Mama Bird

~ Janet Dawson ~ 2 Comments

I have hummingbird feeders on my patio, hanging from the bottom of the balcony above. They are made of red glass and have a wire rim at the bottom, so the birds can perch while feeding. I also have hummingbird-friendly plants in my garden and frequently see hummingbirds feeding on the blossoms outside.

These are Anna’s hummingbirds, common in the Bay Area, native to western coastal regions. They are tiny birds, with an iridescent bronze-green back, pale gray chest and belly, and green flanks. The bills are long, straight and slender. The male is the most colorful, with a crimson head and a flashy gorget, which is the patch of colorful feathers at the throat or upper breast. The female hummingbird also has a gorget, though not as bright.

Several weeks ago, I glanced at one of the feeders and noticed something new on the wire rim. Upon closer examination, I discovered it was a nest. Hummingbird nests are shaped like cups and in this case, about the size of a walnut. I was delighted to see this addition to the feeder, hanging just a few feet from my patio door.

Mama Bird wasn’t done building the nest. I watched her swoop around the edges of the balcony and the nearby downspout and realized that she was gathering spider silk. She would add that to the nest, along with wispy bits of plant fluff. The outside of the nest appears to have a coating of lichen. I haven’t examined it too closely, since I don’t want to frighten Mama Bird from her nest. I’m careful when I go out on my patio. She often flies away but she will sometimes stay on the nest when I step outside. Maybe she has decided I’m not a threat, though I imagine she’s giving me a wary look with those tiny eyes.

Hummingbirds typically lay a clutch of two eggs, about the size of small jelly beans. According to what I’ve read on the Internet, the eggs incubate for 21 days before they hatch. At first I noticed that Mama Bird had switched to feeding behavior, poking downward with her long slim bill. Then a few days ago I caught a glimpse of a baby, then two. Mama swoops in and out, seeking food for herself and her babies. She returns to the nest to pump partially digested food into the mouths of those two hungry chicks, naked without feathers, their little beaks turned upward. Then she settles into the nest on top of them, to keep them warm.

My research tells me it’s about three weeks from hatching to fledging, with the chicks growing feathers, getting big, then ready to leave the nest and fly. I hope both little babies make it. Mama is certainly doing her best, focused on her task.

I think of Mama Bird and I think of the three Ps—patience, persistence and perseverance. We’ve had some cold rainy weather lately, also wind. Yet she’s there, day and night, in all kinds of weather, sitting on that nest in between forays for food.

Patience, persistence and perseverance are watchwords for writers, too. We have an idea for a book or a story and we build our nest using plot, characters and setting, working on the project until it hatches, feeding it until it fledges and we can send it out into the world.

It may certainly take longer than it takes for Mama Bird and her chicks. Years, even. But we keep at it.

Remember what Emily Dickinson wrote.

Hope is the thing with feathers, that perches in the soul.

Three Judges, No Consensus

~ susanoleksiw ~ 2 Comments

From January to the end of March, New England writers can submit stories for the annual Crime Spell Books anthology. We get a variety of stories from a diverse groups of writers, and often a new writer’s first story. Although each of the editors probably has a private set of expectations and standards, I know I’m going to be surprised more than once. I learned that lesson years ago.

In the 1990s I was invited to judge a short story contest sponsored by a local newspaper. I was one of three local writers who would judge the stories submitted to the editor of the arts and culture insert magazine. 

We were a dutiful trio, reading each story more than once, taking notes and evaluating each one according to whatever we considered the appropriate set of criteria. We knew of each other but didn’t know each other personally, though we all knew the editor. At the end of our period of private deliberations, we gathered an hour before the luncheon, where we’d announce the winners, who would be awarded certificates. This is where the surprise came in.

Each of us came with a different story that we ranked as number one. As I look back I’m amused by our passion for our chosen piece of fiction. We couldn’t understand how the other two hadn’t seen the perfection, the style and wit and wisdom in our perfect piece of prose. Of course we discussed our choices at length, certain we could persuade the other two because weren’t we all rational, professional writers?

One writer chose a story because it was a quiet meditation with a gorgeous nearly perfect sentence right in the middle. And it was a lovely arrangement of words expressing a gentle wisdom, but what about the rest of the work? The next judge picked a story that dawdled until the punchline, which I had to admit was effective. But neither judge had picked the story I chose, which to this day I’m convinced was the only true story—with a beginning, a middle, and an end, describing an experience that left the characters changed and the reader nodding in recognition and satisfaction. I’ll admit that the other two judges probably felt as strongly as I did and still do. How did we resolve this dilemma? We didn’t.

The newspaper was on a schedule. The program had to begin, but the editor was ready for us. Another writer gave a talk, the editor congratulated all the writers who had submitted stories, and then she announced that three stories had taken first place. Each judge got to present “their” choice, to the delight of three writers (and their families) in the audience.

I learned later that this is what happens every year. Three judges and three stories. We just can’t seem to agree on what makes something work, something worth reading a second time, something to share with friends and talk about in classes. The editor doesn’t try to persuade the guest judges to reach consensus. Wise move. Instead everyone learned the lesson of the world of publishing. Tastes will range, but every writer is encouraged to follow their own path, and every reader will find a work that resonates with them.

Lessons Learned from Scoring Student Writing

~ dzchurch ~ 4 Comments

Once upon a time, I was responsible for the hand-scoring of student writing on statewide exams. Which meant ensuring that each student’s writing sample was scored against a criteria set by the state. Here’s what I learned.

Lesson 1

“What is happiness, and how can it be achieved?” Sounds like the perfect writing prompt, doesn’t it? Imagine thousands of students waxing poetic. But what if one of those students is too smart for his own good?

I present to you his response in its entirety, having remembered it across the years: Happiness is a sunny day. Happiness is a shade tree. Happiness is a girl. Happiness can be achieved on a sunny day, under a shade tree with a girl.

The first reader gave it a 1, the lowest possible score, because she thought it was smart-alecky. The second reader gave it a 4, the highest score. The third reader, required when scores needed adjudication, broke into laughter. It was a 4. The student met the prompt’s requirements and did so cleverly. But was the response what was anticipated? No. I’ve always thought it was better, surprising and breezy.

Lesson: No matter the theme of a book, or how well it’s written, readers apply a scale based on their own expectations. That means, some like reader 1, expecting a cozy, for instance, will gasp if a book isn’t cozy enough, let’s say sex happens with the bedroom door open. And some, like reader 2, will be captivated if the same scene is done well and is delightful. Depending on their reaction, they’ll either read your next book or not. If I could train all readers (reviewers) on any scale where one is low, I would urge them to consider that very, very few published writers, due to the process itself, deserve a score of 1, which, in a holistic assessment, translates to disgustingly poorly written. Abysmal comes to mind.

Lesson 2

To accommodate a religious group, a state changed its writing prompt from “What would you do without TV for a year?” to “What would you do without friends for a year?” An available alternate prompt asked, “What was the most important invention of the last hundred years, and why?”

In response to the first prompt, “no TV or no friends,” many students wrote that if they had to spend a year without friends, they would go to the hayloft to watch TV. Sort of like the organ in the attic in “Friendly Persuasion,” though a different sect.

On the other hand, readers mocked responses to the second prompt when rural students chose electricity because the toilet wouldn’t flush without it. The choice made no sense to city readers, whose toilets flushed no matter.

Lesson: Readers do not share a common background. They may not know that those on well water need electricity to flush the toilet. Some may be aghast, rather than charmed, to discover the subterfuge of watching TV in the barn, when a religion forbids TV. Which means don’t assume what your readers know. Show, right?

Lesson 3

During training, readers often noted that many students struggled with their responses, knowing their writing would be scored by strangers.

Lesson: I suspect we have all stalled or stopped writing a book, not because it wasn’t working, but because of fear. Especially when we step outside our zone – writing a first standalone rather than the next book in a series, writing historical fiction rather than a detective or procedural, and … (fill in the blanks). If you believe in your story, finish it. Who knows? It might be a super 4 and blast you into a new market of adoring fans. You’ll never know if you don’t try, just as hundreds of thousands of students didn’t.

Lesson 4

Developing writing prompts? Good luck to authors who spend weeks crafting a prompt for an AI engine that will then write their book. They will soon discover the product requires weeks of editing (or rewriting) to ensure the book’s quality, preserve their voice and vision for their characters, and meet their readers’ expectations, etc., or so my experience with the vagaries of prompt writing tells me. No matter how well sculpted the prompt, there will always be surprises.

And, so, remember, happiness can be achieved on a sunny day, under a shade tree with a:

  1. Girl
  2. Boy
  3. Dog
  4. Cat
  5. Other

Find me at https://dzchurch.com where you can discover my books and sign up for my newsletter.

INSPIRATIONAL MOUNTAIN

~ Kimila Kay ~ 3 Comments

I’m so sorry I missed my turn in January, but I was a tad bit distracted!

Randy and I spent the last week of 2025 in Arizona, a trip he surprised me with on Christmas Eve. He’s been wanting to buy a place in Arizona for our future retirement … you know, someday!

I haven’t been keen on the idea of moving to Arizona since I love living in Oregon. I love rainy days and early nights, which I see as reasons to write. And I can’t imagine living somewhere without the four seasons. With each season, I’m reminded that change is a good thing.

My husband, on the other hand, hates the rain. He complains about every season except summer and talks incessantly about living somewhere warm in winter. Hence, my Christmas present to Mesa, Arizona.

Even though I had no intention of relocating to Arizona, I convinced myself that it would be nice to get away and relax after the holiday season bustle. Of course, this meant I’d have to endure Randy’s enthusiasm for looking at homes to buy, so I asked God for patience.

We arrived late on Christmas Eve night, ending up at the local Denny’s for a less-than-delicious dinner before arriving at the place we’d rented and falling asleep. The next morning, I frowned at the Keurig (I’ll never understand brewing a cup at a time) and made a cup of coffee.

Since I was up before Randy, who likes to sleep in, I thought maybe I’d find a Christmas movie to watch. Remote in hand, I settled on the couch and began channel surfing. The morning sky was beginning to lighten, and I thought we’d left the porch light on. I crossed the small living room, opened the door, and was greeted by the rising sun.

Every morning, I got up early so I could watch the sun come up. I spent all my free time outside at a patio table, writing and smiling.

Randy had researched and planned several excursions, including one to a nearby lake. As we wound our way out of town, our route took us by a beautiful sight … Superstition Mountains.

My writer’s brain kicked into overdrive, and by the time we’d visited the lake, stopped for lunch, and began our journey back to Mesa, I had a heroine, a cover, and a mystery plot.

Let me introduce Sapphire Stone, cousin to Wyatt, Derrick, and Blake Stone from my Stoneybrook Mystery Series. Sapphire, much to her mother’s dismay, is a Private Investigator who also moonlights as a security guard at a cannabis store. Most of her jobs involve following cheating spouses or uncovering insurance fraud. But when she discovers a body in a vehicle crushed by large boulders in a section of the Superstition Mountains, she finds herself a step behind a cunning killer.

I was over the moon to have a new storyline to imagine and build. New characters to create. A new town and state to learn about. And those mountains … oh, the stories that lie hidden in the history of the towering red rock peaks always reaching for the sky.

I’m not sure what came over me, but I’m guessing the bright sunshine sparked my imagination. All of a sudden, I found myself embracing the idea of living in Arizona. After all, we didn’t plan to move away from Oregon entirely. We’d still have our small house in Donald. And we would spend summers at our small cabin on the Siletz River outside of Lincoln City, so I could enjoy the ocean I adore.

I’ve always wanted to live in México, the reasons are many, but as I’m sure you all know, the country is undergoing major changes. I long for the country I first visited thirty-five years ago.

While I still plan to visit the places I love, I no longer feel it is safe to live in México, a realization that has been heavy on my heart.

I believe God gave me more than patience. Everything about Mesa seemed to soften my heart and weaken my resolve. We looked at a few mobile homes in fifty-five-and-over parks, but none met our needs. For me, this was a relief. Even though I was enjoying our trip, I still wasn’t sure I wanted to live in Arizona.

But the minute we walked into the last place on our list, I knew we’d found the perfect home. It was a newer model and had the right layout. The best part, though, was a covered patio area where I could see myself working on a novel.

As I said at the beginning, I was a bit distracted in January because of all the work required to close on our new home in Mesa, Arizona. While we won’t be moving anytime soon, we are planning a ten-day visit in May.

When I write a book, I have to remember to let my characters tell me the story, rather than move them like chess pieces. Advice I should apply to my life, too. When I stopped trying to be “Master of the Universe,” I was blessed with a new home, a happy husband, and a new mystery series to write!

Happy Writing, Ladies ~

That Story Idea in Pictures

~ susanoleksiw ~ 4 Comments

Each writer has a different way of getting started on the next book. Some prepare a story board, others keep pages of notes, some make an outline. I see a group of people moving around doing whatever it is they’re doing, which isn’t always clear in the beginning but I know it will be soon enough. Because location is especially important to me, I pull out photographs I’ve taken of the general location I’m focusing on. They aren’t usually of a specific place I have in mind for the plot, though they can be, but more of a way to get my brain thinking about what I’ve seen there, how people move through the space. Right now, that means India.

My current work in progress is an Anita Ray story, most of which usually takes place in the coastal resort of Kovalam, just south of the state capital Trivandrum. Even though such a story might begin in Hotel Delite, Auntie Meena’s business where Anita lives and helps out, the plot may take Anita away from the water and into a nearby city or inland village. She might go to Chalai, the main bazaar in the city, or to Connemara Market, where I often went to take pictures of fish or vegetables. (I love markets.)

In this mystery novel, Anita travels into the hills with a group of tourists staying at the hotel. They’ve heard about a particularly interesting chapel and want to visit. So, off they go. This gave me a chance to pull out images of the twisting roads rising up the Western Ghats, with homes built right along the verge and bougainvillea or other vines tumbling over trellises and brushed by a passing lorry. 

While I was sorting through images I came across one of groves of rubber trees. The hills can be a surprise to some foreigners who expect all of South India to be a jungle, huge climbing vines, thick bush, and bright flowers the size of basketballs. They don’t expect a small forest of deciduous trees.

Mature rubber trees look like saplings but they’re mature enough to produce the sap that is the basis for rubber, and farmers capture it the same way we capture sap for maple syrup. I lay the photograph out on my desk alongside two or three others, and let my thoughts drift. I needed a murder scene the reader could grasp in hindsight but nothing obvious, and this needed to be away from Hotel Delite and Kovalam. The rubber tree grove gave me plenty to work with.

With important scenes taking shape near the rubber plantation and a tea shop, I had some important questions resolved and now needed only a Catholic chapel, so I rummaged around and found a photograph of one set among the trees. It was the right size for what I had in mind, and its location gave me plenty of scope for the specific activities I was toying with.

It’s exciting at this point to look at the photographs arrayed in front of me and see more fully the progress of the story. The characters are there, they’re spreading out among the trees and the buildings, and their voices punctuate the sound of feet shuffling through leaves and forest debris. I can see them and follow them, and when I do their behavior begins to fill the plot. My story idea, initially vague, takes shape.