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My thoughts on writing, attending conferences and writing workshops, accompanied by the photos I take. Also stories from the toy store where I work, and other sources of inspirations, including growing up with a writer. Free Fall Friday writing prompts.
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Don’t rely on your cell phone to determine the actual time in Boise because you will wake up to:
1. Read the time as 7:25 a.m. on your phone.
2. Panic because the girls need to be awake by 7 a.m. for school.
3. PANIC because you have failed your sister on your first day of being in charge of the twins.
4. Turn on the lights in the girls’ bedroom, then yell, “We’re late, we’re late! Get up, get dressed. HURRY!”
5. Be unprepared for the madness that will ensue, which will include crashing into one another as all three people simultaneously rush for the bathroom, after which there will be tripping, scrambling for shoes and socks, and then the dog will get involved by barking incessantly.
6. Suddenly remember—in your state of being half asleep and somewhat disoriented—that you haven’t figured how to temporarily change your cell phone’s clock (the only clock in your room, and to your knowledge, the only clock in that level of the house) to reflect the local time of 5:30 a.m.
7. Inform your nieces that maybe the time is earlier than you thought, and isn’t it a good thing they aren’t going to miss their ride and be late to school!
8. Laugh.
9. Realize you are the only person laughing at 5:30 a.m. Barking does not count.
10. Ask your niece to—just in case—check the time. “Are you kidding, Aunt Betsy!” says the one niece after finding her watch that was hidden under a pile of school papers on her desk.
11. Second niece says, “Now what do we do? We’re dressed for school.”
12. Aunt says, sleepily, “Everybody, go back to bed, including the dog.”
Don’t Forget About the Automatic Sprinklers
1. If you happen to wake up early in a panic over the girls being late for school (and it is actually only 5:30 in the morning in Boise), at least grab the morning paper—the paper your sister asked you to save so she and her husband can read when they return in a week.
2. If instead you fall back asleep (after waking at 5:30 a.m.) and don’t pick up the morning paper before the sprinklers turn on, and the newspaper kid hasn’t put the paper in a plastic bag, so that it gets thoroughly soaked, consider # 3.
3. Bribery
By: Betsy Devany,
on 8/6/2011
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Though I am eager to start my third day in Chautauqua, I wonder how Monday can match Sunday’s experience. Not only is Send in the Clowns stuck in my head (and I can’t stop singing the song), for last night’s supper, we were treated to the best barbecued chicken I have ever eaten. And then, there were those chocolate frosted brownies next to an invisible sign with my name on it that said, “These special writer’s brownies are meant to be eaten in multiple portions. Do not eat just one!” I think everyone had an invisible sign with his or her name, because I was not the only one going for seconds—and thirds, and then, halfway to the bus, I turned around, yelling to Nanci. “I can’t help it. Save me a seat. Do you want another brownie?”
Prior to being served dinner, we were encouraged to walk the lovely grounds at Westfield and to pick our own blueberries to eat—one of my favorite fruits. I was so smitten with photographing the blueberries that I realized–too late–that I had nothing to collect the blueberries in. I did the next best thing: I ate one after another, until a gentleman offered me his full cup of blueberries. (I savored them for days.) Thank you, kind sir!
My belly full of blueberries, I listened to the birds sing, studied insects on leaves, and then discovered The Land of Dinosaurs Versus Trucks, which is where I was when the call of “Chicken being served,” resounded through the fields.
After everyone had eaten, we settled in our seats, where we quickly fell under Joy Cowley’s spell. If I had attended the Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop in 2010, I would have missed Joy. And I can’t imagine missing the opportunity to connect with her. Joy returned this year after a three-year absence, and she is an absolute joy!
- Joy Cowley
Joy speaks from the heart and from years of experience, and with such love for others, you feel as if you are a child, alone in a room with her, listening to stories. I would have sat there all night if I could. She stresse
By: Betsy Devany,
on 7/26/2011
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On Sunday morning after breakfast, Nanci and I walk two blocks from the Athenaeum Hotel to Art in the Park: a craft show in Miller Park overlooking Chautauqua Lake. Because the show does not open for another two hours, artists are still arranging their goods on tables. There is pottery of all kinds. Ceramic tiles. Hand knitted mittens. Photographic images of the beauty of Chautauqua stretched across canvas. One-of-a-kind knitted handbags. Wands made from pastel curling ribbons with matching tiaras and skirts: attire for the youngest of princesses.
I remember those days: driving long hours to reach Richmond, Virginia; loading a dolly with twenty-five bins; setting up my 10 x 20 foot booth. The hours are long. The work is hard and at times, lonely. Except for the people and the children I encountered, I do not miss the craft shows. But I am thankful, for it led me to my true path: writing for children.
While Nanci admires the handmade mittens recycled from sweaters, I check on the purple martins. The babies that live in house # 4 are braver today. Not one, but two babies expose their full heads. They peer up at the morning sky, their yellow beaks open in anticipation–hungry and helpless. I . . . am in love.
Nanci texts me that she has happily purchased a few gifts and is ready to explore the center of Chautauqua. Up the hill and over the red wooden bridge, we head for the town green. First on our list is the bookstore, then the library, and after that, any small shops that entice us to enter through their doors.
We not reach the library. Or the bookstore. Or any quaint shops, wherever they might be. We get as far as the amphitheatre—a very short, uphill walk from the red wooden bridge. Dozens and dozens of choir members warm up their voices. People swarm 
through the gates, accepting programs. Others park their bicycles, baby strollers, walkers, and electric wheelchairs. Seat
By: Betsy Devany,
on 7/18/2011
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Eleven hours after leaving my father’s bedside in Chapel Hill, I am on another plane back to Washington, D. C. (my second Washington layover in twenty-four hours). With twenty minutes to make my connection to Buffalo, New York, I run the length of fifteen gates and make the flight. Nearly an hour later, we approach the Buffalo airport, passing Niagara Falls. The tremendous force of the water’s surge reminds me of my father and his determination to live, fueled by a desire that non-writers may not comprehend. My father must write, and because of this deep passion, he has lived past all the doctors’ expectations. Focused and determined, he is thankful for simple gifts: A blue sky filled with clouds. The sight of a bird on a branch outside his small window. A phone call from a family member. A smile from a caregiver. A young child’s laughter. A warm hand to hold. An extra day to live and to write; to love and to cherish. And lastly to know that his most recent illness did not keep his daughter from attending the 2011 Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop. (At the beginning of the week, all of my plans had become precarious, including my trip to Chautauqua.)
I am here because of him, because of this man whom I love and cherish. He is my hero and my mentor, my father and friend. His needs became my only focus, when I was summoned to NC this past Monday. Prepared for the worst, I got on a plane, carrying his favorite music: Wildflowers by Judy Collins. Yet when I reached his hospital room, he was eating chocolate pudding and asking for his laptop. In what one would call a true miracle, though a temporary one, he astounded the medical staff, his family too. Knowing how short his time is, leaving him was nearly impossible, but he wanted nothing less for me. In his own loving way to force me out of his room to head for the airport, he did what he does best: he made me laugh. My father popped a red Skittle in his mouth, waved two fingers at me, and then returned to working on his current manuscript. “Don’t worry about me. Focus on your writing. I’m okay, I’m ready to ease on down the road.”
Along with his love and support, his words and his humor, he allowed me a few of his beloved trinkets: a small Pinocchio, Jiminy Cricket, and Mickey Mouse. They sit on the dresser of my hotel room, and the expressions on their faces keep me smiling and laughing and hoping.
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By: Betsy Devany,
on 7/9/2011
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With upcoming plans to visit my ailing father, who lives in Chapel Hill, I’ve been worried—and feeling a bit guilty—about leaving the toy store in the middle of the busy summer season. To compensate for being gone, and to starve my guilt, I’ve put in extra hours, which is why I agree to open the store on Friday–a last minute request. I arrive without eating breakfast, and do not pack a lunch or snacks. If all goes well, two employees will arrive around noon.
At 12:30, I am free to go, I write myself out on my timecard and then head outside, accompanied by my rumbling stomach. Suddenly a thud . . . thud . . . thud captures my attention. The Fed Ex guy is unloading large boxes from his truck onto a not-so-small metal dolly.
I hit the button to unlock my car.
Thud . . . thud . . . thud!
Grumble, grumble, grumble goes my stomach.
I dare to look back. The dolly is piled so high, I can no longer see the Fed Ex guy, though I hear him grunt. I hit the remote to lock my car, and then walk back across the parking lot to follow a hunch. Across the numerous boxes are manufacturer names in bold print: Bruder, Creative Education, Harper Collins, Crocodile Creek and Madame Alexander. I know what this means.
“Are these boxes for the Toy Soldier?” I ask.
“All of what’s on this dolly, plus there’s still more big ones in the truck.”
Grumble, grumble, grumble.
Nagging guilt settles in. Nag. Nag. Nag.
I stare longingly back at my car, but my feet don’t move. The owner is alone with a relatively new employee, who I have been training. Groups of people walk into the store. Customers walk out carrying red bags. A young boy plays with his newly purchased popgun. Pop! Pop! Pop!
If I’ve waited this long to eat, what’s a few more hours? A man walks by, ripping a piece of powdered fried dough and I start to follow him, really it is the dough I am after. Then, visions of turkey and cheese with avocado wrapped neatly in a tortilla come to mind, as does lemonade, freshly made, and—
Thump-thumpity-thump. Here comes the darn dolly. I dash ahead of it, run into the store, cross through the 12:30 departure time on my time card, and then tie my apron back around my neck.
“What are you doing, I thought you—”
“Don’t ask,” I tell the owner.
“Did you forget something?”
“N
By: Betsy Devany,
on 7/7/2011
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The summer has presented me with challenges–one after another–and some, which I had hoped to avoid. Having an ill parent with few options for an acceptable living environment is something I would wish on no one. It is my worst nightmare, and to avoid feeling physically sick over the situation, I try to find small moments each day to see beauty in the world, and to appreciate the wonder of others.
My five-year-old granddaughter is a blessing, particularly now when my family faces some of the hardest decisions of our lives. Ava makes me stop, forget about the barrage of depressing phone calls, and take a moment to live life in an idealist way.
In our large front yard, I am free—even for just thirty minutes—to laugh, chase Ava through the grass with our dog Merlin, and wonder at the miracles of the tiniest of creatures. We remain like statures when the hummingbirds zoom above us. We watch the bees on my Echinacea, revel in the sight of a butterfly, and kneel on the cool ground to peer into a daylily to marvel at fascinating insects, which appear to be from outer space. They are smaller than ants in actuality.
A frog leaps before us and Ava is off, chasing the tiny amphibian, catching it . . . losing it . . . and then catching again. Her hands tightly clasped, she tells me, “Grandma, the frog is berry thirsty. And he needs a home to live in.”
Just like my father, I think. Why is it that we cannot find suitable housing for the elderly where they can be respected and loved and treated with dignity? I brush the thought aside and head indoors for a small bowl. Ava follows, and my eyes stay fixed on what is contained within her grasp. “Don’t let that frog loose in the house,” I say. The cats would have a field day.
I fill a small, short container with water, and we go back outside. With great care, Ava places the frog in the bowl. It swims happily, and then leaps for freedom.
“Uh-oh,” she says, leaning over to trap the frog once again. “I think he wants some food.” With great precision, she keeps
By: Betsy Devany,
on 6/30/2011
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This year the 2011 annual New Jersey SCBWI Conference took place at a new location in Princeton, NJ, where I had the privilege of working behind the scenes of such a large undertaking. While I have attended the yearly NJ conference since 2007, this was my first time I was a co-chair of a committee. My volunteer responsibilities didn’t stop there, I spent hours in the weeks leading up to the conference checking spreadsheets, pouring over attendees’ personal schedules, and whatever else needed to be done. Kathy Temean and Laurie Wallmark are tireless leaders, and I couldn’t help but say Yes! whenever they reached out for help. In the end, it was fun, truly. If you can volunteer for a conference, do so.
Kathy Temean planned, organized, and ran the NJ SCBWI Conference, as only she knows how to do, with Laurie Wallmark at her side. Her inspiration for creating a one-of-a-kind conference stems from her heartfelt desire to give children’s writers and illustrators the best possible outlet to improve their craft, make connections, and to have numerous critique opportunities. What conference have you been to where you can pay for more than one critique? For conference statistics: http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/06/13/conference-stats-and-ideas/
The Windham Hotel is quite large, yet it offers a beautiful outdoors, which was taken advantage of by attendees, editors, and agents. There are trails to run or walk on, a lake to relax by, and wildlife to discover. You can easily find a chair to lounge in when your head is spinning from all the information you are trying to absorb. Ten minutes in the sun can do wonders, just ask Katia Wish, the fabulous illustrator.
The conference extended to three days this year, and brought in eleven agents, twelve editors, and accomplished authors and illustrators. There was a mix and mingle evening event on Friday, where attendees had the opportunity to meet the editors and agents in a relaxed setting. Such opportunities continue (thanks to Kathy) throughout the summer. Check for availability. http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/06/08/update-on-summer-networking-dinners/
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By: Betsy Devany,
on 6/19/2011
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On this father’s day 2011, I share a story from the toy store. A story that affected me greatly, long after it happened. It involves the love of a father for a son, and every time I think of that day, I am reminded that gifts do not always come wrapped in pretty paper with spiral ribbon. They sometimes come in the shape of stories. This story was a gift I received, and one I will treasure as long as I live. Happy Father’s Day!
A WHALE FOR STEVEN
by Betsy Devany
Closing time has come and gone at Olde Mistick Village, the sidewalks are filled with more ducks than people shopping. The neighboring stores are dark, their doors are locked, and their employees on their way home. It is time for me to call it a night.
The marionettes swing in the breeze; the pink flamingo seems to wink at me. I gather the puppets outside to carry them into the store. Behind me there is quacking. The three ducks who rule our front yard are on alert. The white leader honks at a lone male that slipped under the fence and entered their territory. The leader’s two sidekicks join in the chase, nipping at the uninvited younger mallard. The white duck pecks at the intruder’s neck; his wings flap with agitation. I move towards the gang of birds, clapping my hands until they separate.
“Do you break up fights every day?”An older man walks in my direction, followed by a younger man. With the same chiseled chins, the two are clearly father and son.
“This is the first fight I’ve seen today.”
“You still open? We won’t be long, I promise.”
“Uh . . . sure, yes, come on in.” I smile.
“We need to hurry, Steven. This woman wants to close.”
Steven, who looks to be in his late thirties, dashes into the store. “Whales, where are your whales?” His attention shifts rapidly from shelf to shelf. “I need a whale.” He looks up. He looks down. Lions are pulled from their shelves. Tigers. Bears. Cats. Dogs. None of the stuffed animals are right. Hoping to locate the whale he remembered having as a child, Steven continues to push toys aside. He mutters, “Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . . Big. Brown. Brown with beans . . .”
“He’ll never find it, not the way his was, with the fabric worn around the tips of the eyes and the end of the tail from his constantly caressing it.” His father adds. “And the head was flat from Steven leaning into it, night after night, when he was a child.”
Steven, who has traveled over an hour to get here, is missing more than just a stuffed whale from his childhood.
We do not sell brown whales in the toy store, nor do we sell giant whales. The largest we have is a 24-inch white beluga whale. I hand Steven the beluga. He brings it close to his nose, leans his cheek against it, and slides his face back and forth brushing the fabric. “Do you have a bigger whale . . . brown whale . . . filled with beans?”
“No, we don’t, I’m sorry.” While I search for anything close to what he describes, Steven paces . . . and paces . . . and then he notices the three-foot lobster displayed on a high shelf above his head. He stands on his tiptoes and reaches for the stuffed sea creature. “This will do,” he says.
“No, Steven, we’ve done this before. You’re not thinking clearly.” The father takes the lobster away and leaves the beluga whale in his son’s arms. He sighs—a long sigh. His hair is grey and thin. He removes his glasses and wipes them clean. He sighs again, and then says to his s
By: Betsy Devany,
on 6/17/2011
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After attending the recent New Jersey SCBWI Annual Conference, I had to make an unexpected trip to Miami. When my family calls for help, I get on a plane. I’ve earned a lot of miles this year.
On a better day towards the end of our trip, my sister and I ventured into the Florida Everglades, though we didn’t last long. She quickly became tired, and then a storm came through. Before we headed back to the hotel, I managed to take this picture of the sky. You can see the dividing point where the rain ends. I find it quite fascinating and beautiful.
In the moment when I took that picture, I thought about weather, how powerful it is, and how much damage it can do with little or no warning. This brought to mind the topic of antagonists because in some novels, weather provides the conflict in the story.
On the drive back from our short trip to the Everglades, I considered the meaning of antagonist, mostly because the topic came up at the recent New Jersey SCBWI Conference. What is an antagonist, and do all stories require the presence of one? The answer is yes. All stories need conflict. Something needs to get in the way of your protagonist to thwart their continued efforts to achieve a goal or fill a need or want.
The question that arose in the workshop was whether an antagonist had to be a person. The answer to this question is no.
A quote from Wikipedia:
An antagonist (from Greek ἀνταγωνιστής - antagonistes, “opponent, competitor, rival”)[1] is a character, group of characters, or an institution, that represents the opposition against which the protagonist must contend. In other words, ‘A person, or a group of people who oppose the main character, or the main characters.’[2] In the classic style of story where in the action consists of a hero fighting a villain, the two can be regarded as protagonist and antagonist, respectively.[3] The antagonist may also represent a major threat or obstacle to the main character by their very existence, without necessarily deliberately targeting him or her.
On that day in Miami, we dealt with more than one antagonist: the weather and my sister’s illness. Both thwarted our plans to enjoy the beauty of the Everglades. If the alligator had jumped any higher out of the water, I would have listed that too.
An antagonist can be devastating weather, an incurable disease, or the racist attitude of an entire community, among many other possibilities. The protagonist can also get in their own way caused by their behavior. This situation can make the most interesting of stories, though it is more difficult to pull off in an effective manner. Consider that your main character is a sociopathic liar. They may yearn to connect with others and to follow
By: Betsy Devany,
on 5/26/2011
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One of the topics discussed at last week’s NE SCBWI conference was the importance of ridding your manuscript of overgrown scenes, useless characters, and runaway descriptions. If you don’t pay attention to where your story is going, there is a good change it will run wild.
Wild is exactly what happened with my spider plan—the one that currently hogs the ledge of our bay window. In the past year, the plant has thrived, and now our front yard view is no longer paramount. There is something in the way, and that something is green.
I have had this plant for years. My mother first brought it home in the mid-nineties. It flourished until the day she moved to North Carolina, which is when I promised to take care of it. At the time, I knew little about caring for plants, especially indoor ones, but I feigned confidence. Shortly after she left, the plant began to wither. I watered it. Perhaps too much. Perhaps too little. Whatever the reason, its future became evident—all too soon. There was nothing pretty about it.
I tried to ignore the signs. Stems curled at the ends where the green had turned the color of dirt. Pieces of plant dropped to the ground, where they lay lifeless, until I was inspired to vacuum. And there was the fact that my husband suggested, more than once, that the garbage can was an alternative habitat for the spider plant.
The signs continued, and whenever my mother asked how the plant was doing, I changed the subject. Then one day, it dawned on me. I was killing something that meant a lot to my mother, something I had promised to take care of. When I shared my epiphany with my husband, he said, “It’s only a plant, Betsy.”
I sought the help of garden experts, friends, anyone who might help me rescue the plant I was clearly obsessed with, and was almost beyond hope.
Paying heed to the experts’ advice, I tried new ways to aid the plant’s recovery. I talked to the thing. I begged it. I even cursed at it, and then, with luck, patience, hard work, and perseverance (all traits a successful writer needs) the spider plant leaped from the edge of death and responded with vigor to all the attention that I gave it.
Again, my husband reminded me, “It’s only a plant, Betsy.”
Yes, but it was so much more . . . which brings me back to writing.
We all have those darlings in our manuscripts, you know, the characters we come to know and love. Their every appearance on scene gives us the greatest of pleasure. They make us laugh. They make us cry. They offer absolutely nothing to the plot. Nothing. Aside from our darlings, there are those long and flowing passages filled with evocative descriptions that also offer nothing to the plot. Whether it’s a character or a description or a setting or a superfluous scene, the presence of certain elements can thwart the very essence of our manuscript and change the view we intend to create. The reader cannot see through the window into our story. There is something in the way. Like an overgrown spider plant.
What does one do?
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By: Betsy Devany,
on 5/20/2011
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I am still reeling from this past weekend: a glorious three days spent with writers, illustrators, and professionals in the field of children’s literature. The NE SCBWI conference was a thorough success, and not just in my opinion.
Something was different this year. Maybe because we were enlightened by the presence of the SCBWI founders Lin Oliver and Stephen Mooser. Or perhaps it was that the writing goddess, Jane Yolen, captivated us. Whether she was speaking, walking the hallways, or signing books, she brought her brilliance, her passion, and yes, her wonderful sense of humor to the event. Add the one and only Tomie dePaola to the mix and the almighty Harold Underdown–at times sporting a Boston Red Sox hat–and . . . talk about surreal. I was in writing heaven! And on top of this, we had the opportunity to watch a screening of Library of the Early Mind. Everyone, at least in the field of writing for children, needs to see this. We were honored to have the two filmmakers present: Edward J. Delaney and Steven Withrow.
Richard Michelson had us on the edge of our seats with the story of how he became a prizewinning poet and children’s book author. I plan to visit the R. Michelson Galleries located in Northampton, Massachusetts. You should too. His speech surprised me at times, but went right to the heart. Good writing at its best.
In truth, every speaker, including all the workshop presenters, was fabulous. In between workshops, the hallways were filled with glowing comments.
My head spins from all the information I obtained, the wisdom I absorbed, and the inspiration that now fuels my writing. So much so that I have put aside my notes and let my subconscious do what it does best. As always, once I get all my new ideas on paper–thus to lessen the overcrowded feeling in my brain–I will sort through my notes and organize them accordingly. (I will blog about this actual process in the coming weeks.)
Like Whispering Pines, I plan to break up my posts on the conference, partly because I am bogged down with preparations for the upcoming New Jersey SCBWI conference. I am a committee member and volunteer, and I have lots to do before I head down Interstate 95 for Princeton, New Jersey. (For those attending the conference, I look forward to seeing you. Please seek me out to say hi if we haven’t met before!)
Thank you to the conference committee for all their diligence and deep commitment to having the best conference possible. They achieved this goal, and much more!
I am eternally grateful to the Ruth Landers Glass Scholarship committee for choosing my middle grade novel, Savannah’s Mountain, to be this year’s recipient of the award. I humbly join the list of past winners, and I promise to honor, more than ever, my commitment to writ
By: Betsy Devany,
on 5/12/2011
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The past few weeks have been crazy for me. I spent another week in NC, tending to my parents; I returned home to find over forty manuscripts waiting in my pile of mail to be sorted and distributed to the proper agent or editor; and I had a slew of NJ SCBWI raffle donation emails to respond to.
I also held a secret—a secret I had learned two days prior in the presence of my father.
After an afternoon of doctor appointments, my father sat in his wheelchair in the living room. As tired as he was, we needed to discuss his wishes. The topic: when parents age, what becomes most important is quality of life, not quantity.
“I want to write and spend time talking to and being with my family,” he said. “That’s all. No more hospitals.”
“Okay, dad. No more hospitals,” I said, knowing what that meant. Yet, I understood his deep desire to write, and his need to feel up to doing so.
He, in turn, understood my mixed feelings about his decision. Instead of taking a much-needed nap, he wanted to help me. (At that moment, I knew why I am the way I am.) I am proud to say I am my father’s daughter.
Even in pain he reaches out to us. He supports my writing and relishes in my small successes. Every day, his attitude inspires me. Recognizing my struggle with his decision, he began to tell me his wonderful stories. He talked. I listened and laughed, while arranging books in the living room. (I had just purchased two tall wooden bookcases for the apartment.)
I want my father to get better, but he needs to be able to write. Just as I need to write. Like I need to breathe, eat, and sleep. This is when we are at our happiest.
I am certain the seed for this desire came early in my life, planted by my father—a lifetime writer, and my mother—a lifetime reader who studied children’s literature at Bank Street.
Looking over at him, I thought about this, when my cell phone rang. I had won the 2011 New Voices in Children’s Literature Tassy Walden Award—middle grade category. My entry: Savannah’s Moun
By: Betsy Devany,
on 4/21/2011
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Once upon a time a gorilla named Norman spent his days sitting in front of the toy store. But after years of greeting people who came to enjoy this magical place, Norman decided to retire. He wanted to live with Betsy, and spend his days reading, swinging from the Japanese maple tree, and writing his autobiography.
A replacement for Norman was not easy. Who could possibly fill Norman’s shoes?
We asked Norman to reconsider. “I’d rather swing,” he told us.
Norman, it seemed, had a new life.
With the bench empty, Chicken spread rumors around the store. (She is quite a gossip.) Soon, all the animals wanted to audition for the job. The giraffe was too tall; his head bumped the porch ceiling. The rhinoceros was too long; his bum exceeded the width of the wooden bench, three times over. The monkey was too unpredictable. Instead of greeting customers, he would swing from the rafters. Rather than smiling and laughing, people screamed when the monkey surprised them by jumping on their heads. Instead of customers coming into the store to shop, they ran away in fear of their lives. Something had to be done.
We tried dogs. Big stuffed dogs. Small stuffed dogs. Even real dogs. They barked too much. The lions arrived only to roar and block the entrance to the store. And then there was the goat, but that story is for another day.
In utter desperation, I called a meeting of the village ducks. Might they take turns sitting on the bench? I offered duck food–lots. An unending supply. They didn’t quite understand what I was asking them to do, though they tried. Instead of remaining perched on the bench and politely posing for photos, the ducks chased children away from the store. Those days there was much quacking and honking and screaming. And only occasionally, the ringing of the register.
What was the toy store to do?
Then one day a very large box arrived. So large, in fact, that it had to be opened outside; it did not fit through the door. What was in the box? The employees of the toy store wondered. The customers wondered. The ducks waddled up and down the sidewalk, staring. And wondering, I am certain.
Finally, the sides of the box split open. There he was!
Bear had arrived. He smiled at us. We smiled back . . . until we realized just how large he was. So large, in fact, that when we tried to lift him, he fell over. It took three people
By: Betsy Devany,
on 4/15/2011
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The New Jersey SCBWI annual conference approaches. Are you attending? If not, there is still time. As excitement builds for the event, so does the anticipation for what will be offered at the Chinese auction this year. And the silent auction. Both are fun and have great opportunities for writers!
For more specifics, read Kathy Temean’s blog: http://kathytemean.wordpress.com/2011/04/06/raffle-and-scholarship-fund/
Donations are needed and being accepted up until the conference dates. Let me know if you would like to be a part of these auctions. Your participation will be most appreciated! There will be a Power Point Presentation with slides of what is donated and by whom. At your earliest convenience, let me know what you are bringing, and include a picture, please.
If you would like to donate but are unsure what to do, consider making a basket. We have a basket raffle at Whispering Pines, which is always a highlight of the annual weekend. Come up with a theme, make a colorful sign listing all the contents, and then fill it to your heart’s desire. Add ribbons, colorful tissue, and whatever else to make the presentation pop. I made five baskets this past year, and had so much fun putting them together.
Don’t you want to have fun?
Here are some suggestions: 1. A Relaxation Basket for Weary Writers – include a bottle of wine, or two, bubble bath, chocolate, more chocolate, an eye mask, and perhaps a relaxation CD. 2. Basket of All Things Dinosaur – (for those writers with young children or grandchildren) include dinosaur books, dinosaur toys, perhaps a dig-your-own dinosaur fossil. 3. Think Pink, Pink, Pink For Those Precious Princesses in Our Lives – include a crown, nail polish, a princess book, etc. 4. I Got Another Rejection, Now What? - a ‘no’ button, a box of kleenex, stamps and envelopes for sending the submission right back out into the world, chocolate, bubble bath, and a mirror to look into, which has the words Only Your Manuscript Has Been Rejected, Not You. 5. Basket of Award Winning Children’s Books
These are just examples for you to get an idea, and there is no pressure to make a basket. We want variety, as do the people who purchase tickets for the raffle.
If you are attending the conference, buy plenty of raffle tickets. You could look as happy as Carlyn Beccia is in this photo after her winning streak at Whispering Pines this past March.
By: Betsy Devany,
on 4/14/2011
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This month, the ducks of Olde Mistick Village have come out in full force. Unannounced as usual, the annual visitors have returned to the large pond with the intention of staying until Labor Day. Our permanent resident ducks now count for one-fifth of the current duck population. The mating has begun.
Ducks waddle up and down the sidewalk, usually in pairs, or groups of three. They chase one another–in the large pond, through the grass, and anywhere else their webbed feet will take them. The fences that line the storefronts are no challenge; they dart under or fly over. In a sense, the ducks rule the road. But like children, they can get out of hand, and this is where I come in.
Now is the time of year when my job at The Toy Soldier takes on another responsibility. Aggressive ducks, especially male ducks being overtly ruthless with females, require duck interventions. With the aid of a rolled-up newspaper, I create loud noises to disrupt their behavior. Most times, it works.
There are those moments during mating season when visiting children witness the male ducks biting the necks of the females. It disturbs the majority because they think the ducks are hurting each other. Unfortunately, sometimes this does happen. Last year, we lost two females to over-aggressive visiting males.
This is a part of nature, as I’ve tried to explain to my five-year-old granddaughter. She is now well aware of why the seagulls hover near the ponds. They watch for unattended baby ducklings, yet to be born this year at the village. Soon, this year’s babies will begin to make their appearances. That is, if the neighboring skunks and raccoons don’t disrupt the eggs. I try not to think about this too much.
With the odds against the babies growing full-term, only time will tell if we will be graced with families of ducks entertaining and delighting visitors of all ages. I can only hope so, but until then, the adult mallards and other ducks, including one lone goose, put on their own performances. Especially when it rains.
By: Betsy Devany,
on 4/7/2011
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Whispering Pines behind me, I prepare to journey to the land of revision. My coffee cup refilled, I escape to my writing room with the dog and a cat, or two. (If I don’t extend an invitation to the pets in the beginning, I will have to endure the sound of paws traipsing up and down the hallway, after which, tapping and scratching on the door will commence.)
Once my furry family members settle into their usual spots, I close the door to the world behind me and slip to the place where doors do not exist, where the open sky welcomes me, as do the surrounding pine trees. While this place is not in my writing room, it is in my mind, my memories. This world sits in my heart where I can tap into it, and so, I do. Eyes shut, I drift to where I need to be, alone in my mind with my story.
I picture myself sitting on a pile of dry needles, leaning against a tree trunk, surrounded by my WIP characters. Speckles of sunlight dance in the grass as clouds roll through the sky. Two squirrels chase each other across the lawn, up a tree, and then back down again. In my mind, I yearn to pick up my camera and take pictures or go on a walk with my characters. Anything but, dissect my manuscript. Why? Fear.
It takes courage to slice and dice something we have poured out heart into. It also requires confidence and skill. And because of the recent Whispering Pines conference, I feel stronger. I fight my fear and self-doubt with the tools I’ve acquired. With Cheryl Klein’s book Second Sight at my side, I am prepared to battle. My manuscript may resemble a battlefield for a while, but in the end, I will win this war with myself. I will cut and chop. I will dice and shred. I will strip away the layers of my manuscript, like a Sycamore or Birch tree with its peeling bark.
I have always loved these types of trees. Their beautiful camouflage appearance fascinates me, especially knowing that the peeling process is the tree’s way of shedding scale insects and heavy encrustation of moss and lichens. The Sycamore tree provided much comfort for my young nieces and me when my sister was ill a few years back. As bark peeled away, it left sections of unscarred tree trunk. We saw this as a clean slate, new possibilities, and most importantly, hope. When revising, I keep a piece of Sycamore bark on my desk. Inspired by how the tree sheds unwanted insects, I work my manuscript with the goal of shedding those characters and passages that do not aid or move the story forward.
While the process of revising can feel lonely at times, I am not alone, as reminded at Whispering Pines. In the places where I get stuck or unsure, I picture the circle of Adirondack chairs by the lake. I see the smiles. Hear the laughter. Writers for children are incredibly warm and supportive of each other. I hope the remainder of my pictures represents this.
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By: Betsy Devany,
on 3/31/2011
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Memories of attending the NESCBWI retreat in previous years stir as I turn left into the entrance for Whispering Pines, one hour from where I live. I pass houses, a farm, a cabin sheltering a pile of wood, ponds, and of course, rows and rows of pine trees. I slow my car down to fully enjoy my return to this place of beauty, where anything is possible if you follow your dreams with conviction.
Arriving at Whispering Pines feels like coming home. Home to a place I don’t often visit, but upon my return, the forest wraps around me: a well-worn blanket, rich with memories, and sweet with the scent of pine. I welcome the embrace.
I check in at Sycamore, find my room, and snap a few pictures. Then I head out to greet those familiar places, the ones I want to snuggle up to: wooden chairs on a porch overlooking the lake, pine trees reaching for the sky, and the circle of Adirondack chairs, which for me symbolizes the group of writers and mentors soon to arrive. The pictures I take lack color, resembling the winter that persists in hanging around. It will pass soon; colors will burst forward. Flowers will stake their claim, as will the leaves on the trees. But for now, the day is grey, though not for long.
The family of writers arrives, with Lynda Mullaly Hunt leading the way. I cannot imagine a weekend without Lynda. She is a dedicated leader and one who roots for all. Lynda’s essence comes through in the pictures I took of her and the people who assist her in running this event. The smiles are infectious, as is Lynda’s excitement for the weekend. Truly, I would follow her anywhere, if she were running the show.
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By: Betsy Devany,
on 3/28/2011
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I start the day by applying what I’ve learned–or had reinforced–at Whispering Pines: an extraordinary writing retreat held annually in Rhode Island, and sponsored by the NE SCBWI. (I promise to blog about the conference specifics by the end of the week, and to thank everyone who deserves undying appreciation. There is much to tell and share!)
For most of the morning, I practice The Art of Killing Your Darlings, otherwise known as forcing yourself to rid the manuscript of those scenes and characters you love most, but which add nothing to your story. Sometimes, not so easy to accomplish. To prepare myself mentally for this ordeal, I first remove any and all feelings of guilt. I shove the guilt out the window to a place also reserved for Those Darlings No Longer To Be If I Am Ever To Sell This Manuscript. (I do hope My Darlings are not listening. If they are, I love you!)
Next, in preparation for the kill, I take baby steps. Instead of my writing, I apply The Art Of Killing Your Darlings to my photograpy while I sort through the photos taken over the weekend. As always, I captured hundreds of pictures, all of which I was compelled to take. Like the characters who appear out of nowhere, whisper in my ear, and then pull me like a magnet into their worlds, I followed, in this case, the whispers of the pines.
The process of Dealing with Those Beloved Darlings or Babies goes more quickly than usual, which is surprising. I scan each picture on my computer, and if it doesn’t quickly grab me, like a well-crafted first page, I hit the delete button. When I am prompted to ponder my rash decision with the words, “Are you sure you want to delete?” I hit the button with full confidence. Not a hint of hesitation. My inner voice has spoken. I trust it.
While studying what is left of the two-hundred plus pictures I originally took, I discover the reason behind them. Cynthia Lord, my mentor for the weekend, shared with us her process of writing Touch Blue. (If you haven’t read this novel, do so. Touch Blue is wonderful!) Cindy likes to visit a place, so she can notice the tiny details first-hand. Details such as bits and pieces of mussel shells left by seagulls, dropped from high above, in hopes they will break. The mussels eaten, tires drive over what is left of the shells, crushing them. What remains is beautiful. Shimmering shades of blue dance in the sunlight like bits of broken glass.
During the block of time set aside for writing or critique groups, I found myself walking instead. And that was okay, because it felt right. Right for me. Still trying to wind down from a recent, stressful trip to NC, I needed to decompress.
At first, I walked with hesitation down the windy road, heading away from the conference. Should I be writing? Should I be revising? In truth, I was in my mind. Thoughts of my manuscript swirled in unison with the swish, swish, swish of the pine trees swaying in the breeze. For me, the healing process had begun.
Now when I choose which images to share on this blog, I understand what I was doing. I was listen
By: Betsy Devany,
on 3/25/2011
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My return from North Carolina coincides with the beginning of spring in New England. After missing my first flight, I wind up taking a later one. Much later. My arrival home is well after midnight, when I am too weary for words. In the dark, I drag my suitcase across the driveway, up five steps, and then retire to bed, in hopes of escaping my nagging thoughts. Remembering what I was unable to accomplish while visiting my parents makes sleep difficult, but I arise early, and in the daylight, I happily discover that some of NC has made its way back to Connecticut. Bulbs have begun to break through the earth in search of the warm sun. Hope, for me, has returned.
I let the sight of the blue iris and purple crocuses soak in, and then I begin to tackle the fall leaves that have provided a blanket of warmth and protection for my flowerbeds. I rake, pull weeds, and then head inside to make a few phone calls to the medical staff at UNC. Back in the sunshine, I smell the flowers, and throw balls for Merlin, our sheltie, to catch, my cell phone nearby.
Yet, I am desperate to do more. I want to fix our broken health care system and keep Medicare and Medicaid from dwindling down to nothing. I want to cure any and all diseases that inflict suffering. But I can’t, and it makes me feel helpless at times. Helpless to those I love and know, including customers I’ve met at the toy store where I work, strangers I’ve spoken to in passing, and people I’ve read about.
I sit on our front stoop, throw another ball across the yard for Merlin, and wonder if anything I do matters enough, especially in the face of everything else the elderly have to contend with. I want to scream, but instead I focus on the small acts of kindness.
Small acts of kindness do matter. They matter very much. They can be as simple as a hug or listening to a person tell a story, much needing to be told, or greeting a stranger, who appears to be suffering, to ask how they are doing. Let them know that someone cares.
Life has its ups and downs; joys and tragedies; failures and triumphs. Don’t let that stop you from doing the small things, as my father reminded me just last week. Even when the situation resembles a solid brick wall and seems so insurmountable that you’d rather hide under the covers all day, think about chipping at the wall. Little by little. These are the ways you can empower your characters when they are facing their own brick wall. Do not bring in a bulldozer to knock down the wall for your character. Give them small actions to do, and then, as a writer, stand aside and let them be. The character must figure it out on their own.
Though I wanted to bring in a bulldozer to help my father, instead, I focused on cheering him on, so he could do what he needed most: return home to write. Writing is what keeps his heart beating, his soul singing, his mind marching forward. He, in turn, wanted to help me, knowing I had set aside my writing to be with him and my mother. Through humor, my father—a lifetime writer—gave me a gift. He reminded me that a novel—especially one written for children—must have elements of hope, places wh
Don’t rely on your cell phone to determine the actual time in Boise because you will wake up to: 
5. Be unprepared for the madness that will ensue, which will include crashing into one another as all three people simultaneously rush for the bathroom, after which there will be tripping, scrambling for shoes and socks, and then the dog will get involved by barking incessantly. 
10. Ask your niece to—just in case—check the time. “Are you kidding, Aunt Betsy!” says the one niece after finding her watch that was hidden under a pile of school papers on her desk.
Don’t Forget About the Automatic Sprinklers
3. Bribery
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A wet paper is no great tragedy. Certainly not worth suffering through Panda Express! Thanks for keeping the home full of laughter. XO C