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Bamboo Faith: Why I Can’t Quit Writing

9 Oct panda and bamboo

Have you ever felt overwhelmed by your own ineptitude? I’ve been there for the past two weeks, and last night, it almost beat me.

panda and bamboo

Mei-Jing and bamboo (the flag was outside; the artist was 5 and all about details)

I was throwing away a bamboo stump that had been a living plant in our home for at least the past 12 years. It represented a simpler time in our lives, a time when watering plants was part of the weekly routine, and wishes were easily satisfied. We bought the plant when my youngest, who’d just acquired a stuffed panda named Mei-Jing (what else?) asked for bamboo for Christmas, explaining quite simply, “You can’t have a panda without bamboo.”

Bamboo is like cactus, in that it takes a lot to do it in. It thrives, even when neglected. My friend tossed a dying bamboo root in her back yard a few years back and now she has a forest out there that would make any panda feel right at home. But then, I’ve killed many a cactus plant in my day. And now I’ve killed Mei-Jing’s food supply as well, because I no longer have a weekly routine.

So last night, I stared at that clump of former life and had a pity party. I told myself it represented the past few weeks, in which I’ve been racing around to accomplish “stuff,” but really, I’ve gone nowhere. Joe’s story has received two rejections from publishers; I’m having trouble finding blog time, which is one of my favorite things to do; and when my fledgling business was begging for water, I prayed for water and got a firehose. I cannot operate a firehose, so I just about drowned everything in my…ineptitude.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve become accustomed to, and accepted the reality that…well, I’m not the brightest bulb in the dirt. (See how that doesn’t work? Nevermind.) I come by this quirk honestly. Once when my dad was in a hospital waiting room, fretting over Mom as the doctors worked behind closed doors (she was ok—that’s not the story), the doctor came out and told him it would help if he got some donors. My dad made a beeline for the exit and was gone for 20 minutes. When he came back, he presented a pink box to the doctor and said, “I didn’t know if you wanted glazed or jelly filled so I got some of both.”

So, yes, I’m a bit off, but I’m generally capable. I can juggle many tasks, write a fine short story (if I do say so myself), and make kids laugh without actually falling down. That’s why, when I left my job to write full-time, I had a certain degree of justifiable confidence in my ability—until this week.

Here’s the situation: Despite the negative news (so far) for Joe’s story, my freelance business is taking off. I’d been writing one story a week for some time now. Last week, because I forgot to take my name off a list of availability, I managed to sign up for three stories at once. Naturally, I was too proud to say it’s too much. I figured, the interviews have been averaging two hours (recorded on an mp3 file), and the stories are so intriguing they practically write themselves, so I thought I was up for the challenge. HOWEVER, both interviews this week have been well over three hours. One is with a woman who speaks with a heavy Romanian accent and the other had some sort of technical glitch forcing me to fight through static to transcribe the conversation. It has taken me six hours to transcribe the first hour of each tape. The rest awaits. Ineptitude. I woke this morning dreading my work for the first time because I have so much to do and still another interview tomorrow. I’m overwhelmed. I cried in my pity party and thought, perhaps I’m not cut out for this.

Here’s where I praise God for that few moments each day that ARE routine. You see, every morning I try to spend my first 30 minutes or so studying the Bible. Lately that’s been in the form of Beth Moore’s Children of the Day study of 1st Thessalonians, in which I read about Paul’s concern for the new believers after their trials. He wrote, not to assure them they’d be okay, but to remind them that they would be hard pressed to come out unscathed. He added, “I sent to find out about your faith. I was afraid that in some way the tempter might have tempted you and our efforts might have been useless.”

And bam! I remembered: I’m not doing this on a whim, but because I believe it’s the Lord’s plan for me. Anything that comes against my decision to write is not of God. I know the “tempter” isn’t looking out for my best interests. What he holds out before me is not escape and relief, but surrender. When I’m wounded and angry, he’s delighted, because I’m close to giving in. (That’s one reason he attacks our loved ones, by the way—to get us where we’re vulnerable—but that’s another blog). Simply put: he plays dirty. And I know what he wants from me. Not my business. Not my stories. Not my hopes and dreams. These things mean nothing to him, except as a means to get what he really wants.

New bamboo plant

My plant of new hope…it better hope I remember to water it.

He wants my faith.

He’s not getting it.

So this morning I bought a new bamboo plant and set it in the same vase as the last one. I watered it (so that’s at least once…) and set it where I can see it. I’m not inept. I’m administratively challenged. But I have a Counselor who isn’t, and so I leave that part of this job to Him. These next few days will be challenging, and before I’m done I might be speaking with a static-y Romanian accent, but I know there’s victory coming.

Now, I’m heading back to finish my transcription; but this time, I’m armored up and ready to fight. Are you with me?

“But since we belong to the day, let us be self-controlled, putting on faith and love as a breastplate, and the hope of salvation as a helmet.” 1 Thessalonians 8

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Ban Book Banning: Read with Your Brain Turned On

24 Sep

I’m blogging early this week because I have some busy days ahead, but I didn’t want Banned Book Week to go by without mentioning it.

You would think that as a Christian writer, I’d be all for banning books—particularly those that are “bad” for us and our children.

Well, you’d be wrong.

I’m against reading many of the books that are popular in our culture, but I can’t support forbidding them.

Book banning is usually the result of a person or group of people who decide what they think is best for everyone and who exert great energy to turn their personal views into an edict. The problem is, there are as many different viewpoints as there are people, and theoretically, if everyone were allowed to strike those books they thought “bad” because they contain profanity, opposing politics, violence, racism, religious references, or (name your offense here), there would be little quality literature left on the shelves. For example, one of my favorite books, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, by Roald Dahl was once placed in a Colorado school’s locked reference collection because a librarian thought the book embraced a “poor philosophy of life.”

Think that’s ridiculous? Well, in 2010, a school district in Riverside California even banned Webster’s Dictionary because it contained sexual content. Now, truth be told, I’m still smarting because the Webster gurus recently made “nother” a word (as in, that’s a whole nother issue), but I’m not going to swear off dictionaries because of it.

I do, however, highly endorse employing a bit of discernment when choosing books, particularly with regard to stocking school libraries. Middle schoolers do not need access to sexually explicit materials, and high schoolers do not need access to bomb-making instruction manuals, and NO SCHOOL needs to stock Fifty Shades of Grey. There are so many good books in the world, librarians should have no trouble accumulating age-appropriate literature for their shelves.

I also firmly believe in knowing what my children are reading and being available to discuss their books with them. I learned the hard way. When my oldest was a teenager, I eagerly fed his desire for Goosebumps books because I was just thrilled that he wanted to read. I never read any of them. A few years later, he saw me sorting through books to keep for his younger brother and urged me to throw them out. He said they were awful—kids died in nearly every book, and they were depressing.

In shock, I asked why he’d read them all then. He shrugged and said, “They were addicting.”

So now, I attempt to read every book my youngest reads—a feat that is becoming more difficult now that he’s in high school, but it has paid off. Last year, his freshman English class was assigned Flowers for Algernon, by Daniel Keyes. It is a terrific story told from the viewpoint of a mentally feeble young man, but it contains three of what I believe are inappropriate scenes for a teenage boy. I was so glad I read them first. I marked the pages and told my son of my concerns but said he could read them if he really wanted to. He chose not to, so I filled in with a PG-rated description of the events and he was still able to pass all related quizzes and even write a good essay. Frankly, I would have been greatly disappointed if he’d wanted to read it, so I was quite proud at his decision. And I am greatly disappointed in his teacher for not finding something better suited out of all the good literature available. However, I think that if I’d outright forbidden him to read it, he would only have been more inclined to see what all the fuss was about.

The following books have been banned (or are still banned) in some schools:

Books from the banned list

Contraband…I may be in deep trouble.

To Kill A Mockingbird, by Harper Lee

I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings, by Maya Angelou

Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson

Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley

The Kite Runner, by Khaled Hosseini

The Things They Carried, by Tim O’Brien

The Lovely Bones, by Alice Sebold

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, by Mark Twain

Diary of Anne Frank, by Anne Frank

Harry Potter (series), by J.K. Rowling

James and the Giant Peach, by Roald Dahl

A Wrinkle in Time, by Madeline L’Engle

Fahrenheit 451, by Ray Bradbury

If the irony of that last one doesn’t make your heart hurt, you need to add it to your reading list.

The banned book list is much longer, but these are books I’ve read, loved, learned from. They entertain, educate, and often give insight into other people’s trials and tragedies, and their triumphs. Many I would not recommend to my youngest—yet, but others we’ve already shared. I can still remember reading To Kill a Mockingbird when I was a teenager. I couldn’t fathom racism because I lived in a nearly all white community in Rhode Island, but I was able to recognize it for what it was when I joined the military and saw how some people treated others, and I believe it made me a bit more empathetic than I might have been. How could someone ban that book? I’ll never understand.

Why am I so adamant about banning book banning? Well, just this week I learned that a California school is tossing out all Christian themed books and books by Christian authors. The school superintendent who mandated the removal said the school would  “not allow sectarian materials on our state-authorized lending shelves.”

Included in that list of literature that is now denied to their students would be Holocaust survivor, Corrie Ten Boom’s The Hiding Place, C.S. Lewis’ Narnia series, and technically, I guess, Tolkein’s Lord of the Rings series as well. How about the writings of Rev Martin Luther King Jr? Was he not a Christian? What a dangerous, slippery slope we’re on if this is allowed to continue.

The upside of this recent insanity, for me anyway, is that although my book in progress would be banned at this school without even being read, it would put me on a list with C.S. Lewis, Tolkein, and Corrie Ten Boom—I cannot imagine a greater honor!

 

(Note for busy parents: If you cannot keep up with your child’s reading, there are apps and websites that will check books for appropriateness and even tell you about specific words or scenes to expect and their context. I recommend Plugged In, at http://www.pluggedin.com)

 

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Writing Tips about Readers: One is Enough to Get You Started

19 Sep
Stephen King's On Writing

Good place to start a writing journey

Today’s blog is inspired by Stephen King, and an unknown reader.

I’ve just finished reading a book that I recommend to anyone who writes or wants to, whether for a living or just for the simple pleasure of putting words on the page.

It’s Stephen King’s On Writing; A Memoir of the Craft.

Author’s Note: Let me make it clear here, I tend to avoid Stephen King books because I have an imagination that cannot relinquish images once they flash before my mind’s eye. (The Green Mile’s John Coffey is as real to me as any person I’ve ever met; he scares me, and he’s one of the good guys.)  However, I appreciate good writing and admire King’s work because he can create those vivid images, and in a way that seems effortless. In fact, if he weren’t such a phenomenal writer, I wouldn’t have to avoid his work—how’s that for a back-handed compliment?

But this book is different. It’s a beautiful depiction of writing as a passion that, once it grabs you, simply must be acknowledged and satisfied. King’s memoir weaves stories of his personal journey with bits of advice and encouragement to writers and examples of beautiful prose in a way that would have inspired me to quit my day job if I hadn’t already. He makes me appreciate anew the joy of writing for writing’s sake.

And as a bonus, from the pages of King’s beautifully written narrative, I’ve picked up two valuable bits of advice that I’m incorporating into my life right away.

The first is that to write, one must read. If Stephen King says so, it must be so.

All I can say is, YAY!

(If there were a way to make that look happier without one of those flashy neon “marching ants” borders, I’d do it; it’s just that cool. But for now, “Yay!” will have to suffice).

So, in the Portrait Writer’s world, reading is now a sanctioned, necessary part of the job. That’s like sending a kid to a candy shop for time out. To all of you back at the office who are still suffering through those annual training classes on filling out travel claims and understanding the importance of submitting form 3C with your timecard request to adjust for an unanticipated increase in traffic volume on I95, I can only say…

“Boo-ya! I’m studying Barbara Kingsolver!”

Of course, I will share my reading adventures and recommendations along the way, so you can skip right to the good stuff on your own reading list. (Life’s too short to waste time reading bad books.)

The second concept I’m adopting is to write to an ideal audience, and this epiphany couldn’t have come at a better time. I’ve learned over the past few weeks that not everyone likes everything I write (gasp!) and, if I took to heart all the advice I’ve received lately, my next blog would be a politically correct, non-offending piece of drivel. I’m grateful for every person who reads my blog, and I appreciate your feedback, particularly because it helps me see some things from different perspectives, but it won’t change my writing. In fact, I suspect that when I hit a nerve, it’s not the words that cause you to wince.

King suggests writers choose one person that they respect and know well, and write only to that person. And so I have identified my ideal reader as a young man we’ll call Fred. He’s well educated and knows who God is, but has never really read God’s love letter to mankind. He’s angry at this entity we call God and, as a matter of fact, is gathering evidence to support his claim that if God does exist, He can’t possibly care for us very much. I cannot convince Fred otherwise, but I can show him over time why I believe differently.

And by the way, Fred thinks I’m hilarious. That’s why every once in a while I have to write something silly, just to make him laugh.

Fred, I promise you that if you keep reading, I will keep writing. I wish I could promise more, but the rest is not up to me. I’m a Proverbs 16:9 girl; I’m not sure where this train is heading, but I’m glad to be along for the ride.

 

“In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps.” Pr 16:9

 

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Love Tosses Caged Sparrow Over Another Hurdle

27 Aug

I honestly believe it will never be this special again.

First, some great news…We have an agent! Her name is Diana; she read my proposal for Joe’s story and asked for the manuscript Friday. Over the weekend I went through it one last time and pronounced it finished Sunday night. I sent a hard copy to Joe and electrons to Diana; she is now working on finding the right publisher. I couldn’t say for sure whether Joe or I was more excited, but as I listened to Joe’s elation over the phone Friday, I was tickled to pieces to have witnessed it. (I do believe he did a little jig.)

Completed manuscript

One step closer to the book rack!

It was a sobering moment, Sunday night when I hit the “send” button, and with one click, transmitted more than a year’s worth of work and dreams off to an unknown world in cyberspace. I sat there staring at the “message sent” notice for a long time, contemplating the true scope of this journey, which actually began in the early 70s, sitting with my Nana in her giant four-poster bed, listening to her read from Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House in the Big Woods. I became so inspired by Laura’s storytelling gift that I knew, just knew, it was what I wanted to do for my life. I started writing with abandon, and when my English teacher, Mr. DeRobbio, said I had a gift, I positively soared. I was going to be a writer!

But I didn’t do it. Not really. I stifled the call to write, with a military career (during which I wrote as a journalist, but not for myself–yet even there I received encouragement from people I admired and still try to emulate, like Pat Gibbons, Tom Bartlett, and Ken Smith-Christmas…), and I put it aside for two wonderful children and years of busyness. All the while, I knew God was nudging me…“So, when are you going to start?”

Then He put friends in my life to nurture and encourage, each one sending me a little closer to the ledge—Susannah Johnson’s “The Artist’s Way” class pushed me to Sarah’s writing group, where she, Martha, Meredith, and Anne dared me to dream about “what if?”

One domino toppled the next. I found myself at a writers’ conference that fanned the spark into flame, and met inspiring people like Beth Pensinger and Erin Elizabeth Austin. Over the next year I was a fly on the FB wall, watching their struggles as Beth wrote and published a sweet read called, “Let Me Fall: The Love Story Between God and His Dimwitted Daughter,” and Erin inspired thousands by sharing her battles and victories over darkness and founded Broken but Priceless Ministries. I’ll never be able to express to these women how integral they’ve been in my journey, and yet we barely spoke to each other.

But I STILL didn’t listen, so God forced my hand. He sent Linda Rondeau, a fellow writer and perfect stranger. She just appeared outta’ nowhere, armed with a story about a man who went to prison for a crime he did not commit and looking for someone who might want to write it. Another domino. This led to Joe and his awesome story.

Desire, ability, a story that absolutely HAD to be told–I had no more excuses. I even had my husband’s wide-eyed, “I’m-a-bit-nervous-but-I-know-this-is-important-to-you” blessing, and two sons who were glad to see me doing what I loved. And then sweet, sweet Phanalphie, of RhueStill Inc., who didn’t even know me yet but read my writing and offered me a net to jump into, and she probably would have flown out here from Oklahoma and pushed me off if I’d asked her to.

And again, I didn’t leap off the cliff. I more or less attempted to inch my way over the rim, scraping my knees as I fumbled blindly for toeholds, and I found myself only a couple of feet down, clinging to a ledge by my fingernails, half in and half out of two vastly different worlds. It took more nudging, by many more friends. Carrie and Kevin, my best friends and confidantes from work, helped pry my fingers off the ledge by assuring me that “the gang” would be fine, and although they’d miss me, I had to leave or risk going through life not knowing. Since I left, both of them have sent me inspiring notes when I really needed them, and many others from work continue to check in. Chuck and Rebecca check in almost daily, and let me whine on their e-shoulders when things don’t quite work out the way I want them to.

I also received tremendous support from my prayer partners, Kathy, Dino, Linda, Chris, and Michele, from my neighbor Julie, and friends and family from all over like George, Heidi, Jo, and Willa.

And a book was born.

While I was writing this I thought, you probably wouldn’t want to read a bunch of names of people you don’t know, but then I realized, this isn’t about the names. You do know these people. They’re in your lives as well. You just call them something different.

The bottom line is, if there’s ANYTHING you want to do, you can do it, but not on your own. Dare to dream. Then surround yourself with positive, prayerful people, and listen to God’s nudging; remember that He put this desire in your heart in the first place.

I will write more books. Joe’s story is powerful, but it probably won’t make either of us famous. I will write better books, and more than likely a few flops. I may even receive recognition for some, although that is not my measurement of success.

But it will never be like this. This is special. This is the end of the beginning. And you helped.

Thank you.

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Lost in Dr. Who-ville: A Whole Lotta’ Baking Going On

22 Aug

There’s a stranger in my kitchen, baking cookies.

He looks a lot like my teenager, although he’s a foot taller than last year’s model.

But he’s baking cookies. For the second time this week.

There’s flour on the fridge, on the window ledge, and on the sink. There’s even some in the mixing bowl.

I wouldn’t say he can’t bake. He just doesn’t. Last Christmas the two of us made gingerbread together and I thought he was getting the hang of it. I didn’t notice until too late that he’d added a tablespoon of whole cloves instead of ground.

Mmmmmmm, crunchy…

(Before you judge him on his lack of culinary knowledge, you should know that when his mother was a teenager, she foraged through the pantry for a snack and came up with a pretty, gold-wrapped square of something called “bouillon” and popped it into her mouth. He comes by it honestly.)

Flour on the table

Now that I’ve regenerated…boy, am I hungry!

There’s flour on the stove top. He hasn’t even pre-heated the oven yet!

I guess what I’m trying to say is, of all the amazing things this talented young man enjoys and does well, baking is not a strength. Cooking, yes. He can produce a mean Chèvre/Gouda mac’n cheese with very little effort, or a satisfying one-pot meal in a Dutch oven over a campfire. But these are forgiving dishes; they can handle a little miss-handling, if you know what I mean.

Baking, however, is a calm task that requires precise measuring and very little bobbing. Those of you with teens know bouncing and sudden, unexplainable leaping comes with the territory. Unless there’s work to be done, in which case they’ve got that whole comatose thing mastered.

There’s flour on the cat.

So, why would an otherwise normal teenager be using up perfectly good summer vacation days to do something other than Skype and Minecraft?

Well apparently, tomorrow is the 912th-or-something season premiere of Dr. Who. You remember Dr. Who, right? That British program(me) about a delightfully cocky extraterrestrial who travels everywhere and everywhen for no apparent reason and always manages to arrive just in time to prevent the demise of the universe.

Frankly, I didn’t even know the show was still in production, but that gives you an idea of how far I’ve fallen behind the times—although in this case, does it really matter? (Ha! Timelord humor.)

And also, apparently, this season premiere thing is a big deal. The kind of big deal that calls for a Superbowl-type party, at which chips and dip are considered unacceptable fare, as are bacon, baked beans, and bread & butter. So, looking at the list of acceptable fare, and seeing that Fish Fingers with Custard was already taken, and TARDIS Pies (the flavor is bigger on the inside) contain some rather costly ingredients, he opted to make cookies. Big, perfectly round cookies that must be decorated with Circular Gallifreyan writing. (I refuse to look that up, on the grounds that I might learn that it is, indeed, an accepted language with its own dictionary, thesaurus, and syntax rules).

Yesterday he made a half-batch, as a test. They were quite good, and floury. That afternoon we had an appointment across town, after which we stopped for lunch.

The meal is on me, I told him, but anything extra comes out of your own money. He pulled out his wallet to check his finances and when he opened it, up wafted a puff of white flour.

“Hmm,” he said, grinning as he watched the powdery white dust settle on the car seat, the dash, and all over his lap. “How’d that get in there?”

I could only watch, incredulous, and laugh with him.

Yep, I thought. I’m pretty sure that’s my boy.

 

 

 “That’s monstrous! Vaporisation without representation is against the constitution!”      — The Doctor

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When All You Want is Just Out of Reach

7 Jul

I’m up early and ready to work. The boys are away, the house is quiet, and the kingdom is mine! It’s such a lovely morning and the office is too stuffy. I figure a little change of scenery might be productive.

The couch in the living room would be a perfect place to work today. Cozy and quiet. I could even open the windows and enjoy a little bird-house symphony while I work.

So I pile my notes together, a couple of reference books, my laptop, its cord, the mouse and pad, and a bag of pumpkin seeds (brain food). I maneuver the stairs with my towering encumbrance like a tightrope walker, poking tentatively ahead of each step with my toe in search of the cat. I can’t see him but I know he’s there, trying to guide me by stepping wherever my next foot is about to land. For once, I don’t trip on him. It’s going to be a great day.

There are three available outlets around the couch. I set all my equipment on the coffee table and plug in to the outlet across the room, but it’s an uneasy arrangement. The cord is two feet off the ground and stretched taut like a limbo bar. The battery weight keeps pulling the power adapter from the computer jack, so I pull a kitchen chair around and set the battery on that. It helps, but not much. Every time I move the plug leaps out. Anyone watching me type would have thought I was wearing an imaginary straight jacket; I’m afraid to even turn my head for fear of upsetting the air molecules around me. Despite my efforts, the cord will not stay attached. I have to try a different outlet.

Not quite close enough

Just. One. More. Inch!

I plug into the outlet behind me, which requires moving all my gear to the other side of the couch to make it work. Do you prefer one side over another? I do, so it feels alien to sit here, but I make it work. Once again the cord is stretched precariously, only a few inches off the ground but this time across the entrance to the kitchen. Now that seems a bit safer, until I go to the kitchen for coffee and trip over it. Twice in the same minute. Going and returning. Both times I yank out the cord. You’d think I’d remember and not do it a third time. You don’t know me well.

Clearly, using this outlet is going to kill me, so I switch to the third outlet, which is at the other end of the couch. The cord runs safely parallel to the couch, and…almost reaches. I switch sides again, but still come up about two inches short. I bridge the gap by balancing the computer on the couch arm, which is round. By setting the mouse and pad on my knee and planting my left wrist on the edge of the keyboard as an anchor, I achieve pseudo victory. It’s an awkward position, not taught in typing class. Anyone watching would have wondered if the imaginary straight jacket might be on upside-down and backward, perhaps with one leg stuck an armhole. I manage to type and teeter my way through an entire sentence before dropping the mouse. When I lean over to retrieve it, I nearly let go of the computer.

This is ridiculous, I think. I should just go back upstairs where I belong. I stare at the outlets with pouty eyes. And stare at the outlets. And stare at the outlets.

Sometimes we stare so long we can’t see anything else but the problem. Munching pumpkin seeds brings no enlightenment; so much for brain food.

Resignedly, I start to gather my things, but I’m not about to push my luck with the cat on the stairs. I’ll sit at the kitchen table. Not as cozy, but safer anyway.

One last disdainful look back at the cozy couch stops me in my tracks. Anyone watching me would have wondered if perhaps I need a real straight jacket, as giggles overtake me.

Move. The. Couch.

Five minutes later I’m joyfully ensconced on the couch in the center of the room, typing away today’s epiphany: Sometimes you have to stop looking at the problem to find the solution.

It’s going to be a great day.

Waiting on The Call: Roping Time with a Molasses Lasso

3 Jun

I’m not good at waiting.

I remember a time early in my marriage when I was struck by a creative muse and got up around midnight to write a story that wouldn’t let me go. When it was finished, I liked it so much it made me giddy. I wanted so badly to share it that I woke my husband from a sound sleep, turned the reading lamp on to its highest setting, and pushed my story under his nose.

“Read it!”

Startled by my exuberance and the brilliant illumination, he shielded his eyes and squinted at me to determine the source of my distress. When he realized there was none, his entire body sighed with exasperation. He would have given me his incredulous face if he could have held his eyes open.

Instead, he took the pages as he rolled away from the lamp’s glaring light, and slid MY MASTERPIECE under his pillow on his way back into dreamland.

Not one to give up easily, I yanked his shoulder back so I could retrieve the captive pages and encouraged him again to take a look.

“I can’t believe you won’t support me,” I wailed.

Sensing he was somehow in the wrong, my husband struggled to sit up. He took the papers and honestly tried to focus. Instead of reading, I suspect his brain was weakly calculating the requisite number of seconds he had to sit upright before I’d believe he’d read it. He handed the papers back and mumbled, “Looks good,” before slipping away again. Never mind that they were upside-down.

I spent the rest of the night pouting.

He finally read it the next day, somewhat alert and mostly awake after a poor night’s sleep. He gave me good comments and some constructive feedback. His serious attention to the details compelled me to go back and look at it again. I realized it wasn’t as good as I’d thought the night before, and I rewrote it three or four times before I liked it again.

Since then, I’ve learned to be a bit more considerate about when to share, and to put my ego on the back burner. At least I hope I have.

However, when I took Joe’s story proposal to the writers’ conference recently, that giddy kid resurfaced. I drove down to Asheville feeling a bit like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, who just knew his teacher would like his paper about the Red Ryder carbine-action 200-shot Range Model Air Rifle with a compass in the stock so much that she would tell his parents to purchase one immediately.

My appointment with the agent was on the first day, and I approached her table with a mix of excitement and fear. I didn’t bring the giant basket of fruit as Ralphie would have, but I did almost give her that knowing wink. And I must confess, I looked around for a blackboard on which she could scrawl “A++++++!”

She took my proposal and read. For a long time. The voices in my head waged a battle of conjecture as I watched. “She loves it. She hates it. She’s read 50 others just like it today alone. I should have worked harder on the opening. She nodded! She likes it. She’s taking too long. She hates it…”

At last she looked up, smiled at me, and said, “Would you e-mail this to me?”

YES! YES! YES! Wait, what?

She didn’t ask for my manuscript, but for an electronic copy of the proposal. For a while, I was crushed. Surely, she saw the potential in Joe’s story. I’d been expecting to leave this place an agented author.

But then I remembered that long-ago late-night “reading” and found peace. I received the best possible response for a conference setting. There was no way she could give that proposal a definite assessment there, with hundreds of would-be authors clamoring for her attention. She wants to read it again, later, when she can give it serious focus. And I must wait. She said it could take two or three months for Joe’s story to reach the top of her pile. Sigh.

Calendar with the days marked off

Like sand through the hourglass…

I sincerely believe that because patience is one of the many virtues I lack, the less content I am with waiting, the longer it will take. So, I’m back at my writing desk. While I wait, I will finish the final chapter of Joe’s story and start working on my web page, to make it a more active place of business.

Instead of pining for answers, I will be thankful for how far along this book has come, and I will quote the Greek philosopher Epicurus, who said, “Do not spoil what you have by desiring what you have not; remember that what you now have was once among the things you only hoped for.”

The agent will contact me at just the right time. I will be patient, and I will remember that she did smile.

I will also keep checking behind the stereo for a package. You never know.

 

“I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord.” Psalm 27:13-14

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Memorial Day: What’s to Celebrate?

26 May

How do You Celebrate Memorial Day?

That was a trick question.

Across the country, folks are firing up those backyard barbecue grills, stocking the beer coolers, brewing sweet tea, and hunting through the garage for the horseshoes and lawn chairs. Company’s a-comin’ and it’s sure to be a day of fellowship and relaxation.

Partiers and politicians alike will make mention in their toasts and speeches of “those who died in defense of this nation” as if it’s a public service announcement. Something to check off  on their “to-do” lists for the day.

But there are also people across the land who are hurting today, for whom this day intensifies the memories of loved ones who didn’t come home. A folded flag presentation. A stone marker in Arlington or any one of the nation’s 131 veteran’s cemeteries. An empty seat at the picnic table.

It’s a little different for me. The day brings back myriad interviews I’ve been honored to have conducted with men who fought and survived. Some were such great storytellers I can still envision what they saw in battle.

I once had a conversation with Haddys B. Hixon, a true Teufelshunde (Marine Corps Devil Dog) whose memories of the fighting in Belleau Woods, France during World War I were so vivid he didn’t speak of the war until he was in his 80s. At 84 he travelled with his son back to France, where he was able to stand in the same fox hole he’d fought in all those years ago. He could still picture the Marines who had died beside him. He could recite all of their names.

Ira Hayes' grave in Arlington

It’s about people, like Ira Hayes, who, even if they didn’t die, were never the same again.

The surviving members of Edson’s Raiders used to meet annually at Quantico, until there were too few left for a reunion. I met with them many times and listened to their stories. They always made sure to tell me about Smitty. He had been wounded on Guadalcanal during heavy fighting, and they’d been forced to leave him propped against a tree so they could continue the advance, but they promised to get him on their way back. They never saw him again, and they never learned what had happened to him.

In Yuma, Arizona, I met Delbert “Sparky” Sparks, a submariner who had been captured on Mindanao in The Philippines and was forced to make the 80-mile Bataan Death march, during which more than 15,000 civilians and military personnel died from the brutal treatment by their Japanese captors. Sparky was one of only 510 prisoners in his camp who survived until they were liberated by Army Rangers. He waited more than 40 years to tell his story, and to receive his Bronze Star and POW medal. There were some parts of his story he refused to share.

History books and visits to our national battlefields and monuments have also put pictures into my head. I’ve stood at the Alamo and wondered what it must have been like for the fewer than 200 men, after holding off the first two waves of Santa Anna’s nearly 2,000 men, to watch that north wall come crashing down and know they were in their last minutes of life on this earth.

I’ve looked over the sunken road wall in Fredericksburg, Virginia, where Confederate Army Sergeant Richard Rowland Kirkland spent a long, cold December night listening as hundreds of wounded Union soldiers on the other side lay dying, crying out for help. I wondered what he thought as he leapt across that wall, armed with canteens, and tried to dole out that last measure of kindness to his Union brothers.

And I’ve read with awe, the accounts of heroes like Marine Lt John Bobo, who, while fighting in Quang Tri Province, Vietnam, had his right leg severed below the knee. Knowing he could not survive, he used his belt for a tourniquet and jammed the stump into the dirt to stem the bleeding. Then, ordering his men to safety, he laid fire at the enemy until he was overrun, but not before his men were able to safely reposition to a place from which they launched a successful attack and repelled the enemy.

LCpl Thomas Julian, USMC

High school friend, LCpl Thomas Julian, who went to Beirut Lebanon in 1983 and never returned

People, with names and faces. Selfless acts of gallantry. Pride in this nation and her ideals. Our country lives on and its people are free because of its legacy of heroes. This is not Thank a Veteran Day, although it is always appropriate to do so. This is Remember the Cost Day. When you hear the Rolling Thunder bikers parade past, consider the Prisoners of War for whom they ride. When you lift your toast to those who served, say a prayer for those who will never be the same because of what they saw, or because of their injuries. Reflect a moment about the freedoms we still enjoy, and honor the sacrifice that made them possible. Learn their stories; teach them to your children; don’t let their names fade away.

How do you celebrate Memorial Day? You don’t.

 

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Faith, Hope, and Love: Will it Land Me an Agent?

14 May

In his heart a man plans his course, but the Lord determines his steps. –Proverbs 16:9

 

It’s been a year since I attended the 2013 Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers’ Conference in Asheville, NC.

Back then, I was just a government employee who loved to write. I arrived at the conference with a fist full of short stories and an idea for a book, hoping to find someone who would, well, recognize my incredible untapped potential and launch me to stardom with a multi-book deal and million-dollar advance!

…Or at least look at my book proposal.

But there was none of that.

They liked my writing well enough, but weren’t looking for what I was peddalin’ if you know what I mean.

On the final afternoon of the conference, I sat down in a common area to take stock of the good things that had happened, and to thank the Lord for the people I’d met and the terrific classes I’d attended. I remembered, somewhat remorsefully, that I’d told God I’d let Him set my agenda and arrange my appointments. He hadn’t done a very good job, in my opinion, but I choked out a “thank you,” and contemplated skipping the closing banquet in favor of a good night’s sleep.

That’s when fellow writer Linda Rondeau sat herself down beside me and asked, “So, what do you write?”

“Personality features,” I replied.

I’m still not sure why I said that. I’d been touting myself as a writer of contemporary parables throughout the conference, although I really do enjoy writing about people. [Lesson one: Be true to yourself.]

She nearly danced with excitement, and said, “I know someone with a great story you might be interested in!”

And that’s how I first heard about Joe Tutt.

Long story short, I went to the banquet, learned all I could about his story: Good cop, framed and found guilty of a crime he didn’t commit, sentenced to prison with nefarious characters, some of whom he’d arrested during his nearly 20 years on the force.

What’s not to love?

Four weeks later I was on a plane to Naples, FL to hear his story first-hand.

Joe turned out to be quite charming, and his story was even better than the banquet-table version. I took the task and started writing immediately. Over the next few frustrating months, I tried to balance a full-time job and family PLUS writing in my “free time,” which didn’t work at all. [Lesson Two: Ya gotta sleep.]

So I quit my job and spent the rest of the year on this book, and today, as I peruse the nearly completed project, I think it’s got a shot—if I do say so myself.

Now here we are, one year later, and I’m heading back to the conference Sunday, this time as a full-time writer. I carry with me a completed proposal, business cards, “one sheets,” an elevator speech to practice, and a giant sack of hopes and dreams…and I’m frightened out of my wits.

But do you know what propels me forward?

You do.

The Portrait Writer logo

A gift from my former co-workers. Aren’t they the greatest?

Over the year, as I’ve chronicled this journey and shared my doubts and short-comings, I’ve received so much encouragement and support on FB, on my blog, and in personal emails, that I can’t imagine NOT going. From my writers’ group friends who spurred me on nearly ten years ago to get going, to the gang at the office who practically kicked me out the door (not because they wanted me gone, but because they want to see me succeed) and even designed a logo for my new business, I’ve been blessed with the best friends anyone could hope for.

I may not come back with an agent or a publisher, but regardless of my success there, I’ve learned more in this year about writing and publishing than I could ever have hoped. Writing is my calling, and I’m sticking with it. Thank you all, for helping me to take the leap.

Watch this space next week as I learn where my next steps will be heading…

 

Take THAT, Cancer! A letter of hope.

30 Apr
Cicada swarm of 2013

Remembering the cicada swarm of 2013

Call me Jim, for want of any other name.

My world came crashing down about a year ago when the cicadas swarmed, with their beady little eyes and gnashing teeth, making a noise that was so horribly loud I thought it would never stop. But it did, and they disappeared, leaving destruction in their wake. I could see it on the oak tree across the street all summer long, a constant reminder of my own condition: dead, cancerous brown tufts where there was supposed to be verdant new life.

I tried to live a normal summer, but the after-effects of my treatment was devastating. My limbs are still scarred from the abuse I suffered, and I ached in the core of my being. Some days it sapped all my energy just to keep breathing. 

By autumn, I began to shut down. I took no pleasure in the foliage across the street because I just couldn’t bring myself to feel joy. One by one, I began to drop those things that gave me my own color.

I slept through most of the winter, and through the long Spring that Refused to Come. I just couldn’t seem to get going again. As we were pounded by one snowfall after another, each bringing the cold back with it like an unwanted relative, I became certain I would never be warm again. It was almost too much to bear. I wanted God to take me. I even begged Him. I stood outside one morning with my bare, frail arms stretching upward and I made a fist as best I could in the buffeting wind and screamed,“ENOUGH!”

But He didn’t take me.

Spring blossoms, at last

Across the street, spring blossoms, at last

Instead, He gave me another spring. Today I look around at all the color across the street, and I’m amazed. The oak is green again, having sloughed off those dead branches. The cherry tree on the corner is alive with pink blossoms. Front lawns are decorated with yellow daffodils, purple hyacinths, and tulips of all colors. Bees are darting about the fragrant blooms, transporting life from one end of their world to another.

Cynically, I say to myself, it’s only temporary. The colorful blossoms will fall away, and all around will be ordinary green. It will be as if spring never happened.

Or will it? I consider the oak across the way. I remember only a few years ago when it was a frail sapling, struggling to survive. Yet each year after the spring, it is a little bit taller, stronger, and heartier. What a nice word, hearty. I let it linger on my tongue, tasting it gently, longingly.

Finally, each day is warmer than the last. I stand still in the front yard, staring up at the sun as His life-giving sap runs through my veins. I can tell that I, too, have been touched; my own color is returning. It was a long, arduous year, but I made it. And like the oak, I know I will never be the same as I was. God may, indeed, still take me before I’m ready to go, but right now I’m alive, and He is with me, so I will lift my face to the heavens and sing praises for the days I have.

I peer into the window where I can see my friend Bill resting in his chair after another round of chemo. I beckon wildly but he does not notice. I wish, as I have so often since the cicadas came, that I could speak to him, but I don’t know how.

If I could though, do you know what I would say?

I’d say, “Bill, take heart and look to the heavens. If He would bring me through all this…me, an ordinary dogwood tree, what do you suppose He’s doing in you?”

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