Giving Voice

Creating wholly believable characters is often the most difficult and exciting challenge for an author, in part due to the fact that in finding ways to explore and express the depths and dimensions of their characters, authors can be faced with some depths and dimensions of themselves that aren't always easy or comfortable. Exploring our own motivations, values, and emotions seems to me a necessary step on the path towards infusing our storytelling and characters with a deeply compelling voice that will ring true to a reader.

Editors talk frequently about the necessity of an author staying true to their own voice in expressing the voice of their main character; a definition of "voice" in this instance encompasses the word choice, sentence structure, cadence, vernacular, slang, idioms, quirks, and the poetry of speech that help to identify a character within a setting. To my mind "voice" also encompasses that which lies beneath the actual words a character expresses—namely, the emotions, motivations, doubts, desires, fears, hopes, and internal trajectory of the character. These are the elements of a "character" that will turn an "anyone" into a "someone"—a distinct individual with whom readers might identify and in whom readers will believe. "Voice," then, is not only a character's expression through speech and thought, but a characters' expression through actions, choices, and decisions. If we can be completely clear as to who our character is—how that character will behave in any situation, what that character believes in, what side that character will take in an emotional or physical challenge, and how that character will or will not evolve through each experience— then the voice of that character will resonate clearly and give humanity to that character, for all the good and the bad, the strengths and weaknesses, the triumphs and the doubts that infuse every one of us.

We are often encouraged, as we encourage others, to give voice, which means not only to actually say something when saying something seems called for, but it means participating in a larger dialogue, be it emotional, political, or societal in such a way that we are heard, we express, we take a stand. We don't necessarily achieve this with words; we do this with actions and decisions informed by what we feel to be right. And we can only express—and be true to—our voice if we are willing to meet ourselves truly. Our candid exploration of the "why?"s and "why not?"s behind our own decisions, choices and paths taken most assuredly will inform and nourish the "why?"s and "why not?"s of the characters we create. It can be a challenging road inside ourselves to find our own voices, but what can result is the creation of true characters about whom a reader will think, "Of course she'd say that!" or "Of course he'd feel that way." Whether it’s through speech, emotion, or action, it's all voice.  And by honoring our own voices, by taking deep breaths of our own selves, we will find the means to give voice to--and breathe life into--our stories, our characters.

© emma d dryden, drydenbks LLC

The Hard Parts

Recently a dear author friend, Virginia Euwer Wolff, posed what seemed to be a very simple question: What's the hardest part about writing and editing?  As I explored how I might want to answer her question, I realized why I haven't posted anything on my blog recently: it's hard!  What do I say? How do I say it? What's worth writing about? I have lots of ideas, but where do I begin?  Will anyone care? Do I really know what I'm doing?

This exercise to answer Jinny's question has gotten me thinking about what it takes for us to work through our fears and doubts in order to face that which is hard; face it, work through it, and master it.  It takes confidence, it takes time, and it takes a leap of faith.   For someone like me, who fancies herself both an editor and a writer, I fall into the trap of editing myself before I've even put pen to paper or finger to keyboard. I edit myself off the page entirely, so that I find the hardest part of writing to be beginning -- putting words down on that blank page or blank screen. Beginnings are so daunting, so full of promise, so unknown, so vast. You know what you want to say and do, but it all feels so huge and out of control. You know that once you start, you will be in control, but until you make that first mark, it's so very hard.

I equate the feeling to being on skis at the top of a hill, looking down the expanse of crisp white snow. You know what you need to do, you know where (generally) you want to end up, but until you actually take a breath and let the tips of those skis point down the hill and make the first mark in that snow, it all feels impossible. Deep breath.  Remind yourself how gratifying and fun the journey will be once you get going.  And then--you're off! You're soaring! And you wonder what took you so long....

And then, when a new story is asking to be written, you find yourself right back at the top of that vast, daunting ski slope, taking a deep breath and wondering how in the world to begin...again!  And it's then that my editor self takes over...again! 

Editing comes easily to me, but it's not always easy. I think the hardest part of editing a manuscript is being sure that you're completely attuned to the voice of the story you're editing. And by voice, I mean everything from the actual stylistic voices of the narrator and the characters to the more subtle aspects of the storytelling, such as nuance, emotion, motivation, desire, and overall arc. If an editor's not able to find and feel that rhythm in order to be in tune with the voice in which the author's writing, then the editor's not going to be in tune with the author's intentions for the story nor with the character's motives enough to pose the right questions, make inspiring suggestions and instill trust in the author. Editing an author's work is akin to orchestrating a quiet but keen form of back-up harmony for that author's words and ideas. But without being attuned to the song in the first place, such harmony can never be achieved--and so the editor pauses, ever so briefly, to be sure they know how to listen to each new story that crosses the desk.

Taking the leap. Finding the rhythm. Working through the hard parts to dispel the doubts, to listen fully to yourself if you're the writer, to listen fully to someone else if you're the editor.  I suppose, really, the hardest part of all:  Trusting yourself. And when you do, you just have to wonder...what took you so long?

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc

Beginnings

Margaret K. McElderry

07/10/1912 – 02/14/2011


My mentor and friend, Margaret K. McElderry, passed away at the age of 98 on February 14, 2011. Valentine's Day. A day on which we celebrate and express love. And a day somehow wholly appropriate on which to say farewell to a woman who was full to overflowing with a passion for imagination, story, a beautifully crafted book, laughter, friends, fine wine and delicious food, blue skies over sparkling oceans, the quiet revelatory conversation and the raucous celebratory gathering—a woman so full of love and enthusiasm for all life has to offer professionally and personally.

Where our work ended and our friendship began, where our friendship ended and our work began, it’s hard to say. I suppose though, the working friendship and friendly working began the day in early August 1990 when I tried to reach Margaret to tell her I was accepting her job offer. Margaret was leaving that day at Noon for her annual vacation on Nantucket and we’d agreed I’d call her at home with my “Yes” or “No.” I made my decision. It was going to be “Yes.” That morning at eight o’clock, I called. No answer. I called again. No answer. I waited a half-hour and called again. No answer. I called over to Margaret’s office at Macmillan to confirm I had the right number. No one was in yet and I left a message to say I was doing all I could to reach Margaret to tell her I wanted the job and would they please let the HR folks know. I called Margaret again. No answer. I was getting on the subway to go to Random House where I was working at the time. I found a payphone to call my partner and my mother to ask them to please keep trying Margaret McElderry’s phone number while I was on the subway. They did. No answer. I got to Random House, called again. No answer. I left another message with Margaret’s assistant. I decided to come clean and tell Margaret’s friend, Knopf editor, Frances Foster what was going so she could confirm I was dialing the right number. I was.

Now I’d not only essentially given notice to Random House without actually accepting the job offer from Margaret, but it was getting on towards 11:00 and I was frantic. I knew darn well you don’t promise Margaret McElderry you’ll call her and not call her. I called Macmillan again and was told my messages had started to set off great concern. Publisher Judy Wilson was putting McElderry Books’ art director Barbara Fitzsimmons into a taxi at that very moment to send her down to Margaret’s house on Washington Square to see if everything was alright. Oh, and by the way, Judy Wilson was delighted, I was told, that I wanted the job. I called again. No answer. And then, just before Noon, my phone rang. Judy Wilson was on the line to tell me it seems Barbara got to Margaret’s house in a progressively nervous state, and was pounding on the door and holding her finger on the doorbell – only to have a rather put-out Margaret McElderry open the door, take one look at Barbara’s pale face, and say something to the effect of…”What are you doing here? Did you all think I was dead?” Well, in fact, yes we did. And, in fact, while Margaret McElderry was clearly very much alive, her telephone line was completely done for. It seems not three minutes before Barbara arrived, she’d just figured out what was happening when she’d quite irately picked up the receiver to call Macmillan’s HR department to tell them QUOTE “If that Emma Dryden doesn’t have the common decency and courtesy to call me at the time we arranged for her to call me, I don’t want her working for me anyway.” UNQUOTE.

Margaret and I never did speak that day, but I started as her associate editor on September 19, 1990, a week or so before she returned to the office, tan and energized, from Nantucket. And when we saw each other, we hugged and laughed and had some rather choice things to say about AT&T.   The rest is history and we told and retold that story over and over again because it said something about our partnership and it made us laugh. Such a remarkably unexpected beginning to a remarkably unexpected friendship and collaboration.I’d give anything to call you right now, Margaret, to tell you how much it all meant to me—professionally and personally—to accept that job offer, to accept that gift. And this time, we'd use our cell phones.

Alignment

As artists we seek to create our own sense of the chaos. Through our storytelling, poetry, painting, composing, sculpting, designing, we wrangle and wrestle with a swirl of ideas and emotions that seem at once as heavy as lead and as elusive as air. We all of us seek to create our own sense of the chaos that is composed of family, relationships, career, health—and with each decision we make, we strive to bring that which we don’t know and that of which we’re not sure into focus, into perspective, into alignment.

Alignment. The lining up, the adjusting, the balancing of things. The relationship of things. In art and in life, we can but hope to be blessed from time to time with the sort of balance that makes us feel whole, enriched, an integral part of something wondrous—and through such alignment, through a realization of the power and validity of interconnectedness, we can create our greatest artwork, we can become our greatest selves.

As an editor, one of my most important roles is to help a writer or illustrator identify, examine, and fix that part of their work which might be at all unstable and out of alignment, for leaving such an instability in the construction most certainly risks the integrity and security of the whole. A remarkable result of such a process is always the excited (and, indeed, sometimes daunting) realization that everything is interconnected. The focused strengthening of one character or one scene necessarily strengthens the whole.

The past few months I’ve been contending with an internal alignment not just of ideas, emotions, and decisions, but a literal alignment of the vertebrae in my spine. Understanding and respecting the notion that our spines are sturdy columns that protect some of the most delicate elements in our bodies and are cores as essential to our bodies as trunks are to trees, it’s no wonder and no mistake that for our bodies to be fully whole and healthy, it’s necessary that our vertebrae align. And if they don’t—if just one vertebra slips out of place—the consequences can be anything from a nuisance to painful to life-threatening. Since having a remarkably successful lower back fusion to stabilize and strengthen my back last month, we’ve discovered a disc in my neck that is highly unstable, badly out of alignment, causing considerable pain and, most importantly, impinging on the spinal cord and threatening my health. The instability is not the result of the lower back surgery, as it’s clear this disc has been compromised over the course of time; it’s the revelation of the condition that is the result of the lower back surgery. The revelation of an organic, essential interconnectedness that’s critical to the health of the whole. I am lucky to be in a position to address this situation quickly and will do so tomorrow as I undergo surgery once more. What feels most amazing to me, though, is the revelation I had last night—that it seems the journey I had to go through for my lower back was all meant as a means to expose this even greater and urgent condition in my neck, one that was on track to manifest itself at some time in the future, assuredly with far more severe consequences.

I believe the stars align. I believe the clouds do part to reveal secrets when the time is right. I believe chaos can be brought into focus. And by such alignment, we are able to soar to greater heights when we fly and find the solid ground we need to feel rooted. Alignment of the pieces to reinforce the whole. I believe this within the stories we have to tell, with the decisions we have to make in our lives, and within our own bodies, as long as we’re paying attention.

                                                                                           (c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc

The Great Wall

A few years ago, my partner and I were lucky enough to be able to take an incredible month-long trip to China. It took about six months of planning and preparation and before that, it had taken several years of “what if”ing to set it all in motion. We wanted to see the Yangtze River before it was entirely dammed. We wanted to see the Potala Palace and Tibet before it’s completely overrun with Chinese. We wanted to ride camels along what had been part of the Silk Road route. And we wanted to walk along the Great Wall. It was, in the truest sense of the phrase, a trip of a lifetime because we were able to do all the things we’d wanted to do and more. We experienced sights and sounds and emotions and awe – things so many people don’t have a chance to ever experience. 

One of the multitude of mysterious and marvelous impressions from that trip has stayed with me in a way that nothing else has—and it’s the powerful reminder that the journey is as important as the destination. Indeed, that the journey is sometimes even more important than the destination. It was cloudy and overcast when we reached the Great Wall. As we climbed higher and farther along the wall into the mountains, we found ourselves walking in the clouds themselves, unable to really see much beyond the grey-green rolling hills just surrounding the wall itself. At first, we were terribly disappointed, raging at the sky and wishing for the sun to break through so we could see the vistas and the land beyond. And as we raged, we started to fairly race to the next tower on the wall, to see if, just maybe, we’d get a better view. And it was then that I stopped us. Just stopped us so we could listen and look around and realize the magnificence of what we were actually doing, of where we were actually walking and standing, of the history, of the moment. We stopped in order to take mental and physical note of the journey itself. It seemed critical then to put aside the “when will we get there” in order to celebrate the “here we are.” And in doing so, we could rejoice in all that had transpired to bring us to that remarkable and special place—to capture the power of all that we’d done and all that the universe had allowed over many years to bring us to where we were right then. No less. No more. And just perfect.

So, we didn’t see the expansive views of mountains and unending wall we thought we’d see; that particular gift, for whatever reason, remained hidden. But the gifts we were given were, I think, far greater in depth and beauty – the gift of the knowledge that we had achieved something magnificent without even recognizing it; the gift of the knowledge that in experiencing exactly what we experienced, our lives were forever changed; the gift of being able to stop and know the now; and the gift of the next “what if” – what if we are able to come back to this place someday and on that day the sun might be shining?

And so it is with our lives and our storytelling. And so it can be with our health and our relationships. Sometimes it’s overwhelmingly vital for our souls and our selves to pay attention to the journey, to appreciate the efforts and the achievements, to allow the clouds to hide secrets not yet meant to be revealed. It seems to me if we’re too intent on only reaching our destination we lose a sense of magic and mystery. For it is by knowing where we are on our journey and letting ourselves be at ease with the unexpected that we will make our way to brilliant and rich destinations –and not necessarily the ones to which we thought we were always headed. How exciting it is to just think...what's beyond the great wall?

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc

Nesting

I have been nesting .  Cleaning the house.  Doing the laundry. Sorting through books. Sorting through old clothes. Organizing folders and drawers. Writing the e-mails and proposals I thought I would do later, but have decided to do now.  Paying the bills. Checking things off the to-do lists.  Getting my home in order. Getting myself in order.  Readying myself to focus all my attention and energy on healing once I undergo necessary surgery in two days.  This process of readying has become a process of discovering a remarkable and soothing sense of clarity.  A sense that what is meant to happen is going to happen. And so—I need to let it happen.  My home is ready and I am ready.  And that feels as comforting and safe as a lovingly–crafted and softly-lined nest.

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc

But On The Other Hand…

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
--T.S. Eliot

I included this Eliot excerpt on my High School yearbook page many decades ago. It resonated with me then and it resonates with me still. And this week, it takes on a whole new meaning…

You know the third opinion I received from a surgeon about my back problem (“Getting Another Opinion” blogpost 10/14/10)—the third and what seemed to me to be the best opinion of them all? The surgeon changed his mind! He reviewed the x-rays and MRI results further and decided that in my case, the less stringent surgery he was originally suggesting would probably not ease my symptoms enough and he’s now suggesting the very same serious surgery originally prescribed by the surgeon with whom I first consulted. The third surgeon’s surgical procedure will require many more days in the hospital and a longer recovery time than the procedure that would be performed by the first surgeon and so…I have arrived where I started. And I know the place a whole lot better than I did when I began this journey. I am scheduled to have the surgery with the first surgeon after all. And you know what? It’s the right decision.

When I am asked what’s most important for authors and illustrators to know right now in this technological everything’s-up-in-the-air age of publishing, I say they need to know how to stay flexible. Flexibility. What an extraordinary reminder my recent journey has been as to the importance of remaining clear-headed and flexible, committed and flexible, goal-focused and flexible. What has just happened to turn my expectations and plans on their ear is what I know authors experience all the time—rejections after waiting many promise-filled months; losing their trusted editor to a job change or layoff; revising a manuscript only to be advised to put it back the way it was.

Flexibility in life means not only being able to stretch and adapt, but being willing to stretch and adapt before we even have to. Being willing doesn’t mean simply accepting, but rather being open to possibility, to change, to exploration, and, ultimately, to growth. As long as authors infuse their characters with a willingness to be flexible, readers are going to believe in those characters enough to go along on the journey with them, wherever the path may lead. And as long as we infuse ourselves with the curiosity and courage needed to explore new paths, stay open to new ideas, and change our route when the route itself changes, we will be able to believe in ourselves, wherever our paths may lead. The more we stretch and adapt, the more we will find ourselves returning to what we thought we knew, this time knowing it for the very first time.

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc

Getting Another Opinion

Having been a children’s book editor for over twenty-five years, one of the things I’ve said most often to authors is that the business of evaluating a book (indeed, art of any kind) is highly subjective, there are going to be many varying opinions of their work and so it makes sense that they would submit their work to several different places—or to have critique sessions with several different editors or agents—in order to gain the best possible feedback for their work. I warn them that for as many different editors and agents who see their work, an artist will be obtaining as many different points of view and interpretations of their work and, indeed, some of the interpretations and ideas about their work will be diametrically opposed. The feedback, when taken all together, might at first seem overwhelming, confusing, and unclear—with so many different opinions about how best to revise or recraft a project, it can often feel as though everyone’s opinion, no matter how reputable and professional, is canceling out everyone else’s opinion, thereby leaving the author without any clear direction or decision.
     Though it may not always seem so at first, this business of submitting work for critique and evaluation is a crucial and ultimately enlightening process for an artist. What starts to happen through this process is that the author will ultimately find that one person’s interpretation and suggestion resonates with them on a level far deeper than reason. One person’s grasp of and response to an author’s work will seem right to the author. The suggestions offered will make a kind of sense that’s hard to quantify, but that will make the author feel the person is really getting their work and understanding what it is they’re trying to say. That the person is really getting them. And so it will be those suggestions and ideas that the author will feel excited to think about, the revision process will become much clearer, and the author will feel confident their work is going to get stronger.
     About a month ago, I decided it was high time to see an orthopedic surgeon to determine what was causing my lower back pain. X-rays. MRI. The surgeon I saw—who performed an excellent surgery on my lower back in the past—brought his knowledge of my medical history, his remarkable surgical prowess, and an impeccable pedigree to bear on his assessment and he prescribed a very serious surgery that would render me pain free. I trusted his evaluation (after all, he knew my back intimately!), I was excited that I could undergo a process that would ease my pain, and I signed up. It felt extreme, but I didn’t think I had much of a choice. And, besides, he’s the pro, right? He would know. And then, through the urging of several friends, I decided to go for a second opinion. Honestly, I fully expected the second surgeon to look at everything and completely agree with the first doctor’s prescription and I’d be good to go.
     I was wrong.
     Bringing remarkable surgical prowess and an impeccable pedigree to his assessment, the second doctor’s opinion was pretty much diametrically opposed to the first, and a non-surgical course of action was prescribed. I became excited that I could undergo a process that would ease my pain without having to undergo such a serious surgery after all and I decided to think twice about having the surgery. But…something about what the doctor was suggesting didn’t put me wholly at ease. That, combined with the fact that if I was going to have surgery, I needed to have it this month (due to a whole host of insurance issues as well as upcoming business commitments), I was uneasy about having to decide between two such extreme positions. And so I went for a third opinion. I fully expected the third surgeon to look at everything and completely agree with either the first doctor’s prescription or the second doctor’s prescription.
     I was wrong.
     Bringing remarkable surgical prowess and an impeccable pedigree to his assessment, the third doctor offered an entirely new option to me—a surgery that’s a good deal less severe than the one first prescribed and that seems necessary because of some compression on nerves which would probably not be eased by a non-surgical course of treatment. We talked about my weight, we talked about my neurological health, we talked about my age and what my spine was already doing to try to heal and strengthen itself in light of what the X-rays and MRI were showing. And I knew. This was the doctor. This was the course of treatment. Though he didn’t know me and my medical history and though he was prescribing surgery (all surgery, no matter how minor, is a serious step to take), the way in which he came to his conclusions and the suggestions he was making made sense to me. His course of action feels right. And so, I will be following his course of treatment and feel confident that I’m in the right state of mind and body to come through it stronger, healthier, and wholly prepared to get back to my life.
     Here’s the thing, though, that woke me up at 4:30 this morning and prompted this post. I could not have made a decision as to how best to proceed without having heard and considered several opinions. The fact that the opinions were so varied is extraordinary to me and for a short while, it rendered me a complete wreck. Who’s right? What do I do? I’ve learned through this process, though, that in order to reach that place in which I am most emotionally and psychologically comfortable to be willing to undergo a course of treatment that will make me feel better, I needed to have myself examined and interpreted by more than one person. I needed to get feedback, and then more feedback, and then more again, until something I heard resonated with me on a level far deeper than reason. Until something I heard felt right to me and gave me the tools, both emotional and tangible, to proceed. I am going to be undergoing a physical revision in about a week and I feel great about the course on which this revision is going to take me because I have found someone to help me get there who gave me a critique and is offering solutions that I feel will make me stronger.

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks LLC

The Valuing of Ourselves

What is something worth? The factors that determine the worth of something—a book, a cell phone, a vase, life insurance, a pair of shoes, a painting, therapy, a movie, a class, a piece of property—are many. We determine our answer based on how valuable we think the thing will be to us, how long-lasting the thing could be, how useful, how beautiful, how practical, how pleasing, how inspiring.

What is a person worth? The factors that determine the worth of someone to us are many and on the one hand, are not dissimilar to the sort of worth we put on an inanimate something—we determine our answer based on how valuable we think that person is to us, how long lasting a relationship with that person could be, how useful, how beautiful, how practical, how pleasing how inspiring that person is to us.

On the other hand, the answer to what a person is worth is often dictated by the tenets of the constructs of our society—corporate, religious, political, military, sexual, moral—and so we determine our answer based on how financially viable a person is to a bottom line, how stringently a person will further an agenda, how blindly a person will perform in the name of duty, how rigidly a person will follow a majority opinion, how hard a person will tow the line they’ve been handed, how unfailing a person will believe in what they’ve been led to believe, how stalwart a person will be when standing up for the company they keep or the company for which they work.

And so it is that we make our way through our lives and our work attempting to be a person of balanced worth in order to be a true friend, a valuable employee, an honorable member of every group to which we belong. As we journey the various paths to worthiness, however, I fear we’re more willing than we should be to believe that the opinions of others provide us with the correct and certain answers to a critical question we don’t ask often enough—What am I worth?

I can only believe that for the most part all of us want to be fair, are willing to meet our obligations, understand our responsibilities, take our friendships, families, jobs and memberships seriously and will do whatever it is we need to do to maintain and retain them without losing track of our own values, principles, and ideas. But what happens when someone—a parent, a boss, an elected official, an officer, a buyer, a teacher, a religious leader —what happens when someone who, by virtue of the way in which our society is set up, has been put in a position to determine an outcome that effects us individually tells us we’re not worthy? And what happens if strangers feel emboldened by one person’s assessment to start agreeing that we’re not worthwhile? What if something we write is censored, what if the way we pray is ridiculed, what if the way we love is violated, what if the vote we cast is obstructed, what if the way we look is denied?

How many of us are confident enough to take ownership of our own worth and express how valuable we think we are by expressing our beliefs, our desires, our intentions, our feelings even if it means being accused of dissent, opposition, defiance, immorality, sin? Some might call such an expression of self-worth selfish or self-serving. Some might call it dangerous. I submit that such an expression of self-worth is necessary and essential to the continuity of ideas, creativity, and exploration that makes us human. The valuing of ourselves is the valuing of our very existence. And surely that is most worth our while.

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc

Mentors

I have been blessed to have had several mentors in my professional life. I have been blessed by some people older than myself who by example instilled in me a regard for and understanding of not only the business of a business, but the humanity of a business; people who by example inspired me to learn from my mistakes, care about my reputation, conduct myself with honesty and passion, and strive to become a decent citizen of the world. By example, these people taught me, helped me, challenged me, and expected the best from me as they expected the best from themselves. They made me cry because they were tough. They made me laugh because they were playful. They made me think because they were thoughtful. They made me care because they were careful. And in the process, as I grew from being an assistant to a colleague to a peer, we became friends because we shared a deep mutual respect for our business, for one another, and for the future.

As I walk along the paths of my life and my work, I don’t always take the time to think of and thank these people who themselves never thought they were remarkable in any way, just doing their job, just doing what came naturally, just doing what was right. I stop now to think of them and thank them, for they were most remarkable indeed. Remarkable for inviting me into their offices and homes to witness them doing their jobs, doing what came naturally, doing what was right. To witness. And to embrace all that would become essential to my own growth into someone of whom I can be proud. A businesswoman, a colleague, a person of whom I sincerely hope they would be and are proud.

It is a wonder how deeply one person can touch another simply by being present. By listening. By suggesting. By living fully. And by laughing. Oh, the laughing! Would that everyone be as lucky as I’ve been to enjoy but one older person in their life by whose example they can be inspired in their work and their life.

In honor of Dilys Evans, Linda Hayward, Richard Jackson, Margaret K. McElderry, Ole Risom.

(c) emma d dryden, drydenbks llc