I've never drawn a monster but  in honor of Maurice Sendak , I'm trying. Sendak died recently after a brilliant career as the author/illustrator who brought us Where the Wild Things Are. Let the rumpus begin!

This month's photo journal is dedicated to summer. Ready or not, here it comes.  The dandelions are thriving in my yard while domesticated flora withers from temps already in the 90s and no rain in sight. After many years of wishing to do so, I planted sunflower seeds. The squirrels dug up most of them but several survived to seedling stage. Will they fulfill my vision of tall, yellow and black flowers against my back fence? Stay posted.

Wild honeysuckle is also blooming. Last weekend, we spotted a hummingbird dipping its beak in a flower. Then we passed a snake that had crawled onto the edge of the road. It was early morning. The sunlight hadn't pierced the treeline. The snake seemed content there as if it was enjoying the warmth of the pavement.

But summer isn't always kind. The next day on our walk, we passed the snake in the same spot, now a vehicular victim. And back home, our morning plans shifted when we found a tiny, calico kitten in our back yard. It wasn't old enough to be weaned and was terrified of humans. We'd recently seen a stray black female and thought it might be hers. We figured the best place for the kitten was our local emergency vet who takes in strays and injured wildlife. 

About midday, we heard the mama cat yowling from a den in the yard behind us. An hour later, my husband was talking to the daughter of the home's owner. Her mother had passed away just days before. She and my husband searched the yard behind us and found four kittens in a new spot near a mulch pile. The mama scurried out of reach and hovered. Besides her mother, the woman had also lost a cat and dog in the past year. She planned to contact her neighbor, an active cat rescuer to help with the wild felines and she seemed happy to have a new cat family to tend to.

As the sun set, my husband and I discussed the orphaned kitten. Should we leave it at the vet where it would receive expert care? The vet techs said it was a four-week-old female. In a couple weeks, she would be old enough to be placed in a loving home. So, we left her. We sat down to dinner, then a movie (appropriately, I Bought A Zoo). Fifteen minutes into the movie, my eyes traveled from the TV to the view through our back  door. A black cat straddled our fence, scanning the yard for her kitten. Then, despite the threat of our dogs bursting out the door, she dropped to the ground and searched.

"What are you doing?" My husband asked.

"She's a good mama . . . the cat. She's looking for her baby," I said. "I bet she was moving her kittens earlier from one yard to the next. She must have been carrying that kitten over our fence. Something spooked her and she dropped it." 

My husband took one look at my face and sighed. "Lets go get the kitten." 

We picked up the orphan who seemed utterly bewildered by a world far greater than she ever imagined. We drove to the house.  My husband found the kittens in the dark. He set their sister down and waited nearby until mama and orphan reunited. I pray for them now, especially the tiny calico. I wonder how their story will end and if at least one of them will journey on with the woman who lost her mother.

Early in 2009, I scribbled a childhood memory in one of the notebooks I kept for story ideas. It was the beginning of my second year of writing and I set a few goals. One was to enter the 2010 Highlights Fiction Contest. It seemed a long way off and I stayed busy rewriting my first novel and learning all I could from critique groups.

Then fall came along, when time gushes like water from a burst dam into the new year. I pulled up Highlights' site, read the contest rules and the 2010 theme: Fiction based on a childhood memory for one of two ages, eight to twelve or seven and under. After a wild search among scattered notebooks, I found the memory I had jotted earlier in the year. Now, to shape it into a 750 word story. My education had focused on writing novels but how different could a short story be?  For once, ignorance served me well.

As Thanksgiving closed in, I  checked out Highlights magazine from the library to get a feel for the pieces they offer.  I drafted my story, then happened upon a blog post by a Highlights' editor (which I've lost or I'd share it!) that talked about the importance of main characters in children's stories solving their own problems.  Hmmm . . . my MC definitely had problems but she wasn't taking charge. I revised the plot and submitted it to my critique group with the January submission deadline looming. They pointed out flaws. The ending was weak and the story convoluted with too many plot threads. Short stories required tightly focused plot. I strengthened, simplified and resubmitted, receiving cheers and best wishes.

The story shipped to Highlights and I learned a new lesson: To be a writer is to wait. The contest wouldn't be officially announced until June. I told myself to forget it. It was my first contest and first children's short story. When Highlights' editor, Joelle Dujardin called in April to tell me I'd won, I thought they'd made a mistake. The rest of the day was a blur.

Winning the contest doesn't assure your work will be published, but last fall Highlights sent me proofs to review for publication and this month, my story, The Fog Lifts appeared in print. The editors at Highlights are the best, kind and supportive, never hesitating to respond to a new writer's silly questions. I learned so much from entering the contest and gained confidence that continues to help me fight doubt in my ability. And what a thrill, to see my story travel from memory to publication.

This feels like a holiday. Last night, I finished packaging the dummy for a picture book a fellow writer and I worked on. This morning, it's in the mail, headed for an editor in the publishing hub of America . . . New York, NY. For two months, that art consumed my time and energy. E-mails  piled up. Most flat surfaces in my house disappeared under layers of sketches, manuscripts and reference material.  My husband, the dogs, the house slipped into a foggy background. This past week, I worked evenings and weekend, determined to push this project to completion.
 
Yesterday, I finished the paintings for the color sample pages. Then technology stepped in. I ran to the store for ink cartridges and good copy paper. After a quick dinner, I began scanning the pages. The black and white images printed, no problem. The color images presented major frustration. How is the red in my painting perceived as green by the scanner? Several hours later, I was satisfied with one image. I gave up on the other and printed the best my limited techological skills could offer.

Through all this, my husband jumped in to help where he could, loading ink cartridges, researching computer glitches and listening to my wailing over endless stumbles. Last night, at ten, he dashed to Walgreens for a folder to bind the art. It isn't easy living with a writer/artist caught up in creative frenzy. I try to remember that when I'm annoyed at housewifery.

The fog is now clearing. I'm tackling emails with apologies to all. (It isn't easy being a writer/artist's friend either). My novel is screaming, "Neglect!" And I have a new list of needed skills, including learning to calibrate the color on my monitor and scanner. But before I move on, I'll try to honor the work created. We so often charge from one project to another, never stopping to celebrate our accomplishments. It devalues our work. I watch friends squirm when someone compliments their achievements and I know I do the same. So today, I'll say to myself, "Good job."

This is a micro post week. I'm chin deep in dummy book art for a collaborative picture book that hopes to travel to an editor's desk by May 1st.  The images are seared into my eyeballs and they chase me to bed. They feel raw, rough, like a scruffy street orphan. I'm a fine artist with no digital skills so everything's freehand. I have no subjects to model for the dummy and I'm not used to pulling figures from my imagination, much less scenes. My art always relied on concrete references, photos or real life.

There's no turning back now. I made a committment and I'm pouring myself into this project. It's consumed most of my creative energy for the last few weeks. My other stories lay neglected. The dust in my house grows daily. And the condition is likely to worsen. This weekend I'm participating in a day long workshop with author Joyce Sweeney. I'm very excited to learn from her. I'm also hoping to attend SCBWI's summer conference, God willing. That requires other stories be sharpened and another dummy book drawn. Aiyiiii . . . no time, gotta run!

The last few weeks I've been working on art for picture book dummies and some of that art is already discarded after feedback from peers altered the story. You'd think I'd learn. The image at left is from a dummy book I presented at my first PB meeting last April. The story was miles from being picture book material.

Since then, I've learned gobs about the genre and I hope my writing is approaching the mark. But hard as I try, I can't control the urge to create the other half of the equation, to SEE the story.  I start with thumbnail sketches in pencil. Then a pen slips into my hands and I ink the lines. Next thing I know, I'm enlarging those images and refining.

The trouble is, I'm not sure of my stories. I take them to critiques, happy with their potential. I come home, knowing they aren't there yet. Tonight, I'm submitting a story for a second review. I've revised it multiple times and scribbled piles of sketches. I hope, oh I hope, it receives the kind of support that screams: It's Ready. Go For It! I've gathered research material for subject matter and I envision the drawings. My fingers are eager to begin.