Dear Reader

Dear Reader Column - September 16, 2021

Dear Reader,

I have an editor who reads through my column everyday before it's published. It's rare that she does a read-through and doesn't make suggestions, and sometimes she even tells me what I've written might be very clear to me, but as a reader, she's confused. And so I begin again.

Unfortunately, when you're working on an entry for this year's Write a DearReader Contest, you don't have the luxury of an editor. So today I'm sharing some tips I've learned about writing for the past 22 years.

Get out of your head and into your reader's mind. You might know everything about the story you're telling, because you lived it. But the reader doesn't know anything other than what you've written. Example: you refer to Bob in your story, but did you ever explain who Bob was?

Sometimes I fall in love with a sentence I've written, but it really doesn't fit into the piece I'm writing, and no matter how much I desperately want to keep it, eventually I have to edit it out. (But I do save it, hopefully to use it another day.)

Print your entry and then read it out loud without adding voice inflection. Instead, just read aloud in a steady tone. Every reader will interpret what you've written a little differently, because of their own past experiences, and even sometimes how they're feeling on any particular day.

My heart is crushed when I'm reading a contest entry and I'm loving the story, but then abruptly the writer starts talking about something different. Make sure there's only one story in your piece, unless you use a segue that brings the stories together. (In writing, a segue is a smooth transitional phrase that moves the reader from one point or paragraph to another.)

After you think your entry for this year's Write a DearReader Contest is finished, go back and read, and reread what you've written, many times over a few days. As you're reading each sentence, look for words you don't really need. Make each sentence, and every word in your sentence, earn its keep. 

I would love to read your story. Find the voice inside of you and enter the 17th Annual Write a DearReader Contest. To get all the info, deadlines, cash prizes, how your library can get involved, and read last year's winning entries, go here. 

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

This month's Penguin Classics book is THE TALE OF PRINCESS FATIMA, WARRIOR WOMAN: The Arabic Epic of Dhat al-Himma, translated and edited by Melanie Magidow. I have a copy of the book to share with a lucky reader, so start reading and enter for your chance to win.

Dear Reader Column - September 15, 2021

Dear Reader

Enter my No-Chocolate Chip Cookie Giveaway for a chance to win the same cookie scoop I use, and when you bake, I'd love to see a photo and your favorite cookie recipe, too. 

Today's guest author, Nichola Jayne Raihani, is a British psychologist who is a Professor of Evolution and Behaviour at University College London. Her research considers the evolution of cooperation in nature. She was elected Fellow of the Royal Society of Biology in 2019. Nichola's first book is The Social Instinct.

Please welcome Nichola Raihani to our book club. Authors love to hear from readers. Email: [email protected] You can find her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/nicholaraihani

The phone call came in October 2004.

It was around lunchtime. I was living in a remote part of the Kalahari Desert, the second of four long stints I would be spending there. October is the desert springtime and, though the midday sun had not yet reached its full crushing potential, we would typically shelter indoors during the hottest part of the day before venturing back outside in the late afternoon.

I found myself in this far-flung location because of the species I was studying: the pied babbler, a bird that thrives in this inhospitable environment. The decision not only to do a PhD, but to do one on bird behaviour of all things, had prompted puzzled looks and raised eyebrows from several family members. What was the point of it, they wanted to know? Wasn't it time to grow up and find myself a real job? To be fair, this had come out of the blue. Though I had studied Zoology at university, I was no ornithologist; and my family were perhaps to be forgiven for not foreseeing this as the next logical step in my education. Nevertheless, something fascinated me about these tubby little birds: their extraordinarily social way of life.

By far the most common social arrangement among birds is the pair bond, where a male and a female team up to raise a brood of nestlings. For many species this marriage of convenience lasts only for as long as is needed, the union dissolving when the chicks fledge the nest. Babblers are different in that they are permanently and totally committed to a social way of life: they do everything together. Within each group, only a single male and female breed; everyone else helps to raise the dominant pair's offspring. This is quite remarkable: we would feel indignant if we were ordained to live as modern-day eunuchs, our only purpose being to advance the lot of the chosen few. Yet many species do adopt this strange way of life. (And humans are, in fact, among them.) I was one of the first people to study the behaviour of pied babblers in detail, the focus of my research being to understand the conflicts that inevitably arise in what superficially appears to be a society built on cooperation.

It was a poor phone line, and my stepfather's voice sounded distant and tinny as he delivered the news. "I'm sorry to tell you this over the phone. It's not diverticulitis after all. Your mum has colon cancer--and the doctors think it might have spread." I flew home a few days later to be with my mum while she underwent major surgery to remove the tumour.

At that point, I was just embarking on my career in social evolution--and I failed to realise the ways in which my professional and personal worlds were colliding. The very same conflicts of interest that I was studying among these social birds in the Kalahari Desert were also expressing themselves, albeit in different ways, within the cells of my mother's body halfway around the world. Just as babblers sometimes cheat the system by trying to breed rather than help, cells within our bodies occasionally try the same trick, becoming 'reproductives' rather than remaining as inert, sterile 'workers'. In both cases, the selfish actions of the few wreak havoc on the collective.

-- Nichola Raihani
email: [email protected]

 

 

 

 

* I hope you enjoyed reading today's guest column. Start writing, because your story could be featured in one of Suzanne's daily columns, if you're a winner or Honorable Mention in this year's Write a DearReader contest. Cash prizes, rules and deadlines, along with last year's winning entries, read all about them here.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

This month's Penguin Classics book is THE TALE OF PRINCESS FATIMA, WARRIOR WOMAN: The Arabic Epic of Dhat al-Himma, translated and edited by Melanie Magidow. I have a copy of the book to share with a lucky reader, so start reading and enter for your chance to win.

Dear Reader Column - September 14, 2021

Dear Reader,

It's time to enter my annual Write a DearReader Contest. You don't need to be a writer to enter. The contest is for writing fun. To read last year's winning entries and information about the rules and deadline, click here. 

What a treat, The Tale of Princess Fatima, Warrior Woman: The Arabic Epic of Dhat al-Himma, translated and edited by Melanie Magidow, is this month's Penguin Classics.  I have a copy of the book to share with a lucky reader, so start reading and enter for your chance to win.

If you missed any of this year’s previous Penguin Classics you can sample them here.

Romance in Marseille, by Claude McKay

Unsung: Unheralded Narratives of American Slavery & Abolition, by The Schomburg Center

The Women of Brewster Place, by Gloria Naylor

The Transit of Venus, by Shirley Hazzard

Today you also have the opportunity to enter the No-Chocolate Chip Cookie Giveaway--a chance to win the same cookie scoop I use, when I bake. Hundreds and hundreds of readers entered July’s giveaway, so I’m bringing it back again, for another opportunity to win. 

Why the No-Chocolate Chip Cookie Giveaway?

Every month I bake two dozen chocolate chip cookies for three lucky book club readers, and FedEx delivers the cookies right to their front door. But this summer, I've changed things up a bit. It's just been too hot  to send cookies--the chocolate melts--even when FedEx delivers Second Day. So I encourage you to bake a batch yourself. Dunk-and-munch some of your chocolate chip delights and then, the best part of baking--give some of them away. Friends, neighbors, your hairstylist, a favorite small business owner, even your doctor would be thrilled to get cookies.

Enter my No-Chocolate Chip Cookie Giveaway for a chance to win the same cookie scoop I use, and when you bake, I'd love to see a photo and your favorite cookie recipe, too.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - September 13, 2021

Dear Reader,

There are only a few weeks to enter this year's Write a DearReader Contest. To read last year's winning entries, deadlines, cash prizes and how to enter, click here.

Today it's my pleasure to share a column, written by Elizabeth Ann Kissling. She was an Honorable Mention winner from last year's Write a DearReader Contest.

June on Waterman Mountain

My family enjoyed the same two vacations each summer while I was growing up: a week camping in our local mountains and a day at our local theme park. Theme park day was definitely not to be missed, but in my book it didn't compare with our week in the mountains.

It was our tradition to camp in the same campground each summer, ideally in the same campsite. Of the thirty-odd campsites in the campground we had four favorites, and I don't recall a summer when we weren't able to get one of them. My personal favorite was the very first site, which was at the end of a dark, ferny glen where a small creek sparkled along under seemingly ancient incense cedars and sugar pines. The ground on the mountain behind the glen was littered with the long, narrow sugar pine cones we'd gather and use as starters for our cooking fires.

Our family camping unit consisted of my maternal grandparents, my mother, and my two younger sisters. In the early years we pitched a large, hard-to-handle three-room tent; later we shared a cab-over camper. The week in the mountains was the highlight of my summer each year, because while we were there I would be allowed to hike to my heart's content, and I did a whole lot of hiking.

My most rewarding hike, though, occurred one hot mid-June when I had followed a mile or so of a long, looping fire road and found that it came out at the top of the local mountain's main ski lift. The ski lodge, rental hall, and other buildings were closed up tight for the summer, but I noticed a bird's nest in the gray coverless ski lift switch box. I walked over to the box to examine the nest, which had been abandoned for the season, and saw two round buttons, one above the other, each about the size of a half-dollar piece: a red one on top that said STOP and a green one on the bottom that said ON. This was too much temptation for me, and I yielded. I pushed the green button.

To my surprise the ski lift began to move. Faced with this new temptation I yielded again, jumped aboard, rode the lift down the mountain, and then jumped off. I watched the lift baskets  continuing in their long, lazy circle, and then jumped back on and rode the lift up to the top again. I did this several more times, disembarking for the last time at the top, where I pushed the STOP button and watched the lift grind to a complete halt.

I hiked back down the fire road to my campground, full of excitement and ready to share the story of my adventure, when common sense got the better of me. This was not the kind of thing a twelve-year-old safely reports to her mother. So I never said a word, until now.

-- Elizabeth Ann Kissling
Honorable Mention, 2020 Write a DearReader Contest

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

Dear Reader Column - September 10, 2021

Dear Reader,

Have you written your entry for the 17th Annual Write a DearReader Contest?

Don't start thinking to yourself, 'I'm not a writer.' Because I started the writing contest 17 years ago, for someone exactly like you. Everyone has at least a 650-word story inside of them (the maximum number of words allowed in an entry), and I'd love to read yours.

The Write a DearReader contest is all about writing for fun. Two people can work together on an entry, so feel free to collaborate with a friend or spouse. If your entry is chosen as a First Place ($200 cash prize), Second Place ($100), or Third Place ($50) winner, I will donate a 50% matching gift to your local library in your honor. And the winning entries will be featured in my daily column.

So get busy and start writing. Write about your grandmother's favorite recipe, tell me about your favorite or most obnoxious neighbor. What's the one word that would best describe you? What's your wish, but it hasn't come true yet? Write down the conversation you'd have with your cat or dog if they could talk.

Tell me about a perfect first date, or one that made you run the other way. Write about your favorite aunt, a bizarre and whimsical woman who vacuums her living room in the buff. Write about unusual words like 'poppysmic.' When does your passion shine? When do you pull up the covers and hide-out from fear? Serious, funny, embarrassing situations, thoughts about life, fiction, and nonfiction, the topics are endless.

Does the thought of writing something that people will read give you the willies? Perfect. There's your topic--write about your fear of writing. But start writing about something, because it's time to enter my 17th Annual Write a DearReader Contest.

To review the guidelines and to read last year's winning entries, click here. 

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Start writing and have fun,

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader Column - September 9, 2021

Dear Reader,

There are only a few weeks to enter this year's Write a DearReader Contest. To read last year's winning entries, deadlines, cash prizes and how to enter, click here. 

Today it's my pleasure to share a column, written by Laura Shaffer. She was an Honorable Mention winner from last year's Write a DearReader Contest.

SHELDON

We had him several years before our daughter christened him Sheldon. The name not only stuck; he became hers. Sheldon, a.k.a. a 2004 Honda Accord, helped Bekah through many teenage rituals: 50 hours of driving time, extra-curricular school activities, part-time jobs.

When Bekah chose an out-of-state college, Sheldon accompanied her over 600 miles from northwestern Ohio to Clemson. Sheldon thrived in the South Carolina sunshine, preferring the heat over the Midwest winters. He took in more fluids and had better traction.

During one of the return trips to South Carolina, Sheldon was involved in a minor fender bender. Thankfully, neither Bekah nor the other driver were hurt. Sheldon sustained bruising near the front light on the passenger side. He appeared to have a permanent wink. It gave him added charm.

Sheldon connected Bekah to her Dad while she was at college. He called, asking "How's the car running?" and "Does the oil need checking?" These conversations were a long distance way of turning on the night-light for his grown-up daughter when it was hard to let go. Another way of saying "I love you."

After four years at Clemson and two internships in Washington D.C., Bekah and Sheldon continued to drive eastward to Boston.

The hassle of parking on crowded streets and easy public transportation limited Sheldon's days as a New Englander. Bekah drove him less. As a result, Sheldon stalled often. She no longer referred to him as Sheldon, but as 'the car.'

"The car's costing me time from work. I have to get a tow. Can you come to Boston and drive it back to Ohio?"

Sheldon found himself making one last long distance trip back to Ohio. He arrived in Boston in late December. Now he left in autumn's splendor. In upstate New York, Sheldon seemed deflated by the separation from Bekah. He required a valve stem in a tire.

Sheldon's next stop--Craig's list. A few days later, two Texans came over on a Friday evening. They were headed back to Texas and wanted to pay cash for Sheldon on the spot. "What about the title?" my husband Bill asked.

"You can sign it over to us," they said. "That's how we do it in Texas."

"We're not in Texas," Bill said.

About a week later, someone else called. A local couple needing another car. He came over, drove it, liked it. We settled on a price; the deed was done. We arranged to drive Sheldon to their house after the sale of the car since he would be out of town.

I sat in our car as Bill tinkered with nuts, bolts and wrenches, removing the license plates. Finally finished, he returned to our car, slamming the trunk and opening the driver's door. To my dismay, tears streaked his face. He grabbed a tissue as he sat down.

"I can't believe I am blubbering over a stupid car," he said.

"It's not about the car," I said quietly.

Bill backed out of the driveway. We headed down the street, leaving Sheldon in his new owners' driveway, waiting to be renamed.

Laura Shaffer
Honorable Mention, 2020 Write a DearReader Contest

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

With so many new books out every week, we promise these titles deserve your attention:

(Fiction)
MEMORIES OF YOU by J. Kenner

(Fiction)
CHASING SERENITY by Kristen Ashley

Go to: http://authorbuzz.com/dearreader

Dear Reader Column - September 8, 2021

Dear Reader,

Embarrassing situations make great story ideas for your entry in this year's Write a DearReader Contest. You don't have to be a writer to enter, in fact I started the contest 17 years ago hoping that anyone with a story would enter. To find out more about cash prizes, deadlines and to read last year's winning entries, click here. 

Every time I come across the recipe I have to smile, because it was a real recipe "whoops" when I published my Beef with Broccoli recipe for readers several years ago. After reading my recipe, Beatrice, a reader at the book club wrote...

"Dear Suzanne, are you okay? I was reading your Beef with Broccoli recipe but interestingly enough, the recipe does not include 'Beef.' Is it an oversight? Or was I just imagining things?" -- Beatrice

(Suzanne replied:)

"Where's the beef?"

I don't know, Beatrice, I'm still looking for it. Started looking for it early this morning, when emails, similar to yours, started showing up in my inbox.

So I dug through my recipe box and found the recipe card. "Beef with Broccoli" was clearly printed at the top of the card, but when I read through the recipe--you're right, there's no beef! So what happened to the beef? And the bigger question, "Where's the beef 'been' all these years?"

It's amazing what you can convince people to believe. Because I've been serving this recipe for 20 plus years, "Here, enjoy some of my Beef with Broccoli," and no one has ever questioned what was--or wasn't--on their plate.

But now I'm amazed that a dinner guest didn't ask, "Suzanne, I see mushrooms in this delicious Beef with Broccoli. Are you sure this isn't Broccoli with Mushrooms?"

"Of course it's Beef with Broccoli. Those mushrooms on your plate? They're a newfangled kind-of-beef. Vegetarian beef--came from a cow that had a real thing for mushrooms."

So, "Where's the Beef?" I'm still looking for it, Beatrice.

In the meantime, trust me, it must be a great recipe because you're the very first person who's ever asked "Where's the Beef?"

Almost Beef with Broccoli

1 ½ pounds broccoli
2 T cornstarch
2 T cold water
¼ cup vegetable oil
8 ounces mushrooms, sliced (not too thin)
1 medium onion, sliced thin
2 cloves garlic, finely chopped or crushed
½ tsp salt
½ cup chicken broth
2 T soy sauce

Cut the broccoli into bite-size pieces (about one inch). I don’t use the stems, they are too thick. But if you wanted to use them you could cut them lengthwise.

Mix cornstarch and water.

Heat oil in skillet (or wok) until hot. Cook and stir mushrooms, onion and garlic in oil until tender. Remove the mixture, set aside and stir-fry broccoli with salt for 3 minutes. Stir in broth and soy sauce. Heat to boiling and then reduce heat. Cover and simmer for 6 minutes, then add the mushrooms, onion and garlic that you had set aside.

Heat to boiling, stir in cornstarch mixture. Continually stir while cooking until mixture thickens.

Makes 6 servings, but I always double the recipe.

Thanks for reading with me. It’s so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader Column - September 7, 2021

Dear Reader,

This week’s guest author Joanna FitzPatrick, writes...

Born and raised in Hollywood, I naturally gravitated toward a career in the entertainment biz rather than educational diplomas. I went from secretary to screenwriter, to giving Bette Midler her first driving lesson, to artist manager, to record company executive. Then I took the proverbial road less traveled and returned to school to become an author: BA at Suny Purchase; MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. My thesis Sha Na Na, Live for Today was based on my own adventures as a Hollywood hippie.

The 10th Anniversary Edition of my first novel, Katherine Mansfield, recently received the bronze IPPY award in historical fiction, of which I am very proud because I did the entire project on my own. My second novel, The Drummer's Widow, was drawn from my career as an artist manager. My current novel, The Artist Colony, an historical mystery set in 1924, tells the tale of a young painter who comes to Carmel by the Sea to investigate her sister's suicide. Presently, I divide my time between a cottage by the sea in Pacific Grove, California and a hameau in rural southern France where I begin all my book projects.

I am giving away a copy of The Artist Colony to five lucky book club readers." Email [email protected] to enter the drawing.

The Ruby Anniversary

My husband offered to buy me a car for our fortieth anniversary. An anniversary represented by the ruby gemstone--the inner flame of a marriage that has lasted forty years and is still burning.

I immediately saw myself behind the wheel of a brand new, ruby red Mini Cooper riding along the Pacific coastline with the top down, music blaring. But the truth is I really don't like driving cars. What I really like is riding bicycles.

When we were living on a mountain ridge above Carmel Valley, California, reckless drivers who hadn't yet learned how precious life is, took death defying risks on the windy, narrow roads. I put away my bike and helmet and strapped my feet into hiking boots. 

But now we're living near the ocean and I've returned to biking. But, like my bike, I find myself out of condition and a few years older. I was breathlessly struggling to pedal up a towering hill when a brilliant idea came to me. I turned back and let the thrill of the wind in my face carry me home to share it with my dear husband.

Before the pandemic restricted our movements, we spent our summers renting an apartment in a rural village in southern France. In a room of my own, with a bicycle waiting outside my door, I start the first drafts of my novels.

Every morning, just as the sun was rising, I used to ride to the local boulangerie to buy a fresh baguette, then gain back the calories I just burned by eating a chocolate croissant, fresh from the baker's oven. How can anyone say no to that? It's also a delicious moment for scene making and plot bending as I pedal home.

When our boulangerie closes for the month of August, it's always a disappointment. The nearest village is fifteen minutes by car and the steep hills make it impossible for me to bike there.

That was until a neighbor loaned me her electric bike and I was able to ride like the wind. In town I'd park it, have an espresso at the local cafe, pick up a baguette at the boulangerie, fresh fruit and vegetables at the market stand, and return home with a full backpack and a dozen new lines to write when I got to my desk.

With that wonderful memory pulsating in my heart, I rushed inside our cottage and announced, "I don't want a car. I want an e-bike."

"Okay," said Jim, "whatever makes you happy. Let's go do it." At the far end of a long rack of e-bikes, a brilliant red two-wheeler caught my eye. She stood out amongst the others like an orphaned puppy looking up at me from inside an SPCA cage. We knew we were meant for each other.

I named her Ruby.

-- Joanna FitzPatrick

Email Joanna at [email protected] for a chance to win one of five copies of her new book, The Artist Colony.

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

Dear Reader Column - September 6, 2021

Dear Reader,

In honor of Labor Day, I'm not laboring today. Hopefully you get to celebrate today's holiday, too. Have a good one, wherever you are.

If you're having a picnic, after you finish eating grilled burgers and brats, how about starting to work on your entry for this year's Write a DearReader Contest? Prizes, guidelines, how to enter, last year's winning entries, everything you'll need to know is here.  

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

MEMORIES OF YOU (Fiction) by J. Kenner

I'm a sucker for a friends-to-lovers romance, and when you throw in suspense, I'm hooked. Childhood besties, Abby and Renly lost track of each other. Now Renly's working at Stark Security, and when a stalker threatens Abby it's Renly who's assigned to the case. As the danger intensifies, so does the heat between them. Until the ultimate explosion is inevitable. To enter to win one of five copies click on the link to Authorbuzz and the book jacket to enter or email: [email protected].

Go to: http://authorbuzz.com/dearreader click on MEMORIES OF YOU to read more and to email author J. Kenner, you'll get a reply.

 

Dear Reader Column - September 3, 2021

Dear Reader,

There are only a few weeks to enter this year's Write a DearReader Contest. To read last year's winning entries, deadlines, cash prizes and how to enter, click here. 

Today it's my pleasure to share a column, written by Angela Jeffries. She was an Honorable Mention winner from last year's Write a DearReader Contest.

I was scheduled to sub and woke up enthused about it, as it would be working in a school that I had worked in before and was known as a reliable fill in. But when I came out to my trusty 1988 Ford Escort, the doors and windows were frozen shut that winter day. No matter how hard I tried, none of the doors, nor the hatchback would budge--everything was completely frozen. Not wanting to be late, the only idea I could come up with was to throw hot water at the driver's side door. It worked! I was on my way, singing along to my radio, and dismissing the little crystalline noises I heard coming from the outside.

I pulled into the school's parking lot just as the final warning bell was ringing and I was excited to have made it on time. And then--my car door wouldn't open! I pushed and pushed, and it wouldn't budge! I pounded and shoved to no avail; the driver's side door wouldn't open. I tried the passenger side door--no luck! I crawled into the backseat--tried both doors and the escape hatch on the trunk--nothing. My car was a literal ice cube! I climbed back into the front seat, just as I heard the Pledge of Allegiance being read over the loudspeakers. Great--I was now officially late! I sat there in disbelief and had no idea what to do. Suddenly a car pulled up next to me--I frantically tried to roll down my window--managed about an inch and explained to the harried teacher my situation. She promised to send help--but was more concerned about being late and left me sitting in my frozen mobile.

Morning announcements came over the loudspeakers, and still I sat. First period bell--no one in sight. Finally, I saw the front doors open--and out came the Principal and Vice Principal, shaking their heads. They came over to me, barely suppressing their laughter. They tried all the doors too, then told me to pull around to the Auto Shop classroom, they would alert the teacher and students that I was coming. They went back into the building chortling, while I tried to regain my composure. I turned the key in the ignition, and--click! Nothing. Tried again--click--nothing--my battery was dead!

So, I sat--no one in sight. End of first period bell rings. Second period bell rings. I keep trying to start the car, flooding my engine. I try the front doors again--nothing--still frozen solid. I'm in the process of climbing into the backseat, and I hear a rapping on the front window--it's the Vice Principal, asking what I am still doing in the parking lot. I am so overcome by this point, that I barely manage to explain that my battery was dead without bursting into tears. The Vice Principal tells me to sit tight and disappears back into the building. Five minutes later, the Auto Shop class of about 15 students comes out to push my car over to their classroom. Along the way, I see classroom windows open, and both students and teachers' heads poking out, watching the procession. My car and I made it to the auto shop bay, and I was eventually freed from my ice palace.

To say I was embarrassed would be an understatement--I managed to get through the day, enduring the laughter and expressions of pity and disbelief from both staff and students, and the crowning of my new nickname: Subpolar.

That marked the end of my teaching career.

Angela Jeffries
Honorable Mention, 2020 Write a DearReader Contest

Thanks for reading with me. It's so good to read with friends.

Suzanne Beecher
[email protected]

AUTHORBUZZ: Discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

KIDSBUZZ: Click here to discover new books, "meet" the authors and enter to win.

A girl and her best bird friend's perfect day turns into a perfect opportunity to see things differently in Caroline Kusin Pritchard's GITTY AND KVETCH, a hilariously sweet story about an opposites-attract friendship, for ages 4-8. You can enter for a chance to win free copies, talk with the author, and more, goto: KIDSBUZZ.