The Portrait Writer

I’m flying home from Florida, after a weekend spent talking with a charming man named Joe and his sweet wife Audrey, regarding a book we’re working on together (details soon, I promise).

Across the aisle from me in the plane’s overhead bin, is a large cardboard box filled with folders of notes, letters, and newspaper clippings that Joe entrusted to me. I can’t see it while we’re in flight, but there’s a small strip of tape peeking out from the base of the bin, and I know that’s the box. It is the only evidence I have that I’m not dreaming. I steal occasional glances to make sure it’s really there, and each time my heart skips—is this joy or fear? Perhaps a bit of both.

For some reason, I keep thinking of a day from my childhood when my mother purchased 5-cent bookmarks for me and my siblings (there were seven of us at the time). Each had a different saying and I smiled at their cleverness, as well as how aptly Mom matched them to our personalities. Impish Christopher’s said, “Smile and the whole world will wonder what you’re up to.” Steven, who was a bit on the contemplative side, received one that said, “Even if you are on the right track, you’ll get run over if you just sit there.” And even little Josephine had a sweet one that said “If the world gives you lemons, make lemonade.” (This was the 70s, before the phrase became trite.)

So, when she held one out to me I was eager to see how my persona had been captured in a corny maxim. It would no doubt highlight my sense of humor, or incredible imagination. Sadly, I was to be disappointed. Mine was the worst. It made no sense and wasn’t one bit amusing. It said, “Today is the first day of the rest of your life.” What rubbish! What was she trying to say about me? I snatched it up and disappeared into my room. I’m sure I threw it away, but I never forgot the incident, and those words clattered around in my brain for years.

It makes me giggle to think that now, 35 years later, this has become my mantra. My pastor got me thinking a few weeks ago about asking God each morning what He has in store for me, so I’ve tried to put it into practice. I wake up, thank the Lord for a new day, and ask, “So God, what are we going to do on this, the first day of the rest of my life?”

Where do we start, and where will it take us?

Regrettably, I usually don’t hang around long enough for an answer, which is why I’m often adrift and without purpose. But today, I know without a doubt what we’re going to do. And tomorrow, and just about every day after that for the next few months. We’re going to empty that box. We’re going to read, and learn, and type. We’re going to open doors, capture emotions, and light a fire in the darkness. We’re going to write! Oh, Mom, I wish you were still here so I could thank you. How did you know? Mine was the best bookmark of all!

Playin’ it cool

With three hours to kill before it’s time to pick up my teenager from a party, I could drive home and back, but that would eat up an hour. Instead, I pull out my writing bag, an oversized tote into which I could probably cram a Volkswagon if it wasn’t already filled with pens, notebooks, reference cards and other writing tools.
I head to Panera’s, where there is always a quiet corner.
Ahead of me in line is a woman pulling a suitcase on wheels with a large purse perched upon it. Unusual to see a suitcase here; we’re as far from any train or bus depot as we could be. Ever on the lookout for interesting characters for my writing, I watch for clues as she places her order and rolls her luggage noisily around the corner. What’s her story? She doesn’t appear to be homeless; she’s nicely dressed and she paid for her sandwich with a credit card.
I purchase my salad and head around the corner, where she is sitting in my favorite spot. Drat. I grab the second-best seat and dig through my giant sack for a book, which I pretend to read while I give her the once-over.
She’s about my age, and she is also reading. I stare at the suitcase, which is on the chair beside her. We are near the interstate…perhaps she’s hitch-hiking up the coast, and her most recent ride dropped her off here before heading west. No, that won’t do. Nobody hitchhikes these days.
I reach back into my bag of tricks and swap the book for a notepad. May as well record my observances. Neat brown hair, just enough makeup. Hmmm. She’s also writing. I’ll bet it’s a note to her husband, telling him what a cad he is and saying she can’t take it anymore. No, that doesn’t work either. The suitcase is too small for a life-changing escape. Besides, she wouldn’t bring it into the restaurant, would she? Perhaps it’s something too valuable to leave in the car? Perhaps it’s full of something that would melt. Like chocolate. I perk up. This woman just might be my new best friend.
She catches my stare and returns it. I feel my face flush. Have I been found out? Sheepish now, I return to my note-taking. Ice blue eyes. Questioning expression.
The heck with notes. She’s going straight into my blog. I open the bag again, this time to pull out my laptop and begin typing away. In my periphery, I notice she is rummaging in the suitcase. Pull something out already! The suspense is making me nuts.
Out comes a computer. For Pete’s sake, it’s not a suitcase at all, but an extra large briefcase. A fancy one though. I’m momentarily envious. One day I’ll work from a cool portable office like that. What a let-down. I can’t build a character around that. Too ordinary.
Still, when she gets up to refill her drink, I quickly grab my own cup and rise as well, just so I can walk by her screen. Trying to appear casual, I glance down for an eyeful. I know, it’s not nice, but curiosity has me in its grip.
She’s coming back, but I saw enough. I get my drink and sit back down to finish my writing. Today’s blog is about a woman who came to Panera for some quiet time and ends up writing about a mysterious woman sitting near her. A woman who must have an interesting story. Who may or may not be homeless. A woman who appears to be carrying all her worldly possessions in an enormous tote bag.

Charles Heilborn in New York City

This is Private Charles Heilborn, in New York City to buy a locket for his sweetheart, Rose. He gave her the locket just before deploying to Korea with the 3rd 155 Howitzer Bn, 1st Marines, and asked her to wait for him. She did, but this handsome man was not the Marine who returned to her. One afternoon in Wangu, while he was cooking tomato soup in his helmet, the camp was hit with a barrage of enemy fire. A piece of shrapnel sliced through his head. The doctors said if he’d had the helmet on he would have died. They gave him a glass eye and a metal plate, and estimated he had about 3 years to live. He proved them wrong (fortunately for me as I was born 11 years later), but it was a great sacrifice to keep living. He suffered from headaches and chronic pain until his death at age 64. However, if there’s anything his nine children would agree on, it’s that every day for the rest of his life, he’d have gladly returned to his beloved Corps and given more if they’d take him. Thank you Dad, for your sacrifice, and for raising us to love this nation, our veterans, and the freedom they fight for. You are my Memorial Day Hero.

Who’s your hero today? Tell us a story!

This week, I’m a small fish in a huge, eclectic pond. I’m meeting LOTS of writers here at the Blue Ridge Mountain Christian Writers Conference. There’s a man who is working on a parenting book, a “garden whisperer,” and even a woman with a split personality who is writing about herself. (I didn’t have the nerve to ask if herself knew about this). Anyway, I love them all, and I could listen to them talk all day because hearing writers talk about their work is inspiring and fills me with hope.
But when the other writers question me, I falter. You see, I still have trouble answering that Big Question: WHAT DO YOU WRITE?
Now, Back Home, when I tell people I’m a writer, they usually just smile and ask to see something I’ve written. Here, they already know I’m a writer, so they dig deeper…
Fiction or non-fiction?
Mostly fiction I say.
That’s not enough. Do you write suspense? Historical? Romance? Historical romance?
No, none of that.
So, speculative fiction? Contemporary? Dystopian?
Not really, I say, too cowardly to ask what a dystopian is. I write short stories about seeing God in the everyday things.
Ahh…that would be devotionals or inspirational fiction. Christian living stuff.
Well, yes, but I particularly want to tell people’s stories.
So, you’re a ghost writer.
Well no…I’m really here…
(That’s usually when they start backing away.)
So, after two days of searching for my niche and dodging the Big Question as if it were a wayward lawn dart, I’ve pretty much decided what I’m going to say the next time I’m asked. (I’ve written it on my arm so I can practice in my down time.)
I’m a contemporary, non-dystopian, but inspirational fiction writer who ghosts.
I’m going to need a longer business card.

Snip. Snip. Snip. With each pass I consider the events leading to this day. The decision to step into a strange new world. Pleading with my husband to take just the right photograph. Agonizing over the quote, its placement, spatial relationship between all the elements, colors and fonts. Fighting with Photoshop because it won’t let me add text—the program’s most basic function, and YES DEAR, I KNOW HOW TO DO IT, IT JUST WON’T! Apologizing for my outburst when I realize I was working on an 805-inch canvas instead of an 805-pixel canvas…details, details. Yes, dear, that would be 67 feet worth of details, requiring a text point size of at least 2,700 to be visible. Hitting “send” to engage the printer. Waiting a whole three days for the express shipment so they get here in time to take with me to next week’s Christian Writers’ Conference in Asheville, NC.  Trying not to look like a silly child when the truck pulls up. Snip. Snip. Snip. Two hundred and fifty Cards. I lovingly pick up each one, turn it over, and shave one-sixteenth of an inch off the side where I forgot to factor bleed space. Rookie Mistake. Still, I’m elated, because as I touch each one, I wonder, who will get this one? Will it launch a story, a relationship, or a life-long friendship? This is a most exciting time. These are my business cards. My life will never be the same. Snip. Snip. Snip.

So today I make my blogging debut. I’m terrified, not because you might not like my posts, but because I’m so technologically inept that I’m afraid I’ll click a button that sends the Stock Market into a tailspin or somehow moves the International Date Line.

So, welcome! I’m off to a slow start, but I do have two portraits up so far, with more to come. In the meantime, have a seat in my Character Closet. Just don’t sit too close to Gayle–the blonde holding a clipboard of surveys. She’s a bit needy.