​I am all in on the cozy factor of fall. About a million years ago my grandmother taught me how to make a crochet chain and then in high school (or college) a friend showed me and a few other friends a crochet stitch that could be used to make an entire blanket.

That one stitch has served me well and I have made a blanket for each of my children and some other family members. Walking into a store last week I saw a gigantic ball of yarn and had to have it, partly because looking at it just made me smile--it was the biggest ball of yarn I've ever seen in some of my favorite shades of rose.

​It's nice to have something simple to do on a chilly day, to pick up and put down and that will give the mind a rest and eventually be something--whole. So, I purchased "Cozy Rosy," as I now refer to her, and she is a good companion along with my family when we watch a little baseball or a show that I don't have to follow closely.

Cozy Rosy is also a good reminder that a novel starts with one word, one sentence, one page and one chapter. Slowly but surely--little bits of writing or small works of art can amount to something to spread out, look at and enjoy!

​
Hope you are cozy and rosy this fall.:)

Autumn--my favorite season for sure!

I'm ignoring the season that follows and trying to savor this season before us with its colors and cooler temperatures. Don't get me wrong, I've learned to completely embrace my beach bum alter ego the last several summers, but then the humidity and the heat start to wear out their welcome and I long for a good excuse to stay indoors--to write, to read, to use the oven again, to use the fireplace and put slippers on. I like to get my cozy on.

Yet, everything has started up. Though we're allegedly "slowly" getting back to school and work and all those extra activities we somehow fit in before Covid came knocking at our door, nothing feels slow about it. We're knee-deep in October and I've already put lots of things on the calendar for November and even got someone inquiring about a date in December this morning. What!?

It's summer. Sometimes it's hard to stay focused on a project when the sun shines, the pool waves, kids abound and schedules turn loose-y goose-y. So, I am grateful for my writer friends. We need them. You know the ones that like to talk about writing--
who are actually willing to read what you write. 

I just got off the phone after a good chat about the most recently revised version of my manuscript Lucy Bound in Lyrics with my writer friend and author of the daily blog Existential Auto Trip, Dom Capossela. He was one of the small, brave group of writers who strolled in to be part of the writers' critique group I was starting over four years ago in 2017. Wow! Here's a photo of that first meeting--though the current members are all different now.

Lucy Bound in Lyrics has undergone several revisions since then and I have grown as a writer as a result. At least I hope I have:) If Dom's feedback is any indication, I am on the right track. He really liked Lucy and appreciated her father's character. It was good to hear from a father who can see through that lens since he is the first male beta reader I've had. 

So, thanks Dom! For all your support along my writing journey. It's important to have people in my life who will read my stuff and, if I'm really lucky, are willing to carve out an hour to talk about it on a summer's day.

I am grateful for good friends and honest feedback!

I did it. It's done. Well, any writer who has ever written anything, especially a novel-sized anything, knows that "done" is a relative term. Nothing is ever done--at least not the first time around. But, I have reached The End and as backward as this may sound I am relieved to be at the point where I stop and start all over again--at the beginning, ready for the first complete revision.

Above is a photo of the home stretch. With such nice weather I have taken my laptop out onto the sunporch for a change of scenery and more open space to glance around, breath it in and wrap it up.

So, that's it. That's all I wanted to share. Eleanor with the Weeping Eye (which may get retitled to Eleanor with the Violet Eyes) has by some miracle gotten untangled like the clump of necklaces photographed somewhere down below in an earlier posting. Once one strand got loose, I found the path of another and another and it feels good to sit back satisfied that most of the strands made it out in one piece.

Looking forward to sharing it with you all one day. Until the next revision, it ends: ​"That’s how I came to know Eleanor with the violet eyes and, in turn—myself."
​

The other day I was reading The Last Story of Mina Lee. And that got me to thinking—so much so that I wasn’t remembering the first half of a sentence by the time I got to the last half. The book is about a daughter who hadn’t seen her mother in a year. There were complicated feelings there. When one is not sure as to the categorization of such feelings, the word “complicated” sums it up. And so, I was reading. She went to visit her mother and found her dead, face down on the floor. 

There ends a visit and begins a process. Grieving, yes. But, also the process that anybody who has ever lost a close loved one knows is unpleasant to say the least. Sorting through belongings. Wondering what they meant. Are they clues? Rallying help to move furniture and put it—where? Someone else must live there now. That life is over and all the messy bits tidied up and thrown away, given away, taken in as gifts from the departed, sold. The mind churns and we grasp for things. Why? What are we trying to solve? Are we trying to solve something? Sometimes we are—especially when the last days of the departed were spent alone and the person left in a way that seems anything but natural or straightforward. 

What of the departed reflects the person no longer living? What reflects us—those left behind? Perhaps that is why so many are drawn to reading and viewing mysteries fictional or true. The word "searching" sticks out in my mind like a clue. And so, I wonder what we search for when a life has ended. What are we clinging to as we see the decline of health and therefore the ticking of the clock of time?

I think the answer is: Stories.

​It feels like a natural instinct to demand a beginning, a middle and an end. We as humans seem to desire the rising and falling of an arc. Things need to make sense to us. So, we crave happy endings or justice or something that seems close to an appropriate reflection of how a story began. Were the decisions a person made good or bad? What influenced the journey now that we see where it ends? What do we hope to gain by knowing any of it---by possessing a certain artifact or document—some sort of tangible clue?

We need to digest the story because we feel it will inform our own story—the one we are writing right now with our body and our mind, our emotions and our actions. Archeologists are diggings for stories. Scientists are hoping to influence stories or discover them or predict them. Historians immerse themselves in nothing but stories. Faith is built from the foundation up, one story at a time—passed on one person, one page, one witness at a time. Math and the codes of technology are stories being told using a different language. 

As I read The Last Story of Mina Lee I felt within myself a sudden urge to ask my own mother to tell us about herself. We’ve heard so many stories from her but have never written them down or recorded them. The details were sometimes hazy. The people’s names forgotten.

​I picture my children with a microphone or a camera asking her questions that start from the inside and grow outward in a circle. Who is she? Her family growing up? Her parents, grandparents, siblings? Reaching back as far as her memory might go---seeing those stories in the water as they float around us. We in the boat lunge and pull the sopping wet stories out and up and into the boat—save them from sinking to the bottom of the sea never to be seen, at least not seen through that same lens, from that same angle and perspective.
​
What will we do with these stories once we’ve collected them? I don’t know, but I can feel the universe pulling me towards the work of saving stories, relating, understanding, witnessing humanity—together. 

Recently I decided to pick a new name for a character in my YA novel Lucy Bound in Lyrics. Readers were getting the two characters Sully and Simon confused. Instead of just picking a new name myself, I thought the readers might be the best ones to decide, so I put it to a vote for Beta Readers and my book club Beta Readers to weigh in because they know the characters already.

It ended up being so much fun, and it was interesting to hear what their thought process was. Names seem like a small detail, but there's so much behind a name and everybody's experiences flavor the impressions differently. So much fun! See the votes below:
- - - - - - - - - -
"My vote is for Jacob only bc I have a Noah and Mason at school right now and that's what I associate those names with.  I honestly do like them all though.  Can't wait to hear what you pick!"
 
"My vote is Mason. 😊"
 
"I like Mason
It's funny how names can root you into a specific time period (or can cause a visceral reaction in someone - I wouldn't like a character named Regina).  Interestingly both of my kids share names (or nicknames) with other book club members' children.  I am/we are either trendy or risk-adverse if that has any impact on how you view my vote."
 
"My vote is Mason"
 
"Mmmmmm…..
I like Jacob first and best, it’s innocuous and slightly average. You could easily look over a kid named Jacob and not give him or his name a second thought.  He’s a shade of grey until you look closer and see the nuances, greys can be cool or warm and usually consist of other colors.
I dislike Noah for no particular reason.
Thanks, this was a fun little brain break."
 
I like Simon but if you have to change it, I vote for Mason.
  
"Funny, the names didn't bother me in the book.  Maybe at first I thought, now which one is this, but generally I think boys are all the same so Sully/Simon, whatever.  Ha.  If I had to pick I'd go with Mason. Still seems like a nerdy name like Simon.  Jake is too cool and Noah is too biblical.  Ha."
 
"I'd go with Mason because it sounds like Simon and so I can picture that name being the same character. 

​Hey Dom,
You'd enjoy this food at-home adventure:
George and I had an idea back in November--Thanksgiving--that 
we would get a big turkey later in the winter and have it long after Thanksgiving, 
which is usually the only time we have turkey here. 
We got a 20lb turkey for $14 and 
it remained in the freezer until last week. 
We thawed it and cooked it Sunday--stuffing, turnip and all the fixings. 
It was so delicious to smell in the house--and 
it was even more delicious because 
we didn't have any appetizers like we do for Thanksgiving. 
Just got to dig in. 
It worked out that it was still freezing cold here, since 
it would have been weird if it was too springy--but 
I hope it's something we do again to jazz up a late winter. 
It felt like our celebratory dinner that the pandemic is waning. 
We even had St. Joseph zeppoles for dessert and 
I made turkey soup out of it yesterday, along with 
turkey sandwiches for lunch and the kids had them for dinner. 
It's like a big whale washed up on the shore and 
we're going to use up every bit of it!:) 
Happy Birthday today Dom! Enjoy whatever food adventure you find yourself on:)
Cheers,
Colleen

Blog meister responds: that's a great story!!!
totally love the anticipation, 
the holiday atmosphere,
the feast.
your home!
what a great home.

In life, especially in 2020 (oh, wait--we're not in 2020 anymore?:), it's important to take time out to sit and soak in a few pleasant moments when they surface. As a writer who is currently working on books for young people, it's natural to wonder if my projects will be enjoyed by the ages they're intended for.

Cue my in-house editorial team with a penchant for unabashed honesty. They had so often asked to read what I was writing when I was drafting and later revising my Young Adult novel: LUCY BOUND IN LYRICS, but the answer was always, "No, you're too young." So, I started writing a Middle Grade novel allowing me to say, "Yes, take a look."

The two projects are completely different, which makes it fun for me. The Young Adult novel has been a heart-wrenching, creative, learning journey and a chance for me to take broad strokes with my poetic paintbrush to address the challenges of an age-group I used to teach in the classroom and advise as a college admissions counselor. Alternately, the Middle Grade novel has been a fun and funny, wild, mysterious ride with characters I hadn't expected to meet but am glad they insisted on joining in. I can't wait to find out how it ends. Seriously! :) 

I've reached the point in my Middle Grade novel where I need to start to rein in the characters. They were given a bit of freedom to explore, but now I need to bring them to the wrap party and it needs to make sense. To tell you the truth--I've been dreading this a bit. I know where I want them to end up for the most part, but now I have to figure out how they will get there. I write by the seat of my pants and that adds an element of suspense--for ME.

This challenge presents itself to me like four necklaces that have been tangled up into what feels like an endless mound of knots. The tendency is to just chuck the whole thing in a drawer (or the trash) and leave it regardless of the lost value or the likelihood that it will never be dealt with if it is not dealt with now. Another inkling might be to break at least one chain to make it easier to untangle. Maybe just  untangle one--my favorite one or perhaps the easiest one to untangle. After all, no reader knows how I wanted it to end in my imagination.

My characters can be tweaked as needed unbeknownst to anyone.

So few would look at a knotted clot of chains and be excited to patiently, slowly, mind-bendingly and methodically follow each strand to its first knot. Work to untie it. Then the next and the next until each is free from its metalic captivity--able to be useful again, to be admired for its own individual attributes instead of one tangled mass of metal.

A confession: I am the designated detanglee in my family. So, it's not neccessarily a task I loathe or have never done. It's a challenge. Something I know I need to sit, relax and work on. A puzzle.

And so, that's where I am in this project--untangling, identifying each individual strand. The part where I need to focus and figure out. Hopefully I am able to do it because I believe there are some really valuable jewels in the pile and I'd love to showcase their dazzling merit for readers. Admittedly, it feels so good when something is transformed--like a clump of metal--from trash to treasure.

There is a relief and a sense of accomplishment. There is the fulfillment of investing time in what could otherwise just remain a useless cluster of words and transform it into an intricate and powerful story that sparkles and demonstrates how materials found in nature can become art in the right hands. Here's hoping that my hands are the right ones. 

The hardest part is that I won't know until I have put the hours of untangling in. I could be left with nothing more than aluminum out of a gumball machine or I could be left with a solid gold, gem encrusted family heirloom. The challenge is the not knowing, but needing to have faith and persevering anyway.

That's the mystery of any artform, right? Any mission or passion--any initiative. Persistance. Blind faith. So often it is endurance, not raw talent, that determines success and satisfaction. Skill without the will to try and try again won't get a person very far.