GRACE AND THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT

 Here's my latest novel! 

Cover by Michael Kress-Russick

When I started writing it ten years ago, I needed hope. 

Nature had always restored me. Only the reason I needed hope was because Nature itself was under siege. Floods, fires, loss of species, drought were all part of an environmental crisis. The situation seemed overwhelming. If I felt that way, I knew kids would too. But what could I do? What could a kid do? 

Then I realized that I wasn't powerless. In fact, I had a great tool. I could tell a story.

The novelist Richard Powers said: "The best arguments in the world won't change a single person's point of view. The only thing that can do that is a good story."

Stories connect to our emotions. Abstract concepts are easy to dismiss. Characters aren't. Especially characters who care deeply about something. (It also helps if they're funny.)

So...meet Grace. As the novel begins, she's getting ready for a dance recital. Unfortunately, every time she tries to leap, she falls. When she crashes into her neighbor's wildflower garden, she crushes his milkweed. She rescues three monarch caterpillars from the plant. Caring for them inspires her to take more action to protect the world they'll be living in. She finds a way to speak for the monarchs. She builds a community. She persuades her dad to replace his poisoned yard with a pollinator garden. Butterflies fly. And we all learn that people really can change––just like the monarchs do. 

My story has inspired a family musical, co-written by Greg Alexander, Clifford Lee Johnson III, and myself. GRACE AND THE BUTTERFLY EFFECT will premier at B Street Theatre in Sacramento, California in the fall of 2026.  

You can purchase the novel now. 

More importantly, YOU can keep telling stories, inspiring people, and hoping. Small actions have big consequences. There really can be a butterfly effect.

One year later . . .

I'm still here. 

And thankfully, if you are reading this -- YOU ARE TOO! 

It's been a while since I posted. That's because I had nothing new to report -- not even any insights into how I feel about cancer -- or how it feels about me. My personal battle against rogue cells pales by comparison to all the other wars.

I'm still on oral chemo. But the dose was reduced last fall -- which means I can resume activities like swimming. My main trouble is the need to rub some lotion on my hands and feet. Or sometimes sit with a hot cloth over my eyes. I highly recommend these activities even if you aren't on drugs!  

My most recent CT scan revealed that everything is stable. I've had 4 scans now. During them, my focus has been on lying still inside the machine. I hadn't even wondered what magic revealed my body's secrets until a recent article in the NY Times told me that the invention of the CT scan was inspired by CALCULUS. Don't worry, I won't even try to explain that math. (Calculus class brought my mathematical education to an abrupt end.) 

Luckily Godfrey Houndsfield understood how it could be useful. An X-ray shoots one beam. It changes as it passes through your body. The resulting image can't tell where or even exactly what caused the alteration. A CT scan, however, uses thousands of beams. They come at my torso from multiple angles. Each beam is altered by whatever tissue it passes through. A computer is able to sort out what caused each alteration. And where that something was. From all that information, an image is produced.

In 1979 Houndsfield won the Nobel prize for Computer-assisted Tomography. 

The CT images are a fantastic medical diagnostic tool. We wouldn't have them without inspiration, science, technology, and access to medical care. CT images also remind me of the importance of multiple points of view.

Enjoy what you can of our beautiful world.

I'm going to do what I wasn't allowed to do last summer . . . jump in the lake!

 

A Healthy New Year

Each January, we wish our friends a healthy new year. I did too! Given my situation, however, I've been wondering--what is health?  

You're probably wondering what's with this crazy picture of me? A plywood cut-out is the only way I'd ever have such fabulous curves! Obviously that body image is a joke. Even if it weren't, health isn't defined by looking attractive.

Modern medicine usually considers health to be the absence of something bad. My blood is tested to make sure dozens of biological markers aren't outside the "normal" range. My torso is scanned for any new mysterious shadows. I'm constantly asked if I feel any pain. Luckily, I can say no. (My existential dread doesn't count.)

At my last visit with my doctor, he asked how I was. Great, I answered, except, of course, that I have cancer. We laughed. 

So how can I be healthy? How can any of us be?

Almost everyone I know has something--painful joints, digestive woes, anxiety. The list could go on and on. Sadly for most of people, those challenges are going to remain.

So what are we really wishing for our friends? Health isn't the binary of being sick or not. Health is a spectrum. 

Maybe it's how I feel about how I feel? 

As I often say, circumstances are hard to change. But we do have more control over our minds. We can look for comfort and comedy and chocolate (or whatever your choice of treat). If we keep searching, we'll find something good.

And so I do wish you a healthy new year.

UNSUNG HEROES

Keeping the river clean

Humans are lucky. Almost all the grunt work happens without our knowledge. Oh sure, we can tell our bodies NOT to do something. We can hold our breath. Wait our turn at the bathroom. Swallow a burp--or maybe make it bigger. Most of our bodily functions don't need our conscious thought. This allows our brains to be very busy with lofty ideas. Like writing songs and blogs.

But sometimes our bodies say, "Hey, Pal. Pay attention!" Maybe you get a fever. A sore throat. The runs--as in running to the bathroom. In my case, last March, my arm swelled up to twice its normal size. I had what most breast cancer survivors dread--lymphedema.

Now I HAD to think about my arm. And the lymphatic system. Which I knew very little about.

Blood gets all the glory, right? The heart is the subject of countless stories and songs. We feel it do its work. We see blood when we are careless with the kitchen knife--or embarrassed by being careless with the kitchen knife. But lymph? What even is it?

Lymph is a colorless, watery fluid. It travels through our bodies in a network of vessels somewhat parallel to our veins and arteries. The lymphatic system has no pump like the heart. The contraction of our muscles keeps things flowing. The lymph carries white blood cells to and from our organs. It also picks up the trash. Dead cells, bacteria, viruses, and yes--cancer cells. These bits that our body recognizes as NON-SELF would build up in the gap between the cells if the lymphatic system didn't carry them off. At various points along the way, nodes filter those NON-SELF particles from the fluid. Eventually they get pissed or sweated or breathed away. Our bodies can take out the trash without extra help--unless there's too much trash or something presses on the pipes. Then there's a problem.

When I had my mastectomy in 2001, several lymph nodes were removed from my arm pit. Many others were scarred in the radiation treatment. Lymphatic fluid still flowed through my arm. Until lots more NON-SELF cancer cells started clogging up the pipes. And those pipes were narrower because the source of those cells--the tumor--was pressing on the pipes.

So I got my body some help. Thanks to the oral chemotherapy, the tumor shrank. There were fewer cancer cells. Lymphatic fluid started flowing normally again. My armpit is still missing a few nodes, but I do have over 600 more throughout the rest of my body. Taking out the trash.

My arm is back to normal size. My wonderful physical therapist doesn't need to see me anymore. I can lift weights. I have resumed some household chores. (Thank you, Lee, for picking up the slack without complaint. You're an unsung hero too!)

I have a new appreciation for this critical part of our body. 

So . . .

Put a little love in your lymphatic system!

How can you heal a clogged lymph node?

Everybody's got a hungry lymphatic system!

I want to live, I want to give. I've been a miner for a lymphatic system!

No? Well, okay. I guess the lymphatic system will continue to be an unsung hero.

Alice Runs Marathons

 

 

 

Alice was a runner. She had the easy gait of someone with long, beautiful legs. She ran up and down Irish Mountain. She ran on beaches all over the world. She ran many New York City Marathons. When she ran, her skin glowed with sweat. Her body became fully alive with exertion. Her big heart pumped blood and oxygen--and love. Love for the race. Love for us all. Love for life. In fact, after pounding 26 1/2 miles of  NYC pavement, when everyone else would have collapsed on their couch, Alice threw a party. 

Eventually she had to run a different kind of marathon. Trying to stay ahead of the mutants multiplying inside her and chemotherapy's unpleasant side effects. She did her best. Better than her best. But two years ago, Alice crossed the final finish line. And yes, there was a party to celebrate everything she had done in her amazing life. 

We have to keep on running without her. Whether it's an actual marathon like her son Lucas will do in November. Or somehow just putting one foot in front of the other for whatever challenge we face. Step by step. Block by block. Mile by mile. 

Sometimes, you turn a corner and find a hill you hadn't expected to climb. Sometimes the sidewalk is cracked. Sometimes your shoes give you blisters. And sometimes you discover that a few of your own cells are mutants. 

I never ran with Alice. I didn't have that power. She kindly walked along with me. She still does. As I go on this particular marathon, I carry her love of life.

THERE ARE WORDS!

 

Contrary to what some sympathy cards say, there are over 600,000 words in the OED. 

But which ones should we say to someone who is struggling?

A friend just told me he has cancer.  Several of my friends have recent diagnoses. Other friends have other illness, aches, pains, and profound losses. I spend a lot of time arranging words on a page (aka writing). I still don't know how to say--or even what I want to say to these people. 

Now that I'm back in the cateogry where people express sympathy to me, you might think I'd know what helps, what hurts, and what's just pure Hallmark.

For a while I thought, 'I'm sorry you have to go through this' worked well. Expressing sympathy is good. Also 'going through' implied that this was a bumpy, but temporary, part of life's journey. The road ahead would be better. After I said that--and heard it from people--the phrase lost its power. Overuse had diluted its meaning. 

So what do I recommend? What do I want people to say to me? What to I want to say to others? What ARE the words?

Alas, there is no magic sentence. No acronym, meme, or emoji. But I do have a little advice.

Be specific to the person and their circumstances. That's true for any good communication, whether you're telling jokes or making a persuasive argument.

Pay attention to the individual you are talking to. Do they want to be helped? Heard? Hugged? And don't ask them that exact question which, I fear, has already become a cliché since I read it in the New York Times a few months ago. 

Have a conversation. Don't just hand someone words on a platter. Listen to them. Empathize with them.

And please do reach out. I have sometimes been silent for fear of saying the wrong thing.

Yes, communicating is hard. But it isn't harder than whatever your friend is going through.

FORGIVENESS

 FORGIVENESS? That’s an unusual topic. I didn’t expect to be thinking about that!

An old log, battered by the waves, comes to rest upon the shore, and somehow sprouts new growth.

 

Forgiveness, however, is a huge step on my journey to . . . what exactly? Recovery? Health? Accepting this altered life. So okay then. Here goes.

I forgive the Universe. Whoa – pretty grandiose, there, Jane! But I do. I forgive the flaw in its design that means battling for life isn’t always straightforward. We must be on guard against these sneaky little mutant cells. I suppose I must forgive those mutations too, because humans wouldn’t even be here if cells didn’t change over time.

I forgive my ancestors. Actually I don’t need to forgive them because it turns out I didn’t inherit my mutants. Even if I had the notorious BRCA gene, I still forgive whoever gave it to me. They also gave me the parts of myself I like.

I forgive the poisoners. I don’t want to, but I do. The ones who didn’t care about the environment in which we live. The ones who didn’t know the consequences of pollution. The ones who did know but preferred to ignore it. The ones who are still spewing poison.

I forgive the people who helped me and the people who are still helping me and the people who sincerely believe they are helping me. There are limits to what anyone can do.

I’m trying to forgive myself. This is the hardest of all. I can forgive my sins against healthy living. Others indulged in riskier behavior and aren’t battling cancer. It’s harder to forgive myself for squandering this gift of life. Why haven’t I done more? Why didn’t I make more of a contribution? Even having a few hobbies would be money in the sense-of-self bank. Sadly I had let my account dwindle.

But hey, who knows, this may in fact be the perfect time to reinvent myself!

As Machiavelli said, “Never waste the opportunity offered by a good crisis.”

Rahm Emanuel interpreted that to mean, “Take this opportunity to do things that you think you could not do before.”

So I will! Because I can! So far, the health report is pretty good. My body is coping with the drug. Blood counts are normal. My physical therapist and my oncologist are happy. So am I—sometimes.

And on the days when I’m not, I forgive myself for that too.

OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE

On the last day of 2023, I made a resolution. I would step out of my comfort zone! 

On the first day of 2024, I plunged into the cold waters of Lake Michigan.

In February, I shared the musical my team is writing with way more talented and experienced writers.

In March, I traveled to Colombia--8,500 feet higher than where I live.

And in May, I learned that my cancer has come back. 

Yes. In 2001, I had a mastectomy, six months of chemotherapy, one month of radiation, and started ten years of hormonal therapy. Because of all that, I had 23 great years. I published over 30 fiction and non-fiction books. I traveled to many countries with my husband. I saw our daughter channel her creative skills into the practice of law. In other words, I lived. And I intend to keep living.

I just took three pills. They're so powerful that I was cautioned to wear gloves when handling them. And yet they seem pretty small considering the job they must do.

I must fight an equally important battle. I have many memories of 2001--some of which I'll share in future blogs. But one is very clear to me now. Just after the drama of the surgery, when people had moved on to their own problems, I was left alone with my darker thoughts. I lay in bed feeling sorry that my life could be cut short. I was jolted by this realization. If indeed that were true, then why would I waste one single precious second of the time I have here on Earth in a cloud of misery? Why wouldn't I do whatever I could to make the most of what I have while I have it? None of us will live forever. 

Now it's June. I will continue to leave my comfort zone. I will not abandon comforts! I need sunny days, walks in the woods, bird song, and time with friends more than ever. I must strive, however, to avoid sinking into the lazy-boy-recliner of self-pity, resentment, and railing against the mutants who live in my body now. 

I have decided to use this blog as a place to explore my thoughts about illness, identity, but most of all my quest for life.

Writing it will help me. Thank you for reading. 

 

I LOVE MY PEN

What does it mean to write? I’m not talking about the implications of crafting stories to inspire or inform or amuse. I mean to make words show up on what was originally a blank space. In order to WRITE, an idea somewhere in my brain acquires language. Then a different part of my brain sends a signal along my nerves to my fingers. They tap the keys of this laptop. And then – by an even more mysterious process – those keys signal the word-processing program and letters appear on the screen. These words seem professional. They are tidy. They are uniformly shaped. My bad spelling has been magically corrected. My lines are straight. I appreciate all this help in making my ideas look good, no matter how incomplete. 

Writing is different when I use my cartridge pen. The line from my brain down my arm to the ink feels continuous – almost as if my blood were being spilled on the paper. All my first drafts are written in that way. So are my notes on my projects, my comments, my  maps of fictional places, and my emotings.

This method has drawbacks. Penmanship is a problem. There are times when I cannot read my writing. I'm not exaggerating. I cannot. So I think of something better.

The pen will run out of ink at the worst of all possible moments. Sometimes when my brain is struggling with a thought, I watch the words grow fainter and fainter – a literal manifestation of what’s happening in my brain. I insert a new cartridge. I return to the page – the sentence broken – and I can’t remember what I was trying to write. So I think of something better.

Or the smears – the blots, the blobs, the times when I pressed too hard on the poor nib and something illegible gushed onto the page. Or when I have neglected my pen. Been busy. Been typing not writing. If I pick it up after a long absence, nothing flows. Dried up inside. So I take it apart. I flush it with water. I put in a new cartridge. I start to write. At first, the words are pale. Watery. Eventually the ink is flowing as it should. Because I have thought of something better.

I love my pen. It forces me to think. To take my time. It enables my words to be more than a string of discrete letters. I would never for a moment think of writing with anything else. Except maybe this?

Miraculous Writing Machine made by Friedrich von Knaus 1760

 

FAREWELL TO THE MEWS

The connection between writers and cats is almost a cliche. I wouldn't be surprised if MFA programs offer courses about sharing your desk with a cat. There is a reason for this. I had been putting words on paper for years, but I didn't become a real writer until after we brought Blackberry into our home. I will always be grateful for what she taught me.

BE CURIOUS



Cats are  interested in everything––except what is shown on a screen. And they never look in the mirror. Blackberry and I spent a lot of time watching the pigeons across the street.

KNOW WHAT'S IMPORTANT



Blackberry had an uncanny sense of which particular piece of paper was the one I needed the most. Here she is taking a bath on it, as if to say, "Clean this part up."

CONCENTRATE



Her stare was so powerful that it was unsettling.

BE HUNGRY



Her appetite was tremendous. Once she got a whiff of something she wanted, she pursued it relentlessly. She obeyed no rules. No shelf was too high. She even opened cupboard doors to get food we tried to hide from her. She took what she wanted, even if it was a sip from my husband's cocktail.

BE FEARLESS



Yes, she is sitting on the peak of a pitched roof.

BE WILD

 

Blackberry never ever forgot that she was a hunter. Even toward the end of her life, whenever dusk lengthened the shadows in the woods, and other animals crept from their hiding places, she wanted to leave my lap and run off to be part of that other world.

Blackberry was my inspiration and my companion for many years. We will be telling stories about her life for many more years to come.

Getting excellent advice from some readers

I'm fortunate to be a writer. I never take it for granted. I enjoy every bit of the process. I've worked hard, but I also know that I owe a lot to sheer luck.

I would never even have written my first novel. But I attended a reunion for a theater company where I had been an apprentice. I happened to sit near a children's book agent, Linda Pratt, who happened to  mention that she was always looking for humorous adventure stories. So I wrote one, and she sold it to Random House.

A few years after that, I had a second bit of amazing luck. I joined the Brooklyn Community Chorus. One night at rehearsal, I sat next to Susan Westover. When she found out I wrote kids books, she invited me to Brooklyn New School and Brooklyn School for Collaborative Studies, where she is the librarian.

That was eight years ago. Since then I have visited BNS and BCS many times to talk about my books and writing. I've gotten to know the schools' other wonderful librarians, Karen Klein and Amanda Clarke. (Yes, the schools are so committed to reading that they share three librarians!) They're always grateful for my school visits. But I get back far more than I give. Each visit restores me. It's so inspiring to be in schools where teachers care about kids. Kids care about kids. And everybody cares about books.

My current novel is still very much a work-in-progress. But that's when a writer most needs to get a dose of tough love. I asked Susan if she might have some readers who were willing to give me feedback. Susan and Amanda kindly gathered a group of fifth graders and a group of sixth graders. They read the first twenty pages of CITY KID.

The Fifth grade group gives me advice.

One student drew my main character and a logo.

Their comments and their ideas were so helpful to me!

The sixth grade group meets regularly in the library to share their own creative procects.

Of course their enthusiasm for the character made me happy. But I was even happier to get their questions. What kind of person is Peri? How does she feel about her step-dad? Why did she say "no hugging"? Can't she just take a taxi to the theater? What are "cut-offs"?

Lots of helpful comments IN RED

"Does she get to the theater? How? We'll help you write the next page!"

Yes, my friends at BNS and BCS. You certainly will.

My Mother Made Me -- Remembering Virginia Carson Kelley (1924 - 2018)

My mother made me a novelist. It wasn't her intention. We had the worst of our disagreements when I insisted on pursuing a life in the theater. She was right. I wasn't cut out to be an actress. But I did, as I once told her in overly dramatic fashion, HAVE to write. And that's because of her.

Language was Mom's life. Our house was full of books. She loved reading to herself and to us. Usually the books were from her own childhood--well-worn volumes which her own mother had probably read to her. Some were classics like Winnie the Pooh, The Wind in the Willows, and Little Women. Others were more obscure, such as Jane's Father, who, like my own dad, had unconventional but endearing ways.

Mom was also a master of conversation. She could talk with anybody, particularly a shy person whom nobody else seemed to notice. She understood people sometimes painfully all too well. She paid attention to details that we kept hidden even from ourselves. She usually pointed those out to us in humorous fashion. Her "zingers" were famous in our family. She was hardest on herself, however. She loved retelling the story about the time a guest discovered the dead chipmunk our cat left under a chair. Mom just laughed and said she should have done a better job of dusting.

But her letters were her real gifts to us. She seemed to type them effortlessly, batting them out, as she said. Droll descriptions of what she had been doing, the tennis games, the strawberries picked and made into jam, the lunches with friends whom my father referred to her as her clients because they always needed to talk to her. Mostly the letters contained questions and compliments about the details of our lives. They are treasures. I wish I had saved every single one.

At the time when I was becoming a writer, I discovered a short story she had written when she was in college. I can't remember how I found it in a box in the attic. Mom's family had many writers. Her own mother was a well-respected novelist whom some compared to Jane Austen. Her aunt was a biographer and a newspaper reporter for the Chicago Tribune. Her great aunt was a newspaper columnist for the Milwaukee Journal. And so I wasn't surprised by the quality of Mom's short story. I was surprised that she hadn't written more.

Who knows why some march forward while others stand to the side. When I asked her why she hadn't kept on, she said that she was too lazy. But I suspect her own parents hadn't been as encouraging as mine.

Mom was very proud of my books. I always read her early drafts of whatever I was working on. She was generous with her laughter and praise, and always had a few astute suggestions. I am forever in her debt.

Virginia Carson Kelley does leave a legacy. Her beloved children and grandchildren all have some of her wisdom, her wit, her love of family, and her appreciation for words.

WRITE THE CHANGE YOU WANT TO SEE IN THE WORLD

A writer friend read a draft of one of my novels. She gave me lots of great feedback. In particular, she pointed to a scene in which the kids visit their friend and are greeted by a stay-at-home mom.

"I know you're writing the world we usually see," my friend said. "But why use stereotypical roles? Why not show a more diverse world? Then it can become the norm."

"Absolutely," I agreed. I felt chastened to be caught in conventional thinking.

So I changed the scene. I had the stay-at-home parent be a dad. I gave the mom an important, high salary job as a lawyer who is fighting for justice.

There was an unintended consequence. The mom never appeared in the book. She was at her law office. The dad got to be in a funny scene baking spinach brownies. This caused a whole new imbalance. What had I done?!?!

Obviously I could have conceived of a story in which the lawyer mom had a crucial role. But my intention had been to write about saving our planet! (Unfortunately, that was too big a job for a kid, so I changed the idea to saving the butterflies.) Did I have to worry about male-female role models too? Isn't this just a kids' book?

No, it isn't. Words have power. We feel validated when we connect with a character or situation we recognize. When we encounter the unfamiliar, we are enlarged.

Writing is a series of choices. The character does this or that, looks like this or that, and says this or that. The multitude of small decisions coalesce to make the book.

Which brings me to the question I'd been pondering even before my friend's suggestion. The world is beset by problems. So many injustices, so many crises, including those poor monarch butterflies. I'm just a writer. What can I do?

Pay attention. Be aware of the problems. Learn about them. Use facts whenever possible. That will lead to better writing.

Upend preconceived notions. Shun the stale and the trite. That's better writing.

Strive for balance. Not just among types of characters, but within them. Treat every character with respect. That's better writing.

Be honest. Kids see through our best attempts to guide them. They know damn well there's spinach in that brownie. Don't gloss over situations. Characters should change and grow. That's better writing.

One of the reasons I love what I do is that I can make a happy ending. I can't cure cancer or end poverty. But I can make bold heroes who happen to be girls. I can make friendships exist where they usually don't. I can make sensitive dads and brothers. I can make wise women give just the right amount of encouragement and advice.

I can write the change I want to see in the world.

THE WAY TO AN AUTHOR'S HEART

STEP ONE:  Invite her to your school.

When educators make time for an author visit, they send a strong signal that books are important. Last spring, Mrs. Stacia Kohlstedt asked if I would visit St. Mary's School in Richland Center, Wisconsin. I happily agreed. Meeting young readers always inspires me and reminds me why I do what I do.

STEP TWO:  Read her book prior to the visit.

All of the grades read my books. The students had excellent questions and comments about what they had read. The seventh graders did an entire study on Nature Girl. Their illustrated reports lined the hallway.

I was really impressed by their analysis of character, plot, and setting.

I loved seeing Trail Blaze Betty get the credit she deserves for guiding Megan's journey. (Look--there's her famous hat!)

STEP THREE:  Let her discuss topics she's passionate about.

This workshop is entitled "WALK IN SOMEONE ELSE'S SHOES:  EMPATHY IN WRITING."

Fiction is a powerful tool that enables us to view the world from someone else's perspective. In my books, I've been a boy with too much imagination, an African gray parrot, and a snotty girl who is transformed by hiking. In other people's books, I've been a runaway slave, a soldier, and a Syrian refugee. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or both, your life will be enriched by being inside someone who is different from you. 

STEP FOUR:  Invite her to lunch with a few of your students.

Pizza! Kids! Conversation about school and books and butterflies. St. Mary's is passionate about saving monarchs--which happens to be the theme for a book I'm currently writing.

Thank you, Mrs. Stacia Kohlstedt, St. Mary's teachers and students for a wonderful day, for sharing your ideas--and for helping me write my next book.

I LOVE SCHOOL VISITS

The Society of Children’s Book Writers & Illustrators knows the importance of school visits. That’s where the kids are! In a noisy world, teachers and librarians are often the best ones to connect readers to books.

Unfortunately, schools aren’t always able to host these visits. But at the Wisconsin Educational Media & Technology Association convention, the SCBWI booth was mobbed by educators entering a drawing for a FREE author visit. Nancy Washnieski, a 6^th grade teacher from Washburn, Wisconsin, was the lucky winner of a visit and a bag of books by Wisconsin authors and illustrators.

By happy coincidence, Nancy had already bought a copy of my middle-grade novel NATURE GIRL to share with her students. So I got to make the trip from the coast of one great lake to another -- beyond the reach of the interstate, through the Chequamegon National Forest, past Mercer (the loon capitol of the world), to Washburn on the shore of Lake Superior.

I wasn't sure what kind of school I would find in a town of only 2000. (There are schools in New York City that have that many students!) But I knew we had the most important thing in common – we all loved books.

Nancy had been reading NATURE GIRL to her students. They enjoyed Megan’s adventures on the Appalachian Trail, even though they were shocked she didn’t know how to start a campfire. Unlike my heroine, these kids loved being in nature.

They had so many great questions about writing and the reasons for choices I had made. They shared their ideas for a project I’m just beginning – in which a kid from the country gets lost in the city. 

Thank you, Washburn School! I loved sharing my books with you. And thanks for the water bottle with your school's mascot Castle Guards. It came in very handy as I hiked along the spectacular coast of Lake Superior.

Meet Clint McCool

Zing, zong, zing! Brain flash! It's time for another Clint McCool Escapade.

Clint McCool's real name is Walter. But he had to give himself a new identity. Real life just isn't exciting enough for a kid with limitless imagination.

I had so much fun working on this character. It was great to imagine outrageous adventures with alligators and monsters instead of the serious issues my other characters had been grappling with.

As you can see from these covers, Jessika von Innerebner really brought Clint McCool and his exciting escapades to life.  Her illustrations appear throughout these chapter books.

Pre-order the first books of this series by  clicking this link. 

Creativity should be celebrated. New ideas should be encouraged. And yet Clint McCool does live in the real world where escapades have consequences. Octopus's arms will come off––if you yank on them. Jars of brains will break––if you drop them. Flooded streets are impossible to cross. Your best friend Marco will get mad––if you ruin his XL7 Ray Bender. Especially if you took it without his permission.

Things go wrong! That is unavoidable. But whenever Clint gets in trouble, he learns a lesson. His imagination finds a delightful way to fix the disaster. And he also sincerely apologizes. Because we should also use our powers of imagination to think about how it feels to be someone else.

That's how I love to use my brain.

Zing, zong, zing!

Connecting With Readers

I want my books to be a conversation with another person.

When I write, I imagine the characters and their world. I also imagine what a reader will think or feel. When they will laugh. Or gasp. Or maybe even cry.

Sometimes I'm lucky enough to find out. When I began writing Nature Girl, my first novel for kids, I lived with a young reader--my ten-year-old daughter Sofia. She happened to pick up the notebook in which I had begun the story of a girl named Megan. I could see by Sofia’s enthusiasm that she loved Megan’s journey. And I also knew when Sofia lost interest! Fortunately she could pinpoint exactly where my story had gotten off track, so I could fix it.

Now that my novels are published, I have conversations with more readers. Sometimes I get to meet them at school appearances. Sometimes they write to me to tell me what they like or didn’t like about a book. I love any kind of feedback.

I got a very special email the other day. My second novel, The Girl Behind the Glass, inspired Olivia in Biloxi, Mississippi, to create this fantastic display for a book fair.

 

Olivia stands in front of her prize winning display.

There’s the house, creepier than I envisioned. I love how it looks like it’s screaming. There are the hemlock trees. There are the twins at the closet door. Olivia even remembered to put in the bats.

Congratulations, Olivia! Your hard work and imagination is amazing. I’m so proud that my book inspired you.