Barnes & Noble, Dead Nooks, and Brave New Branding

Great reading!

The big news in publishing this week is Barnes & Noble’s plan to ax the Nook. After losing over a billion dollars trying to make the Nook a contender, it seems B&N’s new CEO is ready to just cut bait. According to Michael Kozlowski over at Good E Reader:

The NOOK segment (including digital content, devices and accessories) had revenues of $52 million for the 4th quarter and $264 million for the full year, decreasing 39.8% for the quarter and 47.8% for the year. Device and accessories sales were $13 million for the quarter and $86 million for the full year, declining 48.2% and 66.7%, respectively, due to lower unit selling volume. Digital content sales were $40 million for the quarter and $177 million for the full year, declining 36.5% and 27.8%, respectively, due primarily to lower device unit sales.

All I have to say is…OUCH.

I’d like to…

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July 13, 2015 0

The Rebel Mind

“You can’t make me!” This is the battle cry of children of all ages when confronted with brussel sprouts or taking a bath or cleaning up their rooms. Parents clench their teeth and use their superior logic to force compliance. The brussel sprout disappears into a napkin, and the adult enjoys a false victory. But the rebel never ceases to find opportunity to object against anything that is required of her.

Then adulthood changes everything. The rebel discovers no ones cares if she stays out until dawn. No one makes her wash the tower of dishes in the sink. No one forces her to make her bed before company comes over. This absence of tension confuses the rebel who enjoys conflict. The quiet voice of responsibility is no substitute for loud voices and slammed doors.

The rebel is driven outward to find a cause. If her apartment building forbids pit bulls, she has to have one. If the parking sign says 20 minutes, she leaves her car there for hours. Of course she smokes even though it will probably kill her. She loves to jaywalk and jump over “Do Not Walk on the Grass” signs. Speed limits and traffic lights are for submissive slaves, not her. Instinctively she finds ways to rebel against the parents that no longer lurk over her shoulder.

The only parent the rebel must still contend with is Her Creator. As a child, she readily accepted that God made her and loved her. Some of His rules, like not murdering or stealing, sounded good. When she was caught in rebellion, it was a comfort to know He forgave her. But a moral life? Too restrictive. Instead she went her own way, doing what seemed good to her. What made her happy.

Years later, the rebel is alone. Her selfishness cost her everything. As her best plans collapsed in ruins, she knows there is only one person to whom she can turn. Entering the church building she has scorned for most of her life, she brings her white flag to the altar.

ssplash 008

July 8, 2015 0

From the green room

As we wind down the week of Summer Splash, I enjoy an unusual quiet moment in the green room.

This year was Rise of the Heroes, a super hero version of the book of Acts. For the past four days we’ve been the reporters from the Daily Globe getting the scoop on super hero Paul and the J men. In between performances our cast has walked around in costume interacting with the kids. There’s a morning drama and then my cast performs. Besides our theater time rotation, there are water games, snacks and crafts.

After the first day, the kids get caught up into the drama. They stop us and tell us about Jesus. Some kids boo the villains, while others try to convince us of the truth. Walking through the water games can make cast members victims of sponge attacks.

As the days go by, the audience participates more loudly during performances. Villains are booed at the end of their scenes while the heroes are cheered.

At the of Friday’s session the casts of both dramas stay and sign workbooks and t shirts for the kids. The band returns for a family concert that night.

The magic is over. We take off our costumes for the last time and start dreaming of next year.

June 26, 2015 0

Magic demands a toll

Sometime in May I started to get excited about summer vacation. My non-teacher friends often are jealous that I have ten weeks off each year. Weeks I can spend writing my next novel, visiting exotic places, or sitting by my pool. But they don’t understand that wielding magic has its price.

Most people don’t realize that teachers are more powerful than most wizards. We have spells for Making Students Do Homework and Absolute Quiet in the Classroom. With a glance we can stop note-passing or compulsive pencil-sharpening. Parents drop their children off at the bus stop or in front of school each morning, believing in the power of our magic. After all, they can’t make little Angel do anything at home.

So after all the report cards, cum files, AR parties, and award ceremonies are finished, here I am, my first week at home. I’m flat on my back on the couch, popping cold meds and creating crumpled piles of tissues. My head feels like it will burst, and my throat feels like someone dragged a thorn bush through it. All the plans I had for writing every day have disappeared, as it is too difficult for me to hold a lucid thought.

In every fantasy book I’ve read, the users of magic suffered weakness as a result of their magical arts. In Robert Jordan’s books, they could lose their minds. I know some teachers like that. In other books, the wizard required an extended period of convalescence after saving the world. After victory over the forces of Evil, the wizard’s companions had to deliver their friend to the healing houses. Rarely did the victor walk off the battlefield under his own power.

To my fellow heroes, teachers of children, I offer this condolence. After a week or so you will start feeling like yourself again. You might see one of your former students at the supermarket and smile. A month will pass by, and then you’ll be ready to take out your wand once more.

But always remember, using magic demands a toll.

June 16, 2015 0

Tech week for Summer Splash

The intensity has set in. We race toward that opening day, next Monday. One scene at a time as we prepare for The Rise of Heroes.

June 16, 2015 0

The Big Bad Wolf becomes a hero

I should have known. All trimester the cast of my after school musical, “The Granny Awards” changed like mountain weather as students fell prey to sports, lost interest, and transportation issues. But as I rounded the corner to our dress rehearsals/school assemblies, I harbored the illusion that my roles were set.

The first two performances went off perfectly. Then my Big Bad Wolf asked me if I saw the email that his mother sent me. Of course I hadn’t.

His Little League championship game had just been scheduled for our final night performance. The performance for the parents. I no longer had a Big Bad Wolf.

Options swirled through my mind as I picked up the thousands of props to store until the next day. Should I try to play the part? The wolf sang a rap, made repeated appearances during the show, and was a crucial part of the final scene. I didn’t even think I could memorize all the lines in time.

Then I thought about the rest of the students. The boy who played Cinderella’s prince only had to sing a song near the beginning of the play. Maybe he could make a quick change and become the wolf. I asked him, one of the youngest cast members.

“I can do it,” he said with a smile. I sighed but gave him the chance.

That night, my brave third grader was the prince and the Big Bad Wolf. He did an awesome job and the show was saved. Afterwards, his parents came up to me.

“Our son was so painfully shy before he joined the chorus club. We can’t believe the transformation.”

Maybe a life’s ambition was discovered. Maybe a boy found his courage. All I know is the Big Bad Wolf was the hero of the show.

June 10, 2015 0

Flying with Superman

Riding as a passenger on a Harley is a unique experience. When my husband and I purchased the bike, he had years of riding dirt bikes and street bikes compared to my one experience of riding with my father in Nassau. I did not expect to discover a superhero.

When we took off down the road, I suddenly felt like I was in a car with all its windows down and doors taken off. The bumpier-than-I-remember street and closer-than-I-remember cars were our intimate companions on this adventure. Every car that passed us seemed sinister as it wooshed by our fragile machine. Pedestrians at the street corners were unpredictable, often stepping out in front of us with no apparent concern for their lives. A whole new world of peril opened before me.

But as the wind buffeted the top of my helmet and tickled me under my chin, I started to relax and enjoy the movie unfolding beside us- the proud mountains, meandering canyons, and the expanse of valleys. This was much more than glancing out of the “Lexus cages” that Jon Foreman sings about. On the Harley, you don’t travel to a place, you travel through a place. Complete with road bumps and fragrant wildflowers. Bikers talk about the freedom of riding, and suddenly I understood.

And as a passenger, there was more than just freedom. I had to trust my husband who drove us on and on along the winding road. For a moment, I was Lois Lane rescued by Superman, just in the nick of time. I was not in control of my situation, but that loss of control gave me the freedom to enjoy the ride. My husband’s helmet partially blocked my view of where we were going as much as Lois couldn’t know exactly where she would land. But I know my husband, and so I can trust him to get us there.

I had known I was going for a ride but I had no idea I would be flying with Superman.

May 26, 2015 0

Why aren’t there any happy endings anymore?

Reading into the wee hours by Kindle light, I finally reach the end, and close the book, unsatisfied.

As writers strive in the most graphic fashion to portray the sadistic underbelly of our society, I find it difficult to keep reading to the last page. Any chance of any character enjoying a lasting relationship is tossed over the railing and dashed on the concrete below. On more than one occasion, I have stopped a few chapters into a book and deleted it from my Kindle because the author has failed to provide me any thread of empathy for their tortured, misguided characters. I simply don’t care whether the main character finds the revenge or closure that he seeks, knowing that he will undoubtably implode before he learns anything about life.

In the tales I favor evil abounds, but it follows rules that allow the amateur hero to navigate through his quest, wounded but wiser for his experiences. Happy endings are earned by the pure of heart. There is peace after the conflict. Although some may call me romantic, I often find that this is the true rhythm of life. “To everything there is a season…”

Real life can be bleak enough. We cut flowers to sit in vases in our homes, bringing the riotous color of nature into our beige kitchens. For me, it is the same with novels. Even if my path is not colorful and fragrant, the book I cuddle up with in my bed should at least satisfy me with characters that set the world right and live to toast it with their comrades.

I long for a happy ending.

May 19, 2015 0

Heaven’s Tears

Puffy white clouds scoot across the sun in a brilliant blue sky. The air is crispy fresh, and the sand is cool under bare feet. Waves dump foam close to me. On the horizon, a bank of grey threatens but the sunny present holds my attention. After wandering along the debris strewn water line, I found just the right spot to spread out my towel. Relaxing my curves into the moldable sand, I close my eyes and feel the support beneath me. My mind drifts into sleepy places, and then suddenly, a cold splash hits my cheek. It’s nothing, I reassure myself. Plink! Plink! Two drops hit my eyelids. Grudgingly I sit up. The increasing barrage of water announces that the thunderheads have snuck up on me. I grab my towel and dash to the parking lot, woken up by heaven’s tears.

May 5, 2015 0

Inspiration

Quiet and chaos.

These unlikely twins are the source of my writing inspiration. Once a month, my husband and I pack up the travel trailer and go camping for the weekend. Load after load of clothes, food, bikes, firewood, and water are stuffed into every cabinet and cupboard until we practically take the whole house with us. Away we ride into the hair-raising Friday afternoon traffic. Drivers merge onto the freeway engrossed in their phone conversations, unaware that a 45 feet long combination of truck and trailer is right next to them. Suddenly they look to their left and gasp as they realize the lane ahead of them is ending,and they have nowhere to go. We find it amusing to watch them speed up or hit their brakes as they figure out how to get into our lane.

Just when our nerves have worn thin, our exit appears like the sight of land from the crow’s nest, and we arrive at the seaside campground. After checking in at the kiosk, we find our spot, a tiny space in a massive jigsaw puzzle of trailers, RVs and tents. After a few tense moments of backing in the trailer, made more difficult by the men in the spaces around us watching us as if we were a college football game, we fit our trailer into the narrow slot. We communicate by cell phone, my husband driving the truck and me standing in the space directing him. Often he reminds me that “Oh! Oh! Ooooh!” is not a direction.

My husband drops the trailer, wedges the truck into the space, and it’s time to set up. Out comes the woven rug, trash can, and welcome mat. We hurriedly munch on leftovers, as there’s not enough time to grill the first night. A rhythmic roar urges us to make haste. Quickly we throw on jackets that were unneeded back in the desert, and head for the stairs.

The stairs. Three flights of wind-blasted, splintered boards that serpentine down the jagged cliff to the sand. My life with all its twists and painful experiences. We descend slowly, carefully as the boards creak beneath our feet.

But at the end, there is cool sand. My toes sink gratefully into it as I kick off my flip flops, Hand in hand, we walk along the high tide line, stepping carefully over shells and branches of seaweed. The waves murmur encouragement as they coat my feet in salty foam.

Here I see words in the fading pinks and oranges on the horizon. Stories call to me in the gulls streaking across the sky.

Quiet speaks writing to me, but I also hear its voice in the chaos.

My life as an elementary school teacher is full of noise. Hundreds of questions, complaints, unrelated comments barrage me daily. One student’s elaborated crafted excuse about their missing homework inspires me with an idea for a character. Analyzing their writing forces me to justify what simply jumps out of my head, breaking it down into its smaller parts. I try to infuse my students with my love of reading. “Can you believe what that character just did?” I ask, drawing them into discussion.

In the chatter of my classroom, I find joy, frustration, perseverance, revelation. These speak to the story in my heart as clearly as the hush of the seashore.

As my fingers push the keys, the quiet and the chaos tell their stories. .

April 28, 2015 0