Everyone will tell you that when you sell a book, you don’t get to pick the cover. I know this, and I am fine with it. I don’t know much about selling books, and my publisher does nothing but sell books, so I trust they would know what makes for a good cover. But I was flattered when they asked me for ideas about what I’d like on the cover of my book, and I knew right away: Emily Anderson.

Emily Anderson is a wonderful artist who paints scenes from nature in Minnesota. Unlike many northern landscape artists, her work is never dreary. Her scenes of the natural world just exude joy and a sense of discovery and -- it might sound odd, but it’s true -- humor. Her work makes me smile. I want to be in whatever place she has painted. And so, when they asked what I wanted, I said, “Emily Anderson.”

But of course, it was just to give the publisher an idea. I never told Emily anything about this. I don’t know her personally. The closest I came to speaking to her was writing to ask her permission to use one of her pictures on my website when “Loon Point” was looking for a publisher. She was very kind and said I could use it. I never told her I recommended her art because I never in my wildest dreams thought they would contact her.

Then I heard from my editor.

“We have some cover mock-ups for you to see,” my editor said, “but we’ve had a hard time reaching one of the artists for permission.” I looked at the mock-ups and was astonished to see ... Emily Anderson!

I was over the moon. But why couldn’t they reach her? I found her number and immediately dialed her up.

“Hi, Emily! I don’t expect you to remember me, but several months ago you let me use one of your pictures on my website for my book.”

Silence. I could tell she had no idea who I was.

“Well, the book sold. ...”

I heard a sharp intake of breath.

“And my publisher has been trying to reach you. ...” Now, I heard laughter starting on the other end of the line.

“Oh, no,” Emily said.

“Did you get an email? They said they reached out to you by email and on Instagram. ...”

There was more laughter. I had never spoken to Emily before, but I could tell I liked her. Now she was really laughing. “I thought it was spam!”

“Oh, no!”

“Yes! I even asked a couple of friends. ‘Do you think this is spam?’ I asked them. ‘Totally spam!’ they agreed.”

Now we were both laughing.

“I will get back to them right away!” Emily said.

I had to wait a few days, but I learned that my publisher had licensed Emily’s work to use on the cover of “Loon Point.” It is not just similar to the cover I wanted -- it is exactly what I wanted and never imagined I would get. Emily is delighted to be a part of it.

And there’s one more thing. The painting has a name. The name of the painting is “Almost There.” I imagine (although I’d have to ask Emily) that it refers to the image of the lakeshore and a canoe that has almost landed, perhaps to camp for the night.

But it seems to me, a first-time novelist, writing this book late in life about the things that matter most to me, having a cover called “Almost There” is about as perfect as it gets.

Till next time,

Carrie

To see more of Emily’s art, go to www.emilyandersonartwork.com.

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I have never minded getting advice.

My husband, Peter, is good about giving advice, and one of the things I regularly need advice on is food, specifically if I should eat food that I already know I should not.

I hate throwing away food. I was not raised during the Depression, so I have no idea where this aversion comes from, but nothing makes me more sad than seeing food that looks perfectly fine getting tossed out.

The key here is “looks perfectly fine.” I will have a very strong indication that the food is not, in fact, perfectly fine, and I will go ahead and eat it. This is always a mistake.

I have eaten beans that have gone bad. “Oh,” I say, “they cannot be bad. I just made them!” I have a pretty good sense of smell, and I know there is something not quite right about those beans, but I throw them into a stir-fry, anyway. I trust the calendar instead of my nose. A few hours later, I very much regret it.

Most recently, I broke the glass container holding my broccoli. I steam my broccoli in advance so I can just toss it into a stir-fry and have a meal in minutes. The glass container shattered.

It seemed like a clean break. I carefully picked it up and removed the broccoli from the container, put some in my stir-fry and the rest in a new container in the fridge. I added wild rice and lentils and barley, a little spinach and put some cheese on top. I was eating late. I’d had a big day of going over copy edits for my book, so I was especially hungry.

I took a bite. “Crunch.”

This was not an undercooked broccoli crunch. This was not wild rice. This was the crunch you might experience while eating a sandwich on a beach when the wind was blowing. I looked at my delicious meal. I took another bite. “Crunch.”

My husband, Peter, had eaten his lunch earlier. I took my plate into his office and looked very sad. “Peter, you don’t think it would be terrible to eat a little glass, do you? I mean, if it’s really just glass dust -- no big pieces or anything -- I think I might have ...”

“You can’t eat glass,” Peter said.

“But it’s really, really fine pieces ...”

“You cannot eat glass!” Peter sounded totally sure.

I threw away my wonderful lunch. I threw away the rest of the broccoli, all the while thinking, “Maybe the broccoli in the container doesn’t have as much glass in it as what was on my plate ...”

It was awful. But it was probably the right thing to do. I don’t make my best decisions when I’m hungry; that’s the truth. I had a tuna fish sandwich for lunch.

But I am very grateful that I was able to ask Peter. Maybe at my age, I should know what to eat. There are probably a lot of things I should know by now. Too many times, I have justified continuing to do something I know isn’t good for me. This can apply to my lunch or to relationships that become like eating bits of broken glass. “Maybe it’s not so bad,” I think. “Maybe it will get better.” Sometimes, I need a second opinion, even if it’s not the one I want. Sometimes, I need someone to state the obvious.

So, for future reference, if you think I need advice, please let me know. Especially if it involves something I’m about to eat.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION

I knew it was going to rain. I looked up the weather before I headed out, and there was a 94% chance of rain at 7:00. That was precisely the hour I planned to walk home.

“It’s going to rain,” I told my husband, Peter.

“Not till later,” he said. “Google says it’s not going to rain until 9:00.”

“Hmmm.”

I wondered if I should bring an umbrella. The sun was shining. It was hot. I had a mile and a half to walk, and I was not really looking forward to carrying an umbrella. Maybe a hat, I thought. Maybe a wide-brimmed sun hat would do the trick.

I reached up into the coat closet and selected a brilliant blue sun hat I’d forgotten all about. It was given to me by my now deceased sister-in-law Shelley, who had exquisite taste. Perfect.

I headed out. There was not a cloud in sight. I was going to a church which holds a meditation once a week. While I find it hard to maintain concentration for a full hour on my own, something about being in a darkened room with stone walls and candles burning and a few other folks in prayer and meditation keeps me focused. So I sat down in my usual place. It was very peaceful. I was glad I came.

I need to do these things, I’ve discovered. I’ve always battled with a bit of anxiety, long before I had a name for it. Sometimes it’s just like the sound of the refrigerator running -- so constant and persistent that I don’t notice it until it shuts off. “Oh. I’ve been anxious,” I’ll realize. Now I look for ways to give my refrigerator brain a break, and meditation is one of the better ones.

The hour passed. I opened my eyes. Even though the chapel is lit only by candles and the windows are stained glass, it still seemed darker than it should be. Then I heard a crash of thunder. I looked at my watch. 7:00 exactly.

I walked to the door. There was a curtain of rain falling. It was not a squall or an outburst. This was a steady downpour, without a sign of weakness in any direction.

“Hmmm.”

I could have called Peter. He would have scooped me up in the car. I could have called an Uber if I was really feeling flush. I might even have waited near the door and asked a fellow meditator if they were driving in my direction.

Instead, I stepped out into the rain.

My first thought was how heavy and cold it was. But that really only lasted for a minute because, within a minute, I was as wet as a person could be, except for the top of my head and the part of my face shielded by the blue hat. I started walking quickly, but that accomplished nothing. I had a mile and a half to go.

I realized the rain was not that cold, once I was entirely wet. And I realized that I had two choices: fight the rain and lose, or decide to love the rain, and -- without giving it a lot of thought -- I chose the latter.

And I was filled with unreasonable joy.

I laughed, and I sang, and I splashed in puddles as I made my way home. Stepping into my cool house at last, I took off my hat and discovered my hair had turned blue. I laughed again.

And I wondered why it had been so long since I’d walked in the rain.

Till next time,

Carrie

Photos and other things can be found on Facebook at CarrieClassonAuthor.

DISTRIBUTED BY ANDREWS MCMEEL SYNDICATION