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February 26, 2005

Making It

So many people, especially the kids I meet during books signings, seem to have one sole purpose in life. To ‘make it’ so they can be rich. I can honestly say that 90% of the kids I question say ‘making money’ is the most important goal in their lives.

I wish they all could have met my grandfather Ted. He ‘made it’, although he was not a rich man.

My grandfather wrote his own eulogy to be read at his funeral, but we only found the request many years after he died. (It was hidden amongst some old paperwork that my mom was sorting through.)

Here is what he wanted us to read:

“Only the heart that is filled with integrity, trust, generosity and love will realize true prosperity. Happiness is not an outward possession but an inward realization.

Greedy people may become millionaires, but most of them will be miserable and mean and feel outwardly poor as long as there are people in the world richer than them.

The open handed and loving will realize a full and rich life even though their outward possessions may be small.

The universe is abounding in all good things, material as well as spiritual, and compare it with man’s blind eagerness to secure a few gold coins, or a few acres of dirt, it is then that we realize how dark and ignorant selfishness is; it is then that we know that self-seeking is self destruction.

Nature gives all, without reservation, and loses nothing; man, grasping all, loses everything.”

I’ve heard so many people say, “I’ll be happy when I’m financially secure. I’ll be able to write or paint or start exercising when I don’t have to worry about money.” To tell you the truth, NOBODY, even the wealthiest people in the world feel financially secure because the more you have to more you spend.

A rich life is about the unique talents we are blessed with. When we express these talents, we find REAL wealth. We are most likely to enjoy that wealth when we ask, “What can I give?” instead of, “What can I get?”

I met an author named Andrew Matthews recently and he said, “Bill Gates is one of the world’s richest men. To hear him speak, it’s obvious he is more excited by software than by money. Elvis Presley didn’t set out to make a fortune, he set out to make a record.”

Let us enjoy what we have and wallow in it. If you are waiting for ‘something else’ to make your life ‘better’, you might have to wait an eternity.

Thoreau said, “Many men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not the fish they’re after.”

Revel in the process.

Posted by trevor at 05:56 PM | Comments (1)

February 24, 2005

Three Sides To Every Story

Today I spoke to someone I have not been in touch with for almost twenty-five years. We talked about our younger years, but both had vastly different memories of the same events. I guess there are three sides to every story. His side. Her side. And the truth.

It reminds me of an incident many years ago…

MY SIDE OF THE STORY:

I met Ashleigh outside a motel in Hooksett, New Hampshire. I was coming back from the Cannon Mountain ski resort and she was on her way to a college up north.

I had only been in the United States for two months and was experiencing my first “real” winter. I had never seen snow before.

Our cars collided at a four-way stop. The streets were iced up. She put on her brakes. I put on my brakes. Neither of us managed to keep our cars from sliding into each other and gliding off the road into a ditch. (Besides trying to drive on the right side of the road, this was the first time I had ever driven in icy conditions. I still think I’m paying the rental company for damages to the car.)

I jumped out of my car and plowed through the snow to her car. I reached her door as she was opening it. She almost knocked me off my feet and into the snow.

“Oh my God,” she said getting out of the car, “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I put on my brakes but I couldn’t stop. The car just slid...”

“Me too,” she said. “The car just slid...”

“Let’s see if we can get out of this mess.” I said, getting into her car. “I’ll try and pull your car out first.”

The snow was just too slippery and neither car would budge. All I managed to do was shower her with snow as I revved the engine and sent the wheels into a churning spin. She was standing behind the car and was covered from head to toe in snow.

“I’m sorry,” I said, getting out of the car.

“That’s all right,” she said shivering, “It was a stupid place to stand.”

“It looks like we’re going to have to get someone to tow us out,” I said.

“It’s two in the morning,” she said. “I bet even the tow truck guys are sleeping.”

“That looks like the only life on this planet, “ I said, pointing at the neon sign flashing above the Dolly Dimple Motel across the road. (I swear that is the motel’s name and it really exists in Hooksett, New Hampshire on Route 3.)

It was warm inside the motel office. John Wayne grunted from an old black and white television nestled among a slew of paperwork on the desk. I hit the service bell.

“Maybe they’re closed,” she said.

“It says twenty-four hours,” I said, hitting the bell again.

“Dang,” came a muffled voice from a closed door behind us. “It’s two in the morning. A guy can’t even go to the restroom peace.”

Ashleigh looked at me in disgust as we heard the man clear his throat and spit. Then the toilet flushed and the door opened.

The man was in his sixties. A worn out John Deere baseball cap rested awkwardly on top of his head. His eyes were red and his salt and pepper stubble made him look like a panhandler.

He was tucking his red and gray plaid shirt into a pair of very baggy Levi jeans as he shuffled behind the desk. He sucked in his paunch and tightened his belt.

“Looking for a place to uh...sleep,” he said winking at me. “We rent rooms by the hour.”

“Actually,” said Ashleigh, oblivious of his loaded comment, “Our cars are stuck in a snow bank across the road and we were wondering if you knew anyone could help us out?”

He grunted and shuffled over to the window. His nose almost touched the glass as he peered out at the cars.

“You’ve got a problem,” he said, turning and shuffling back behind the counter. “It’s Sunday. It’s 2 am. And everybody’s at home sleepin’.”

“Could you help us?” I said. “It won’t be that hard to pull the cars out. We just need to get them onto the asphalt so the tires can grip.”

“Well,” said the old man rubbing his face so hard you could hear the stubble against his palms. “That’s another problem. See I don’t have no car. Lost my license, DWI. I sold the car. No use paying fer inspections when you caint drive the dang automobile anyhow. Sold it to my son. An he went and ripped me off, the sombitch. Still owes me a hundert-n-fifty dollars.”

“There must be someone who can help us,” I said.

“Not ‘til the morning,” said the old man, shaking his head thoughtfully. “Not ‘til the morning.”

“What should we do?” I turned to Ashleigh.

“Where can we get some coffee?” she asked the old man.

“Free coffee with a room,” said the old man.

“How much is a room?” I asked. “We might as well get some sleep if we have to wait.”

“Twenty-seven fifty,” said the old man.

“Each?” I said.

“Nah, together in one room.”

“And for each of us in a different room?” I said, quickly.

“Twenty two each.”

I looked at Ashleigh. “Might as well, “ she said, shrugging her shoulders.

“We’ll have two rooms,” I said, “and two coffees.”

“We’ve got a problem there,” said the old man.

“What’s the problem now,” I said, throwing my hands into the air.

“I’ve only got one room left,” he said lifting his cap and scratching his head. “It’s the V.F.W.’s Korean War Reunion. The whole town is sold out.”

“Let’s wait in the car,” Ashleigh said, impatiently.

“Thanks, we’ll wait in the car,” I said, following Ashleigh out of the door.

“See you later,” said the man. “If you change yer minds, c’mon back. It be pretty dern cold outside.”

“I think I’ll try and get some sleep,” said Ashleigh, getting into her car.

“All right,” I replied. “If it gets too cold give me a shout.”

I got into my car and covered myself with an old towel I found on the floor behind my seat. I tossed and turned for a few minutes, then decided to try and see if I could move the car again. I started the car and revved the engine. The car just dug itself deeper and deeper into the snow. I got out and looked around for some bricks or logs to put under the wheel. All I needed was something for the tires to grip onto and I’d be able to get the car out.

I found a crate. The wood was damp and the crate came apart easily in my hands. I placed the wood behind the front wheels of the car. I got into the car and started the engine. I could see Ashleigh watching me from her car. She was wrapped in a blanket and was looking through a hole she had wiped from the condensation on the inside of the window.

Across the road, the old man watched through the motel office window. I started the car and gunned the engine again. The car didn’t budge.

I killed the engine and settled in for a long night. I was tired and it didn’t take long for me to fall asleep.

I had been asleep for no more than five minutes, when a knock on the window woke me up. It was Ashleigh standing outside wrapped in her blanket.

I rolled down the window. “Mind if I join you?” she said. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Hop in,” I said, opening the door.

We sat in silence for a few minutes.

“It’s cold,” she said. “Let’s go in and get the room.”

We walked back across the road and into the motel office.

“Can I help you?” said the old man.

“Yes, we’d like a room for the night.” I said.

“Couldn’t do it in the car eh?” he laughed. "Be careful boy, an older woman with a young punk like you."

“Just give us the key?” Ashleigh snapped.

“There’s only one bed in there,” said the old man, winking at me.

“So,” said Ashleigh. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

“The floor’s cold,” he chuckled.

“Then he’ll sleep on the floor,” she said, taking the keys.

“Number thirteen,” said the old man “It’s across the car park behind the neon sign.”

Neither of us got any sleep that evening. Ashleigh and I lay with our arm around each other and talked all night about our hopes and dreams...

HER SIDE OF THE STORY
(According to Bruce, a mutual friend)

She was on her way back to school after a great weekend with her boyfriend. She had a minor car accident at 2 am in the damn morning with a South African guy and both of their cars got stuck in a snow bank. (He’d never driven in the snow before.)

They tried forever but couldn’t get the cars out.

They could not get anyone to help them tow the cars at that time of night. They finally found a crummy motel with hot coffee.

There was only one room left because of some Mary Kay convention or something. She they got the room and he slept in his car for a while. She felt bad for him so she went out and invited him in.

She called her boyfriend and they spoke for almost two hours while Trevor snored on the chair. Apparently he didn’t try and pull a move on her because she would have hurt him. She has a black belt in karate.

THE TRUTH

None of the above happened. Both interpretations of the event were completely made up by me last night at two in the morning (because I couldn’t sleep). This entry was triggered by a conversation I had with a‘famous’ actor I met at the USA film festival a few weeks ago. We were discussing the power of the written word and how dangerous words can be in the wrong hands. He was talking about a friend of his who has been character assassinated in the press and tabloids. It’s interesting that the very same words than can heal can also destroy. (Propaganda in Rwanda and pre war Germany come to mind.)

This also brings to mind the destructive nature of gossip and how people can really be hurt by it. It is so sad how people’s careers can be ruined and their reputation destroyed by rumors and idle gossip.

We all love to tell at story that will make the listener say, “No! You’re not serious.” I recently found myself at the wrong end of some “bad mouthing’ and it was so awful because there is no way you can defend yourself.

With that in mind I have decide to be very careful about how and where I pass on information.

If we all took more care and didn’t delight so much in being the ‘bearer’ of the ‘you’re-not-gonna-believe-this’ type of gossip, the world will be a much better place.

Posted by trevor at 05:40 PM | Comments (1)

February 22, 2005

Quiet Persistence

My little niece Sydney, hearing that I had reached one of my dreams, asked me how she could reach her dream of being the best ballet dancer in the world. “You need to practice," I said. “And you'll also need quiet persistence and determination.”

“What’s determination?” she asked.

I answered her with a story I wrote a few summers ago:

Sack, the rag doll, sat at the bottom of the long staircase.

He was looking up at the porcelain doll who lived way up at the top of the stairs. He remembered the wonderful summer they once spent together sitting on the windowsill.

He remembered how they held hands and sometimes lay against each other. He remembered how warm and happy he felt in the mornings when the sun streamed through the window and touched their faces.

"I miss her," said Sack. "She was my best friend. This staircase is so long, I can hardly even see her face from here."

"Have you ever told her how you feel?" asked the bear, who sat beside him at the bottom of the stairs.

"No," said Sack. I haven't had an opportunity."

"An opportunity is not something you wait for," said the bear. "An opportunity is something you create."

"But I'm down here and she's way up there," said Sack. "It's not like I can suddenly come to life and take a stroll up there. I'm just a rag doll."

"Anyway," said the bear. "I think your doll friend is on her way out. The children haven't played with her in ages. If you ask me, next clean-up she'll be headed for the nearest garage sale."

"Don't tell me that," said Sack, sadly.

"I'm telling you," said the bear.

That evening Sack did not sleep a wink. He spent the entire night trying to figure out how to get up the stairs.

"Any ideas?" said the bear the next day.

"I think so."

"Well…" said the bear.

The rag doll was just about to give an answer when the dog of the house came sliding around the corner.

"Hey you!" yelled Sack.

The dog came to a skidding stop.

"I need some help," said Sack.

The dog cocked his head, then growled.

"Uh,oh," said the bear.

The dog leaped forward and grabbed Sack by the scruff of the neck. He shook the rag doll until its head almost came off, then he dropped him and picked up the bear. The dog shook the bear once or twice and then ran off, dropping the bear where he found him.

"Thank you very much," said the bear. "Now I have dog spit all over my neck."

"Yeah, me too, " said Sack.

"Not your best idea," said the bear.

"I suppose not."

"You're a danger to hang out with," said the bear.

"Sorry," said Sack.

They sat in silence for the rest of the day. Just before he went to sleep Sack whispered, "Good night, porcelain doll."

Of course she did not hear him.

"Are you going to get us killed today?" said the bear, the next morning.

"I hope not," said Sack. "But I don't know what to do. I could just forget about her I suppose, but something inside me hurts because I'm not with her."

"It's called love," said the bear.

"Well," said Sack, "If that's what it is, I've got a bunch of that love stuff tying my stomach in knots."

"Love is a powerful thing," said the bear.

"Perhaps the power of my love will help me reach her," said Sack.

"You're going to need more than love power to get up to her level," said the bear. "You're going to need determination. In this world, you can have great ideas, love, dreams and even opportunities, but you won’t reach your dreams unless you have determination."

"What's determination?" asked Sack.

Before the bear could reply, the door at the top of the stairs burst open and a young boy came rushing out with three of his friends. Like a tornado, they bustled down the stairs upsetting everything in their path. One of the boys accidentally kicked the porcelain doll and sent her flying across the floor. Sack watched in horror as the helpless doll tumbled head over heels through the air. She came to a sudden stop against the railing with her body all twisted and bent. And there she lay.

"Are you okay?" yelled Sack, from the bottom of the stairs. But his voice was too soft and she was too far away to hear him.

Sack felt a deep pain in his heart. "Are you okay?" he yelled again.

He suddenly jumped up and headed toward the first stair.

"Now we're getting somewhere," said the bear.

Sack tried to climb the step, but it was too high. He jumped and scrambled and jumped and finally, using every
ounce of strength, managed to pull himself up. He encountered the same problem with the next step. And the next.

Finally he got within one step of the porcelain doll.

"Hi," he said, out of breath.

"Hi," she said softly, her body all twisted and bent.

Before Sack could say another word, the door opened again and this time a young girl appeared.

"What are you doing here?" said the young girl, reaching down and snatching him off the stairs. "You belong down there with the bear, he's lonely without you."

The girl took Sack down the stairs, sat him comfortably next to the bear and skipped off down the hall.

"Ah, the ups and downs of long distance relationships," said the bear.

Sack said nothing. He just stared up at the porcelain doll. He thought he saw a tear run down her cheek.

In the early hours of the morning, he could take it no longer. Again he got up and tried to climb the first step. He jumped and scrambled and jumped and finally, using every ounce of strength, managed to pull himself up. He encountered the same problem with the next step. And the next. It took him most of the morning.

Finally he got within one step of the porcelain doll.

"Hi," he said, out of breath.

"Hi," she said softly, her body still all twisted and bent.

Before he could say another word, the door opened and the young girl appeared again. She bent down and picked up the porcelain doll and then reached over and grabbed Sack. With them both under her arm, the girl went down the stairs and out into the garden.

An hour later, the front door suddenly opened and the young girl came rushing back inside.

"Mama, mama!" she yelled.

"What is it?" said her mother, from the next room.

"Sack and my porcelain disappeared and I can't find them anywhere," sobbed the girl.

"You must be more responsible with your toys," said her mother.

"But we were having a picnic and while I was reading my book, Sack grabbed her hand and they ran off into the woods together and now they’re gone.

"That's ridiculous," snapped her mother.

"That's determination," said the bear.

The young girl spun around and looked at the bear sitting smugly at the bottom of the stairs. She could have sworn she heard him speak.

Posted by trevor at 04:00 PM | Comments (1)

February 20, 2005

From Whence It Comes

Sharing your talent, be it writing, art, crafts, photography, acting, dance or music can really be tough. Especially if you're afraid of what other people might say or think. In fact, being afraid of criticism can actually halt a brilliant career in its tracks. It will even deny you the pleasure of creative euphoria, one of the most joyful pleasures known to man. (Heightened by sharing your expression with others.)

I remember doing a painting once that I really liked. My friend, an artist, told me he didn’t like the colors in the picture, so I changed the colors. My running partner told me he didn’t think the foreground was detailed enough. So I changed the foreground. Someone else said I should add some depth to the picture. So I did. Another person said my signature was too small. So I made it bigger. The granny next door said the signature was too big, so I made it small again. Then I threw the picture away because I hated it. (I was particulary sensitive to criticism because I was denied access to art school on the grounds that I was not talented enough.)

I realize that no matter what I do, people will always criticize my work (whether they say so or not.). Forming judgments or pointing out faults is something most people do. Everyone gets criticized. It’s a part of life. At first I took criticism really hard. I threw away many paintings because someone’s feedback made me feel like my work was not good enough.

Two little twists of fate changed everything:

1: A number of years ago I did a series of pictures for a small art show at a gallery here in Austin. At the opening, I overheard two people talking about my art. I stood behind them as they talked and I listened intently as they took apart my work. They did not know I was the artist and even asked my opinion.

“What do you think?” said one of them.

“Brilliant,” I muttered, to four raised eyebrows.

One of them was a young man who looked like a walking advertisement for struggling artists. He wore black ragged jeans, a black paint-spattered t-shirt, black-framed glasses and a black beret. Yes, a black beret. (And he took very deep breaths and sighed heavily between every sentence.) “I would have done this and I would have done that,” he said, knowingly pointing at my art.

Although the show got good reviews, all I could think about was the criticism from the artist in the black beret.

A number of months later I was invited to give a talk to a friend’s art class. Lo and behold, who should be a student in the class? You guessed it. The man with the beret. Of course he told me how much he enjoyed my show. I looked over his shoulder at the painting on his easel. I could not believe it. This guy was great. Even brilliant. Brilliant at pretending to be an artist. His canvass was blank except for a few pencil lines that resembled a stick figure. (My friend told me that the man with the black beret had been is his class for three months and could not bring himself to draw for fear of criticism.)

2: I was sitting in the reception area at a large publishing company waiting for my editor. I was sipping some tea when suddenly the world of rejection changed for me. (First let me mention that I have been the recipient of over 300 rejections for books I have proposed over the last 25 years.) Each rejection felt like a punch in the stomach until that moment. It all changed because of what I noticed happening right in front of my very eyes.

The receptionist was opening the mail at her desk. I could see she was opening manila envelopes containing manuscripts. I watched her read a few lines and toss the manuscript into a large ‘slush’ pile. Every now and then she would put one in a small pile on her desk. Manuscript after manuscript landed on the slush pile. (Hours, months, years of people's lives simply discarded. I swear she did not look at each one for more than twenty seconds before it got tossed.)

That changed everything. I realized there and then that the judge of my work was not a highly experienced, qualified editor or reader, but a receptionist. I could not believe my eyes. This was the person deciding the fate of years of work. This was the person who could make or break somebody’s career.

I have never been bothered by a rejection since that day because the experience made me realize that creativity is subjective and NOBODY knows whether work is good or bad. It’s just their opinion. Granted their opinion can lead to your work being accepted or rejected, but it does not mean the work is not good if they don’t particularly feel for it.

Take criticism from whence it comes. If you LOVE what you do, and it gives you great pleasure, that’s all that counts. As long as it looks and feels good to you, then it’s brilliant.

Criticism does not hurt me the way it used to. Sometimes when a reviewer really doesn’t get what I’m doing, I’ll feel a tug, but then I remind myself that many reviewers review because they can’t actually do.

Eleanor Roosevelt said, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”

Please don’t let your fear of rejection, or criticism, make you give up your creative goals and dreams. (It has for so many exceptional people.)

Posted by trevor at 08:42 PM | Comments (0)

February 18, 2005

Vital Steps

I was sitting and drawing in my studio this morning and I was thinking about the pain of success.

Most of my friends who have done well have not had a smooth, easy journey. The difference between those who succeed and those who fail is often determined by how they deal with the tough times that threaten to derail them.

Some of the people I respect the most have taken those rough times and used them as steps to climb over their hurdles. They are also smart enough to know that even after reaching major goals, road blocks will suddenly appear to challenge them.

Success cannot be achieved without growing pains!

This reminds me of a story my niece Teddi shared with me recently. She told me about a man who was sitting in his garden one spring morning and reading the paper. He noticed a cocoon on the windowsill of his house. Upon closer inspection the man saw that a butterfly was emerging from the cocoon. All the man could see was the antenna of the butterfly poking out of the cocoon. The man watched for a while then went about his day. Later that afternoon he came back and noticed that the butterfly had made very little progress. The man went inside and came back with a pair of scissors. He gently cut the cocoon in half and freed the butterfly. It was a very beautiful insect with multicolored wings. The butterfly began to move its crumpled body as it became accustomed to its new environment.

The man went to bed and the next morning passed the windowsill where he’d rescued the butterfly.

The butterfly was still there, but it was no longer alive. It’s wings, a crumpled mass, hugged it’s delicate body.

The man wondered why the butterfly didn’t make it. He asked a friend who was a biology teacher. The answer was simple. The butterfly needed to painfully squeeze through a small hole in the cocoon to push all the fluids into its wings. The butterfly needed the struggle to survive.

The teacher told the man that because it bypassed a difficult transition, the butterfly missed an important stage in it’s growth. A painful, uncomfortable stage, but a vitally important one.

I have some wonderful friends who have been through really tough times but the hurdles they have encountered have enriched their lives enormously.

Two incredible and inspiring artist/writers immediately come to mind. My friends Michael Nobbs (author of The Beany) and Danny Gregory (author of Everyday Matters). (You’ll find them at www.michaelnobbs.com and www.dannygregory.com) Michael and Danny are wonderful talented human beings who have been through incredible pain but have never given up. They use the pain they've suffered to fill their creative wings with purpose, passion and life.

Posted by trevor at 04:58 PM | Comments (1)

February 17, 2005

The Question

(I mentioned in a previous entry how lucky I am to be doing what I love doing. I would never be able to accomplish my dream if it wasn't for my incredible partners at The Comical Sense Company, Fred Miller, Ronda Englander and Woody Englander. Thank you guys for having faith in me and helping me follow my calling.)

People often ask me why I am so passionate about creating books and videos that help kids deal with issues. What made me dedicate my life to changing the world for children? There are many reasons. Here is one of them:

On a trip to Eastern Europe quite some time ago, I visited an orphanage to take pictures and sketch the old brick building that housed the orphans. As I entered the wrought iron gates there was a little boy standing against the red brick gatepost with a pillowcase slung over his shoulder. He appeared to be waiting for someone to pick him up.

The nun who was escorting me steered me past the boy and into the orphanage grounds.

As I passed the boy he looked up at me and spoke.

“What did he say, sister?” I asked the nun, who spoke English.

“He asked if you were his father,” she said, smiling and patting the boy on the head.

I looked at the boy and shook my head. “No, “ I replied. “I’m sorry.”

The nun spoke to the boy again and then shepherded me toward the main building. (It’s amazing how much attention one gets after donating money.)

I spent a few hours taking photos and sketching the old building. It was magnificent.

I could not stay very long because my heart was breaking for the children I saw sleeping on wooden beds and peeking around pillars and darkened doorways. The only words I heard spoken were hurried orders from the Mother Superior who constantly seemed to be herding the kids this way and that each time I turned a corner.

I wanted to rescue them all. I felt like I was letting them down. I knew many of the children were hoping I was there to adopt them. Finally I had to turn my back on them and leave. I did it quickly.

On my way out I saw the boy still standing at the gate.

“What does he have over his shoulder?” I asked the nun.

“Silly boy,” she said. “He puts his clothes in a pillow-cover in case his father comes to take him home. But that will never happen.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because his father is dead.” She said.

“Does he know?” I said.

“We told him,” she said. “But he does not believe us.”

I thanked the sister and left the orphanage waving at the boy as I passed.

He waved back.

Half way down the block I turned to take one last look at the orphanage and noticed a bread deliveryman carrying a bundle of baguettes into the gate.

The boy was still standing where I first saw him.

I heard the boy ask the man the same question.

“Are you my father?”

“No,” replied the man, ruffling the little boy’s hair.

Posted by trevor at 07:28 AM | Comments (0)

February 15, 2005

Just A Moment

There is a place in Botswana, Southern Africa called the Okavango Delta. It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. The Delta is called the Jewel of Africa. It’s the largest inland delta in the world, instead of flowing into the sea, the annual flood of fresh water flows inland, spreading over 15 000km of the Kalahari sand in a maze of lagoons and channels.

Incredible belts of forest fringe the swamps with tall trees giving shade to large herds of game. Beyond the forest the landscape forms an open savanna, and in these drier areas the greatest concentrations of game are accompanied by the predator families: lion, leopard, cheetah, hyena, and wild dog. It is in these forests and savanna grasslands that you’ll see elephant and giraffe browsing with antelope of almost every kind, from buffalo, wildebeest, and kudu, to sable, roan and impala. The place is absolutely breathtaking.

It was during a visit to the Okavango Delta that I felt a true connection to the universe for the first time in my life.

I was sitting in a dugout canoe (a mokoro) with a guide named Vusi. I sat up front while Vusi used a long oar to push the canoe quietly along the sacred delta.

We passed Hippo, giraffe and hundreds of zebra foraging in the bush. The beauty and powerful visual before my eyes made me realize that I am not as important as I sometimes think I am. That in the big picture, my very existence is a mere blink in time.

It was late afternoon and Vusi positioned the dugout so that we could view the sunset from a good vantage point.

“They call this the golden moment,” he said, pointing to the setting sun, which now bathed the entire delta in a rich golden wash.

“I can see why,” I replied.

“It’s not because of the color,” he said, smiling.

“What do you mean?” I said.

“Wait,” he replied.

And I did, as the sun, a golden ball, rolled over the horizon.

“Listen,” he said, bowing his head and closing his eyes.

I heard nothing but the loud cacophony of day insects simultaneously trying to have their final say before nightfall. I was really amazed at how loud they were.

Then the sun was gone.

Suddenly, in unison, the sounds of the day insects stopped completely.

Silence washed across the delta in a wave of indescribable quietness. Nothing stirred. Complete stillness. Even the water seemed to stop lapping against the side of the boat. It only lasted a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity.

Nothing.

At that moment the world seemed to take a deep breath. I heard it. I felt it. I became part of it.

Then, almost as one, the clamor of the night insects suddenly filled the empty void.

The noise was so loud I could hardly hear Vusi speak.

“That was the golden moment,” said Vusi, smiling coyly.

“Did you hear the breath?” he said. “That time between the day and night insects?”

“Yes,” I replied.

“That was God’s breath,” he said, turning the boat and heading across the delta.

Neither of us spoke. We didn't need to.

As we paddled silently toward the rising moon, I realized that our very existence is made up of a million magnificent moments strung together on a delicate thread we call life.

I understood the value of individual moments that day. Not the importance of days or weeks or months or years. Moments. Valuable seconds that are constantly passing us by.

Posted by trevor at 10:25 PM | Comments (0)

February 13, 2005

The Fine Line

This month I reached a dream that was conceived 26 years ago. An animated video series to help kids deal with issues they face on a daily basis. The first three videos (“How To Do Homework Without Throwing Up”, “Bullies Are A Pain In The Brain” and “What On Earth Do You DO When Someone Dies?” ) are now available at www.TrevorRomain.com/shop

I am so thrilled and excited about the series, but there’s a fine line between sharing my success and appearing to blow one’s own trumpet. I thought long and hard about whether to announce that my series was for sale on my blog, because I am trying to keep this environment real, honest and down to earth. I finally decided to mention it after realizing that sharing is what blogging is all about.

I’ve shared the completion of this dream. Now I’d like to share the beginning…

Like most kids, I had big dreams. I wanted to play rugby for the Springboks. I wanted to be the fifth Beatle. I wanted to be a movie star. But most of all I wanted to write and illustrate children’s books and I wanted to make animated movies. These dreams became obsessions. They became distractions. They became my passion.

When I completed my military training twenty– six years ago I was ready to make my dreams come true, but I had no clue where to start. I stood at the open door leading to the rest of my life and I didn’t know where to go.

Luckily my father knew a man named Ivor Abelheim who had just started a new advertising agency. Ivor was a well renowned Creative Director and he agreed to let me interview with the agency only because he knew my dad.

I spent weeks making a small portfolio to showcase my creative ideas. (I never went to art school, so I had no clue what a portfolio was supposed to look like.) The portfolio looked good though and I was proud of it.

On the morning of the interview I woke up to find that my car had been broken into and that my portfolio had been stolen. (Along with Elton John’s Yellow Brick Road, the only eight-track cassette tape I had.)

I scrambled and spent the morning hastily re-creating my portfolio. I finished putting it together just before the interview. When I walked into Bridge Advertising Agency, the glue was still wet.

A harried Ivor Abelheim invited me into his office. He had that “I’m doing this for your father” look on his face.

“Tell me a little about yourself.” He said.

“Well, I think working for you will help me get the grounding and creative discipline I need to help me reach my dreams,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” he said, sighing. I can swear I saw him roll his eyes. “And what are those dreams?”

“I want to be an artist, a writer and I want to do an animated television series for kids.” I said.

“You and every one else,” he replied.

“I’m a little different,” I said, smiling.

“How so?”

“Most people give up on their dreams when things don’t go their way. I’m the opposite. For some reason I get energized and more determined to succeed when I face hurdles.”

“Mmmm,” he mumbled, tossing the pages of my portfolio onto the table.

“You are actually the worst applicant that has applied for this position. What were you thinking? I mean cutting things out of magazines and pasting them together. Kids do that kind of crap. What did you learn at art school?”

“Absolutely nothing,” I replied. “I wasn’t accepted at art school because they said I wasn’t talented enough.”

“Apparently,” he said.

“I had some pretty good work to show you.” I said. “And I know this is not an excuse but my portfolio got stolen today and I only had a few hours to try and reconstruct…”

“The dog ate your homework, huh?” he interrupted.

“I just need a chance.” I said. “I think I will learn a lot from you. I also do windows.”

He ignored my statement. “This is just thrown together,” he said pointing at my work. “I can’t believe it. You cut pictures out of magazines. You hand-lettered the headlines. Badly, I might add. Let me say that if I were you, I’d forget about ever being an art director. Honestly.”

“I don’t want to be an art director”, I said.

“Then why the hell are you here? He asked. “You’re wasting my damn time, Trevor. I’m bloody busy…”

“I want to be a copywriter,” I said. “I made up the headlines for those ads. I didn’t know of any other way of getting in to see you because you’re not looking for any writers.”

He looked at me, then paged through the papers again, shaking his head.

“You’ve got a damn nerve,” he said.

“Well, I guess if you’re walking on thin ice, you might as well dance,” I muttered.

“You make that one up too?” he asked, looking up.

“Yeah,” I shrugged.

“This is pathetic,” he said, tossing the pile of papers on the table. “There is no way I can offer you the position.”

"Hey, that’s okay,” I said. “At least I got to talk to you, Mr. Abelheim, “And I learned something important today.”

“What’s that?” he said.

“That creativity is subjective.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you hated these ads,” I said. “But someone loved them enough to break into my car and steal ‘em.”

“When will you be available?” he said, looking up.

“Available for what?” I said, confused.

“To start work as a copywriter. These are some of the best headlines I’ve seen in a while.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, shaking his hand a little too enthusiastically.

“No, thank you,” he said, standing up, “for restoring my faith in dreamers.”

And so my journey began…

I am so happy I have reached one of my dreams. My video series is the next step in another dream to change the world for children. Join me.

Posted by trevor at 10:11 AM | Comments (0)

February 11, 2005

It’s incredible how quickly

It’s incredible how quickly people judge others without knowing anything about them. It’s quite sad really.

I was having lunch the other day and the person I was lunching with mentioned how mean and grumpy the woman at the next table looked. And how awful it must be having a person that miserable as a partner. And how maybe that person should "just take a happy pill or have a drink and get a life."

The tone of the lunch (and the chance of any future lunch dates) changed dramatically when I mentioned that I knew the so-called ‘miserable’ person and that she was actually a wonderful, warm, funny, caring human being and was a respected artist. I also mentioned that her father had just passed away and her mother was terminally ill.

The experience reminds me of a train trip I took when I first came to the United States and how wrong early judgements can really be.

It was December. A grandfather his grandson got onto the train in Providence, Rhode Island. The morning was cold and dreary.

They sat opposite me, huddled in gray coats.

The old man was wearing a hat with some kind of feather tucked carefully into the band.

They said nothing to each other.

The boy stared out of the window at the gray New England countryside. It was the day before Christmas and it still hadn't snowed.

The grandfather looked uneasy. He kept on pulling his jaw forward and adjusting his collar and tie.

He looked at me once and nodded.

I smiled.

The boy stared out of the window.

The old man wanted to talk. I knew this because he kept on making eye contact with me. He'd open his mouth as if he were about to speak. Then he'd clear his throat and close his mouth again. I did it for him. I asked him where they were headed.

"Trenton. New Jersey," he said

I nodded. We sat in silence again.

Later, I asked him if they'd been on vacation.

I saw the boy grimace slightly. The grandfather looked over at the boy.

The boy stared out of the window.

The old man suddenly leaned forward. I did the same. He spoke as if the boy weren't there. He told me how the boy had run away from home, gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd. I saw pain in the old man's face. His eyes swam in quiet tears as he spoke.

He needed to talk. To release the dull ache that had welled up behind his sad eyes.

"I had to force him to come with me. He escaped twice, but I'm pretty quick for an old man, I was a marine once."

The boy flashed him a look and then stared out of the window.

He said nothing for a while. Then he spoke again. He told me he'd gone to get the boy, found him in Boston, and now they were on their way home to spend Christmas with the family.

The old man managed a smile. He looked at the boy again.

The boy stared out of the window.

I dozed off.

I don't know how long I slept, but the slowing of the train woke me up.

The boy was gone.

His grandfather was sound asleep. The old man's mouth was open and his head was tilted back against the seat. His hat had fallen off and was resting awkwardly against the armrest.

(I had a feeling the boy was going to disappear the first chance he got. I had him figured out the minute he sat down.)

I cleared my throat. Leaned forward. Then leaned back again. I didn't quite know how to wake the old man and tell him the boy was gone. I didn't want to see the pain in his face.

I didn't have to.

The boy came back with two steaming cups of coffee. He woke his grandfather and gave him one of the cups.

They drank their coffee while I stared out of the window.

Posted by trevor at 10:53 AM | Comments (0)

February 10, 2005

Invisible Forces

So many people want to lose weight, change careers, get in shape, write a book, learn a musical instrument, paint a picture, stop smoking, make a difference in the world or simply get around to nagging chores.

The idea is great, but most of us simply stop before we've even started! It's uncanny. Research shows that many of us put on the brakes because of anxiety, self-doubt, lack of motivation, no determination, fear of failure and even sheer laziness.

These invisible forces are incredibly powerful. They often render us helpless as we continue doing things we wish we weren't doing, like working for an awful company or staying in a bad relationship or eating cream puffs when we know they're not what we need.

This inside force has one single objective: to maintain the status quo. We have this built-in tendency to keep things as they are. Every cell in our body fights to stay exactly as it is. That's why it is so hard for us to effect change.

My father did something really interesting when I was leaving home to come to the United States. He asked me what my fears were about moving to another country. I told him and he took some tracing paper and listed my fears with a large black marker.

He then took my hand and wrote the word courage in large letters on my hand. After that, he took my map of the United States and put it on the table. He held up the tracing paper between the map and me and said, "These are your fears. If you look carefully enough you can see right through them. Acknowledge them, recognize them, respect them, now have the courage to smash them."

I did what he told me to do. I put my fist through the paper and grabbed the map. It was one of the most powerful things I have ever done.

Courage is sometimes all it takes to recognize the invisible barrier and then demolish it.

I once heard the story about a team of climbers who tried to conquer Everest. Their first two attempts failed. During the third try, after careful planning and much preparation, disaster struck in the form of an avalanche and many climbers were injured.

A while after the disaster, the team held a party to celebrate their attempt. The team leader spoke at the gathering and pointed to a large photograph of Everest hanging behind him. "You beat us three times," he said, pointing at the unforgiving mountain. "But one day we will beat you. The reason we will succeed is because you can't get any bigger, but we can!"
We all have the Courage to break the barrier that holds us back from what we deserve. Only we can smash it to pieces because it is inside of us.

(Dad, you were so wonderful. Thank you for teaching me how to be courageous. I miss you so very much.)

Posted by trevor at 09:53 AM | Comments (0)

February 09, 2005

Quick Thought

South African Dr. David Molapo once said, "When the sun rises over Africa,
the antelope knows it must run faster than the fastest lion to survive.
And when the sun rises over Africa, the lion knows it must run faster than the
antelope if it is to eat. So the bottom line is, see you a little later, I've gotta run.

Posted by trevor at 06:48 AM | Comments (0)

February 07, 2005

The Message

What is a hero?

Is it a highly paid sportsperson whose job is to win at all costs?

Is it a platinum-selling musician whose lyrics espouse violence?

Is it a film star who earns 20 million dollars a picture?

Or is it my 13 year-old friend Tylor Lauck who has been through 41 surgeries to remove countless cancerous tumors from his brain and lungs.

Tylor who cannot take any more chemotherapy or radiation because his body is saturated. Who has had one of his legs amputated. Who put a roller-blade on his remaining leg and careened down the street the day he arrived home from the hospital. Who stopped puking long enough to say “Wassup?” the day I met him two months ago. Who has more enthusiasm and hope than any other person I know. Who left me the following message on my answering machine last night.

“Hi Trevor, it’s me. Tylor, the one-legged maniac. Hey, I love that name you gave me. Oh…(muffled) mom says to call her about (muffled) something about the make a wish or something. (With hand over phone) It's not him mom, I'm leaving a message. Well, I just wanted to say thanks for getting me started on writing the book about my life. It’s fun to write about everything that has happened to me. You dare kids to make a difference and I really think I can with this book. It could really help little kids with cancer. But I need to finish it quick because they found six more tumors in my brain at the scan today. One is in my (Where is it mom?) oh yeah, in my brain lining or something. She can tell you when you speak to her. Oh and by the way I figured out a title for the book. I think we should call it 'Cancer took my leg but it didn’t take my spirit'. Call me when you get in, okay?”

Tylor – you are my hero! Your courage and determination gives me so much hope and faith. The way you spread your spirit outward instead of wrapping it up in a tight ball inside, and curling yourself around it, inspires me. It’s people like you who make me realize how wonderful and promising life can really be, (even under the most trying conditions), if we just let it.

Posted by trevor at 07:07 PM | Comments (0)

Where Are They Now #3

The Three Blind Mice

After an incredible amount of detective work, I found the three blind mice in Baltimore, Maryland. All three of them are equal partners in a successful company called Prosthetic Tails. I spoke to them in the pantry of a new upscale eatery called The Gourmet Cheese Company.

You guys have obviously done well for yourselves.

Mouse One: We had nothing more to lose. We lost our sight…

Mouse Two: And then we lost our tails…

Mouse Three: So we decided to leave the farm and head for the big city.

Mouse Two: Which was difficult…

Mouse One: Because we couldn't see where we were going…

Mouse Three: But with a little help from the country mouse…

Mouse Two: And the town mouse, we found our way.

You call your company Prosthetic Tails. Is there a play on words there?

Mouse One: Yeah. Prosthetic Tails, as in prophetic tales. It's a little obscure, but we like it.
The subtlety is lost to the majority of our clients…

Mouse Two: Who are mostly injured in the rat race.

So, the company is run by the three of you?

Mouse One: Well, we did bring on a fourth partner, but he was a compulsive clock-watcher so
we had to get rid of him.

Mouse Two: Yeah, he was the Hickory Dickory Dock guy.

Mouse Three: He had potential, but he'd get up and run around the boardroom table every
time the darn clock chimed.

Mouse One & Two: It disturbed our clients a little.

Mouse Three: Especially the skittish ones.

Did the 'incident' with the farmer's wife have any long-term effect on your lives?

Mouse Two: Actually the whole experience gave us material for stand-up comedy…

Stand up comedy?

Mouse One: Yeah, stand up comedy. That's what we tried to do once we reached the city.

Were you successful?

Mouse Three: We we're pretty good…

Mouse Two: Nah, we sucked.

Mouse One: We had our moments…

Mouse Three: The schtick about the farmer's wife was pretty funny.

Mouse Two: C'mon, how funny can three blind mice without tails be?

Mouse One: It was funny when you fell off the stage and poked the piano player in the eye with
your cane.

Mouse Two: I couldn't see the edge…

Mouse One: The guy always tried to play like Stevie Wonder.

Mouse Two: It was Ray Charles.

Mouse Three: It doesn't matter. The audience laughed their heads off…

Mouse Two: Actually, it was those damn black tuxedos and white canes. That's what made them laugh.

Mouse One: And tap dancing shoes. Why the hell were we wearing tap dancing shoes? We can't
tap dance.

Do you remember any of your comedy material?

Mouse One: Yeah, did you hear the one about the blind guy who went into the supermarket?

Mouse Two: By the way, it's okay to tell blind jokes if you're blind…

Mouse Three: Like Poles can tell Polish jokes.

Mouse One: Yeah. So the blind man went into the supermarket and grabbed his seeing eye dog by the tail and swung the dog around and around above his head. The storeowner rushed up to the man and yelled, "What the heck are you doing?" "Just looking around," said the blind man.

There is an awfully long pause. Then suddenly all three burst into laughter.

Mouse Two: Ha, ha! That was funny.

Mouse Three: "Just looking." Ha, ha. Oh my goodness. (Tears stream from Mouse Three's eyes.)

Do you guys think you might return to show business?

Mouse One: Nah. We might do the odd bar mitzvah or Anon Anon benefit…

Anon Anon?

Mouse One: Anon Anon. It's a 12-step program for people who can't stop talking…they go on and
on. Get it?

Mouse Two: Ha, ha number 1! That was funny. You crack me up!

Mouse One: No seriously. Our company does some great work, and continuing to help people is
our focus.

I was thinking about organizing a reunion for all of you guys.

Mouse Two: Which guys?

You know, the fairy tale people. The Big Bad Wolf, The Three Pigs. Repunzel.

Mouse One: Repunzel was hot. I’m in.

Mouse Two: I’m not going if the farmer’s wife’s will be there.

Mouse Three: And Jack Spratt’s wife. She plays Bunko with the farmer’s wife. I’m not hanging out
with her.

No, we’ll just have the major characters. And don’t worry about the farmer’s wife, she had a double hip replacement. She won’t be chasing anybody.

Mouse One: Maybe we should go and bump her off. Put her out of her misery.

Mouse Two: Stop that now. You’re becoming aggressive again. Didn’t that anger management
course mean anything to you?

Mouse One: Yeah. I guess. It’s just that I get freaked out when I think of the farmer’s wife.

Mouse Three: Does anyone know her name? It’s a pain to keep on referring to her as the Farmer’s
Wife.

Mouse One: I think it was Betty Lou or something.

Mouse Two: Stereotyper!

Mouse One: What?

Mouse Two: Just because she’s a farmer’s wife doesn’t mean she has a typical farmer’s wife’s
name.

Mouse One: Whatever.

(Cough) Umm. It’s going to be a fascinating group.

Mouse Three: How about Goldilocks? She's a looker.

Yeah. She’s going to be there. And so are Jack and Jill.

Mouse Three: Oh, that’s cool. I think they have their own reality show. They’re married you know?

Can I count you guys in then?

All Three: Sure.

Good. We’ll talk more then.

Mouse One: (Over his shoulder) And don’t invite Puss In Boots.

Mouse Two: Or Wee Willy Winky. He gives us the willy’s.

Mouse Three: Laughing (As they disappear through the small hole in the baseboard.). See ya.

Posted by trevor at 06:53 PM | Comments (0)

February 06, 2005

Wait A Second

The girlfriend of one of my friends is having a run of bad luck. She blames everyone and everything for her plight. Even when the slightest thing goes wrong, she throws her hands up into the air and says, “Just my luck I had a flat tire. There are a million cars out there and it HAD to happen to me.”

It’s amazing how people who are not getting exactly what they want blame everyone in sight for their misfortune. But as we all know, nobody is to blame but the laws of the universe and the workings of nature.

In his book 'When Bad Things Happen To Good People' Harrold Kushner talks about the laws of nature treating everyone alike. They do not make exceptions for good people.

Kushner says no matter what stories we are taught at Sunday school, God does not reach down to interrupt the workings of the laws of nature to protect the righteous from harm.

With a wonderful grasp of the concept of 'who's to blame' and a lovely sense of humor, Kushner says that if a person who was righteous, charitable and good were granted immunity because of his righteousness, imagine the chaos the world would be in.

It would mean that a person could go ice fishing in the North Pole without a shirt and not get pneumonia. That a person could jump off the roof of a high-rise building because the elevator was too slow and not hurt himself. That a person could cross the street in the face of heavy traffic and not be hurt because God would prevent the laws of nature from doing the person any harm.

No, sometimes awful things happen and nobody is to blame but bad luck.

Very few people in this world go through life without experiencing some tough times. Successful people learn to surf the waves of adversity by developing strengths that will help them get ahead of the wave.

My dad was abused by his father as a child. My grandfather was a tyrant and often beat my father to within an inch of his life. My dad broke the cycle. He was a wonderful father and the only time he ever laid a hand on me was when he hugged me. Before he died, I asked my dad how he managed to be such a great guy even though he went through tough times as a kid. "I didn't think of myself as a victim," he once told me. "I just happened to be a little kid who experienced bad luck because he had a dad who beat him up."

My father did not like the idea of carrying the label ‘victim’ with him into the future. "I acknowledged that my father beat me up", he said, "but I did not give him permission to control my present or influence my future.”

I always loved how caring and warm my dad was and he told me that when he felt bad, he reached out to us (his family) instead of reaching in.

My dad always talked about cycles of life and likened things that happened as 'bad' or 'good' seasons. Once, I was at home for a weekend pass during my military training and I was in tears because I didn't think I could go through two entire years of national service. My father put his arm around me and said, "Tough times and bad luck are like winter. They never seem to end, until the little daffodil pokes his head up through the spring snow. Then everything is so wonderful you quickly forget the winter behind you."

If you are going through a tough time right now, remember, it's always darkest and coldest just before the dawn.

Have you ever noticed that great things always seem to happen after incredibly tough times?

How often have you heard people say, "I was at the end of my rope; I was just about to give up when everything turned around?"

The Grammy-award-winning singer-songwriter "Jewel" is a perfect example. She was down and out, living in her van and playing guitar on Venice beach when everything suddenly changed. She is now a wealthy performer enjoying a fruitful life.

J.K. Rowling is another example. She was a single parent, had no steady job and spent most of her time writing stories in a local coffee shop. The stories she wrote were about a character called Harry Potter. The Harry Potter series is now the most successful children's book series in the history of publishing.

Happiness, love, success, comfort, all seem to come after the worst time. It really is part of nature.

Think of a newborn baby for example. Before this exquisite creation enters the world, it waits in a dark, blood-filled, mucous-swamped sack for nine months. Then it gets the heck squeezed out of it as it passes out of its mother's body.

Don’t forget the mother. She has to go through incredible discomfort, pain and sheer misery as her baby is born. Then the pain slowly subsides and the most wonderful sight appears as she nurtures her beautiful baby.

As my grandpa Ted always used to say. ”Think of bad times as ocean waves. Wait a second. They too will pass.”

Posted by trevor at 11:27 AM

February 04, 2005

Bouncing Back

Yesterday I heard something that made me think about reaching one’s dreams. The person said, “Trevor you are so lucky you have reached your dream and are doing what you love.”

I am lucky. But to tell you the truth, I created a lot of my own luck. I worked really hard to be ready when luck opened a few doors for me. I was totally prepared. As they began to open I barged through them like a crazed bull in Pamplona.

I believe success is where preparation meets opportunity.

Honestly, the luckiest thing for me is that I never gave up on myself. I have a really good excuse for failing to be a writer. I am dyslexic and as a child I had tremendous difficulty with creative writing and spelling. But I’ve never used that as an excuse for not achieving something I set out to do.

The learning difference was a real hurdle for me once I started writing full-time. I knew I wanted to write books from the age of eight, however, people kept telling me that I would never make it because of my "problem." I was also told I was not talented enough to go to art school. And now I love doing sketches. (Like the self-portrait above.)

I consider challenges as hurdles and believe hurdles are there for a reason. To be jumped over!

I went through a tough time trying to get my first book published. I wanted to see my books in print so badly it hurt, but I kept on getting rejection after rejection. Being rejected is so darn painful. Most people who receive one or two rejections simply give up because the pain and disappointment is too much to bear.

I have over three hundred rejections for books I have written over the years. But that didn’t stop me. I kept on submitting book after book after book. I saw myself as an elasticized punching ball that boxer's train with. Every time I took a blow, I came hurtling back in a different direction. Back and back I came, until I landed my first publishing deal. I didn't rest after that.

I did the same for my second book and my third and even my thirtieth. (I still can’t believe that I have over one million copies of my books in print in 14 different languages. So there Mr. Louw! So much for your report-card comment that said, ‘Trevor Romain will do well if stops dreaming so much.”)

I often go back in time (in my mind) and put my arm around myself as a young child. I see a scared and hurt little boy with his head hung after being spanked for not being able to spell. Spanked for drawing instead of listening. It really feels good to hold that young boy and let him know that everything is going to be alright.

I still get rejections for certain books I propose, but that won't stop me from writing and submitting manuscripts. As long as I believe in my work, I will keep on coming back right in people's faces (like that punching ball) so they have no chance of ignoring what I believe in.

Every now and then rejection will sneak a punch at me, but I come bouncing right back. The more I take those punches, the easier it is to come back!

Posted by trevor at 08:32 PM

February 03, 2005

Turning Feathers Into Wings

Megan Stento was an amazing twelve-year-old girl. She stood at the door of death with a baseball bat and said, “Come and get me.”

Megan taught me how to turn feathers into wings.

I remember visiting Megan one morning and telling her about a new book I had just written.

“I’m going to dedicate the book to you, I said. “It’s called The Other Side Of The Invisible Fence.”

“Thanks,” said Megan softly.

Megan was a beautiful child with a smile that could reach across an entire room and hug you unconditionally. The effects of chemotherapy and grueling radiation sessions did not dampen her wonderful demeanor.

“As soon as the book comes out, I’ll read it to you,” I offered.

Megan said nothing for a few seconds. Then she spoke, her words sending shockwaves through my entire being.

“You’ll have to read real loud if I’m in heaven.”

“I will.” I said. “If you die before this book comes out I’ll climb on the roof of my house and read so darn loud you’ll hear me all the way up there.

Megan fought an incredible battle, but she was no match for the savage cancer that ripped her body apart from the inside out. She died only days after our conversation.

Megan’s mom Becky spoke to me after the funeral. “You are going to keep you promise to Megan aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” I said, fighting back my tears.

Becky called me later that day and asked if the family could come over to my house when I climbed on the roof to read the book. She thought it would be a good memorial to Megan.

“Absolutely,” I told her.

“Becky called me the next day and asked if I wouldn’t mind very much if Megan’s class came to the reading on the roof.

“I would love that.” I told her.

A few days later the principal of the school called and asked if the entire school could come to the reading on the roof.

That’s when I said, “I don’t think it’s possible. My garden is too small.”

Well, that did not stop Becky Stento. By the next morning she had arranged for me to do the reading on the roof of the Laguna Gloria Art Museum here in Austin. The location was ideal. The two-story building had a flat roof and was surrounded by a beautifully manicured green lawn.

It rained the entire week before the reading. Then on the morning of the event, as I climbed the stairs to the roof, the sun came out and bathed the entire garden in a warm golden light.

After climbing the stairs I approached the small wall running around the perimeter of the roof. I leaned on the wall and looked over the edge.

My heart stopped.

Sitting on the lawn on chairs and blankets were almost a thousand people. I still do not how so many of them heard about the event.

The entire crowd was completely silent. No words were spoken but I could feel their collective hearts singing together like a giant silent choir. The only sound I heard was the chirping of happy birds in the woods surrounding the lawn and the occasional barking of a dog way off in the distance.

The silence touched me in ways I cannot describe.

I looked up into the sky and read the book to Megan.

As I completed the last sentence a movement caught my eye. Behind the crowd, a little girl in a white summer dress had wandered off alone and was happily dancing in circles by herself, her face skyward, her eyes closed and her arms outstretched. She made turn after giddy turn as her dress floated around her like soft white feathers from an angel’s wings.

Posted by trevor at 02:29 PM

Where Are They Now #2

This is the second entry from my book "Where Are They Now?" in which I interview fairytale characters and the usual suspects from Mother Goose.

The Big Bad Wolf.

Many years ago, the Big Bad Wolf ate Little Red Riding Hood's grandma in cold blood. He managed to escape the law for months until he was caught stealing chickens on a farm near the forest. After a short trial, the wolf was sentenced to twenty years in prison for 'premeditated usage of a grandparent as an entrée'.

While he was in jail, the wolf managed to turn his life around. He denounced violence, got a university degree and became a vegetarian. He was set free this week and I was there to greet him as he was released from jail. We met at a local restaurant where he enjoyed a salad while telling me about his life behind bars.

Mr. Big Bad Wolf, how do you feel after being jailed for all these years?

Mr. Wolf: Firstly I ain't big and I ain't bad anymore and from now on please call me Flow. Everyone else does.

Flow?

Mr. Wolf: Sure. It's Wolf spelled backwards. I turned my life around so I decided to turn my name around too. You know, Flow, as in go with the.

So, what was instrumental in turning your life around? I mean, how did you change from a grandma-eating, sheep-stealing, chicken-stalker into a peaceful, non-violent vegetarian?

Mr. Wolf: Look, a lot of people don't realize this, but I'm the same guy who gave those three little pigs such a hard time. Man, I messed with their heads like you wouldn't believe. So, I made a lot of trouble for a lot of people. I probably would have gone for Miss Muffet too if the spider hadn't chased her away first. So anyway, what I'm saying is, I was bad. But I didn't know any different. Basically, I came from the wrong side of the woods, so to speak. Let's face it, I didn't have the best role models. My father was the one who dressed in sheep's clothing and terrorized the whole village. My uncle was the bad guy in almost every Aesop's fable, my brother has been the man-eating wolf in just about all the B horror movies ever made and my cousin, well, I can't even tell you what he did.

But you managed to overcome the odds…

Mr. Wolf: Well, while I was in jail, I saw a piece on television about those three little pigs and they were suffereing from that post traumatic stress thing. That made me feel so bad. Then I read about Little Red Riding Hood and how it was my fault that she became a recluse and never got married. One day in group therapy, that evil grandma lady, you know, the one who tried to turn Hansel and Gretel into biscotti, well she suddenly had a breakthrough and realized what she had done. She felt the guilt and started crying and wailing. It was really sad and I started crying too. I get all choked just thinking about it. Excuse me…

That's okay. Do you want to stop for a while?

Mr. Wolf: No, no. I'll carry on. It was the first time I had cried in my life other than barking at the moon, which isn't crying so much as howling. I also felt something else for the first time in my life. Guilt. I actually felt guilty about my actions. Goodness, once I allowed myself to own what I had done, everything suddenly changed.

How so?

Mr. Wolf: Well, instead of trying to blame everyone else for my problems like my parents or that darn shepherd guy who was constantly trying to maim me with his rocks and his staff, I took responsibility for what I did. That reminds me…

Of what?

Mr. Wolf: I'd like to talk to that shepherd. He wasn't the kind of shepherd you read about in bible stories. He was like a WWF-Ninja-killer-shepherd. The way he swung that staff around and yelled. I once saw him try to turn a black crow into a hockey puck. If that bird hadn't jumped out of the way, it would have been feathers for him.

Where to from here?

Mr. Wolf: Well, obviously I'm going to write a book. I feel I owe it to the general public. My agent is in the process of negotiating a deal for me. I plan on talking to others who have written autobiographies to see how they went about it. I'm going to speak to Richard Simmonds, Martha Stewart, Howard Stearn, The Olsen Twins and Ernest Hemingway.

But Hemingway is dead!

Mr. Wolf: Yes, I know, but I thought I'd get in touch with him through Miss Cleo at the Psychic Hotline. I saw the ad on television. They speak to dead people.

Wasn't that a movie with Bruce Willis?

Mr. Wolf: No that was something else. Well, I've got to get going. I'm having a meeting with some reality television producers. I'm going to try and find those three pigs and I'll be taking a camera crew with me. That's going to be good reality television. A little bit of drama, big hugs, you know. So, I'll see you. If you need anything, give me a call, okay.

Sure will. I appreciate your candor and your time. I wish you all the luck in the world Mr. Wolf.

Mr. Wolf: It's Flow.

Flow. Thank you.

Mr. Wolf: You're very welcome.

Posted by trevor at 09:44 AM

February 02, 2005

The Art Of Being Humbled

Sometimes the universe has a wonderful way of humbling people. Of gently putting them in their place. It seems to happen to me every time I get a little too self important.

I remember one time in particular, many years ago. Things were going very well in my life and I had started to take things for granted.

It was early one Sunday morning. I was sitting at a quaint outdoor cafe drinking coffee and reading the newspaper.

The cafe was situated in a European style cobblestone courtyard. Each table had a yellow umbrella and a vase of fresh flowers. The cafe had just opened for the day and I was the first person there.

I glanced up from the paper and noticed an artist setting up his easel a short way from where I sat. He placed the back of the easel toward me and began mixing paint. He smiled. I nodded and went back to the newspaper.

A few minutes later, I paid the bill, folded the newspaper and got up to leave.

“Excuse me,” he said in broken English. “Is hokay I paint?”

“You talking to me?” I said, pressing my thumb into my chest and looking around. There was no one else in sight.

“You,” he said pointing the end of the brush at me. “You sit. I paint.”

“I’d be flattered,” I said smiling. I sat down and re-read the parts of the paper I had skipped.

“Where are you from? He asked after he’d been painting for a while.

“South Africa,” I replied. “And you?’

He didn’t reply. He continued painting. I think he was French. He had a white moustache that was curled up at the ends and he wore a maroon beret.

I sat for two hours as he painted. I did the crossword, had two more cups of coffee and did a quiz to determine if I was a good husband. It turned out that I was a great husband, probably because I wasn’t married.

Eventually after almost falling asleep from sheer boredom, I saw the artist put his down brush and wipe his hands with a dirty, paint stained cloth. He tilted his head to the side and looked at his work.

“I like,” he said to himself as he rubbed his hands together. “You like?”

I got up and walked over to the easel. The painting was magnificent. The man was obviously a master. He had captured the early morning light and the colors of the cafe almost true to life. There was one thing missing from the picture though. Me.

I was a little angry that he made me sit for so long without putting me in the picture.

“Why didn’t you put me in the picture?" I asked.

He looked at me like I was crazy.

“Look at the cafe,” he said, pointing over the easel at the scene he had just painted

I looked over the top of the easel at the cafe.

“Are you in the picture?” he said.

“No,” I said, “I’m obviously not in the picture because I'm standing here with you.”

“Well then,” he said, smiling. “How can I put you in the picture, if you are not in the picture?”

Posted by trevor at 06:34 AM