The First Annual Big Question Contest Wanna be Rich OR an Artist? Pick One.

Great Prizes! Publication! Attention! Adulation!

Every Sunday Morning (OK, almost every Sunday morning) I have a lovely chat with my "boyfriend.” He lives in New York and I live in Dallas, But that’s fine…we enjoy our Sunday morning conversations. We’ve known each other since the fourth grade. He was sort of really my boyfriend in high school, we dated a few times until, he claims, my father terrified him so much he asked another girl to the senior prom. I’ve forgiven him, but clearly am still the teeniest bit miffed, or I would never have brought it up, would I?

We have these lovely, interesting visits, enjoying this friendship that began in, as best I can figure, in either 1939 or 1940. After high school it went on hold until our Fiftieth High School Reunion. A tsunami had passed over the dam for each us by then, but we picked up like it had been only a few weeks.

Donald, ( I call him Don, but he prefers Donald) spent his whole life as an artist. He was a designer for Gorham Silver, his work is in museums all over the country. You can look him up…Donald H. Coleflesh. He’s considered one of the top silver designers of the Twentieth Century. Pretty impressive, huh?

I’ve been an artist too, ever since I picked up my first crayon. I’ve experimented with dozens of mediums…I’m not going to go on and on about that, but you can ask my kids. They never saw me without some kind of artsy-craftsy project going on. I’m still at it and so is Don. Artists are like that. They can’t stop. They may switch mediums numerous times, (how many actors are also known as painters?) but they never just sit down and announce that they are done now. Lost interest, tired of messing with it, calling it quits for good.

We talked this past Sunday morning about the fact that only a lucky few artists ever make it to the top of their game, getting rich off their talent. The rest of us just mudge along, doing our thing and we’re delighted if ten people know about it. And the money? Huh.

Don designed stunning silver pieces, I’m sure the museums (Dallas Museum among ‘em, and the Smithsonian to drop just a few names!) paid a pretty penny for them. He has no idea who owned them or who sold them but you can be sure that more than a few dollars changed hands. Not into his hands though. As is usually the case.

Now here comes the big however…when I asked him this morning, if he’d rather been very very rich and able to buy anything he wanted, or would he rather be an artist, it didn’t take but a minute to decide he’d far rather be the artist. And I understand. I cannot imagine my life without the ability to create, to take an idea that just pops into my head and turn it into a reality…even if it’s just a new necklace, a short poem, a new blog…whatever. It’s who I am and how I am. But that’s me. You may differ totally.

Which brings me (finally!) to the contest. Are you an artist? Any art form qualifies, if you can see it, hear it, feel it, or even smell it, it’s an art form. For the purposes of this contest you have to answer the question “Would you rather be a millionaire OR would you rather be an artist?” You can be one or the other, but not even halfway both. Tell us what/why/how you choose. There’s not a penny for an entry fee. It’s free. You can’t beat the price!

And oh, yeah, please read the rules below. (You’d be amazed at the people who don’t)

Here’s the Contest Rules:

1. Entries may be any art form suitable for reproduction in print, that will fold and fit in a #10envelope. Both options are encouraged as an entry, do not think you have to choose the artist’s life to qualify. We really want to know both sides of the question.Drawings, writing, poetry, photography…anything goes as far as an entry, just make sure it fits and can be returned in the same size envelope. Be passionate, be funny, be crass, but not crude. Crude will be burned, not returned.

2. Send THREE copies of each entry. Entries must fit on ONE 8.5 X 11 page. ONE entry per envelope. please.

3. Send your entry by mail only, e-mail entries will be deleted. If you want your work back please include a stamped self addressed envelope. Mail to:

The Big Question Contest
101 S. Coit Road
Suite 36-177
Richardson Texas, 75080

4. Deadline is Aug 1, 2009. Announcement of winners will take place Sept 30, 2009.

Prizes: Publication on the web for sure…with announcements of all winners on Facebook, and Twitter, all winners web sites and blog links posted as well. And if we get enough entries…print publication! Yep, We’ll publish a book of the best entries of both views. It will be available on Amazon.com. Winners will get 5 free books with their entry in it, and be able to purchase books at 55% off for resale on their own web sites, at book shows, art shows, or your coffee table.

The Girls Group

We call ourselves The Girls Group. Don’t ask me why…it just sort of happened. Our little group began one holiday season when Helen decided that she needed to have a party while her house was already decorated for the Christmas tour. We were all members of the Historic Preservation League, so we were invited. We had a great time. And decided we should do it again in a month. Or something like that…nobody really remembers for sure. That was about 20 or so years ago. Another thing nobody remembers for sure. But, what we all do remember is how much fun we have had through those many years.
Carla has always been our style guru as well as our home décor advisor. Nobody ever saw her less than perfectly made up, fashionably dressed and bedecked with fabulous jewelry.
At some point in time, our Christmas dinner became a Carla thing, in her beautiful home on Normandy. We loved going there, it was always so pretty and so festive. Just like Carla herself.
What did we do for fun? Well, a little bit of everything, but our focus for many, many years was the Historic Preservation League, now called Preservation Dallas. We did fund raisers; glamorous events at the Art Museum, at the Gas Building and other interesting venues. Putting on one of those events took team work, dedication and lots and lots of time. Carla led the pack in our effort to make those events memorable. More often than not, she was in charge of decorating the tables, because we knew perfectly well they’d be standout if she did it.
Then we got the Farmhouse. And with it, the Mystery Dinners for special guests. We entertained Stanley Marcus, not to mention many other notable Dallasites. It was so much fun!!! We loved our house and we all worked very hard to make those dinners perfect. Just like Carla wanted (expected) them to be. Most of the time we pulled it off beautifully. Still, one or two times we had to drop back and punt, but nobody ever knew. The disasters stayed hidden behind the kitchen door. Mostly.
Carla loved that farmhouse so much that when Joe asked her one year if she would like a nice new car for Christmas she said no, she’d really rather have a nice new roof for the farmhouse. She got it.
We all know that Carla is an artist. No question about that. Who else would be creative enough to put a little doll chair on every stair step in the Richardson house? And on a bathroom wall as well.
In March we had a fabulous dinner party at Carla’s. It was a gathering of The Girls Group, a very special occasion, Helen had flown in from Seattle to be there. As you can well imagine, putting all of us together at one table, the conversations are non-stop, half of us talking all at once and, um, well, a teeny bit loud. Over dessert Carla announced that she was going back east to visit her college, Mary Baldwin, for a special event. Helen only heard the Mary Baldwin part.
“What!” she exclaimed, “Marry Baldwin??? Who is Baldwin??? I never heard you mention him before!!”
Well, we all lost it. We’ve hung out for years, and we’ve had a lot of laughs, but I don’t think we ever laughed like that before. It was totally hilarious! Carla nearly fell out of her chair she laughed so hard.
But up until the Second Sunday Supper Club dinner in April, I never knew that Carla painted. It was her turn to host the club. While we were all at the table that evening, she casually mentioned that she had painted the picture hanging on the wall. I spent the entire night staring at that picture. It was a lovely piece. Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so surprised. After all, her whole life has been devoted to art in one form or another, hasn’t it?
The whole evening was well done, in a beautiful setting, inside and out, delicious food, wonderful conversations, lots of laughter, a celebration of a marriage announcement, presided over by our gracious hostess, making sure that everything was perfect. Carla knew she was not well, but never a word did she say. It was a party, not time to talk about illness.
How like Carla to be throwing back to back parties in the last two months of her life! Who else do you know that could pull that off?
We’ve all heard the “I’m going to Marry Baldwin” tale several times since then, and I’m quite sure it’s not the last time. I think it’s destined to be one of the prize memories of our Girls Group. We’ve shared a lot over the years, happy times and sad times and sometimes even heart-wrenching painful times. Our lives are sewn together like a beautiful patchwork quilt. We stick together, through storms and sunshine, and I think each one of us truly believes that among our many blessings, one we are most grateful for is our treasured friendships in The Girls Group. Carla will always be a part of that.

My Clock Runneth Over

indeed the Lord is my Shepherd

but if he leadeth me to green pastures

it’s difficult to see them for the miles

and piles of neatly stacked papers

all waiting to be read or filed or

acted upon in ways I have long ago

intentionally forgotten

and even if I live a hundred years

lo and behold most of the stacks

will have crumbled into dust

hopefully long before I do

and that I suppose is the good news

The Gift

Joe sighed happily, stretched out on the couch, and grabbed the remote. Perfect. He could not understand all the fuss and carrying on about Christmas Eve. He’d a whole lot rather be here in his own place, instead of at his parents. Quiet was not a word they understood at all.
In the morning he’d be there in time for 9:00 Mass, then the big breakfast his mother insisted on, then gift opening, his sister’s kids rampaging around the house, then the even bigger dinner with all the family, then everybody singing Italian folk songs and arias from operas. Great fun. But not quiet.
He knew what to expect from his mother, the grilling over when he was going to settle down, droning on about why had he dumped Maria, (he hadn’t, she’d dumped him, but Mom never got that message) the teasing from his brothers and sister, and the wink, wink, that’s my boy from his father.
He flicked on the TV and settled down for a peaceful evening. As he dozed off he could hear bells ringing, but it was sound of a cat yowling on his front stoop that finally woke him. Stupid cats! Oh, well, they’ll stop in a minute. He glanced at the clock over his new plasma TV screen. 11:45. He closed his eyes again. The cat kept it up. Annoyed, he grabbed one of his shoes to fling at the offender, jumped up and headed for the front door. He could see snow drifting gently down through the storm door window, and he saw the big cardboard box sitting right in front of the door. What? Somebody’s cute idea of a present?
The sounds came from inside the closed box. He grabbed it, pulling it in. Fear, shock, emotions he couldn’t name washed over him like a red wave. It was a baby! Crying frantically inside the box. A baby! His hands shook as he ripped open the top. Inside was a tiny infant, wrapped in a blue quilt, laying on a mattress of diaper packages. Joe’s heart almost stopped. Awkwardly he pulled the wailing infant out of the box, holding him carefully. He noticed a folded note pinned to the blanket. Who the heck would leave a kid on my porch?
Now his heart was doing double time, he headed back to the living room, laying the still screaming baby gently on the couch. Maria, She’ll know what to do! God, I hope she’s home! His hands shook so badly he could hardly dial. He desperately hoped she’d even speak to him, their parting had not been pretty.
“Joe?” Her voice startled him, “Joe? What on earth….?”
“Maria! Thank God! Somebody just left a baby on my porch! It’s screaming bloody murder and I don’t know what to do! Please, please come over and help me out here!” he begged.
“I’m on my way. Call the Police.” She hung up. Bless her, even though they had parted in terrible anger, she wouldn’t say no to anybody in need. Even him.
The baby had worn himself out and seemed to be sleeping. He opened the note.
Please take care of my baby. I love him, but I can’t do it. I didn’t do any drugs while I was pregnant, so he’s OK. His name is Jerome.
Joe crumpled the note and threw it on the table. Who could dump a baby like so much trash? He looked inside the box, beside the diapers there were three bottles, and a couple of cans of formula . But she must have cared, to pack his stuff like that.
The child began to cry again, Joe swore and picked him up, bouncing him in his arms like he’d seen his sister do. It didn’t work. Jerome screamed louder.
“OK, OK! What do you want, little buddy?” Joe asked helplessly. A bottle maybe? He’d watched his sister and mother feed babies, he grabbed one of the bottles and tried to stick it in Jerome’s mouth. It was no go. Jerome revved it up even more. Joe paced frantically, Where’s Maria? I need her now!
As if cued to that plea, the doorbell rang, and Maria came running into the room.
“Joe! What on earth?” She threw her coat aside and grabbed the furious baby, “Oh you poor little guy, you’re starving aren’t you?” Joe held the bottle out and she took it, “It’s ice cold, for crying out loud, go warm it up in the microwave. Minute and a half…50% power.” She knew exactly what to do, and feeling hugely relieved, he headed for the kitchen. This he could handle.
Maria knew all about kids. That had been the cause of their breakup. She wanted kids. He wasn’t ready. Didn’t know if he’d ever be. He’d been surprised at how lonely he felt afterward, and he couldn’t count the times he’d reach for the phone, then stuck his hands in his pockets. They were done. Too late to mend.
She sat in his new leather chair, spotlighted in the golden glow of the floor lamp in the dark room. She cradled the baby in her arms, arching protectively over him, Oh Wow, he thought, this is the way women have held their babies since the first child ever born on the planet! This is the way Mary held the baby Jesus! It’s the way my mom held me! The thought overwhelmed him, and suddenly his knees went out, he sank to the floor and tears sprang to his eyes. It’s the way she would have held our child!
Maria looked up, a smile on her face, then she saw the tears streaming down his cheeks, “Joey! What’s wrong? Are you crying? He’s fine now…just hungry, that’s all.”
“I don’t know, honey-babe” he realized he’d called her by his pet name, and his tears flowed faster, words he hadn’t even thought about, certainly never planned, spilled out of him uncontrolled, “Oh Maria, I’ve missed you so much…” he half scooted on his knees over to the chair, “I…I loved you and I blew it! Big time! I see you with that baby and …My God…what have I done?” He brushed the tears away angrily, and knelt in front of her.
Maria reached out and put her soft hand on his damp cheek, “Joey. I loved you too. You know that. Maybe it didn’t get as thrown away as you think. Maybe it’s still waiting.” She smiled again, “Maybe we can talk about it more later. Right now, we’ve got a baby to take care of. Have you called the police?”
“No! Forgot all about it. It got pretty wild here for a while, y’know!” He shook his head, getting to his feet. “Geeze…I hate to do this. Poor little kid. Who knows where he’ll end up. Could be he’ll have good parents, could be he’ll never have parents at all. Might end up in the dumpster like so many other kids.”
He looked at her. “What if we kept him” he said softly. “I mean, I know we’d have to turn him over for now…but what if we said…” He looked at her. “Yeah, that’s
a proposal,” he grinned. “Kid’s got to have a momma and a daddy.” Maria looked at him in shock.
“That’s going to take some thinking over. And not tonight. You have to call the police. Right now.” She held the sleeping child embraced in her arms. “But we’ll make sure they keep us informed about where he is…OK? Just in case.”
He nodded and reached for the phone even though every fiber of his being fought against making the call. Who’s going to buy him a catchers mitt? Teach him to skip rocks? Who’s going to be this little boy’s daddy?
After the police and the child protective people and about a hundred other nosy people finally left, he sank wearily into the chair. Maria paced the floor.
“I think,” she said softly, “that’s about the hardest thing I ever had to do.” Tears glistened on her long dark lashes, trickling slowly down her cheeks.
Joe stood up, crossed the room and took her in his arms. “ No,” he said gently, “it’s the hardest thing we ever had to do.” He kissed her, first on one tear streaked cheek and then the other. “But, somehow, someway, that little boy is going to be our first real Christmas gift to one another.” He kissed her lips and she sagged happily into him, her arms tight around his neck.
Outside the snow still fell, the sky lightened, and it was Christmas Day again.

SLEEPING IN THE WOODS

©Ginnie Siena Bivona

All Rights Reserved

My friend Earlene called, out of the blue, this past Tuesday morning.

”Why don’t you come on down for a few days?” she asked.

“Oh, I can’t” I replied, “got way too much to do…”

“Well, think about it,” she said. And I did. For about two seconds, maybe not quite that long.

“OK. I’ve thought about it and I’ll leave on Thursday morning.”

Jim and Earlene live in a wonderful house tucked away so deep in the East Texas woods that without one of Jim’s engineer style maps you’d never ever find it.

They are fascinating friends, with a work history that goes way back to the earliest years of the computer industry. I love to hear their stories. And we have a mutual passion for books and writing, so there’s always more than enough topics of conversation.

But to tell the truth, if they were the dullest people on the planet I think I’d still accept an invitation just so I could have another chance to sleep in “my bedroom” at the far end of the house and have breakfast on the deck that stretches all across the back. The view is a movie set of trees all around and off through the trees you can see a small pond glittering in the sunlight.

Inside, the house is long and cool and elegant. Everywhere you look there’s another marvelous piece of art and shelves of books ceiling high in the study. The view out each window is the same and so different. It’s trees, trees and towering trees. Each window frames a new lush green portrait of the forest they live in.

Even in the midst of the blistering July-in-Texas heat, after dark and early morning, sitting outside pleasant breezes fan across my face and arms. In the late afternoon silence I can almost feel the stress sliding off my body and onto the deck floor. The city sounds we strain unknowingly to tune out are utterly gone.

Don’t mistake me though, it’s not quiet. And that’s why I come to visit any time I’m asked. At bedtime, alone in my room, windows wide open, door shut against any stray beam of house light, I lay on cool sheets and listen to the concert. Outside the trees are black against the night sky. Here and there a star twinkles among the leaves. Must be a zillion crickets, frogs, and God only knows what other night creatures are tuning up out there, chirruping, cheeping, cricking and cracking at full blast. I love it. I lay there, me and the night critters at one, reveling in the night. I fall asleep much too soon, waking only to make the required old lady trip or two to the bathroom, then flop back on the bed listening intently, but before I know it, morning is shining through the lofty trees and the concert has been over for hours.

My hosts are considerate, letting me sleep until I want to get up, which is pleasantly different than my usual I need to get up work is waiting start to the day.

Breakfast is on the deck, surrounded on all sides by the woods and if we’re lucky we’ll see a deer. Even so, deer or not, Jim will provide a memorable experience with his home-made-while-you-watch waffles. Bowls of fresh Texas peaches, picked only the day before, strawberries and sliced bananas grace the glass top table.

The waffles come off the waffle maker and onto my plate. Thin and delectably crisp, topped with melted butter and hot sweet syrup and a heap of the fruits…I ask you…is that not a breakfast to drive for? So what if it’s almost 200 miles, at that moment it’s worth every inch of the road.

I’m a city girl, no question about it. I love my little city house and my citified life. But perhaps that is precisely why, when I’m driving down the long green tunnel of trees on the winding dirt road to Earlene and Jim’s I feel so happy. This is beautiful. This is perfect. This is home too.

On Being A Good Mother

When my children were toddlers I taught them not to run out in the street without looking both ways first. It worked fairly well, although we did have a few scary times. Now they are, for all practical purposes, adults, and I can’t stop them from crossing the street whenever they decide they are ready. I can stand on the curb with them and I can see the two-ton truck coming, but I can’t hold their hand anymore. Still, sometimes, oh, how I wish I could. I’ve crossed that same street myself, many times, and without looking either. I didn’t have a mom to hold my hand, and even if I had, I suppose I would have told her (in a very annoyed voice) that I was a big girl and I would cross the street when and where I wanted to.

It was no longer her job.

Now, all these long years later, having been slammed into more than once by the two-ton truck, flung to the side, cut and bleeding, broken of heart if not of body, how I long to reach out one more time to my precious children, to warn them of the dangers I know are barreling around the corner. I can’t. At least not out loud. But in my heart and mind I hold out my hand and call to them, “Wait, wait, my darling. Look both ways, remember? Be careful! Do you see anything coming?”

Then I shut my eyes tight and pray they remember. And if they don’t, I’m still here to kiss away the hurt. But only if they ask. That’s part of being a mother too.

A Moment In the Sun, Really

By Ginnie Siena Bivona

On a ordinary Wednesday morning I find myself standing in my shower wondering what I should wear to Jane’s funeral. Now that’s weird. There isn’t any Jane that I know of, other than the ill-fated woman I wrote about nine years ago.

Sometimes writing a book is a carefully planned, thoughtfully plotted, neatly organized endeavor. Other times, (ask any writer) it’s a willy-nilly, I wonder what’s coming next sort of thing. That’s the way it was with this novel. Totally willy-nilly.

One night, on a whim, I keyed in the first few sentences on the computer. Liked how it sounded so I just kept on writing. And then in the first paragraph, Jane shows up. “Dear-old-anything-but-plain Jane” says the yet to be named narrator. By the end of the first chapter Jane has announced her reason for coming to visit. She is going to die, and she needs to say goodbye to her best friend, Ida Mae, and the life she left behind many years before.

Nobody is more surprised by this announcement than I am. I’m just playing…conjuring up a pretty scene between two friends. No plot intended. I finish the chapter, and go to bed wondering where this turn of events will take me now.

After that, Jane and Ida Mae consume my life.

Days I rush through my work mindlessly, the gotta get it done today stuff so that I can get to the real work. Writing the story. I don’t call it a novel, because I don’t know that it is. Yet. The scenes unfold on the monitor before me, the characters reveal themselves to me through the pages of Ida Mae’s diary. The small Ohio town, the charming Victorian house, rooms filled with family history all appear and I must rush to get the words out of my head and onto the page before they slip away.

Nights are filled with a tumble of sentences, whole chapters write themselves in my head as I lay in bed. The title appears; Ida Mae Tutweiler and the Traveling Tea Party. Hmmmm. Wonder how I’m going to explain a traveling tea party. I haven’t a clue. Funny thing is, the late night imaginings stay in place. Crisp and clear in my mind for the next day’s work. What fun!

And then it’s finished. Jane dies, Ida Mae goes on. I’m tired and empty. But also happy. It’s been exciting. I’ve been writing for a long time, but this is different. I like what I’ve done.

Now the tedious work begins. Trying to find a publisher is not like trying to find a needle in a haystack because finding a needle in a heap of hay would be a whole lot easier. There are only a few thousand publishers, maybe, and millions of wanna-be books all scrambling for their attention.

Ask any writer. It ain’t easy. But I get lucky, find a small press and suddenly my manuscript is a book. For sale in stores everywhere.

Then the miracle began… unexpected and certainly unforeseen. A friend sent the book to a young man in Hollywood who claimed to be a manager for writers and scriptwriters. He loved the book, and found a screenwriter to turn it into a screenplay. She re-wrote my story to fit her vision, and of course, that upset me to no end…what was the matter with it the way it was??? But that’s Hollywood. It’s a very rare book that doesn’t get changed in a screen play. I’m sure there’s perfectly good reasons for that , and the truth is, if it hadn’t been for Darrell Orm’s unfaltering persistence for eight long years I wouldn’t be sitting here today, would I? It was her work, and her words that got us to the screen. I’ll always be deeply grateful for to her!

The manager disappeared from the scene but Darrell refused to give up, and sure enough, finally the script got into the hands of a producer at Hallmark. The rest is history. Contracts all around, I get a screen credit and a nice check and plan a trip to Hollywood. That’s on another planet in case you didn’t already know. And the producers say, “Sure, you’re welcome to come watch the filming. We’d love to meet you!”

Wow.

It’s May, my birthday month, and we are going to be there on my 77th birthday. I don’t know about you, in a lot of ways I’m happy to be this old, it’s fun. But in other ways I’m not a bit pleased about it. It’s so dammed old. Even so, on the very day I celebrate my birth all those years ago I’m going to be there to watch the filming of my book. It’s now being called The Glass Seagull.

Wow again.

We drive for hours across half of California it seems, to a remote ranch deep deep deep in the desert mountains of Simi Valley. The “studio” is at the end of a fifteen mile long dirt road, rocky and rutted, no signs of life to be seen along the way. Every once in a while we come to a cattle guard that has a small green cardboard sign that says “glass” and a picture of a flying seagull. They sure don’t have a problem with paparazzi here I bet.

Finally we arrive at a big open area, lots of cars and big trailers parked in neat rows. Suddenly I am overwhelmed. It crashes over me like a big wave…they are here because of what I did one night. All of this is because I wrote that book. I see it and I hear it, but I can’t get my head around it. We are shown a teeny room in one of the trailers. It has my name on the door. It has a toilet, and a long bunk. But no star. Oh well.

We are bussed up a steep hill to an old Victorian style house, long porch wrapped all around the outside and cameras, and sound booms, and lights the size of a small car, and people swarming around everywhere. The house, we are told, is the one used in the TV series “Little House On the Prairie,” how neat is that?

It’s hotter than hell, but we are graciously welcomed, introduced to the director (a crusty and charming old Texan) the cast and the crew, offered cold water and instructed to sit on the back part of the porch and stay quiet when they yell quiet. I meet Timothy Bottom, he plays the part of Ida’s (the Mae has been dropped) husband or boyfriend or something…I’m not quite sure. We have a lovely chat, he tells me all about his impending divorce, I sympathize and then he asks me about the book. In fact, when I am introduced to anyone, it’s always as “the author” which is greeted with warm enthusiasm.

I’m having a ball…sweating like a pig, but happy and delighted and astounded to find myself in the big middle of all this. The director puts us in the kitchen scene, me, my daughter Biz, my hostess Amrita and her daughter Nikki. We have to stand there and pretend we are eating and talking at Jane’s wake. If it doesn’t get cut we’ll be in the thing. We shoot the scene two or three times, I really can’t remember.

Then it happens. The high point of my life. The director yells from the living room, “Get Gin in here, I want her in here!” Holy smoke! He’s going to put me in another scene! I float in on a little cloud, and then, the next thing I know someone is standing in front of me with a huge cake and on the top is a picture of my novel and below the picture it says Happy Birthday Ginnie. Then the whole cast and crew sing Happy Birthday to me. Well, of course I cried. You’d have to be made of granite not to cry at a thing like that.

A little while later we leave. I know we drove back over that same dusty rocky path, and I guess it took as long to get home as it did to get there, but I honestly can’t say…I think I was in sort of a trance, the sound of those people singing to me still ringing in my ears, how this amazing adventure unfolded over the years…so slowly, almost invisibly over the years.

When I was a child, I wanted to grow up and be somebody, to make some sort of my own mark as an artist in the world. Then reality showed up on my doorstep, and informed me that my mark was to be a wife and a mother. I did the wife part far less than perfect, still, I’m happy to say, I have five wonderful children, and no mother is prouder of her kids than I am. And now, at long last, the artist has made her mark as well. In the grand scheme it’s a only teeny mark, but it’s there. And before it’s over, a million or more people will see what began in my head that night nine years ago.

Iʼm a writer, itʼs true, but I donʼt have the words to express how good that feels.