LIFE OF AN AUTHOR: When Nature Has Other Plans On Your Writing Day

Today was supposed to be an all-out writing day. I’d had it all planned.   

I’d get up early and dig right in (putting the window fan on before the heat made things too sweaty to focus).

I was going over how it would all play out, lying under the thinnest covers in the late hours the night before, listening to the remnants of a violent thunder storm that had swept through our New Hampshire town. The rigorous cloud burst had left our dog Lucy shivering a few hours before it even began. Rich and I had decided to read by a lamplight expecting the electricity to go out, but it only flickered. We listened to the rain, which sometimes came down in sheets that drenched any windowsill beneath a sash that had been left open just a crack. But I’d checked my computer twice and it was functioning fine. I was still on track for my mega-writing day.

A few hours later, after it had long gotten dark, we’d still heard the rain. Checking the backyard before heading to bed, we scanned the lawn with our flashlights for any signs of collecting pools—we live about a 100 yards from a brook that can overflow---but we’ve never seen it happen.

But then the fire department’s pick-up truck zoomed down the streets and we heard voices at 3 in the morning. The brook had gone over its banks further down from where we live, and some of the streets had flooded.

Our backyard started pooling toward the forest but luckily, nothing major. Still, the anxiety of the wetness and the newness of it brought out weird behavior in some animals. (Did you know that squirrels can dive into puddles of water and swim to the other side?)

Our sudden "vernal" backyard pool.

Ground hogs wriggled in the grass of our yard, disoriented, as robins hovered at the edge of the temporary, grass-fed pools. And chipmunks frantically dug to see if their acorns were still safe where they’d buried them.

On the streets, I could tell some of the neighborhood kids were scared. It’s one thing to don your billy boots to jump in puddles, but not when the puddles are twelve feet long and deep.

Heading over to the post office, we started hearing the sound of pumps siphoning out water from basements and water-logged streets. The day soon became full of stories--just not the one’s I’m supposed to write about for editors who go by deadlines. But the weather has a way of disrupting schedules, and also pulling people together—the closer the pools of water come to a neighbor’s house, the closer you become to them, reaching out to help. Rich is talking about getting Kentucky Fried chicken for supper and having the neighbors come over to nosh on the porch and get away from the thought of water.

If it were any other day, I’d say no to a deep-fried supper. But there are times when something greasy can be comforting, and when writing what you’re supposed to can wait.

Adopting Lucy from the Animal Shelter

When the British Columbia SPCA chose LITTLE JOE as its book pick last year, I went and gave Lucy a great big hug.

Lucy is our eleven-year-old shelter dog who, in the 10 years that she's been part of our family, has given me a daily joy that can't be measured.

Writing can be a lonely business and I spend about 8 hours a day on it.(Right now I'm faced with more blank pages since finishing my final draft of novel number two).

Lucy is there with me every step of the way. She's curled up like a fox eyeballing my progress, or jumping up and putting her paws on my desk to remind me it's time for play. And chasing her around the house with that tennis ball has been known to cure my writer's block. But what I love most about Lucy is that each morning she awakes like she'd just been born-- as if it's the first day of her life-- and she can't wait to get started.

Nothing seems repetitive to Lucy; no event too arduous, difficult or meaningless.I try to remember that during the day, or when I'm working on revisions and my story is way past fresh. Can I see it like Lucy? As if I'm not familiar with it? Can I approach life like Lucy?

Lucy came into our lives shortly after I married Rich and became the step-mom of two tween boys. We all thought it would be a good idea-- a bonding moment-- if we adopted a dog. I was also feeling terribly guilty about having to send their two cats away (I'm really allergic to cats), even though their new home was with a close friend.

Jeremy, in particular, was disgruntled with me and had been sulking for quite a while, so we all agreed that he could choose the dog, and that he and Rich would go up to our local shelter and look around, since it could take a few months until he'd find, "the perfect lap dog." And hopefully, one that didn't shed.

Now I would strongly suggest that unless you go to an animal shelter strictly to volunteer,if you go looking for a pet to bring home and love-- know that you will most certainly find one. One that keeps you up at night needling your brain, sniffing at your heart and causing your children to beg, nag, and make the most outlandish promises, until the 24 hours you've dedicated to thinking it over becomes so excruciating, you're forced to call the shelter number after hours, hoping that the answering machine will say they open before nine.

Jeremy had come home smiling the day before saying that he'd found Lucy. Sounded like a good name for a little lap dog, right? Only she wasn't so tiny. "I know I went in looking for a lap dog," Jeremy admitted, "but then I fell in love with Lucy."

Within 24-hours all I'd heard about was Lucy, so by the time 9 AM came around the next day, all that was left was for me to do was to get in the car.

Lucy had the run of the place. She promptly jumped up and put her paws on the desk when I walked in, sending pens and doggie treats airborne. She wasn't anything like the toy poodles I'd grown up with. Lucy was a rough and tumble dog. A mixture of all sorts of hounds and looking like Petey from the Little Rascals, minus the dark patch on the eye.

So that's how it was going to be.

How long had she'd been there?...
Two months. Maybe more.
How come?...
Because of her boundless energy and her need to roam. "But she's kind behind the eyes."
Kind behind the eyes... where had I heard that before? In an E.B. White story, perhaps? And what of her family history?...
Silence... looking up paperwork.... Lucy licking the paperwork, tail wagging. "All it says is that when the staff opened up one morning she was there... tied to the doorknob."

So you know she's going home with us at this very moment, right? Even though I hadn't even touched her, walked her, or let her lick my face.

I went out to the back field of the shelter, which was a sheet of ice, and let Lucy walk me.

That's how it was going to be.

"She'll need to be fixed before you take her home," the receptionist said.
How soon?
"She'll be ready on Valentine's Day."

On the phone that night my mother asked,"Did you find a lap dog?"
"We found the perfect dog."
"Well, at least she doesn't shed, right?"
"You know, I went into the shelter planning on finding one that didn't," I told my mother, "but then I fell in love with Lucy."

Spending the holidays in Florida

Spending the holidays in a warmer climate still feels strange to me, having lived in Canada for most of my life. But that's exactly what I did for a few days when Rich and I went to Florida to visit his family and seeing them is always special.

My father-in-law still loves to go walking though he uses a cane, and his favorite place is Downtown Disney. There, thousands of poinsettia plants have been nestled into terra cotta urns and thrive under the 80 degree sunshine.

And while it did feel somewhat liberating to be open-toed, wearing flip-flops instead of fuzzy slippers decorating the Christmas tree after, or hanging ornaments around the porch without the threat of a nor'easter tearing them to shreds, I realized something that surprised me--I actually missed the cold.

As much as I shiver and complain about the winter chill in New England and those blustery winds--my own porch in New Hampshire is filled with buckets of greenery and artificial poinsettias weighed down by bricks--to me, the holidays mean evergreens, woolen mittens and... snow. And I suppose it's because what's underneath all that, are the memories I've gathered from Christmases bundled-up in sweaters. Of building snowforts, singing carols in front of a fireplace, making snow angels in the backyard with my sister in her fogged-up glasses, and trudging to Christmas service early, extra early, to help my father scrape the ice off the windshield.

It's almost as if the stark temperature forces me, somehow, to get down to the meaning of the holidays. There's also something about frozen-toes after an afternoon of ice skating that makes me feel part of the landscape.

In Orlando, they simulate the feel of skating with an artificial outdoor rink, and snow is sprayed nightly onto the streets of Celebration. It sounds silly, I know, but it actually feels magical because of the children. They squeal with delight upon seeing the first flakes shoot out of the snow-making machines perched high atop the street lamps, and their eyes glisten with adventure when they put on those skates.

Most of them struggle on the plastic pond, wiping out more than ever gliding over it, but they never stop smiling and love the experience no matter how many bruises they get. And Spending that night with my nieces and nephews, watching them skate was my favorite part of the trip.

In Fort Wilderness,Disney's campground, regulars enjoy their own holiday traditions.

And that means decorating their campsites with as many Disney snowglobes or wagons full of other storybook characters as they can fit into the space in front of their Rv's.

And I know they certainly wouldn't trade any of it for a chilly, New England Christmas.

Final Day in London

It's our final day in London and we spend it with my in-laws, walking to the Tate Britain Gallery first thing in the morning, which turns out to be quite a nice stroll for my father and his walker.

The rest of the Wallace clan has gone to go to Paris for a few days and are due to come back to the London apartment this afternoon.

Rich and I are delighted to discover more of John Constable's paintings at the Tate, which are scattered throughout the Gallery,

and of course, plenty of works by Turner, who donated his paintings to the Tate. Of, course, all of this is free for anyone to enjoy, which still amazes me.

Except for having to give the staff your passport in order to purchase an audio guide (which we decided not to do), the Tate is a terrific, spacious gallery in which to roam and the walk there is so pleasant, too.

After the Tate, we find a really beautiful-looking pub nearby named the White Swan and order fish & chips.

We really wanted a Sunday roast dinner, but they don't serve that here, and we're all starving and not wanting to walk much further. On the way home there are plenty of people enjoying an afternoon pint, many with dogs on their laps.

When we get back to our apartment, the rest of the Wallace crew are there. Cheyenne models the Paris skirt she brought for the trip, complete an Eiffel Tower painted on its hem.

Ben can't wait to show us the pet worm he got from a street performer-- it's a red felt charmer you operate from a string in your pocket and he keeps making it crawl all over my shoulder.

Evie wore her beret all weekend, and bought a pillow with the word,"Paris" on it.

For our last meal, Rich really wants dim sum. The kids and Lynda already had their joyous fill at Harrods a few days before,

so Rich and I head to Chinatown again, to get some even more authentic and for a fraction of the price at New China. We have no idea what we're ordering and eye the tables all around us, then settle on spinach dumplings with prawns (the actual dough is made with spinach and these were really tasty), as well as a barbeque pork buns, Hunan chicken buns and sweet corn and chicken soup which is so flavorful.

I save room for a custard bun (my second favorite dessert next to scones), and this time, I know to peel the wax paper off the bottom instead of eating it.

When we arrive at the London home, I have my final tea in the courtyard of our town house and think how wonderful this trip has been.

Rich says we're going to come back within five years, sometime in August, when the Fringe Festival is on in Edinburgh. The next time, we hope we can bring Rich's grown sons and who knows, maybe their future spouses. It could turn out to be a Wallace trip for 14 people and that would be just fine.

We'll have gained a lot of nous by then. I'll remind Ben about the worm he bought in Paris and the first time we had pizzas with smoked salmon on them before downing salted caramel ice cream. And that we all cried for joy when that street painter finished his imaginary planets, creating them for all to see on the cobblestone streets.

I'll remind Rich of Saint Paul's Cathedral, and how, with the help of a guide named Chris, we learned of its beauty-- those heavenly frescos glistening in the sun during Evensong on an afternoon when it was utterly unexpected, and where Rich's kindred spirit, Sir Albert Sullivan is buried.

I feel a little guilty not expecting that a trip could be this wondrous when there's a whole building carrying a sign that says, Take Courage,

one that's been left unblemished and giving hope since World War 2. Or a towering window next to Westminster Abbey's Choir School For Boys with the last name of MILNE on the door. Staring at us through the window, are some of my favorite childhood friends,

Pooh and Piglet. How could a trip not be wonderful with the two of them around?

The Biggest Snowman

It's another snow day here in New Hampshire, and the neighbourhood kids have been playing in it since before nine o'clock this morning. Their favourite part is traipsing through other people's yards, seeing who can claim the first prints in the new snow. Our dog, Lucy, has been barking like crazy all day, policing the front and back lawns as best she can from the inside, making her rounds at each window perch and giving the panes new nose prints.

I finally venture out a just before noon, to make sure our mail man can make it safely onto our porch.

"Where have you been?" Dennis, the fourth grader, asks me. "The snow pile's gotta be twenty feet high by now." I hadn't seen him or the others for at least a week. That is, in person. And the snow plow pile is at the end of our cul-de-sac, rising up like a giant snow cone and sprinkled with purple and green sleds.

"Guess I've been stuck inside," I say to Dennis. "But I've kind of wanted to, working on my next novel."

"Is it about animals, too?"

"No. It's historical fiction."

"What does that mean?"

"It's a story inspired about things that happened sixty years ago, in an Arizona town I used to live near."

"So that's where you lived, sixty years ago?"

Great. Now the ring leader of the neighborhhod thinks I'm at least 60 when I'm not even nearly eligible for AARP, yet.

"No, I lived there 10 years ago. I'm not even close to sixty."

Dennis shrugs and walks up our porch with his snowboard and boots. They look like they might ahve crampons on them. "I know what's historical fiction," he says, poking at the statue. "Your duck. It still got his Santa suit on. And it's not even Christmas."

I decorate the metal duck my husband gave me as an anniversary present, and the kids always like to remind me if I've missed a holiday. Like say, Shrove Tuesday, or Dress Silly Day at school, or, if I've let a holiday linger for too long.

"Shouldn't you be making a snowman, or something?" I ask Dennis, taking off the duck's Santa suit and freezing my fingers.

"You mean you haven't seen it?" Dennis says, jumping off the porch and telling me I better follow. When we turn around the corner I can't believe what I see. It's a giant snowman, bigger than any kids have made before, at least around here. Soaring 8feet high with two tennis balls for eyes and a black plastic storage bin for a hat.

"My dad helped us."

No kidding. But still, pretty impressive.

"Looks like it'll last all winter."

Dennis frowns.

"Don't you want it to?" I ask.

"I don't know," he shrugs. "I wanna make a new one." He runs to the end of the street where the snow pile's got at least a half inch of new fluff to slide over.

All Sold Out at Borders

Saturday was an exciting afternoon for Rich and I. We signed our books at Borders in Keene and was it busy!Right by the checkout line, we were visited by many local teachers and librarians (thank you!) and got a chance to meet so many sweet kids like Desi, who loves all animals, and Spencer, (pictured with Rich), who's read some of Rich's books already and is getting Sports Camp and Kickers- The Ball Hogs for Christmas. I also met a travelling large animal vet's assistant, who lives the James Herriot life here in New England, and I can't wait to trek along with her sometime next year. Thanks to so many visiters who stopped by, including Sharon from Fast Friends Greyhound rescue and Gilbert, the retired greyhound. Borders actually sold out of copies of Little Joe! What a thrill that was. New Englanders really know how to support their local authors and artists. From parents in the neighborhood, to the USPS mail attendants, New Englanders are buying our books.

Knowing we live in such a nurturing, supportive environment warms my heart. It's the best Christmas present I could ever receive.