For years now, I’ve been my own boss.

I mean, I have a dean at the community college and I have editors at publishing houses and I’ve been a hired gun, um, pen for more outfits and ideas than I care to remember.

But really, I’m in charge around here.
I decide how introverted or extroverted I want to be.
I decide which projects to pursue and how to divvy up my days.
I decide, when I wake up on an ordinary Wednesday, what to do.

Here’s an example.
Today.

Wake up early for a run in crisp, cool air.

Make oatmeal for girls, and pack lunches, and participate in long passionate discussion about mangos vs. peaches.

Bike with girls to school and hear long elaborate description of a tag game called Dragon Tails.

Come home to make beds, tend to breakfast dishes, feed dog.

Sit and breathe.
For 15 minutes.
Bloody near kills me but I feel sort of happy when I’m done.
And not just ’cause I’m done, I don’t think.

Open emails, one of which tells me about the launch & sales meeting for my next book.
This afternoon.
Fret about that for a bit.

Have a glass of juice and some trail mix.

Finish transcribing the beginning of a story from longhand to Word doc.

Read it aloud.
Read it again.
Tweak.

Read it again.

Break to blog, eat more trail mix and choose stack of books to take to class tonight.

Re-read notes for class tonight.

Tweak assignment for class tonight.

Re-print.

Go back to story.
Tweak.
Type more.
Tweak.
Read again.

Read very grim assessment of the publishing industry in New York Magazine.

Worry.
Breathe.
Eat more trail mix.

Tweak manuscript again.
And again.
And again.

Think about walking dog.
Breathe.

Still today is a stop at the bank, the post office and the office supply store.
An Arts in Education meeting at the girls’ school.
Their swim team practice.
My class.

And throughout, I’m tweaking or thinking about tweaking.
I’m writing.
I’m breathing…

What about you?

My 2nd grader is really taken with Roald Dahl.
Addicted to, even.
Obsessed with.
Sweet on.

In the past two weeks alone, she’s read George’s Marvelous Medicine, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, The Twits and Fantastic Mr. Fox.

When I ask her what she loves about Dahl’s writing, she says, "He is hilarious!"

And then she launches into a story about Grandpa Joe leaping out of bed when Charlie finds the golden ticket, and this somehow segues into an antecdote about the absurd trickery of Mr. and Mrs. Twit and then she starts listing the books she’s reading next.

Charlie and Great Glass Elevator… James and the Giant Peach… The BFG.

She has to stop to take a breath.
Her whole face is gleaming.

This is a child who is sometimes a tad bit blasé about school.

Discussing the relative merits of Dahl’s illustrators — Quentin Blake as compared to Lane Smith or Patrick Benson.

Discussing whether it’s sad — even a bit sad — that kids disappeared from Willa Wonka’s factory faster than you could eat a Hersey’s kiss.

And she would keep discussing various, interesting aspects if she wasn’t so desperate to get back to her book.

And I would keep talking about how delicious and compelling a fixation this is if I weren’t so worried about what’s going to happen when she runs out of Roald Dahl books? 

It’s going to be worse than a three-year-old giving up her pacifier, I’m afraid…

For some people, it’s being sorely unprepared for a final exam.

For others, showing up naked (or otherwise shamefully vunlnerable) in public.

For many, there’s nothing worse or more frequent than a work-stress dream — endless piles of paper, dissatisfied customers, botched projects.

I’ve had some of all of those.

In one memorable college exam scenario, I was handed a buebook with an F on the front.
And inside? I had apparently drawn countless woodland animals.
Nevermind that it was political science exam.

That was a bad dream.

So were the ones from my waitressing days where dozens of customers waited, but the kitchen didn’t turn out any food.

But my only real recurring nightmare involves an intruder and total disempowerment.
My limbs hang heavy so that I can’t run or wave or kick.
My voice grows either garbled or silent so that I can’t shout "No!" or "Help!"
Sometimes I can’t even control my eyelids.

The real horror of the dream is that. 
Worse than the intruder (though that’s definately creepy) is the sense that I’m completely disabled by fear.
The sense that I have no body, no voice and no free will.

I’ve had this dream since adolescence, and I had a version of it last night.
This morning, feeling more lucid than I did at 3 a.m., I think about what I can do to shake this puppy once and for all.

On a practical level, in real life, I move and act and write.
I have body, voice and free will.
In spades.

On the Jungian level, not so much.
The cure?
I don’t have the foggiest.

Maybe I oughta see if I can go back to waiting tables, or drawing woodland animals in my bluebooks…

Friends,

Thank you, so many of you, for asking.
Ike indeed appears to pack a powerful punch.

We live in Austin, which is well inland.
We are apt to get some wind. And some rain.
And thousands of evacuees.

Storms have ripple effects, to be sure.

For example, our kids will get out of school at noon on Friday because the roads into and around our city are likely to become impassable with traffic from the coast.

Traffic.
Meaning: tired, hungry, worried people — looking for hotel rooms that are sure to be all booked up.
Their dogs & cats mewling from carriers in the backseat, their photo albums safe in the trunks of their cars…

Today I’m posting rain poems, mostly because that’s where my head’s at.
But also in the hopes that if we feed the beast he’ll turn it down a notch.

Take it easy on us, ol’ Ike…

 (Read the rest here…)

The Rain
        — Robert Creeley

All night the sound had
come back again,
and again falls
this quite, persistent rain.

What am I to myself
that must be remembered,
insisted upon
so often?

(Read the rest here…)

Dear Mr. Sendak,

I am sorry for your sick heart and for your grief.

I am sorry for your vunlnerability and your regrets.

I am sorry about Norman Rockwell and Salman Rushdie and the fact that you think Catherine Keener may matter more than you do.

I’ve got nothing against Catherine Keener, or James Gandolfini, or Dave Eggers, really.

But Mr. Sendak?

You’re beyond compare.

In your work is the beauty and the despair, the exquisite and the blunt, the truth and the mystery.

In your work is the stuff of Mozart, Keats and Blake; Melville and Dickinson.

In your work is the stuff that ignites a passion in a lot of us.

Not just tomorrow, but yesterday and today.

I am sorry about the rubber bullets that never penetrated in the way that they were meant to, but I want you to know that in your work is the stuff that penetrates us all …

(Edited to add: This letter is written in response to a New York Times article about Maurice Sendak that was rather full of doubt and sorrow. When I look at Sendak’s life work, I do not see doubt and sorrow. I see Little Bear and Where the Wild Things Are and Night Kitchen and Higglety Pigglety Pop. I see insight, bravery, wit and vivid imagination, all in good measure. And I hope that somewhere inside Sendak’s tired, "curmudgeonly" heart, he does, too…)

Tall One: Has C.S. Lewis died?

Me: Yes, quite a time ago.

Tall One: Pooey.

Me: Why?

Tall One: I’d like to write him a letter. And tell him how good his books are.

Small One: Yeah. And how I want to be Lucy.

Tall One: And how our robes are like the coats in the wardrobe.

Small One: And how some people even call me Lucy.

Tall One: But they don’t!

Small One: But C.S. Lewis doesn’t know that. It’s just to show him that we really love her.

Tall One: That we love the whole book.

Small One: Hmm.

Tall One: I know. Too bad. Well. Read another chapter, Mama…

This post is not exactly timely, but that’s what happens when you take the summer off
to kick around in the sand.

The piles you come home to grow arms and legs.
The plans you made grow fungus.
The lists you made grow long. er. and longer.

So, forgive my tardiness in congratulating editor Allyn Johnston on the official launch of her new imprint:
Beach Lane Books!

Some of you might remember that Allyn went through quite the professional upheaval last winter,
only to land herself firmly on her feet. Of course.

Since then, she’s been busy setting up shop — in a lovely, sun-filled space in La Jolla, with another former-Harcourt editor, Andrea Welch. Setting up shop, in this case, included the business of packing and unpacking a number of manuscripts she’d brought with her from Harcourt, including mine.

So, this serves as official notice that my books World and Wind will both be published by Beach Lane Books, a Simon & Schuster imprint.

The former, illustrated by Marla Frazee, is done, spit and polished and will hit the shelves next summer. Squee!!!!!

I worship Meryl Streep.
And I get a huge kick outta ABBA.
And if anyone has ever had as much fun making a movie as the folks who just made Mamma Mia, I’d like to hear about it.

I mean, this was not the sing-a-long version that we saw and still, we were bringin’ the house down.
Whoa-boy, is it a hoot.
If you haven’t gone yet, I’ll go with you.
I want to go again.
Soon.

In the meantime, my Poetry Friday is of the Swedish pop variety.
Enjoy, my friends. Enjoy…

Chiquitita, tell me whats wrong
You’re enchained by your own sorrow
In your eyes there is no hope for tomorrow
How I hate to see you like this
There is no way you can deny it
I can see that youre oh so sad, so quiet

(Read the rest here…)

And go here to listen to ABBA, Bee Gees, Queen and soooo much more!
I dare you not to giggle. And groove. I dare you…

There is so much good stuff out there, I’ve got to tell you about some of it:

First off, the charming Ms. Jama of Alphabet Soup is celebrating her 30th wedding anniversary with a contest! If you’re like me and you grew up in an era when "Disco Dancing" was a unit in P.E., you’re gonna want to get in on this. We’re supposed to guess their song! Go on… go wish them happy, happy and take a gander.

Next, on a more serious note, if this isn’t an eloquent rant, I don’t what would qualify. I’ve got two daughters and I don’t need anyone leaving them alone in the dark, that’s for darn sure.

And speaking of political, our very own witty writer Ms. Carrie Jones has a thing or two to say here.

OK, and onto something lighter: the new Babymouse is out!!! My girls are gonna flip, ‘specially Tall One, whose favorite color is orange. (That’s a hint; the latest B.M. looks different than the others…)

Also, Rick Riordan’s announced his fifth and final Percy Jackson book and it’s going to be a long, cold time ’til May, don’t you think?

So, if your kids are just sitting around twiddling their digits until then, maybe you should get them crafting! Look-see what my buds Bernadette and Kathie have cooked up. Saving the world… one stitch at a time.

And speaking of saving the world, Cynthia Leitich Smith does her part. She is a connector and a teacher and a cheerleader and a giver and a mover and a shaker and a darn hot writer to boot. And this week, she was recognized with an Arte y Pico Award, for hosting a blog that inspires others. No kidding. And then she coulda knocked me over with a feather by passing on the same honor to me, among other fine and intimidating folk.

Whoa.
So.
Along with trying to live up to Cyn’s praises, I need to do the following:

1) Pick five blogs that you consider deserve this award, creativity, design, interesting material, and also contributes to the blogger community, no matter of language.

2) Each award has to have the name of the author and also a link to his or her blog to be visited by everyone.

3) Each award-winner has to show the award and put the name and link to the blog that has given her or him the award itself.

4) Award winners and those who give the prize must link to the Arte y Pico blog, so everyone will know the origin of this award.

5) Show these rules.

OK, then.
First off. Thanks, Cyn. I’m humbled.
You inspire me, times ten.

So do the following:

Sara Lewis Holmes, poet… thoughtful heart… wry wit… and whip-smart author, blogger and pal
Kelly Fineman. Dang. Ditto.
The always wise, funny and provocative Robin Brande, for keeping it real.
And Cynthia Lord, Ditto.
And finally, the exquisite eye of Shannon Lowry for her beautiful, positive, picture-perfect posts.

I could go on. I am inspired constantly and all the time by so many people. But I’m following directions today and sticking to five.

Carry on, folks. I’ll stop now…

Over the years, I’ve gotten rid of all the onsies, the high chair and the tricycles, most of the board books and lots & lots of toys.

My girls are 7 and nearly 10; plastic stacking cups and big-piece puzzles are in our rearview mirror.

Still, there were a few favorites I couldn’t bear to part with, and those are in big plastic bins waiting eagerly for babies and toddlers to come by for a visit.

Last week, one did.

So out came the Fisher Price barn, complete with hayloft and moo-ing doorway.
Our little visitor toyed with them all and then promptly fell asleep for the evening.

The barn was left to rest in its big plastic bin… for a bit.

Then, my 7-year-old — fledgling 2nd grader, reader of thick books and memorizer of big facts — pulled it out.
Every day for a week, in fact, she nonchalantly sauntered up to that barn and settled in next to it, talking quietly as she moved the farmer and friends from place to place. She was enchanted, and so was I.

It made me think about how long there is youthfulness inside each tall and competent body.
How long there is playfulness inside each student.
How long there is whimsy inside all these learning minds.

It made me think about how we rush things.
How we pack up the toys to make room for equipment and gear.
How we swap free time for lessons.
How  we stop reading aloud.

It made me think that we oughtn’t.
Really.
What’s the rush?