I have a slide deck presentation so they can see how I make my illustrations step by step. I show them many of my drawings, including ones of Roxy Belle riding a pig while wearing a T-shirt with a skeleton on it, standing on her hands in the middle of a field next to a cow, and posing with her five siblings while wearing a pink cowgirl hat and a belt buckle with a space alien on it.
I show them slides of the journals I use to get my ideas together for each book, and I show them how my printed rough drafts look and how I correct it with pens, adding and editing and deleting different lines and paragraphs. They can see that sometimes I cross out entire pages and start over.
I show photos of my writing desk at home, my pink and white cottage, my cats, and my land. I tell them about my childhood, how I played outside all the time, how I ran through meadows and splashed in a lake and rode my bike. I tell them that I daydreamed a lot as a kid and read tons and tons of books. “That’s how I became a writer,” I tell them. “Daydreaming and playing outside and reading. If you want to become a writer, or an illustrator, you can do it, too.”
Then I go to each classroom, and I teach a writing lesson. The kids write a story about a kid, and they become “illustrators.” I love teaching kids about writing, and I love that they love Roxy Belle.
I don’t tell the kids how I helped pour beer in a bar when I was their age. I don’t tell them how I memorized alcoholic drink recipes. I don’t tell the kids about the bar fights I saw and how I watched my mother drag people out of the bar in headlocks now and then.
I don’t tell them that the Roxy Belle books were written after one of the saddest, most hopeless periods of my life, after I left my cold, soul-sucking marriage, after my dreams were ground into the dust, after grief leveled me to my knees, and after I became someone I’d never wanted to be, and it was killing me. I don’t tell them that after leaving my husband in his dusty little town, I felt free, like I could fly again, like I could dream again.
No, I keep it light and happy for the kids because children are precious and special, and they don’t need to know about the collapse of the guest writer’s life. When I am done with my presentations, the kids clap and cheer, and their enthusiasm and sweet innocence remind me once again of why I love writing books for kids.
If only I could think of the theme, the topic, the main idea for another Roxy Belle book. I love that character, but it felt as if she were under a table, her arms crossed, a grumpy expression on her face as she refused to speak to me. I pictured her saying, “Go to the North Pole and talk to Mrs. Claus about it,” and that sounded completely authentic to me.
15
Bellini
I didn’t know that Susan Rorch was going to get tipsy-drunk and dance on the bar that Monday night when Logan was there with his team from work for their Christmas party. I mean, it wasn’t unexpected. She’s done it before, and tonight was her birthday. All her friends and four sisters were there, about twenty of them. Plus, everyone was in the Christmas spirit. With our three Christmas trees and fake, drunk Santa, plus Christmas music, the bar was hoppin’ with holiday love.
Mrs. Rorch climbed onto the bar when the song “We Are Family” blared over the speakers, and she and her sisters and friends began dancing. Susan is very limber, a former gymnastics champion, and she started at one end of the bar and cartwheeled on down. She’s seventy years old, so it was hard for me to tell her to get down. I do respect my elders, but I was afraid she’d fall.
She was wearing a red poodle skirt with a Christmas tree on it, and reindeer antlers sat on her white hair, red and green lights flashing on and off. Santa was embroidered on her sweater, and he was holding a martini.
“I’ll get down if you get up, Bellini,” she yelled down to me as her sisters and friends cheered for her, hips swinging, arms in the air.
“Mrs. Rorch, please. I’m worried you’re going to cartwheel off the bar,” I begged her, shouting over all the singing about sisters and families.
“Sing it with me!” Susan sang out, head back, arms outstretched. “I got all my sisters with me!”
Her friends—well, the entire bar—sang back, “We are family! I got all my sisters with me! We are family!”
“Mrs. Rorch!” I yelled again as she executed a perfect cartwheel, and I hurried down the bar to catch her in case the inevitable happened. “I’m begging you. You could get hurt!”
“Come on up, my love!” She twirled, one hand gracefully held over her head, one arm out, as everyone cheered.
Lumberjack Paul and his brother Seymour lifted me up onto the bar before I could stop them, and another cheer went up as the song continued.
“Dance with me, Bellini! Come on, sweetheart! Your momma would!”
“I will if you promise to get down after this song!” I shouted over the din.
“I may, I may not. Merry Christmas, Bellini! I’m so glad you’re back.”
I gave in. I couldn’t help it. She was so happy to be celebrating.
She grabbed my hands and yelled, “Sing it with me!” and I started singing with her, swirling a little, holding her hands, like we were a couple.
I looked up and saw Logan. He was smiling at me, black hair shining even under the dim lights. He was amused, I could tell. His shoulders were huge, and he towered over everyone. I smiled back and got confused.
He was so devilishly handsome. He was older, wiser, a little more reserved, more measured maybe, but still…Logan. He made me jittery and nervous and…excited…and hopeless…and hopeful…and lusty.
So up on the bar when our gazes locked, it felt like we were still dating, and his smile gave me a tingle. An electrical zap. I had a vision of holding him close and ripping off his clothes.
All of the sudden, it was too hot in that bar. Too stuffy. Too noisy. I had hardly eaten all day, and it was catching up with me. All I saw was Logan, and then things started to… spin.
I let go of Mrs. Rorch’s hands and felt myself become off-balance, as if I were on one foot, not both, and my head and my body weren’t working together. I felt like I was falling in a super-corny Christmas movie. I teetered off that bar and landed in Logan’s arms. Yes, he caught me. No, it was not intentional on my part. Yes, I felt like a fool. Dizzy, too. Embarrassed.
