Rocco

In all of my books, I write about teachers. There's two piano teachers in Joy Returns!, a riding instructor in Kate and the Horses, and a guide in The Loudest Meow: A Talking Cat Fantasy. Teachers have always been very important to me, and I think they will always have a place in my books.

Lately, I've been thinking about a teacher I had when I was a teenager. I've been reminded of her because, due to rain and snow, I've been staying in the house. I've found myself walking around rooms for periods of time, mostly with headphones on and listening to something or watching something on the bedroom TV. So I'll walk and march and then I find myself occasionally throwing in a dance move that Rocco taught me.

Rocco taught jazz dance at a studio on Monday nights. I don't know why I started going. It was near my gym. I was an awkward adolescent who just happened to be anorexic, which meant that I was isolated, perfectionistic, a compulsive exerciser, very concerned about how I looked, and what I weighed. For jazz dance, we wore leotards. Mine was bright green. There was a window overlooking the class where people could watch what we were doing. I stayed in the back and tried to forget about that.

Rocco reminded me of a young Cher, if Cher didn't have long hair. Rocco's hair was short and simple, like a bob, but more glamorous. Rocco couldn't have a bob. She was a woman of few words. She might seem gruff, but I thought she was kind.

When I started the class, I felt lost, underwater with a giant wave on top of me. But somehow I kept going. Rocco played Stevie Wonder—“Sir Duke” and “Boogie On, Reggae Woman.” She told us one time that she would have to miss a class, that she was dancing in the Academy Awards. They still had big dance numbers then. When my family was going to New Jersey for a summer vacation, I told Rocco I wouldn't be here the following week. “Send me a postcard,” she told me, which now seems like it was one of those offhand remarks that any cool person would say, but I took her at her word, and I did. I didn't know her last name. I just wrote it to Rocco. What did I say? I can’t imagine. We never exchanged more than one sentence at a time. When I returned to class, Rocco never said if she got it or not. I never asked her.

It's funny when you have a special class like that, and you can’t recall how it ended. Did I just go off to college? Did Rocco leave? I don't know. But I remember the steps, the kick-ball changes, and traveling across the floor, adding arms to a movement, inviting your shoulders to join in. I wish I could speak to Rocco now. I would tell her how important she was to me, how she gave me space and some really great tools that showed me how I could move in the world

Audiobooks and the Loudest Meow

Greetings, everyone,

I’m sorry this post is so late this week, but I’ve been immersed in a campaign. I am working with Indiegogo to raise money to create an audiobook of my latest novel, The Loudest Meow.

I believe that audiobooks are going to be very important in our reading life in the future. Even now, I love to “read” books by listening. I know in talking with people at book events that many share my feelings about this. So my goal is to eventually have all of my novels also available as audiobooks.

I have chosen a great company, Findaway Voices. I have selected a very talented narrator. I think the end result will knock everyone’s socks off. If you are able to help and have the inclination to do so, please visit my Indiegogo page. There’s wonderful gifts offered there and more information about why this is so important to me. Thank you very much.

The Making of the Claw: Further Thoughts on Writing a Draft

I'm currently working on a draft of the second book of the Cats of the Afterlife series, tentatively titled The Sharpest Claw. And here's a true confession: three weeks ago, I hit a wall. I was 28,000 words in, and it felt difficult to me to stay engaged during my one-hour writing practice. I kept repeating to myself the trope that I've so often heard, “Finish your horrible draft.”

However, I eventually heard a voice that told me to stop. To me, the meaning was obvious. I wasn't supposed to stop writing or stop writing this particular book. I needed to stop this process.

So I printed out what I had. I took a few days to read it over and think about it. Then I circled back to the beginning.

Some of the changes are minor. Some of the order of moments has changed. If I had to diagnose my earlier problem, I would say that I was in too big of a hurry. I need to slow down, show each step of the journey, and allow myself to dwell in wonder. Since I've been trying to abide by these principles, I look forward to writing every day. It's actually more than that. I feel like I must have a certain amount of time with my story each week. It is a top priority.

Do I have everything figured out? No. When I started this project, the one thing I felt truly confident about was the ending. Now I doubt it. I would be surprised if it ends up that way now. There's been a character who has been flitting in and out of this project. I had thought that she would make her entrance in Book 3. Now it looks like she may show up in the end of Book 2. But I'm not sure. I have an idea where I want each character to be at the end of the book. I just have to work out the specifics.

Reading this, you might come to the conclusion that I'm a “pantser,” a writer who writes by the seat of her pants. I really like to have a solid outline before I start. I like to think that I know what I'm doing before I embark on linear sentences. But once those words go down, something happens. Things are exposed. Things become clear. Characters express themselves. I have to listen to them and to myself.

Second Saturdays

My mother often laughs after she asks me about my weekends.

“It sounds like you live in a Hallmark movie!” she says.

We live in Sonora, a small town in Northern California, a place full of events. In August, as an Odd Fellow, I handed out snow cones at “Magic of the Night,” while a magician performed illusions a mere block away. The Saturday before Halloween, Odd Fellow members handed out candy to trick-or-treaters on our main street downtown. And there's always Second Saturday, where there's live music and organizations and artisans have tables selling their wares. The Sonora Writing Group is often in attendance for that event. Last night, I sat at our table, comfortable in my down jacket, Gryffindor scarf, black cap, and gloves. When I first sat down at the table, I had felt overdressed and took off most of my outerwear, leaving it on the chair next to me. But, a half hour later, I put it all back on, grateful to have it.

At this type of event, you witness people who don't care, who are walking quickly to get out of the cold, and certainly don't want to stop and tell you about the kind of book that they like to read. But then there was the couple who walked by, carrying a pizza box, and one of my fellow members called out, “How about some pizza?” and the couple stopped and handed the box over.

“It's quite good,” the man said, “Dates, prosciutto, arugula. Enjoy.”

My one regret was I turned down a slice. My compatriots asked me twice. And when I came to my senses and reconsidered, the box was empty. It happens.

In the meantime, a young girl took one look at the cat on the cover of The Loudest Meow and said, “I want that” to her mother. Then she flipped the book over and read the back while her mother read over her shoulder. After that, the girl opened my book and started to read. As an author, that is one of the most precious moments ever. I want to witness it. I want to look away. It feels private. It feels sacred.

“I want it,” the girl repeated, lifting her head up from the book, and the mother nodded, and I asked the girl if she would like me to sign it.

A look of astonishment came over her face. I asked her name. She said it quickly, a multitude of syllables that I could not make out.

“Just your first name,” her mother said to her, and she repeated it to me and spelled it.

These are the things to remember when writing feels difficult, when you question why you do it, the fun you can have with your books at a table out in the world, that look of joy when someone finds your book and it calls to them, the look of amazement on someone's face when you say, “Yes, I wrote these three books.” Once it becomes part of your life, it's easy to forget the achievement. It's just something you do. But then you show up out in the world, and you have moments where other people let you feel the wonder again. It's a way to recharge. It made me really happy to be a writer.

Introversion and Book Signings

Here's the thing about being an introvert, at least for me. I need long stretches of time where I need to be alone. I don't do well in crowds or in offices. I love talking with people, if it feels real. Otherwise, oftentimes I would rather write or read a book.

But this past week, I started feeling like I was in serious trouble. My heart ached. I often found myself in tears. The negative voices were constant and at high volume in my head. I talked to Mike. I cried. I talked to long-distance friends. That helped. But it became clear to me that I had been in seclusion for a little too long. I needed to actually see people and be around them for a while.

Luckily, I was scheduled for a book-signing event this weekend. So yesterday morning, Mike and I loaded up some books and headed down to Here's the Scoop at Jamestown. We had visited this store the week before and met Nan, the owner. So I had a sense of the situation—a small shop, charming, with books local crafts, and the owner's baked goods. Nan had set up a table for me in the store and handpicked some flowers and put them in a beautiful vase. I felt welcome immediately.

Then came the challenges. I knew that if I walked into a store, and I saw an author with her books at a table, I wouldn't want to see her reading on her phone. But when I'm out in public and I don't know what to do, that's my favorite option. So, yesterday, I tried to stay in the moment, to sit and look out. Sometimes, that was hard. With some people who came in, it was clear to me that they weren't interested in what I had. I was front and center in that store. You had to make a point of avoiding my eyes, and some shoppers did.

I know there are different philosophies about what is then the appropriate thing to do. Some encourage engaging with this type of customer. When they walk by, call out to them,“Hey, do you want to hear about my books?” For me, this type of approach would feel like I was stabbing my eyes with a stick. It's not the way I would want to be treated when I walked in a store. So, if people came in and gave me the total cold shoulder, I let them go. I trusted in my books. Who was supposed to come and talk with me? Who were naturally drawn to my work? I didn't want people to feel coerced. I didn't want to talk to people who didn't want to talk to me.

When people did come over, I did not do a hard sell. The connection was more important to me than a purchase. So one young man came in and said he had always wanted to meet an author, and we had quite a chat. Right away, he told me he didn't have any extra money to buy a book, and I said I understood. So we talked about books we loved. He told me his favorite author was Stephen King. I told him what King books I had read, and why I liked them, and he told me about King's final book in the Dark Tower series, where all the main characters from all his books showed up. Even King showed up as a character. It was a moment at the book signing where my mind was blown. I seriously am thinking about whether I need to take the time and energy to invest in that series just so I can get to that book. At the end of our conversation this young man asked me for my autograph, “just in case you get famous someday,” and I rustled up a pen and a piece of paper, signed it, and thanked him for coming in.

Another woman seemed very interested in The Loudest Meow. Then she opened up the book and read the first page.

“Oh, no,” she said, backing away. “No, no.” Her eyes met mine. “I can't read that.”

She told me it was very hard for her whenever her animals died. She did not want to spend her free time reading a book that started off with the death of a cat. Again, I understood. I told her why I wrote it, how it was a way for me to deal with my grief, to celebrate my cat, to imagine the trouble and adventures that she went through once she passed away. But it wasn't a book for her. So we talked about her animals for a while. She had a menagerie, not only cats and dogs, but lovebirds, ferrets, and chinchillas. Some animals got along with each other; others had their own turf.

And I did end up selling books. A young girl told her mother that she really wanted my book, and she promised to read it. Another woman bought the book and invited me to join a social group in town. Another told me about her sister, who worked at a no-kill shelter. She had me sign the book for her. My friends came in and supported me. A woman wanted to know all about my process, the drafts, the edits, the revisions, the people who helped me. It made her feel good to know how much I worked on these books. I know another book is ending up in a granddaughter's Christmas stocking.

There were charming moments throughout the day. I met a lot of small dogs. There was an adorable baby girl in a pink bonnet. People took pictures. When Mike went to get us lunch, he brought back my favorite potato chips, Ruffles sour cream and cheddar cheese. It's quite comforting to have your partner by your side along with a bag of your favorite chips.

By the end of the day, I felt I wanted to do more of these events. It felt good to be out in the world a bit. I liked meeting people and sharing my books. It turned out to be something that I quite liked to do.