Susan Fletcher
Susan Fletcher author

Susan

Fletch­er

author

mid­dle grade novels

young adult novels

pic­ture books

About Susan

Susan Fletcher
Susan Fletch­er

Change hap­pens.

I lived in Ore­gon for a real­ly long time, and I nev­er in a mil­lion years imag­ined that I’d move from there, but my life changed in var­i­ous ways, and then I fell in love.

And mar­ried a Texan.

Well. He’s not a native Tex­an. He’s a trans­plant here, like me. But he’s lived in Texas for forty-odd years and, you know, Texas can change a guy. He wears cow­boy boots and big belt buck­les. He plays Texas Roots music on a Collings gui­tar. And he has a Texas dog.

Neville Dog is part black-mouth cur and part mys­tery, a dog-and-a-half stuffed into a 47-pound fur­ry pack­age of cud­dles and TNT. My hus­band res­cued him from the pound for a dol­lar. Neville thanked him by chew­ing the cor­ners off three Ori­en­tal car­pets, shred­ding the door­mat, and gnaw­ing through two expen­sive hal­ters and an “inde­struc­tible” bed. But now, hal­lelu­jah, Neville has set­tled down.

Most­ly.

Neville
Neville, wait­ing to go out­side. (pho­to by R.J.Q. Adams)
Susan Fletcher
Susan Fletch­er

When Neville thinks a walk is in the off­ing, he jumps three feet straight up into the air, exe­cutes a triple Lutz-dou­ble toe loop, licks your face, and bolts for the door. He’s pret­ty good with peo­ple and oth­er dogs, but he has a thing for big black trucks: he barks and leaps at them. For a moment, on the “per­son end” of the leash, it’s like hold­ing dog-kite combination.

We’re work­ing on it.

But most of the time Neville’s a pussy­cat. Er, metaphor­i­cal­ly speak­ing. (Don’t tell him I called him that.) He sleeps half the day and sort of snorkles when you pet him. He sneezes when he’s excit­ed. Adorable!

Any­way, Texas is dif­fer­ent from Ore­gon. Less rain. More sun­shine. On my var­i­ous walks I’ve seen frogs and tur­tles and armadil­los. And cac­ti. And alli­ga­tors! The cars and trucks are big­ger, and there aren’t as many bikes. (I trad­ed in my bike for run­ning shoes.) Peo­ple are real­ly friend­ly in both places, but here they say y’all. Some­times they say all y’all, depend­ing.

It’s good.

I still write in the qui­et of morn­ing. Still love it when the words and pic­tures begin to form in my mind. And I’ve still got about a thou­sand books I want to write.

Some things nev­er change. Thank goodness!

See also: Just the Facts