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.
4/26/2006
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!
12/19/2005
Being Still
I’ve been cooped up in the car for 21 hours the past two days. I hate long car trips. I can’t DO anything! My normally busy hands and feet are forced into quietness, as is my racing mind. No schedules to remember, no list of things to do.
So I sit—listening to music, reading the map, and thinking.
It’s amazing what happens when I am still. So many thoughts pop into my head, so many things I can consider. Spiritual matters, personal issues, writing ideas.
Besides prayer and pondering some of the truths the Lord has shown me lately, I came up with a new story idea (probably a short story), some ideas for my work in progress, goals for the upcoming year, and an idea for a young adult novel.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been that productive!
Maybe I need to take a long car trip a couple of times a year. Clear my head, consider new ideas, make notes. It seems to be the only time I can manage to be completely still, think uncluttered thoughts.
After a week of Christmas with my in-laws we’ll drive another two days back home. Another bout of stillness, another chance to consider. I can’t wait to see what gems come out of that journey!
So I sit—listening to music, reading the map, and thinking.
It’s amazing what happens when I am still. So many thoughts pop into my head, so many things I can consider. Spiritual matters, personal issues, writing ideas.
Besides prayer and pondering some of the truths the Lord has shown me lately, I came up with a new story idea (probably a short story), some ideas for my work in progress, goals for the upcoming year, and an idea for a young adult novel.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been that productive!
Maybe I need to take a long car trip a couple of times a year. Clear my head, consider new ideas, make notes. It seems to be the only time I can manage to be completely still, think uncluttered thoughts.
After a week of Christmas with my in-laws we’ll drive another two days back home. Another bout of stillness, another chance to consider. I can’t wait to see what gems come out of that journey!
12/14/2005
Forging Friendships
I love my writer-life. I love getting to know people via email, where a wall-flower like me can shed the inhibitions of time and place, of physical appearance and insecurity, and just be words on a page.
The first time I experienced this was over five years ago when I took a couple of writing classes on-line through UCLA extension. One woman in the class and I began corresponding regularly even after our classes ended. In fact, she introduced me to Nanowrimo (National Novel Writers Month) during which I wrote the first draft of my first novel. And I helped her slice words from an essay which later won a national contest.
I’ve come to know other writers through conferences, then kept in touch and deepened our relationships via email. And just these past couple of weeks I’ve begun a correspondence with a writer on an email loop I subscribe to who emailed me off-list concerning a post I’d made. We’ve written a little back and forth since then.
And then there is the neat relationship I’ve forged with the daughter of a teacher at my kids’ school—where the mom found out I wrote and told me her daughter did, too. I asked for her email address and plunged in—just words on a screen careening into cyberspace rather than the scary voice-to-voice or face-to-face meeting with a stranger. That was the beginning of a fun friendship. We do hope to meet face to face one of these days, but for the moment, our words suffice.
My introverted world has expanded and I love the people who populate it. Who knew that God would use a computer and an internet connection to push me into forging friendships I would have shied away from in person.
The first time I experienced this was over five years ago when I took a couple of writing classes on-line through UCLA extension. One woman in the class and I began corresponding regularly even after our classes ended. In fact, she introduced me to Nanowrimo (National Novel Writers Month) during which I wrote the first draft of my first novel. And I helped her slice words from an essay which later won a national contest.
I’ve come to know other writers through conferences, then kept in touch and deepened our relationships via email. And just these past couple of weeks I’ve begun a correspondence with a writer on an email loop I subscribe to who emailed me off-list concerning a post I’d made. We’ve written a little back and forth since then.
And then there is the neat relationship I’ve forged with the daughter of a teacher at my kids’ school—where the mom found out I wrote and told me her daughter did, too. I asked for her email address and plunged in—just words on a screen careening into cyberspace rather than the scary voice-to-voice or face-to-face meeting with a stranger. That was the beginning of a fun friendship. We do hope to meet face to face one of these days, but for the moment, our words suffice.
My introverted world has expanded and I love the people who populate it. Who knew that God would use a computer and an internet connection to push me into forging friendships I would have shied away from in person.
12/08/2005
SAHM I Am
I finished SAHM I Am by Meredith Efken as I waited for my children’s school to pop up on the “closed” list for tomorrow (a little ice in Texas goes a long way.) Anyway, it was a delightful read!
Written as a collection of emails to and from various characters all connected by a Stay-At-Home-Mothers (SAHM) email loop, this book captured the frustration and joy and mayhem of stay-at-home moms. I could so relate to the issues of preschoolers and feeling worth and getting crosswise with your husband and wanting so much to be the woman God wants you to be. I laughed through the whole book—and cried at the end.
Now, I’m not sure that in the midst of those years in my life I could have laughed through it. I might have bawled through the whole book! But with my youngest at the ripe old age of 11, I can look back and see God’s faithfulness, not only in allowing us to survive those years, but in bringing about the heart change in me that I so longed for.
SAHM I Am would be a great gift for any young mom on your Christmas list this year. I plan to give a few of them.
Written as a collection of emails to and from various characters all connected by a Stay-At-Home-Mothers (SAHM) email loop, this book captured the frustration and joy and mayhem of stay-at-home moms. I could so relate to the issues of preschoolers and feeling worth and getting crosswise with your husband and wanting so much to be the woman God wants you to be. I laughed through the whole book—and cried at the end.
Now, I’m not sure that in the midst of those years in my life I could have laughed through it. I might have bawled through the whole book! But with my youngest at the ripe old age of 11, I can look back and see God’s faithfulness, not only in allowing us to survive those years, but in bringing about the heart change in me that I so longed for.
SAHM I Am would be a great gift for any young mom on your Christmas list this year. I plan to give a few of them.
12/02/2005
Woes of a Writer-Mom
Sometime I wish someone else would be “Mom” for awhile. That someone else would keep up with the library book due dates, remember to give one child money for a project at school, fret about Christmas decorations still hidden in the attic in December, shop for groceries, figure out the logistics of getting to a birthday party.
Such are the woes of a writer-mom. It’s not just that I get weary doing the same old thing, staying on top of five schedules all at once—it’s that all of these things must take precedence over pulling words out of my brain and seeing them appear on the computer screen in front of me. Those words often require time—time that is eaten away by “motherly” duties.
Not that I don’t find joy in serving my husband and kids—I really do. In fact, that has been one of the greatest works in my heart that the Lord has done over the years. But some days I look longingly at my quiet computer and sigh. If only . . .
I know it really isn’t long now. Three and half years from now, the first chickadee will fly the coop. A mere seven and a half years (which used to seem like a lifetime and is not the blink of an eye) and they’ll all be gone. Though it won’t really be “over,” it will calm things down considerably.
Help me, Lord, not to wish away these days. Help me to enjoy them—to love and serve my family, knowing all the while that You hold onto my words, keeping them for those glorious moments when nothing else demands my attention.
Such are the woes of a writer-mom. It’s not just that I get weary doing the same old thing, staying on top of five schedules all at once—it’s that all of these things must take precedence over pulling words out of my brain and seeing them appear on the computer screen in front of me. Those words often require time—time that is eaten away by “motherly” duties.
Not that I don’t find joy in serving my husband and kids—I really do. In fact, that has been one of the greatest works in my heart that the Lord has done over the years. But some days I look longingly at my quiet computer and sigh. If only . . .
I know it really isn’t long now. Three and half years from now, the first chickadee will fly the coop. A mere seven and a half years (which used to seem like a lifetime and is not the blink of an eye) and they’ll all be gone. Though it won’t really be “over,” it will calm things down considerably.
Help me, Lord, not to wish away these days. Help me to enjoy them—to love and serve my family, knowing all the while that You hold onto my words, keeping them for those glorious moments when nothing else demands my attention.
11/29/2005
Believably Unbelievable
*My intention was to comment on my “currently reading” list, at least when I have something positive to say. I wrote this blog entry just before my computer died a couple of weeks ago and have now recovered it from the old hard drive.*
Daphne du Maurier is one of my favorite authors, one of the few I discovered AFTER seeing a movie made from her book. Rebecca, both the old Hitchcock version and the newer Masterpiece Theatre version, fascinated me. I read the book—and loved what I read. So on my many trips to the used book store, I’ve searched out her other novels.
Du Maurier is a master at first person storytelling. She draws the reader in from the first sentence with the voice of the character and the insinuations of something mysterious. I love the way history and suspense are woven together in most of her books.
I just finished The House on the Strand. The premise is kind of out there: “On vacation at an ancient manor house, a young man takes an experimental drug that transports him 600 years into the past—while leaving his body in the present.”
Can you imagine pitching that to an editor? It sounds crazy! And yet she makes it work. From page one, the reader is drawn into a past world, wondering why this modern man is in it and is he really in it and how did he get there. Interspersed between his trips to the past are snippets of his present life. Each era has its own problems. Each provides a kind of escape from the other. Each is filled with its own suspense, its own plot. And complications ensue when the worlds threaten to collide.
This book stretched the limits of my imagination. An unbelievable premise turned into a believable, enjoyable book, told by a credible first person. Books like hers inspire me to strive for a level above my current storytelling, my current level of craft. I can’t wait to find another Daphne du Maurier gem in the musty stacks of some used book sale.
Daphne du Maurier is one of my favorite authors, one of the few I discovered AFTER seeing a movie made from her book. Rebecca, both the old Hitchcock version and the newer Masterpiece Theatre version, fascinated me. I read the book—and loved what I read. So on my many trips to the used book store, I’ve searched out her other novels.
Du Maurier is a master at first person storytelling. She draws the reader in from the first sentence with the voice of the character and the insinuations of something mysterious. I love the way history and suspense are woven together in most of her books.
I just finished The House on the Strand. The premise is kind of out there: “On vacation at an ancient manor house, a young man takes an experimental drug that transports him 600 years into the past—while leaving his body in the present.”
Can you imagine pitching that to an editor? It sounds crazy! And yet she makes it work. From page one, the reader is drawn into a past world, wondering why this modern man is in it and is he really in it and how did he get there. Interspersed between his trips to the past are snippets of his present life. Each era has its own problems. Each provides a kind of escape from the other. Each is filled with its own suspense, its own plot. And complications ensue when the worlds threaten to collide.
This book stretched the limits of my imagination. An unbelievable premise turned into a believable, enjoyable book, told by a credible first person. Books like hers inspire me to strive for a level above my current storytelling, my current level of craft. I can’t wait to find another Daphne du Maurier gem in the musty stacks of some used book sale.
11/27/2005
Ready to Write
My new laptop is up and running. I’ve even recovered my old laptop’s hard drive (everything except email addresses). Thanksgiving is done. Christmas shopping is well underway.
And school reconvenes on Monday.
Ah. Music to my ears.
Although I’ve come to appreciate the time my children are not in school, by the time they go back, I’m ready. I’m ready for the familiarity of my routine, no matter how crazy. Ready to re-claim my house. Ready to settle down in the silence and write my little heart out.
My prayer has been that these past two weeks of “vacation” from working on my book (one week forced by the death of the aforementioned laptop, the other chosen to capitalize on the week off school for Thanksgiving) will make me more productive and creative when I begin again.
I hope so. At the moment, though, I can hardly remember where I left off. My characters (as I’ve heard other writers express) remain frozen in mid-stride, waiting for me to release them to finish their stories.
I can’t wait to see where they’ll take me next.
And school reconvenes on Monday.
Ah. Music to my ears.
Although I’ve come to appreciate the time my children are not in school, by the time they go back, I’m ready. I’m ready for the familiarity of my routine, no matter how crazy. Ready to re-claim my house. Ready to settle down in the silence and write my little heart out.
My prayer has been that these past two weeks of “vacation” from working on my book (one week forced by the death of the aforementioned laptop, the other chosen to capitalize on the week off school for Thanksgiving) will make me more productive and creative when I begin again.
I hope so. At the moment, though, I can hardly remember where I left off. My characters (as I’ve heard other writers express) remain frozen in mid-stride, waiting for me to release them to finish their stories.
I can’t wait to see where they’ll take me next.
11/20/2005
Recovery
Don’t you love getting a “new” something? Something fresh, unsullied, full of possibilities?
I got my new laptop this week. A fresh hard drive. A working CDRW drive. A screen that isn’t hanging on by one hinge.
It’s good. It’s exciting. But it has also been time consuming. Setting everything just the way I like it. Linking my favorite websites. Loading my essential programs. I’m ready to get back to writing now.
But I still have the issue of my old hard drive—the one with two blog entries written but not posted. The one with the pictures of our England vacation. The one with emails and email addresses I don’t know how to find again.
We are working on recovering these, retrieving information and images I hate to lose. But they haven’t reappeared yet. So I write again, losing myself in what I can do rather than freting over what I cannot. I will do a victory dance if I get my information back. But if I don’t, I must still go on, trusting that the Lord holds even this in His hand. What I need, He will supply.
In His way.
In His time.
I got my new laptop this week. A fresh hard drive. A working CDRW drive. A screen that isn’t hanging on by one hinge.
It’s good. It’s exciting. But it has also been time consuming. Setting everything just the way I like it. Linking my favorite websites. Loading my essential programs. I’m ready to get back to writing now.
But I still have the issue of my old hard drive—the one with two blog entries written but not posted. The one with the pictures of our England vacation. The one with emails and email addresses I don’t know how to find again.
We are working on recovering these, retrieving information and images I hate to lose. But they haven’t reappeared yet. So I write again, losing myself in what I can do rather than freting over what I cannot. I will do a victory dance if I get my information back. But if I don’t, I must still go on, trusting that the Lord holds even this in His hand. What I need, He will supply.
In His way.
In His time.
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