​Who doesn't love fall? I've heard people outside of Florida say we don't qualify for autumn, and no doubt, nature can take its time handing out crisp air here. But cool weather or not, we celebrate,

This month, towns all around us plan festivals, markets and ghost tours. Farms offer corn mazes, hayrides and pumpkin patches, the local theater is performing The Addams Family and even sea creatures celebrate. The mermaids at nearby Weeki Wachee Springs are offering a Halloween extravaganza. Mermaids have preformed there for three quarters of a century.

It's hard to stay indoors when every breeze sends leaves trickling down from trees, decorations sprout in lawns and squirrels scurry back and forth, up and down, gathering acorns. I have a lovely porch with a comfy chair. I could write and draw there. But if I carry my laptop and my sketchbook to the porch, how much writing and sketching will I do? 

Little to none. My writing companion will bark at the squirrels or the chattering crows. I'll get up to calm him, my eyes will wander and my brain will too! 

Finishing a book is a triumphant moment. After months of struggling with plot twists and character motivations, the story feels whole and complete. There's lots of back patting, virtual toasts and cheering. My husband buys me flowers. It's lovely and satisfying, and I'm proud of myself, my critique partners and characters. We did it!

A day or so later, melancholy sets in. I miss sharing the world I created. The characters feel like friends I've lost and I miss visiting their home, their horses, the pecan groves, the old house and cemetery, the bookstore. 

Now comes the business side of writing. This week, I sent the book to my agent and I hope she loves it, but there's no guarantee. She's human, she can't love every story. What is guaranteed is her support and guidance. I count on her feedback to make the story better, her help to shape the synopsis, find comp titles and submit to suitable publishers. 

Finishing a book means letting it go, like a fledgling leaving the nest. I want to protect it, but I also want it to grow and thrive, to soar. Meanwhile, my heart flutters in my chest.

Baby birds chirp from moss-draped oaks and ducklings scurry after their mothers at the pond. Blooms explode in beds. Wildflowers pop up in yards. Butterflies and bees flit from my sunflower to Purple Queen, then travel to my neighbor's yard to sample their plumbago.

I'm energized by nature, so you'd think all this new life and activity would inspire my brain to spin story. It hasn't. A couple weeks ago, I brainstormed a story with my agent and I was excited by the ideas it sparked. The story had a relatable protagonist, an intriguing premise and the potential for a satisfying outcome. The setting was moody, mysterious and a little quirky. There was a touch of magic.

The magic grew and grew, and the plot took unexpected turns. As the story developed, my shoulders and neck tensed, and panic crept into my head. I asked myself why and had a revelation.

I had allowed my imagination to veer too far from my life experience, and the story began to feel forced. For me to write authentic story, it needs to grow from people and experiences I relate to, and the magic needs to evolve organically. It's a valuable lesson. It helps me know myself better as a writer, and I hope it will help me write better books. But it wan't easy giving up that story.

I'm restless and anxious when I'm not productively creating. I have another story started. It's growing slower than I'd like, but I'm trying to be patient. I think I'll go outside and commune with the flowers and bees. Maybe they'll buzz plot to my muse!

I'm finishing a book about a young artist who loves horses. She discovers her possibilities with the help of her art and these glorious animals. Just as art and horses empowered me.

Spring in Florida makes me long for a horse, endless trails and country roads shaded by moss-covered oaks. It's been a long time since I've had a horse and I don't live in the country anymore. I live in a city surrounded by ocean. These last few weeks, shut in the house to escape a disease, I've stood in my small backyard and longed to ride away. It's not that I'm unhappy with my life. I'm very happy. But on a horse, you can lose yourself in the natural world.

I had my first horse when I was fifteen. On weekends, we traveled for hours through central Florida orange groves, over blossom-scented hills and along wooded pathways. Later, when I was a young adult, I took a job on a show horse farm. My heart caught fire. I couldn't learn fast enough all I didn't know about horses and horsemanship. I lived and breathed horses, talked horses at every meal, dreamed of nothing but horses. That summer job between college semesters became a two decade career in training horses and teaching people to ride. I eventually returned to school and earned a fine art degree. I used it to paint portraits of horses and their people.

These days, I'm cloistered indoors with the rest of the world, afraid to breathe other people's air, afraid to touch anything outside my house. As I sit here, staring out the window at this fine Spring day, I finish the edits on my book and remember. I may be far from a stable and shaded trails, but inside my mind, I hear and smell horses. 

What does a writer blog about in a pandemic? I've seen lots of blogs about how to carry on with writing, how to keep mentally healthy and forgive yourself for not being as productive. We're all feeling lost and off balance. Writers and artists might have some advantage. We're used to isolation. Most of us need it to create. But we also need stimulation and support.

I miss critiquing manuscripts over coffee and muffins with my writing partners. This week we'll Skype for the first time and critique online with our coffee at our desks. Can you imagine enduring the plagues of the past when there was no internet? We're the first generations to experience a worldwide epidemic and stay connected. It's a test of the internet's scope and of our tolerance for digital contact.

The term social distancing is kind of indicative of internet relationships. We can see and hear each other, but we can't touch. What will we be when we emerge from this pandemic? Will we be leery of showing our physical self to the world? Will we be shy of standing too close, of daring to touch another? Will hugs feel scary instead of comforting?

I'm a major introvert, so in some ways this isolation is a relief. I don't have to work up the courage to present myself to the public. I don't have to worry about my schedule becoming too crowded and have to talk myself out of panic. I don't have to make excuses when I'm too overwhelmed to accept an invitation. But I worry about total isolation becoming too comfortable. I treasure the relationships I have. I don't want to lose the comfort I've worked hard to feel when I'm with the people in my life. So this week when I Skype with my group, I'm going to strive to come to the meeting with the self I'd bring in person. And I'm going to keep imagining the day when we once again gather.

I hope you are all well and finding meaningful ways to connect.

For the first time since I joined my critique group the Skyway Writers, we took a summer hiatus. Most of us are traveling, restoring body and spirit, feeding the muse with new sights and experiences. We keep in touch through email and social media. Writing is never far from our thoughts and if there's a need, we're available for input on book projects.

Although I didn't leave town, I did honor my muse with a summer conference, a mini workshop and trips to art shows and bookstores. And I wrote.

Still, July felt like a creative desert. It stretched long and hot, and I squinted to see the end.

I missed my group. I guess I'm slightly addicted. We're a seasoned, serious group. There are five of us, three with books published and two with agents working to sell first books. We aim to publish books until the day we die. And we want them to be good books, so we hire freelance editors to review our work. But before agents, editors or readers see our pages, we look for a thumbs up from each other.

We meet every two weeks. If we have pages we want reviewed, we offer our best effort. When we give input, it's presented with love and sensitivity, but fully loaded with honest critical feedback. Every book is a journey and we travel that path together, sharing triumphs and failures that weave into our bond. Twice a year, we retreat to a quiet rural spot where we write, brainstorm and gather around food. For three days we share a guest house on a lake and our muses run free. As the sun goes down and the stars appear, we come together to discuss, celebrate and laugh. 

Having good writing partners is a blessing I'll never take for granted. Not all groups are alike. It can be a challenge to find the right fit. But a tight knit, productive group doesn't happen overnight, so if you're in a group you're not satisfied with, it might be worth the effort to help it grow. In my next post, I'll talk about what I've learned in a decade of critique groups: what makes them work, what pitfalls to avoid and how to make them flourish.

Next week, the Skyway Writers will reunite. Energy will pass between us, and when I leave, I'll be refueled. It will feel like walking out of the desert and into the sea.

That photo is hard for me to look at because of the feelings it evokes: sadness, loss and longing. Photos do that. So can books.

​I recently did a workshop with screenwriter and New York Times best selling author Stephanie Storey. What struck me in her talk was the emphasis on bringing EVERYTHING when depicting emotion in a character. It's easy to capture emotion in a photo of beloved dog.

In writing, it's so. Hard. To. Do.

My critique group partners and I talk about this all the time. We love books because of the emotional connection, but we struggle to write emotion in depth. In a recent Society of Children's Book Writers and Illustrators Insight interview, author Stephanie Garber said that it isn't a colorful cover or favorite genre that makes us keep reading a book. It's the feelings we connect with. She believes feelings are the heart of books.

Although I love novels with fantastic world building and intriguing plot, I agree with the Stephanies. What keeps me reading past midnight, what makes me slow down when I near the end, what makes me long for more pages, is my relationship with the character. I want to love a character so much, I dread every bad moment. I want to fight not to close my eyes when danger threatens. When their heart is broken, I want my tears to be unstoppable, and when they triumph, I want my heart to soar.

I think most writers try to achieve this and most succeed on some level. But few  accomplish a heart-stealing read. I repeatedly ask myself why. I WANT, yes with capital letters, want to write that kind of book. But how do I make that happen?

Stephanie Storey goes to great lengths to explore her character's emotions. She visits museums as her character, takes online personality tests, even sees a therapist as her character. She says writers need to bring their deepest, most vulnerable feelings to the page. The part of themselves they're afraid to show to others. Those feelings are what make characters real.

So easy peasy, right? Bringing everything means revisiting places in ourselves we'd rather forget. It means remembering painful moments in great detail. So, no, it isn't any more easy or fun than looking at a photo of a dog I lost at a difficult time to a pain-riddled disease. But for books that stay with readers long after they return to shelves, we must go there.

When I was a new writer, dreaming about the books I would write and what they would become, I came to conferences hoping to learn. I was in starstruck awe of everyone, from the seasoned attendees and published authors to the agents and editors. 

After a few years, I came to  conferences hoping to be inspired and learn something from workshops, but I also hoped to earn critiques with agents or editors who might be interested in my work. I knew some of the authors and quite a few attendees. The agents were familiar from the lists I had researched to query my manuscripts. I was no longer starstruck, but I had great respect for authors, agents and publishers.

A couple weeks ago I attended Florida's SCBWI summer conference as an agented writer with a book on submission to publishers. My respect for everyone in the children's book world hasn't diminished, it's grown. I'm in awe again, not starstruck-new-writer awe, but the kind of awe that comes from learning how hard everyone, from regional volunteers to agents and editors, works to make published books happen.

As I sat in the conference gathering room, waiting for seats to fill and our Regional co-leader Linda Bernfeld to welcome attendees and send us off to workshops, I realized this year was different for me.  I was no longer here just for learning or publishing opportunities. I was here because of the people. The writers, young and old, new and seasoned, published and unpublished. We need each other, and I'm one of those seasoned writers now. I want to support new attendees. I want to support the regional volunteers who devote hours and hours for the good of children's writers. I want to be a link in the bond that weaves us together and makes us strong.

Summer is a time to embrace the outdoors and growing things. I love hanging out with plants. There's so much color and texture in a garden and fascinating paths to explore, from the tiny trail of ants to stepping stones that lead to gates and doors. And everywhere you look, there's a vivid picture or story. I can't go into my yard without seeing a void that needs a spot of color, tall, linear plant or a twisting pathway. When it came time to paint our house, I asked the blooming plants what color they'd like. They picked a medium blue with green tint. Now, my calla lilies, allamandas and Hawaiian Tis are preening and strutting in front of the walls, and the house seems happy with the color. Treating  my home and garden as a work of art isn't something I think about, it just instinctively happens. 

I'm not alone. Many creative minds apply fertile imaginations to their environment. Frida Khalo's home demanded attention just as she did. Called La Casa Azul after the vivid blue color on her walls, her garden complimented the color, or vice versa. Maybe she consulted her plants before she chose that hue. I know she loved them. In self-portraits, blooms from her garden crowned her hair. The New York Botanical Gardens was so fascinated with Frida's planting skills, in 2015 they recreated her home and garden (see above).​

Beatrix Potter was fascinated with plants, fungi and wildlife and she drew them in exquisite detail. From that love, Peter Rabbit sprang to life. Beatrix was a farmer and a conservationist and she created more than one stunning garden. 

Many writers escape to their gardens to work. Dylan Thomas penned his poems from this shed overlooking the Taf estuary in Wales. Roahl Dahl admired this shed so much, he recreated it in his garden.

​Someday, I hope to add a writing shed to my garden. In the meantime, I'll keep asking my plants what they'd they'd like next.
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PHOTO ATTRIBUTIONS: 
The Blue House by Peter Andersen /  CC BY-SA
Hill Top, Near Sawrey by diamond geezer / CC BY-NC-ND 2.0
Dylan Thomas Writing Shed by wardyboy400 / CC BY 2.0

Until I began my journey as a writer, I never fully understood what it took to create a novel. I knew writers had to write them and publishers print and bind them, but I imagined it as a charmed process, with ideas springing to life on the page. Painlessly, seamlessly, in the blink of an eye, there's a book.

If you're an author or someone who supports authors, I'll give you a minute to stop laughing before we continue. Done? Okay, let's move on to reality.

Most books take years to achieve. First a writer has to learn how to write a good story. That is not a speedy or painless process. Part of that education is writing books. All of them start with an intriguing idea. It may ferment in the author's head for decades before it grows big enough to be a first draft. First drafts take some people months and others, a year or longer to write. And revision, please, lets talk revision. How many drafts is enough? I don't count anymore. My critique group gets my second draft to review. Then I analyze plot and character arcs, map scenes, scribble notes all over the place. Many drafts later, my agent is allowed to see it. Of course, she has suggestions, all of them excellent, for making a better story. 

Yesterday, after a month or so of brainstorming and revising, I sent my manuscript back to her. I'm waiting for her response. Is it ready to take the next step, be submitted to publishers? Often, I hear books being referred to as babies, birthed on the day they're offered to the public. But I think they're born when they're released from the author's head. My story is now a toddler, taking wobbly steps, hoping to grow into a real book. This is what it looks like today:
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This is what I hope it grows up to be, a beautiful middle grade book, like my friend Augusta Scattergood's. 

If you're an aspiring author, I wish you courage and perseverance, and the confidence to believe in your abilities and your books. If you're not a writer, but you love books, I hope you'll treasure them all the more, knowing how hard they worked to reach you.