No-Bake Cookies, Sarah Style

Check fridge and cupboards for ingredients.

Go to market and buy missing ingredients.

Walk dogs (because any time you leave, however briefly, they feel they must be walked on your return, or they will pee on your floor)

Over medium heat, melt one stick - crap. There's only half a stick left.

Go back to market. Buy butter.

Walk dogs.

Over medium heat, melt one stick of butter, a pile of sugar that looks like it might be one and three quarters cups, five Bento-box-sized-forkfuls (forksful?) of cocoa, and a coffee mug of milk.

Remove from heat. Answer phone. Walk outside where you can hear better. Talk about work.

Go inside.

Walk dogs.

Return mixture to heat. Bring to a boil.

Boil for the length of "Ghost of the Knoxville Girl" by Doug and Telisha Williams.

Remove from heat.

Drop by Bento-box-sized-forkfuls (forksful?) onto clean-ish Tupperware lids.

Wait till the cookies set up.

Acknowledge that they aren't going to set up. Eat with a Bento-box-sized fork.

In a panic, curse and run back to the kitchen to turn off the burner.

Leave the dishes for morning.

The Weight of Books (and Other Things)

Sometime between finding out I was the winner of PEN American Center's 2012 Phyllis Naylor Working Writer Fellowship and the day that the winners were announced to the public, I found myself on the floor of my studio apartment, trying to prop up a broken futon with a copy of SHILOH.

It was a nice futon once. At least, I assume so. It was given to me by my former neighbor, Jim, who at fifty-five owns the last house on his block that hasn't been converted into college apartments. What this means for Jim is that he's got first dibs on all of the "I don't want this anymore so I'll leave it on the curb" furniture that gets put out by the students. Since Jim's house is pretty much full up on curb furniture at the moment, he is constantly passing some of his best finds on to his friends, family, and favorite former neighbors.

Jim is pretty much always on the lookout for one thing or other that I need for my apartment. Now, don't get me wrong. It isn't that I can't afford furniture. I have an amazing job that is comprised of a series of random tasks such as "wear a sparkly green leprechan hat," "chase a bicycle down a school hallway," and, my favorite power trip, "be in charge of the potato chips."  But a while back I decided not to work full-time, because I want to leave time in my day for as much writing as possible. Also, there's that pesky problem of lots and lots of old debt that I'm determined to pay off -- so, okay, yeah. I can't afford furniture.

As my futon was an adopted stray, I can't be sure how old it was by the time I started sleeping on it. All I know that it was a lot less pretty after the left rear leg bent in half under my weight. Hence, the propping.

I tried bricks, but the problem is, bricks are a set width. Books, on the other hand -- books come in all shapes and sizes. With a single bookshelf, I've got endless combinations not only of entertainment and information, but also, it turns out, futon building blocks.

It's a complicated art, finding the exact combination of reading material to prop up your sleeping surface. Of course it would have made sense to try my own books, but my last copy of LIVVIE OWEN LIVED HERE got stolen at a school visit in the spring (which -- a kid wanted it -- cool!), and the last few BODY OF WATER holdouts were still packed from that same school visit (because, clearly, four months isn't enough time to unpack one box). THE GOODLY SPELLBOOK was an obvious choice at 475 pages, but it proved to be just a touch too thick (maybe 450 would have worked). DRESSAGE FROM A TO X and PONY CLUB C-LEVEL MANUAL (which, okay, is for kids who ride horses), put together, didn't quite reach, so I grabbed a couple of paperbacks to fill the gap.

Of course I was grabbing by width and cover strength, not title, so it was a shock when I found myself sitting on the floor, surrounded by discarded futon-propping attempts (which would all be lovingly returned to the shelf once I was better-rested), clutching a copy of SHILOH.

SHILOH, which was written by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor -- the generous and talented author who made possible a working writer fellowship intended to ensure that authors can, among other things, afford a flat surface to sleep on while still being authors.

The details of the award, as well as the 17 other literary awards being granted this year by the PEN American Center, can be found on their website. I'm in stunningly good company, and it's difficult for me to stop hyperventilating about these particular judges reading my work long enough to realize that I actually won something. I'm completely over the moon about this award, and humbled by the faith the judges have put in me and FREE VERSE. I'm also extremely grateful to Phyllis Naylor for providing such a thrilling opportunity.

When I was fifteen, I won a county writing contest, and I got to go to the state awards ceremony. The keynote speaker was Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, and I was too shy to say six words. Luckily, my mother, also a writer, was with me, and helped facilitate my verbal skills. Ms. Naylor was kind enough to stick around after her talk and answer some questions from the two of us. It was the first day I realized that people actually did this writing stuff for a living, and now all these years later, she's still making it possible for me to stay the course of a writing career.

And how do I repay her?

By stuffing one of her fabulous novels under the corner of a futon?

I think not. SHILOH went back on the shelf. So did the dressage books and the magic books and all my other books of varying widths but equal value. As for the futon? It turns out a combination of bricks and half-filled notebooks can be used to prop.

Plus, I can always lie on the floor to read.



(Author's Note:  I have since procured a sturdy and well-built futon, courtesy of my friend Janell -- so, you know, no worries, Mom!)

I'm off to camp! You coming?

It's Camp NaNoWriMo time!

The gist? Write a novel, start to finish, in August. It's just like regular NaNoWriMo, except it happens in August instead of November. The point is to write quickly, to write without stopping, to write something terrible that you can revise later into something great. It doesn't work for everybody. But it works for me - both my published novels were NaNo novels.

So I'm there (under the name "sarypotter") and I'd love to see you there, too!

I'm gonna start writing here in a sec. Yes, I am. No earthly clue what I'm writing about. My novel has neither a title nor a plot. Nor characters. Nor any words, yet. Thank goodness it's only August 1.

I will not pretend that I'm going to blog daily during Camp NaNo, because - um, yeah - I don't blog daily anyway. Sorry about that. My computer is broken. Very broken. I haven't seen it since April.

Which means I'm noveling via text message.

I'm gonna need a lot of S'mores.

Places I Have Lived, Continued

Friday, there were storms. And inside the little apartment off 14 1/2 Alley, there were no lights to see by. I sat with my dogs and my cat and a dozen half-filled boxes, waiting to see so I could finish packing. This weekend, we moved into an apartment above the park, not far from Huntington's new "World Class PetSafe Dog Park." We have dogs and cats and park-goers for neighbors. In trying to count -- because I always lose count -- how many moves this makes, I felt "moved" to go back and re-read something I wrote a few years back. In case you've got a few minutes and you'd like to know, here are the places I have lived: http://swdooley.blogspot.com/2009/05/places-i-have-lived.html And now I've got to add a few more: 43. When we got back to West Virginia, we stayed with my parents. My niece Marilyn was 13, and she cooked elaborate meals that she would not eat, and wrote menus for them so we could choose. We sat in rocking chairs and ate from the garden. We lay on our backs on hot pavement in the dark and watched fireworks. Who says you can't go home again? 44. We moved to Wyoming County. This was the first house we owned. We painted the walls. We sat in the dark. We watched snow cut us off from the rest of the world. I drove on tangled roads and dodged coal trucks. I taught kids I didn't know how to teach. I lost a friend. I left things unfinished. I saw cover art for Livvie Owen Lived Here. I wrote Body of Water and lived through part of what would someday be Free Verse. We nursed Buddy through Parvo. We worked in the yard, but the work was never done. We walked through grimy snow to Sunoco and bought off-brand dog food. We waited for the thaw. 45. Huntington! We moved to the apartment on 14 1/2 Alley. We got married on Independence Day. We found a home for Buddy, who needed a yard and water and not a tiny apartment in the alley. We found Oscar. Then Winifred. Both Dachshund mixes with attitudes bigger than their tiny, silly bodies. Jake and I separated. Then slowly found each other again. I wrote Ashes to Asheville. Then Free Verse. Livvie Owen Lived Here, then Body of Water, were published. We made friends with the neighbors for maybe the first time ever. We sat on porches and watched storms blow in. On Saturday, we moved. And now we are in number -- 46. The sweet, bright, light apartment on the park. Hardwood floors and a crappy futon and new countertops and promise. And the story continues.

A book festival, a blog post, and also, the dog ate my homework.

Hey, guys,

Just wanted to pop in to mention two things:

1. If you're in the Huntington, WV area, be sure to check out the Ohio River Festival of Books. I'll be doing presentations at several local schools, and there are a slew of great authors planning some awesome events!

2. I'm over at Smack Dab in the Middle today, talking about April showers and what they bring. Come on over, ya'll!

3. (Did I say two? Yeah, well, I stink at math!) I'm sorry I've been absent for so long! My computer has been in the shop (read: with the computer-savvy parent of one of my students) for over a month. I promise to return as soon as my computer does!

Ten Things We Teachers Wish For

Thank goodness, Saturday is St. Patrick's Day -- it's not on a school day this year! My absurd level of joy at this realization got me thinking about the things teachers spend their wishes on. Here are ten:


10. That St. Patrick's Day will fall on a weekend. Wow, do kids love to pinch their teachers, who are far too frazzled to remember to wear green on a specific day. (Most days we're lucky just to make it to school wearing pants.)


9. That April Fool's Day will fall on a weekend. Not because the April Fool jokes are difficult to spot. But because they Never. Get. Old. Geesh, some years my kids seem to think April Fool's Day lasts clear into May! And more than once, I've had to explain that flunking a spelling test is NOT an April Fool occasion.


8. That the bell will ring, and our little Pavlovian children will let go of our hair out of habit when they realize it's time for lunch or the bus.


7. That it's just allergies.


6. That the principal/parent/supervisor/teacher from down the hall will walk in just ONCE when things are going RIGHT and nobody is throwing a tantrum or climbing on a table or drawing on their neighbor with a Sharpie.


5. That the paperclip is just lost, not swallowed.


4. That our kids will magically "get it" - whatever "it" happens to be that day.


3. That we will hear more laughter than tears from our kids.


2. That spontaneous communication will happen, and we will be lucky enough to get to know the true personalities of these funny little people who tolerate us on a daily basis.

And, finally ...

1. That it will snow.

Contest: What did you drive your family crazy with?

Who wants a free audiobook?

If you answered, "Me!," then post a comment on this blog or on my Facebook page telling me about a time when you had a favorite song or movie that your family hated, and you will be entered in a drawing for a chance to win a free audio copy of Body of Water or Livvie Owen Lived Here!

For me (oh, there are so many to choose from), I think the movie I tortured them with the most had to be Danny. This was 1993-ish, and we would occasionally check out a VCR and a few movies from the video store. My favorite movie was Danny, which is a late-seventies film about a girl named Jamie who loves a gray pony named Danny (played by a pony named William Tell -- but I forget who plays Janie). I watched that thing over and over from the time we rented the VCR until the time it went back, with reluctant breaks to let other people watch stuff. I rewound the horse show scenes over and over. Worse yet, when the movie went back to the video store, I trotted and cantered in circles -- in my sister's bedroom, no less -- reciting the ENTIRE movie start to finish. Including the music. And the neighing. (Autism spectrum? Me? Whatever do you mean?)

In the novel I'm currently writing, there's a kid who loves horses, and she tortures her family in much the same way using a fictional horse movie. I'm having a blast writing the dialogue!

Of course this all made me wonder whether I was just the most annoying kid ever, or whether y'all had similar obsessions. Tell me your story in the comments (or on Facebook) and on March 1, I'll draw names to receive one of my audiobooks (Body of water or Livvie Owen Lived Here) -- so you can, you know, listen to them over and over and annoy somebody.

I can't wait to hear your stories!

Yoga. (Ish.)

I've recently started taking yoga classes, and I have to say I love it. In fact, I love it so much that I've started practicing at home. I find that it really helps to center me and clear my head prior to writing.

In case you're not familiar with yoga, my lovely assistants and I have prepared a quick primer:


Standing Forward Bend (with optional puppy-swatting):






Downward, facing dog:






Locust Pose (with doggie spotter):





Give up and let the dogs win:

FOUND: Stray Hippo. Call to claim.

Found: Hippo. Gray, approximately 0.5 inches in length. Clean and well-mannered. She is clearly a treasured pet and I'm sure your kids miss her.

She was found in the dark recesses of my purse on 2/21/2012 at approximately 6:45 a.m., just as the Barboursville bus pulled out of the station. I was looking for my headphones and discovered Rover (as I've taken to calling her) hiding in one of the front pockets, along with sixty-five cents in nickels and a squished Mike & Ike.

Rover has had a big day.

She started with some art:




spent some time reading:










met some (scary) new friends:







did some riding:




visited the amusement park:




blogged about her experiences:




and has been treated like royalty by her foster family:







But I know she misses her real family. If you have lost your beloved pet hippo, please call.


(This is all by way of saying that I love my job as a teacher -- one of the few professions in which you will periodically discover random zoology concealed in your belongings.)

(Also, yes -- I do have a miniature ferris wheel, a tiny horse, a paint set, a tiara, and a cat on my desk. Doesn't everybody?)

Chickens and Libraries

Yesterday, I posted over at Smack Dab in the Middle about how much I love libraries.

I didn't tell you about it until today, because ...

Okay. I cheat. I'm a cheater. I'll admit it. When I write NaNoWriMo novels, I stop using contractions because I want to get credit for two words instead of one. In college, I was known to occasionally edge the margins in by a milimeter or two, and it's possible I spent some time comparing Times New Roman to Courier to figure out which font edged the research paper text onto the required tenth page.

I'm in this writing group called The Patchwork Writers, and they're crazy people, every last one of them. I mean, yeah, it's a writing group. Big surprise there. But what I'm saying is, they've got this ... incentive? That they use to motivate their writers to meet personal goals. They set a deadline and then each writer participating in the challenge sets and announces their goal -- a certain word or page count, completion of a project, or, in my case in the most recent challenge, a certain number of promotional activities or blog posts per week.

And if you don't meet your goal? You have to wear a chicken suit.

In public.

Oftentimes to a writing event.

And the kicker? These crazy, wonderful people with whom I spend my writing time? They actually have not one but two chicken suits between them.

So, as I mentioned, my current chicken suit challenge involves blog posts and publicity. I'm supposed to write a blog post or otherwise promote my books at least four days per week.

Yesterday I posted at Smack Dab. If I'd posted that link here yesterday as well, it would have been wasted as far as the chicken suit challenge is concerned.

And I don't want feathers.

Sorry.

Valentine

Card after card,
I read phrases that don't fit.
You are not shelved with the others.
You are in between the lines.

Daily Typo, February 6

An oldie but a goodie:

When I was writing Livvie Owen Lived Here, I accidentally wrote the following gem:

"I'll make sure she eats," Lanie said with what looked like an evil twinkie in her eye.

Can anybody tell me what page that (corrected) line falls on?

Daily Typo, February 5

Note to Self:

The MC's two possible romantic interests should NOT be named Kayla and Kylie. Perhaps the MC can keep them straight, but the author certainly can't.

And when you go to change their names, don't change them to Lucy and Lisa. Geez.

Daily Typo, February 2

Because the Small Stones challenge has ended, I've decided I need something else to keep me posting every day. Well, I might not always have a wealth of wisdom or insight to share, but you know what I always have? Typos. So that's what you're getting this month, and I do hope you'll share your own in the comments.

Today's odd typing moment:

I was writing really fast and I needed the character to look at the gas gauge, but I couldn't remember what the gas gauge was called. So I typed, "She glanced at the gas-dometer-WHAT?"

Small Stones, January 30 and 31

January 30

Underpass
Passes under
tracks that
could take
me away,
but don't.


January 31

I end the month
in a good place:
on horseback.
Where will we ride?

On tiptoes, my city
reaches for the sun
while night fades
up from below.

Small Stone, January 28

Why is it that hitting the SEND button is the only thing that lifts the magical cloak of typo invisibility?

Small Stone, January 27

(If there were snow,
it would fill the gaps
between us)

In this winter that does not feel like winter,
you leave for work before dawn
and I leave for work before dawn
and we come home tired and smelling of rain,
and we leave our muddy shoes
on opposite sides of the door,
and your mud is black city mud
and mine is red country clay.

Oh God,

Honey,
when did we stop walking
on the same Earth?

Small Stone, January 26

Nonchalant, cool kid that you are,
you lift your hands and sign, "More drink," --

like it is nothing that you have just
produced a two-word request
without the assistance of technology
for the first time.

I flip out --
laughing and squealing and
squeezing you around the shoulders while I
shove the requested drink into your hand,
splashing juice onto the table --

and this time you don't have to sign --
I can see you thinking, "Crazy lady!
What are you shrieking about?
I always ask for a drink
with my baked potato."

Small Stone, January 25

We walk side by side on our path, knowing that it might separate soon into two paths, and one will go up and one will go down. And if this happens, still we will keep sight of each other through the trees as long as we can. And even when the hills have hidden us from each other, we will each know for the longest time how far the other has got, simply by ingrained knowledge of length of stride, speed of step, strength of will.

Small Stone, January 24 (ish)

The only true light is the orange slice of sunset watching at the window, cutting a rectangular prism through arena dust onto the dirt. You laugh and look and leap, cling to mane, gasping and giggling, while you pull yourself aboard. I lean over, breathless with laughter, overcome with being exactly where I should be. I feel, pleasantly, like our 30 years are collective rather than respective.

Small Stone, January 23

The paper says he is survived
by a "devoted friend."

This is like the opposite
of found poetry.

A found-lie, there in print,
on the newstand

Next to where he, brave in the
face of shock and grief

Nonetheless hugs me, and says,
"It's good to see you, hon --"

And it's not hard to see why
his late husband loved him.

Small Stone, January 22

I find religion, for the first time in a while,
closing my eyes and calling quarters
from that place inside me that still knows how.

When I look up, the cat and dog have
settled at my feet, shoulder to shoulder,
gazing up at me with these matching expressions,
like, We've been wondering when you would be back.

Minutes later, we have returned to life as usual:
tennis balls and catnip toys
and Facebook status updates,
but we have reconnected in some small way
with the world and each other and ourselves.

There is something to this.

Small Stone, January 21

My sister can text with inflection. Her words are not flat on paper or screen; I can hear them in her voice, exactly the way she is thinking them all those miles away.

Still. I wish I were on a train like in November, drawing closer, waiting for the station escalator to lift me into sight of the top of her hat, the quirk of smile on her face, the scarf, the jacket, the boots, the hug, the homecoming.

Small Stone, January 20

You, kid, are going to freeze
if you keep refusing to zip your coat.
Your nose is red, but your grin is wide.
You are happy to sit under the branches --

"Zero leaves," you explain, "all gone. Leaves back what time? Spring."

You giggle your way through another chapter
of this book we're reading,
of this life you're writing.

I love that I get to read both.

Small Stone, January 19

One hot mug of oatmeal. Another of coffee, next to the travel mug, also full of coffee. I am armed and ready.

Small Stone, January 18

I gather my reins, like taking control of my life: planning a path, choosing the gait at which I will travel.

Then he, also like life, goes his own way: spooks off the fence, bucks and swishes his tail in annoyance, throws a fit, throws a shoe, breaks a rein and ducks into a spin, slips in a puddle, stops dead and refuses to budge. Sometimes I land easy and sometimes not so easy and sometimes I even manage to stay aboard, gripping long strands of mane in white-knuckled fingers, biting my lip, fighting tears, clinging to balance, clinging to hope, daring gravity to mess with me.

Eventually, I get the reins back. Turn. Plan a path. Choose a gait.

Maybe this time we'll canter easy.

Small Stone, January 17

Storm-sky's so stern it could hang above any of our settings -- the trailer, the cottage, the farmhouse, the balcony -- all the places we've written our story. How do we stop ourselves from turning the page? I want a bookmark, I want to pay the fines and beg for a renewal, I want to hold my thumb in place and reread my favorite passage. I want to lose myself in a run-on sentence and never reach the punctuation. I am dodging question marks. I am clinging to quotations.




(I'm also at Smack Dab in the Middle today.)

Small Stone, January 16

I always forget, until that first moment when I settle into the saddle -- gathering my reins, picking up my stirrups, straightening my shoulders as if there has never been any weight on them -- how good it will feel to be back home.

Small Stone, January 15

Garlic breadsticks, 99 cents. Chips, a buck fifty. The second can of chicken noodle soup, a dollar. Flat of water, four ninety-nine. The cashier pops her gum and scans backwards, and while we skim the cream off the groceries, I think of cold metal pails on summer days, not sure whether I'm remembering or dreaming.

Small Stone, January 14 (ish)

Magnum walks different in his red blanket, like a kid with new shoes, stepping extra high to say, "Look at me!" Of course I do.

Small Stone, January 13

I was hoping for fluffy, Frosty the Snowman flakes, but what we've got is ice-powder, painted down between the bricks with a fierce wind-brush. Yesterday's puddles are today's miniature ice rinks for the few leaves and twigs that haven't already frozen to the sidewalk. In a single blast of wind, I feel the coffee cup in my hand go cold. I think of horses on mornings like this, of the warm spot between neck and mane, of the ice that clings to the sides of the bucket after I've chopped down through the middle, and the first thirsty sound the horses make when they drink what I've dug out for them. Last night I dreamt of a tack shop, of a floor to ceiling display of halters and gleaming leather bridles. Then you came and opened the door. You led me away.

Small Stones, January 12

I stroll through settings, breathe in backstory, long for lost characters. There is hardly a step of this city that hasn't been written.

Small Stone, January 11

I resolve to live in the moment. And then I laugh at myself, because, resolutions are concerned with future, not now. Now, in this moment, there is a cold metal gate latch, and a sherbert-colored sky, and this horse who likes me to scratch behind his left ear. Now is cold fingers and cold toes and a cold nose and a warm horse and a warm heart. Now is good.

Small Stone, January 10

The outlines of stores and churches
that have stayed the same shape
for at least the last eleven years
are muted this morning by fog,
like paint with too much water,
Grayed to look kind of like memory.

Headlights, brilliant bright,
slice the veil,
Catch reflective stripes and
bring the road to the surface,
So much easier to see than
all the things that are standing still.

Small Stone, January 9

You finger tap in rhythm with the pulse in my temple,
And your hum is the exact frequency of my migraine.
Child, do you really want to get rid of me?
At least you’ve got this teacher figured out
Down to the last Hot Tamale hiding place.
When I’m half a knot up from the end of my rope,
You catch my gaze and place your finger to your lips,
Then rest quiet hands on the table,
eyes sparkling even as you feign innocence.
I smile and climb back to the top of my rope.

Small Stone, January 8

January, more on top of things than I am, has repaired its air conditioning. Guess I should call the landlord, let him know he needs to fix the heat, but at the moment I'm content with hot coffee, thick socks, and a warm dog.

Small Stone, January 7

Today I walked to the gas station wearing track pants, and flats with no socks, and it was too warm even for my sweatshirt, and the flashing sign at the Catholic school said 61 degrees. So why can't I get my head out of winter four years ago, when I couldn't get warm, even with those little heat packs that go in your gloves? When the gate latches froze and the skid steer wouldn't start and the coyote calls got closer to the big warm barn? When I cracked ice on water buckets for horses whose big breath took up my vision so I couldn't see you anywhere?


The door just closed. I get it now. The theme is freeze.

Small Stone, January 6

Every time I crack my knuckles, hunker down into my chair, and get ready to type my small stone for the day, something interrupts me. It's almost as if I

Small Stone, January 5

I wish I could write like this kid:
in five kinds of ink, and backwards in the notebook,
scratching out those silly sixth-grade thoughts
and writing in seventh-grade wisdom.

A line at a time, I would revise myself
into the story of my choosing,
with page after page of promise
and a pen still mostly full of ink.

Small Stone, January 4

This song is:
Rosman Highway in 2007, yellow-paint line, sun burning mist off the mountains, horse waiting in the pasture, friendly crowds of unfamiliar faces, and, through a blanket of grief, a swell of hope.

This song is not:
Medicine, a time machine, the road from there to here, or an answer to the question I can't stop asking.

Small Stone - January 3

Flake-swirls skate across roof tiles,
Fling figures into empty air.
Baby-flakes drift against chimneys,
Skate mini-steps clinging to brick,
Think someday ...

Small Stone - January 2

Frost air bites through fleece,
denim, and twenty-five years.
I am five, on the steps,
looking at my breath.

A River of Stones

1/1/12: Not quite the red plaid blanket I lay on as a kid in the campground. But close.