A Balancing Act . . . Writing a Picture Book in Verse

Sometimes we need a little imbalance in our lives to make us think about how to get centered again. Writing a picture book in verse is like that, too.

 When writing in poetical stanzas (With all those good things that any picture book needs—characterization, setting, and a plot, for goodness sake!)the writer has an additional concern. That is, a sense of balance. Oftentimes we can sense imbalance but we are not quite sure why something doesn’t work.

For example, the magical number in most western literature is three. Tasks, bad luck, good luck, etc. come in threes. If this is violated, somewhere down deep we readers feel a bit uneasy. Things are not quite what they should be.

Most picture books are thirty-two pages in length. (Some are forty, or twenty-four; all are a number of pages that can be divided by 8.) Working with thirty-two pages, a writer of picture books has to be able to envision action for approximately 13 double spreads (26 pages), and two single pages (first right page and final left page). The remaining four pages are front and back matter.

The job for the verse writer of picture books is partly realizing how the stanzas, with or without a chorus, play across these pages in a balanced way so the reader feels, yes! This is right. Early in my writing career I wrote a book from which my editor wanted me to remove one stanza to get it into a 24 page format. But which one should I remove?

This manuscript also contained a repeated chorus at precise points in the story. In my mind it was designed like one might a beaded necklace. There was an opening, three strands (stanzas) of a certain rhyme pattern and rhythm, a chorus strand with a different rhyme and rhythm, three more of the basic strand, another chorus, three more of the basic, and then a closing. So the original pattern went: Opening, 3 stanzas, chorus, 3 stanzas, chorus, 3 stanzas, closing.

How could I remove just one and keep the whole thing working in a balanced way? Well . . . obviously, I had to remove the center stanza so the central strand of the basic pattern contained only two stanzas. Now my pattern was Open, 3, C., 2, C., 3, Close.

You might think at this point that I am being just too fussy. But am I? Certainly a reader sometimes is not aware of all the work a writer does behind the scenes to make a story flow as though it were effortless. However, if we jarred the reader rudely at a point in the flow—he/she would certainly feel it, even though the reader might not be exactly sure why it didn’t work for him/her.

For example, lets look closely at a title from a friend of mine’s manuscript (Hope Vestergaard) that recently sold to Candlewick: Digger, Dozer, Dumper. Obviously, this is a book of large machines for little readers. And the title is perfect. Why is that?

First, we have the very descriptive words that tell exactly what each machine does. Second, we have the wonderful alliteration so beloved in children’s books that helps the title just roll off our tongues. But there is more . . . a third thing. This is something an author would think about and deliberately design, something that just feels right.

Notice the vowels? Each one progresses down in tone and where they said in the mouth. The “i” is higher, said using the tongue up near the roof of the mouth. The “o” is said in the round chamber of the middle of one’s mouth, while the “u” is said more in the lower back of the mouth near the throat. It feels good in our mouths to say it. It’s memorable, it’s musical. It’s perfect!

Now you know a little about why I fume when someone comments, “Oh it must be so easy to write those books. They’re so short.” When this happens I grit my teeth and remark that often the things we love most in the world are short, but they are not easily written. Think of Robert Frost’s poem “Stopping by Woods,” Lincoln’s “Gettysburg Address,” or the 23rd Psalm.

The best writing is precise and balanced.

Here’s to the beginning of a new writing year! Happy Holidays, all!

Shutta

Colors! Colors! Colors!

October is my favorite month. This morning I woke up to a shower of gold as the sugar maple at our back deck let loose with its leaves on a stormy morning. (See pic.)

Here in Michigan October can be glorious! I recently posted about searching for ways to get autumn smells into my writing. But lately, due to the beautiful sugar maples, oaks, Norway maples, burning bushes, and sweet gum tress that are turning bright colors—I am overwhelmed by the desire to figure out to describe the precise color of some of the leaves I see on my walks. Terms like “red,” “yellow,” “orange” and even “gold” are not always sufficient.

I have a friend whose mother is in her seventies and still working as a model. She NEVER describes colors as simply “blue,” “green” or “pink.” She always uses terms like “sea foam,” “jade” or “raspberry.” It’s a bit silly sometimes—but the listener can always envision exactly what she is talking about.

So I’ve been making a list of my favorite stand-in color words for this autumn wonder. Synonyms, I suppose. There are the metallic words, of course: gold, bronze, copper, and brass. A word I particularly like is “amber.” Amber can be any color from a deep russet to a sunny gold. So sometimes it need an additional descriptor. “Russet.” There’s another word I like!

For the reds there are words like: russet, amber, crimson, carrot, flame, coral, blush, rust, magenta, maroon, scarlet, carmine, ruby, wine, burgundy, chestnut, and sorrel—to name just a few. Isn’t “sorrel” lovely? For yellows the stand-ins could be: amber, flaxen, lemon, saffron, buff, honey, sunshine, butterscotch, caramel, fawn, and tawny. Isn’t “tawny” great? For orange I can’t think of as many. Certainly, amber again—and copper, melon, brass, apricot. For shades of brown there is amber again. And then there are some other wonderful browns. For example, I could say that the leaves around here are copper, umber, toast-colored, chocolate, mahogany, fawn, ginger, coffee, chestnut, and cinnamon. Why are so many of the brown colors food words? And finally, there are some very fine stand-ins for the green shades. (Yes, we still have some green leaves hanging on.) There is emerald, beryl, forest green, lime, olive, jade, and willow. “Willow green.” Beautiful!

It is at this time of year that I pay the most attention to getting sensual detail into my writing. With that thought, I offer you an original poem (below). You can tell that I am concerned here with things seen (remembered) as well as the sound, the taste, and the feel of things. But . . . I’m still having trouble with that sense of smell! Oh well. That just leaves more fun for me as I keep on tweaking the poem.

I hope you are all happily writing, as well.

Ciao! Shutta

Summer Portrait

She disappeared through the door,

her limp house dress a swirl of dust motes

in the hot afternoon, in the random stillness of memory.

There may have been an ice cube tray smacked

against the metal-rimmed countertop,

the plinking of cubes into jelly glasses,

and a furious crackling as ice fissured in lemonade.

There may have been a murmur of sullen air

skulking through the dry switch grass.

We may have carried kitchen chairs

out into the shade of the crippled willow.

The Buick may have been on blocks by then,

beleaguered by goldenrod and purple asters.

And I don’t recall if static from the transistor radio

masked droning cicadas. Or if she spoke at all.

But like the surprise of finding a cicada’s husk—

there remains a fragile lace of memory. The slap

of pink flip-flops on the hard-pack of the yard,

half-moons of watermelon on yellow plates,

and the sticky wash of juice meandering down arms.

(copyright:2009 Shutta)

The Smells of Autumn–and Writing About Them

It’s the time of year when I feel a bit like Leo Lionni’s grasshopper. Fall has well and truly come upon us in Michigan. The soy fields are dry and golden, the Virginia creeper wound round our trees is scarlet and we’ve had our first frost. Yesterday I heard sand hill cranes and assumed I’d see them in the neighbor’s field as I walked by. Nope. Twenty-two of them were forming a flying wedge and heading south.

It’s the time of year to be sure your larders are stocked. I’ve made my jellies and juices. And now, I have to collect as many bright and shiny words as I can and store them up against the day deep winter decides to accost us. To do this, I read and write (especially poetry). Sometimes it’s enough just to find a line I like. I keep those jotted down in my journal.

I keep my eyes and ears open. And, oddly enough, my sense of smell is truly alive at this time of year. Yesterday, in addition to the sand hill cranes and the soy fields I was particularly attuned to that tang—-that smell—-that is always in Michigan’s air in October. You know the one; overripe grapes small, dark, and pungently grapey smelling, and apples that have fallen on the dirt road to be smashed by cars and eaten by deer producing that sweet, sharp appley smell.

Well . . . you can see that I’m having a problem here. Just how does an author describe a smell? How do you get that into a poem or story? In fact, my book MY MOUNTAIN SONG (Clarion) deals, in part, with this issue when the main character wants to get the smell of the green dampness of the mountain holler into her song. I initially wrote that book more than twenty years ago . . . and I still wonder how it’s done. I do my best . . . but it never seems quite enough.

It’s easy to describe things you see, touch, hear, and to some degree taste (salty, bitter, etc.). But smell? And the funny thing is, I’ve read that the sense of smell can trigger our strongest and most emotional responses. And we humans have powerful reactions to pheromones.

 Perhaps it’s just that smell is so personal. Does the smell of ripe grapes smell the same to me as to you? Juicy apples? Hot chocolate and cinnamon? Wet dog? And what about that other smell for people of my generation? The one that said, yep, school is back in for the season. It was a combined smell of wet galoshes lined up along the walls, and that red rubbery stuff that the custodians used to sprinkle down before they swept the hallways. (What is that stuff called?). That smell has had such a hold on me for all these years that it is easy to bring a sense of it back to the foreground of my memory—-but how, as a writer do I write about it?

In the Torrey Pines park in California there is a path for blind walkers. It stops at spots along the way where the smells are particularly strong. I LOVED it! I loved the sage smells, the salt from the ocean, the pine smells. What a wonderful idea for sighted walkers, as well.

I don’t have any answers here for you. (If you have one for me, please let me know!) But I do have a thought for you: while you are squirreling away all those golden summer words and stories for the deep winter, store away some of those smells that have been important to you. Perhaps, one day, you can find a way to share them with others in your writing.

Happy autumn!

Happy writing (and smelling)!

Shutta

Coffee Shop Theater

I played house and school and library with my friends when I was young. These were occupations and settings with which we were familiar, and our imaginative play was a way of stumbling into growing up. When I grew up I became a housewife, a teacher, and then a librarian.

Today, I observe and participate in my grandchildren’s imaginative play.

Many years ago we converted the top floor of our two-story garage into a playhouse. In the playhouse I keep a number of my fun collectibles, including tin ware coffee pots. There is also a rescued neon cappuccino sign.  (See pic.)

When my grandchildren come to visit they like to play in the playhouse. But they are not playing house, or school, or library. Instead, their favorite scenario seems to be “Coffee Shop.”

They place a table in the center of the playhouse to act as the coffee shop’s counter. Then they label my various tin pots with scrawled signs that read: cappuccino, decaff, latte, and  regular. They pull out paper cups I keep on hand, and monopoly money. My husband and I are pressed into service as customers.

When this first happened, I was only mildly surprised. After all, the pots and the cappuccino sign lend themselves to a coffee house setting. And since they live in a university town with lots of coffee shops, it is not surprising that at sometime they might invent this sort of role playing. What has surprised me a bit more is how the game has evolved over the last two years.

Now a new play unfolds upon the coffee house stage. Grandma and Grandpa must enter the shop as perspective employees coming in to interview for a job.

We are each individually quizzed as to our preference for tea or coffee, what our favorite color is, have we ever had a job before, and how might we greet a customer? Our grandson or granddaughter dutifully jots down the answers to questions on a pad of paper. In the end one of us, usually my husband, will get the job. That’s because I am regulated to play any of a number of nutty characters—none of which my grandchildren will hire. (Smart kids.)

All good fun. But what fascinates me is the evolution of their play to include a series of job interviews. Why? I wondered. Their parents have had the same good steady jobs for years, and my husband and I are retired. Why this change from straight “Coffee Shop?”

I can only guess that it is some response to these economic times when so much of what they hear on the radio and on television is about the bottoming-out of the job market. Their imaginative play, seems to me, to underscore their take on the world. Just as I played house in the fifties and sixties, because a large part of a woman’s world was in the home, they play coffee shop because they see that as where adults mingle today. And because they know about the importance of jobs these days, their play seems to reflect this. Who knows, perhaps one day one of my grandchildren will work in a coffee shop or be the CEO of a large chain of coffee shops. We’ll see.

Watch your children play when they are not being directed by adults. What are they acting out? Let yourself be directed by them within the world of their play . . . fascinating and fun.

Ciao!

Shutta

Getting my Dose . . . of M. Vaccae and Vitamin G(grandson)

In 2008 I blogged about an article I’d read in Discover Magazine. It completely explained why most gardeners are such laid-back people. It turns out that according to a new study a harmless soil bacterium, Mycobacterium vaccae (M. vaccae), causes serotonin to be released in the brain. The study (“Identification of an Immune-Responsive Mesolimbocortical Serotonergic System: Potential Role in Regulation of Emotional Behavior,” by Christopher Lowry et al, originally published in Neuroscience.) indicates that inhaling M. vaccae while working in the garden, or walking, can create a better mood and lighten depression much the way Prozac does.

And I know it must be so! For in truth, I am much more relaxed when I am in the garden feeling my bare feet sink down into the cool soil. But this week, I also discovered other ways to get my dose of M. vaccae.

We have our twelve-year-old grandson staying with us for a week. Yesterday we went to one of the nearby water parks. It hosts a wave pool, a current-driven “river,” etc. I brought the latest teen novel I am reading and spread my blanket in the sun to keep an eye on said grandson, and to read. On my stomach with my head just inches from the grassy hillside overlooking the water features I inhaled that good hot-dirt summer smell. Hmm . . . What a way to relax, catch up on my reading, and get my dose of M. vaccae at the same time.

However, my favorite method I discovered today. My grandson is in training for his middle-school track team and after a sweaty run he sat down in the dirt of a local park to catch his breath. Later, he helped in the garden, beat his grandfather at a game of ladder ball, and generally messed around outside. Just before I ordered him into the bathroom for a shower, we stood for a few minutes in the hallway. I hugged him and kissed the top of his head. Hmm . . .

He’d collected a lot of that good M. vaccae on his skin. I breathed it in and felt that surge of happy serotonin in my brain. And I inhaled another essential vitamin—Vitamin G(grandchild).

Ahh . . . summer. Books. Grandchildren. Could it ever get any better?

Ciao!

Shutta

*Read Before You Invite . . .

Every year I hear from a number of well-meaning, hard-working event organizers. Sometimes these are teachers squeezing in a few more hours of work into their already full days. Sometimes these are volunteers laboring on behalf of causes they deeply support. As an author, I feel privileged to be invited to speak, present, or sign at these events.

However, there are always some misconceptions that need to be cleared up; and often it is difficult to do that tactfully. So I think it behooves me to post this here in the hopes of enlightening some of the teachers, booksellers, parents, or other folks who visit Big Universe and who are working on an event to which they hope to invite an author, or authors.

1.) The majority of authors make very little money.* Surprised? Do the math. The basic contract for a novel is 10%, so that’s $1.50 for a $15 novel. General first, or second, print runs are usually less than seven thousand copies. Many authors can only produce one or two books a year. For picture books, it’s worse! That 10% must be shared between the author and the illustrator. (No one magically comes up with another 10% for the illustrator.) Thus, 5% of a $16 hard-cover picture book is only 80¢ per book! So event organizers take note: most authors will not travel long distances for “the opportunity” to sell a few copies of their books—the price of gas would eat up any royalties made on the sales. (The exception to this is bookstore signings/large conferences when networking is of more importance than the number of books sold.)

*We do it for the love of writing, and for children.

2.)  Authors do not get unlimited supplies of free copies. Generally, an author will get anywhere between five and twenty-five free copies. That’s it, folks! After that, authors must buy their own books—–though at a discounted rate. So event organizers, or teachers: when you’re looking for “donations” for various causes, know that most authors will only donate to personal causes, or make family decisions on donation requests as the cost of the books will be coming out of the author’s pocket.

3.) To extend #1 a bit further, unless an author is self-published (or published through a print-on-demand company, or a subsidized/vanity publisher), most authors cannot purchase author copies of their titles at a discount price and then turn around and sell them at the listed price—you can see that would cut out most of the profits made by others. In fact, some contracts expressly forbid this . . . so most authors who are not self-published do not rent tables to be vendors at book fairs or other functions. Don’t expect them to self-sell their books. However, many authors are very happy to appear and autograph books if the sponsoring agencies handle the book ordering and sales. (ps.—–I would also venture to guess that most mainstream authors do not have sales tax licenses for all the states to which they are invited.)

4.)  Finally, most authors do not have the time to be online pen pals with you or your very talented students/children. Yes, we love children, we love schools and teachers, and parents who care. It’s just that there are not enough hours in the day—–barely enough to be available to love our own children, spouses, and students. (Due to # 1 above, some of us hold down full-time day jobs, as well–—like teaching.)

I hope this does not sound curmudgeonly! It isn’t meant to. These were things I, too, had to learn about the business. Of course, there are some exceptions to every rule. There are families who have incorporated and the majority of their life is spent taking the book(s) a family member wrote on the road. These few folks are the publishers as well as the authors and can sell or do whatever they wish with their merchandise. However, most of us do not have that luxury.

I enjoy doing speaking at venues around the country—-as do most authors. Just realize, that a little more planning and preparation may be needed on the part of the organizers to make the event flow smoothly.

(If you are interested in more tips on working with authors and illustrators check out this list at my website. )

Happy planning!

Shutta

Best of the Worst

I was reminded that the 2009 Bulwer-Lytton winners had recently been announced. I always enjoy these each year. This is the annual contest for the worst opening line (Since 1983). It is named after Edward George Bulwer-Lytton who wrote the famous opening phrase that Snoopy used so often: “It was a dark and stormy night . . .”  [Paul Clifford, 1830].

If you get a chance check out the winners for this year at http://bulwer-Lytton.com .

One of my favs was the romance winner: 

Melinda woke up suddenly to the sound of her trailer being pounded with wind and hail, and she couldn’t help thinking that if she had only put her prized hog up for adoption last May, none of this would be happening, no one would have gotten hurt, and she wouldn’t be left with only nine toes, or be living in a mobile home park in Nebraska with a second-rate trapeze artist named Fred.  (by Ada Marie Finkel. Boston, MA)

HAH! (But it does make you want to keep reading, doesn’t it?)

Entries are taken all year long for the next batch of winners, so why not contribute if you’ve got a sentence that just isn’t working? Make it as awful as you can . . . who knows, you might be one of next year’s winners. And teachers, have your students-—just for a fun respite from studying good writing—try writing the worst sentence they can. Have some samples of purple prose around, or first lines from genre fiction for them to imitate.

Have fun!

Ciao,

Shutta

Treading Mud . . . Writer’s Block

Hah! Whoever said a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step should have his/her head examined. The truth is a thousand steps in lots of directions might—one day, if you’re lucky—–coalesce into a single journey. I write this from experience.

One would think that I’m at a good point this summer; for the first time in years I’ve actually got some free time on my hands. I could finish one of the many projects I have that are partially done. I could start a new novel or other project. But I keep stumbling first one way, and then another. And then I retreat . . . I’ve taken a whole lot of steps to get exactly nowhere fast.

My husband has complete faith in me. Don’t I already have ten books out and more under contract? He knows I’ll find my way. I don’t. One would think that the more writing one does, the easier it gets. I should have learned something about how to start by now. But it seems to me that every book has its own fits and starts. Each one is different. I can’t find a pattern about how to jump in and get going. It’s like I’m circling a pool and wondering where do I wade in? As my southern kin would say, I’ve been “treading mud.”

I’ve no dearth of partial projects, sketched ideas, picture book drafts, lists, character studies—–all things I could work on. And still, each morning I get up and try to find anything else to do but write! Why is it so hard? I love words. I even love working with an editor on the revision process. I just really do not like creating that first draft. It’s a bit like Michael Kanin said, “I don’t like to write, but I love to have written.”

I know the routine—–the things you’re supposed to say to help snap someone else, or yourself, out of a slump. I’m also a writing instructor. I know all the bits of wisdom (or at least a good portion of them), like looking back to the initial excitement of a piece. What was it that spurred me originally to jot these ideas down, to get this partial manuscript going? I’ve been rifling through my unfinished manuscripts and asking myself that a lot lately. I know I need some block busting technique, like timed writing everyday, or a writing buddy to help me through. I know, I know, I know . . . But it’s just not clicking.

Lately, I’ve even had dreams of going back to work. Gads! (I’m a retired librarian.) I told them to my husband. He laughed and said that’s only because any day job is easier to do than putting my rear in the chair and trying to create magic with my fingers. He’s right. A job would just be another excuse not to write.

Whenever I do a workshop and a child looks at me and says, “I don’t know what to write.” Believe me; I’m right there with him/her. The blank page is a frightening thing. (Is there a term for that fear?) Sometimes I suggest that the child just keep drawing big circles on a piece of paper over and over and over until a word pops up. I learned this method of loosening-up from an art instructor. Besides, it’s a better thing to suggest to kids than suggesting Gene fowler’s method. He’s said, “Writing is easy. All you do is sit staring at a blank sheet of paper until drops of blood form on your forehead.”

Okay, I’ve written this posting. Now I’ve gotta go face my fear or, at least, produce another bit of abstract circle art to tack up on the bulletin board above my desk with all the others. If it’s drawn in blood, come get me.

Ciao!

Shutta

The Lure of the Challenge

Today I watched a Nature special on Death Valley. One thread of the story involved a group of runners who ran the 120+ miles across the valley. They were accompanied by a support team that doused the runners with water and spritzed them with sun block as they ran in temperatures well above 100 degrees. It was grueling on their bodies. I wondered, what would possess an otherwise sane person to do such a thing?

Then I remembered that, oh yes, I’d run a similar marathon (of sorts) in April by participating in the 30 days/30 poems challenge to celebrate National Poetry Month. The idea was to write 30 poems over the course of the 30 days after getting a new prompt each day from Robert Lee Brewer, the Writer’s Digest blogger at Poetics Aside. However, at the time, this did not seem like that much of a challenge to me in that any old lines thrown together could count . . . whether those lines were any good, or not. And so, I upped the ante.

I challenged myself to writing 30 poems in 30 days using 30 different forms/styles for each one. Ok . . . so I wasn’t writing in 100+ degree temperatures here in Michigan in April, but I really sweated this challenge.

And I did have a “team.” My hubby would periodically grouse at me, “Aren’t you supposed to be writing a poem?” Occasionally he had to douse me with water when I fell asleep in front of the television in the evening, my pen and paper sliding from my slack hands. “You can do it!” he’d yell to my startled face. Then I’d whip my wet hair from my face and realign my thoughts on yet another poem before midnight.

Long before the 30 days were over—as I clenched my pen and struggled to create a villanelle, a sijo, a roundel, an ode—I knew I’d discovered yet another way to lose my reason. Why was I doing this to myself?

Why do we challenge ourselves? What do we get out of it? A sense of accomplishment? Bragging rights? Or just the pleasure of releasing cooped-up energy?

As far as energy goes . . . I’m not one of those kinds of people who have to be constantly active. Believe me; stretched out on the sofa, I can easily take several short naps all day long.

I am not at all like my sister whose hands shake if she isn’t busy doing at least four things at one time—like crocheting, planting dahlia tubers, playing cards, and changing the oil filter in her car. Really. (True story: Once, she decided to make everyone in the family a quilt for Christmas; her siblings, her kids, her nieces and nephews. These quilts would be either twin-sized or full-sized, depending upon whether the person was married. She made twenty-one quilts that year! A fully-accomplished challenge in itself. But here’s the kicker—when she sat down to wrap them, she discovered that she’d made one too many. One too many! How does one “accidently” make an extra quilt?)  Believe me; I don’t have that kind of energy. No.

As far as a sense of accomplishment goes, sure. I’m proud that I did it. And I do feel like I have some ownership of the bragging rights. (I did invite others to join me in this heightened challenge. None did.)

But now, at a distance of more than a month, I truly see why I did it . . . I needed to make myself learn more about certain poetic techniques and forms. These were aspects of poetry I might not have otherwise found the time to study. In other words, it was some sort of writer’s survival mechanism that made me yank myself up off the couch and get cracking. I obviously was not going to do it on my own. (I’m not my sister.) I had to publicly declare myself, and I had to allow myself to be open to public defeat. The stakes had to be high.

That meant that I declared myself on my website, on Facebook, on Twitter. That meant posting my poems (even the bad ones written late at night with no revision—wince!), and blogging about my progress up until the bitter end.

It was truly mentally and physically taxing. Ok. I admit, maybe not to the degree of the long distance runner crossing Death Valley. Still . . . how many of them would face a sonnet at eleven o’clock at night with only an hour remaining? (And the theme that day was never–never doing something again.)

Why bring this up now as my first post for Big Universe? By accepting this blogging assignment again (I used to blog for B.U. before its latest incarnation.), I am once more publicly declaring myself. It will be a challenge to post regularly. And I am sure to learn a great deal about how to do this correctly.

And, I suppose, to do that I should have started off this first post with a quick introduction. About me: I am a children’s book author. My tenth book (THUNDER-BOOMER! Published by Clarion. Illustrated by Carol Thompson) is just out and has garnered three starred reviews thus far. Almost all my books have graced state award lists or the Bank Street College’s Best Children’s Books of the Year lists. I’m a retired children’s librarian and was awarded the Michigan Library Association’s Award of Merit as Michigan’s youth librarian of the year for 2002.

As you can imagine, the love of children’s books runs like blood through my veins. Therefore, I am so pleased to have been invited back to blog for Big Universe. I am proud of all it has done to promote the joy of reading and writing.

Until next time, remember to challenge yourself!

Shutta Crum

(BTW: Shutta Crum is my real name, not a pseudonym. Geesh! If I’d been thinking along the lines of pseudonyms, I’d have thought of a better one than Shutta. Nope. It was my Dad’s nickname, and my real name. If you want more information on me, or my books, check out my profile or my webpage at http://www.shutta.com.)