Here are Cindy, Susan and I at the end of one very full weekend. All four of us "Oldberies" were together on Sunday morning, when Jenni was patched in via phone for the Newbery Dream Team panel, moderated by the charming and inimitable New York Public children's librarian, Betsy Bird.

Now, I have told the story of "the call" many times since January 07, but never with my Newbery comrades at my side, and never to 400-plus of my writing friends. I'm going to blame Susan, who went first, for triggering the first tears when she confessed to having given up her writing career the night before the announcement. Then Cindy shared stories she'd heard from children who connected with Catherine in Rules because they, too, have autistic siblings. By the time it was my turn to speak, my nose was red and all my mascara was completely washed off. Some kind audience member finally handed up a box of Kleenex to help staunch the floods. We all laughed through our tears as Jennifer Holm, two time honoree, shared her stories of missing getting the call -- both with Our Only May Amelia and with Penny from Heaven -- in person. I'm sure the third time will be the charm for her!

I am so grateful to the Western Washington SCBWI for bringing the four of us together. I'm not sure if all Newbery "classes" bond the way we have but my heart is full that I can count these three strong, honest, dear women -- who aren't too bad at writing, either -- among my life-long friends.

I'll also get to hang with the queen of Kid's Lit Drink Night (and assorted other accomplishments), Betsy Bird; not-so-secret agents Stephen Barbara, Kate Schafer, Rosemary Stimola and Marcia Wernick; and editors/art directors supreme Liesa Abrams, Jessica Garrison, Nina Hess, Arthur Levine (a good friend of a boy-wizard named Harry), Laurent Linn, Gary Luke, and Randi Rivers.

Whew! If those people weren't reason enough to be so excited I can't sleep, get this: this weekend, I will get to reune (it's a word according to today's NY Times crossword puzzle) with Cynthia Lord and Susan Patron -- two thirds of my Newbery posse. I guess we're technically Oldbery's but you get the idea. I'm so sad Jennifer Holm couldn't make the trip but I know she'll be with us in spirit. If you're coming to the conference, be sure to listen in to the Newbery panel where Betsy Bird asks us all about "the call" and maybe even about the "catcalls" regarding a certain word in Susan's wonderful book.

I'm so pumped!

Just hope I remember my toothbrush.

I made my book drop today; did you? I debated about where to leave it, heavily leaning toward a coffee shop that didn't begin with S but then had a stroke of genius:

Where had I seen the biggest congregation of teens lately? At my local library.

So some teen browsing in the J-M section of Teen Fiction at the Bothell Regional Library is going to come across a copy of Hattie Big Sky.

Let me know where you dropped your book!

I have just finished a page-turning historical novel, The Klipfish Code, (Houghton Mifflin) by Mary Casanova. I read it all yesterday afternoon, trying to finish it before my 6:15 yoga class. Everyone was on their mats when I rushed in. And I had a heck of a time clearing my mind of Mary's compelling story so that I could truly get one with the universe.

Confession: I had no idea Norway was invaded and occupied by the Germans in WWII. (My resident history expert filled me last night in over dinner -- it was a horrendous and brutal occupation). Mary's story features a 10-year-old girl, Marit, and her brother, Lars, sent away to stay with their Aunt Ingebor and Bestefor (grandfather) after their own village is bombed. Marit's parents stay behind to work in the Resistance and the children don't hear from them for months at a time. When Marit's aunt, also her teacher, spurns a courting Nazi officer, she is punished when, later, teachers are rounded up and sent to "re-education" camps. Marit herself struggles with her anger at her cold and seemingly uncaring grandfather, and her desire to do something.

Her chance comes when she happens upon a badly injured Resistance fighter and is asked to fulfill his mission. I don't think I took one breath during that portion of the book. Mary's use of details and action so thoroughly set me in that time and place, that I was shivering right along with Marit as she rowed her little boat to the next village to deliver an all important item.

In addition to being a terrific writer (check out her website for other titles), Mary is a darned good human being. She's warm and generous and has a great sense of humor. I've had the great good luck to cross paths with her twice, both times in Missouri.

So raise your glass of glugg (in honor of her Norwegian relatives!) to the newest Hot Woman of Children's Literature: Mary Casanova.

My good friends over at ReaderGirlz -- Divas Lorie Ann Grover, Justina Chen Headley and Mitali Perkins -- have come up with another amazing, and amazingly generous, idea. On April 17th (that's this Thursday!), they are inviting authors (and readergirlz) to drop a copy of a YA book somewhere in their own communities. This movable feast of literature is paralleling publisher donations of ten thousand books to hospitalized teens all around the country.

It's easy -- and fun! Go to ReaderGirlz TBD to read more -- and to read about how you can participate.

I haven't decided yet where I'm leaving a copy of Hattie Big Sky, but I suspect it will be some place that serves my favorite caffeinated beverages!

If you participate, let me know where you dropped your book. Check in on Friday morning, and I'll let you know where Hattie ended up.

For instance, a small yellow lined notepad captured true wisdom from David Small, when he spoke to the Forum on Children's Literature in Orem, Utah: "Complaining and whining are a big part of my creative process. I think it' s the best way to start a project." David and I have a lot in common, in addition to being fans of Russell Hoban's A Mouse and His Child.

On the same yellow pad, I captured this unexpected snack tip from savvy YA writer Ann Dee Ellis: "Pour a layer of kernels in the bottom of a brown paper lunch sack and roll the top down twice. Zap for 1 minute and 20 seconds for cheap, tasty microwave popcorn."

Again from Utah, this time from editor Alexandra Penfold: "Writing is believing and this belief starts with believing in yourself."

Deeper down in the pile, I found a Valentine card from a new friend, met on my paperback tour for Hattie; a business card for a teacher in Wisconsin I was supposed to send a photo to; and some paperwork for a conference I'm speaking at in June. I sent the photo and tackled the paperwork.

Just as I sometimes need to clean off my desk to create elbow room to work, it seems I also sometimes need to clear out the clutter in my head, too. So even though I need to be working on the revision of Novel in Progress (or NIP as I've been calling it), I took time today to make space for that work by jotting down notes for a picture book that have been rattling around in my brain, demanding attention. I also spent some time working on a short story I've been mulling over. I can't tell you how good it feels not to have those two things threatening to topple over onto my novel.

If today's work doesn't help tomorrow's rewrite session, then I'll take my cue from David Small and do a lot of whining and complaining.

But -- there is. And I answer it several times each day. It happens when I clean out my junk mail file. No, I do not want to talk with you because you are bored tonight. No, I am not interested in enhancing certain body parts -- some of which I don't even possess. No, I don't want to buy cheap prescription drugs over the internet.

I highlight all the junk and hit delete. Then my computer -- which is generally very astute and attuned to my needs -- asks the stupid question: "Are you sure you want to delete junk mail? This action is permanent."

Sigh. If I wasn't sure, would I have highlighted all that nonsense and selected delete?

It strikes me that there is another kind of dumb question, the kind I typically ask myself when I'm beginning a new project. It can sound something like, "Do you actually think you can pull this off?" or "Do you really think this is a good idea?" or the worst, "Do you know how bad this writing is?"

This type of question is dumb but because it is a waste of creative energy. I may not end up publishing everything I write -- I have a drawer full of manuscripts to prove that -- but I've learned it's important for me to give a story a chance. That means sticking with it for a draft or two. At some point, I may decide I need to set that project aside, either because of editorial feedback or my own gut feelings. But if I don't give those baby ideas a chance to try to stand on their own two feet, I do all of my work a disservice.

It probably helps that I firmly believe no writing is ever wasted -- not even the poison pen letters I painstakingly craft but don't send.

There's some reason you're being led to write a particular story. Give it a chance to develop. Have fun with it. Be playful. Experiment.

And try not to get too cranky when your computer asks you, yet again, if you're sure you want to delete that email from that generous Nigerian prince.

and Kirby and Neil all smiles.

One big happy group. . . until we realized we'd pulled that solid wood door shut behind us and all of our luggage, our cell phones, our keys were inside. And of course this was the morning we were leaving. And of course the driver was on his way to pick us up. And of course it was the birthday of Benito Juarez, a Mexican national holiday, so all of the locksmiths were closed.

While Neil and Ron launched into action, Ann and I sat on our front stoop and waited. A charming elderly man stopped to chat with us. He was a famous music teacher, he said. He had famous students all over the world! His father had bought the house kiddy-corner from ours for ten pesos in 1908. We thoroughly enjoyed our conversation. Our driver came, we explained the problem, he called someone who called someone who came with a key. Our new friend wandered on up Callejon de Los Muertos.

Later, while we waited for the guys to come back from their fruitless trip to find an open locksmith, Ann and I walked down the street, passing in front of our new friend's home. The door was open, and we could peek into the entry courtyard.

Every available spot was covered with framed photos of our neighbor with other musicians, with awards and plaques. Here, we'd been living in the same neighborhood with this treasure and it took getting locked out of the house to give us this special moment.

So while I cherished each moment I had in San Miguel to be one with my laptop, this last encounter reminded me that life is what happens in white space.

It pays to sit on your front stoop every once in awhile and just wait to see what happens.

(a shout out to Elizabeth D. who kept asking me to post some San Miguel photos!)

Ann and Ron. . .all smiles. . .

Ann and I walked everywhere, even to Spanish class each morning. During the half hour walk, we had the chance to see and hear the village of San Miguel wake up. A favorite memory is of the milk trucks honking their horns and abuelas and ninos would come out of their houses, carrying metal pails or sauce pans to scoop up the day's milk.

Near the Instituto de Allende, Ann and I would turn off on a side street, and then onto Enero, and walk another three cobble-stoned blocks uphill to our Spanish class. As if the walk there weren't enough, once arrived, we climbed this spiral staircase to our classroom.

Lit up at night, this looked like something you'd only find on a movie set. . .or in Disneyland.

On March 4, after a red eye from LA and a 90 minute drive from Leon, Ann Paul and I arrived at our new home for two weeks: Casa Los Muertos, in San Miguel de Allende. After lugging bags inside, we did the only sensible thing: napped. Our rumbling tummies woke us a few hours later and we went in search of nourishment.

And, boy, did we find it! Not only did we eat sumptuously during our sojourn in San Miguel, we were fed in so many other ways. Our mornings were spent at Spanish classes -- with a stop on the way at my favorite cafe latte stand! We took a different route home nearly every day, so soon streets like Zacateros, and Hernandez Macias and Umaran were as familiar and comfortable as our own at home.

Every afternoon -- while San Miguel siesta-ed -- we wrote. Ann had a pressing April 1 deadline and I had a pressing need to feel like a real writer again. Two glorious weeks of writing left me with a nearly completed rough draft.

Our guys joined us for a few days, and we transformed from artistes to turistas -- taking in concerts and tours and some of the sights. And a lot of guacamole and totopos! (chips)

If you ever, ever get the chance to spend some time in San Miguel -- go! You will be awakened each day by a cacophony of birds . . .or perhaps fireworks in celebration of a saint's day. Stay in the Centro and you can almost ignore the encroaching "gringo land" of Home Depot and Office Max. It's a great place to rest, write and drink in the scenery -- as well as other refreshing treats.

But I've just returned from the Utah Valley University Forum on Children's Literature where I met people who actually read my blog! And they were wondering why I hadn't posted in a good long while.

Here's the scoop: after an insanely crazy year, I ran away from home. All the way to San Miguel de Allende, in central Mexico. I went with my dear friend, Ann Whitford Paul. We rented a house on Callejon de los Muertos (street of the dead; but don't let the name fool you). For two glorious weeks, we went to Spanish class every morning and came home and wrote every afternoon. At sunset, we'd race up to the roof to watch the breathtaking swarms of birds etch dark vees into the midnight blue sky, and then we'd head off to a new place for dinner. (My favorite: Los Milagros: The Miracles).

In San Miguel, I couldn't use my cell phone to call out. I had to wait until my family called me. Checking email was cumbersome. I was untethered.

And it was good. Ann and I cranked out the page count. One day, I was tired and ready to quit. Ann said (and I quote) "It's only 3:30." So on I wrote. It was delicious to (re)discover that I could write. And, fresh off the Whidbey Island Writers Conference, I latched onto Erik Larson's advice: quit when you get to a good spot. So every day, I would quit when I was ready to keep going. And that proved to be the golden ticket.

Other blessings of the Whidbey conference: co-presenting with my darling friend Ann and darling co-author, Mary Nethery, who knows more about plot than I could ever hope to learn. A tete-a-tete with one of my writing heroes, Elizabeth George, who has to be about one of the most honest and kind people you could ever hope to meet.

Pardon my bouncing around but I've been in the air a lot: zipping from Whidbey to Mexico, then back (after an unexpected overnight in LA at Ann's house; that is a long story I might tell you sometime over a glass of wine) and then home one night in my own bed, then off to Orem for the Utah Valley University Forum on Children's Literature. Oh my.

There I was shepherded by Rick Walton (picture book author) and student, Cherilee Howden who took such good care of me she nearly ran out of quarters buying me bottles of water! I also met the rock stars of children's picture books, Sarah Stewart and David Small, who -- of all things!-- had spent 10 winters in San Miguel de Allende. We became instant best friends. Could there be two kinder and more alive people in the entire world? I doubt it. I bought David a latte -- I think it was his first -- and cozied up with Sarah, wishing I could soak up her gardening genius.

I got scolded in Utah by people who said they read my blog and were --ahem-- peeved I hadn't posted lately. So now you know. I've been gone. Attached please find the note from my mother/doctor/agent/best friend. You fill in the blank.

I try to have a writing lesson each time I post. So here is this post's lesson: stop when things are really good. Run away from home every once in awhile. Hang out with kind and interesting people.

And learn how to make a genuine chile relleno.

What else is there?

Mary, Ann Whitford Paul and I team-taught a pre-conference workshop and loved the energy of the writers in attendance. We saw some major break-throughs as the drafts that'd been brought to the workshop were worked over, I mean, revised a la techniques taught in the workshop. The three of us are sweethearts, but we did show some tough love -- I even confiscated one woman's manuscript and commanded her to rewrite her opening without looking at the draft. She was smaller than me so I prevailed but her work ultimately was the winner in our tussle. The rewrite brought a round of spontaneous applause.

On Friday, Mary and I co-presented a fireside chat on narrative non-fiction, which inspired several writers to explore this as possible genre for their own work. Saturday, the three of us donned our pretend editors' hats and led a first pages workshop. We heard that it was illuminating for attendees to hear our reactions to their work. One common problem was using those precious opening words to provide backstory, certain death to any hook.

We were kept awfully busy but I did sit in on a session led by Stephanie Kallos, author of Broken for You. One of my favorite bits of wisdom from her was the observation that not every day of rewriting is one in which you can go deep. Sometimes, all you can do is change a word or two. . .but that's still writing! That was so freeing and affirming to me, a person who is oft overtaken by latent Puritanical principles.

The session that had the biggest impact on me, however, was attended by the fewest folks, once again proving that it's quality, not quantity. I was invited to be part of a panel discussing how awards had changed our work. Fellow panelists included Bill Dietrich, Rhonda Pollero (aka Kelsey Roberts), Greg Atkinson, Lewis Carlino and Elizabeth George. What hit me after each person shared their story is that most of them -- myself included -- received an honor at a particularly low, tough time in their writing life.

So why was that important to me? It confirmed that no matter how many trophies might sit on a writer's shelf, they still struggle with getting words on paper, they still struggle with what it means to tell a story true. As my friend, Derek Munson, once said about writers: "It can't be Easy Street for our characters, so why should we expect it to be Easy Street for us?"

The lesson here? Keep the faith and keep writing.