Kismet
So: Mom wrote children’s books; grief paid a visit (several, actually); and I did what came naturally—I began to write.
The next visitor to show up at my door was kismet.
The story I began to write was in a genre I had always shied away from before: a children’s book. With two of our three cats having recently passed, and the third diagnosed with cancer, I latched onto the idea of immortalizing these three distinct and memorable personalities in a story that our grandchildren could enjoy.
I wrote a few pages, getting a handle on the setting and characters, but couldn’t yet figure out the story, so I set it aside and returned to working on the story that would become Home Was a Dream. The idea kept drawing me back to it, though, especially as our grandson Nathan, by then age six, began to read. The image of him reading a book about the cats we had spent so many hours playing with and enjoying—maybe even reading it aloud to his younger sister Emma—kept tugging at me until I realized the story I wanted to tell had been right in front of me the whole time.
Our three cats were Snowball, a regal, pure white long-haired female; Lucca, a roly-poly black long-haired male; and Tirah, a nimble, short-haired grey tabby female. They were strikingly different both visually and in temperament, which contributed to periodic conflicts—nothing serious, but lots of little face-offs and games of “chase.”
Meanwhile, I was writing a novel set in part during the Holocaust.
Once those two trains of thought met in the woods, the answer became obvious. Thus was born a children’s book that is, on the surface, a mostly upbeat tale about the challenges of making new friends, and underneath, a fable about prejudice.
Once I had a solid first draft of the story in hand, though, I faced another obstacle: I had written a picture book with no illustrator, and no idea how to move forward. And then my doorbell rang (figuratively, at least), and who was standing there when I opened it?
Kismet.
From 1997 to 2004, I managed communications for a large non-profit in Sacramento. Early in my tenure we established a long-term relationship with a local design firm, The Dunlavey Studio. One of the designers on the team, Angela Caldwell, became our go-to partner for a variety of design needs, including one of my favorite projects: the organization’s annual report. With me providing the text and Angela providing the design, we produced several award-winning examples of the genre.
Which is to say: we were a good team, each with a healthy respect for what the other brought to the table.
And then I left that job and Angela went out on her own and my wife Karen and I moved to the coast and life went on. But Angela and I always kept in touch and occasionally collaborated on freelance projects, and I was delighted for her when, a few years ago, she began focusing her talents not just on design work, but on original art—painting and collage and jewelry and figurines and visual art of all kinds.
I had “liked” hundreds of her postings on social media by the time, a few weeks after I finished writing the text for my new children’s book, I stumbled across a new post from Angela, about a course she was taking, and the new vocation it was intended to prepare her to pursue.
Do I even need to say it?
Okay, then.
My friend Angela had decided she wanted to illustrate children’s books.
Anne H.
Isn’t she wonderful? I also came to know Angela years ago when working for a large regional non profit and using her services as a design contractor. Her transformation into these arts has been remarkable. Of course, now I want to read your book, too! Thank you for shining a light on our friend, this delightful human being we know as Angela.