Children and Pretending ...

Children Pretending

“To be as a child...is to be so little that the elves can reach to whisper in your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything, for each child has a fairy godmother in its own soul.” ~Francis Thompson



Anyone who knows me can tell you, I love children. I raised three daughters, enjoyed a lot of author school visits at schools, and I have eleven grandchildren.

Writing for (and about) children is something I love to do. They have such an innocent view of their world, creative imaginations, and an endless passion for pretending. It’s something all children do, and they do it so well.

Most grownups think pretending is playing, but watch a group of preschool children while they pretend. They work hard as they rehearse and polish their skills at doing grownup things. They’re forever trying on new experiences, as well as Mommy and Daddy’s clothes.

Most grownups also think pretending is only for children, but we still pretend. Dreams, daydreams and fantasies aren't real, so when we do it, it must be pretending.

Only in a dream can we fly above the trees, and look down on friends and family on the ground.

Only in a dream, can we walk through town, look down and see ten or twenty-dollar bills just waiting to be picked up and stuffed in our pockets.

Only in a dream are we chased by a tiger and unable to run because our feet won’t budge, or worse, we can run, but only in slow motion!

And only in a dream would Tom Selleck and I ... oh, never mind ...

Who hasn’t fantasized about picking THE winning Powerball number? Can't you almost feel the adrenalin rush as you plan what you'll do with your winnings?

How about the first warm day of spring, when you stare out your office window and ‘see’ yourself hiking in the woods, or fishing on a lake? Or maybe, you 'see' yourself driving a little red sports car with the top down and the wind blowing your hair.

Heck, in a daydream, we can see ourselves just about anywhere, but where we really are -- in a stuffy office, staring out a dirty window with three hours left till quitting time.

Nearly everyone's daydreamed about getting a nice raise, or fantasized about telling their boss off, because we didn’t get a raise at all. So it’s safe to say, as grownups, we do still pretend.

Oops, I gotta go ... my daughter just walked in with my grandchildren.

To the world, I'm Grammy Heck and I'm going to babysit for a few hours, but ... Shhhhhhh, just between you and me, today we’re really pirates. 

We're going to draw a treasure map, fly to Never Never Land, and I get to be Captain Hook, and that’s really GOOD, 'cause I was getting tired of always being Tinker Bell ...



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Now I'm Three and I Know ...

CJ at Three

Pretty much all of the honest truth-telling there is in the world is done by children. ~Oliver Wendell Holmes

A couple of years ago, I spent weeks trying to come up with an idea for one last children's poem so I could finish a preschool poetry book that I wanted to self-publish.

I was having no luck at all ... that is, until I started thinking about my eleven grandchildren when they were about three years old. Children try so hard to make sense out of the world around them.

One by one, all of the funny, goofy, things they used to say began to pop into my mind.

Gratefully, I started to write ...

This poem sounds best when you read it out loud in your best 'three-year old' voice. Oh, and when you get to the long run-on sentence, say it fast! 

I would give just about anything to hear you read it ...

Now I'm Three and I Know ...

by CJ Heck

I know never touch fire, that’s hot,
but I can touch ice, 'cause it’s not,
and puppies are soft and kitties are too,
(so’s most of the stuff moms and dads give to you).

I know never tell people they’re fat.
(It will hurt them, if I do that).
I know rocks aren’t for throwing at others
but it’s OK to throw pillows at brothers.

I know daddy says swears I can’t say,
and I have to wear clothes out to play,
... 'cause one time I went outside naked and Mrs. Johnson saw me and she called Mommy and Mommy came outside and got mad (sniffle) and she yelled at me (sniff-sniff) and I had to sit in a chair for a time out and ...

I know cookies smell better than cheese,
and to get one, I have to say please.
I know how to go pee in the potty,
but not in my pants, 'cause that’s naughty.

I know flowers don't needs any feet,
and no dessert, if I don’t eat my meat.
I know I got to blow boogers in tissue,
and don't wipe off where ladies kiss you.

When I wake mommy up, never holler,
pennies are not more than a dollar,
and scissors are never for cutting my hair,
(the barber does that, but I hate going there).

I laugh 'cause it's better than cry,
and you can’t squeeze a worm, it will die.
I know Daddy will laugh when I burp,
and Mommy’s kiss helps if I hurt.

I know SO many things, now I'm three.
This stuff helps me be a good ME.
I know lots more than I did when I’m two,
all the stuff that I can and I can’t do.


Hugs from the little kid in me ... to the little kid in you.
~ CJ

From the Book, Me Too! Preschool Poetry








"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Just Passing Through: The Stranger

Marlborough Man

“Magnetism:  one of the Six Fundamental Forces of the Universe, with the other five being Gravity, Duct Tape, Whining, Remote Control, and The Force That Pulls Dogs Toward The Groins Of Strangers.” ~Dave Barry

A Short Story

by CJ Heck


People who know me know I’m well-grounded, practical, fairly logical, painfully honest, and I don’t believe in love at first sight. However, I do believe in something at first sight -- but wait, I’ll tell you what happened. You decide.

I find it interesting, what our senses can pull out of the recesses of our mind into the now, with a smell, a taste, even a sound we heard a long time ago. Something, anything, can be recalled and relived, as though it happened only minutes ago.

There’s a whole day like that and it lingers, hidden in my mind, until my senses suddenly bring it up and out.

I can still taste the gritty dust the wind blew across my face on a sweltering summer’s day; still hear the ding-ding-ding at the old-fashioned red and white gas pumps, as someone filled their tank, and I can still smell the mingled aromas of diesel and gas.

As I recall, it was the middle of August, during what we called 'the dog days of summer'. It was stinking hot. I was on a road trip to nowhere in particular, just going from here to there, and taking a few days to do it.

I had stopped for gas and an orange soda at a truck stop somewhere along a two-lane road. I remember the hot wind blowing dust, and it was gritty, and it covered everything that got in its way.

Not ready to get back inside the steamy car, I sat on a large rock under the only tree I could find, savoring the ice cold soda and mopping the sweat and grime from my face and neck with a wet paper towel from the ladies room.

I remember hearing door hinges whining in protest and as I glanced up, I saw a man, a perfect stranger, climbing out of an old blue pickup parked to the side of the gas pumps.

He was walking straight towards me, wearing run-down leather boots and the wind was ruffling his sandy blond hair. Even now, I’m not sure why I was so mesmerized by the sight of him, but I was.

I can still see him walking.  He was tall and wiry, with long legs moving him along in a slow, bowlegged stride that literally reinvented the swagger. It was pure poetry.

As he got closer, I saw a tanned face road mapped with lines, and he was squinting at me through ice-blue eyes.

When he caught me staring, he touched a finger to the hat cocked to one side, threw me a wink, a quick nod, and then a crooked smile. “Maaa’am.” That’s all he said, but it was enough. I had heard his Texas drawl.

I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when he passed by, my eyes were drawn to the back of those tight worn jeans and the perfect butt that filled them.  Lord, I hope my mouth was closed.

It wasn’t that he was Marlboro-Man handsome.  What he did have was a rugged muscular look, one that hinted of riding horses, squinting into the sun all day and sleeping under the stars at night. It was all of that, and being perfectly packaged in tight jeans and a blue plaid shirt with pearl snaps and rolled up sleeves.

My emotions ran high that afternoon so long ago. Maybe it was the love I had for westerns as a child, maybe his Texan drawl -- I guess I'll never really know.  The only thing that ever passed between us was a wink, a nod, and a crooked smile.

But I’ll never forget the day when I fell --- not in love, but definitely something, by the side of the road with a man I never met ... someone just passing through.



"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

On Writing Stinkers and Gems ...

A Real Stinker ...

Stinkers and Gems

Sometimes, I write a real stinker ...
sometimes, I write a nice gem.
More often than not, it’s a mixture of both
that somehow escapes through my pen.

I know what to do with the good ones,
& the stinkers will all crash and burn,
but what do I do with the ones that are both?
It's something that I can’t discern ...

Right now they all go in drawers,
(male and female, they must multiply),
when I open the drawers, it seems there are more
than I recall putting inside.

I hope there’s a poetry warehouse.
If there is, I must go there some day,
for I’ve run out of drawers & some smell pretty bad,
yet they’re too good to just throw away ...



[from "Anatomy of a Poet", by CJ Heck]
Available at Amazon

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck

Inspiration: The Golden Gate ...

Golden Gate Garden

I was having my coffee this morning and trying to decide what to write about.

To be honest, I was actually waiting for my muse.  She gives me my inspiration, but I've noticed the older I get, the more she tends to sleep in ...

Maybe I could write about something I remember from my childhood.  Most of my writing does have its roots deep in my childhood.

I remember having so many questions about the world and its workings, and all the different ways everything around me touched my life. It was such a carefree time then, full of make-believe and pretending, and anything and everything could be an adventure.

I remember when I was six, we had an elderly neighbor, Mrs. Tucker.  She lived all by herself in a huge old Victorian house, three doors down from ours. Her house had these pretty scrolled designs up where both sides of the roof slanted down and her front porch was filled with huge feathery ferns in hanging pots all along the wide railing. Her porch was further dressed up with white wicker chairs, a couch, and two glass-topped wicker tables.

I liked Mrs. Tucker, and her beautiful house, but oh, how I loved her back yard.  If there was a paradise, this was how I always imagined it would look.

Her back yard was entirely fenced in by an old white wooden fence.  There was a gate right in the center with a brass latch and hinges that glowed bright yellow when the sun shined on it -- I called it The Golden Gate.

You could barely see the fence, because of a huge rose bush that climbed up and over, almost covering it. And oh the scent!  I remember the sweet scent, even now, because it followed me everywhere.  So did the smell of her enormous lilac bushes that, to this small girl, seemed to reach up to the sky.

In the center of Mrs. Tucker's yard was a pond with the biggest gold fish I had ever seen. There was a small fountain on one side, too, and I loved hearing the peaceful trickling of the falling water. The pond was carefully outlined by different sizes of rocks and all sorts of plants and flowers were intertwined among the rocks.

At the back left corner of her yard, there was an old apple tree. From it's trunk at a right angle, grew one long straight-as-a-rail branch. There Mrs. Tucker had hung a wooden porch swing.  It had a padded seat with flowered pillows -- and this is where the magic was, for me.

I loved to sit in the swing, listen to the water, breathe in the flowers, and let my imagination soar. It was as though Mrs. Tucker's house didn't exist at all, only the magic of The Golden Gate garden.  There, I knew anything was possible, because time stood perfectly still.

Well, at least until mama called me home for dinner ...

“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

There are All Kinds of Hurt

Boo Boo

This morning was one of those mornings when I woke up missing my dad.  After two years, his passing still hurts.

Then I got to thinking about hurt, how there are so many different kinds. Anyone can be hurt -- it sure doesn’t discriminate. Hurt is painful, whether it's physical, mental, or emotional.

When my children were small, it was so easy to fix hurts. Most only required a little rinsing with water, Mommy’s ‘red paint’ (Mercurochrome), and a Bandaid ("To keep all the blood inside where it won't leak out").  Then I kissed the bandaid and gave a hug.  It was so simple to be a hero back then.

As they got older, hurt was more about feelings and that took a lot more time and patience.  You had to explain that not everyone we meet will like us, other kids don’t always play fair, and maybe the teacher does have favorites, but she is human, too.

It’s more difficult to explain that kind of hurt to a child. They want to know, "Why?"  Why don’t some children play fair? Why would someone say or do something to hurt them when they didn’t do anything to deserve it?  Why does the teacher always let the same child always pass out papers and run errands?

I didn't understand all the why‘s then and I still don't always understand why now.  It's a fact -- life isn't always fair.  No wonder it was difficult trying to explain it to a child.

But the real challenge came when I had to teach them that two wrongs don’t ever make a right and it’s wrong to retaliate.

We spend their entire childhoods telling them to be nice; be truthful; don’t hit; do unto others the way you want them to do unto you; if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all; and my personal favorite -- the one my mother used a lot when I was growing up -- say what you mean, mean what you say, but don’t say it mean.

But not every parent teaches these same principles to children.  Hurt doesn’t get any easier with age. As an adult, it hurts to have someone say something mean to us, or about us. It hurts not to get the promotion we worked so hard for.

And it really hurts when someone we love dies ...


“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

Publishers, A Rant ...

Lovely Books ... We Want Them to be Ours

by CJ Heck

As writers, we know the importance of, (and the hunger for), getting our work published by reputable publishers.

We pour our hearts into the writing, we polish it, edit it, read and have it read, and then we edit some more and when that's done, we turn it into the finished product, our manuscript. That's a daunting task!

After our manuscript is done, we spend more time, gas, and money at the book store to buy our annual copy of the Writer’s Digest book designed for our specific genre.

Once home, we spend days reading about all of the publishers to find EXACTLY what they're looking for: fiction, non-fiction, poetry (rhyming or non-rhyming), memoirs, essays, flash fiction, short-shorts, short story collections, scripts, screenplays, et al.

That done, we narrow that list to those who accept submissions without our need for an agent. (By the way, I’ve noticed this list is shrinking with each new edition of Writer’s Market, no matter what the genre).

We study this shortened list to see whether they are accepting manuscript submissions in precisely what we write and in the genre they accept (children, young adult, romance, fantasy, science fiction, western, erotica, religion, spiritual, and new age).

Out of that group, we look for those who accept manuscripts NOW. Some only accept manuscripts during a specified reading period, May 1 to July 1, for instance.

The list is further narrowed down to find those that do not require “exclusive” submissions.  This means we cannot submit elsewhere, until we've heard back from them, either yea, or nay. It has been my experience that publishers can take anywhere from three months to forever to notify you.

So, you can see how an exclusive submission can inhibit your progress towards finding a publisher. You can't send it to a second, until you hear back from the first ... and fewer and fewer are even notifying you at all. Some even put a caveat in their Writers Digest listing, stating that if you haven’t heard from them within a specified length of time, to consider your manuscript rejected.

The final list we come up with is:

* Publishers who accept your genre.
* Publishers who accept what you write in that genre.
* Publishers accepting submissions now.
* Publishers that accept multiple submissions.
* Publishers that don’t require an agent’s involvement.

Our job now is to study each one on our final list of publishers and carefully follow their submission guidelines. We are warned to follow the instructions exactly! After all the hard work and time spent, we don’t want our manuscript ending up in 'file thirteen' (the waste basket), because we missed some critical condition, or command.

We double space the manuscript, add the extra space between paragraphs, do the Title Page precisely how they want it, paginate, add the page count to the top right, follow the rule of staples vs. paper clips, write a summary, include a short bio, any publishing credits we may have, and the SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) so they can notify you - IF they notify you at all.

At last, our submission is perfect. We're sure to only send a copy, not the original, and with hope and pride, we take it to the local post office.

Now comes the hard part ("How can it be harder than what we’ve already been through?" You ask). With fingers crossed, we wait ... and wait ... and wait.

Six months later, the day finally arrives! We receive a letter from a publisher!

HUH?  What's this?  A ... form letter?

Dear Writer: 

Thank you for your manuscript submission to (publishing company).

We have read your manuscript, ___________________ (title handwritten),
and after careful consideration, we have checked the appropriate box below: 

well-written ___
has merit ___
interesting ___
needs work ___
inappropriate ___
does not fit our current list ___ 

We wish you good luck submitting your work elsewhere.

Sincerely, 

(name)
(title)

We've learned the importance of looking at a rejection letter as a stepping stone, but ... is it just me, or do all writers feel a lot more than rejected by a form rejection letter?  We put a heck of a lot of work, prep time, waiting time, and a lot of money into our submissions.

I realize publishers are busy and they also get hundreds of submissions, but if they would just give us a “heads up” as to what they ARE looking for in the last sentence of a rejection letter, it would save them time -- less rejection letters to send out, and less money. There would be less in the slush pile on the floor pushed up against a wall gathering dust and waiting to be waded through by an already overworked, underpaid staff.

What ARE they looking for?

What MIGHT fit into their present needs?  We may already have something really good that IS perfect for their current list.

Why is it that publishers don’t add one more tiny, itsy-bitsy sentence to the bottom of their form rejection letter?

Hey publishers ... tell us what it is you ARE looking for that WOULD fit your current list.


That's it for now.  I'm done ranting ...


So, You Want to be Published ...



“A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write.” ~CJ Heck

The Climbing Adventure

A Little Boy Climbing a Rock

I love watching a child who is deep in the world of pretending.

You can usually tell they're pretending, because the expression on their face says they're someone somewhere, anywhere other than who and where they are.

Sometimes it's obvious:  rescuing a princess from an evil castle, fiercely thrusting a cardboard sword, wearing mommy's kitchen strainer on their head.

Other times, they might only be taking a little longer to climb the stairs up to bedtime, but you can tell they are into the moment ...

Climbing

(A Preschool Adventure)
by CJ Heck

Climbing-climbing up the rock
through the woods, my hands are locked
on the rope so prickly-prickly
past a pine tree, tickly-tickly.

Climbing-climbing, higher-higher,
muscles feel like they’re on fire!
Through the dry leaves, rustle-rustle,
feel the wind push, hustle-hustle.

A long long way to the tippity top.
Hold on tight or flippity flop!
One foot here, then one foot there,
wish steps in rocks were everywhere ...

Huffing-puffing, not quite there.
Look out! There’s a grizzly bear!
Shhh-shhh, use tippy-toes ...
He’s turning now. See, there he goes ...

Snakes beside me, gliding-sliding!
Need a place for hiding-hiding!
Danger-danger! I can see
the snakes are esss-ing after me!

But no, they’re going in the ground
through those holes going down-down
Oh no, growling-growling from behind!
If I turn, what will I find?

A grumpy-grumpy scary thing?
I wish I had a bell to ring!
It’s getting dark! It's hard to see
the something else that’s chasing me!

Oh my gosh! I’m at the top.
I guess for now, I have to stop.
That was fun. I love pretending
but I wish stairs were never-ending ...

"A writer soon learns that easy to read is hard to write." ~CJ Heck