Katherine Tillotson and excitment around my house

My dear illustrator friend Katherine Tillotson just finished a flurry of work and complained her studio was a mess. I begged for a photo to share. I love artists' studios, writer's cubby holes, love knowing the story behind some lyrics I love.

So here's K's beautiful studio:


And a surprise package arrived at my door full of:


Advance Reader Copies for my upcoming novel, Dogtag Summer. It's an indescribable feeling. I slid my hands over them, and flipped through the pages, sniffing them. (What is it about sniffing books? Something about the fresh ink and paper. Makes it all seem so tangible somehow ). I even made my own beautiful display on the dining room table. The feeling of wonder -- A book! A real book! -- never diminishes.

And! right now, in a sound studio, Alan Bomar Jones has a set of headphones on and is sitting in front of a microphone recording Marching for Freedom for Brilliance Audio.

Life is good. Very, very, very good.

Finding My Way to the Sea, Katherine Tillotson

A friend of mine, illustrator Katherine Tillotson, emailed to say that she had dreamt she was visiting a small town and saw me there. I was trying to find the sea. She was concerned – was I OK?

Her dream jumped into my mind and became its own vision. I was on a cobbled street in an old fashioned English village. Signs hung from store fronts, swaying gently in the wind. I could smell the sea, feel the dampness on my skin. I knew the water was nearby.

Yes, I emailed back, I’m fine, and yes, I’m trying to find my way to the sea. To that deep unconscious place where all beautiful creative work comes from. The place where the writing comes flowing out of my fingers, where I look up and I’ve been writing for several hours and would swear it was only a few minutes.

To find my way, I have to let the noisy, shrieking voices in my mind quiet down. This is a tough one – those voices are busy the whole time trying to get my attention – the undone errands, the piles of papers and bills on my desk, the stacks of dirty dishes in the kitchen, the worries about my kids or elderly parents. By far the most petrifying voice is the one that whispers I’ll never find my way again.

Hush, hush. I’m in a village, finding my way to the sea.