Today is July 1—my self-imposed deadline to quit obsessing over moving into my house and get back to writing. It was a needed break, really. Otherwise I’d have gone crazy. I had to focus on getting moved in. But now the rest of the boxes can wait, and my novel can’t. So by writing this today—on a Saturday, a day I usually get no writing done anyway—I begin my foray back into my other life, my writing life.
I’m giddy with anticipation. I get to become reacquainted with the characters in my current work-in-progress. I get to mull over new ideas, put new words to paper, make old words sing with inspiration, honing each scene, each paragraph, each sentence.
And yet, I worry. Do I have the discipline to make some headway during the lazy days of summer? These days filled with children’s requests for friends over and trips to the pool; days unencumbered by scheduled activities, bedtimes, or alarm clocks.
Over the years, I have learned to love summer. Used to, the unstructured time sent me reeling. Now, on Monday, I begin the search for a happy medium—to accomplish tasks, both passionate and practical, while reveling in the casual schedule that allows relationships to flourish.
Can I do it? Can I relax without frittering away valuable time? This is the only answer I know: I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me.
So check back from time to time and see how I’m doing. Or better yet, use the nifty little email signup box to the right and get my new blog posts in your inbox.
And have a fabulous rest of the summer—it will be over before we know it!
7/01/2006
6/19/2006
Hiatus
I decided to take June off from writing. After all, with moving, sending my daughter on a mission trip to Ghana, and helping my parents and sister move, I knew I’d have little time. I have been diligent, even when I have wanted to hide in a closet with my laptop, my fingers itching to see words appear on my screen, my mind scraping at pieces of my work-in-progress, trying to remember details, see the next bend in the story. But I have been disciplined. I have resisted. I have rested, dadgumit!
Well, not rested exactly, but rested from writing, rested from the people in my head that clamor for me to tell their story. In the meantime my hands and feet have been busier than ever—moving boxes and furniture, organizing shelves, even wielding my power screwdriver to complete small projects! I drop into bed exhausted at night, but it’s a good exhaustion. It’s physical exhaustion more than mental (although that’s still there, too!) And it has shown me where I was lacking before—physical exercise.
I see now that some form of physical exertion in my day is no longer an option, but a necessity. I need it to think more clearly. I need it to sleep more deeply. So I’m revamping my daily routine come July, when my life kicks in again.
I guess that’s why I needed a vacation—of sorts. I just hope the combination of writing and exercise brings the excitement and energy I am envisioning!
Well, not rested exactly, but rested from writing, rested from the people in my head that clamor for me to tell their story. In the meantime my hands and feet have been busier than ever—moving boxes and furniture, organizing shelves, even wielding my power screwdriver to complete small projects! I drop into bed exhausted at night, but it’s a good exhaustion. It’s physical exhaustion more than mental (although that’s still there, too!) And it has shown me where I was lacking before—physical exercise.
I see now that some form of physical exertion in my day is no longer an option, but a necessity. I need it to think more clearly. I need it to sleep more deeply. So I’m revamping my daily routine come July, when my life kicks in again.
I guess that’s why I needed a vacation—of sorts. I just hope the combination of writing and exercise brings the excitement and energy I am envisioning!
6/02/2006
Moving Mayhem
We own two houses. Sounds decadent, doesn’t it? Actually, it’s chaotic. And nightmarish. Half of our stuff is in one house, half in the other. Can you imagine making a 20 minute journey (each way, mind you) just to do laundry (which, by the way, I do at least every other day?)
My internet is up in the new house. All my books and writing files are still ensconced in the old. My favorite chair is here. My bed is there. And the list goes on.
I don’t know how much writing will get done in the next couple of weeks, but if the old house would sell, I don’t think I’d care. Three kids. Two houses. One husband. How much more can a girl handle?
My internet is up in the new house. All my books and writing files are still ensconced in the old. My favorite chair is here. My bed is there. And the list goes on.
I don’t know how much writing will get done in the next couple of weeks, but if the old house would sell, I don’t think I’d care. Three kids. Two houses. One husband. How much more can a girl handle?
5/22/2006
Watching the Tree Limbs
I realized that I have been remiss in my book reviews because I feel so inept at them. However, an email from a friend this week let me know they come across better than I think. In fact, after reading one, she went out and bought the book! Therefore, I shall continue.
And I will begin with one very dear to my heart.
Mary DeMuth is my friend and critique partner. She is an encourager, a lover of Jesus, and a wonderful writer. After having a devotional (Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God) and a parenting book (Building the Christian Family You Never Had) published, the Lord blessed her early this year with the publication of her first love—fiction.
Watching the Tree Limbs is a haunting book about abandonment, abuse, and adoption in the family of God. In the early 1970s in rural East Texas, young Mara thinks her Aunt Elma is her aunt. After all, she lives with her, calls her “aunt,” and has the same last name. She knows her parents are dead, only one tiny memory of her mother remaining. Little does she realize the lies that have been woven together to create the fabric of her life.
When teenager General steals her innocence and requires her presence over and over again, Mara learns to keep secrets of her own. Aunt Elma’s death—which Mara views as General’s retribution over Mara forgetting their meeting time—signals the beginnings of unraveling the secrets of the past. Thrust into a strange home with a silent old man and a chatty housekeeper, Mara finds her place in the family of God and the freedom that comes from speaking the truth.
And, shhh—can you keep a secret? I’ve read the second book in this three book series and it’s even better than the first! So you’ll want to have read Watching the Tree Limbs before Wishing on Dandelions hits the shelves this fall!
And I will begin with one very dear to my heart.
Mary DeMuth is my friend and critique partner. She is an encourager, a lover of Jesus, and a wonderful writer. After having a devotional (Ordinary Mom, Extraordinary God) and a parenting book (Building the Christian Family You Never Had) published, the Lord blessed her early this year with the publication of her first love—fiction.
Watching the Tree Limbs is a haunting book about abandonment, abuse, and adoption in the family of God. In the early 1970s in rural East Texas, young Mara thinks her Aunt Elma is her aunt. After all, she lives with her, calls her “aunt,” and has the same last name. She knows her parents are dead, only one tiny memory of her mother remaining. Little does she realize the lies that have been woven together to create the fabric of her life.
When teenager General steals her innocence and requires her presence over and over again, Mara learns to keep secrets of her own. Aunt Elma’s death—which Mara views as General’s retribution over Mara forgetting their meeting time—signals the beginnings of unraveling the secrets of the past. Thrust into a strange home with a silent old man and a chatty housekeeper, Mara finds her place in the family of God and the freedom that comes from speaking the truth.
And, shhh—can you keep a secret? I’ve read the second book in this three book series and it’s even better than the first! So you’ll want to have read Watching the Tree Limbs before Wishing on Dandelions hits the shelves this fall!
5/11/2006
FPK--The Rest of the Story
Frances Parkinson Keyes’ 655 page memoir began on the day of her marriage—near the turn of the century. As she described her life on a New England farm, I knew I’d hit a gold mine. What insight into real, everyday life nearly 100 years ago! Add to that the fact that her husband was elected governor of New Hampshire, then served as U.S. Senator from that state for many years and the record of her life read like a Who’s Who in my American History books! The historian in me loved her remembrances of famous people from her interaction with them.
From a writing standpoint, I discovered she started small, and out of financial necessity. Her articles ended up in Good Housekeeping, Delineator, and other magazines for years, writing about Washington life and politics, both national and international. She traveled around the world in a time when international travel was much more difficult. She wrote amidst problems with her health, raising three boys, traveling, and maintaining a grueling Washington social life. And like a gold thread glinting in the sunlight, her faith weaves through the pages of her life.
Frances died in 1970, before the pages recalling her life ended. She only managed to record her history through the early 1930s—just as her fiction began to be published and enjoyed.
Her son summed up the last 40 years of her life in three pages. I would have loved to read Frances’ own description of those years, but that would have made a hefty volume indeed!
I loved the insight into life in other eras. I loved the brushing up against historical figures and events. I loved the picture of her as a wife and mother as well as a writer. I loved the fact that she lived before she wrote those amazing novels, created those real characters. That is the key, I think. Characters should be crafted from real life—from what people really say and do, how they act and re-act. Then they ring true. Then they become our friends.
Frances Parkinson Keyes does that in her novels. But I’m so glad she put pen to paper late in her life to let us get to know her, as well.
From a writing standpoint, I discovered she started small, and out of financial necessity. Her articles ended up in Good Housekeeping, Delineator, and other magazines for years, writing about Washington life and politics, both national and international. She traveled around the world in a time when international travel was much more difficult. She wrote amidst problems with her health, raising three boys, traveling, and maintaining a grueling Washington social life. And like a gold thread glinting in the sunlight, her faith weaves through the pages of her life.
Frances died in 1970, before the pages recalling her life ended. She only managed to record her history through the early 1930s—just as her fiction began to be published and enjoyed.
Her son summed up the last 40 years of her life in three pages. I would have loved to read Frances’ own description of those years, but that would have made a hefty volume indeed!
I loved the insight into life in other eras. I loved the brushing up against historical figures and events. I loved the picture of her as a wife and mother as well as a writer. I loved the fact that she lived before she wrote those amazing novels, created those real characters. That is the key, I think. Characters should be crafted from real life—from what people really say and do, how they act and re-act. Then they ring true. Then they become our friends.
Frances Parkinson Keyes does that in her novels. But I’m so glad she put pen to paper late in her life to let us get to know her, as well.
5/06/2006
FPK, Part Two
So I began to search for her name in my jaunts to used bookstores, seeking the elusive, out-of-print titles. I found some. Through the pages of these dusty novels I was transported to Ireland, Spain, France, New England, Washington D.C. But more importantly, I met people I will never forget.
That, for me, is the beauty to Frances Parkinson Keyes’ novels—her characters. They live and breathe. When they speak or act, it is exactly what you expect them to do, given how well you know them. They encounter difficulties. They struggle. They change. But it is their realness that strikes me. I would expect to meet them on the street someday.
Other writers create characters like this, too. But Frances’ span generations and nations and never falter in the beauty of their creation.
So I had accumulated and read several of her novels. Then we went on a weekend trip to Austin with some friends. A large used bookstore had moved to a new location. Its grand opening happened to be while we were there. We spent hours perusing the shelves for that great find. The store was as full of people as our arms were of books. We made our way toward the snaking checkout line, passing a non-fiction shelf on the way. I glanced over the titles as I passed. One spine caught my eye—navy blue with gold lettering. A very “libraryish” book. The title: All Flags Flying, Reminiscences by Frances Parkinson Keyes. In one swift motion it was off the shelf and in my hands—all 655 pages of it.
And in those pages I learned the rest of the story . . .
That, for me, is the beauty to Frances Parkinson Keyes’ novels—her characters. They live and breathe. When they speak or act, it is exactly what you expect them to do, given how well you know them. They encounter difficulties. They struggle. They change. But it is their realness that strikes me. I would expect to meet them on the street someday.
Other writers create characters like this, too. But Frances’ span generations and nations and never falter in the beauty of their creation.
So I had accumulated and read several of her novels. Then we went on a weekend trip to Austin with some friends. A large used bookstore had moved to a new location. Its grand opening happened to be while we were there. We spent hours perusing the shelves for that great find. The store was as full of people as our arms were of books. We made our way toward the snaking checkout line, passing a non-fiction shelf on the way. I glanced over the titles as I passed. One spine caught my eye—navy blue with gold lettering. A very “libraryish” book. The title: All Flags Flying, Reminiscences by Frances Parkinson Keyes. In one swift motion it was off the shelf and in my hands—all 655 pages of it.
And in those pages I learned the rest of the story . . .
5/01/2006
Frances Parkinson Keyes, part one
When I accompanied my husband on a business/pleasure weekend to New Orleans three years ago, I never imaged the buried treasure I would unearth. It came in the form of an author—one whose career spanned close to 70 years, but whose name was unfamiliar to me.
On a free afternoon, my husband and I wandered the French Quarter in search of interesting historical sites. We found a few—interesting, informative, but not soul-stirring. Then we ventured just past the main streets and came upon an antebellum-looking home with a pretty garden side yard. We walked to the front. A sign declared it the Beauregard-Keyes House and announced hourly tours. No one else was around. We ventured up the white steps to the front door.
The docent let us in and left us to wait the five minutes until the top of the hour in a front room. We saw pictures of General Beauregard from the Civil War and read the name Frances Parkinson Keyes. “Who’s that?” I whispered to my husband. He shrugged. No one else appeared and the gray-haired woman returned and introduced herself.
I remember little of the big house—the one that housed Confederate General Beauregard after the Civil War, the one with pictures and artifacts of his family of the time period surrounding the Civil War. What I remember most are the slave quarters behind the house—the ones that Frances Parkinson Keyes, a authoress from New England, claimed as her space during the winters of the 50s-70s. Artifacts from all over the world graced tables. The docent told us of Mrs. Keyes with glowing eyes, telling of her own adolescence in New Orleans, reading Mrs. Keyes’ novels set in that intriguing place. Entranced, a burning desire filled my heart to read something by this woman of such an interesting background, this author so obviously still adored by the elderly docent.
The tour ended in a gift shop, as many such tours do. But this was a gift shop with a twist—this was also a bookstore. But not just any bookstore. Here, many of Mrs. Keyes’ books had been gathered from dusty shelves and sweltering attics to be made available to a whole new generation of readers. My eyes sparkled as I read title after title from fading paper covers. I chose The Royal Box. We paid, thanked the woman and left.
Little did I know I was to discover between those pages an introduction to a woman I would have loved to call friend.
On a free afternoon, my husband and I wandered the French Quarter in search of interesting historical sites. We found a few—interesting, informative, but not soul-stirring. Then we ventured just past the main streets and came upon an antebellum-looking home with a pretty garden side yard. We walked to the front. A sign declared it the Beauregard-Keyes House and announced hourly tours. No one else was around. We ventured up the white steps to the front door.
The docent let us in and left us to wait the five minutes until the top of the hour in a front room. We saw pictures of General Beauregard from the Civil War and read the name Frances Parkinson Keyes. “Who’s that?” I whispered to my husband. He shrugged. No one else appeared and the gray-haired woman returned and introduced herself.
I remember little of the big house—the one that housed Confederate General Beauregard after the Civil War, the one with pictures and artifacts of his family of the time period surrounding the Civil War. What I remember most are the slave quarters behind the house—the ones that Frances Parkinson Keyes, a authoress from New England, claimed as her space during the winters of the 50s-70s. Artifacts from all over the world graced tables. The docent told us of Mrs. Keyes with glowing eyes, telling of her own adolescence in New Orleans, reading Mrs. Keyes’ novels set in that intriguing place. Entranced, a burning desire filled my heart to read something by this woman of such an interesting background, this author so obviously still adored by the elderly docent.
The tour ended in a gift shop, as many such tours do. But this was a gift shop with a twist—this was also a bookstore. But not just any bookstore. Here, many of Mrs. Keyes’ books had been gathered from dusty shelves and sweltering attics to be made available to a whole new generation of readers. My eyes sparkled as I read title after title from fading paper covers. I chose The Royal Box. We paid, thanked the woman and left.
Little did I know I was to discover between those pages an introduction to a woman I would have loved to call friend.
4/26/2006
Giving Glory
And when I’m doing well, help me to never seek a crown,
For my reward is giving glory to You.
---Keith Green, O Lord, You’re Beautiful
I love that verse of the song by Keith Green. It’s taken me a long time to understand that when I do well, my reward is to give glory to Him. He wants me to, I know. But that it is actually my reward, my joy to do so, is an idea that did not come naturally to me. I have always tended to brush away any accolades—after all, I didn’t want to fall into pride. But rejecting compliments is a false humility. The Lord is rewarding me, and I need to embrace it wholeheartedly.
So I am here today to claim my reward—to give great glory to Our God for His wonderful works. You see, not long ago I was wondering if this whole writing thing was something I’d made up, something I wanted, not necessarily what the Lord wanted for me. But last week He told me—no, He shouted to me. Loud and clear. “I’m in this, dear one. Keep at it.” How do I know that’s what He said? Because He used the judges of a major contest to say it. Actually, they said “Your entry in the Genesis contest is a finalist in its category.” But it amounted to the same thing.
So I am working again—frantically preparing my first ever book proposal, with my first ever serious deadline. And it feels so good. It feels good to know I’ve grown as a writer. It feels good to know that His hand was with me as I wrote.
So I am giving glory to You, Lord. They are Your characters. It’s Your story. I could never have come up with these things on my own. And You have gifted me and taught me how to put its words on paper.
And I am reveling in being able to glorify You through the process.
For my reward is giving glory to You.
---Keith Green, O Lord, You’re Beautiful
I love that verse of the song by Keith Green. It’s taken me a long time to understand that when I do well, my reward is to give glory to Him. He wants me to, I know. But that it is actually my reward, my joy to do so, is an idea that did not come naturally to me. I have always tended to brush away any accolades—after all, I didn’t want to fall into pride. But rejecting compliments is a false humility. The Lord is rewarding me, and I need to embrace it wholeheartedly.
So I am here today to claim my reward—to give great glory to Our God for His wonderful works. You see, not long ago I was wondering if this whole writing thing was something I’d made up, something I wanted, not necessarily what the Lord wanted for me. But last week He told me—no, He shouted to me. Loud and clear. “I’m in this, dear one. Keep at it.” How do I know that’s what He said? Because He used the judges of a major contest to say it. Actually, they said “Your entry in the Genesis contest is a finalist in its category.” But it amounted to the same thing.
So I am working again—frantically preparing my first ever book proposal, with my first ever serious deadline. And it feels so good. It feels good to know I’ve grown as a writer. It feels good to know that His hand was with me as I wrote.
So I am giving glory to You, Lord. They are Your characters. It’s Your story. I could never have come up with these things on my own. And You have gifted me and taught me how to put its words on paper.
And I am reveling in being able to glorify You through the process.
4/12/2006
In My Weakness
I went to my once a month writers group last night—and that was a mistake. It made me depressed, wistful, longing for the days I so recently took for granted, days in which I wrote for the majority of the time my kids were at school. It made my heart hurt and my stomach knot to hear one woman’s wonderful recounting of a recent conference where she made good contacts and had good responses to her work.
I want that again. I want to be in that place of fulfillment. Not publication, necessarily, but fulfillment, satisfaction in the doing of what I was made to do, the act of glorifying God through the sliver of His creativity He endowed to me.
So I came home last night with fingers aching. And yet I can’t do midnight writing. My eyes refuse to hold my contacts without extreme pain for more than 17 or so hours and I can’t see with my outdated, coke-bottle glasses. At least not unless something is up in my face. So I wrote longhand, ideas for a one sheet, although I still struggling with how that is the same or different from a project sheet. I summarized my three “finished” novels (is anything ever REALLY finished?), as well as my two most crystallized ideas for new works. It felt good to do a little something and yet it again made me sad, made me want to run away for a week—even two—and do just what I want to do.
But somehow I don’t think that’s what God intended with His gift. Somehow He intended me to use it in the midst of life, to show not only His creativity but His strength manifested through my weakness. Can I step back, acknowledge my frailty, my exhaustion, and yet walk forward by His power?
I don’t know yet. Right now I just feel weak.
So I packed three boxes, cleaned out my car, and hurled this question into cyberspace, a question I’m sure five bazillion other writers in the course of time have asked. Did they get an answer? They must have. Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many books.
I want that again. I want to be in that place of fulfillment. Not publication, necessarily, but fulfillment, satisfaction in the doing of what I was made to do, the act of glorifying God through the sliver of His creativity He endowed to me.
So I came home last night with fingers aching. And yet I can’t do midnight writing. My eyes refuse to hold my contacts without extreme pain for more than 17 or so hours and I can’t see with my outdated, coke-bottle glasses. At least not unless something is up in my face. So I wrote longhand, ideas for a one sheet, although I still struggling with how that is the same or different from a project sheet. I summarized my three “finished” novels (is anything ever REALLY finished?), as well as my two most crystallized ideas for new works. It felt good to do a little something and yet it again made me sad, made me want to run away for a week—even two—and do just what I want to do.
But somehow I don’t think that’s what God intended with His gift. Somehow He intended me to use it in the midst of life, to show not only His creativity but His strength manifested through my weakness. Can I step back, acknowledge my frailty, my exhaustion, and yet walk forward by His power?
I don’t know yet. Right now I just feel weak.
So I packed three boxes, cleaned out my car, and hurled this question into cyberspace, a question I’m sure five bazillion other writers in the course of time have asked. Did they get an answer? They must have. Otherwise there wouldn’t be so many books.
4/09/2006
Real Me and Writer Me
Sometimes I feel like two different people as I maneuver through life. One is the human person who laughs and cries, who loves and hurts. I’ve been this person a lot lately. We’ve been in crisis at my house. My tiny, six-week-old nephew had open heart surgery. My best friend moved from the house next door. My own house is for sale—with few showings. And I want desperately to move to the city where my kids attend school and do all their activities.
And in the midst of all this humanness—in the midst of all the crisis and emotion—I find another person popping up. The writer person. The writer person is a fascinating creature. In the midst of one recent crisis, I found the writer in me analyzing my reactions, applying them to a character in one of my stories. This is how ____ would feel; this is how she would react. The writer in me noted emotions, physical movements and manifestations, even listened to the words coming out of my own mouth. It’s a strange feeling, that—to be in a situation and yet be detached from it. But as students of human nature, writers have that tendency.
I found myself last week noting how it felt to be in a hospital, watching doctors, nurses, other patients and their families. Tonight, I found myself staring at the empty house next door, reliving the years of next-door-neighboring as well as exploring the pain of separation. I don’t do it to be masochistic. In fact, when the writer person in me takes over, there is little pain.
It isn’t conjured up, this writer person in me. I don’t have to stop and say to myself “Hey, I should take note of this.” It just happens. The writer person wrests itself away from the wrung out, emotional me, takes over of its own volition. After all, the student of human nature never stops learning—even from itself.
And in the midst of all this humanness—in the midst of all the crisis and emotion—I find another person popping up. The writer person. The writer person is a fascinating creature. In the midst of one recent crisis, I found the writer in me analyzing my reactions, applying them to a character in one of my stories. This is how ____ would feel; this is how she would react. The writer in me noted emotions, physical movements and manifestations, even listened to the words coming out of my own mouth. It’s a strange feeling, that—to be in a situation and yet be detached from it. But as students of human nature, writers have that tendency.
I found myself last week noting how it felt to be in a hospital, watching doctors, nurses, other patients and their families. Tonight, I found myself staring at the empty house next door, reliving the years of next-door-neighboring as well as exploring the pain of separation. I don’t do it to be masochistic. In fact, when the writer person in me takes over, there is little pain.
It isn’t conjured up, this writer person in me. I don’t have to stop and say to myself “Hey, I should take note of this.” It just happens. The writer person wrests itself away from the wrung out, emotional me, takes over of its own volition. After all, the student of human nature never stops learning—even from itself.
3/29/2006
Proud Parent
I watched my daughter perform on stage this weekend. For the first time. As a freshman, she won the part of Bloody Mary in her school’s production of South Pacific.
And she was great!
I sat and cried as she made the audience laugh with her antics and her “Tonkanese” accent and then SANG her songs, even after prolonged protestations to her teacher that she couldn’t sing.
I hooted and hollered at the curtain call, tears thick in my throat again. I jumped over seats trying to reach her as she came off stage, but was crowded out by others seeking to congratulate her as well. I didn’t know she could really pull it off. She didn’t know if she could really pull it off. But she did. And I was so proud.
Later that night, I wondered if God feels anything like I did. I watched my child stretch to reach a goal and then succeed, watched her work through discouragement and nay-sayers, tiredness and busyness, to attain a certain level of performance. Is that the way it is when I—a child of God—write? Does He cheer me on, eager for me to succeed? Encouraging me to keep working? Leading the ovations when everything comes together and the creative gift He has given me is played out on a stage bigger than my immediate family and close friends? More importantly, is that the way God feels when I live? When I react to people and situations in a way that glorifies Him?
I think so. I think we feel proud as parents because God made us to feel that way. He made us to understand in some tiny form what He feels for us.
I am so proud of my daughter. And I’m so thankful that God used this time to remind me that He is a my proud parent as well—in what I do, but even more importantly, in who I am while I am doing it.
And she was great!
I sat and cried as she made the audience laugh with her antics and her “Tonkanese” accent and then SANG her songs, even after prolonged protestations to her teacher that she couldn’t sing.
I hooted and hollered at the curtain call, tears thick in my throat again. I jumped over seats trying to reach her as she came off stage, but was crowded out by others seeking to congratulate her as well. I didn’t know she could really pull it off. She didn’t know if she could really pull it off. But she did. And I was so proud.
Later that night, I wondered if God feels anything like I did. I watched my child stretch to reach a goal and then succeed, watched her work through discouragement and nay-sayers, tiredness and busyness, to attain a certain level of performance. Is that the way it is when I—a child of God—write? Does He cheer me on, eager for me to succeed? Encouraging me to keep working? Leading the ovations when everything comes together and the creative gift He has given me is played out on a stage bigger than my immediate family and close friends? More importantly, is that the way God feels when I live? When I react to people and situations in a way that glorifies Him?
I think so. I think we feel proud as parents because God made us to feel that way. He made us to understand in some tiny form what He feels for us.
I am so proud of my daughter. And I’m so thankful that God used this time to remind me that He is a my proud parent as well—in what I do, but even more importantly, in who I am while I am doing it.
3/16/2006
Ah, My Old Friend
I’m a little old for a security blanket, so when life throws multiple stresses my way I reach for my security books instead.
Like comfort foods, there are some books which soothe the inner voices screaming at me that my life is out of control. So in the midst of house-selling and teenagers and school plays and multiple sports and drivers ed, I have reached once again for the familiarity of plots and words and characters I have known and loved over and over again.
I could have pulled one of many books from my shelves—Gone With The Wind, Train To Estelline, Up a Road Slowly, On the Shores of Silver Lake through These Happy Golden Years, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Wuthering Heights, Christy—you get the picture. Each of these is an old friend. I know the words so well I skim across them like a boat on a glassy lake. The characters have become close friends. And like a daily-driven road, instinct anticipates every twist and turn of the plot with ease, laying to rest the stress of my already chaotic life.
This is not escape reading, mind you. This is familiarity that breeds security and peace. These are my comfort books, employed when I reach the tipping point between coping and insanity. And I am there.
So I picked up one of my dearest friends last night—Anne of Green Gables. I intend to read her all the way through, from lonely 11-year-old to mother and grandmother. I need the impetuous young Anne, the giddy-in-love Anne, and the sorrow-tinged newlywed Anne. But most of all, at this moment, I need grown up Anne—dealing with a husband and teenagers emerging into young adults. I need a picture of life that is tinged with reality, but calm by virtue of intimacy.
Do you have any security books—books you can pick up and revisit like old friends when life becomes chaotic? I’d love to hear yours. You never know when something new will rise to the status of comfort after a read or two.
Like comfort foods, there are some books which soothe the inner voices screaming at me that my life is out of control. So in the midst of house-selling and teenagers and school plays and multiple sports and drivers ed, I have reached once again for the familiarity of plots and words and characters I have known and loved over and over again.
I could have pulled one of many books from my shelves—Gone With The Wind, Train To Estelline, Up a Road Slowly, On the Shores of Silver Lake through These Happy Golden Years, Pride and Prejudice, Emma, Sense and Sensibility, Wuthering Heights, Christy—you get the picture. Each of these is an old friend. I know the words so well I skim across them like a boat on a glassy lake. The characters have become close friends. And like a daily-driven road, instinct anticipates every twist and turn of the plot with ease, laying to rest the stress of my already chaotic life.
This is not escape reading, mind you. This is familiarity that breeds security and peace. These are my comfort books, employed when I reach the tipping point between coping and insanity. And I am there.
So I picked up one of my dearest friends last night—Anne of Green Gables. I intend to read her all the way through, from lonely 11-year-old to mother and grandmother. I need the impetuous young Anne, the giddy-in-love Anne, and the sorrow-tinged newlywed Anne. But most of all, at this moment, I need grown up Anne—dealing with a husband and teenagers emerging into young adults. I need a picture of life that is tinged with reality, but calm by virtue of intimacy.
Do you have any security books—books you can pick up and revisit like old friends when life becomes chaotic? I’d love to hear yours. You never know when something new will rise to the status of comfort after a read or two.
3/06/2006
Tech savvy
I pride myself on having learned a few things about technology. I’ve had to. My husband is content to let someone else figure out all those details, they just frustrate him. So I have learned.
In November, I bought a new laptop. In January, I began having sound issues. Sometimes I would have sound, sometimes not. Now I am a music writer. No, I don’t write music, I write well with music playing in the background. So no sound on the laptop was a bad thing for me. I lived with it, off and on, for almost six weeks. But this week I decided I’d had enough; I was going to get this fixed.
I walked into the retail store where I bought it and declared my intention to leave my baby with them to fix. They stared at me blankly. Call the manufacturer first, it’s been less than a year. They gave me the number. I took it, forced myself to smile at them, and walked out the door huffing. I knew I’d go home and spend a good hour—at the very least—on the phone with tech support. I really didn’t have time for this.
I got home, gathered laptop and telephones around me (I never have a fully charged cordless phone), and dialed. Very quickly I was speaking with a live person. Amazing. Of course he asked for all the vital stats first. Then he declared that this computer hadn’t been registered; we’d have to do that first. Fine, I said. It took all of two minutes. Then we began on the problem.
I tried to tell him up front that I’d checked everything, but we had to start at the beginning anyway.
“Please click on the sound icon and check the volume settings.”
“They are ALL turned up.”
“And the mute box is not checked?”
I rolled my eyes. “No.” I knew that much. I’d told him so. I was ready to get to the hard stuff.
“Now look at the front of the laptop, near the headphone jack.”
I tipped the laptop up.
“Huh, there’s a little dial thing there.”
“That’s a volume control as well.”
“You’re kidding.” I ran my thumb along the small wheel and opened itunes. Low and behold, I heard music, loud.
I guess I kept spinning that wheel without realizing it, turning the volume up and down and off. I was glad he couldn’t see me blush over the phone.
“It works,” I told him.
“Are you sure,” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
Once again the Proverbs prove true—pride goes before a fall. Next time I’ll claim my stupidity right up front.
In November, I bought a new laptop. In January, I began having sound issues. Sometimes I would have sound, sometimes not. Now I am a music writer. No, I don’t write music, I write well with music playing in the background. So no sound on the laptop was a bad thing for me. I lived with it, off and on, for almost six weeks. But this week I decided I’d had enough; I was going to get this fixed.
I walked into the retail store where I bought it and declared my intention to leave my baby with them to fix. They stared at me blankly. Call the manufacturer first, it’s been less than a year. They gave me the number. I took it, forced myself to smile at them, and walked out the door huffing. I knew I’d go home and spend a good hour—at the very least—on the phone with tech support. I really didn’t have time for this.
I got home, gathered laptop and telephones around me (I never have a fully charged cordless phone), and dialed. Very quickly I was speaking with a live person. Amazing. Of course he asked for all the vital stats first. Then he declared that this computer hadn’t been registered; we’d have to do that first. Fine, I said. It took all of two minutes. Then we began on the problem.
I tried to tell him up front that I’d checked everything, but we had to start at the beginning anyway.
“Please click on the sound icon and check the volume settings.”
“They are ALL turned up.”
“And the mute box is not checked?”
I rolled my eyes. “No.” I knew that much. I’d told him so. I was ready to get to the hard stuff.
“Now look at the front of the laptop, near the headphone jack.”
I tipped the laptop up.
“Huh, there’s a little dial thing there.”
“That’s a volume control as well.”
“You’re kidding.” I ran my thumb along the small wheel and opened itunes. Low and behold, I heard music, loud.
I guess I kept spinning that wheel without realizing it, turning the volume up and down and off. I was glad he couldn’t see me blush over the phone.
“It works,” I told him.
“Are you sure,” he asked.
“I’m sure.”
Once again the Proverbs prove true—pride goes before a fall. Next time I’ll claim my stupidity right up front.
2/27/2006
Biology and Me
God certainly has a sense of humor.
I am currently working on a book with my husband. But that’s not the funny part. The funny part is that the main issue in the book is scientific in nature—more specifically, it deals with biology.
I never took biology. Not in high school. Not in college. The closest I came was Life Science in 7th grade. I got a C and vowed never to take such a horrible class again. And I didn’t. With some tall talking, I convinced my high school guidance counselor that General Science and Chemistry credits would be better for me than G.S. and Biology. As a history major in college, I needed only a semester of science. What did I choose? Physics. (Football Physics with Packard, to be exact. You Baylor grads will know what I mean!)
I have done everything possible to avoid the scientific world. I’d rather delve into historical problems or wade through convoluted literature than learn specifics about the world around us. God made it and it works—that’s all I’ve wanted and needed to know. I should have known that to skirt the issue all these years was too good to be true.
So here I am, 20 years after high school graduation, muddling my way through 7th grade Life Science with my son, 9th grade Biology with my daughter, and a novel with Biological facts and theories at its heart. As much as I’ve tried to worm my way around dealing with the facts (my husband is the researcher and expert on this one), I’ve come to the point where I realize I need to know something. I’ve put it off, avoided the reality. Then yesterday at church a man handed us a DVD explaining the whole thing. Out of the blue. Well, not out of the blue totally, but without a clue as to the fact that we are writing this book. He just knew my husband had an interest in such things and wanted to share what he’d found.
So God is good. I get to watch a video instead of read humorless books on theories of the origins of life. I never imagined I’d be glad for a video filled with biological facts.
See what I mean? God has a sense of humor.
I am currently working on a book with my husband. But that’s not the funny part. The funny part is that the main issue in the book is scientific in nature—more specifically, it deals with biology.
I never took biology. Not in high school. Not in college. The closest I came was Life Science in 7th grade. I got a C and vowed never to take such a horrible class again. And I didn’t. With some tall talking, I convinced my high school guidance counselor that General Science and Chemistry credits would be better for me than G.S. and Biology. As a history major in college, I needed only a semester of science. What did I choose? Physics. (Football Physics with Packard, to be exact. You Baylor grads will know what I mean!)
I have done everything possible to avoid the scientific world. I’d rather delve into historical problems or wade through convoluted literature than learn specifics about the world around us. God made it and it works—that’s all I’ve wanted and needed to know. I should have known that to skirt the issue all these years was too good to be true.
So here I am, 20 years after high school graduation, muddling my way through 7th grade Life Science with my son, 9th grade Biology with my daughter, and a novel with Biological facts and theories at its heart. As much as I’ve tried to worm my way around dealing with the facts (my husband is the researcher and expert on this one), I’ve come to the point where I realize I need to know something. I’ve put it off, avoided the reality. Then yesterday at church a man handed us a DVD explaining the whole thing. Out of the blue. Well, not out of the blue totally, but without a clue as to the fact that we are writing this book. He just knew my husband had an interest in such things and wanted to share what he’d found.
So God is good. I get to watch a video instead of read humorless books on theories of the origins of life. I never imagined I’d be glad for a video filled with biological facts.
See what I mean? God has a sense of humor.
2/16/2006
Discipline
Discipline. I hate the word, don’t you? And I REALLY hate Hebrews 12:11: All discipline for the moment seems not to be joyful, but sorrowful; yet to those who have been trained by it, afterwards it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness.
I always think of discipline, first, as punishment. And yet as I look at the word, it is really the broader definition that applies: training expected to produce a specific character or pattern of behavior, especially training that produces moral or mental improvement. I often forget that God allows disciplines in my life to train me for improvement, not to punish me for breaking the rules.
So why is discipline on my mind? Because I realize that this selling-the-house thing is disciplining me in a way I haven’t wanted before. For the past three weeks, my house has been straight and (mostly) clean. That means my household chores are caught up. When I am at home, things are in such a state that I can actually sit down and write without feeling guilty. Without wondering if we have enough clean cereal bowls to last one more day. Without the stress of walking through the living room and cringing at the sight of “stuff” left out where it doesn’t belong. Without the mountain of laundry on Sunday night in order to have clean clothes for school Monday morning.
It isn’t fun, this keeping up with the chores, but I can see myself (and I hope my kids) being trained by it. I have learned that when my house is not in disarray, I can write more effectively, less stressfully (but obviously with more adverbs! () My training continues. When this house finally sells and we find a new one—one that will cut my daily commutes to school and school activities in half—I want to continue to walk in this new-found discipline in my house. And when that peaceful fruit of righteousness finally comes, I know my writing will flow from new depths—depths unable to be plunged without the pain of discipline.
I always think of discipline, first, as punishment. And yet as I look at the word, it is really the broader definition that applies: training expected to produce a specific character or pattern of behavior, especially training that produces moral or mental improvement. I often forget that God allows disciplines in my life to train me for improvement, not to punish me for breaking the rules.
So why is discipline on my mind? Because I realize that this selling-the-house thing is disciplining me in a way I haven’t wanted before. For the past three weeks, my house has been straight and (mostly) clean. That means my household chores are caught up. When I am at home, things are in such a state that I can actually sit down and write without feeling guilty. Without wondering if we have enough clean cereal bowls to last one more day. Without the stress of walking through the living room and cringing at the sight of “stuff” left out where it doesn’t belong. Without the mountain of laundry on Sunday night in order to have clean clothes for school Monday morning.
It isn’t fun, this keeping up with the chores, but I can see myself (and I hope my kids) being trained by it. I have learned that when my house is not in disarray, I can write more effectively, less stressfully (but obviously with more adverbs! () My training continues. When this house finally sells and we find a new one—one that will cut my daily commutes to school and school activities in half—I want to continue to walk in this new-found discipline in my house. And when that peaceful fruit of righteousness finally comes, I know my writing will flow from new depths—depths unable to be plunged without the pain of discipline.
2/06/2006
A Year Down Yonder
I love reading Young Adult novels. They are usually less stressful to me than novels geared for adults and now—in the midst of trying to keep my house clean to show—I am in need of less stressful reading! So I picked a book from my daughter’s shelf—a book I gave her, a book she hasn’t read yet.
A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck was a delightful read. In chapter 1, I thought I knew where the story was going, but Mr. Peck turned my expectations upside down.
It is 1937 and Mary Alice Dowdel’s father is out of work and her brother is planting trees out west with the WPA. Fifteen-year-old Mary Alice, a city girl from Chicago, goes to live with her grandmother in a tiny rural town. Mary Alice’s expectations are turned upside down, along with the reader’s, as she learns more about her grandmother than one week summer visits ever revealed.
The story was engaging; the writing excellent. I am looking forward to seeking out more of Mr. Peck’s work.
A Year Down Yonder by Richard Peck was a delightful read. In chapter 1, I thought I knew where the story was going, but Mr. Peck turned my expectations upside down.
It is 1937 and Mary Alice Dowdel’s father is out of work and her brother is planting trees out west with the WPA. Fifteen-year-old Mary Alice, a city girl from Chicago, goes to live with her grandmother in a tiny rural town. Mary Alice’s expectations are turned upside down, along with the reader’s, as she learns more about her grandmother than one week summer visits ever revealed.
The story was engaging; the writing excellent. I am looking forward to seeking out more of Mr. Peck’s work.
2/01/2006
Book Recommendation
If anyone out there reads this blog at all, you may have noticed on my “Currently Reading” list that I have been reading (gasp!) a NON-FICTION title. (Well, two, actually, but we’ll get to the other when I finish it—all 600ish pages.)
You may not be a first generation Christian, but chances are you know someone who is. Whether you realize it or not, they very likely struggle with issues of insecurity in their parenting—insecurity over their past, their unsaved relatives, their fear of not “doing it right.”
Building the Christian Family You Never Had by Mary DeMuth was released January 24th of this year. Mary, a fiction writer at heart, does not claim to be a parenting expert. In fact, this book is less about the nuts and bolts of parenting than it is about allowing the Lord to redeem your past and then moving forward in light of your relationship with Him.
A first-generation Christian herself, Mary speaks specifically to those who were raised in homes where Christ was not revered, glorified, or sometimes even acknowledged. With her own story woven into the words of encouragement, the conversational style reads like having coffee with a friend who has and is walking the obstacle-filled road of trying to raise Christian children without any practical understanding of what that looks like. The picture she paints within these pages are of a woman who parents from weakness and humility, running to Jesus with her hurts and insecurities and failures.
Mary’s exhortations are backed up by scripture as well as experience. And even though this book is geared toward “pioneer parents,” that is, first generation Christians who are now parents themselves, the truths she tells can apply to anyone on the journey of parenting.
You may not be a first generation Christian, but chances are you know someone who is. Whether you realize it or not, they very likely struggle with issues of insecurity in their parenting—insecurity over their past, their unsaved relatives, their fear of not “doing it right.”
Building the Christian Family You Never Had by Mary DeMuth was released January 24th of this year. Mary, a fiction writer at heart, does not claim to be a parenting expert. In fact, this book is less about the nuts and bolts of parenting than it is about allowing the Lord to redeem your past and then moving forward in light of your relationship with Him.
A first-generation Christian herself, Mary speaks specifically to those who were raised in homes where Christ was not revered, glorified, or sometimes even acknowledged. With her own story woven into the words of encouragement, the conversational style reads like having coffee with a friend who has and is walking the obstacle-filled road of trying to raise Christian children without any practical understanding of what that looks like. The picture she paints within these pages are of a woman who parents from weakness and humility, running to Jesus with her hurts and insecurities and failures.
Mary’s exhortations are backed up by scripture as well as experience. And even though this book is geared toward “pioneer parents,” that is, first generation Christians who are now parents themselves, the truths she tells can apply to anyone on the journey of parenting.
1/26/2006
In My Element
Ahhh. That’s my contented sigh you hear. For the first time in weeks I’ve had a morning at home with little else to do but write. My house is cleaner and straighter than every before, waiting for the first potential buyers to walk through the door. So I have nothing else clamoring for my attention except my characters.
They’ve been frozen in time for so long now that it took a while to get them warmed up again. But after they moved their stiff limbs, spoke with stiff mouths, things began to flow. I have missed them. Missed their quirks, their meanness and their kindness. I’ve missed knowing what happens to them, visiting with them each day, recording the events of their lives.
So my satisfied “Ahhh” comes after a morning of becoming reacquainted with old friends—and old enemies. Of transcribing the movie in my head. Of pouring out their lives on a page. Of releasing all the bottled up words in my head, letting them slip from my brain through my fingers and onto my computer screen. I am energized, enthused. And I am in my element once again.
They’ve been frozen in time for so long now that it took a while to get them warmed up again. But after they moved their stiff limbs, spoke with stiff mouths, things began to flow. I have missed them. Missed their quirks, their meanness and their kindness. I’ve missed knowing what happens to them, visiting with them each day, recording the events of their lives.
So my satisfied “Ahhh” comes after a morning of becoming reacquainted with old friends—and old enemies. Of transcribing the movie in my head. Of pouring out their lives on a page. Of releasing all the bottled up words in my head, letting them slip from my brain through my fingers and onto my computer screen. I am energized, enthused. And I am in my element once again.
1/17/2006
The Worst Room
I’ve been cleaning out rooms and closets, getting our house ready to sell. When I set upon the daunting task of the upstairs, I had to work myself up to the worst room. I began with my middle son—neat, practical. The baby boy followed—a bit of a messy, more of a pack rat (I never imaged he could accumulate so much stuff in just eleven years!) I shuddered as I entered the teenaged daughter’s room, with its closet piled waist deep. But even that, I managed.
Then I hit my study. It’s a time consuming thing to sort through stacks and stacks of paper. Blank paper. Labels. Printed words. Handwritten words.
How do you let go of something you’ve written, even if it’s been slashed by a red pen? I have a hard time doing that. I need some time before I can let go. For some things, the time had come and without a thought I could toss them away—things like others’ comments on my first novel, the one that has morphed through three re-writes and is currently undergoing a fourth. Other things, like comments on my second novel, were still too fresh, too raw to toss aside. I labeled the box and set it in the pile to go to storage, reams of paper with words that I hope to someday revise, make into something better than they are now.
I sorted and stacked, relived and recycled, until four boxes ended up in storage, one more remaining nearby for the time being. When I finished, I had a tidy room and closet and a sense of accomplishment. Not only had I completed my task, but I realized the sheer volume of work I have created over the past three years, work I never imagined I was capable of actually finishing.
So the worst is over. Just a few more days of fixing things up and sign will rise in our yard. Then I get to look for a new house, one closer to my kids’ school. One that will hopefully restore some sanity to our lives and provided more time for me to write. One with a new study—fresh and clean—ready to receive the old and inspire the new.
Then I hit my study. It’s a time consuming thing to sort through stacks and stacks of paper. Blank paper. Labels. Printed words. Handwritten words.
How do you let go of something you’ve written, even if it’s been slashed by a red pen? I have a hard time doing that. I need some time before I can let go. For some things, the time had come and without a thought I could toss them away—things like others’ comments on my first novel, the one that has morphed through three re-writes and is currently undergoing a fourth. Other things, like comments on my second novel, were still too fresh, too raw to toss aside. I labeled the box and set it in the pile to go to storage, reams of paper with words that I hope to someday revise, make into something better than they are now.
I sorted and stacked, relived and recycled, until four boxes ended up in storage, one more remaining nearby for the time being. When I finished, I had a tidy room and closet and a sense of accomplishment. Not only had I completed my task, but I realized the sheer volume of work I have created over the past three years, work I never imagined I was capable of actually finishing.
So the worst is over. Just a few more days of fixing things up and sign will rise in our yard. Then I get to look for a new house, one closer to my kids’ school. One that will hopefully restore some sanity to our lives and provided more time for me to write. One with a new study—fresh and clean—ready to receive the old and inspire the new.
1/03/2006
Evaluating 2005
I spent yesterday creating a spreadsheet to chart my writing productivity in 2005. Last year, I logged my writing tasks on a calendar beside my favorite chair. Yesterday, I plugged that mostly accurate information (including word counts for each new piece created) into the spreadsheet, inserted the SUM function and presto—my word count for the entire year.
58,501. A pittance. A spit in the wind.
Now, granted, I spent seven months revising one novel, so that doesn’t get counted in the word count total (in fact for this year I added a new column—number of pages of revision or critique so the volume is more tangible.) But considering that my first novel was 50,000 words written in less than a month, you can see why 58,500 in a year was less than noteworthy.
On the other hand, it was quite a successful year all around. I came out around $50 in the black (not counting the cost of a writing conference). I sold two pieces and had two others published without payment. I sent tons more queries and contest entries than past years. And I critiqued two entire novels for friends.
This year my goal is to fill in more of the blank spaces on my spreadsheet, to write even little bits, such as this blog, on a more consistent basis. My plate this year is full of house selling and house hunting and moving, kids’ sporting events, library volunteer hours, friendships, and family. But maybe with more demands on my time, I’ll actually get more done.
At least now I have a tangible tool to hold me accountable!
58,501. A pittance. A spit in the wind.
Now, granted, I spent seven months revising one novel, so that doesn’t get counted in the word count total (in fact for this year I added a new column—number of pages of revision or critique so the volume is more tangible.) But considering that my first novel was 50,000 words written in less than a month, you can see why 58,500 in a year was less than noteworthy.
On the other hand, it was quite a successful year all around. I came out around $50 in the black (not counting the cost of a writing conference). I sold two pieces and had two others published without payment. I sent tons more queries and contest entries than past years. And I critiqued two entire novels for friends.
This year my goal is to fill in more of the blank spaces on my spreadsheet, to write even little bits, such as this blog, on a more consistent basis. My plate this year is full of house selling and house hunting and moving, kids’ sporting events, library volunteer hours, friendships, and family. But maybe with more demands on my time, I’ll actually get more done.
At least now I have a tangible tool to hold me accountable!
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