National Novel writing Month, again.

Lately, every time that I sit down at the computer to write, I open the file with my infant novel, which will hopefully be a fully grown, if still pimply young adult by the end of November.

Promising to write a 50,000 word novel in November is my most selfish piece of craziness, and I refuse to give it up.
National Novel Writing Month, also known as NaNoWriMo, turns off my natural self denial buttons and allows me to say, "No you can't have the computer, No you can go by yourself this time. No, I'm not cooking, if you want dinner, cook it yourself." Not that I am advocating total selfishness, but like the Mom on the airplane who must get her own oxygen mask first in order to stay conscious and help her family, I believe that some intense selfishness refills the well and allows me to give to everyone else the rest of the year.

There are, of course times when being chained to my own thoughts at the keyboard also fail me, then I am so glad that I live in a place of great beauty. i can take my camera and take a walk, or a drive and soak in the wordless beauty, refill my well with the cool, clean, splendor of the pacific northwest, and then return home to pour it into an imaginary, fantastical world, where somehow, the thing I always discover, is ME.
This year, instead of returning to the world of Uhrlin, with my favorite protagonist, Duffy Barkley, I have taken a trip along the Oregon Trail, twice. In this years NaNoWriMo, there are two girls making the trip, and they share an ancient wooden lap desk, where they store their treasures and their journals.

But they are taking the same trip 150 years apart. One in a wagon caravan, and one in a Dodge Caravan. Only sometimes, when they slide back the lid on the old desk, what they find is not their belongings but those of the other girl.
Can you imagine walking all day to get 4 miles, and being hot and thirsty, and having to filter buggy, muddy water through a bandana - and then reading a journal written by a girl who drove 400 miles in air conditioned comfort and spent the evening in a motel pool?

I Can. It is what I do for fun.

A couple weeks after publishing

Hi, I just have to tell you about my experience in self-publishing "Duffy Barkley is Not a Dog." It has been easy and inexpensive, the way I did it, but there are more expensive, more help available packages from CreateSpace if you are less broke, or perhaps simply smarter than I was.

A friend on a forum I hang out at, asked me if I was interested in signing up to write a whole novel in the month of November a couple years ago, on NationalNovelWritingMonth, (NaNoWriMo - every November), I signed up and participated the last two years, but didn't finish the first year, you have to write at least 50,000 words. Last year, I did finish the 50,000 word commitment although that story did not feel finished at that point. CreateSpace, not connected to NaNoWriMo, offered a free proof copy of your book to anyone who finished.

I had talked to other people who had self-published with vanity presses that cost them thousands of dollars and left them with boxes of unsold books, but CreateSpace's proof, was like a real book, but legally it was not "published," so I could still try to sell it as unpublished to an agent or editor if I wanted to.

So I did the proof, converted my Word document to a pdf and uploaded it. Then designed my own cover and uploaded a photo of it, but they have a stock library of cover photos if you want. I loved the way the book looked. This wasn't one I'd written for NaNo, it was one I'd written and rewritten and passed out seven copies to friends and got feedback from them and then read it to a couple classes and to my husband and my own kids and got more feedback. I had actually been trying to interest a publisher for about 5 years but by trying, I mean sending out a couple letters then waiting months for a reply.

I googled info on CreateSpace and a few others. I liked that CreateSpace links to Amazon and to a couple sites that sell to libraries and bookstores, and that it is print-on-demand, so you never pay for extra copies, they print as the book sells. There is a $40.00 charge if you want to link to the pro-sites but none if you just sell off CreateSpace's own site. A proof costs about $10 with S&H and that is the only expense that you have to have. If you publish, after you see the proof it is just a matter of saying, "yes" and giving them a place to send checks and filling out some tax payer info. You set the price of your book but they have a minimum. They charge based on # of pages and book size, mine is 6x9 inches and 252 pages. I wanted to charge $9.99 but then if it sold for that on Amazon, I would have owed them $0.50 per book

When I had people ask if it was available for the kindle. I did that but it is through Amazon, not a CreateSpace thing, but I could upload the same pdf to Amazon and they converted it for me.

I have had fun, and interest from others, a book signing offer from a library, a few copies go on sale at the local Walgreen's, but I'm doing something every day to promote it. The thing is, once you self-publish, traditional publishers are even less interested unless you sell 5,000 copies and show them there is a real market.

One thing that amazed me, is I went to a local Writer's conference just to hear the speakers, and in a break, I found myself surrounded by eager, curious people who were asking questions that I knew the answers too, and giving me positive comments and their attention. That is when I realized that it was different from any previous conference, because, self-published and all that implies, I was and always will be, an Author.

So I'm working on the sequel this nanowrimo and loving saying I'm an author and seeing people reading my book is a kick. It is also really scary. I had always been the girl scribbling in my notebook to avoid having to make real conversation, when I was a socially terrified grade school kid. She is still in there, in spite of the fact that I get up every day and teach classes. Teaching is not the same as putting your stories and your secret dreams in someone else's power and letting them do as they will to it. Knowing that there are people reading and talking about your book in places you've never been and in conversations you'll never hear. It's like having your baby leave home for the first time, and begin a life where you are no longer necessary.

Sic ‘Em, Pal!

Sic ‘Em, Pal!

The rattle from beneath the clump of sagebrush startled he pony and she jumped forward. My long adolescent legs tangled on a large stone and my butt hit the ground, hard. The pony scrambled forward and away as I climbed awkwardly to my feet. The 12 ear old dog dancing excitedly beside me barked in concern as I brushed the alkali dust from my eyes. How would I ever get the pony back? In frustration and panic I demanded a skill of the dog that she had never possessed, “Sic em, Pal”

To my horror the dog immediately snarled and ran after the pony. Growls and angry barking astonished me, as I had never heard anything like it from Pal in the 10 years of my life. Now I wouldn’t have to explain a missing pony. Instead, I would have to explain why the pony had been killed, on my orders, by the world’s friendliest red farm dog. Once again, I wished I could be anyone but me.

At ten, I was awkward and un-popular in school. During 4^th grade, I had gone from 5 foot even, to five foot 9 inches and my ankles twisted nearly every step I took as the cartilage had not had a chance to fill in with bone yet. Now at the start of fifth grade my height and flaming red hair made it impossible to be as invisible as I wished to be. An only child until just before I started school, in a family with great-Grandparents, great-aunts and uncles, grandparents and parents, I got along well with adults, but I very clearly remember my mom telling me to “go outside and play,” and me, standing frozen on the back stoop, with no idea of what that meant. The children at the grade school seemed like graceful, but mean, alien creatures with whom I could never say or do the right thing. I hid by writing imaginary stories and letting my long hair obscure the face I bent over the notebook.

I was only truly happy away from school, and the best was the weekends when we drove to the ranch 30 miles away where my Mom had grown up just North of Meeteetse, Wyoming. Her cousins and Aunt still lived and worked hard on the old homestead. Summers were hot and dry and the air smelled of sagebrush and Alkali.

There were often chores to be done before the family gathered for one of the enormous, meals that barely kept skin and bones on the hard working ranchers. I knew that the work needed to be done but every weekend I begged to be allowed to ride Echoes of Pandora, the beautiful Morgan mare, who owned my heart. Rarely, there would be a free moment and then my cousin would saddle her and pull me up behind him and for a while I could be in heaven.

This day the men, my cousin, Dad, and Grandpa, were out setting irrigation lines in the fields. Without the constant monitoring of water, nothing but greasewood, cactus and sage would grow here. The women, Grandma, Little Grandma, Aunt Clara and Mom were in the steaming hot kitchen, snapping aprons full of green beans and packing them into quart Ball canning jars. I had helped for most of the afternoon, and finally been told that I could go out and ride the Shetland pony, princess, if I also gave rides to my younger brothers and cousins.

I was surprised when not one of the children wanted to come with me. They were playing on a big dirt hill, pushing bright yellow Tonka Trucks and tractors, across the ground and the vocal energy that they put into the sound effects roared across the prairie. Of the two dogs at the ranch, even Lady, the collie refused to come out from her patch of shade where she lay watching the Tonka Truck Rodeo rather that choosing to accompany me, but the large red dog, Pal hoisted herself to her feet and followed along gamely.

Princess, with her coat of cinnamon sugar, was a sweet, gentle animal that even a town girl, like me could hardly have trouble with. At least, I’m sure that is what the adults had been thinking. She was so short and round bellied and I was so long and gangly that my toes nearly dragged across the earth with each step. In spite of the stories I wrote, the sketches I covered my walls with, and the dreams of my heart – I was not a graceful rider.

We turned of the graveled track, with Pal following faithfully at our side. The faithful, red, dog had appeared on the ranch, footsore and matted coat, but obviously not much more than a year old, eleven years before and been there for my entire life. Ranching country was, unfortunately, often the dumping ground for large, young dogs just past puppy cuteness, once families realize how large and difficult they can be. My cousin assumed the dog, which showed up at feeding time one night, and stayed was another drop off. Pal had never been trained, but was a friendly, even-tempered dog who stayed close to the kids and the collie, happy to roam the ranch and wander along looking for jackrabbits and white-tailed deer among the willows and cottonwoods which lined the banks of the Greybull River.

Vivid, clownish Magpie’s flashed across the waxy blue sky. Their bold black-and-white flight captured my eyes for a moment. A hot breeze skittered past, pushing a small dust devil across the land. Suddenly a rattle near the ground startled Princess. A snake would make the better story perhaps, and be quite unsurprising here, but I saw a piece of yellowed newspaper tangled in the brush, rattling as the breeze stirred it.

Princess jerked forward then scrambled nearly sideways as she tried to bolt. Her short legged, stoutness made her nearly waddle. Still my dangling toes tangled with a boulder and I fell backward.

My jean clad, rump landed unhurt, but my mind exploded in a dozen panicked thoughts at once. How would I ever re-capture the pony? If I lost her, I would never be allowed near Echo. There are rattlesnakes around here!

I jumped to my feet and pointed after the fleeing Shetland, “Sic em, Pal!” It was an outburst from my frustration and impotence with no expectation, but then the Old Dog Did! She exploded after the pony, growling and getting around in front of her, planting her feet and going nose to nose. She forced the frightened animal to stop, and stand, sides heaving until she calmed and I could grab the reins.

Afraid to get back on, I led the pony back to the corral and brushed her down with shaking hands, giving her water and apple slices, while Pal gulped noisily from a water bucket. Finally I turned in amazement to the red dog. She grinned up at me as I patted her head nervously. Suddenly the faithful shadow was a mysterious stranger full of unknown danger.

Hesitantly, I thought of every command I knew, and tried them. Even though she had been around our family for eleven years and never been given a command, she executed them all perfectly. She sat, spoke, rolled over, shook my hand, begged and played dead. Her tail wagged and her eyes sparkled as if she was delighted that someone was finally playing with her.

After I put her through her paces for the amazed adults, and told the embarrassing story of my fall and the command to “sic-‘em,” the discussion turned to where Pal had really come from. Obviously, such a well trained dog, had not just been an abandoned, unwanted, overgrown puppy. All our assumptions were wrong and someone must have ached over the loss, but after all this time, the mystery remains unsolved.

But the mystery stayed with me and continues to influence my daily decisions as a teacher. Yes, the girl who hated school, grew-up and never left the classroom. I know that if a dog can remember lessons learned after not using them for a decade, then the students, I teach every day, may carry the smallest interaction with them for the rest of their life. I am reminded to make impact on their life be one of kindness and love and optimism. Pal showed me that learning may not be visible in any outward way, and yet, still be carried inside for life.

I also look at these children, some seeming unloved, abandoned almost feral. Then I remember that this assumption would be the most wrong of all. At the start of every life there was a creator, who loved each child, and gave them a mind capable of learning, and loving, and laughing. Where their paths intersect with mine, I pray my own version of the Hippocratic oath – Let me help them, let me teach them, and when I cannot reach them, at least let me do no harm until they move on to one who can teach them and guide them.

And Echo? Yes, I got to tide her at times. She was steady, gentle and never gave me a story as exciting as my afternoon with the pony. She did give me one thing I use on a daily basis, her name. I use “echo” or “pandorasecho” as my on-line nickname, because there are so many memories of family and happiness – but most of all, because I remember that the echo left behind in the box Pandora opened, was HOPE.

On my Book Shelf, or stacked somewhere in my house.

Now that I took the terrifying step of Self-publishing, I have to admit that my love of books has shaped my entire life. Sometimes I wouldn't be able to remember a book except for the things that were happening in my real life as I read it, other times, I would have forgotten that I ever went somewhere except that I remember being there while reading a certain book.

Of course the book I wrote draws from my real life, near Yellowstone and my Trip to Guatemala, and raising my sons; it also draws heavily from my imagination, which was formed in large amount, by the books I read and the stories I was told. You can find, Duffy Barkley is Not a Dog, here https://www.createspace.com/3450238

Here I want to share with you the books I could never share with you in real life. the ones I will recommend but never lend because I read them again and smile just seeing them on the shelf. My shelves are like a facebook re-union with old friends and classmates, and there is where I go when I miss the adventures we shared and the times I fell in love, or died, or was brave, or solved the unsolvable mystery.

To share my friends and many lives, visit these titles.

Johnny Tremain, a 1943 children's novel by Esther Forbes

The Chronicles of Narnia is a series of seven fantasy novels for children written by C. S. Lewis

Trixie Belden is a series of 'girl detective' mysteries written between 1948 and 1986

My Side of the Mountain is a 1959 book of fiction by Jean Craighead George

The Diddakoi by Rumer Godden

The Ghost of Dibble Hollow by May Nickerson Wallace.

Pippi Longstocking by Swedish author Astrid Lindgren

My sons introduced me to Ghost Boy by Iain Lawrence and his other books are great too.

Sensible Kate by Doris Gates.

Caddie Woodlawn by Carol Ryrie Brink

and for younger kids, I adored Look out for pirates! by Iris Vinton

and still take it to read to classes of children who also love it.

and they also love Abiyoyo and Abiyoyo Return's

and so will you no matter what age you are as long as you try to sing his name.

Getting up the Nerve & self-publishing

I have been working on this novel, and the following one, which I call, "Duffy Barkley: Seek Well" since my own children were 7 and 8. Now they are close to graduating from High school, and until today I have not been brave enough to offer my story to more than a few friends and family members, and that was as 280 loose pages of copier paper in a gallon zip-lock bag.

Today, flylady, one of my heroes, challenged us to an anti-procrastination week. I looked back at the novel I finally finished during National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and the free proof copy that CreateSpace offered to all of those who actually wrote a November Novel. Then, with shaking hands and barely able to breathe, I pressed the mouse over the Publish button.

So now, here it is, the book that justifies all those time I called myself a writer.

https://www.createspace.com/3450238

I hope that some of you will read my story and enjoy it even a fraction as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope that a few will recommend it to a friend or teacher or librarian, or mention it on Facebook or MySpace. But if that never happens, I have already had the best part of writing it.

The best part for me, was taking a long road trip with my family, and reading it out loud to my husband and my boys, and realizing that it read like a real book, and that they loved it. After that, everything else is gravy, or in my world, Hot fudge Sauce.

Thank you, at least, for reading this post.

Echo AKA Dixie Dawn Miller Goode

Hiking in Fern Canyon

Imagine a crevice in stone deep below the sea. It is dark and cold and scary. Then time passes, the sea level drops, the crevice drains and gains the sun. Yet it doesn't dry out. A stream meanders through the flat bottom, ferns fur the walls. Tall trees tower overhead and when they tumble down they lay there like scattered and forgotten giant's tinker toys. Beyond the mouth of the narrow canyon, sea grass and marsh run to a sandy beach and Roosevelt elk make their home here. I believe that the movie Jurrasic Park 2 was filmed partly here. There is something about the cool, green timelessness that makes seeing dinosaurs an easy feat for my imagination.

The drive in through Gold Bluffs Beach has a washboarded gravel road, the traffic had dusted the ferns and redwoods with a thick blanket of ghostly grey. For excitement there were also three places where my mini-van could easily ford the stream across the road. That was fun though and one of the teens with me said, "I have wanted to ford a river ever since I used to play Oregon Trail."

It was an $8 Day Use Fee, but it was the most fun I have had on $8 in a long time. The campground is on the sandy beach along the Pacific, but this time we were here for the hike. There are a few choices on the trails, up to the elk prairie and the park headquarters, but we walked the gravel streambed and planks placed strategically to help keep your feet dry.

In the future, when the stress of daily life seems overwhelming, I will be able to close my eyes and visualize the soothing peace of green walls and running water. I hope these pictures help share that with you.

Wyoming and Black Hills, Summer 2010

Our annual trip back to the area where my husband and I grew up, had a lot more adventure than we had bargained for. This year we drove just over 4,000 miles and along the way we were nearly struck by lightning, had a brother-in-law suffer 3rd degree burns, My Mother in Law broke her hip - twice, the brakes went out on my car and my son was almost swept off in a flood of hailstones and rainwater, there were tornados but also a 105* day when my Mom burned her feet on the side of the swimming pool. There was a white water raft trip, with only a little white water but enough to get me bruised when my son's oar whacked my arm. There was also the news that my Mom needs a deep squamous cell carcinoma removed from her hand in a surgery that is predicted to take 2 1/2 hours.

The beginning of this trip was a plan to celebrate my in-laws 60th anniversary with a family re-union at a 4-H camp (Rentable for private groups) in Custer State Park in the Black Hills where my husband and I had worked during our honeymoon in 1984 at the Black Hills playhouse. Just before we arrived Mimi broke her hip and had surgery to pin it, but the day we arrived she broke it a second time and was ordered to no weight bearing for 6 weeks. So she would not be coming to her own anniversary celebration even though everyone made it in to see her at the hospital - just wasn't the same. Growing old is not for wimps.

We camped in the Columbia River Gorge on the way there, and in Bozeman, Montana after getting stuck in the I-90, no motel or campground madness we finally set up tents at 1 AM, to the joy of the people trying to sleep near-by.

The Black Hills portion of the visit was lovely of course, and the campground and cabins and kitchen were a delight. Seeing my 10 year old niece for the first time since she was 7 was a shock. Hiking in the hills was perfect. But as we gathered around a bonfire, the lightning got closer and after it exploded overhead the dog ran away and my BIL fell into the bonfire with his hand between two flaming logs. The next morning we heard that 16 people had been struck by lightning in the Tetons, and we were all closer than we ever want to be again.

Then back at my in-laws in Newcastle, WY My son (17) borrowed Grandpa's truck and left to use his 3 day fishing license when the tornado sirens started blasting, and before he was home the truck was lifted on a stream of hail until it wedged in a cattle guard.

Going around the Bighorn Mountains to show my family one of my favorite spots in the Pryor Mountains we found my brakes dead and the Dam at yellowtail closed anyway "Permanently for National Security Purposes"

In Cody to visit my Family, and over to the Hot Springs in Thermopolis on a 105* day, then up through Yellowstone to the amazing Hells-A-Roarin outfitters to be their guests at a lovely cabin and treated to a BBQ and Campfire and trailrides. Oh, Amazing place, Gorgeous Views, gracious and friendly family running it. Never can say Thanks enough.

Homeward bound we had two vehicles given to our two teens and so we drove the final 1,400 miles in a 3 car caravan and now my 16 year old thinks he can drive anywhere now that he has driven through Portland.

Family is worth every adventure they bring your way, but we arrived home, limp and exhausted - just in time for the fair and band camp.