Five Ways to Write After a Crash!

Three weeks ago I clicked on my computer screen to remove the screen saver. All I could see were multi-colored dots and lines. After rebooting twice and restarting once, it was obvious my modest computer knowledge wasn't gonna cut it.

A trip to the Geek Squad confirmed my fear. My HP is going in the shop. However, there was good news. I had forgotten I had purchased an extended warranty three years ago so repairs cost nothing.

Five ways for a writer to survive without a computer:

1. In case you forgot how to hold a pen or pencil. Open your writing hand and place forefinger and thumb around the barrel of a pen or pencil.
2. Touch the point end of pen or pencil to paper and begin to move your hand. The act of writing will come back to you rather quickly.
3. Use a voice recorder to “write” your article or story. This is great if you have arthritic hands like me.
4. Take a trip to your local library and use their free services to surf the Internet, check email and transcribe notes from your voice recorder. Be prepared to work and think like the speed of light because there is always a long line and not enough computers. One hour time limits, per day, apply to most libraries. Unless you know exactly where to surf, one hour is not long enough. (Note: libraries are not open at 10 p.m. when you are on deadline)
5. Throw yourself on the mercy of your adult child or best friend (who do not live with you) and promise to cook them dinner if they will lend you their computer and office space in their home.

I admit I am addicted to computer technology and have long since discarded any manual writing methods. Physically it is too difficult for me to hand write for any length of time. Short notes are about all I can do without pain. Typing on a keyboard uses different muscles and the pressure required is light. Also, the curvature of my hands is natural.

How would your writing survive without modern technology? Would you want it to? Are we destined to commemorate our “feathered writing quill” into an icon reminiscence of the past?

I'm Back!
Write it down,
Carma

Daisy Chain: Chapter One

It is my pleasure to introduce a new book by author Mary E. Demuth.
The first chapter is below for your pleasure. Let me know what you think or go to Mary's blog and let her know.

Jed keeps his family secrets to himself, even to his friend Daisy. She has a few of her own, too. Explore both in the first chapter of Daisy Chain. You can purchase Daisy Chain here, or at your local bookstore.

Chapter One:
Defiance, Texas

It had been thirty roller-coaster years since Daisy Marie Chance forced fourteen-year-old Jed Pepper to fall in love with her. He’d obliged her, dizzied at the thought ever since. It had been that long before Jed could walk through the ruins of Crooked Creek Church, a butterfly flitting a prophecy he never could believe, even today. It was Daisy’s singsong words that gave the butterfly its bewitching manner, those same words that strangled him with newfound love. For years, he wished he’d had an Instamatic camera to capture the moment he fell for Daisy, but then entropy would’ve had its way, fading and creasing Daisy’s face until she’d have looked like an overloved newspaper recipe, wrinkled and unreadable.

Thing was, he could always read Daisy's face. Even then. She’d looked at him square in the eyes that day in 1977, in the exact same spot he stood now, and declared, “Your family ain’t normal, Jed.” And because lies came easy to him, he’d thought, of course my family’s normal. Anyone with eyes could see that. Daisy said a lot of words, being a thirteen-year-old girl and all, but these didn’t make much sense.

Thirty years later they did. They screamed the truth through the empty field where the church used to creak in the wind.

For a hesitant moment, enshrined in the ruins of his childhood, Jed was fourteen again. Filled to the brim with testosterone and pestered by an orange and black tormenter and Daisy's oh-so-true words.

"Your family ain't normal, Jed."

He watched the butterfly loop above the organ, never landing, like it had a thing against church music. Or maybe dust.

He sat on a rickety pew.

“Jed?”

He clasped his hands around his ears, hoping Daisy’s words would run away. He hummed "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."

She put her nose right in front of his. He felt her breathing, smelled her Juicy Fruit breath. “You in there?”

He swatted the air between them, hoping she’d disappear. “Yeah. Quit bothering me.” He looked at his watch. Six fifteen. Time to go.

“But your face.” Daisy sat down a Bible’s throw away.

Jed touched his swollen eye. “Yeah? So? What about it?”

“It looks like it hurts.” Daisy scooted closer. She reached her arm his direction.

He inched away.

“The truth, Jed. How’d you get that shiner?”

He watched the butterfly. “I was stupid. Ran my face into a corner.” Thirty seconds had ticked. The watch clicked like a stopwatch, pestering him.

“Faces don’t mess with corners, Jed.”

“Mine did. Chasing Sissy around the house. She said it wasn’t fair because I was bigger. She tied a bandana around my head. I ran after her blind.” Another well-told lie, almost as good as Hap’s stories from the pulpit. Six sixteen. Time to go.

Daisy shook her head. Her long blonde braid whipped back and forth like a tire swing over a swimming hole. She hated bangs, something her mom, Miss Emory, knew, but hacked away at them a few weeks ago anyway, leaving them a crooked mess. Daisy still steamed about it, but her only protest was two yellow clips with smiling daisies pulling the jagged bangs away from her forehead.

“I love you, you know.”

Jed’s face warmed. “Would you quit that please? There’s no room for talk like that.”

“Why not? This is church, right? Aren’t you supposed to say love in church? Besides, you know what street I live on.”

Jed rolled his eyes. “Love Street.”

“That’s right.”

“I don’t see how that makes any difference”

“It makes every difference. It’s destiny, what street you live on.” Daisy turned away from Jed, pulled her braid to her mouth. She bit its stubbled end and groaned like she was gritting teeth. Her angry noise.

The monarch flew in circles in front of Daisy, as if it were trying to lift her mood by dancing on air. It lit upon the pew between the two of them, wings folded up toward the ceiling in prayer.

Daisy bent near the monarch, but the butterfly didn’t flinch. “It means something, sure enough,” she whispered.

“What’s gotten into you? It’s tired, that’s all. And it happened to sit down right there.” Jed pointed his finger at the motionless butterfly.

With one tentative hop, the monarch left the dusty pew for Jed’s dirt-stained fingernail. It seemed to study his face while the sun shone through its papery wings. It flapped once and then flew clear away, out one of the abandoned church’s broken stained glass.

They sat in pew four listening to doves calling each other.

Jed checked his watch. Nearly twenty after.

“It’s a sign. Jed Pepper, you’re going to change the world. You’ve been chosen.”

“You’re frustrating.” Jed stood.

“Am not.”

“Are too.” Jed scatted the air with a wave of his hand, as if doing that would erase the words Daisy spoke, an aerial Etch-a-Sketch.

He walked Crooked Creek Church’s middle aisle backwards, like a sinner unrepentant, while Daisy chattered away. Part of him wanted to leave her behind for good, but another part wanted to listen to her forever and a year. He’d welcome her words to fill the silence of his home.

“Hey Jed?”

“Now what?”

“You be careful.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a pest?”

“Mama does. Every single day. Should I add you to the list?” Her voice got that empty sound whenever she spoke of Miss Emory—a longing for something her mama couldn’t or wouldn’t give her.

He considered his answer. Daisy’s mama scatted her like she was an interrupting fruit fly half the time. He didn’t want to treat her the same. “No, never mind. Forget I said it.”

“I’m a good forgetter.” She smiled.

He couldn’t help but smile in return. “I gotta go.” If he ran, he’d make it.

Daisy stepped out into the aisle, hands on hips. “I’m going to marry you someday. You wait and see.”

Jed rolled his eyes. Girls.

“I’m going to put on a long white dress and you’re going to wear a fine suit. We’re going to tend birds. I can’t live without ‘em.”

A dove shot through an open window, looping frantically through the church, flying crazy-winged out where it came from in a flustering of wings against window pane. For a moment, everything was silent. Dead quiet.

“God’s been here,” Daisy whispered, looking haunted-eyed at Jed.

He looked away.

She tapped him on the shoulder. “And when we’re married, we’re going to have six kids—all girls. Want to know their names?” This time her eyes spelled mischief.

“Not hardly.”

“Petunia, Hollyhock, Primrose, Begonia, Dahlia, and Buttercup.”

Jed leaned against the back pew, eyeing the door of escape. “Sounds more like a garden than a batch of kids.” He knew he should leave, but Daisy held some sort of annoying girl spell over him.

“Very funny.”

“I need to head home.” Jed turned. He untied the back door, hitched closed with baling twine. He’d come in the side way, through a low window, and was going to leave proper this time. Besides, it was the closest way to escape Daisy’s sentences. Next thing, she’d be talking about perfume or how smooth babies’ skin was or going on about the butterfly’s hidden meaning. Anyone knew he wouldn’t change the world. Not today at least. He’d be happy to make it through one day.

Daisy followed him. “You going to leave me here alone? I traipsed all the way from town to come here.”

“It’s not like we don’t meet here every single day. You’ll be fine. How many times have you walked home from here? A thousand? Two?”

“It’s a long walk.”

“For crying out loud, Daisy, this is Defiance, Texas. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Besides, you’ve got God’s eye for protection.”

She looked away, didn’t say a word while seconds ticked away. She took a deep breath, then let it out. “You’ll regret it.” The western sun shone through the church’s broken-out windows brightening the left side of Daisy’s face. She looked almost like an angel, that is, if angels had braided hair and prattled on and on.

“See you later,” he called over his shoulder.

Jed shut the church’s back door, knowing Daisy preferred crawling out of the church like a fugitive. Ever since she read a book about Anne who holed up from Nazis, she’d taken to hiding and sneaking. He tied a rope around the doorknob and a piece of wood sticking out from the doorframe, securing the door.

He faced his world in that moment, let its significance and fury sink into his heart. Would he change the world? Hard to say.

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Write it down,
carma

The Blue Stone: A Journey Through Life - Book Review

The Blue Stone A Journey Through Life
Author and Illustrator Jimmy Liao
Reading level: Ages 4-8
Hardcover: 80 pages
Publisher: Little, Brown Young Readers; 1 edition (April 1, 2008)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 0316113832
ISBN-13: 978-0316113830


The Blue Stone: A Journey Through Life is an unusual story for ages 4 – 8. I find it more appropriate for ages 7 – 10. The Blue Stone’s illustrations are vibrant and clear. Many illustrations are full page spreads while some are displayed to show a sequence of scenes. Jimmy Liao’s artistic interpretations of his words meld together in a soothing voice.

A life long journey of change and renewal begin when the sapphire colored rock is taken from its natural habitat and separated from its other half. Don’t overlook the significance that this blue stone also represents a strong sense of family values. The blue stone’s objective is always to get back home.

Every transformation the blue stone experiences is special. It shows young children that no matter what size or color you are, you can become beautiful, helpful and important. The Blue Stone delivers a message that we all have something new inside us waiting to be created.

Additionally, The Blue Stone is enchanting and has a sense of spirituality and mysticism demonstrating in a simple way how circumstances in our lives are subject to change and can become positive experiences. In the beginning the stone is carved into an elephant statue delighting a town with happiness but eventually people leave and the stone elephant is all alone. The stone remembers home and its heart breaks a little. Next it becomes a garden bird for a lady but the lady abandons her garden. A new owner comes to create a stone fish for a seaside town. Each time something new is created from the blue stone, pieces break away and the stone becomes smaller and smaller.

Small pieces keep falling from the stone at each step of its life journey. At last it becomes a gift of first love between a boy and a girl. Since first love rarely lasts the stone’s heart breaks until it is nothing but grains of sand. Now it is light enough to float over the towns and oceans back to its home in the forest where it completes the circle of life resting in peace where it always belonged.

About the Author
Jimmy Liao was born in Taipei, Taiwan and received a degree in design from the Chinese Culture University. He is the author and illustrator of 18 hugely popular books that have been translated into English, French, German, Greek, Japanese, Korean, and Thai. His first book for Little, Brown, The Sound of Colors, was published March 2006.

Write it down,
Carma

A Beginning, A Muddle, and an End

Avi’s middle grade book, A Beginning, A Muddle and an End juxtaposes a perspective on the writing profession through wit and humor of a snail named Avon and an ant named Edward. I have posted a sampling of dialogue from chapter four where Avon ponders about continuing as a writer. At this point Avon has managed to write one word-- “Something”—

This is a funny and philosophical story full of wisdom and humor. My eight year old granddaughter even “got it” in most places.

Here is an exchange between Avon and Edward as Avon ponders writing as a profession.

“Edward,” he finally said, “do you remember when you told me about the need for writers to be punctual?”
“That was a short time ago.”
“All the same, I’ve been thinking about it. Since writing is so hard, perhaps instead of becoming a writer, I should become an author.”
“Avon, you can’t become an author until you first become a writer.”
“Why is that?”
"A writer is someone who tries to get the words right. That’s why they are called writers. But an author is someone who has written the words wrong. Any critic will tell you that.”
“Is it hard to write right?”
“If a writer isn’t right, he’s bound to be left behind.”
“I’d still like to try.”
“What will you write?”
“That’s my biggest worry. I’m afraid I’ve not had an exciting life.”
“Then write about what you haven’t done.”
“Is that allowed?” asked Avon.
“You should know that the number one rule about writing is: Write what you know. So if you know what you haven’t done, write about that.”
“What if you don’t know what you’ve not done?”
“Then you go on to rule number two.”
“Which is?”
“Write about what you don’t know.”
“Is there a third rule?”
"Yes, stories do usually have three rules. Rule number three is: Write about what you don’t know as if you did know about it.”
“Any fourth rule?”
“Absolutely: Make sure that when you’re writing about what you don’t know as if you did know, conceal the fact that you don’t know what you’re doing.”
“Is there a fifth rule?”
“A crucial one. It’s: Always leave your readers guessing."


I am enjoying this book and learning from it as well. When Avon is asked by Edward, what kind of writer he intends to be, Avon said

“A writer who attracts readers.”
“Then for heaven’s sake, don’t write writing. Write reading.”

Great advice, don’t you think?
Write it down,
Carma

Nine Tips for 2009

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

1. Set schedules and priorities.
2. Get organized.
3. Use your non-writing time to pre-think.
4. Try a new writing time.
5. Try new surroundings.
6. Stay busy.
7. Set goals within goals.
8. Keep a daily log of writing accomplishments.
9. Set deadlines.

If you want to make more money writing you probably will have to write more.

Forming good work habits is my weakness but this year that will all change. What is your weakness? What have you begun to do about it?

The January issue of Carma's Window Newsletter has been sent to all subscribers. If you would like to have one, sign up and I will send you a copy.

Write it down,
Carma

The Gift of Love

The Best Gift
Betty Wirth

On Christmas Eve, a young boy with light in his eyes
Looked deep into Santa’s, to Santa’s surprise
And said as he sat on Santa’s broad knee,
"I want your secret. Tell it to me."

He leaned up and whispered in Santa’s good ear
"How do you do it, year after year?"
"I want to know how, as you travel about,
Giving gifts here and there, you never run out.

How is it, dear Santa, that in your pack of toys
You have plenty for all of the world’s girls and boys?
Stays so full, never empties, as you make your way
From rooftop to rooftop, to homes large and small,
From nation to nation, reaching them all?"

And Santa smiled kindly and said to the boy,
"Don’t ask me hard questions. Don’t you want a toy?"
But the child shook his head, and Santa could see
That he needed the answer. "Now listen to me,"

He told that small boy with the light in his eyes,
"My secret will make you sadder and wise.
"The truth is that my sack is magic inside
It holds millions of toys for my Christmas Eve ride.

But although I do visit each girl and each boy
I don’t always leave them a gaily wrapped toy.
Some homes are hungry, some homes are sad,
Some homes are desperate, some homes are bad.

Some homes are broken, and the children there grieve.
Those homes I visit, but what should I leave?
"My sleigh is filled with the happiest stuff,
But for homes where despair lives toys aren’t enough.

So I tiptoe in, kiss each girl and boy,
And I pray with them that they’ll be given the joy
Of the spirit of Christmas, the spirit that lives
In the heart of the dear child who gets not, but gives.

"If only God hears me and answers my prayer,
When I visit next year, what I will find there
Are homes filled with peace, and with giving, and love
And boys and girls gifted with light from above.

It’s a very hard task, my smart little brother,
To give toys to some, and to give prayers to others.
But the prayers are the best gifts, the best gifts indeed,
For God has a way of meeting each person’s need.

"That’s part of the answer. The rest, my dear youth,
Is that my sack is magic. And that is the truth.
In my sack I carry on Christmas Eve day
More love than a Santa could ever give away.

The sack never empties of love, or of joys
`Cause inside it are prayers, and hope. Not just toys.
The more that I give, the fuller it seems,
Because giving is my way of fulfilling dreams.

"And do you know something? You’ve got a sack, too.
It’s as magic as mine, and it’s inside of you.
It never gets empty, it’s full from the start.
It’s the center of light, and love. It’s your heart.

And if on this Christmas you want to help me,
Don’t be so concerned with the gifts `neath your tree.
Open that sack called your heart, and share
Your joy, your friendship, your wealth, your care."

The light in the small boy’s eyes was glowing.
"Thanks for your secret. I’ve got to be going."
"Wait, little boy," said Santa, "don’t go.
Will you share? Will you help? Will you use what you know?"
And just for a moment the small boy stood still,
Touched his heart with his small hand and whispered, "I will."

The Gift of Humbleness

Think about it, the good news was proclaimed first to ordinary working people.


And so the good news was told to shepherds, to working men who were toiling in the fields. The coming King would hallow the common work of man, and in His love and grace all the problems of labour would find a solution.

The Lord of the Christmas-tide throws a halo over common toil. Even Christian people have not all learnt the significance of the angels' visit to the lonely shepherds. Some of us can see the light resting upon a bishop's crosier, but we cannot see the radiance on the ordinary shepherd's staff. We can discern the hallowedness of a priest's vocation, but we see no sanctity in the calling of the grocer, or of the scavenger in the street. We can see the nimbus on the few, but not on the crowd; on the unusual, but not on the commonplace. But the very birth-hour of Christianity irradiated the humble doings of humble people. When the angels went to the shepherds, common work was encircled with an immortal crown.

(John Henry Jowett)
(1864 – 1923)

Jowett was born in Halifax, England in 1864. "I was blessed with the priceless privilege of a Christian home," he later remarked.

His love for reading manifested itself early as he spent his evenings in the town's Mechanics' Institute, devouring volumes from their library. Jowett's father had arranged for him to begin working as a clerk for a lawyer in Halifax, but the encouragement of his Sunday school teacher, Mr. Dewhirst, turned Jowett's heart toward the ministry.


Over the next two weeks, my gift to you will be daily uplifting and motivational passages by famous and not-so-famous authors. I hope you enjoy them. If any passage moves you, please comment and share. Christmas is the time of sharing.

Write it down,
Carma

The Sugar Child - Book Review

Title: The Sugar Child
Author: Monique De Varennes
Illustrator: Leonid Gore
Reading level: Ages 4-8
Hardcover: 40 pages
Publisher: Athenaeum/Anne Schwartz Books (October 5, 2004)
ISBN-10: 0689852444
ISBN-13: 978-0689852442

The Sugar Child is a delightful story for the kindergarten through second grade bunch. It has all the makings of a “wish upon a star” fairy tale. However, this story is more unique than Cinderella or The Gingerbread Boy. The Sugar Child is made with love by a childless baker and his wife.

The setting takes place in a small Quebec town where a little girl is formed from marzipan and magically comes to life over night. Her name is Matine. The baker and his wife dance for joy because they now have a child they can love. The couple takes great care to protect Matine’s fragile, sugary skin. When it rains, Matine is not allowed outside because her fragile skin would be washed away. She becomes sad and wants to cry but her parents talk her out of it. Matine’s parents want to protect her from the sorrow that sometimes happens in life.

Although they are able to stop her tears this time they are not so successful when Matine wants to visit her best friend who is seriously ill. Matine knows the importance of her condition but she doesn’t let her friendship with Jean-Paul stop her from risking her own life to visit him at his home. She covers herself with a cape and hood then runs in the down pouring rain to Jean-Paul’s home.

This story is about friendship and love. Illustrated by Leonid Gore with full page pastel art, giving the story a soft and delicate structure it needs. The characters and landscape have a soft glow and Matine shimmers where you can almost “feel” the sugary glaze surface of the marzipan pastry. The illustrations are dream like with soft and billowy characters.

As you would expect, magic happens. Matine sheds tears of sadness for her fragile friend’s health and her marzipan shell is washed away. Matine is transformed into a real girl. However, the story does not make it clear if Jean-Paul recovers so miraculously but illustrations demonstrate that his spirit is lifted.

Young children will love this imaginative tale and the happy ending. I think it deals with the possibility of death in a unique way. The reader doesn’t know if Matine is going to melt or not so to a five year old the act of Matine running out in the rain is a suspenseful moment.

About the author: Monique de Varennes put in thirteen years at boarding school, then went to Cornell University, majoring in English Literature, and then to Johns Hopkins University, receiving an M.A. from the Writing Seminars. She worked in publishing for a number of years, and took great joy in raising her children, Chris and Kate. Gradually she began writing again, both books for young people, edited by the gifted Anne Schwartz, and short fiction for adults. Her fiction has appeared in literary magazines, and has received a Pushcart Prize.

About the Illustrator: Leonid Gore immigrated to the United States from the Former Soviet Union, where he trained at the Art Institute of Minsk and illustrated over fifteen books for children. Kirkus praised Jacob and the Stranger by Sally Derby for Gore’s “stunning black and white illustrations … evanescent, dreamlike.” He lives in Brooklyn, NY.

Write it down,
Carma

Criss Cross - Book Review

Title: Criss Cross
Author: Lynne Rae Perkins
2006 Newbery Medal award winner
Reading level: Ages 9-12
Pages: 337
Publisher: Greenwillow (August 30, 2005)
ISBN-10: 0060092734
ISBN-13: 978-0060092733

Characters in Criss Cross represent the feelings of many teenagers of all generations. Whether it be in the 1970’s or 1960’s. I dare say there is not a person among us who hasn’t wished they were someone else one time or another. Young teens will relate to the self-consciousnesses and uncertainty that all the characters exhibit, each of whom is struggling toward awareness.

Debbie and Hector, both 14, are the focus and most of the novel is through their narration. In addition to that, Perkins sets up a secondary story involving Debbie’s missing locket and the journey it takes as it is passed around by a number of different characters.

Criss Cross reads like a series of vignettes which is focused on Debbie and her friends. Debbie’s friend Linney teaches her to drive a pick up without leaving the drive way because Lenny’s parents are not home. This experience comes in handy much later when Debbie is placed in a precarious position being the only one who has driving experience and she has to take an elderly lady to the hospital.

Hector has a crush on Meadow and wants to take her someplace special. A place she has never been. The only place he can find in town is the garbage strewn ravine. He pictures it as a beautiful place if all the garbage was gone. His sister Rowanne reminds him it is only a ditch. Hector’s dad gives him a guitar but can’t afford music lessons, except for the free ones given down at the church by the priest.

There is a great deal of humor in this tender story about a group of childhood friends facing the crossroads of life and how they wish to live it. The book is illustrated with Perkins's amusing drawings and some photographs. Also Perkins experiments with writing an entire section of dialogue in haiku. “Jeff White is handsome, / but his hair is so greasy. / If he would wash it.”

What teen has not had the desire to just be somewhere else? A group of friends decided to conduct an experiment with travel. They decided to go to the bus station and get on the first bus that came through and get off at the first stop no matter where it was. They would spend a few hours and then come back.

Perkins has created a group of likable characters searching for who they are and who they will become. It is not hard to find a character to identify with.

About the author: Lynne Rae Perkins is the author of three picture books, The Broken Cat, Clouds for Dinner, and Home Lovely, a Boston Globe/Horn Book Honor Book. Her novel All Alone in the Universe was named an ALA Notable Book, an ALA Book list Editor's Choice, a Bulletin Blue Ribbon Book, and a Smithsonian Magazine Notable Book for Children. She lives with her family in northern Michigan, where it snows all the time.

Write it down,
Carma