What Would I Be If I Wasn't A Writer?

When I was in my early 20's, I heard author Lee Smith share a quote that she felt expressed her motive for being a writer. She said, "I write because I want to live more than one life." I have never forgotten that quote, and have often reflected on it as I've embarked on my dream of becoming a real, live novelist. Writing novels, I am learning, gives you the chance to live vicariously through your characters. Give them a profession and you get to see it through their eyes, feel it through their hands, and live it through their experience. And the research can be quite fun!

In my forthcoming novel, I made my main character a photographer because I am fascinated by them-- by the gift of seeing things the rest of us just pass by. But before I made her a photographer, I thought about making her a number of professions-- a soap maker, a calligrapher, an actress. All of these are professions that fascinate me. The exciting part is, as I keep creating characters, I can eventually get to them all!

In the movie It's Complicated, one of my favorite scenes is when Meryl Streep makes warm chocolate croissants for Steve Martin in her bakery. If I had to pick another profession other than writing it would be baking. I'd love to be capable of making flaky, sweet pastry that fills people up with warm doughy goodness. Instead I can write about a baker who does just that... and I can fill people up with the warmth and sweetness of words, minus the calories. In the meantime, I'll practice my baking skills on my family. They rave over my simple efforts and appreciate my attempts, no matter how humble. I can only hope that my readers will do the same through the years.

Marybeth Whalen is the wife of Curt and mom of six children, which is why she thinks about cooking a lot. Her novel, The Mailbox, came out in June of 2010 and her next novel, She Makes It Look Easy, comes out in June of 2011. She hopes to write many more novels in the years to come. You can find her at http://www.marybethwhalen.com/.

The Come-Aparts, Mr. Negative, Laura's letter and some Strawberry Fields too...by Kerry Madden

This picture of my girls, Lucy and Norah, makes me so happy...and since it's the anniversary of John Lennon's death, I keep thinking of "Strawberry Fields."

* * *

I'm shattered with the end of semester blues and the dance of living 2000 miles away from my husband, teaching creative writing, and yet also working with some amazing students.

So I really needed Laura's letter. She wrote it in response to our workshop's visit to a local magnet school in Birmingham, the last day of class. For the past seventeen weeks in our workshop at UAB, we've been writing children's stories - picture books to young adults and workshopping them. From Cynthia Leitich Smith to Ann Whitford Paul to Laurie Halse Anderson to Kathi Appelt to Kimberly Willis Holt to Barbara O'Connor to John Green to Amy Koss to Katherine Paterson to David Lubar to Kathryn Erskine to Deborah Wiles to Elizabeth Bluemle to Jacqueline Woodson to Elizabeth Dulemba to Katie Davis to Cecil Castellucci to Anne Isaacs to Coe Booth to Libba Bray to Tanya Lee Stone to Rick Riordan to Roald Dahl to Suzanne Collins to Dare Wright to many many more...I introduced authors to them, the students shared authors they had discovered, and I encouraged them to write. We did writing warm-ups, we read, we workshopped, and we tried to understand together writing for children and what works and what doesn't.


In the workshop, they wrote and revised the following kinds of stories:

1. A Maurice Sendak-inspired story.
2. A James Marshall-inspired story. (a la George & Martha!)
3. A Chris Van Allsburg-inspired story.
4. A fairy tale or fractured fairy tale or tall tale.
5. A middle chapter.
6. A young adult chapter.
7. A query letter to a publisher.

* * *

But before I get to Laura's letter, I have to say that lately I've been wondering how to sustain a writing life in academia. Last year, I told people that raising three kids on a teacher's salary/freelance writer's income in Los Angeles was just as hard as being an assistant professor, so I could do this job. But this year it got harder. I have my eleven-year-old, Norah, which makes me a single parent, but I wouldn't stay if she weren't here. She's at that magical sixth grade age where we talk about everything, and we eat simple meals and find HULU episodes of Modern Family, Bewitched, Mary Tyler Moore and Glee to watch. Tomorrow we're going to Gee's Bend on a big field trip with her class.  We've been to Sloss Furnaces, Oak Mountain, Birmingham's Day of the Dead at Bare Hands, the climbing wall at UAB, and the Piggly-Wiggly aplenty.


http://www.quiltsofgeesbend.com/


But recently she said to me, "Sorry if I distract you from your writing, Momma."

I said, "It's okay."

She looked shocked and said, "WHHHHATTTT? Seriously? I distract you? I was just kidding!"


But to be honest, I allowed other things to distract to me a whole more than Norah. I had a negative student in one of my workshops who really broke my brain this semester.

Let's just call him, Mr. Negative.

Mr. Negative gave me a serious case of the "come-aparts." Another student, not Mr. Negative, wrote about his mother and how she used to get the “come-aparts” after drinking a case of Tall Boys. (Horrifying? Impressive?) As an adult, he’d have to go over and calm her down with a “Momma, let’s pray” when his own mild daddy couldn’t do a thing for her.

But now that the semester is over I find myself wondering what I could have done differently. I should have tried harder to quell Mr. Negative. His feedback to other members in the workshop would often commence with the words, "Nitpicky! Nitpicky!" I tried to model good and positive feedback. I talked to him about feedback to other members of the workshop who became wary of him. Rarely was anything positive ever going to come out of his mouth. I met in conference with him and tried to encourage him to find his voice as a writer. He also seemed to think that because I have had some very modest success in publishing I held the proverbial “Get Out Of Jail” card to the in-crowd world of bestselling authors. If I knew that freaking secret (and as much as I love my job) would I be living 2000 miles away from my husband trying to get our kids through college?

So how do you teach generosity and kindness in a writing workshop? How do you do that? The majority of my students already know kindness and generosity. They don't need to be taught, and they know how to say thank you. They are kind and generous with each other, which is what new writers need in a workshop - a place where they can share they stories without being attacked. I'm not saying we have to be all Mary Sunshine, but we can say the things that need to be said in a workshop without meanness and negativity.

I almost stopped writing my first novel, OFFSIDES, because of a mean critic with the face of a prune who hated everything I wrote. Finally, I had the sense to stop sharing my "infant" novel in the workshop until she stopped coming. And I love good criticism - I need it. It's made me a better writer, but not the kind that is not helpful - not the kind that is more about the critic "liking the sound of his own voice" as my grandmother, Elizabeth Baker, used to say. (Elizabeth did the THE TAMING OF THE SHREW in 1917 in Leavenworth, Kansas and heard someone in the front row whisper loudly, "She likes the sound of her own voice!" When she told me this story, she laughed and said, "And you know what? It's true! I did.")

But back in September, a most wonderful children's came to visit our children's writing workshop.


http://www.janekurtz.com/

Jane Kurtz is the author of so many books: MARTIN'S DREAM, DO KANGAROOS WEAR SEATBELTS, TROUBLE, and so many more. She has started a program called ETHIOPIA READS.

http://www.janekurtz.com/ethiopiareads/index.html

The most I could offer Jane was a ride to and from UAB and a Papa John's pizza party. That was it. I couldn’t pay her for her time, but she came to visit my workshop on a blisteringly hot September day with her beautiful daughter-in-law, and she poured her heart out to my class, showing them pictures of Ethiopia, her childhood, her writing life, and what it means to be a writer and what it means to sustain a writing life by doing good work and helping others and all of it.

Jane was kindness. Jane was pure love that day.

Now Mr. Negative couldn’t make it the day Jane came to visit, but last week, on the last day of class, he came up to me with his portfolio already finished - hundreds of pages of portfolio - and he said, “Hey, you remember that professional you had come visit our workshop.”

             

Professional?

"Do you mean Jane Kurtz?” I asked.

“I can’t remember, but she was a professional. You think you could have her take a look at my portfolio after you're done with it?"

Did I hear correctly? Did he just ask me to ambush Jane with his portfolio? I wanted to scream and shout and do cartwheels... "Yes, yes! What a great idea, Mr. Negative. Let's call Jane right now. She's probably not too busy working on her own books, and she'd be happy to drop everything to read your portfolio."

Of course, I didn't say these words. I only very quietly told him I would do no such thing. He nodded, not surprised. We parted ways, but not before he apologized for rewriting a few pages of the first chapter of my new novel that I had sent out to the class to give them an example of middle grade fiction.

I guess he thought he had a better plot in mind.

* * *

And so all of this is a long way of getting back to Laura's letter - a letter that came at an especially dark and bleak time when I felt like curling up in a fetal position with a bad case of the come-parts. This is what Laura, another student, wrote after our visit an elementary school where my students read the stories they had written to the children from kindergarten to fifth grade.


Kerry,

As my weird day winds down, I'm reflecting on the EPIC school visit, and I liked that a million times more than I thought I would (I envisioned having gummy bears thrown at my temple, etc).

When that girl brought me her journal of secret stories and said she wanted to write like me one day, I had to hold back, like, real positive human emotions. I felt like a real writer. They got my story and LOVED it. They gave me better feedback than anyone in our class did. They asked how long it took me to write it and how they could write stories like me. I told them I kept journals when I was their age, and now I can look back and remember what it felt like to be a kid. That's a lie, but they were so excited I said that and they all said they were going to write journals, too. Another girl said she filled up a WHOLE notebook. I love them. They said, "Will you come back and read more stories to us?" and I had even MORE emotions.

That really made me feel great. Thanks for taking us over there. I'm sorry I secretly thought it was the worst idea ever.

Hope all is well.


* * *


Here letter reminded me not only why I write stories, but why I teach writing, and why I love teaching it. I learn so much from my own students, and I'm grateful to them.  I am also grateful when things work out, and I'm not even sure that they're going to work out at all...and then once in a while, they do. They just do, and Laura met a young writer who made her happy, and I know Laura probably changed that little girl's life just a little bit.

Who knows?


But if Mr. Negative signs up for my class again, I quit. :)


* * *


Kerry Madden is author of the Maggie Valley Trilogy, published by Viking Children's Books. The trilogy includes Gentle's Holler (2005), Louisiana's Song (2007) and Jessie's Mountain (2008), set in the heart of Appalachia in the Smoky Mountains. Her first novel, Offsides, was a New York Public Library Pick for the Teen Age in 1997. Her book Writing Smarts, published by American Girl, is full of story sparks for young writers. Her latest book, Harper Lee: Up Close, published by Viking, made Booklist's Ten Top Biographies of 2009 for Youth. Madden teaches creative writing at UAB.
www.kerrymadden.com 

Just a few amazing author links!!!

http://www.cynthialeitichsmith.com/
http://www.kathiappelt.com/
http://www.kimberlywillisholt.com/ 

http://www.deborahwiles.com/ 

http://annwhitfordpaul.net/ 

http://www.barboconnor.com/ 

http://www.coebooth.com/ 

http://www.elizabethbluemle.com/

http://www.katiedavis.com/main.htm

http://www.janiebynum.com/ 

http://www.jacquelinewoodson.com/

http://www.libbabray.com/

http://www.amygoldmankoss.net/

http://www.sallynemeth.com/

http://johngreenbooks.com/

http://www.tanyastone.com/

* * *

The school visit... :)

Kristen Walker reading to 4th graders...

 

 

My Secret Life as a Wannabe Nurse

Nurse Reinhardt? I Need a Sponge Bath!




I always wanted to be a nurse. My dad chose the profession for me one evening during our family meal.

“The way you like to eat, your butt’s going to get so big I doubt you’ll find a husband,” he said. He may have been joking, but I took it to heart.

“There will always be a need for nurses,” he said, and how right he’s been, seeing how it’s one of the most in-demand careers of the recession.

I tried, Lord knows, I tried. At the University of Georgia, where I was a coed majoring in “wildlife,” and not the animal kind, I entered the nursing program. This meant cadavers. A cadaver is a dead person soaked in Formaldehyde and rolled out on gurneys every Wednesday morning at 8 a.m.

This is much too early to be poking around people’s parts. Particularly if you’d done the kegger thing at the frat house the night before.

I’ve mentioned on this blog before, that I worked in a hospital, mainly the Queen of the Hot Soapy enema. I’d load it up, bag it, then boom! This was my daily ritual at the West Georgia Medical Center on the geriatric floor.

Oh, I got to do a bit more. Catheters, impactions. All the glamorous stuff the real nurses, the RNs, were far above doing.

I couldn’t wait to be a real nurse - giving shots and hanging IV bags, checking equipment and whipping out the defib paddles. For now, I was a nurse’s assistant. In other words, the fanny wiper.

One day the head nurse told me to go bathe a man. Head to toe, including that part in the middle that I’d never seen on a man, boy, or even male infant. We were a family of girls, and I was 18 and a virgin when Miss Head Nursey required I get a man naked and bathe him.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I really don’t think – ”

“Get in there now,” she said, tapping on her chart. “The geezer’s been in a coma for the past four months. He won’t even know you’re in there.”

Oh, how I loved RNs and their power. Oh, how I wanted to be one.

So I entered Mr. Hinson’s room and prepared a sponge bath, lovingly slathering his face for about an hour because I didn’t want to head farther South. Miss Head Nursey poked her head in the doorway. “Did ya wash him down there yet?”

“Soon,” I said. “Just shaving him a bit. Exfoliating his face.”

“Well, ya been in there so long you probably took his skin off. In fact, is that a portion of skull exposure I’m seeing on his left cheek?”

She huffed away and gave me 15 minutes to finish. I removed his gown and bunched it at his waist where his Depends loomed like a deadly weapon. I washed and sponged his neck and shoulders, his stomach and then…I had no choice. Nursey would fire me.

I turned my head, pulled the tabs from the diaper, and aimed my sponge for what I thought would be the target zone.

Wash, wash. Woosh, woosh. Oh, Lord. What was happening? Something had risen and was waggling in an attempt to stand proud. I glanced and gasped. Jesus! This organ had a life of its own. Is this what I’d face on my wedding night?

Quickly, I finished up, but before I left, I heard a groan followed by a plea.

“Grrrrrrr. Mmmmmmp. Don’t goooooooo,” the supposedly comatose man said. “Stay and play with me.”

I rushed out of there and told the head nurse I’d done far more than give a sponge bath,

“Miss Nursey,” I said, the tub of water still in my hands. “I raised that man from the dead.”

To this day, when I see someone with RN on the scrubs I still covet, I wish I could go back in time and be a real nurse. Then I could grow a large butt. Then the recession couldn’t touch me.

But then again, I can always create a character who’s an RN or any other career I wish I’d chosen. Such as being a trapeze artist, an aerialist or Susan Lucci’s long-lost twin on “All My Children.”

Susan Reinhardt’s works can be seen at www.susanreinhardt.com

She’s a lead Sarah Palin impersonator. In real life.

You mean I can be a writer when I grow up?

I can still remember the wonder I felt as a child when a grown up bent closer, smiled, and asked me, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” It felt as though the universe expanded to hold all the possibilities. I believed that I could be anything I wanted to be.

But what would I choose? When I was very young, there was never only one answer. I wanted to be a ballerina and a teacher. And, of course, a mother. We always had to add that to the list. It wasn’t until Mrs. Crawford, my third grade teacher, asked me if I considered being a writer when I grew up because she enjoyed my stories. My mouth slipped open in a gasp. That was a job? I didn’t know I could grow up to be a writer! It was a revelation. I’d written stories and songs for as long as I could remember. It was as much a part of my life as breathing. From that moment on, I knew that one day I would be a writer when I grew up. (Okay, and a ballerina.) By sixteen, however, I was getting so nauseated when I pirouetted across the floor on point that sometimes I had to throw up. Clearly, I was never going to be a professional dancer. But I still loved writing.

As an adult, I was told to put away my childish dreams and to pursue a realistic, “grown up” job. I graduated from college, got an MA in education and began teaching school. I honestly loved teaching. It’s a challenging career filled with creativity and rewards. Yet I never gave up writing. During that time I wrote some non fiction, an English text book series, but I still dreamed of writing a novel. I wanted to create story worlds, characters, plots.

In a stroke of irony, it was a child that gave me back my childhood dream. During my third pregnancy the doctor ordered me to bed rest for the final four months. At first I was devastated. I had to give up control over my home and my children to others, difficult for a control freak. As I lay in bed feeling sorry for myself, my darling husband moved the TV out of my bedroom, gave me a legal pad and a pencil, and then told me, “For as long as I’ve known you, you’ve wanted to write a novel but didn’t have the time. Now you have the time.”

That was a defining moment. Only in retrospect can I see that what had at first seemed like an obstacle turned out to be a gift. I also realized it wasn't just a question of time, but of courage. While I lay on my back for those long months, I wrote and wrote. (Proof you don’t need a big office.) At the end of the pregnancy, I gave birth to a baby and a book. My son was perfect…my book needed work. But the dream of being a writer, a desire that had been lying dormant, was alive again. I joined a writer’s group and continued writing and rewriting until, at long last, my first novel sold.  It was titled The Long Road Home (we jokingly call it The Long Road to Published).  It was released again last November for the first time since it was published in 1995. Talk about coming full circle.

Since then I’ve written over a dozen novels and god willing will write at least a dozen more. Now I am a grown up and a writer. (And, a mother.) I like to think I have the curiosity of the young child I once was and the wisdom of the older woman I have become. I know I’m blessed to have realized my dream of being a writer and I never take it for granted. In turn, I’ve taught my children to believe in their dreams and that what at first appears to be a defeat may in fact be an opportunity.

So, if you’re reading this and you always wanted to be a writer when you grew up… take the TV out of your room, grab a legal pad and pencil, or a computer, or heck, a crayon if that is all you have, and write! This Christmas, give yourself the gift of time. Who knows? Your dream of being a writer can still come true!

The Pulpwood Queen If Not an Author, Bookseller, Hairdresser, Book Club Moderator, Blog Moderator, High School Youth Group Leader, Literary Chair for Rotary, would be TARZAN!

When I grew up in Eureka, Kansas, I had no idea of what I wanted to be when I grew up.  My youth revolved around nature, I spent most of my childhood outside with my two younger sisters.  We created our own world pretending to be the characters in mostly the books I was reading.  My favorite place in the whole wide world was up in a tree whether cottonwood, elm, walnut or otherwise.  If I could shimmy up in it, I would climb clear to the top and sway with the breeze in the branches.  Then I discovered TARZAN!

 I loved playing Tarzan. My sisters and I watched the movies mesmerized and I read all the books.   I was a real tomboy as a kid, I truly identified with Scout of "To Kill a Mockingbird".  I hated to wear dresses, anything girly, frilly, fou fou.  When I discovered  Tarzan, I thought man, he had it made.  All he wore was an animal skin, how cool was that?  Bare chested he would fly through the jungle swinging on these vines.  I lost all the skin on my palms summer after summer of trying to swing out of my sisters and my tree houses.  He made it look so easy.  That was my dream and then I just realized, it still is my dream.  When I grow up I want to be TARZAN!

I mean he rules the jungle.  He has a great sidekick with Cheetah.  All he has to do is this really cool yell and elephants come trumpeting!  He was always fighting off the bad guys and  me too, me too!  Whether the neighborhood bully as a kid to those individuals as an adult that are forever trying to squelch my big dreams.  Did I mention I love animals?

Yes, our dog Snickie we would pretend was Cheetah.  We even taught him, a little Jack Russell like mutt, to climb a ladder up into our tree house.  We always had to carry him down but hey, Tarzan always had Cheetah on his hip too!

Jane never interested me as she was too much like the real me, lame.  She couldn't swing through the jungle, Tarzan always had to carry her around too.  What a bummer!  Everybody was always trying to get her. She was helpless and needy.  Tarzan always had to come to her rescue.  She had to wear a full animal skin like dress sheath, how constricting and man do I hate anything constricting.  No, Tarzan had it going on. He was strong and brave. Tarzan ruled.

That was my childhood dream and fantasy, to be just like Tarzan.  Then I realized as I was writing this, that I kind of have recreated that Tarzan world right here in Jefferson, Texas.

I have a really cool clubhouse, Beauty and the Book, where I can hang with all my friends, hmm, The Pulpwood Queens and Timber Guys Book Clubs!  It's not a tree house but it is made of wood in the trees of East Texas. My bathroom is literally a jungle, come check it out!

 I have not one sidekick, like Cheetah, I have now hundreds and hundreds of sidekicks, The Pulpwood Queens and Timber Guys Book Club members.  AND we all wear animal print, perhaps more yardage than Tarzan, but leopard our my favorite. 

When I do my Tarzan yell, "WOO HOO", Pulpwood Queens and Timber Guy Book Club members come running, trumpeting too for literacy.  Last night we had a whole stampede, as it was our annual Christmas Party!

We, like Tarzan, fight off the bad guys too, we call it illiteracy!  We are on a sole mission to promote authors, books, literacy, and reading and also to help undiscovered authors get discovered in a big way!

So, yes, I have indeed become a Tarzan, so to speak, through my imagination that was fostered from librarians and teachers who mentored me that reading was important.

I now have my BOY too, actually it's my two girls, Helaina and Madeleine.  I read to them before they were born and now can say they are big readers too.  The TARZAN tradition and mission continues.

Now, my husband is, Jay, is no Jane.  He convinced my children for years that the Johnny Weismuller photo I had framed in our house where he is clad in that scrap of animal skin standing up in a tree in all his Tarzan glory was Jay when he was younger. Everytime I see that photo, I still laugh.  They bought that story big time.

 And then one year I convinced Jay that we were to go as Tarzan and Jane for the Friends of the Library Literary Ball where you were to come as book characters. They shut down that event after our appearance.  Yes, Jay wore only a scrap of animal skin over his skin colored speedos! 

 Aaahaaaahaaaahhahahahahhaha, indeed!

Come by my Beauty and the Book and I will show you the photo. I guarantee you'll get a good laugh.  It's worth the trip, consider it a Tarzan adventure!  It's a jungle alright, here at Beauty and the Book.  I may have created my own world but it's world that is filled with books and for me that is heaven on earth!

Welcome to my jungle!

Kathy L. Patrick

Author of "The Pulpwood Queens' Tiara Wearing, Book Sharing Guide to Life", Grand Central Publishing

"Hairdresser to the Authors"

Founder of The Pulpwood Queens and Timber Guys Book Club, now with 403 chapters, the largest "meeting an discussing" book club in the world!

Beauty and the Book, the ONLY Hair Salon/Book Store in the country!

608 North Polk Street

Jefferson, Texas 75657

903-665-7520

kathy@beautyandthebook.com

http://www.beautyandthebook.com/

http://www.pulpwoodqueen.com/

http://www.girlfriendweekend.blogspot.com/

P.S. I also have fantisized about being a professional roller skater, country western singer, getting my own book club talk show and winning an Emmy, starring on Broadway and winning a Tony, becoming an actor and winning an Oscar on the Academy Awards, a Pulitzer Prize winning journalist, and perhaps being featured on "Dancing with the Stars"!  Oh wait, that's my future.  Hey, a girl can have dreams, big, big dreams!  Dreams do come true when you become a "real" reader!

Why Writing is the Best Damn Job in the Universe Except for Rock Star

Author Karin Gillespie reveals the twisty, whisky-sodden road that led her to become a writer.


If I wasn’t a writer, I’d be a rock star. I’m good at head whipping, sneering, and drinking Jack Daniels straight out of the bottle.

Before I was a writer, I wanted to be an actress. I’m gifted at drama, especially histrionics. But I was too scared to move to LA and eat ramen noodles.

If you’re under 25 and reading this now, here’s my advice for you: FOLLOW YOUR DREAM! Don’t wait until you’re almost fifty and have developed expensive taste in red wine which precludes you from EVER slumming again. Truth is I can’t even stomach Woodbridge wine much less Ripple or Boone Farms so, regrettably, no more slumming for me. I curse the day I had my first taste of a twenty-five dollar Pinot.

The saga continues

Instead of becoming a hideously famous movie star, I went to community college. I chose to major in psychology because I was crazy. Mainly I hated being in my own skin even though I looked like Kate Hudson (see pic below)

Actually I STILL look like Kate Hudson thanks to some very clean living. (Except for the Jack Daniels.) In fact, the photo above was taken two weeks ago. Please. Don't hate me because I'm beautiful.

My life as a beautiful person


Once I got my sheepskin I worked in a travel agency. The pay was a pittance but as a travel agent, I was able to go on glamorous excursions called FAM trips. FAM stands for “familiar.” As a travel agent, you familiarize yourself with certain destinations so you could make informed statements like this: “The topless beaches of St. Tropez are titillating!” or “Refrain from ordering the monkey soup in Sri Lanka.”

As a travel agent, I trotted around the globe like…well…a globe trotter. And I’d always get first-class upgrades. I lived like one of the beautiful people even though I was only making minimum wage and the video player in my apartment was mine on a rent-to-own plan.

My selfless career as teacher

Things went south in the travel industry and I had to find another job so I decided to be a teacher for three VERY noble reasons: June, July and August.

I taught special ed at a rough inner city school and was assaulted three times. I’m now writing a book about my experiences called “What the Hell Was I Thinking? I Could Have Been Killed. I’m Lucky I’m Not A Little Blonde Oil Spot.”

That’s just the working title.

Years ago, as I contemplated leaving the School From Hell, I said to myself: “Self. You read a lot of books. Why not write one?”

Sounded like a cushy job to me.

That’s my motto. I choose jobs solely on their cushy factor. Working in PJs and making up stories is about as cushy as it gets. Also you can have any job you want via your writing. I could be a forward for the NBA if I wanted to and I’d never have to leave my office, break a sweat or cover my arms with lurid tattoos. So I highly recommend writing. It pays at least a dollar an hour, sometimes two and you only have to work 80-to-100 hours a week. And it keeps you very youthful looking as you can see by my photo.

What is your dream job and why? Leave a comment and you’ll be eligible to win a million dollars or your choice of the NY Times Bestselling novel Little Bee by Chris Cleave or an autographed copy of The Girl Who Fell From the Sky. I’ll toss a coin to see which one you get. Winner will be announced on Sunday.



Picture taken two weeks ago. I'm the blonde.



Magical Thinking by Anna Michaels

Magical Thinking... Anna Michaels


Naming literary influences for my debut novel would send me scurrying to the bookshelves to find the lyrical stories of Pat Conroy and Elizabeth Berg, the powerful prose of Jodi Picoult and John Steinbeck, the wonderment of Alice Hoffman, Frank Baum, Lewis Carroll, and Emily Dickinson. But the truth about writing The Tender Mercy of Roses is that that no matter how much I admire the work of another author, I had to vanish to a place that’s all my own in order to create the kind of magical realism the story deserves.

Initially my writing place was filled with sunlight spilling onto my desk, cardinals swinging on the lady banks rose outside my window, gardenias scenting the room, silly floppy dogs under the desk licking my ankles, a cup of hot tea within easy reach, and wind chimes singing a silvery song beyond the porch swing. But that’s merely the physical realm. This novel could never have been created solely with the conscious mind grounded in a place that can be seen and heard and touched.

This story came from dreams spinning their magic while I slept and a rambling rose in my Enchanted Garden that only bloomed after the death of a beloved friend and the beat of Native drums called up from memories buried so deeply they could only surface when I let myself vanish into a place somewhere in the unconscious mind. It’s a place not easily found, one that requires abandonment of the ego and total surrender to the Writer Who Listens to Music Only She Can Hear.

How do I know? Because each time I read the story during the long journey from creation to publication, I fell in love. I laughed and cried and cheered. And I felt as if I were reading a novel written by someone else.

Actually, it was. When I’m writing I am not Me. The flesh and blood writer in baggy sweat pants and tee shirts who battles chocolate cravings, hates exercise and constantly tries to keep two not so smart but mostly lovable dogs from vengefully soiling the rug while she glues herself to the chair in front of the computer somehow transforms herself into a Woman Whose Dogs Would Never Pee on the Rug, a Woman Who Sees Deep Inside the Soul and Writes With Wings.

I wish each of you a holiday season filled with joy and peace and magic.

Anna Michaels lives in an enchanted cottage in Mississippi with two obstreperous dogs who think they run the show. Her debut novel, The Tender Mercy of Roses, will be in bookstores May, 2011. Visit her and see the cover on Facebook and at www.annamichaels.net.