plenty of space when we shared a desk, and always happy to lend anything I needed.
He was quiet and sensitive, which I also liked… because I knew he would never do or say anything to hurt my feelings.
Later in high school our lockers were next to each other, due to our names still falling in line. Sam was much taller by then, but the same cute, soft-spoken blond boy he’d always been — very popular and well-liked by everyone, including the teachers.
And even though I continued to be smitten until we graduated, everyone knew he was solidly attached to one girl…. But that was fine with me, because Sam and I maintained a sweet, special friendship that – in my mind – started all those years ago on my first day of school.
Fast forward several decades to 2014.
Sam lives on other side of the country, but we’ve managed to keep in touch a bit through the wonders of the World Wide Web.
One day last summer, he wrote to say he would be traveling through my neck of the woods and suggested we meet at a local pub to catch up. It had been many, many years since we’d seen each other. So feeling very nostalgic, I was looking forward to reminiscing about those early years and our unique bond.
However, to my surprise, Sam recalled none of the memories I had tenderly tucked away.
Not only did he not remember saving me from embarrassment and lending me a pencil on my first day, he had no memory of me even being in his 4th grade class. And after reminding him how we were almost always assigned seats next to each other and later our lockers (due to the alphabetical order of our names), he seemed to vaguely recall that happening, although I got the feeling he may have been humoring me. After all, he was the same kind, thoughtful, soft-spoken person he’d always been, and clearly didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
And that, I’ve come to understand, is the real reason why I’ve treasured his friendship all these years.
A pivotal time of my childhood occurred in 4th grade when my family settled in a small, bucolic New England town.
I grew up in an era when adults made decisions based on their grown-up needs, and expected the children to adjust. So instead of moving from North Carolina to Massachusetts before school started in September, we moved at the beginning of October when it made sense for my father’s career.
No one would have ever questioned that decision – in fact, most people believed uprooting kids during a school year built character. “Coddling” did not.
Already shy and nervous, I dreaded the move and the prospect of having all eyes on me as the new kid. But what I remember most about that first day is being seated in the second row in front of a very cute blond boy.
After being introduced to the class, I immediately noticed the boy – I’ll call him Sam – smile kindly at me as I slipped self-consciously into my little desk. He didn’t openly stare, as the rest of the class seemed to be doing.
Right away the teacher told everyone to get out a pencil, but I didn’t have one. Again, my parents figured I would ask what supplies I needed that first day, and we would scavenge the house (or go to the store if necessary) later that evening. However, this meant I would have to raise my hand and announce I needed a pencil – a terrifying prospect for an introverted girl who preferred to be anywhere other than school.
Just as I was about to gather the courage to raise my hand, Sam seemed to sense my anxiety and tapped my shoulder. When I turned around, he slid his “cigar box” of supplies toward me and asked if I wanted to borrow a pencil. Needless to say, I was smitten.
For the next several years of our lives, at least through middle school, I was often assigned to sit next to Sam as we were almost always seated alphabetically. Unlike other boys, who enjoyed teasing like it was an organized sport, Sam was nice to me – explaining directions I didn’t understand, giving me plenty of space when we shared a desk, and always happy to lend anything I needed.
He was quiet and sensitive, which I also liked… because I knew he would never do or say anything to hurt my feelings.
Later in high school our lockers were next to each other, due to our names still falling in line. Sam was much taller by then, but the same cute, soft-spoken blond boy he’d always been — very popular and well-liked by everyone, including the teachers.
And even though I continued to be smitten until we graduated, everyone knew he was solidly attached to one girl…. But that was fine with me, because Sam and I maintained a sweet, special friendship that – in my mind – started all those years ago on my first day of school.
Fast forward several decades to 2014.
Sam lives on other side of the country, but we’ve managed to keep in touch a bit through the wonders of the World Wide Web.
One day last summer, he wrote to say he would be traveling through my neck of the woods and suggested we meet at a local pub to catch up. It had been many, many years since we’d seen each other. So feeling very nostalgic, I was looking forward to reminiscing about those early years and our unique bond.
However, to my surprise, Sam recalled none of the memories I had tenderly tucked away.
Not only did he not remember saving me from embarrassment and lending me a pencil on my first day, he had no memory of me even being in his 4th grade class. And after reminding him how we were almost always assigned seats next to each other and later our lockers (due to the alphabetical order of our names), he seemed to vaguely recall that happening, although I got the feeling he may have been humoring me. After all, he was the same kind, thoughtful, soft-spoken person he’d always been, and clearly didn’t want to hurt my feelings.
And that, I’ve come to understand, is the real reason why I’ve treasured his friendship all these years.
(photo source: google images)
April 21, 2015
night magic
I love the night.
A quiet, calming, gentle time when I feel most at ease in the world.
I’ve always found it strange how some people not only take the night for granted, but allow popular culture to demonize the most restorative hours of their lives. Warping their imaginations with toxic, graphic, violent images of the dark. Day is good. Night is evil. Day is safe. Night is scary.
It’s just not true.
The night holds as much beauty and inspiration as does the day.
A big part of the freedom of my childhood was the encouragement to be outside at night. My friends and I knew when to go home for dinner, but often met again after dessert (and dishes) when it was pitch dark. We would play hide & seek when we were little… meet in the woods to share secrets when were were older… and as teenagers, take long, sultry, private strolls with someone we liked a lot.
I love to swim at night, walk the dog at night, light an outdoor fire at night, and sleep on the porch at night. Before my kids could crawl I pushed them in the stroller late in the evenings, and by the time they could talk, we played outside on the swings and dug in the sandbox in the dark before bed.
For me, there is nothing better, or more life reaffirming, than lying on my back on a wooden dock rocking gently on the water, long after the sun has set. Gazing up at the sky, stars magically bloom brighter and more plentiful the deeper I stare.
And if I wait patiently, I’ll see meteors, satellites, distant planes, planets, and possibly a galaxy. Frogs may be croaking or loons could be calling. The moon, usually resting off to one side, is an old friend always there. A light breeze strokes my face. And I rock and rock on the dark water until I remember what it means to be alive.
A quiet, calming, gentle time when I feel most at ease in the world.
I’ve always found it strange how some people not only take the night for granted, but allow popular culture to demonize the most restorative hours of their lives. Warping their imaginations with toxic, graphic, violent images of the dark. Day is good. Night is evil. Day is safe. Night is scary.
It’s just not true.
The night holds as much beauty and inspiration as does the day.
A big part of the freedom of my childhood was the encouragement to be outside at night. My friends and I knew when to go home for dinner, but often met again after dessert (and dishes) when it was pitch dark. We would play hide & seek when we were little… meet in the woods to share secrets when were were older… and as teenagers, take long, sultry, private strolls with someone we liked a lot.
I love to swim at night, walk the dog at night, light an outdoor fire at night, and sleep on the porch at night. Before my kids could crawl I pushed them in the stroller late in the evenings, and by the time they could talk, we played outside on the swings and dug in the sandbox in the dark before bed.
For me, there is nothing better, or more life reaffirming, than lying on my back on a wooden dock rocking gently on the water, long after the sun has set. Gazing up at the sky, stars magically bloom brighter and more plentiful the deeper I stare.
And if I wait patiently, I’ll see meteors, satellites, distant planes, planets, and possibly a galaxy. Frogs may be croaking or loons could be calling. The moon, usually resting off to one side, is an old friend always there. A light breeze strokes my face. And I rock and rock on the dark water until I remember what it means to be alive.
April 9, 2015
Spring News!
Since I have some updates to share, I thought I’d post a few items this week….
~ Today is my sister, Jen’s, birthday (aka Aunt Nut) and I cannot remember a time when it snowed on her bday?
After a “long, cold, lonely winter,” I’m back in Maine at my writing retreat, Treegap – but nearly a foot still blankets the woods (see above). And five more inches of fresh powder have fallen in the past 24 hours. Looks like the ice won’t be out for a couple more weeks . . . .
~ In less than six months, THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL will be released in hard cover from Islandport Press!! I recently spent the day at the headquarters, just north of Portland, Maine – including a nearly 3-hour photo shoot with my editor, Melissa, and their talented photographer, Kevin:
~ My cross-genre group, the NEVERTHELESS WRITERS, spoke in several locations over the winter – most recently in Groveland at the Langley-Adams Library. We’ll be in Woburn in May, and are currently scheduling fall visits – so please follow (and contact) us on Facebook and Twitter!
~ And I’m very excited to share more book news – I finally got the green light from Carolrhoda Books to reveal the title of my fourth middle grade novel coming April 2016: THE ISLAND OF BEYOND ….I can’t wait to see the cover soon!
~ Spread the news! I have an I, EMMA FREKE book giveaway going on at GOODREADS – 5 signed copies will be sent to 5 winners in early May
~ So it’s been suggested (by several sharp marketing & publicist friends) that I expand my social media presence, and (in addition to all the links in the right margin) now I’m on Instagram too – which, I have to admit, is really fun! I’ll follow you if you follow me?
~ And last, but never least, my doodle Obadiah made his seasonal appointment with the canine stylist recently…
…and he’s feeling extra frisky!
“Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.” (Doug Larson)
(play>)HAPPY SPRING!(
~ Today is my sister, Jen’s, birthday (aka Aunt Nut) and I cannot remember a time when it snowed on her bday?
After a “long, cold, lonely winter,” I’m back in Maine at my writing retreat, Treegap – but nearly a foot still blankets the woods (see above). And five more inches of fresh powder have fallen in the past 24 hours. Looks like the ice won’t be out for a couple more weeks . . . .
~ In less than six months, THE SUGAR MOUNTAIN SNOW BALL will be released in hard cover from Islandport Press!! I recently spent the day at the headquarters, just north of Portland, Maine – including a nearly 3-hour photo shoot with my editor, Melissa, and their talented photographer, Kevin:
~ My cross-genre group, the NEVERTHELESS WRITERS, spoke in several locations over the winter – most recently in Groveland at the Langley-Adams Library. We’ll be in Woburn in May, and are currently scheduling fall visits – so please follow (and contact) us on Facebook and Twitter!
~ And I’m very excited to share more book news – I finally got the green light from Carolrhoda Books to reveal the title of my fourth middle grade novel coming April 2016: THE ISLAND OF BEYOND ….I can’t wait to see the cover soon!
~ Spread the news! I have an I, EMMA FREKE book giveaway going on at GOODREADS – 5 signed copies will be sent to 5 winners in early May
~ So it’s been suggested (by several sharp marketing & publicist friends) that I expand my social media presence, and (in addition to all the links in the right margin) now I’m on Instagram too – which, I have to admit, is really fun! I’ll follow you if you follow me?~ And last, but never least, my doodle Obadiah made his seasonal appointment with the canine stylist recently…
…and he’s feeling extra frisky!
“Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.” (Doug Larson)
(play>)HAPPY SPRING!(
March 31, 2015
What No One Knows
At some point in your life, I bet you were given a writing prompt.
Maybe in 4th grade you were told to write a paragraph on your favorite animal. Or later in middle school, you were asked to write a haiku about a dream. Or perhaps your HS English teacher assigned a 500-word essay describing your worst vacation.
For me, writing prompts have always been useful. However, one writing prompt in particular has been tapping me on the back of my shoulder for years, trying to get me to turn around and face it. In fact, this writing prompt has been pestering me for as along as I’ve been writing: Share your shame.
I’m a private person (also self-conscious, sensitive, introverted…) so SHAME is the last thing I want to share — but, as a writer, I know it may be “the subject” that resonates more with readers than any other.
Why?
Because everyone has dark thoughts and secrets. And everyone steeps those dark thoughts and secrets in silent shame. It’s part of being human. And, on the most basic level, we read in order to understand what it means to be human.
In the end, not only can sharing your shame be a gift to your readers, it can be a gift to yourself . . . because speaking up and sharing your shame is, ironically, the only thing that releases you from it.
Maybe in 4th grade you were told to write a paragraph on your favorite animal. Or later in middle school, you were asked to write a haiku about a dream. Or perhaps your HS English teacher assigned a 500-word essay describing your worst vacation.
For me, writing prompts have always been useful. However, one writing prompt in particular has been tapping me on the back of my shoulder for years, trying to get me to turn around and face it. In fact, this writing prompt has been pestering me for as along as I’ve been writing: Share your shame.
I’m a private person (also self-conscious, sensitive, introverted…) so SHAME is the last thing I want to share — but, as a writer, I know it may be “the subject” that resonates more with readers than any other.
Why?
Because everyone has dark thoughts and secrets. And everyone steeps those dark thoughts and secrets in silent shame. It’s part of being human. And, on the most basic level, we read in order to understand what it means to be human.
In the end, not only can sharing your shame be a gift to your readers, it can be a gift to yourself . . . because speaking up and sharing your shame is, ironically, the only thing that releases you from it.
March 20, 2015
here comes the sun
I spend much of my daily life immersed in music, the way many people are buoyed by religion.
I believe in music. It soothes my soul.
Every morning, classical music – like Bach or Vivaldi – greets me on my alarm clock and throughout the first hours of the day.
If I have housework to do, I blast early pop & swing, like Frank Sinatra or Sarah Vaughan.
On the treadmill I play pounding rock, like Rolling Stones, and breakout artists, like Sam Smith – or switch over to soul like Aretha and Otis Redding.
When writing a novel, I always choose a “theme song” to transition into the zone (and my teen voice). Currently, the piece below is the background music to my work-in-progress….
“Sideways”
Visiting faraway cultures I inhale the local music – on my recent adventure to the Caribbean, I breathed in Calypso and Reggae.
And driving around in the car, I often choose bluegrass and folk rock, like Gillian Welch and Neil Young.
At night, I unwind with pure jazz – like Thelonious Monk and Coleman Hawkins and Billie Holiday.
When it’s raining I love the blues, like Etta James and BB King… and sultry romantic music, like Madeleine Peyroux.
And on a scorching hot day in July I crank up fun, raucous americana country, like Trace Adkins and Old Crow Medicine Show.
So what am I listening to today?
After a record-breaking winter, nearly two feet of icy packed snow still buries our woods under a gray sky, while morning temps continue to hover between 20F & 30F.
But today is the first day of spring – and I know the sun will come, because I believe in music….
Here Comes the Sun
I believe in music. It soothes my soul.
Every morning, classical music – like Bach or Vivaldi – greets me on my alarm clock and throughout the first hours of the day.
If I have housework to do, I blast early pop & swing, like Frank Sinatra or Sarah Vaughan.
On the treadmill I play pounding rock, like Rolling Stones, and breakout artists, like Sam Smith – or switch over to soul like Aretha and Otis Redding.
When writing a novel, I always choose a “theme song” to transition into the zone (and my teen voice). Currently, the piece below is the background music to my work-in-progress….
“Sideways”
Visiting faraway cultures I inhale the local music – on my recent adventure to the Caribbean, I breathed in Calypso and Reggae.
And driving around in the car, I often choose bluegrass and folk rock, like Gillian Welch and Neil Young.
At night, I unwind with pure jazz – like Thelonious Monk and Coleman Hawkins and Billie Holiday.
When it’s raining I love the blues, like Etta James and BB King… and sultry romantic music, like Madeleine Peyroux.
And on a scorching hot day in July I crank up fun, raucous americana country, like Trace Adkins and Old Crow Medicine Show.
So what am I listening to today?
After a record-breaking winter, nearly two feet of icy packed snow still buries our woods under a gray sky, while morning temps continue to hover between 20F & 30F.
But today is the first day of spring – and I know the sun will come, because I believe in music….
Here Comes the Sun
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