The first picture book I ever wrote was in the late 80’s after a lovely hike in the Santa Cruz Mountains with my husband. We were newly married and we traipsed for hours through the redwoods spotting deer, admiring the changing foliage and ferns, and avoiding banana slugs. We didn’t have kids, and I can’t remember why I thought about writing a picture book. My mind is a bit hazy at this late age. And why did I decide to write about banana slugs? Hmm, that is a mystery too obvious for me to unfold.

One of my next books was about a little boy who snuffled everything up his nose, and then in one great sneeze sent it all flying round the room (wow, what an ending!). At this point I had had a child, and was quickly beginning a large collection of children’s literature. I must have seen a hole in the market. I actually remember pitching this book to a well-known children’s book editor at a conference—we sat on a comfy couch chatting and then I handed her my manuscript, Sniffle Sniffle, to read. She had finally seen it all—that’s what was written on her face. Bless her. She tried to give me a few helpful hints, but really, a book about sniffling up one’s possessions, including the family cat? Sure, little boys might get a good giggle from it, but you know, some things just shouldn’t be printed.

I may be a bit embarrassed at the fact that I’ve written several really bad books, but I’ve experienced this motto first hand, you’ve gotta write the bad to get to the good. Everything I write today is a stepping stone for what I’ll write tomorrow, and the truth is, you can’t learn the craft without walking a few yards on your own personal trail of slow moving, bright and beautiful, banana slugs.

Here are some other random things I’ve learned...

• Keep your eyes in good shape. Now that I both edit and write, I spend many hours a week reading paper manuscripts or staring at a computer screen. My eyes let me know when I’ve worked too long—and I listen.
• Use movement or music to get your creative juices going. I have seasons when I’m in creative mode, and during those times when I’m trying to generate ideas I always incorporate exercise into my day—even if it’s just a walk around the block or chopping at the ivy hedge. And music is almost always a part of my writing—different genres of music help enhance the images and words already forming in my mind. I love classical guitar.
• If you really need some fresh thinking, get yourself into a Moveable Bubble. More about that soon!
• Find your tush a good chair.
• Read a million books to your kids—and read what your big kids are reading—and if you don’t have a kid, big or little, borrow one!
• Love criticism. Seek it out. Rejoice when someone tells you how horrible your paragraph is—how feeble your plot line is—that your work is one enormous cliché. I’ve found that criticism has propelled my knowledge of the craft forward faster than any other learning tool…
• Once you get to a place where publishing your work is a priority, and you’re juggling many story ideas and projects, be picky in how you spend your time. I’ve recently wanted to write a picture book on oak trees. I did a search—there are dozens of them. I still may be able to incorporate the wonderful world of an oak tree into a larger framework, but pursuing the research and the writing of something already done so many times, and done well, would be silly.
• When all else fails, write about banana slugs.

Driving out of the ER, my son and I saw the hillside ablaze. The broken collar bone was momentarily forgotten as we marveled at the flames dancing above the trees. Home. We needed to get home.

My husband and I walked through our house, talking about what to take if we were called to evacuate from the approaching fire. I put a few things in an empty basket: the journals I keep for the kids, some canisters of ink, boxes of unused checks. We then turned on the news and I tried to eat the dinner that had been cooked while we were busy in the X-ray room. What an unusual way to spend a Thursday evening.

I walked around the house again after swallowing a few last bites of pre-Advent chicken, peeking into closets, looking at the hundreds of books that lined our shelves. Funny. I wanted to just leave it all, and go; I tried to see what in all that stuff was actually important, but didn't see much.

But then I came to my senses! Yes, it would be sad not to have photos of the kids, but who wants to recreate an entire family's financial history? Who wants to spend endless hours on the phone with Verizon or Fidelity trying to explain that the account numbers were now lost and becoming compost? I quickly jotted down a list of important files and documents that needed to find their way to our trunks if we were to leave our little Santa Barbara abode.

We never did have to leave. Flying embers never neared our two enormous trees. But we learned the following day that many friends had lost their homes that Thursday night, that they didn't have a free moment to pack, how they had to leave beloved things behind, handmade quilts and furniture, baby pictures, old family mementos passed down. It made me feel spoiled at having so much--at not having to make those endless phone calls or discover that I really will miss my childhood teddy bear.

Here is the list my husband and I ended up making just in case. An odd mix of things, but isn't that how our lives go?

• Camera, photos in office, photos in closet, laptops and chargers, icons on mantle and in dining room, purse, phones and chargers, jewelry box, mink coat (was my grandmas!), wool cape, yarn, hooks and needles, lock box, top box of files, binders in office, cooler, suitcases, medications, baby journals, bill box.

Meanwhile there are folks who need to talk, who need meals, who need support, and our own son with a broken collar bone. I hope to be there for them. My daughter and I are heading to the fire station with jars of homemade jam as soon as the roads reopen... those firefighters deserve so much more than jam for saving us from having to pack that trunk full of binders and files. For saving so many more homes than just our own.

My daughter, whom I've kept from gymnastics all these years, is now spending more and more time in gym class. I thought about putting her in gymnastics when she was little, to keep her from bouncing to bits all our household furniture, but every gym was the same: focused on turning little girls into Olympians. I was on that track myself and have many scars and creaky joints as proof. I wanted a gym for my daughter that allowed girls and boys to stretch, swing, flip and vault, simply because it's SO FUN!

I found a gym with a fun-for-kids philosophy just a couple months ago. It may be the only one in all 50 states. My daughter's having a blast.

Since mid-August-after watching all those little Olympian girls on TV in Beijing-- I've been getting in shape, hoping to relive the past a bit. I've been hanging out at the local athletic club three days a week, doing low-intensity work outs and stretching, all with one major goal in mind-to be in shape enough to do a side aerial again. I felt there were two important things to work on in order to ask my body to rewind the clock by more than two decades-flexibility, and strength in my left thigh. I found out today that three is a better number than two...

But I did the aerial. In fact, I did two!

Last Thursday, we received a flyer saying that the first Saturday of every month is Open Gym. Just ten dollars for three hours-no coaching, no structure-and open to kids and adults alike. Adults! Wow, I haven't been invited to chalk up my hands for 27 years. My chance had come to see if my regimen had paid off.

Well, did I say above that I did the aerial? That I did two side aerials, no hands, not even a wisp of a touch? Amen for muscle memory. But I certainly paid for it--I pulled my left groin muscle--sort of forgot him in the training. That first night I applied ice on and off for many hours. Yeah, it hurt.

But a few days later-it's not so bad. I'll need another week or two to recover before trying it again...

So, was I stupid to try it? Maybe to try so soon?
Am I simply going through a mid-life crisis?
Are you going through a mid-life crisis?

All I can say is--it sure felt great to fly again!

Maybe next month at Open Gym I'll tumble a piked double back flip. I used to love doing those...

I spent a good portion of a recent Saturday morning researching publishing houses for a picture book I'd like to see in print. It's a concept that came to me about seven years ago when my daughter had one of those profound—only kids could say that—moments. I immediately wrote down her thought and got to work.

So many years later this book still sits in various layers on my desk: critique groups have looked at; I have labored over the words and constantly revised it; and my agent even read through it, then turned it down saying, \"there's just not enough punch—and it rhymes—it won't sell...\"

I come from Basque heritage—do you know who the Basques are? They're a sort of wild, renegade people who live between France and Spain in the Pyrenees mountains. They've been known for many things like handball and dancing on top of wine glasses and playing tug of war and singing long ballads, but I think they're better known for smuggling and blowing things up. (I do not condone blowing things up, just so you know! More about that next.) From the Basques I think I get a certain bulldog quality. I am stubborn and tenacious, and don't give up easily on stories that I've labored over, and I like to sing long ballads and watch people dance on top of wine glasses, too...

I also am Danish and Irish and Scottish and English and a tiny bit German. I think all these other blood mixes formed in me a sort of peace treaty—they had to for my survival!—and that explains the part of me that loves harmony. As a sister I played mediator between the various family escapades that arose, as a friend I quelled arguments between classmates that had to do with whether the ball in foursquare actually hit the line, and in my stories I have a particular aversion to poisoning, threatening, or lopping off the heads of any of my beloved characters.

Okay, so maybe that begins to explain why yesterday, as I was reading through submission guidelines, and perusing the blogs of young editorial assistants at big houses, that I returned to my little story and suddenly realized, \"Yikes! That story that I've now been working on for over seven years (!!!) is pure, sugar-coated, honey-flooded sap!\"

What to do? What to do? The Basque in me can not let go, and the Mutt in me seeks a happy solution.

You know, it's weird. When I put on my editor's hat, I am a good Sap Spotter. One whiff of it sends me straight into rejection letter mode. (And as I'm sure you can guess, you will never get a nicer rejection letter than from me :) ) But with my own stuff, I goo and ooze, and just can't migrate to the conflict side of things! Until I learn this lesson, I'm afraid, I will forever be revising some of these adventure tales that I've dreamed up. All those words, all that time... Help me, I'm drowning in my own sweetness!

At a conference once, I climbed a long set of stairs to a podium, perched in front of a large audience, where I read the first chapter of a story for a critique. I stood poised, and read well, despite the nervous twitter of the paper in my hands. I loved this novel and thought I had got the book off to a snappy start. \"Well,\" began the prof who was critiquing. \"Do you drink much caffeine?\" he asked bluntly.
\"No sir, I don't.\"
\"The words are lovely, the phrases flow from one thought to the next with ease and grace and elegance, but you're too nice. You had me in a trance. You suffer from niceness and I recommend you get a good strong cup of something before you sit down at your computer to compose.\"
\"Umm, okay,\" I muttered. \"Thanks.\"

So there you have it. A recommendation of Performance Enhancing Drugs. If I want to succeed in this business, and do more than write lovely rejection letters, I better get some caffeine and fast.

Any thoughts on a cure? I really don't do coffee—it gets me all fluttery. Any news on inventions of Sapometers? Any of you ever written a sappy story?

Okay, enough of this blabbering. I have a story to rewrite. Seven years is nothing to a Basque; I'm gonna hole up in a mountain town and herd my words until they're zippin' and fightin' their way off the page!