So, when I told Grandpa Charlie that we had tickets to fly to London, he insisted I make a reservation at Harrods for afternoon tea … the most expensive one they served, and it would be a treat from him.

We ordered the champagne tea with unlimited tea sandwiches, which included a live concert on a white grand piano, by a very distinguished fellow wearing a tuxedo. From that moment on, Grandpa Charlie and I shared a love of afternoon tea.

Now, whenever I start a new writing project, especially in springtime, when tiny sprigs of new buds begin to bloom (at least here in California where we’re getting a lot of rain), I think about Grandpa Charlie, who always cheered my writing projects, and shared a pot of tea with me to celebrate.

With several projects in the works, three middle grade novels, picture books, a chapter book series proposal, and several new ideas, I started out trying to get an agent. I’ve been agented before, and enjoyed working with both of my agents. They were nice people who tried to do their jobs the best way they knew how, and I appreciated their advocacy and support.

Since my last agent and I parted ways at the eve of the pandemic, and I’ve been querying for the last 2 1/2 years, I’ve noticed that agent’s responses have become less personal. And although I have received dozens of requests over the years, and have corresponded with some amazing and dedicated agents, it seems as though the majority are searching for specific types of manuscripts, popular or trendy tropes that my stories don’t reflect. These agents are saturated with materials, wading neck-deep in clever, witty, creatively unique ideas from writers all over the world, who are talented and gifted creators. Most agents are people who love books too, and they are doing the best they can.

But sometimes, as a writer querying my stories, and although most rejections sink into a dark hole where I tell myself it’s to be expected, there are times when one rejection, for one reason or another, just hurts.

For example, recently, after writing a thoughtful and personal letter to an agent, letting her know that she was the only agent considering this particular proposal, and the book had an editor’s interest, and then the agent sent back a cold form rejection … I wanted to cry. Normally, I’m fine, but sometimes there’s that one that breaks you.

What I’m saying is … in the big picture of agent searching, I’ve concluded that getting an agent isn’t the end all and be all to publication. If you’re not interested in becoming a famous author, and all you care about is getting your stories out there, submitting manuscripts on your own, meeting editors at conferences, through contests or Twitter events, there are plenty of writers who can attest to the value of going that route instead.

Because I have an R&R with two agents for one of my middle grade manuscripts (the other is entered in a contest), and another agent is considering another manuscript, well, for now, I still hold out hope of receiving an agent offer, but if they don’t pan through, there are other options.

We’ll see what happens, but just in case, I’m grateful there are still opportunities out there that won’t require an agent. I still have options, which means there’s still hope.

The last several months I have been taking writing courses, and an intensive workshop through UCLA extension. It’s been an amazing experience, and I feel honored to be a part of it.

When I submitted my application and full manuscript for the workshop, I was aware, and just to note that the course is taught and instructed by Robert Eversz, author of the Nina Zero novels, screenwriter, and co-founder of the Prague Summer Program for writers, in any case, I was fully aware that admission was highly selective with only 7 students chosen for the winter and spring semesters, so I didn’t expect to get into the class. But to my surprise and delight, I did.

Now that I have been in the workshop for several months, now that I’m in the groove of reading my fellow writers manuscripts, and revising my own as we go along the way, I have grown as a reader and a writer. I’ve blossomed, and in the name of cheesy similes, like a rosebud whose petals are open for the first time and slanted toward the sunlight, I’m basking in my newly found voice, skill, and methodology, which has changed the way I see my characters and write my stories.

I’m still in the thick of it, so I will update in this blog along the way. Several agents have been kind enough to wait until the end of the course to see my revised manuscript(s). So I have something to work toward, which is better than the alternative. Before this course I was in a rut, but now I’m riding, or should I say, writing along at full speed.

Over these last few months, while sitting on my little plaid chair, a throw pillow on my lap, tucked away from all the people in my life, the world keeps spinning, moving, doing. And I watch. I watch the TV screen numb and sad wishing things were different.

My last blog post was about my search for representation and the right literary agent for my book(s), and today on October 23rd, this is still the case. But over these months as the pandemic rages on, a few things have happened in my writing world too.

After my last post on May 8th, an email popped up in my inbox with some good news (on the same day I posted), a much needed ray of light. My editor, Joelle Dujardin, at Highlights magazine sent a final major edit for me to review GRANDPOP’S OCEAN, which was set for publication for their November issue. The edits were beautifully done, and I loved how it turned out. The email expressed how much they loved the piece, how the end gave them goose bumps, and how excited they were to publish it.

Just two days ago, in the mail, I received my copies of the November issue with GRANDPOP’S OCEAN featured on pages 20 and 21. It’s so pretty. I couldn’t help it, all I could do was cry.

In late August, early September, another email from a small press publisher invited me to do a revision on one of my books. The editor said the editorial process was for the intention of acquisitions and making an offer on the book. I worked hard on the revisions, but by late September the editor came back and said they still weren’t connecting. Oh, well. A disappointment, but I was still grateful for the chance.

This month I’ve completed my third novel, an upper middle grade book set in 1959 based on my parent’s lives growing up in Brooklyn. I’ve been querying for three weeks. I’ve received a handful of requests, but so many rejections. Most of the rejections have been forms, but this go-around a few agents have been writing small encouraging notes too. The few agents who are still considering the book are good agents. It’d be wonderful to work with any one of them, but I have a list of publishers and editors prepared just in case the agent route doesn’t come to fruition this time.

While the world keeps spinning, moving, doing, and as Covid 19 confirmed cases have been rising, the death rate climbing, my perspective on the pursuit of publication is balanced with a renewed sense of profound gratitude for the good things I DO have instead of the things I don’t.

Once upon a time, there was a small princess who loved big words. In actuality (and the princess knew that this mysterious word actuality actually meant “the state of really existing rather than being imagined,” which to her sounded extraordinarily beautiful), and so, in actuality, she loved small words too. She loved words so much that each day she would eat them for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. She consumed them in a greedy, hungrily way. And soon, the princess was not so small anymore. In fact, she was growing quite round and plump. Beyond the castle walls, where the peasants and serfs lived in tiny wooden cottages, whispering rumors began to circulate about the princess’ health. “She’s plumped up a bit hasn’t she?” said one woman washing by the pond. “Plumped up? I wouldn’t say, plumped up. She’s more like the size of a very large and sturdy cow,” replied her husband, who was trying to be nice.

And as the princess grew in size, her personal seamstress busily sewed larger and larger skirts and shirts and dresses. The hum of the sewing machine whirled late into the night as the seamstress pulled her hair in frustration, up to her ears in alterations. The local newspaper put out front-page headlines: “STORE SHELVES WIPED CLEAN. Fabric shortages have hit the land!” But despite all this, the princess could not stop consuming, devouring words.

At last, the princess sat on her throne, filled and contented with so many spectacular and beautiful words stuffed deep down inside that she felt peace. Never had she been so happy. She said, “Never have I been so happy. Today, I decree that these gorgeous, amazing words that I have tucked inside my soul, will be shared with 100 various suitors from across the kingdom. I will arrange the best of the best of my word compositions to be presented to them, and the suitor who is worthy of my words will become my prince.”

At once, the entire kingdom became a stir with the news. “The princess is to be married. A suitor worthy of her words will become the prince. Who will this suitor be?”

In a flower field beside the castle walls, the princess sat on a hand carved marble throne, lilies and daffodils and wild roses waving in a breeze. A long scroll of her most cherished words, hand copied by her most trusted scribes, lay out on a long white marble table that matched her marble throne, for the parade of suitors to appraise.

Ten suitors approached the throne, each of them replying similarly. “I’m sorry to inform you, but your words do not suit my needs.”

The princess began to perspire. “Really? These are the finest words in the land. The best of the best. Ok, fine. Be gone with you.”

Twenty more suitors approached the throne. “Thank you for reaching out, but unfortunately I already have similar words in my kingdom. If you have any other words to share, I’d be happy to take a look at them.”

The princess took off her crown and wiped her forehead. “Are you certain? You really have all of these magnificent and irresistible words in your kingdom. Every one of them? Ok, fine. Be gone with you.”

The next 20 suitors said, “I’ve examined your words with great interest, but in this current market, I’m not certain these words will bode well in our land. Have a nice day.”

With a great flourish, the princess heaved over the side of the throne. After vomiting her lunch, she sat up. Speaking to her favorite scribe, she said, “Gather the scroll. We must reevaluate. We must rearrange my beautiful words. We must make them more appetizing.”

“Yes, yes, my princess,” said the scribe.

And with that, the scroll of clean, fine parchment was re-written with even more eloquent and stunning words. Words that were so astounding, the princess wept all night.

Though the following morning, while sitting on her marble throne, the princess was stunned to hear 20 more suitors say, “Due to the volume of words I receive, I only respond to words I am interested in. If you don’t hear from me within six to eight weeks, rest assured I’m not interested in your words. I’m sure another suitor will feel differently.”

The princess saw the flower field spinning. To steady herself, she grasped the arm of her throne. “But these words are worthy of tears. Filled with the light of a thousand suns.” And with that, she stood up from her throne to make a grand announcement. “The remaining 30 suitors are dismissed! I will NOT marry. Thank you for coming.”

And so, that night in her bed chamber, the princess cried into her pillow. Her lady’s maid approached, saying softly, “Don’t despair, my sweet princess. It only takes one. Just one suitor must be worthy of your words. Don’t give up.”

Through teary eyes, the princess looked up at her. “You think so?”

“Yes, I truly do.”

The princess stood beside her bed, tossing the pillow on a chair. “Call my scribes. Let the remaining suitors know I have changed my mind. In two days, I will present the truest words of my heart, the words of my soul. I will bare them all.”

Two days later, sitting on her marble throne amongst the wildflowers, the princess listened as 20 of the remaining suitors said, “I’ve really enjoyed these words. They are beautiful.” The princess exhaled in relief, whispering under her breath, “Ok, now we’re getting somewhere.” The suitors went on, “But unfortunately, I’m not feeling them in my gut the way I’d like to have. Please know this is subjective. We are extremely sorry to disappoint you, but we wish you the very best of luck.”

The princess clutched her chest in dismay as 10 suitors spoke up, “We love your words. May we take them back to our kingdom to look at them further?” Through her severe disappointment, the princess anchored her hope on, “We love your words,” and they carried her through the long days and nights to come.

 

 

 

 

 

HOMESCHOOLING SCIENCE ACTIVITY (based on my book, Medical Technology Inspired by Nature):

All across the globe, animals are inspiring scientists to invent amazing new technologies. To start your science activity for this week’s lesson, first . . .

• Go online to find a photo of an animal called a gecko.
• Did you find the photo? Look at this unique and tiny creature.
• Did you know that the gecko has sticky feet?
• Their feet have tiny hairs. These sticky hairs help the gecko to cling to surfaces.
• They can climb very steep walls.
• They can even walk on the ceiling without toppling to the ground!
• Are you amazed? You should be.

Next, you will learn about the unbelievable medical technology that is based on the gecko.

• Scientists invented a new medical tape based on the gecko.
• The tape can help people who have been injured.
• It can bond a cut on the skin.
• It can seal deep wounds.

Now, think about what you’ve learned about the gecko. Think about the medical technology that the gecko has inspired. See if you can answer these multiple choice questions:

• What is on the gecko’s feet that help them stick to surfaces?

A.   Tiny little wings.

B.   Tiny hairs.

C.   Tiny feathers.

• What medical technology was invented inspired by the gecko?

A.   A new type of sponge.

B.   A new type of mask.

C.   A new type of medical tape.

• What does the surgical tape do to help patients?

A.   It can bond a cut on the skin and seal deep wounds.

B.   It can erase years of unsightly wrinkles.

C.   It can help those with poor singing voices.

Good job!

[Homeschooling teachers . . . Here are the answers to the questions: B, C, and A. Note that next week’s lessons will be more challenging.]

Please join me for next week’s activity: Inspired by the Sandcastle Worm.

 

 

Here’s the thing: I have a flower petal problem. I know. What a problem, huh? But like many things in life, it’s all in the way one views it.

My home in Southern California doesn’t have a garage. It has a carport. Above the carport blooms a thick vine of thorny red flowers. The vine grows down a white trellis where it becomes part of a large flowery bush. These flowers grow everywhere. Strip malls, gas stations, in patches of land between busy streets. They are called Bougainvillea.

Everyday, like falling snow, dry wilted petals drift onto my driveway. Hundreds of crunchy red petals scatter my lawn and carport. Everyday, we trek flower petals into the house. They stick to the bottom of our shoes. They float with an afternoon breeze landing in our trees. They line our garden, sticking to other flowers in our flowerbed. I sweep them up or blow them away and they return the following day. Day after day, flower petals. Never ending flower petals.

And so, what am I trying to say? In reality, flower petals are lovely. These flowers have been called “flower machines that explode in color.” To passerby, they are a delight to look at in hues of pink, purple and red. Sometimes they are white or bright orange. But when they cause me to work or end up in unlikely places, they’re not so delightful.

My point being, the words in my stories are like these flower petals. Sometimes they are a delight, lovely to look at. And sometimes they’re a nuisance, a bothersome mess that gives me grief.

Words or flower petals, or whatever else life offers, good or bad, we can choose to view them as positive or negative. In my case, if I’m being honest with myself, whenever I find a flower petal stuck to the bottom of my shoe or peel one off my entryway floor, I often think, “There are worse things in life than a flower petal stuck to my shoe.” And there really are.

I am a writer. Nothing will ever change that. And so I think: there are worse things in life. There are worse things in life than being rejected over and over. And over again.

Some days feel like there isn’t. But there really are. So I say as I flick a flower petal off my sweater sleeve.

Some people shorten my name and refer to me as Thank you, Thanks, others Thx, or I have even seen during text messaging, TU, which I believe if switched around is also the abbreviation for a university in Texas. But either way, whenever and whichever way people refer to me, it makes me happy when they do so.

I exist between the clouds and sky, watching gleefully, observing random acts of kindness, unexpected and even anticipated little surprises given, and the human race at its finest. Though recently as I flurry here and there across the atmosphere of the earth, a faint and distant alarm, profound and uncomfortable rises in my typically untroubled and carefree soul . . . more and more I am being referred to less and less.

In some parts of the world there is a day when groups of people gather and use my name more than usual. They do so along with feasting on a grand amount of turkey and other, what they refer to as “fixings,” wherein they unbuckle and loosen their trousers and lounge on a sofa watching a sport called, football. In parts of Asia families refer to me during a visit to the graveyard of their ancestors and celebrate by indulging, once again in a “bountiful banquet of food,” and then dance about in a circle.

But just recently I have noted a string of opportunities for people to use my name; a random act of kindness, a favor for a friend, a gift of hospitality, and the receiver(s) said nothing. For example, two men were installing an air conditioning unit for a family when the lunch hour approached. One of the family members offered to run to a nearby sandwich shop and purchase food for all. He even offered the workers their choice of sandwich and drink. They placed an order and handed a few bills to the family member. He refused the money and said, “No, please, it’s on me.” The worker put his money back in his pocket and replied, “Okay.” The other worker did not volunteer any money at all. When the food was delivered a few minutes later the workers took the food and did not even peep my name, not even a whisper of it. I was diffused.

Not long ago, a father and son asked another parent and their child to spend an afternoon at a carnival and cornmaze. The father was excited to show hospitality to the other parent by purchasing their carnival and cornmaze tickets. Though, the other parent and child, after enjoying a pleasant afternoon together, walked away and never said my name. And sadly, I believe they did not even think it.

There are more, many more stories to be told in this regard, but I hope that people won’t forget about me all together. Because if they do I will eventually become nonexistent, and in time . . . fade away and disappear forever.

 

 

This week, my agent plans to query my new multicultural nonfiction picture book to editors. I love this picture book. I hope they will too.

Last summer, before we moved away from Idaho, my son and I decided to visit the newly renovated history museum in Boise. That’s where I discovered the topic for my new picture book. I snapped a few photos of the placard and told my son, “This is a great picture book idea. Someday I’m going to write it.”

From there we continued our museum tour and enjoyed the rest of our day.

A few weeks later we said goodbye to our city. We moved to California. And several months after that I was offered representation from Patty at Metamorphosis Literary Agency.

A new city, a new life, a new agent. I felt this warranted a new book idea. Then I remembered. The museum in Boise. I took a photo of a great idea for a picture book. And so I began to write.

It has taken nearly one year from inspiration to the final draft, the one I just sent to my agent. And now my story is about to make its debut to the publishing world.

I love the creative process. How a trip to a museum becomes a new book. How ideas churn around for days, weeks, and years. How they eventually find a new home, hopefully one day in the hands of a young reader.

I have a problem. I don’t have time to read all the books. When I scroll down Twitter or catch up on my blog reading, there are many, many, many books that look fantastically compelling and wonderful, but how can I read them all? I want to. I really do.

As a person in the human race, engaged in society, alert to current events, and basically just living, I am like many others: An over-consumer of information. From the time my eyes flutter open to see a new day arise, I am inundated with words. Words coming at me in all forms … Oh my, even this very second as my phone was charging in the kitchen it just dinged. Like a bee to a flower I automatically stood up from writing this blog post and went to check my phone. It was an email from my son’s old school district. More words, more information.

By reading this post, you too are being flooded with words, words, words (sorry about that), but hopefully you will glean a few ideas on ways you can recharge from information overload, and live to read another day.

• This is obvious. Unplug. Turn off all of the devices. This is easier said than done. Being unplugged can feel unsettling. What if we miss an important phone call, text, or email? What if there was a natural disaster, accident, or attack somewhere in the world and I wasn’t informed of it the moment it happened, or the moment the news media headlined it on my news feed? Am I missing a new photo or story being posted on my WordPress blog, Instagram, Facebook, or any other number of social media outlets? Also, why do I feel a natural compunction to check how many minutes, hours I’m on my phone, or how many steps I took today? Remember that old adage: Curiosity killed the cat. That’s us. We’re informing ourselves to death.
• Open the front door and walk outside. Even for a few minutes. Even if it’s 100 degrees and burning hot. Even if it’s 20 degrees below zero and freezing. Just go outside and feel the sun on your face, the spray of rain on your skin, take a deep breath and allow nature to reset your soul.
• Stand up and stretch. If you’re sitting a lot (as I do) movement will help get the blood flowing again. If you’re standing a lot, sit down and take calming breaths. Close your eyes for a minute or so, allow the words and information of the day to melt away by listening to music or your favorite song.
• Laugh. Oftentimes, we write lol after things we’ve written, even if it wasn’t that funny. With this in mind, even if you’re by yourself, laugh out loud at nothing. Even if you don’t have a reason to laugh. Try it. You’ll feel much better.
• Spontaneously hug someone you care about, even if it’s a side hug. Human touch can help recharge our spirit. Plus, it makes the other person feel better too.
• Last of all, be honest with yourself and others about how much information overload affects your life. Talk about it. We all feel overwhelmed by words and information from time-to-time.

In any case, I realize that I don’t have time to read all the books, but I can pick my top 5 and go from there. We all have choices to make. We just have to do what the old monk on the movie Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade said, “Chose wisely.”