Monday, July 8, 2019


     I am often asked what is the best formula to write a book. Some folks seem to think it's like following a recipe in cooking, put in the ingredients, mix together, stir and voila! If they can just follow the steps, they will be a published writer.
     Hmm, it's not that easy, in fact it is rather hard. However, there is a method for writing children's books, just one proven method that works. It is called the BIC method of writing.

    For those who don't know, the BIC method is an acronym. The letters stand for Butt In Chair.

    Yep, that unfortunately is the only known formula. Sit in your chair, put in the time, and do the work.

    Kind of like other professions, isn't it? I suppose that since stories can sometimes create a sort of magic, writing one seems like it should be magical too.

     On several occasions people have told me that they have written a children's book. They tap their temple with their forefinger and say, "It's all right here."

     When the story is in your head, that is called thinking. To write a story, you do have to actually write it down.

     Thanks for listening. Now it's time for me to put my own butt in my chair, and get to work.

Friday, May 31, 2019


     My new book, THE MOUSE WHO DANCED THE HORA, will be out in September.  It's about a mouse, Tillie Mouscovitz, who longs to dance the hora at a wedding. "But for a mouse - it's not".

     The other day, I had an inspiration about what led me to write this story. I realized that it stemmed from the times I assisted my husband when he photographed weddings and bar/bat mitzvah celebrations. My husband is a professional event photographer. I often went with him, even though sometimes my only task was to watch his equipment. (All of his camera equipment was once stolen from a major San Francisco hotel while he was photographing in a different room). Like Tillie, I was an observer at these events, standing on the sidelines. My husband was busy taking pictures, and the guests were busy dancing.

      It is really hard for a Jewish person not to join in when she hears the music and sees others dancing the hora!

     Actually, the hora is not the only dance which is second nature to me. While waiting in line to order a hot dog at the San Jose Giants game on Memorial Day, I heard the Hokey Pokey being played in the stadium. Of course I put my right foot in and right foot out while waiting in line. I couldn't help it.

     Could you?

Friday, September 7, 2018


      For those of us who love baseball, there is no other sport like it. The team, the game, the players, the ballpark, the announcers, the fans, the traditions, they all go into what makes baseball so great.

     For those who don't love baseball, it's always the same complaint. "It's too slow."

     Not for me. I am on the edge of my seat throughout a baseball game, and sometimes the tension rises so much when I am watching a game on television that I have to leave the room. We can never be enough runs ahead to be complacent. The game can turn so quickly, and a 4-0 lead can become
a 4-6 loss.

     I've heard it said that baseball is the quintessential American sport. Players are on a team, yet each individual at bat has the power to change the entire course of the game. Besides that, you score when you run home, how sweet is that!

     Going to the ballpark is such a great experience too, the food, the fans, the afternoon in the sun, or evening under the stars. But baseball is also great on the radio. The announcers make the experience of listening so wonderful, and all of the background crowd noises add to the excitement. Televised baseball is another experience, seeing the players up close and personal, watching a replay or  the reaction in the dugout.

      I thank my mom more than anyone else for my love of baseball. When I was a little girl, the San Francisco Giants had "Ladies Day" on Thursday home games. The games had a special reduced rate, which may have been as low as a dollar. My mom, her best friend, Marie, Marie's son, Glen, and I would all board the muni bus for the long ride out to Candlestick Park and a wonderful day at the game.

     Our new ballpark in San Francisco is very beautiful, with a terrific view of the water and boats, great food and atmosphere. But Ladies Day is a thing of the past, of course. Going to the ballpark, especially with a family, is terrifically expensive now.

     I had a neighbor who was from Germany. Her husband was a scientist at a local bio tech firm, and she knew many other European ladies who were also in the USA because of their husbands' jobs. The ladies were from Poland, Sweden, Czech Republic, Turkey, Spain, Belgium. They sometimes asked me to join them on outings. Baseball was such a mystery to them. They all hated it and were particularly incensed by the World Series.

     "How can they call it the "world" series?" one would complain.

     "I know," another would say. "Soccer is the only game."

      "And the World Cup actually invites the world."

     "Besides, it's so slow."

      I tried to explain but soon gave up. They were never going to understand because even though they lived here for years. The World Series is such an American concept. The biggest, the best,the greatest, the World Series.

       The San Francisco Giants had a mediocre season this year. But that's okay, there's always next year. Because, after all, What would life be without baseball?


Saturday, August 11, 2018


     Before our first granddaughter was born, my husband and I contemplated what we wanted her to call us. His choice was "Poppy", which is what he called his own grandfather. I called my grandmothers "Grandma", differentiated by their first names, Grandma Manya and Grandma Marian. But the name "Grandma" made me feel old, so I decided that Molly would call me "Grammy". We would be Grammy and Poppy.

     However, as has proved true over the years, Molly had her own idea. Somehow Grammy and Poppy became Abby and Bob.

    To me, it sounds like a comedy team. In some ways, being a grandparent is a little like being part of a comedy act. We often work together to make our granddaughters laugh and smile. Bah-da-da-bum.

     The first time I was really aware of it was a day when my husband and I were at the playground with Molly. She was probably about one and a half years old then. My husband had gone to the car to get the sand toys and Molly called to him.

     She said, "Bob! Bob!"

      Another grandma, who was standing near to me, gave me a funny look, as if to say, "You let your little granddaughter call her grandfather by his first name?"

     So I said to her, "Oh, his name isn't actually Bob."

     Which made absolutely no sense.

     Over the years, Molly has begun calling my husband Poppy, except when she is referring to both of us. Then we still are AbbyBob. The day we babysit each week is AbbyBob Day. And I had to laugh when we took her to her swimming lesson and she pointed us out to the teacher saying, "There's AbbyBob." I don't think the swim teacher had any idea what Molly was talking about.

     But I'm still Abby. I kind of like it. It's unique. I don't know if it will last, though. Our giggly little Hannah is fifteen months old now, and may have her own name ideas. Whatever it is, I hope the comedy act continues.


Friday, August 3, 2018


     A few evenings ago my husband was sorting through some old letters. One was from his grandmother, written in 1972, when he was just twenty years old. She was writing in response to his desire to have a career as a professional photographer. Grandma was trying to talk him out of it. She was worried that by thirty he would be a "Drifter".


     In some ways her points were understandable from her point of view. Her husband died young and she had survived the Depression mostly on her own, raising three children. She valued hard work and independence. She equated photography to a show business career, a field where there isn't room enough for everyone to make a living. Her solution was to work hard, even if it was a job one hated, put money aside and buy a house one day. That was about all one could expect.

     Whoa again.

     I found it surprising that she didn't offer a solution of education to find a career in a more lucrative field. I mostly found it surprising, and sad, that a twenty year old wouldn't be allowed to follow a dream, at least for a few years. In fact, my husband did become a professional photographer and has been successful at it all these years. He has worked hard.

     Drifter indeed.

     Of course, all this talk of Drifters made me think about Hank Williams, about whom I wrote a picture book biography. The people in Hank's bands changed over the years but all of his bands, starting from when he was very young, were called The Drifting Cowboys. I find so much romance in that name.

      Drifters and Hank made me also think of one of my favorite songs that he sings, "Lost Highway". "When I pass by, all the people say, just another guy on the lost highway". This is a sad song, a cautionary tale, about a man's life. I guess Grandma saw a lot of drifters in Oklahoma, where she was from, "rolling stones, all alone and lost".

      But her grandson certainly wasn't one of them.

Monday, July 30, 2018


     I miss the circus. The Stupendous, Colossal, Death Defying Circus.

     I realize it's not politically correct to say so. Yet I'd like to shout it from the rooftops. I MISS THE CIRCUS.

     There really is nothing else like it, the acts, the people, the entire subculture of the circus. Cirque du Soleil is a nice show, but it's not the circus, the real circus, the gritty, fabulous, place apart circus. The circus is its own subculture, a world unto itself unlike any other.

    And no one can run away to it anymore.

     I wrote a book about the circus once called THE AMAZING TROMBONI MOVE IN. It is about a world, a town, without the circus. People in Hartleyville banned the circus because they said it is dirty and dangerous, filled with animals and strange looking people. I wanted to write about a circus family who moved to a town like Hartleyville, a sad, conventional town, and brought their own magic with them, their squirting flowers and trained chimps, their trapeze acts and big floppy shoes. It's my favorite story I've ever written.

     But I never expected that the circus really would be banned, forgotten, taken out of existence. Barnum and Bailey is gone, and small circuses are struggling internationally. So much of  the circus has been vilified too.

     Take clowns. They have become scary. But clowns are wonderful. Fellini's great movie, Clowns, is one of my favorites, about the artistry of clowns. There is the whole idea of clowns becoming other, unique, fabulous to make folks laugh, not to scare them.

     I miss trapeze, tightrope walkers, ringmasters, and yes, even trained animals. As Grandpa Tromboni tells the family in my story,

     “I knew a man who knew a man who knew a man who left the circus. Moved to a little town and bought himself a house to live in.”
     “I knew no such man,” Grandma said. “Is who?”   
     “What I mean is,” Grandpa continued, “it may be time to try something new, to try a life outside the circus.”
     “Is there a life outside the circus?” Grandma asked."

     I guess we will have to see if there is.

Thursday, March 30, 2017


     If only, when I wrote my first picture book and received wonderful letters, although not offers of publication, from editors, I was wise enough to either keep sending it out, rather than stopping after four "nos", or to show those letters to an agent who may have been willing to help me, perhaps my professional career would have started sooner and been all that I had imagined it to be.

    If only, when I wrote my first novel for children at the age of 23, I had been lucky enough to have had it published, or if only someone had been so amazed at my accomplishment at such a young age, perhaps I would have been on my way then to acclaim in the industry I've cared about so much.

    If only, when I was young, I had followed my heart and moved to New York City, as I had always wanted to do, the center of publishing for children at that time, perhaps I would have the career I wanted. If only I hadn't been so worried about my parents' stability if I left, and my own well being if I moved to a city where I knew no one and had no prospects for a job or housing.

     If only, when I joined the SCBWI in the 1970s, I had been smart enough to attend a conference then, perhaps I would have met people who could have helped me in my career and taught me what I needed to know to succeed.

     If only I had always made the wisest choice and done everything right then I would be my Perfect Me. I would like to be my Perfect Me, but I didn't do everything right and I am not my Perfect Me, I am

     I reached for the stars and landed on the roof. But the roof isn't such a bad place to be. From here I have a marvelous view of our yard, which looks particularly beautiful just now, as the roses are about to bloom. I'm a bit closer to the birds, and I love to watch them fly. I can wave to my neighbor and watch my dear husband come home. And being here makes me remember songs which I'll sing to my little granddaughter when I see her next week.

     How I wish I had been gutsy, glamorous, gregarious! I should have had more confidence, courage and charisma. It would have helped to be more self-centered, focused and even ruthless.Maybe then all of those unpublished manuscripts hidden in a box in my closet would have been published books. Yet I still wrote those books, labored over them, dreamed about them, searched for the perfect words, revised and completed them. I am proud of my work, especially that novel I wrote when I was only 23. Although I never considered that I would have to work so many years at the public library, I have read thousands of books and affected many many children in a positive way, and I am grateful for that.

      So the roof isn't such a terrible place to be. I have a lovely view. And to those of you who have reached the stars, I will bask in your glow.