A Dog Called Homeless, by Sarah Lean

Cally's mother died in a car accident a year ago, and her father and older brother are dealing with their grief by packing away all the reminders and not speaking of their wife/mom. At school, Cally's mouth seems to always be open when it shouldn't be. Her best friend dumps her. When Cally begins to see visions of her mom in a red raincoat, accompanied by a large wolfhound who is not ghostly but real, she speaks up and says so. Dad gets angry and tells her he doesn't want to hear it; her aunt, more gently, tells her she's mistaken. Furthermore, Dad is putting their house on the market and moving the family to an apartment, and no amount of "please don't do this" makes any difference.

Then, at school, comes a charity fundraiser that involves volunteering to remain silent for 24 hours. When her ex-friend and other classmates jeer that Cally couldn't possibly keep her mouth shut, she volunteers. She completes the challenge with ease, and then, when the principal announces that the volunteers may speak again -- Callie doesn't. She realizes that she sees no reason. No one listens to her, anyway.

In the new apartment, Callie makes friends with a boy in the other flat who is blind, nearly deaf, and may have cerebral palsy or a similar condition. Though she doesn't speak, and in any event can speak to Sam only by spelling into his hand, the two grow into close companions. What the story seems to be saying here is that it's willing, listening hearts that really forge communication, not merely, or necessarily, the ability to speak.

Cally continues to see her mother's ghostly image, and the very real dog, which, while connected to her mother, is also being looked after by a homeless man, Jed. While everyone around Cally's family comes to believe that the dog belongs with them, to the point of telling her father so, he angrily insists they cannot take care of a dog.

We know that in the end they will, and that Cally will speak again, too. It's the emotional journey that's prominent here. I found myself rooting for Cally to not speak again until she was good and ready, and in that way this book tapped into powerful childhood emotions for me -- always a sign that I'll find that book a winner. Lovely and heartwarming. Recommended for anyone who would like a realistic story with overtones of magical realism.

I Took the Plunge...

...and joined Facebook. Yeah, I know, what's so "plunge-y" about that? I mean, I got on Twitter without any angst, and my initial reaction to Twitter was, "Are you kidding? Who wants to TEXT the entire internet? And what for?" But I saw some advantages to Twitter. For me, at least, it's not a time suck. I can "get in and get out." And I've found that having to express something in only 140 characters results in a lot of "right between the eyes" quotes and uproarious lines appearing in my feed. In other words, it's not hard to find good food for thought or your laugh for the day, in only a few minutes. I like the challenge of saying something so concisely. I've found some great writing links. I've connected with people. And I know who I am on Twitter: I'm a writer.

With Facebook, most of this is murkier. I've only been on for two days -- and granted, the first evening it took some time to set up my account -- but the time-suck temptation is already stronger. You become Facebook friends with Cousin Hattie, and then you see that she's friends with Long Lost Mary, and whatever did become of good ol' Mary anyway...? I am absolutely firm that I will not get sucked in to excess, but I do get that you can suddenly look up at the clock and two hours have passed. And because the posts can be longer, they are, which means they (a) lack the punch of tweets, and (b) take longer to read. There's not the nice little challenge of boiling something down to 140 characters. And I'm not that sure who I am on Facebook. The mix of personal and professional has always made me a little skittish, and since we hear about people's FB accounts being used against them by prospective or actual employers, why shouldn't it?

I'm sure it'll all be okay. Despite the fact that I've friended mostly writers, while at the same time I'll enjoy keeping up with some cousins and other extended family that I don't see much. Because, truth to tell, what finally made me break down and join was missing out on an important piece of info once too often. As another writer said just recently, Facebook (among other, newer social media sites) is where the conversation is going on. With this mix of professional and personal, I guess that on FB I'll just have to be a person. :)

By the way, if you're on and I haven't sent you a friend request, feel free to send me one.

A Writing Retreat -- This is the Life!

In mid-December, my husband's work took him away for three days. He's not gone overnight often, but when he is, I have but one response, and it's immediate: Declare a writer's retreat!

At such times, nobody is here but the cats and me. And the more completely I can achieve the following goals, the happier and more successful I feel:

• Throw away the clock. I sleep when I'm tired and eat when I'm hungry (or sometimes when I'm not, heh heh).
• Divide awake time among three activities: exercise, prayer, and writing, with the greatest number of hours spent on the writing. There might be a little minor web-surfing as a break. I might write an email to a friend. But that's it. The retreat is basically a writing marathon. I will take care of the cats, wash the few dishes I use, and throw in a load of laundry if necessary. No other housework. Oh, and I shower too. In case you wondered.
• Turn off the landline. I respond to important contacts by email or cellphone. But I don't want anything else ringing at me. Even the answering machine is too intrusive.
• Don't go outside. Yeah, I know. I'm a recluse-in-training. I *might* break this rule during seasons that don't involve piling on the winter gear and wondering where the ice patches are under that new coating of snow.  
• A byproduct of the above, more than a point in its own right: Don't talk. My husband called me on the phone during those three days, but I think that's the only time I actually spoke.
• Dig into that novel wherever it's at and (for me) think in terms of completed scenes rather than word count. I couldn't figure out why the middle seemed to be moving so sluggishly, even though I knew what had to happen next. Except...I didn't know. When I finally threw out what I thought would be the midpoint, put something else there, and rearranged a few other scenes, I unblocked the thing. New scenes flowed onto the screen. And I wrote more than 5K words in those three days. For me, that's a lot.

The retreat was a resounding success. I loved those three days. And while I know all of life can't be spent this way, nor would I want it to be, I'm really going to experiment to see if I can live like this a little more often. Except that DH can live at home. Really, he can. :)