My Writing Loft

Desperate Situations: WL 366 (#16)

2011-11-16T18:08:00.000-06:00

Lesson 16: Put your characters in desperate situations right away.

If you read my last lesson "In Medias Res" you might be wondering how to jump into your story right in the middle of the action. It's simple: put your characters in desperate situations right away.

You can work in description as the situation unfolds, but readers stick with active scenes where characters struggle for something. Giving your reader a desperate situation to follow right away is an instant character-reader bonding technique.

Knowing that Suzie wears her blond hair in braids and blue is her favorite color hair bow isn't going to make your reader feel anything or want a deeper connection to Suzie. Giving Suzie a plight your reader can empathize with--that's the voodoo mind-capturing stuff great writers are known for.

Once you've captured us, then feel free to tell us Suzie likes blue hair bows (if you must, and if and only if it adds to your story in some way--that's a whole other post I'll share later).

Bova ( rough character drawing)

In my current fantasy novel, the first paragraph begins with Bova, a berry picker, frozen in place as a poisonous serpent curls up his leg. Bova's situation becomes more desperate as the chapter continues, and through it all description is peppered in--Bova's winged ears clapping against the side of his leathery head, for example, as he shivers. This description clearly a reaction to his situation, which makes it a logical and visual part of the story rather than an unnecessary detail.

And unnecessary details can bore your reader and take their focus off your character's desperate situation.

Tell us about one of your stories where your character is thrown into a desperate situation on page one.

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

In Medias Res: WL 366 (#15)

2011-11-15T23:28:00.005-06:00

Lesson 15: Start your story in the middle of the action.

In the literary world the Latin phrase in medias res is often used. It's translated into the middle of things, and it's a very powerful tool in the hands of a talented writer.

In it's simplest form, in medias res means to start your story in the middle of the action. In other words, don't start your story at the beginning with lengthy exposition setting the scene, describing your characters, filling in the backstory, and other telling narrative. Start where you're most likely to hook your reader--with some action.

Scene, character description, and backstory is important, but all of this can be worked in gradually and creatively in small doses rather than in one massive injection.

Most people today are not patient readers. They don't savor the words and relish the beauty of the language like they did before our society became so rushed. They bore easily, and a bored reader stops reading and tells everyone on Amazon what a great doorstop your book makes, and because of its solid binding, they were feeling generous enough to give you one-star.

If your material is written for literary academics, which there are an extremely small number of compared to the rest of the reading world, this won't apply to you. But if you are writing for a mass audience (and I hope you are thinking internationally as you write--you don't want to limit your book's market), consider starting your story in medias res.

Do you prefer books that jump right into the midst of the story, or do you prefer some lead-in?

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Your Process Must Be 'Your' Process: WL 366 (#14)

2011-11-14T00:00:00.043-06:00

Lesson 14: Your writing process must be your writing process if it's going to work for you.

Yesterday, I shared how important it is to develop a writing process. Today, you need to know that your writing process must be your writing process if you want to be successful at this writing game.

I do not believe there is a single book, mentor, instructor, or writer out there that can teach you the perfect process. Each writer will have her own individual writing process--it's never wrong as long as it works for you. I'd love to hear about your process. Here's mine for novel writing (my screenwriting process varies, but it's similar):

A sample of draft-two revisions in my novel

Step 1: Idea generation / note taking - If you're like me, you probably play with ideas and take notes for a while before you actually start writing. My idea for my Cornelius book series came to my mind around February. I didn't start writing the book until July.

Step 2: Write draft one - This is my brain dump. I write it fast and furious. I don't worry about style, grammar, punctuation, or technique. My goal is to get the story out of my brain and into my computer's brain. Oh, and editing in any form is forbidden.

Step 3: Write character biographies / outline if necessary - Yes, you've read this right. I don't write my character biographies until after my first draft is written. I don't do outlines unless I need it to work through a difficult section. My first draft tells me where my story is going and who is going to be in it. An outline is too structured for me in novel writing, however, I have to do a very detailed outline in screenwriting (before writing the first draft).

Step 4: Write draft two (draft-one revisions)- This is where I sculpt the true shape of my story. I add in the character personality enhancements based off the profiles I wrote in step 3. I delete scenes that don't work, and I add scenes where they're needed. I shift it all around until the puzzle fits together nicely.

Step 5: Write draft three (draft-two revisions) - This is where I add my style and flavor, enhance conflict, strengthen plot lines. This is also the draft where I make my characters shine by taking their personality enhancements in step 4 and making them larger than life.

Step 6: Write draft four, five, . . . and the final - This is where I polish it. I review grammar and punctuation, and I fiddle around with it--nip it, tuck it, puff it up--until I like it.

Tell us about your writing process.

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Develop a Writing Process: WL 366 (#13)

2011-11-13T19:59:00.000-06:00

Lesson 13: Develop a writing process.

The best way to develop a writing process is to write, and write a lot. It takes time for the rough, blurry edges of your process to sharpen into full focus.

To complicate things further, the process for a short piece will be different than it is for a long piece. Fiction and nonfiction will vary. Writing a screenplay will follow a completely different process than writing a how-to article.

I wrote dozens of articles, short stories, and poems and three novels (Okay, we're being honest here, right? Make that three partial novels.) without a strong, sharp process. It wasn't until I wrote my first screenplay with a writing partner that I discovered the beauty of a focused process.

Screenplay writing is heavily structured and formal. It reminds me of sentence diagramming but on a much larger scale--everything has its place. What you write is wholly and creatively yours, but where you write it and how you express it is wholly defined by the industry-standard screenplay format.

When you write a screenplay with a writing partner, you have to have a process that focuses you both. When we finished our screenplay and I started writing my fourth novel, I was fascinated to discover that the majority of the screenplay process translated nicely to novel writing. And it must work because we finished our screenplay in just a little over four months, and I finished the first draft of my novel in two and a half months. I'm currently on draft three, and on schedule to complete it by the end of the year so I can start agent shopping in January--I started writing my first draft in July.

There's a reason I didn't finish the first three novels--I didn't have a process. Having a process focuses me...and my writing projects.

Do you have a writing process?

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson, which will include my writing process.

Join a Writers' Group: WL 366 (#12)

2011-11-12T00:00:00.028-06:00


Living Writers Collective - Fall Feast 2011

Lesson 12: Join a writers' group and attend regularly.

A good writers' group will support your writing addiction. They won't try to hold interventions like all those outsiders (non-writers) who think you've somehow fried your brain with all this writing nonsense.

A good writers' group will encourage your writing strengths while providing helpful critiques of your writing weaknesses.

A good writers' group will grumble when you grumble, fret when you fret, and curse when you curse over that undeserved rejection letter, and the one before it, and the one before that one, . . .

A good writers' group will rejoice, do the chest bump, and dance a little jig with you when you sell a piece, finish your novel, land a writing gig, or get accepted into your dream MFA program. Of course, they'll be green and seething on the inside, and they'll probably go home and kill off the character they named after you, but then they'll happily raise a glass, or ten, to your success.

A good writers' group sees your manic depression and raises you a pseudo-schizophrenia and a bimonthly acute anxiety attack, which usually coincides with the enhanced conflict scenes in each writer's WIP.

A good writers' group will inspire you, motivate you, educate you . . . fuel your writing engine, churn your writing desires, feed your writing passion.

A good writers' group is filled with people who will become some of your coolest and closest friends.

A good writers' group will give you a place to escape the real world and feel normal for a while.

This is my good--no, amazing--writers' group. Do you have one?

Living Writers Collective - Fall Feast 2011 (being our crazy writer selves)

LWC - Fall Feast 2010 (being our crazy writer selves)

Visit www.livingwriterscollective.blogspot.com for more information about Living Writers Collective.

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

The Fast and Furious First Draft: WL 366 (#11)

2011-11-11T11:06:00.001-06:00

Lesson 11: Use a fast and furious approach when writing your first draft.

When you think of writing your first draft, what's the first thing that comes to mind? Is it something akin to the angelic choirs of heaven drawing you into paradise, or is it more like the demonic headbangers of hell dragging you over shards of glass as you struggle to breathe life into every word?

Most writers have an extreme like or an extreme dislike for this part of the writing process. There's rarely an in-between.

The first draft has more power over you than any other draft. Its completion clears the road for your success. It's lack of completion--that first draft that you've been on-again, off-again working on for the last ten years--well, please don't hate me, but that's a big fat fail. If you've been working on the thing for ten years, then chances are you aren't in love with your story. Finish it, or break up with it and move on.

Creating something from nothing is hard work, and that's what draft one is all about; creating a story and characters where none existed before. For me, that's the hard part. It's the place where I'm most likely to fail if I don't shift it into high gear and force the pedal to the floor.

Once I reach the first-draft finish line, I program my GPS, shift it into low gear, and set the cruise at a steady but comfortable speed. My destination now certain.

I love love love--no, lust lust lust--the revision process. Draft two, draft three, draft four--the mere mention of them is like a hot, sexy kiss that makes my toes curl. I'll share more about revision drafts in a later post--and maybe even hot, sexy kisses if I'm in the mood.

So, here's the key to the first draft: write it fast and write it furious. Don't analyze it. It's your brain dump, just get it out of your head and onto your paper. You can clean it all up and shift all the puzzle pieces around once the framework is done.

Write untamed. Write with abandon. Write uninhibited. Write rebelliously. Write uncensored. Write as if every crazy idea you have is completely plausible. No one is going to see your first draft but you, so remove every filter and race to the finish line.

Because once you reach the first-draft finish line, a victorious future awaits.

Every writer should have their own first-draft finish-line goal. If I write three hours per day, I should be able to complete the first draft of a three hundred-page manuscript in three months or less (my first-draft theory of threes). What's your finish-line goal?

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Create a Friendly Writing Space: WL 366 (#10)

2011-11-10T00:00:00.069-06:00

Lesson 10: Create a friendly writing space.

There are two things you are going to want (notice I didn't say need) when you decide to get serious about writing. One is a dedicated workspace. The other is a clean, clutter-free workspace.

Why can't I just park it anywhere--like at the folding table in the laundry room with twenty years of dusty newspapers stacked next to it and the kitty litter box underneath?

You certainly can write above the kitty litter box if you don't mind getting soiled sand between your toes, but if you have the ability to do so, find a place to write where you can't be distracted.

Don't get me wrong. When I'm in the writing zone, nothing distracts me. Sometimes, though, it's hard to get in that zone, and if my office is unappealing or cluttered or dirty, there's only one thing on my mind: no wonder I can't focus on my story, look how ugly, disorganized, and gross my work space is. Why risk hindering your creative thought processes over an unfriendly work space?

Additionally, you need to make sure your work space fits your needs.

When I first decided to get serious about writing, writing on my laptop in bed wasn't going to work anymore (I actually charged my laptop on an ironing board next to my bed). So I cleared a corner of the guest room, bought a tiny desk and bookshelf, and called it my office. It worked fine for a few years. It was crowded, but it was clean.

Then last December when I got a screenwriting partner and we planned our first big project, my tiny corner wasn't big enough. Screenwriting takes a lot of space with scene boards and picture boards--you need to be able to spread out. I had to take over an entire room that would fit both of us and all of our stuff.

I still have my tiny desk because I've grown attached to it, and it fits nicely in the corner. Besides, if I had a bigger desk, it would just be more work surface to clutter and gather dust.

It's important to understand that you should never let anything defeat your writing dream. If the laundry room table with the kitty litter box beneath it is all you have, don't let that deter you. Great writers have written masterpieces in much worse conditions.

Tell us about your writing space. Does it look more like the good? . . .

The not too bad? . . .

Or the dreadfully horrid?

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Writing and the Lazy Muse: WL 366 (#9)

2011-11-09T00:00:00.010-06:00

Lesson 9: Muses are lazy--work without them when necessary.

Here's something you need to know about muses: they are the laziest presences on Planet Earth, and they love to take extended vacations. Maybe you're blessed with an energetic, productive muse, but in the real world of writing, hard-working muses are rare.

Of course, before you think I've totally lost it, remember from my last post that your muse is that internal fire that inspires you to write. But here's the problem: inspiration doesn't come easy for a lot of us. I'm lucky if my muse shows up for work on time and fully dedicated to the day's task a couple of times a month.

The serious writer who has made the decision to write every day doesn't have time to sit around and wait on her muse to show up. If he isn't making it to work on time or fully focused, that's his problem. You still have a story to write, whether your inspiration is present or not.

Never become dependent on your muse.

"A pro is someone who writes whether inspired or not, and keeps on writing." - James Scott Bell (The Art of War for Writers)

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Connect With Your Muse: WL 366 (#8)

2011-11-08T00:00:00.005-06:00

Lesson 8: Connect with your muse.

Your muse is the power that inspires you to write. It's an inner fire that burns, flickers, or fades depending on the day. Some writers use a tangible object that represents that fire--that daily feeding of inspiration.

My friend Cece has a troll. Jen has a stuffed devil horse. Alan has a picture of his granddaughter. For Frankie, it's her library card. And Eric has a wooden, featureless man. I don't know the story behind their muses, but I know they mean something to their writers.

For me, it's Grumpy. No, not the bail bond chick. Grumpy the Snow White dwarf. Grumpy tells it to me like it is. If I'm ready to give up and go take a nap after just six hundred words, all I have to do is look at Grumpy, and his face tells me exactly how he feels about that. He doesn't like nonsense, so he keeps me level headed and focused on my writing task. Sure, he can be hard to get along with at times, but a little kiss on his nose softens his demeanor, and then we can work together just fine.

Before you think we're all a bunch of wackos, consider the fact that most writers become deeply attached to their characters, and it's considered completely normal (well, normal within the admittedly eccentric world of writing). If we can become attached to our paper people, why not to a muse-representing object that inspires us to create those characters and the world in which they live?

Writing is a lonely endeavor. Certainly you can understand why a writer must connect with her muse . . . and occasionally give him a little peck on the nose.

Do you have a muse, tangible or nontangible? Tell us about it.

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Don't Stress When You Can't Write Every Day: Writer's Leap 366 (#7)

2011-11-07T00:00:00.004-06:00

Lesson 7: Don't stress when you can't write every day.

There will be times when, despite what I told you in "Write Every Day," you're going to miss a day . . . or two . . . or a week. Don't stress about it. Things happen. Life gets in the way.

The kids are going to want to go to Disney World eventually. Give into some of that guilt you've been feeling over neglecting them since you started all this writing craziness, and go to Disney World. And I speak from experience here, just leave the laptop at home because Disney isn't the kick-back-and-do-some-writing kind of vacation. You'll be lucky to get your shoes off before you collapse into your overpriced hotel room bed each night, much less have the energy to unzip your laptop bag.

Here's what you don't do when things happen: you never ever give up under the pressure of assumed defeat. You have not been defeated, you've just had a little lapse in your schedule.

Here's what you do do when things happen--come in real close, you need to hear this: write the next day. And voilà, victory is yours.

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Write Every Day: Writer's Leap 366 (#6)

2011-11-06T00:00:00.003-05:00

Lesson 6: Write every day.

If I miss a day of writing, it's that much easier to miss another day of writing . . . and another . . . and another. And when I miss even one day, the connection to my story--especially when I'm writing a lengthy project like a screenplay or a novel--becomes static.

When the movement slows, it's harder to get back into the world of my story. I have to review my character biographies to rebond with my characters. I have to skim prior chapters to refresh my memory.

The easiest way to not waste precious writing time and to keep your story real in your mind, is to create a block of writing time every day.

My most productive block of time is in the morning. If I don't get a good chunk of writing done between nine and noon, I'm likely to get no writing done because the day grabs onto me and turns my attention elsewhere. And oftentimes, if I've spent my designated three-hour block writing, I'll continue writing into the afternoon because I have a hard time stopping once I get moving.

Maybe your block of time is from nine to eleven at night. Maybe your life circumstances don't even allow you two hours--maybe it's one hour or maybe only thirty minutes a day. But whatever your circumstances, if you read my last blog post and you've decided to "Get Serious" about writing, your next step should be to dedicate time every day to the craft you love.

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Get Serious: Writer's Leap 366 (#5)

2011-11-05T01:45:00.000-05:00

Lesson 5: Get serious about becoming a writer.

Where are you on your writing journey? Just beginning? Is it a hobby? Is it a dream to someday do something more? Are you already published but backslidden?

A little over four years ago, I was a hobby writer who thought nobody but me would ever care to read the stuff came out of my twisted little brain. And to be honest, after four years of "getting serious" writing to compare it to, I think "not good" is a pretty accurate description of my writing back then. Four more years of writing experience and learning will probably provoke me to look back at today's writing and cringe over it's erroneous simplicity (we writers are odd like that).

So how do you know when you're ready to get serious about writing?

I can tell you how I knew--how I finally faced the inevitable and surrendered.

I realized it was the thing that set me on fire and the thing that cooled me in it's embrace. In the midst of the frenzied excitement of story creation, I'd lose hours of time, or I'd stress in a long drag of hours over story uncertainty. Writing released me at the same time it consumed me. And God was persuading me at the same time the devil was dissuading me.

When these mental dichotomies revealed themselves to me, I knew that no other job in the world would ever be good enough again.

And I knew it was time to get serious about writing.

How about you? Are you ready to get serious about writing or are you already there?

Visit me tomorrow for another Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Scrap Paper Happens: Writer's Leap 366 (Lesson 4)

2011-11-04T00:00:00.002-05:00

Lesson 4: Write ideas the moment they come to you.

If you've done a lot of reading about writing, you've probably come across the advice to always carry a dedicated note pad and a pen so when an idea hits, you're prepared. Well, I don't know about you, writer friends, but I can barely keep track of my kids much less a dedicated note pad and pen. Not to say I haven't tried--I've had at least ten dedicated idea note pads. Most with only a page or two of notes each because at some point I lost them, and the ideas entombed there, and had to start another one.

I do, however, get ideas. And often.

What I've discovered is that in the general routine of daily life, scrap paper just happens: old receipts, envelopes, tissues (preferably not used--though I'm not above it if it's all I have), window flyers, paper towels, toilet paper, church brochures, . . . Heck, I've used my own skin in a bind.

Don't let the ideas go and assume they'll come back. Sometimes they come back, but sometimes they don't, so why take that risk? Keep pens everywhere--in the car, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, next to your bed. Do whatever you have to to get those ideas out of your brain and onto something visible.

But, Karen, you say. Last night my idea note pad was at home (see, this just proves my point about the impossibility of keeping up with the note pad), and I was at Chuck E. Cheese with the kids, and I had just cleaned out my wallet--all that I had was my VISA, my Master Charge, my Discover, and my Shell card. Come on, writer friend! Chuck E. Cheese will let you borrow a pen . . . and he has napkins, or

. . . you have skin.

Visit me tomorrow for the next Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Write Everything: Writer's Leap 366 (Lesson 3)

2011-11-03T00:00:00.001-05:00

After my last post, "Start Small, End Big," you might be saying, Shoot, Karen, I'd be happy to start small if I only knew what to write in the first place. Well it's a good thing you stopped by today because I have an answer for you.

Lesson 3: Write everything and anything.

Yes, everything . . . and anything. Are you a stay-at-home mom? Write about it. Are you a stay-at-home mom who likes to make your own soap? Write about both of those things. Are you a stay-at-home mom who likes to make your own soap and sell it at your neighborhood swingers' club (and I'm not talking playground swings here)? Write about all three of these things--though you might want to write about the neighborhood swingers' club under a pseudonym or risk losing your cub scout den-leader mom status.

Then pick up a current Writers Market Guide and search for publications that print what you write. I guarantee you there's a market for every topic I listed above and countless more. If you're good at it (cleaning toilets, selling used books online, changing brake pads, getting your children to do their homework, . . .), there's a market for it.

Maybe you're good at being imaginative and you want to write short fiction. What would make a better short story than a stay-at-home, cub scout den mom who makes soap and sells it at her neighborhood swingers' club?

So, write it all, and start submitting.

Visit me tomorrow for the next Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Start Small, End Big: Writer's Leap 366 (Lesson 2)

2011-11-02T00:00:00.011-05:00

Lesson 2: Start with small writing projects and build up to the big stuff.

McDonald's didn't start out as the world's largest chain of hamburger fast food restaurants. None of us learned algebra before we learned addition and multiplication. Babies aren't born walking. The United States of America wasn't built in a day.

And your first writing project shouldn't be a novel, screenplay, or other large writing endeavor.

Start with the small stuff--short stories, articles, journal writing, newsletters, essays, or even blogging. Build your writing skills by practicing on the smaller projects. Notice I didn't say the easier projects; smaller doesn't necessarily mean easier. Smaller projects just tend to be more manageable as you're learning.

Once you've mastered smaller pieces of writing, then write that next great novel.

Visit me tomorrow for your next Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

Your Daily Writing Bread: Writer's Leap 366 (Lesson 1)

2011-11-01T00:00:00.005-05:00

It seems fitting to start my new series, Writer's Leap 366, with one of the two most important things I've learned about writing in the past four years. I'll unveil the second in lesson 366. Yes, you really have to wait until October 31, 2012 to find out what it is. How's that for a cliffhanging hook (we'll learn more about hooks in later lessons)?

Lesson 1: Learn something new about writing every day.

A writer needs the knowledge of writing like they need bread or water or shelter. If you neglect the daily feeding of your writing brain, or if you think you've already gorged yourself and mastered all there is to know about writing, you'll starve yourself of essential writing nutrients. And like the body feeds off it's own fat and muscle when it's starving, the old writing muscles--the result of things you learned in the past--will be consumed until there is nothing left when you are in the midst of a learning famine.

Maybe the something new you learn is a review of something old. That's okay, too. Reinforcement is a powerful learning tool and a necessity in the writer's diet.

How do I learn something new about writing every day?

1. Read this blog over the next 366 days. Some of it will be reinforcement--pumping up the old writing muscles, but I hope you'll find a few new bread crumbs to nibble on while you're here.

2. The Internet is a great source. Find reputable blogs by agents, authors, or publishers, and devour them often.

3. Check out books on writing at your local library, and take a few bites of their contents each day. Okay, not real bites or the librarian will look at you funny and fine you when you return the book.

4. Go to writers' workshops or conferences, take notes, then digest the material a little at a time.

5. Join a writers' group. If you're in the Middle Tennessee area, Living Writers Collective is a great option. It's free, and it's run by yours truly and an awesome committee of dedicated members. And we love to eat--I mean really eat. Click on the link above to learn more about us.

6. And if you still hunger for more, consider enrolling in a writing education program. You can find most any to fit your needs, and most offer learn-at-home options--from a beginner course all the way to the MFA low-residency programs.

Visit me tomorrow for your next Writer's Leap 366 lesson.

A Raging Poet's Guide to Ambiguity

2011-07-16T23:30:00.005-05:00

I have no adult supervision tonight. So I'm kicking back in my loft having a glass of red wine listening to The Cure Unplugged. The whir of a box fan provides some white noise behind my favorite tunes. Life is good at the moment except my six-year-old son keeps getting out of bed, disrupting my mellow mood. But the warning of an electronics ban seems to have quelled his sleep-delaying tactics.

It's the kind of night that's perfect for writing poetry, but I'm a better raging poet than a mellow poet, so I'll save the poetry for another night. Though you'll never see it because poetry has a way of revealing too much. And those of you who know me know I'd rather streak naked across the field at the Super Bowl than bare my soul.

Poetry is raw and honest, and I can't seem to hide myself in it like I can my fiction. The poet Stellasue Lee says poetry can also be fiction. So it doesn't always have to be a purging of one's soul. You could write some fictional poetry and some true poetry and share both. Then people would always wonder is that snail trapped in the jar her, or is it just . . . a snail trapped in a jar. I think I did actually post that one a while back (here). Now you're wondering aren't you?

Do you think Stellasue could be pulling our leg (by the way, clichés are forgiven a writer when they are accompanied by a glass . . . or two of wine - I'm pretty sure I read that in The Chicago Manual of Style)? Maybe all of Stellasue's poems are her - Stellasue slicing her chest open, ripping her heart out, and holding its beating and blood-dripping form out for all to explore. It could be fiction lingers in our heads providing enough ambiguity for Stellasue to be able to pop her heart right back in and go about her life. No harm done.

We'll never know will we? But it sure makes it a lot easier for a raging poet like me to realize maybe I can hide myself in my poetry after all.

Writer friends: How about you? Would you rather streak naked at the Super Bowl or truly bare your soul for all to see? Do you hide yourself in your writing (poetry or fiction)?

Seduction and the Moody Writer

2011-07-12T00:06:00.004-05:00

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you're flying? I never just take off flying from the ground. I have to climb on top of something - a car, a building, a deck rail - anything that puts a little distance between me and the dirt. Then it's just a little leap, and off I go as my long hair dramatically flows out behind me, stroking my bare skin.

I look at the scene below - the rusted out car, the charred building, the moldy deck rail - and I am ebullient flying high above life's ugliness, and I never want to land.

Some days are just like that for a writer. Some days are absolute perfection in writing heaven. Your take-off is flawless, the wind is at your back, and you're flying so high the ugliness below has faded to nothing. It's just you and that steady, flowing pace, so you set your cruise control in a wide open sky and let your hair fly free. And your writing angels cheer your greatness with every keystroke.

Oh, yes! Those days are the ultimate in writing seduction, and a writer seduced beyond satisfaction has the power to transcend a story in unbelievable ways.

Other days, I climb up on that rusty car, take my little leap, and . . . nothing. Another little leap . . . nothing. Finally, a full blown jump - I will fly today, damn it! And, I land . . . hard, sucking back a mouthful of dirt. I spit out what I can, jump up, slap myself off, and storm right back up on top of that car, then THUD, I'm chewing dirt again.

Some days are absolute torture in writing hell. And you fight it until your writing demons slam you to the floor, have their way with you, then scrape their dagger claws over every square inch of your body. Finally defeated, you crawl into your dungeon of failure and brood over why you ever got hooked into all this writing nonsense in the first place.

What if I've written my last great line? Have I ever written a great line? What if nothing ever inspires me again? What if that thing that turns me on in the morning, and that thing that keeps me turned on at night - that sleep-depriving seduction of words - is dead? Might I shrivel up and die from passion neglect? What if I have to grow up and get a real job? Why would anyone in their sane mind want to read my crap? Who am I fooling, I'm no writer - I've obviously been faking it.

But then something happens to a writer. You wake up on a new day - maybe not the next day but a new day - and suddenly a flicker of light is there. It might not be a bonfire, but even a lit taper is confirmation that the desire still burns. And you run toward it knowing that writing still seduces you in ways of which you cannot fully and properly speak.

So you smoke your cigarette and get back to the business of writing.

Inspiration By Accident

2011-07-08T12:09:00.001-05:00

Inspiration is a tricky thing for a writer, isn't it? You can't really force feed yourself inspiration. You can't hammer through that big knotty hole in your story by simply sliding your chair back, closing your eyes, and declaring, "Okay, bring on the inspiration!" I'm sure there are some freaks of nature out there in writing wonderland who can conjure it on demand. But most of you, no doubt, are just like me - you can't will inspiration into being.

So what do you do? You live life and rely on those glorious accidental moments when inspiration whacks you so hard you think your brain might have twisted in your skull a few degrees.

Because suddenly all you can think about is that sycamore tree down on the river - the one with the open trunk so huge three people can stand inside it. Or how stinkin' high Fall Creek Falls is, and is there any scenario in which a person could survive plummeting over it? Or why you can't get Cece's favorite monster cup, the one she broke at writers' group the other night, out of your head, and discovering the answer when you reach a scene in chapter seven of your current work in progress.

Funny to think that stories live and grow through a series of accidental moments that inspired something magical in the mind of a writer.

Writer friends: What accidental moments have inspired you to create something magical?

Psst - click on "Cece's" above to read her blog - one of my favorites.

The Plot Line of Humanity

2011-03-08T18:00:00.001-06:00

I know what happens in the end. All well-read Christians know what happens in the end. There will be no fancy twists in the plot line. No tension-building conflicts that cause us to adjust our outcome predictions. No flat finales that make us wish we'd not wasted the last two thousand years watching a Jesus flick. No cliffhangers that make us wonder what really happened - did He win or didn't He? The resolution is complete and solid.

If you're a believer, it will be the happiest ending you've ever experienced because it will actually be the beginning. The story of humanity will have just been the prologue.

No.

Prologue is too strong.

It will have just been the back story (the stuff the author knows but leaves out of the real story because it's insignificant - it does nothing to further the real story or add to it).

Today I started thinking about the plot line of humanity. If you've read Daniel, Revelation, Matthew, and some other key scriptures, you already know the plot. The plot takes the problem set forth at the beginning and resolves it. What God began, He will bring to a logical and satisfying conclusion that ties up every plot line - the long and the short.

Let's go back to the beginning, but where is it exactly? Many might say Adam - God created him from dust and breathed life into him. But Adam isn't where the story begins. Adam and Eve and even Noah are the setup. It's the part of the story you have to know to get to where it all begins. It's the "Once upon a time in a village far away, there was a butcher."

But here's where this story truly begins: "Now this butcher had a fair-haired daughter who turned the head of every man in town, but only Tommy, the village vegetarian, made her cheeks blush."

Okay, got it? Good. So where does the plot line of humanity begin?

Did you say Abraham? If so, then you and I think alike. God promised Abraham descendants as numerous as the stars. It was through Abraham that God promised two great nations through his first two sons - one through Isaac (Judaism and Christianity) and one through Ishmael (Islam). And it is through the tension and conflict of those two great "nations" that our plot line of humanity takes shape.

So here's my question. If the plot line of humanity begins with Abraham...

and it plays out through the conflict among the descendants and nations of his first two sons...

and the plot takes the problem set forth in the beginning and resolves it (we know, or will know, this to be the return of Jesus)...

what happens in the showdown - that final conflict in humanity that leads to the resolution of the plot?

Do you ever wonder what process God might use to reconcile the conflict that began with Issac and Ishmael?

Do you think Abraham, Isaac, and Ishmael are the true beginning, or do you think the plot line of humanity begins somewhere else?

*To read the full story of Abraham and the promises God made to him, read Genesis 12 - 18.

Angels and Demons: My Journey to the Big Screen Part 3

2011-03-05T00:19:00.011-06:00

On my journey to the big screen, I have discovered the no-fail method to assure screenplay completion: write with a collaborator. But when my writer friend Denise asked me to be her screenwriting partner last December, I wasn't enthused. I remember that night vividly.

We were sitting in my car in the Borders parking lot, and I began spewing a list of projects I was in the middle of. Not for her ears, really, but for my own. I was trying to talk myself out of it, but with every excuse I threw out, my inner voice was giving me a solution.

"My writing program just takes so much of my time." But you only have five assignments left until you're done. "I really need to get focused on my novels." You've been working on those novels for years - will a few months really matter? "There's the writers' group - I can't neglect that." Yeah, that's five hours per month - it would be awful hard to get a screenplay done with only the 715 hours that are left (I hate it when my inner voice throws down the sarcasm).

Fifteen minutes later, Denise and I were shaking hands and discussing a start date. As I got out of the car, the demon on my left shoulder said This is doomed to fail. Why the pessimism? It's a long story, but it boils down to this: I'm a loner.

I'm a writer for goodness sake. "Must be a loner" is on my job description. And I don't just play a loner for some dramatic writer effect (like that time I started drinking coffee because that's what writers are supposed to do - read all about it here: The 40-Year-Old Coffee Virgin). I'm a living, breathing, bona fide loner. I aspire to sell great pieces of writing some day so I can climb the writers' career ladder to reclusive.

What in the world was I thinking - a writing partner? - me? - was I losing my mind?

Salvation snuck through (as salvation often does) in the form of capture. Screenwriting had snared me in the months leading up to this collaboration agreement, and I knew it was time to stop resisting. And the Obi-Wan Kenobi angel on my right shoulder said, May the writing force be with you. Now go, young writer - your destiny awaits. Forgive me. I've been writing a screenplay for the past two months - my writing seems to have naturally drifted into the dramatic. On the screen, that line would have played out beautifully. And yes, I realize I'm not a "young writer," but Obi-Wan likes to flatter me.

So here's our status (and it took us two months meeting two days a week to get here):

Our outline is done. In the screenwriting world your outline is your boards. The picture at the top is of our boards. Act 1 is the first board, act 2 is the second and third board, and act 3 is the fourth board.
Our logline (that one- or two-sentence description you read to find out what a movie is about) is done.
Our key concepts are done and set in place (opening image, catalyst, theme, turning points, midpoint, long and short plot lines, pinches, emotional shifts per scene, conflict per scene, resolution, closing image).
Our subtitle is done, and our movie poster image is roughly drawn.
Our character biographies are done.
Our character grids are done (these are at-a-glance spreadsheets that summarize our character traits)

All of the above, plus printing off each of our 50 index card scenes (identical to our board cards) for note taking, filled up a 2" binder.

And now, we're writing our first draft. If a scene focuses heaviest on a character whose biography I created, I write it. If it focuses heaviest on her character, she writes it. We're using Movie Magic, a screenwriting program that does our document formatting for us. With Movie Magic. we can link up our computers from anywhere and write together and use a microphone or chat feature to discuss while we write.

So that's where we are, my writing partner and I. Two months down, and about two to go. Our two-day per week schedule is solid. Our personalities complimentary. Each of our ideas stimulate and enhance the ideas of the other. Where I'm weak, she's strong. Where she's weak, I'm strong. We spend our work days laughing (we're writing a comedy) and feeling blessed that God put us on this journey together. I have never enjoyed writing as much as I have the past couple of months. And now I'm starting to think I'm not quite the hermit I portray myself to be.

What are your writing angels and demons telling you, and who do you tend to listen to the most?

Have you ever had a writing partner or considered collaborating?

Untamed Heart Versus Kill the Pimp: My Journey to the Big Screen Part 2

2010-12-31T00:01:00.000-06:00

As I journey on the road to the big screen, knowledge and persistence will be my driving force. A writer can never stop reading, researching, learning, submitting (even when your rejection to acceptance ratio is 25 to 1 or 250 to 1), and most of all writing.

Today I'm going to discuss researching because that's the really fun part. How do you research screenplay writing? You watch movies. Preferably in the genre you plan to write. It's nice if you have the screenplay to follow, but I'm finding, even at this beginner stage, I'm able to interpret in each movie many of the concepts I'm learning, without the screenplay in hand. And I'm picking up on concepts that I haven't yet learned but I suspect exist.

Back to genre. Currently my screenwriting partner and I are planning a romantic drama/comedy screenplay, and I've been watching movies in those genres. It's fascinating what you learn when watching a movie through a writer's focus lens instead of just for enjoyment.

I do not know if screenplay writing, like fiction prose writing, has character-driven versus plot-driven concepts, but there appears to be a distinct difference in the movies I've watched. And I'm finding that my experience in prose writing can only enhance my potential at screenplay writing.

Here's the difference. Character-driven stories will provide the viewer/reader with a deeper connection to a character. This is, for example, the untamed heart sways the untouchable heart and invokes a major transformation. It's also Frankie and Johnny (one of my new favorite movies) and Beautiful Girls.

Plot-driven stories will provide the viewer/reader with a deeper connection to some goal. This ending goal can still be love and not be character-driven. The characters can be so driven toward the plot that you don't connect deeply with the characters. This is, for example, kill the pimp to save the girl. It's also The Proposal and Sweet Home Alabama - the goals here were love, but the characters were kept at a distance from the audience. It's easier to see this when you compare it to a character-driven movie like Frankie and Johnny.

It gets more complicated when you throw in things like psychic distance and plot points or mini plots, but I'll discuss these another time.

In the hands of a truly gifted writer, both character and plot can shine, but this is rare. Think of movies like Moonstruck or When Harry Met Sally. Movies in which you felt deeply connected to the characters and dedicated to seeing them achieve their goals. In Moonstruck, I was Loretta going to the opera with Ronny. I was in the seat next to him as he lifted my hand to his lips and tenderly kissed it. At the end I was in the kitchen as Ronny proposed with the ring Loretta had just returned to his brother Johnny - all in one seamless transition. It's a beautiful thing when a screenplay results in a movie that can evoke such an emotional connection while at the same time drive toward a well-developed plot.

I'm a beginner at this. I doubt my first screenplay will be a Moonstruck. But if I had to choose which way to drive my screenplay, I'm finding that I prefer strong characters. I don't need a bold, grand, heavy plot finale as long as I can connect with vibrant characters that grow or change in some way - preferably in a way I can relate to - in a way that tells me something about myself - in a way that makes me think - in a way that strokes a weakened emotion inside me. And I'm not an easily moved person, so I know if it moves me, it will likely move most anyone. That's what I want to write. That's what I want to see on the big screen - more Frankies and Johnnys.

And if, in the process, we create a killer plot - bonus!

Writers: Here's a fun exercise. If you think you'd like to try screenwriting, pick a scene from a favorite movie, and try to recreate it on paper. Pay close attention to setting and camera work, and of course action and dialogue. Don't worry about format - just try to get it written out. If you want to see examples of format, click here or Google "screenplay format".

Why I Write

2010-12-29T00:01:00.003-06:00

In my last creative writing session, one of the members of my writers' group brought in a simple prompt, but the results made us dig deep inside our writing minds to places many of us didn't even know existed.

We were asked to spend twenty minutes writing an essay entitled "Why I Write." I'm going to share mine with you, but before you read it, think about why you write. You may even want to take twenty minutes and complete your own essay. Don't think about it, just start writing - you may be surprised at what you come up with.

My mind immediately went to a line I'd used in the past. It was a dichotomy of why I write, and I think I shared it on Facebook or maybe here in an earlier blog. From there, my essay formed.

Why I Write

I write because it helps me remember, and I write because it helps me forget. I write because it soothes me, and I write because it inflames me. I write so I can sleep at night, and I write when I can't sleep at night. I write to show my crazy side, and I write to assure people I'm sane. I write to rise above the earth, and I write to walk among it. I write to hide what's going on inside, and I write to reveal it all. I write because I want to be rich, and I write because I don't mind being poor. I write because I'm scared, and I write because I'm secure. I write because God persuades me, and I write because the devil dissuades me.

The prompt made me realize there is a piece of me in everything I write. I'm not an open book kind of person, so through my writing, I hide myself in plain sight. I don't want to tell you I'm scared, so I write about a character being chased by a dark figure. I don't want to tell you I'm discontented, so I write about a character who is trapped in a sink hole. And I don't think I'm the only writer who hides herself in her stories.

Why do you write? Are pieces of you in your stories?

My Journey to the Big Screen - Part 1

2010-12-27T22:06:00.007-06:00

Why is a writer discussing the big screen? Well, because every movie you see on the big screen existed first in the mind of a writer. And while writing a screenplay is a specialized field of writing, any writer who has mastered the art of the written word already has a head start to learning screenplay writing.

A screenplay is the script for a movie. It includes the story, set instructions, and camera work. In the end, if it sells, it is a visual representation of your written story on a really big screen that lots and lots, hopefully, of people will go see. Exciting, right?

It has become very exciting for me recently, because after the first of the year, a friend and I will be writing a screenplay together. Before you ask, no, I’m not trained at writing screenplays - yet. That would be my friend’s area of expertise. I had an introduction to screenplay writing, a few screenplay writing assignments, in my Christian Writers Guild training, but outside of that, I’ve just read a few. I have been screenplay crash coursing through a stack of screenplay media my friend gave me in hopes that I can at least use it to follow along from the theory and structure perspective.

My friend asked me to be her partner on this journey not for my screenplay experience but for my story-telling experience – the emotional impact I seem to have the ability to invoke through writing and the humor elements in some of my writing. Things that would write well into a script – dialogue, action – and connect an audience.

Writing a novel is a series of scenes. Writing a screenplay is a series of scenes. The biggest learning curve for me will be hammering and chiseling those scenes to make them fit into the formal and condensed structure of a screenplay. So I’m starting with baby steps. Scenes I know – I will start there.

See you at the movies some day, but until then, keep checking my blog to follow my screenwriting journey in 2011.

Here are some of the media I am using for my screenplay crash course:

Syd Field's Screenwriting Workshop DVD Learning Series

Screenwriter's Bible

Save the Cat! The Last Book on Screenwriting You'll Ever Need

How to Pitch and Sell Your Screenplay

Movie Magic Screenwriter Screenwriting Software Version 6

When a Fragmented Soul Screams (RVFF #15)

2010-10-20T22:44:00.006-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I write a flash fiction story (a short story you can read in a flash) using a random vocabulary word. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Torpid (TOR pid) - 1. sluggish 2. inactive 3. apathetic

When a Fragmented Soul Screams (RVFF #15)
A Chiller Edition

Trish, unable to run any farther, collapses against a wall inside the abandoned warehouse. Two rats approach and sniff her. Trish wants to scream but can’t because that thing – whatever it was – might find her. She kicks at the rats, and they scurry away.

Something sharp drags along the building’s exterior and scrapes at Trish’s sanity. Her heart should be pounding, but it’s deathly still. Why isn’t my heart beating?

The doors suddenly swing open and shut – open and shut – open and shut –. Bursts of lightning fill the dark space, and a gust of wind rips the doors from the hinges. A dark figure hovers in the opening.

Trish bolts toward the back door not noticing the second dark figure hovering in her path. She hears herself scream as she merges into its form. She struggles inside it, but her movements become torpid as if fighting quicksand. Its raspy voice stills her.

“I’m your descender, Trish. The mutilation of your soul will be less painful if you relax.”

“No! I don’t want to go with you!”

The descender laughs. “You’re dead. It’s too late to change your mind.”

Trish can no longer fight. They begin to sink through concrete floor, into cold earth – down – down –. A shock of pain, then slicing torture. Dragged through large chunks of jagged glass, her soul rips into tiny fragments – every piece scraped raw. Each fragment enters its own special chamber of eternal horrors, and Trish, feeling it all, screams. “God, save me!”

But God can’t hear her, now.

Word Count = 250 (I know. I'm over by 50)

The Waving Girl (RVFF #14)

2010-10-19T15:01:00.009-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Bastion (BAS chun) - 1. stronghold 2. fortress 3. fortified place

The Waving Girl (RVFF #14)
A Chiller Edition

It was raining as the ship ventured toward the port of Savannah. First mate Beals wondered if she’d be there. Her presence had become a bastion of comfort to Beals after the long days and nights at sea and made Savannah his favorite seaport.

As the ship neared Elba Island, Beals saw her - waving the handkerchief as usual, her collie by her side.

At the dock, Beals asked about the woman.

“The waving girl statue?” the man said. “It’s down at the park.”

“I’m not looking for a statue. I just want to know if anyone knows who that woman is out on Elba Island.”

The man laughed. “Stop pullin’ my chain, buddy. That was Florence – the waving girl. She died in the 40s. Comforted a lot of mariners like yourself back in the day, though. Sweet ol’ gal, I hear.”

Beals walked to the park that evening. He gazed at the statue in disbelief. It was her, but she’d died sixty-seven years ago.

Will she be there? Beals wondered the next morning as the ship pulled out of port. When they passed Elba Island, he saw her waving, her collie by her side. And when he waved back, he was sure he saw her smile.

Word count = 205

Note: The waving girl was a real person, who spent 40 years waving at ships going to and from the port of Savannah from her home on Elba Island. The ghost story is not true. It is simply my imagination going wild with a place (Savannah, Georgia) and a story (Florence Martus - the real waving girl) I love. You can read more about her here: Savannah's Waving Girl

Another Chance (RVFF #13)

2010-09-24T12:58:00.010-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Conciliatory (kun SIL ee uh tor ee)) - 1. making peace 2. attempting to resolve a dispute through goodwill

Another Chance (RVFF #13)
Cole slammed the phone on its cradle. The gesture offered no relief, so he grabbed it and threw it across the room. It made a small depression in the wall, cracked, and fell to the floor. His torture eased – slightly. He paced. He wanted to hit something. Her? No, he loved her. God help him, he still loved her. He tore the beaded chain she’d made him from around his neck and flung it. Beads scurried in every direction.

She’d jilted him more times than he could remember. Why was she suddenly being so conciliatory? So she could scrape through his heart one more time?

“I made a mistake,” she’d said when he questioned her about the engagement ring she was wearing the last time he saw her. Not his engagement ring, but someone else’s. Some guy he didn’t even know she’d been seeing. “He just wasn’t you, Cole. Nobody is you. I want you back.” That’s when he’d slammed the phone down.

He just couldn’t go through this again, but he knew he would. He always would for her. He loved her.

Word count = 182

Project Freedom (RVFF #12)

2010-09-22T11:41:00.003-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Profligate (PRAHF luh git) - 1. extravagantly wasteful 2. wildly immoral

Project Freedom (RVFF #12)

Looking at the group of prostitutes, Dr. Pate wondered if he’d made the right decision. The quiet one seated next to him placed her hand on his thigh and licked his ear while the others hooted vulgarities and made obscene gestures. This profligate group of women were the most violent at the prison – prostitution was the least of their crimes.

“Come sit next to me, Doc.” Cookie said. “I left my butcher knife at home. ‘Sides, I couldn’t hurt a pretty boy like you.” The group howled, while Cookie danced around them slapping high-fives.

The psychological surveys he’d brought with him suddenly seemed ridiculous in this setting, and he needed to gain control. He gazed out the window where an unintentional cross had formed along the fence line.

“Ladies.” Dr. Pate stood. “Do you want to be freed?”

The women continued to talk over him. He looked at the cross.

“Ladies! I can help you get out of your prison.”

The room became quiet, and Dr. Pate had their attention.

Word count = 170

I'm a Closet Literary Writer

2010-09-10T14:20:00.009-05:00

Of course, I didn't say I was any good at it. But I do love to write for the sounds the words and sentences make. For the comfort the rhythm instills in me as I write. For that buoyancy that makes me feel like I'm floating and flying at the same time. To blend one word to the next, one sentence to the next, one paragraph to the next, one page to the next - as if throughout all time that particular structure of words combined with my unique style of writing were always intended to be together.

And at the end of my writing journey, I've lightened something dark inside me - or maybe darkened something light - while the reader analyzes a question in a way they never thought they would.

This poses a bit of internal conlict for me because I am also a minimalist thanks to my Christian Writers Guild training. Get to the message in as few words as possible. It's memorable. It's tight. It's active. And most importantly, it keeps the reader turning pages. And when the underlying theme of your message, whether symbolic or literal, is wholly Christian, you want to keep the reader turning pages. This would be called popular fiction.

Before we move on, I found these excellent descriptions of literary and popular fiction on Shelly Thacker Meinhardt's Web page:

"There are two kinds of fiction in today's market. Literary fiction is the fiction of ideas. Its primary purpose is to evoke thought. The writer's goal is self-expression. Any consideration of the reader—if one exists at all—is purely secondary.

"Popular fiction is the fiction of emotion. Its primary purpose is to evoke feelings. The writer's goal is to entertain the reader. Any consideration of self-expression—if one exists at all—is purely secondary.

"Now, hold the hate mail. I'm not saying that you can't express yourself in a romance or mystery or science-fiction novel, or that literary fiction can't be entertaining, or that popular fiction can't be thought-provoking. We can all name novels that do it all. My point is, before you sit down to write your book—and more importantly, before you try to market it—you had better be sure exactly which kind of fiction it is you're writing."

So when you write literary fiction, you're writing for yourself, and if someone else can relate to it... well, bonus, because you might actually be able to sell it. When you write popular fiction, you're writing for your reader, and if you can relate to it... well, bonus, because you might actually enjoy writing it.

I realize it's not quite that simplistic, but I do think that those who are really great writers have an element of both the literary and the popular forms of fiction inside them. They know how to create beautiful forms of expression in a way that almost anyone can relate to. And in the process, the writer has bettered something inside themselves, and given their reader an experience they will never forget.

Here are two examples from my own writing. The first would probably be considered literary, and a popular-fiction editor would likely strip it from my story altogether telling me to get to the point, get to the action, cut the fluff. The second would be considered popular, and a literary editor would... I don't know... laugh at it's simplicity, maybe.

Literary example from: Death of a Whippoorwill (this is an excerpt from a 1,500-word story which received an honorable mention in the 2009 Silver Quill Best Short Fiction Contest)

In the distance I see the bridge and our cabin just beyond. The river rumbles outside my passenger window, oblivious to the fact that I have come here to die. If the river only knew the reason I chose this place is because of the peace that river offers, it might respond with more respect – stilling itself in honor as I pass by. The fish, if they knew, might gather along the banks in a show of appreciation that I always threw them back. The dozens of turtles I’ve moved off this tiny river road over the years might stretch their necks out of their shells and, with tears in their eyes, mouth a little prayer to thank me. But no, this river does not love me like I love it. And yet, it does. I will listen to this river’s voice in my last days, and its voice will deliver me home.

Popular example from: Going Up (this is an excerpt from a story which won 1st place in the August 2009 Christian Writers Guild Forum Armadillo Writing Contest)

After the funeral service, I sprinted to catch the train. I was happy to see two trains in the station, and by habit I knew which to board. A small man, in a pin-striped suit and wearing a Stetson, an oddly successful coordination, stood at ease in the threshold.

"Going up?” he said.

“Pardon?”

“Going up?”

I took a step back on to the platform and looked around. "Am I on the right train?”

“If you’re on this train, you’re on the right train, Ma’am. We’re going up.” He grinned and gave me two thumbs-up.

“Oh. Uptown. Yes, I am going up.” I rushed to the back of the train and found a seat. I hoped the crazy man wouldn’t sit near me when he finished tending the doors.

In the other train, I saw a crowd of people celebrating. Early afternoon seemed an odd time of day for a party. Of course, I’d just come from a funeral. Watching strangers enjoy life after I attended a funeral was discomforting.

I saw the crazy man approaching and I reached for my bag, hoping that pulling out my laptop would keep him from sitting close. Where is my bag? In a panic, I searched around my seat.

“Ma’am, are you okay?”

“Yes, I seem to have misplaced something.”

“You can’t misplace things on this train, Ma’am.”

Can you see the difference? Example two, popular, jumps right into the action and keeps it moving, omitting anything that would slow it down. And there's something strange going on that hopefully hooks the reader and makes them want to keep reading. Example one, literary, lingers for a bit, experiments with word usage to enhance a poetic sounding flow, and savors the moment (at least that's how it sounded in my head).

As I wrote the opening paragraph to Death of a Whippoorwill, I was fully writing for myself. I didn't care if anyone else liked it or not - it just felt darn good to write it. And if anyone else did read it, I hoped it would make them think, like it made me think. When I was writing the opening scene of Going Up, I was fully writing for the reader. I had a message to share, and with each sentence I wrote, I analyzed how my reader might respond. And at the end (not posted here), a big emotional punch and an unpredictable twist. I thoroughly enjoyed writing both stories.

So I guess that's what it comes down to. Enjoy what you write, and everything else will fall into place.

If you are a fiction writer, do you lean more toward literary or popular writing? Can you find both literary and popular examples in your own writing? Would you rather read literary fiction or popular fiction?

The World Series (RVFF #11)

2010-08-25T09:55:00.003-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Ebullient (ih BUL yunt) - 1. boiling 2. bubbling with excitement 3. exuberent

The World Series (RVFF #11)

Eddie scuffled toward the plate. Coach squinted into the crowd and spat. Coach looked at the loaded bases then at the scoreboard – two outs, last inning, two runs back.

Eddie was a hard hitter, but unpredictable. Coach hadn’t planned for the roars of an ebullient crowd and combined with Eddie’s timidity… Coach cringed.

Eddie knelt down, grabbed a handful of dirt, and drizzled it over his cleat.

“Hit it, Eddie! Team’s countin’ on ya.”

Eddie positioned his bat and swung.

“Strike,” the referee said, leaping over the bat flung from Eddie’s hands.

“Hold on to the bat, Eddie!” Coach said.

Eddie positioned his bat.

“Go, baby!” a voice yelled from the crowd.

Eddie’s mom – No! Coach hoped Eddie hadn’t heard her.

Eddie swung, hit, and ran – straight into the arms of his mother.

That was the day Coach decided to retire – the dream of a Pee-Wee World Series victory demolished.

Word count = 148

Fiction Today, Reality Tomorrow (RVFF #10)

2010-08-19T13:40:00.004-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction basically means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Acumen (AK yoo mun) - 1. keenness of judgment 2. mental sharpness

Fiction Today, Reality Tomorrow (RVFF #10)

“Global Progression troops – got the Markette family!” Allison was breathless.

“Calm down, honey,” Paul said.

“Yanked them - out of their house - stripped them, hanged them upside down - stoned them to death. Their neighbors found out they were Christians – grabbed stones and joined in the massacre.”

“How did the GPTs find out about the Markettes? We’ve been careful.”

“There must be a spy in the congregation.”

“They could be headed here. Grab the kids. Let’s go!”

“Suitcases - under the bed.”

“No, we have to get out now!”

“We need those suitcases!”

Paul opened a suitcase and was startled to find ammunition inside. “I thought we agreed to let God be in control?”

“God was in control when He led me to an underground arms dealer and told me to protect our family.”

Grateful for Allison’s survival acumen, Paul’s confliction melted away, and a slim hope seeped in.

Word count = 150

The Pick-up Line (RVFF #9)

2010-08-13T11:06:00.010-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction basically means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Hackneyed (HAK need) - 1. overused 2. trite 3. stale / I used definition #2 for this story

The Pick-up Line (RVFF #9)

“I think there’s somethin’ wrong with my eyes ‘cuz I can’t take them off you.”

Harriett cringed at the drunken man’s hackneyed greeting. “ I’m married.”

“Me, too. Jus’ not when I’m on the road - know what I mean?” The man grinned and caressed her arm.

She yanked her arm away and peered around the hotel lobby. “I’m not interested!” She returned to her reading.

“What’re ya readin’?”

Harriett held her book up.

“Uh… hell, my eyes ain’t that good. What…”

“Mere Christianity.”

“Oh! You a Christian?”

“Yes.”

“Me, too. Jus’ not when I’m on the road – know what I mean?” The man howled. “Let’s have some fun – jus’ for one night?”

Harriett shook her head.

The man cursed and stumbled toward the hotel bar.

Harriett watched him approach another woman.

“Hi, beautiful,” he touched the woman's arm. “Did ya get that bruise when ya fell from Heaven?”

Word count = 149

The Pain of Truth (RVFF #8)

2010-08-10T11:36:00.003-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction basically means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Wanton (WAHN tun) - 1. malicious 2. unjustifiable 3. unprovoked 4. egregious / I used definition #1 for this story.

The Pain of Truth (RVFF #8)

Willa watched her brother aim his gun at the three-legged dog lapping water at the river’s edge.

“Griffin! Don’t!”

Willa heard the blast and winced. The dog stood there for a moment, then hobbled forward and fell into the river. She watched in shock as the current carried the dog away.

Later, as Willa sat on the porch hating her wanton brother, a one-legged man appeared in the distance.

“Gracie!” The man whistled. “Here, girl.” He approached Willa. “Miss, have you seen a dog, black and white, missing a leg, like me?”

Willa wanted to tell the one-legged man everything. But looking into his worry-filled eyes, the pain of ignorance seemed more humane than the pain of truth.

“No, sir. I haven’t seen your dog.”

Willa frowned knowing she would carry the pain of truth for him, and ironically she envied the one-legged man.

Word count = 144

Overcoming Sinkholes (RVFF #7)

2010-08-09T15:11:00.005-05:00

Today's word: Precipitous (pri SIP uh tus) - steep

Overcoming Sinkholes (RVFF #7)

Penelope slid down the precipitous slope of a sinkhole, trying to grab onto something, anything. The mud was sucking her in, and she was moving too fast to fight it. She landed with a slosh in the soupy base on the sinkhole floor. Something slithered around her legs and she jumped to her feet and froze.

The dark was disturbing, but twenty feet up, the daylight emphasized the hole she’d ridden her bike into. My bike… my phone. She moved cautiously through the muck until she found her bike. Reaching into the bike pack, she grabbed her phone – it was waterlogged, and dead. She began to cry.

She lifted her face toward the light. “You win, okay? I’m yours.” More slithering around her ankles - she screamed. “Please, I don’t like the dark. Get me out of here!”

A loud jingle signaled power to her phone and Penelope gasped.

Word count = 149

Becoming Known (RVFF #6)

2010-08-04T19:08:00.007-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction basically means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Kinetic (ki NET ik) - 1. having to do with motion 2. lively 3. active / I used definition #1 for this story.

Becoming Known (RVFF #6)

Kiethan's neck strained as he stretched it forward and gazed over the cliff edge at the river below. A psychological force, stronger than his own will, held his legs at a still uncomfortable distance from the unprotected drop. He thought it odd and humorous that he would be filled with such fear, and he smirked at the irony.

The river was angry; this stretch, a thrilling pass-through for class-V white-water-rafting enthusiasts. The stillness of the surrounding mountains made the raging river all the more vibrant. "Nature's kinetic art," Keithan said, bringing to mind all of his rejected art projects he was leaving behind.

In an instant, the invisible force vanished and his fear melted. Keithan moved forward and stood on tiptoes at the cliff edge. "At least they'll be worth something now. God, forgive me."

Word count = 135

Live It - Then Write About It

2010-08-03T13:06:00.006-05:00

*I initially posted this on my Living Writers' Collective blog, but I think My Writing Loft friends will enjoy this message, too.*

This past June, my kids and I disappeared deep into the Allegheny Mountains in West Virginia for a week. In our log cabin in this remote part of West Virginia, there was no Internet or television, no cell phone access or landline telephone, and no air conditioning or microwave.

I love shedding off life's modern-day conveniences and getting cozy with nature - the bugs, the creatures that slither, the nocturnal explorers, the deer, the bears, the birds, the giant river turtles, and the frogs that are twice as big as my hand and whose sweet tunes lull me to sleep at night. I've always been a tomboy, and I still love exploring the forest floor for animal tracks, seeing how far a millipede can climb my bare arm, and catching (or trying to catch - I'm not as good at it now as I was when I was a kid) slimy frogs.

During this trip, I learned a few new things:

Spotting the twenty-third deer is equally as fascinating as spotting the first one.

Bear feces looks suprisingly similar to human feces.

Spiders and crickets will seek shelter in your toiletries case.

The mystery of the unexplainable loose dirt that keeps appearing in your bed will be solved on the last day when you realize you've been sharing your bed with a raccoon all week.

The lack of modern-day conveniences/distractions will bring out the best in seven- and five-year-old boys.

If your child has a loose front tooth, take him innertubing a few times. Hayden's tooth now rests somewhere in the Greenbrier River.

Kroger-bought pears taste fresher in the woods.

If you wake to the sounds of a curious bear in the middle of the night, when - if - you go back to sleep, it is inevitable that you will dream you are being attacked by a bear.

Around day four, you'll start to wonder if anything major has happened in the world - like has our government been overthrown? Has California fallen into the ocean? Has the rapture occurred and I wasn't one of the selected? But then a deer and her fawn will leap by your cabin, and you'll decide it doesn't really matter what's going on in the crazy world outside these woods.

Last year, this same trip to West Virginia inspired me to write a short story called "Death of a Whippoorwill". I received an honorable mention in the 2009 Silver Quill Short Fiction Contest for that story. I want to encourage you all to find a special place, at least once a year, where you can disappear from your distractions and absorb inspiration for your writing. Don't go with the plan to write; go with the plan to explore and observe and enjoy. Live it - then write about it.

For me, getting as close to nature as possible seems to do the trick. For you, it may be something else, but whatever it is, make the effort to do it. Living it will flood you with ideas and inspire poignant messages through writing that shines.

Have you had a chance to "Live It" this past year? If so, tell us where you go to dissappear from your distractions and absorb the inspiration to write.

The Impossibility of Human Reason

2010-07-29T15:16:00.013-05:00

I don't feel good today. My head hurts for the second straight day. My sinuses are on fire, especially the left one. I haven't worked-out since Sunday, and I'm feeling sluggish. In general, I'm simply exhausted after a very busy summer. I'm having one of those days, and when I allow myself to stop and have one of those days, I crash, and today I'm crashing.

I took my boys to the animal shelter yesterday to pick out two kittens. I saw a huge, pudgy adult cat sitting in the middle of his cage in an owl-like posture. His only motion was the slow turning of his head as he glanced around. He wore a collar - he had been someone's. He wasn't excited. He wasn't pitiful. He was just unaffected. His future was likely not promising - consisting of days or hours or maybe even minutes for all I knew.

It's strange to me that God created cats in such a way that they produce an entire litter of kittens. Creatures that depend on man for survival, and yet two cats in their natural form produce many more offspring than two humans - certainly more than those two humans can care for. And the result is a massive number of animal shelters overflowing with precious furry companions, most just waiting as the clock ticks down to lethal injection time. Their charge: there is simply no room for them in this world - which makes me question why God put them here in the first place.

The somber experience of looking into the eyes of so many that would suffer this fate turned the experience of saving two sweet kitties bittersweet - I couldn't do anything for the hundred remaining, and even if I could have there would have been another hundred right behind them.

I'd like to reason all of this out spiritually, but I spend so much time writing from the spiritual perspective, I sometimes forget about the human side. And I think I forget about the human side because sometimes it simply isn't possible to reason from the human side. If I can just assign spiritual reasoning to the pain of humanity, it makes it all bearable. Ninety-five percent of the time, that is what I seek to do, but today I find myself pleading, "Jesus, please come get us today - I'm just so darn tired."

*The two we saved pictured above (the tortiose shell is Jazzy Gogo, and the gray striped and white is Ginger)

A Baby Doesn't Change Everyone (RVFF #5)

2010-07-26T21:04:00.008-05:00

What is Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)? I blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction basically means it's short - you can read it in a flash. Click here to read my rules.

Today's word: Aberration (ab uh RAY shun) - 1. something not typical; 2. a deviation from the standard / I used definition #1 for this story.

A Baby Doesn't Change Everyone (RVFF #5)

An odd smell enveloped Alec as he walked into the house. Is that... clean? Alec's wife, Abby, rarely cleaned house, but today was an aberration - the house sparkled.

Alec hugged Abby. "The house looks amazing.”

"Thanks! It’s time I started cleaning – since there's going to be a little one crawling around."

"You're -"

Abby nodded and smiled.

"I didn't think we could…"

"We did."

"Are you sure?"

"Ten weeks - I went to the doctor today."

Alec grabbed Abby and cheered, spinning her until he was dizzy.

He knelt and lifted her shirt, noticing a slight bulge in her tone abdomen. He looked up at Abby; she smiled. He looked at her belly.

"I've been praying for you for years." Alec kissed Abby's belly. "And since you're already having this unusual affect on your beautiful mother, could you ask her to wash my car and make me some ribs?”

Word Count = 149

Dusting Sunbeams (RVFF #4)

2010-07-23T13:43:00.006-05:00

Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF) - Click here to find out what it is.

Today's word: Ethereal (ih THIR ee ul) - 1. heavenly; 2. as light or insubstantial as a gas or ether /I used definition #2 for this story.

Dusting Sunbeams (RVFF #4)
Ellen halts at the sight of ethereal dust waltzing in a sunbeam stretching across the dining room. Most people would notice it and move on, but Ellen isn't like most people.

Ellen walks a wide arc around the sunbeam and its dust. Moments later she diligently vacuums the dust from the sunbeam.

I want to tell her the dust isn’t limited to the sunbeam, but I fear this would send her into a panic-induced, air-cleaning frenzy, so I say, "Honey, it’s clean. We need to go or we’ll miss our movie."

I've planned ahead to account for Ellen's home-leaving routine: down and up the garage steps five times, checking the tire pressure twice in each tire, and driving around the block twice to make sure the garage door is closed.

What I didn't plan for was another sunbeam on our way to the garage.

Word count = 146

Compensation Not Necessary (RVFF #3)

2010-07-20T22:25:00.006-05:00

Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF) - Click here to find out what it is.

Today's word: Reparation (rep uh RAY shun) - 1. paying back; 2. making amends; 3. compensation /I used definition #3 for this story.

Compensation Not Necessary (RVFF #3)
As I veered our snowmobile onto the frozen lake, the frigid Alaska air carried an icy mist cinnamon-fine and as penetrating as glass-dust. The sound of the mist pelting our goggles was ominous, and fifty yards out, a white-out obscured my vision.

"Randy! Go back!" my brother said.

"No! I know what I'm doing!"

"Randy!"

"Shut up! I've got it!"

And I did have it - until the ice broke.

The snowmobile balanced precariously on one ski at the broken ice edge - front-half submerged, back-half slipping. My brother, clinging to the snowmobile, plucked me out of the water and tossed me onto the ice just before the snowmobile plunged beneath the surface. He never emerged.

How do I compensate my brother for my disobedience? For causing his death? I never can. Reparation isn't possible, nor is it necessary, when your brother sacrifices his life for your own.

Word count = 148

The Winds of Revolution (RVFF #2)

2010-07-18T12:24:00.007-05:00

Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF) - Click here to find out what it is.

Today's word: Coup (koo) - 1. a brilliant victory or accomplishment; 2. the violent overthrow of the government by a small internal group (full name is coup d’état - koo day TAH) / I used definition #2 for this story.

The Winds of Revolution (RVFF #2)
Carter pumped anger-infused push-ups next to his prison-cell bunk. Stripped of his stripes, his medals, his uniform - his life, though life didn't really matter. What he'd attempted to do, he was doing for his country. He'd served his country so long, he didn't remember much of life before.

Carter's plan - a coup that would fix his country - seemed flawless. His intent was for America to rediscover its purpose, for true patriotism to be revived.

Taking down the US government with a small army of soldiers was ambitious, he'd admit, but his strategy was tight. Where did I go wrong? He mentally sifted his strategy with each push-up. Violence was expected and planned; shoving his gun into the president's mouth and pulling the trigger was not.

Carter exhaled.

Outside, the winds of revolution gusted through the nation's capital as millions of patriots marched in from every side.

Total words = 147

I know I have a POV dilemma in my last line. It will come to me in the next day or so, and I'll pop in here and fix it.

The Parochial Seductress (RVFF #1)

2010-07-18T00:26:00.008-05:00

Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF) - Click here to find out what it is.

Today's word: Parochial - 1. narrow or confined in point of view; provincial 2. of or relating to a parish / I'll use definition #1 for today's story.

THE PAROCHIAL SEDUCTRESS (RVFF #1)

Pablo married her this morning in a freakish moment, under the influence of a passion hangover. They say Vegas does things to people, and it sure did things to him. It wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful – she was. Or that she wasn’t intelligent – she was. She reflected a quiet sophistication, which is what attracted Pablo to her in the first place, and exuded a sweet sexiness that few women possess.

It was her narrow-minded views that forced his doubt as he sat across the coffee-house table listening to her life philosophies. How could a woman who’d aggressively seduced a man she’d met two hours prior in a hotel bar be so parochial?

Even this, Pablo might let pass - if he could just remember her name.

Word count = 126

Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF)

2010-07-17T23:16:00.008-05:00

I'm starting a series to help build my vocabulary - one of my weak spots. I'm calling it Random Vocabulary Flash Fiction (RVFF). A few days each week, I will blindly select a vocabulary word from Word Smart, and write a flash fiction story using that word. Flash fiction basically means it's short - you can read it in a flash. You can read more about flash fiction (here). My RVFF rules are:

The stories must be 200 words or less (which means you can read them in just a few seconds).

The stories must have a clear theme, plot, or storyline.

The vocabulary word must work its way in naturally and not seem forced to you, the reader (let me know if I'm not hitting the mark here).

Tune in regularly to read my RVFF.

This Dark Night

2010-06-29T23:20:00.020-05:00

In a log cabin in the midst of the dense and towering Watoga State Park forest, the night is black. So black I feel I have faded into it. I imagine the black is similar to the color of a deep-sea abyss or a galactic black hole. I think I can best describe it as thick like being in a vat of melted black crayon except I can breathe - mostly. I realize a truth - there is a night so black I can't see my hand in front of my face. Sorry for the cliché - writers aren't supposed to use those, but it's true nonetheless.

In this blind night (as all Watoga-forest nights are), I have to touch myself to be sure I exist. I have to plant my feet solidly on the ground to be sure I'm not hovering above it - as if maybe I missed something and now I'm in spirit form.

Yes, that's how it feels to be in absolute darkness. And I don't think I've ever experienced a dark so dark before. Of course, if I can't see me then no one else can see me, and there is a comfort and a sense of security in that.

A few days before my supersensitive awareness of this dark night, my boys, my parents, and I stepped into our secluded rustic cabin. Granted it's not Alaskan-wilderness seclusion or Amazon-rainforest seclusion, but it is West Virginia-mountain seclusion and that's enough to shed off most modern-day conveniences - no television, no internet, no cell phone access, no landline telephone, no microwave, no dishwasher, no air conditioner.

So I am awake. It's 3:00 A.M., and did I mention it is jet-black dark? I can't get back to sleep because all I can think about is how I must put on paper how black this dark is. Then two loud thumps startle me and I lift my feet back into the bed, dive under my covers and pull my boys in close.

I have to mention here that two nights earlier a large black bear shredded the wire caging and plywood top to our outdoor trash cans, then wandered around our cabin, slunk past our front porch where my father sat (until he saw the bear), wandered to the other side of the cabin where he relieved himself of his last meal (which my boys enjoyed seeing the next morning), then headed up a path and back into the forest.

This is fresh on my mind as an unsettling scurry breaks the silence that seems so still after the thumps, and I realize the kitchen window is still open. My mind starts to taunt me - was that a bear-sized scurry or a raccoon-sized scurry? Or worse, could it be human - for a human's potential to injure or destroy can be far more barbaric than nature's.

The scent of skunk oddly calms me until I hear another noise coming from behind the back cabin wall, near the kitchen. The sounds conjure visions not of a bear but of a vicious wild human dousing our highly-flammable log cabin in gasoline and setting it ablaze.

It occurs to me that some Bible reading may be a little too heavy for the pre-bed hours. For example, Abimelech and his pyromaniacal tendencies to cook massive numbers of people alive in towers turned infernos is best left to post-dawn or early-afternoon reading.

Certainly my imagination could be tamed by scripture more fitting for slumbering in a secluded log cabin in the nocturnally active thick-black Watoga forest. Maybe something like, "Be still and know that I am God" - psalm 46:10.

I am certainly still now, but not so still that I don't finally give in and scramble for my flashlight, click it on, and pull out my pen and notebook. Afterall, if I expect to get anymore sleep tonight, I really do have to write about this dark night.

Interview With the Devil

2010-05-22T15:32:00.008-05:00

KAREN: Should I call you Satan?

SATAN: King Satan or Prime Demonizer are my preference. I’ll also answer to Lord of Darkness or Our Unholy Earth Father.

KAREN: Okay, Satan it is. It’s so easy for our viewers to see the horrid acts you are responsible for in today’s world…

SATAN: Oh, thank you for the compliment. I’m so glad people are noticing my work today. Even someone in my position sometimes wonders if he’s truly making a difference.

KAREN: You consider what you do making a difference?

SATAN: Oh, yes! What would this world be without me? All harps and fluffy clouds and happy people and good apples. No! No! No! How boring would that be? A world without sin and chaos is no world at all. Sin! I hate that word! He (pointing up) came up with that word, you know. It just sounds bad – sssssin! Most people know it’s really just the fun the self-proclaimed Big Guy doesn’t want them to have.

KAREN: Let’s move on. Since your work today is so… vivid, let’s go back. What do you consider to be one of your most successful acts in Biblical times?

SATAN: Not counting the obvious?

KAREN: The obvious?

SATAN: Adam and Eve. My pride and joy. But everyone knows about them.

KAREN: Adam and Eve? But wasn’t God ultimately in control of…

SATAN: Wait! Wait! Yes! There is so much to choose from. But I am going to have to say Legion.

KAREN: The demoniac?

SATAN: Yes. Oh, wasn’t he just divine? Oh, bad word choice. Wasn’t he perfectly wretched? I didn’t just send one of my demons to possess him, you know. He had many weak spots, that man. I sent an entire legion of demons, and he let them right in. (laughing) People thought he was mad!

KAREN: Wasn’t he?

SATAN: It was the demons, really. Ah, they were just having some fun with him.

KAREN: Fun? He was living like an animal, Satan. He lived in the tombs, bound and shackled by the locals who were afraid of him. He’d break free and run naked out of the desert and into the town streets and attack people.

SATAN: (laughing) Oh, you should have seen it - the things they made him eat and do to himself. Funny stuff. Those demons were some of my best soldiers, but they knew how to have a good time.

KAREN: Even with all of Legion’s weaknesses, Jesus came along and saved and healed him, Satan.

SATAN: Yes. But my demons had a good time of it, and many of my demons today consider them heroes and are inspired by them. We may have lost Legion, but I'm sure my demons since then have gained so many more because of the accomplishments of Legion's demons.

KAREN: But didn’t Jesus destroy Legion's demons?

SATAN (fidgeting and nervous): You mean the pigs? That wasn’t Jesus, and it couldn’t have been foreseen. The demons decided to have some fun with the pigs. How could they have known the pigs were all going to drown themselves? But look at the havoc they wreaked with Legion before they perished. They were very worthy soldiers.

KAREN: Jesus sent them into the pigs, Satan.

SATAN (growing angry): At the demons’ request!

KAREN: And you consider it coincidence that the entire herd of pigs rushed into the river and drowned?

SATAN: What else could it be?

KAREN: So Jesus saved Legion, showing the world His love and destroyed your demons, showing the world His power, and you consider this your success? Do you have any real success stories, Satan?

SATAN: (yanks off his lapel microphone) This interview is over! You dare to mock me! I am Satan! Do you know what I can do to you? (walking out)

KAREN: Absolutely nothing without God’s permission. Jesus has already saved me.

*You can read about the demoniac in Luke 8:26-39.

Thoughts From My Deck as a Storm Approaches

2010-05-01T10:21:00.019-05:00

I sit at my café-style table on my covered deck, this morning, reading “Romans” while in the near distance a storm rumbles closer. My focus on “Romans” is disrupted by the sounds of nature preparing for the storm’s arrival; I stop reading and absorb all the activity. I HAVE to stop, you see, because God says, “Stop reading and pay attention to Me!” And in case I have any intention of ignoring Him, He shatters my ability to focus on the words – so I still myself in the powerful moment and watch.

From my second-story deck, I gaze out, past the rooftops of our waffle-lot houses, to the forest beyond. The treetops form a jagged line against the sky – a kind of horizon, although I don’t think it is a horizon in the true sense of the word.

I can’t see it from my deck, but I think about the creek on this side of the forest – about the deep, rushing water that is sure to come. The weather guy says rain and storms all weekend, severe at times. My kids and I will not be donning our creek-walking boots, nets in hand, gathering treasures – crawdads, snails, fish, trinkets - this weekend. In a few days, we will explore the new treasures sojourning in our section of the creek before the next storm washes them ever closer to the Duck River.

I think about the snake – the one that lives somewhere under the trail bridge that spans the creek – the one that seems to grow bigger each year – the one that the neighborhood moms demand their kids steer clear of because “he may be poisonous”; I know he is not, so my kids and I often observe him, at a respectable distance, as he slithers through the grass or skims the water’s surface disappearing into the creek bank’s raised walls. I wonder what the snake does to prepare for storms. I’ve heard that chickens hunker down and still themselves. Birds become brazenly verbal – nature’s warning sirens, I suppose. I wonder if this is normal or just because in my yard there are two nests filled with babies the birds must rush to protect.

Trees’ leaves stretch heavenward in anticipation, and I can’t help but think of them in praise when I see the underside of those leaves firm and erect thirsting for God’s nourishment. And before you say, “Silly girl, trees can’t praise God,” I direct you to Psalm 148, verse 7-9:

Praise the LORD from the earth,
Sea monsters and all deeps;
Fire and hail, snow and clouds;
Stormy wind, fulfilling His word;
Mountains and all hills;
Fruit trees and all cedars;

The storm arrives with a grand shock of thunder and a bolt so powerful it lights the dark sky long enough to observe its pure-white brilliance. When I recover from the paralyzing jolt to my body and soul, it occurs to me that nature is not swayed by other gods – false gods. It simply respects the power of God and praises Him without question, and I wonder: why can’t human nature get it right?

**Update 5/27/10**

I had no idea of the power of the storms headed for us that morning as I sat on my deck thinking about nature's storm preparations. I couldn't have foreseen the rain that would pound us for two days straight or the massive flash flooding of our our creeks, rivers, and storm sewers - so intense it turned our interstates to fast-moving waterways. I couldn't have predicted the loss of life or how much damage this storm would do to Nashville and all of Middle Tennessee. Have a look:

Writing Warfare in the Flavor of Apple

2010-04-26T19:24:00.013-05:00

I was dashing through my kitchen today, on my way to do something I can't remember, when my eyes captured a glint of a Red Delicious apple among the fruit in the basket on my kitchen table. I grabbed the apple planning to eat it on the go, but when I bit into it, it was... well... delicious; so I had to stop, sit down, and savor it. There are many things I can't do on the go, and eating a truly delicious, shiny Red Delicious apple is apparently one of them.

Analyzing my writing status is another thing I can't manage to do on the go. But when I allow the craziness of routine life to halt for a moment, my mind turns to writing. And as I sat there savoring the Red Delicious that forced my life into a pause, my thoughts turned to writing.

Later today, after my apple intoxication wore off, I wrote to a blogger friend that I have fallen off of my creative axis a bit - that I've been on an involuntary writing hiatus. I haven't been completely not writing, but I've been mostly not writing, and it's throwing my psyche off-balance. It's kind of like if you are used to exercising a lot and then for some reason you miss a few workouts or weeks - your body feels sluggish, and maybe even your mental stability falters a bit. When I'm not writing, my mind feels sluggish, and it's that much harder to get it primed and functioning properly again.

Oddly, this is not the writing stuff I was thinking about as I crunched into that yummy apple. During this involuntary hiatus, I have been reading - and reading - and reading - and reading - and... well, you get the picture. I have four books next to my bed at this moment: From the Belly of the Dragon by Mark Mynheir, A Dash of Style by Noah Lukeman, Firecracker Red by Stellasue Lee, and my Bible. I will absorb a few pages of each before I sleep.

Prior to the apple, I had been at the gym riding a stationary bike and reading Firecracker Red. The first thought that occured to me as I sat eating my apple was, "Helter-skelter. I had no idea helter-skelter had a hyphen in it. It's a good thing I saw that in Stellasue's book." Now, granted, we don't get too many opportunities to write the word helter-skelter, but there's always that "what if". What if I wrote "helter skelter" and sent it to a publisher or agent that way? What if "helter skelter" worked its way into my query letter or proposal? I can hear them now: "If she doesn't check the dictionary for her proposal - her first chance to make a good impression - her manuscript must be a mess. I don't have time to deal with this!" Then my manuscript is sent to the paper cutter, sliced into small squares, and the blank sides used for scrap paper.

A few apple bites later, I thought about the colon. Yes, apples do provide nourishment that leads to a healthy colon, but that isn't the colon I was thinking about. The colon I was contemplating was the one with two dots - you know - the punctuation mark. I know that's an odd thing to think about while eating an apple, but I had just read a chapter on the colon in A Dash of Style the night before. I know what you're thinking. A whole chapter on the colon? Yes, a whole entire chapter, 20 excellent pages, on nothing but the colon shared in a creative and, strangely, beautiful way (the things that excite a writer - we're an odd bunch).

As I neared the apple's core, I thought about how a creative writer can use grammar to their advantage - minimizing it in some places, maximizing it in others, all for the purpose of intent. Lightly pepper in some of the pretty stuff - colons, semicolons, dashes - to make it shine, to give it power, to drive a point. I thought about the short story I read in my recent edition of The Storyteller that was filled with cliches and another story that described the looks of EVERY character by comparing them to a movie star. Both were cumbersome to read, and I wondered how they made the cut. I thought about the book of Job and how I just don't understand a lot of it. Yet the prose is so relaxing and beautiful, I read it anyway. Because within its midst, God sends me treasures like:

As for me, I know that my Redeemer lives,

And at the last, He will take His stand on the earth.

Even after my skin is destroyed,

Yet from my flesh, I shall see God;

Whom I myself shall behold,

And whom my eyes will see and not another.

My heart faints within me!

- Job 19:25-27

And suddenly a piece of Job sticks as well as all the other thoughts I had while I was under the influence of that apple, and I carry it all with me so I can pour it out through my writing... that is, when I start writing again.

What or who is keeping me from writing? Maybe I shouldn't have been eating that apple and thinking about writing but actually writing. In one ear I hear, "You're not on a writing hiatus; you're in a heavy learning phase." In the other ear I hear, "But you should be writing through your learning phases."

I suppose the only question that remains is whether that Red Delicious was from the tree of life or the tree of knowledge. Was there a tempter responsible for my indulgence - a Screwtape, if you will, discouraging my writing? Or was that apple always mine for the taking - God filling me up so I could be more persuasive as I pour it out?

Breathing Room

2010-04-24T21:38:00.009-05:00

In a tiny jar
a snail slithers
among rocks and crevices
and a slice of carrot.
Occasionally she stretches
out and clings to glass - finding comfort
in traveling its circumference.
As I observe her slimy underside
suctioned inside her glass prison,
I realize six holes in a metal lid provide air
but leave no room to breathe.
Wistfully, I remove the lid
and set her free.

"Up From the Grave He Rose"

2010-04-04T01:13:00.002-05:00

I'm sitting in front of my open window on this perfect day. Outside birds are chirping and busying themselves with homebuilding, preparing to birth new life into the world. The trees are in various stages of budding and blossoming, bursting forth delicate young leaves. The light, warm breeze wafting through my window carries the clean scent of all of God's newness.

As I sit here enjoying this special treat from God, I think of how He transforms nature - winter to spring, slow decay to instant rebirth, death to resurrection. How can anyone experience a moment like this and deny the salvation Jesus' sacrifice and resurrection offers?

God's glory, His precious Son, vivid and bold, in a simple moment near an open window. It's amazing how He replenishes spring moisture to our winter-dehydrated souls. May God replenish your soul with the promise of new life through the celebration of Jesus' sacrifice and resurrection.

"There in the ground His body lay,

Light of the world, by darkness slain;

Then bursting forth in glorious day,

Up from the grave He rose again."

On Christian Perfection

2010-02-20T13:12:00.013-06:00

Many people think Christians should be perfect. We aren't! And when we aren't, people call us hypocrites when in reality we are simply human. More disturbing, Christians often do this to each other - brother against brother, leader against leader, denomination against denomination.

My view of humanity is simple - you are a Christian or you aren't.

If you are a Christian, your human body shares space with the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit is the perfect part. It's the part that places in us the desire to be like Jesus. It's the part that puts that check in our system when the human side of us does something really stupid.

And the human side of us always does something really stupid.

If it weren't for our tendencies toward humanness, Jesus would not have had to offer himself as the perfect sacrifice to atone for our poor choices. If God had fully infused us with the Holy Spirit, making us wholly perfect, there would have been no need for Jesus. But God did not want perfect zombies wandering the earth loving Him under divine force. He wanted children who would love Him by choice. Through the teachings and actions of Jesus, God sent the perfect Holy Spirit to dwell in our imperfect human hearts.

Through the Holy Spirit, Christians are led, disciplined, inspired, and encouraged. And when our humanness causes us to stumble off the road as we walk, the Holy Spirit is there to gently nudge us back or, at times, give us a good strong kick in the rump to get us back on track.

Does that mean it's okay for a Christian to sin with wild abandon, without conscience, and without any desire to seek forgiveness? No! In fact, if you are sinning and there is no check in your system (that little nudge that says, maybe I shouldn't be doing this), then I implore you to check your heart and determine if the Holy Spirit truly resides there.

When a Christian finds herself gossiping about the unmarried couple who just moved in across the street, the Holy Spirit will jump in and say, "Whoa, child, are you so freely without sin that you can speak so boldy of your neighbor?" The Christian will say "no, I am not!", realize she has stumbled, stabilize herself, invite her neighbors to church, and continue on her walk. Will she continue to make mistakes? Yes, she is human, but she will learn and grow and try to do better with each step.

I visualize two roads. One is the spiritual road, engulfed in light, leading to sanctification and a residence in Heaven. The other is the human road, engulfed in dark, leading to the rewards of the flesh and... well... death, hell, the end.

As the Christian walks along the spiritual road, her eyes occasionally veer toward the temptations of the dark and inviting medians and off-ramps. If her relationship with God is strong, the Christian will turn her eyes back toward Heaven. But in a weak and tired moment, her big toe will cross into the dark, and then her leg, and then her shoulder, and before she knows it, she is walking or sprinting up the dark off-ramp. But the Christian is blessed because when she gets to the top of the off-ramp, the Holy Spirit will grab her ear and drag her across the street, down the on-ramp, and back onto the will-lit road.

Yes, the Christian has sinned, but she has not abandoned the road. And why is this okay? Because God, knowing we are human and sin is inherent, sent Jesus to cover us when stumble.

In contrast, as the non-Christian walks along the human road she has many choices. God tries to make the non-Christian's choice easy. The off-ramp to Heaven is a flashing bright light - easy to spot along the dark road. God gives the non-Christian many opportunities to take the right exit, but all of the temptations in the medians and off-ramps of the spiritual road are abundant and easily accessed as the non-Christian wanders along the dark road. She doesn't even have to venture onto the medians or the off-ramps - the fun is in her immediate path. She doesn't have to think about it as she passes the flashing off-ramp to the light road. She's having too much fun on the dark road - what could be better?

Besides, the spiritual road will just tell her all she's doing wrong, and when she does wrong, she'll just be called a hypocrite like all those "so-called Christians". So why bother, she decides, and eventually she doesn't even notice the flashing off-ramp anymore.

Here's the interesting thing about a Christian. A Christian will also step onto the non-Christians' dark roads so we can flash our bright light a little closer to those who have begun to ignore the well-lit off-ramps. So sometimes Christians haven't stumbled off the spiritual road at all - we've just decided to carry it with us as we search for those who haven't yet discovered it.

So, if you are not a Christian, I, an imperfect and sinning Christian, will continue to flash a light as you journey along your dark road. I pray you follow it to the right exit before your road ends.

Oh, and there is such a thing as Christian perfection. He is called Jesus Christ.

Scripture Reference: 1 John 1:5-10

Snow Is...

2010-02-15T11:17:00.012-06:00

Flakes of pearls
dropping gracefully from the heavens
stilling the world for a moment
or a time
determined by its abundance.

Delicate bullets in bulk
with the power to destroy –
a life, a vehicle,
a structure, a livelihood –
in an instant.

White periods
making a statement,
the result of a somber storm,
releasing life’s anxieties
in a soft, final landing.

A giant snow cone
inspiring children to create
weapons, men, igloos, slides –
nature’s extreme
theme park ride.

Tiny flecks of cotton
forming a blanket of calm,
a vast cushioned barrier,
over a harsh,
unforgiving earth.

Frozen rain
falling, clinging,
absorbing, melting,
washing our soiled spirits
revealing a purity thought lost.

An aching absence -

A welcomed relief -

An unexplainable dichotomy

beyond spring’s last thaw.

One Way

2010-02-11T23:57:00.009-06:00

How many ways are there to obtain access to God? Can you list them? Who or what made your list? Muhammed, Buddha, Krishna, Sun Myung Moon, Mother Earth, good works, self divinity, meditation, good karma? Maybe you chose the safe and tolerant approach and said all of the above and everyone else who believes in something, anything, has access to God. Or maybe you chose a gentle, all-inclusive approach saying that none of the above are needed – we all, even those who have denied Him, have direct access and will reside with God. Maybe your response was, “God? What God? We’re born. We die. End of story.”

Perhaps you’ve heard it said – Jesus Christ is the way to God. Jesus is not today’s popular choice. Claiming allegiance to Jesus means leaving the other options behind. Claiming Jesus as the way means checking political correctness, all-inclusiveness, and tolerance at the door and never returning to retrieve them. Claiming Jesus as the way may mean losing some friends; making counter cultural choices; or being perceived as pompous, fanatical, or bigoted. So, why Jesus?

Jesus may not be the easy option, but He’s the only true option. In John 14:6, Jesus said “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father but through Me.” This may be an unpopular choice, but only a choice for Jesus will turn the slow death you are currently experiencing into eternal life. And in Heaven, He will be the only choice that mattered.

Followers of Jesus do not have to be politically correct to be understanding. They do not have to be all-inclusive to be respectful. They do not have to be tolerant to be loving. Believing in Jesus as the one and only true way to God does not separate a person from understanding, respect, and love – it allows one to be all of these things without negating the values and truths Jesus teaches us.

If you want to find the one and only way to God, you need look no further than His Word. Acts 4:12 promises salvation through Jesus only: “And there is salvation in no one else; for there is no other name under heaven that has been given among men by which we must be saved.”

Jesus is the only one who drained His blood and washed us in it so we could be presented, clean and pure, to God. Through Jesus’ death, our poor choices, past, present, and future, have already been forgiven. Through Jesus’ resurrection and ascension, we can be assured of our own resurrection and eternal life. Only a belief in Jesus promises us these things.

When Jesus said “I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life. No one comes to the Father but through Me," He revealed the only God-approved access to God.

So I ask again – how many ways are there to obtain access to God?

Hillsong United - One Way
"You are the Way the Truth and the Life
We live by faith and not by sight for You
We're living all for You"

So You Think You're Sacrificing Fluffy? Think Again

2010-01-06T11:32:00.019-06:00

In many relationships, there's a thinker and there's a speaker. The thinker is the one who thinks things over, chews on them a bit, and eventually verbalizes a well-thought-out idea. The speaker is the one who says exactly what's on his mind at the exact moment it pops into his head. His response is instantaneous as if his mind is directly connected to his mouth.

The bad thing about being a thinker is that you often miss an opportunity to say something you wish you'd said. If you often run into this issue, you're probably a thinker.

The bad thing about being a speaker is that you often say things you wish you hadn't. If you often run into this issue, you're probably a speaker.

God has a great sense of humor because I've noticed many couples consist of one of each. And if you are one of these couples, you know what a challenge that can be. The thinker husband, for example, will cringe in agony the moment he hears his speaker wife blurt out his salary at the family reunion. The speaker husband will anxiously nudge his thinker wife under the dinner table when her mother criticizes her parenting skills.

Though both speakers and thinkers tend to take a little dip in the good, the bad, and the ugly at times, God gives us numerous warnings about speaking before we think. Jephthah was probably God's most dramatic lesson.

Jephthah was one of Israel's judges. He was also the son of a harlot. He was an outlaw, a mighty warrior, and a leader in battle. But he may be best known for the high price he paid when he spoke before he thought.

Jephthah was promised the headship of the Gileads if he could lead them to a victory in battle over the *Ammonites. In the moment, while advancing on the Ammonites, Jephthah made a deal with God. "If you give the Ammonites into my hands, whatever comes out the door of my house to meet me when I return in triumph from the Ammonites will be the LORD'S, and I will sacrifice it as a burnt offering."

Screeeech... stop right there. Jephthah had been an outlaw, a renegade, and an adventurer. He'd spent a lot of time away from home, and he'd spent a lot of time coming home. I think that Jephthah spoke so quickly and boldly because he was already pretty darn sure what might be coming out of that house. He had experience as an outlaw, so I'm just saying it's not entirely out of the question that Jephthah may have thought he already knew what he was going to have to give God.

So, just what did he expect he'd be sacrificing, you ask? I have no idea. Maybe in his years on the road, his loyal companion Fluffy always ran out the front door wagging her tail ahead of his daughter. Maybe while he was away on this trip, Fluffy met an unfortunate fate under the wheel of a moving wagon. Who knows what it was he might have expected? But his reaction in Judges 11:35 tells me he didn't expect what he got.

I imagine his heart dropped when his daughter, his one and only child, opened the front door and Fluffy didn't run out ahead of her. He may have even screamed, "No! No! No!" as she smiled, grabbed her tambourine and anxiously danced out that front door to greet her father.

For those of you not familiar with the story, the answer is yes. Yes! Jephthah sacrificed his daughter as a burnt offering to the Lord. He may have been a quick speaker, but he was no deal breaker.

There is no mention of Jephthah's wife, but he probably had one. Do you think even in those days the wife might have been saying, "Jephthah, how many times do I have to tell you, think before you speak. Now look what you've done."

And here's the kicker - Jephthah's deal didn't change anything God wouldn't have already done in the battle with the Ammonites. Jephthah and his deal had no power over God. Jephthah wanted to rule the Gileads - his deal was selfish and unnecessary. Victory over the Ammonites and Jephthah's leadership was inevitable - it was God's plan. The sacrifice of Jephthah's daughter was not inevitable - it was the result of Jephthah's quick-speaking, selfish, power-seeking deal with God. And in the end, Jephthah paid the ultimate price with his only child.

So, for those of you who tend to speak before you think, keep in mind that it may not be Fluffy you are sacrificing.

Readers - Are you a thinker or a speaker, and is it a good thing, a bad thing, or an ugly thing for you?

(*Ammonites occupied Ammon located about where modern-day Jordan is while Gilead was directly west between Ammon and the Jordan River.)

(Scripture reference: Judges 11:30-40)

The 40-Year-Old Coffee Virgin

2009-12-29T22:33:00.011-06:00

I've spent the past couple of months on a quest for coffee. I've never liked coffee, but this past year as I have frequented the quiet seclusion of my new writing life, I have begun to desire a coffee-like substance. Something with an energy kick that will keep my fingers moving no matter how exhausted I am. Being a middle-aged mother of two vivacious young boys, I'm almost always exhausted. And since cocaine doesn't fit into my budget, coffee just seems to make the most sense. 0:)

My problem with coffee is the flavor. Put some dirty dishwater in a cup and add a few dashes of bitters and some rust extract. Now take a sip - YES, that's it - that's how coffee tastes in my mouth.

If coffee tasted like its aroma there'd be no dilemma. I would have been chuggin' the stuff at age five - I've always loved the smell of brewing coffee. But that taste...

I decided to lean on some coffee-drinking friends for some advice. "How does a flavor-challenged individual embark upon a quest for coffee?" I said.

I received many responses: "Use lots and lots of creamer." "Use less coffee than the directions call for." "Add some water to the pot before it brews." "Add sugar." "Add flavoring." One friend said she never liked coffee, but when she became an adult she decided to start drinking it anyway because... well... that's what mature adults do.

Suddenly my quest for coffee wasn't just about coffee. Now it was about maturity as well. Almost forty and I'd never had coffee. I was about to be the 40-year-old coffee virgin. Could people look at me and tell I wasn't partaking in a sacred act of adulthood - that despite my graying hair, I was not yet mature?

And I'm supposed to be a writer. Can I even call myself a writer if I don't drink coffee? It's on the job description, I think. Maybe that's why I get so many rejections.

I decided the best way to become experienced at coffee was to start exploring the coffee field.

Rich creams, mouth-watering sugars, different measurements, exciting flavors, watered-down weak, in-your-face bold - I tried a variety of coffee personalities. I discovered that each person's perfect cup of coffee is as individual as their own fingerprint, and my goal was to find the cup of coffee that was just right for me - the one I would look forward to enjoying each and every writing day.

In the end my perfect cup of coffee is 1 1/2 Tbsp. of caramel truffle coffee, 12 ozs. water, 1 Tbsp of vanilla caramel creamer, and a large dollop of whipped cream topped with a pinch of chocolate powder.

What do you mean that's not coffee? It is, too, coffee! I admit it's kind of pretty and fluffy, but it IS coffee.

Just because the girl's drinking coffee doesn't mean she has to grow up.

What is your perfect cup of coffee?

KaNoWriYear or Picking Up the "Pace"

2009-12-25T16:27:00.015-06:00

As 2009 draws to a close, I am beginning to dwell on my writing future. In the past twelve months, I have gone from hobby writer to student writer to published writer and have even placed in a couple of writing contests along the way. I do not mean to imply any grand success --in the beginner's writing world, "published" and "contest winner" does not necessarily mean there's cash rolling in. But what it has meant for me is a start, and for someone who has never had a high degree of confidence, "a start" is a huge step.

Lingering right here at "a start" would be so easy to do. I'm writing, afterall, and I love to write. I'm comfortable here -- I turn in my Christian Writers Guild lessons every two weeks, write an occassional short story, study writing, dabble with my couple of half-written novels, blog, submit an article or a short story once in a while. Yeah, writing life is good right now.

But God doesn't like for me to get too comfortable. Through the guilt I experience over not writing harder for Him, His message is bold and burns in my gut: I've given you "a start." Now show me what you can do with it. Let's pick up the pace. And I realize that's exactly what I need. A pace.

So I am declaring 2010 my "pace" year. My foot is in the door, and now I need to get the rest of my body in there. How do I go about doing that, you ask?

My (gasp, choke, hack)... left brain. I know that's a dirty phrase to many fiction writers. Most fiction writers aren't wired to be (gasp)... left-brain... people. We're right-brain people by nature, artistic and creative -- at least with words (please don't ever ask me to draw a picture). Writing, yes even fiction writing, requires both sides of the brain to be successful. Read here to find why writers have to have both right- and left-brain strength to be good writers.

As I prepare for 2010, my "pace" year, I will be setting writing goals, creating action plans, and developing a schedule. You know, all that left brain stuff. So you can all hold me accountable, here is a sneak peek at a couple of my goals:

KaNoWriYear - Those of you who are familiar with NaNoWriMo will understand this play on the acronym. 2010 is Karen's Novel Writing Year. I will write a novel this year and have the final draft ready for CWG/Tyndale Publishers Operation First Novel on Oct. 1. I probably won't win, so I'll also take it to the CWG Writing for the Soul Conference in 2011.

Freelance - It's time to make a few bucks, and I will be actively seeking freelance writing opportunities. I'd love to find a newspaper or magazine looking for a parenting humor columnist. I have a binder filled with writing that would really embarass my kids and family, but if I got some cash for it, I think they'd forgive me. I would also enjoy doing devotionals, greeting cards, newsletters - anything really.

I won't tell you the rest of my writing goals because I'm not sure I want to be that accountable.

Dig into your left brains, Writers, and tell me what your 2010 writing goals are.

Finding Jesus in Santa Claus

2009-12-01T13:33:00.002-06:00

I didn’t want to attend the Christmas event at my son’s school. The event would be held on a Saturday and would include crafts, story time, snacks, and a visit with Santa Claus. We had already visited with Santa Claus once that season, and I was trying to minimize the commercialism of Christmas in our family. Christmas wasn’t about trees and toys and lights and men in red suits. Jesus, not Santa Claus, was the real reason for Christmas, and I wanted my children to focus on Jesus.

Despite my feelings about our Christmas focus, I found myself at the school sitting on a rug surrounded by children anxiously awaiting a Christmas story. I dreaded the story – it would be just another secularized version of all of the wrong reasons for Christmas, and I would have to find a way to repair the damage done to my kids’ Christian minds.

A jolly looking man with a fluffy, salt-and-pepper beard entered the room and greeted us. He sat on a stool at the front of the room and asked the kids some questions to warm up the crowd. He pulled a ceramic statue out of a box, and I instantly recognized Santa Claus. But there was something else there. Wrapped in a blanket and cradled in Santa’s arms was a newborn baby. I thought it was odd that Santa would be cradling an infant instead of embracing a child.

Our storyteller asked us about the statue. Who was the man in red? What did we know about him? There was plenty of dialogue from and among his young audience. Everyone had something to offer about Santa Claus. Then the storyteller said, “Why is Santa Claus holding this baby and who is the baby?” No one knew.

Baby Jesus never crossed my mind because I had never associated Santa Claus with baby Jesus. So when the storyteller said “This is baby Jesus” I began to pay closer attention. In those few minutes, as the storyteller spoke, I learned that in my attempt to remove all things that didn’t directly display Jesus, I had removed love from Christmas. Love, the most important thing Jesus asks us to share, I trampled, because in my mind it didn’t seem Christian-like to focus on others when we should be honoring Jesus’ birthday.

The best way to transform ourselves into the likeness of Jesus is to love others, and Christmas provides us with an opportune time to share Jesus’ love. What good does it do us to display a nativity scene in our front yard if we are not pouring into others what baby Jesus in the manger stands for?

Santa Claus was created in the likeness and character of a man named Nicholas who was born in the third century. Nicholas was a devout Christian who dedicated his life to serving God. He helped the needy and loved and protected children. Nicholas obeyed Jesus and reflected His love and compassion so boldly in his life that Nicholas was honored as a Saint. It is believed that God worked through Saint Nicholas performing miracles and accomplishing extraordinary deeds here on Earth. Saint Nicholas obeyed and adored Jesus. Saint Nicholas allowed Jesus to shine through him, and that is Saint Nicholas’s connection to Jesus. Although Saint Nicholas never actually cradled baby Jesus in his arms, the symbolism is of Saint Nicholas protecting all that Jesus was and all that Jesus came here to do.

Has Santa Claus replaced Jesus? Only in the minds of those who have allowed it to. In my house, Santa Claus is Jesus’ helper. I no longer seek to eliminate the things that don’t directly display Jesus during Christmas. I simply share the love of Jesus in all of the beautiful things that surround us. Blinking lights are Jesus’ birthday candles or stars on that sacred Christmas night. Christmas trees are the wood used to build the manger. Santa Claus reminds us of Saint Nicholas and how he lived his life for God. Presents symbolize the gifts presented to the newborn King. Delivering food and presents to needy families show how Saint Nicholas pleased God and allow us to demonstrate the love of Jesus.

If we are slathering our houses in lights and inflatable Santas and snowmen, does it make us any less Christian? If we are sharing the love, joy, and celebration of Christmas, we are reflecting the character of Jesus and honoring God’s arrival on Earth no matter what decorations we use in our celebrations.

The Art of Fabrication

2009-11-04T12:59:00.019-06:00

In the fiction writer's world, the art of fabrication is otherwise known as writing great fiction. In the past couple of years, since deciding to take my writing from the hobby arena to the professional arena, I have been learning volumes about great writing.

I've been brushing up on my grammar, building my vocabulary, researching marketing techniques, leading and participating in critique sessions, developing creative writing sessions, networking with other writers, and studying great works of writing. Through the Christian Writer's Guild, I have been and will be learning about all different kinds of writing (news articles, magazine articles, personality interviews, poetry, devotionals, screenwriting, non-fiction, and fiction) as well as writing techniques and tips. And the list displaying my preparation for a career in writing goes on and on. But for my non-writer readers, I will not bore you with the interminable details.

Academically speaking, I guess you could say I'm covered.

But for a writer, especially a fiction writer, there are two things that you must have that all of that academic preparation just isn't going to fully provide.

Imagination and a curiosity about the human condition.

And the real challenge is the ability to tie the two together. If you write fiction, that ability is the art of fabrication - to be able to weave a completely plausible lie that throughout and in the end implants something in the reader that they just can't let go of.

It's easy to determine if you have a curiosity about the human condition. It can be as simple as wondering why someone is the way they are. For example, recent news made me ask this question: "What would make a 15-year-old girl murder her sister's 9-year-old playmate?"

In my last post, "Did Jeffrey Meet Jesus," I wrote, "I probably should have been a psychiatrist because I've always been interested in what makes the darkest of the dark in humanity tick." My friend Stephanie left a comment that read, "I've found the same traits that would have made you a good psychiatrist also make you a really good writer. It's a fascination with our fellow human beings and the human condition." Thank you for your comment, Stephanie, because that response has tumbled around in my brain for the past few days and made me realize something about writing I hadn't considered before. The result is this blog.

Curiosity also shows itself in your heart and mind through something as simple as a look. The deep crevices chiseled into the leathery face of a street-stained homeless man. The apathetic countenance of a neglected child. The artificial joy frozen on the face of a woman who carries a reflection of internal torment in her eyes.

Words and body language can also give a fiction writer a shot of creative caffeine. Driving in my car one day, I once wrote an entire poem in my head when I heard the word "tragic" in a song. The word combined with a situation going on in my life, and I simply couldn't stop my brain. I later turned the poem into a six-page short story - it was fiction but fiction stimulated by observations of the human condition. And although it's rare, sometimes that human condition I observe is my own.

Add imagination to a curious nature, and it sparks fireworks that explode in the mind of a writer. When I have trouble getting my imagination to soar, I read books by writers who have bold and brilliant imaginations. C.S. Lewis is probably my favorite, but there are so many others depending on what you like to read. Cormac McCarthy is a dark writer, but his imagination is so vast and rich. If you like poetry, it may be the most prolific way to jump start your imagination - especially romantic era poets like Coleridge, Shelley, and Byron. A couple of great modern day poets who write great visual poetry are Stellasue Lee and Ramon Presson. Books of great short stories can also give you a quick imagination high.

I constantly remind myself not to limit my imagination. I used to love to read vampire books, and they all basically followed the Brahm Stokers list of vampire rules - until I started reading Anne Rice. She broke all the rules and created super vampires. Things the other vampires couldn't do, her vampires could. And why not, the characters are only limited by the writer's imagination. I still battle with limiting my characters, but I'm healing, and I like to think eventually I'll be cured of this yield in my creativity.

So, take something you observe about the human condition, combine it with your imagination, and voilà - you have the art of fabrication. Put it all on paper and BAM! you're a fiction writer.

Of course, all the academic stuff certainly helps you assemble it all together, but no matter how well assembled it is, no one is going to read your writing if your imagination doesn't reveal something thought provoking about the human condition.

So unleash your thinking, and pay close attention to the world around you. There's a story waiting to be fabricated everywhere you look.

Did Jeffrey Meet Jesus?

2009-10-28T08:55:00.007-05:00

The man slumped to the floor, his glasses crushed, his head bleeding profusely. He looked up at his attacker, the man wielding the blood-soiled, solid-metal weight bar and said, "I don't care if I live or die. Go ahead and kill me."

The man with the metal bar gladly met the bleeding man's demand and administered a vicious adrenalin-infused blow to the man's head. The bleeding man was rendered unconscious as his attacker countinued bludgeoning until he had pulverized the man's head. The man's body survived long enough to make it into the ambulance where he was pronounced dead from severe head trauma.

What do you feel for this bleeding man as he is experiencing this attack? Pain? Sympathy? Anger at his attacker?

What if I tell you both men were prisoners and the bleeding man was serving a life sentence for murder? Do you still feel pain? sympathy? anger? Do you feel less of it because this man was a murderer?

Witnesses say that guards walked away from the attack, closing the doors behind them, allowing the attack to happen. Some say it was planned and that even the guards allowed the plans to play out. Witnesses also say that despite the bloody, gruesome scene, some time passed before the guards called for medical help.

What do you feel now? Anger? Apathy?

What if I tell you the bleeding man with the pulverized head was Jeffrey Dahmer? In 1991 Dahmer confessed to raping, torturing, killing, and dismembering 15 men and boys and murdering 2 other men. He also confessed to committing post mortem rapes and cannibalism on his victims.

What do you feel about this vicious attack now? Anything?

In the early 90's I was in my early 20's. I remember I couldn't turn on the news for months it seemed without being inundated with Dahmer details. We learned more than we needed to know about what this guy did, and the details were so disgusting and shocking that as time went on and more details emerged, the schock drifted into a complacency. Not because we didn't care but because the recent week's horrid revelation just didn't seem to out-disgust the one they shared the week before.

I probably should have been a psychiatrist because I've always been interested in what makes the darkest of the dark in humanity tick. And I truly thought I could never hear a another detail that would surprise me about Jeffrey Dahmer.

But this past Saturday, I did.

I wandered across an old prime time news program that consisted of a 1994 interview with Dahmer shortly before his death. The interview shocked me - not because of any of the horrid things I already knew about him but because of one shocking thing I'd never heard.

Dahmer who had believed in the theory of evolution and felt that it made him his own god - Dahmer who also believed he was the devil - had prayed for the salvation that only Jesus Christ offers and was baptized - both while incarcerated. Dahmer's father had shared creationism and Jesus with Dahmer after he went to prison, and according to Dahmer, his heart accepted it.

If his heart truly was right with God and if there are no unforgivable sins, this means Dahmer slipped out of his flesh and into the arms of Jesus.

Now, what do you feel?

I leave you with these questions:

1. Are there any unforgivable sins?

2. Do you think when Dahmer slipped out of his flesh that he landed in the arms of Jesus?

"Evil Is God's Megaphone"

2009-10-22T21:26:00.007-05:00

Question: Why does God allow His children to be the object of evil?

I usually leave my conversations with God with answers. Today, however, I left with this deep and troubling question. Evil was not on my mind in the least when I snuggled in close to God this morning. But when He released me to face the world, I was left unsettled by the concept of evil.

I don't mean evil like ghosts and goblins and witches and other make-believe fantasies. I mean REAL evil. Someone who kidnaps and murders a 7-year-old girl and dumps her in a landfill. A mother who gets liquored and doped up and kills a carload full of children driving the wrong way on a highway. A man who kidnaps an 11-year-old girl, rapes her, gets her pregnant twice, and holds her and her two girls hostage in a shed in the back yard for 18 years. Teenagers who douse a fellow teen in alcohol and set him on fire.

This is the real evil that exists in our world today, and I haven't even scratched the surface.

John 3 was on my reading list today which is what led me to start thinking about evil in the first place. Around verse 19 or 20, Jesus talks a little about evil. He says that evil men do not come to the Light for fear that their evil deeds will be known. And those who do evil hate the Light. Jesus, of course, is the Light.

So today's Bible reading collided with recent news and I was left with: Why does God allow his children to be the object of evil?

I can honestly say I've never asked the question if God is so good, why does he let bad things happen? Partly because I've just always trusted that He knows what He's doing and partly because I read the C.S. Lewis book The Problem of Pain early in my Christian walk. It answered that question before I even knew to ask it. Another great book that explores good and evil, also by C.S. Lewis is The Great Divorce which takes the reader on a fictional journey through Heaven and Hell. Read both of these if you grapple with the question of evil in the world.

As I meditated on today's question throughout the rest of my day, answers came to me. I am not a theologian in any way, so this is a commoners thoughts.

Question: Why does God allow His children to be the object of evil?

It solidifies our connection to Him.
The result is feeding a larger plan.
To prove to the devil that unconditional love of God does exist.
Evil is God's megaphone to a sick and dying world. His children have security in Heaven regardless of the result.
Because eliminating evil would mean eliminating choice. Eliminating choice would mean eliminating free will. Eliminating free will means eliminating good and evil. If there is no evil, what would we consider good? If there is no good, what would we consider evil?

And why evil specifically on His children? What is the solution? Segregate the evil people from the good? God could not do that and still allow us free will could He?

A day will come when He will segregate us and when the result of our choice to love Him, possible because of our free will, will be made pure and complete. Are you ready?

"Evil is God's megaphone to an unbelieving world." - C.S. Lewis

Caught in a "Web" of Confusion

2009-10-15T21:43:00.015-05:00

I have a confession to make. I love Halloween. I love dressing up in silly costumes -- yes, I still do that (last year, I was "woman covered in spiders"). I love looking through my kids' candy scores. I love carving jack-o-lanterns. I love haunted houses. I love those CDs with scary laughter and music. I love pretend ghosts and bats and witches and vampires.

It's the one day of the year when I can just be goofy and no one questions my sanity.

I don't know much about the reason for Halloween. Why it exists. What it symbolizes. How it came to be. Sure, I could Google it, but I'm afraid I may read something that will make me feel guilty for enjoying it. So, I free myself from inaccurate resolution by choosing to remain unstudied in this area.

Besides, sure enough, if I find something incriminating on one "Web" page, I will find something acquitting on the next. Then I have to determine which "Web" sites are credible and which are unreliable. And by then, I'm really confused, I have a searing headache, and I'm dwelling on my guilty feelings over the really bad thing I read even though I have no idea if it's true or not.

Are you "Caught in a 'Web' of Confusion," too?

Last year, I went with my son's first-grade class to the book fair at his school. My son loves Pokemon, so as we were looking through the Pokemon books, one of the girls in his class came up to us and said, "I love Pokemon, but my mom won't let me have Pokemon stuff."

I said, "why?"

She said, "Because she says it's of the devil."

It wasn't the response I was expecting, and all I could squeak out was, "Oh."

After watching lots and lots and lots of Pokemon, "of the devil" is not something I would have used to describe the show.

Good versus bad - yes.

Dark versus light - yes.

Happy versus angry - yes.

"Of the devil" - NEVER crossed my mind.

And the puzzling thing is, on Pokemon, the good guys always win. Similar to superhero programs, there is usually a lesson in the battles portrayed. Sometimes, Pokemon can be so shiny and happy, it almost makes me gag just a little.

So, what was up with this mom? My guess -- she Googled it.

Then, she believed only the incriminating stuff she read without actually viewing the program and forming her own opinion.

OR

She allowed the poorly-researched, incriminating stuff to weave itself into her judgement-making capabilities and then viewed the program through the tunnel of someone else's bad opinions.

I never Googled Pokemon and never will. I would rather form my own opinions of the show. There are many many cartoons I do not let my kids watch due to content I have observed. So far, Pokemon has not raised a red flag in my head.

NOTE: While searching for appropriate Pokemon videos on YouTube for my kids to watch, I encountered some Pokemon videos that individuals turned into ugly things that children should not be viewing. PARENTS - ALWAYS BE AWARE OF WHAT YOUR KIDS ARE VIEWING IF THEY BROWSE YOUTUBE or any other site that individuals can add their own creations to.

"Web" confusion doesn't just happen with things that are supposedly evil, it happens in the Christian world, too. Probably especially in the Christian world. Have you all seen this video that is going around that asks "Did Jesus give us the name of the antichrist?" It claims that Luke 10:18 which states "And he said unto them, I beheld Satan falling as lightning from the heavens" when spoken by Jesus in His language actually said the antichrist's name. According to the videomaker, in Jesus' language, "lightning from the heavens" is translated as "Baraq U Bam Maw."

Okay, you see where the video is going with this right?

Because I recalled something in the Bible saying something about not knowing who the antichrist is until the time of tribulation, I had to Google this one -- not to form my own opinion (I already had that), but to see what others thought. Of course, I found arguments on both sides. Although I see signs in this world that "Baraq U Bam Maw" is playing a key role in Biblical prophecy, I seriously doubted that Jesus would flat-out name the antichrist. So, I have to say, I'm not buying the video (which is why I'm not posting it here - but I'm sure you can find it if you - you guessed it - Google it). It doesn't mean I believe "U Bam Maw" is, and it doesn't mean I believe he isn't. It just means, as a pre-trib Christian, I do not believe I will know who the antichrist is while I'm here on this earth.

So here are my questions:

1. Is it okay for a Christian to enjoy Halloween?

2. Pokemon (if you've seen it) -- innocent fun or evil intentions?

3. The antichrist video (if you've seen it) -- bold reporting or baloney?

4. "Web" searching -- fact finder, entertainment tool, or simply a "Web" of confusion?

My Death

2009-10-10T16:38:00.011-05:00

My death occurred on a mild April day in 1997. I knew I was dying. I had been cleaving to the earth for a long time, but suddenly something was peeling me, pore by pore, off of the sludge and grime of this vicious world. And in the process, something good and pure was digging under my skin and eating at my flesh. As my filthy, sour flesh sunk beneath the water's surface and died, it was good. It was very very good.

But the world, you see, loved the influence my wickedness had on others and wasn't the least bit happy about my death. So it pulled me back, and it didn't take much effort. In fact, we had a deal, the world and I -- I could go to that place that brought about my death for a couple of hours on Sunday mornings, but when I escaped its doors, I belonged to the world again.

Ah, but when the world has hold of you, it can be wildly jealous and the flesh uncontrollably stubborn.

"Saturday night is fun night," World said. "You'll be back in time to do that thing on Sunday morning. Let's go party."

In my flesh, I was weak, so I agreed with World and went along.

But World was still unsettled, "You're having too much fun tonight. You can't go home now. You can miss one Sunday."

World is right, I thought, I can't possibly go home now. What's one Sunday?

Before long, one Sunday became two and two became four, and four became eight -- and before I knew it, I only occassionally went through those doors on Sunday morning.

When my flesh began to feel guilty for the things I did outside of those Sunday morning doors, World was always there to hand me the things that would make it all feel better -- the things that gripped my connection to the pleasures of my past -- the things that helped me forget about my death on that beautiful April morning just a few months earlier.

And suddenly, it was all good again - but for all the wrong reasons.

Soon I began to wonder if I had really died at all beneath that water's surface.

In the years since, I have learned that I indeed died that day -- that even though I let go of Him in those early years, He never let go of me. In the moment of my death, His arms opened wide. Even when I do something stupid, like fall under the spell of the world, all I have to do is turn my face toward Him, and He is there loving me and giving me the strength to resist the world's next attack.

And thanks to His love and His sacrifice, I grow stronger every day.

Thank you, God, for fighting for me and never letting go even when the world fights back.

Beware of the Writer Who Isn't Writing

2009-10-06T17:24:00.017-05:00

I didn't make it out of the library parking lot before gently cracking the cover of The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come and absorbing page one and two. I had to crack it gently because it is a very old book -- written in 1903. This particular edition, published in 1931, is probably a second edition. Nevertheless, it's very old, and the crispy, yellowed pages are fragile. I was so enthralled by the first two pages, I probably would have finished the first chapter, sitting right there in my car, had I not been on my way to pick up my son at school.

First of all -- no, this is not a book review, so read on.

Just by reading the first two pages, I already knew some special things about this book. I knew it was going to be visually rich and stunning. I knew it was going to weave historical truths into fictional beauty. I knew it would flow with a poetic rhythm that would make me feel like I was dancing from word to word, sentence to sentence, paragraph to paragraph, and chapter to chapter. And I also knew that I would need to go to the online library catalog tonight and order another book by John Fox Jr. and have it delivered to my local library -- afterall, this one will only last a few days.

As I drove, the book laying in the seat next to me, I was thinking about a friend from my writers group who just lost her husband, whose visitation I had just attended earlier in the day. It occurred to me that as I was leaving the visitation and telling her goodbye, she had said she'd be coming back to our writing meetings soon.

Well, of course, I thought as I drove along. Because that's what writers do. We write no matter what. We write in spite of everything else and probably because of everything else. We write because what else would we do?

I've read that people who truly love to write, especially those of us who who love to write fiction, must have some degree of schizophrenia. Well, I say BEWARE OF A WRITER WHO LOVES TO WRITE WHO ISN'T WRITING. Has your husband or wife, who loves to write, been irritable, short tempered, or moody lately? Ask them what they have written lately - I bet the answer will be, "nothing." A true writer must write because it balances our psyche and keeps our pseudo schizophrenia under wraps.

Back to John Fox Jr. -- from The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come:

"The days of that April had been days of mist and rain. Sometimes, for hours, there would come a miracle of blue sky, white cloud, and yellow light, but always between dark and dark the rain would fall and the mist creep up the mountains and steam from the tops -- only to roll together from either range, drip back into the valleys, and lift, straightway, as mist again. So that, all the while Nature was trying to give lustier life to every living thing in the lowland Bluegrass, all the while a gaunt skeleton was stalking down the Cumberland -- tapping with fleshless knuckles, now at some unlovely cottage of faded white and green, and now at a log cabin, stark and gray."

Ahhh... as I stand between the mountain ranges in the lifting mist and steam, I relax but only for a moment as the author shatters my calm with the sense of brewing conflict. If it does that to me as a reader, imagine what a release it must have been for John Fox Jr. as he wrote it and twiddled with it until it was just right. When you have something like that inside you, it has to come out because if it stagnates inside you, God help anyone who comes into contact with you. In those first two pages that began with the quoted passage above, I knew why John Fox Jr. had to write.

And I questioned -- why do I write?

My answer:

I write because it helps me remember -- and I write because it helps me forget. I write because sometimes, oftentimes, this wretched world just doesn't make sense, and writing relieves my agitation. I write because it allows me to let go -- and I write because it forces me to grab on. I write so I can sleep at night -- and I write when I can't sleep at night. I write to protect my sanity -- and I write when I need to be a little nutty. I write to reclaim something, anything -- innocence, love, anger, security, fear, pain.

And most of all, I write because God makes me -- and I write because the devil dissuades me.

Why do you write?

Gateway Man Saves the Day... Sort Of

2009-08-28T11:44:00.004-05:00

"What do you mean... there's no nail in my tire?" is what I was thinking at Gateway Tire Center today. I had driven all the way out there just so they could remove the ominous looking thing from my tire.

The nail head was huge, and I was afraid to touch it. I didn't want to wiggle it loose and flatten my tire. So, I risked, at best, getting a flat tire on the 20-mile journey from my home and, at worst, having my tire blow. But someone had to get that nail out and fix my tire, and Gateway does it for free.

Yes! Gateway would save the day, so I headed straight for my superheroes.

I had a plan. Get to Gateway. Get my tire fixed. That was it. Simple. I could have cared less about the journey, I just wanted to be at Gateway hearing someone say, "we patched your tire - you're ready to go." The journey out could be challenging, and I just wanted to reach my destination and put the journey behind me.

So, when Gateway Man said, "Ma'am, the nail wasn't in your tire, you're free to go." It completely shattered my goal. I was irritated, I drove all the way out here, and there's no nail in my tire -- you've got to be kidding me.

"There's no nail?" I asked.

"The nail wasn't in your tire," he said.

"Okay," I said as he turned to walk away.

But something told me that wasn't enough information for this terrible inconvenience in my day. I had to know more. I saw the nail head plastered to my tire. Where else could the rest of it have gone? I guess I just wasn't going to be happy until Gateway Man either confessed to his lie or went out and punctured my tire himself so that my drive out would have been worth it and my goal achieved.

I said, "Um... Gateway Man..." (okay, I didn't really say Gateway Man, but he was supposed to be my tire superhero, so I'm sure I thought it)"Where was it? The nail? If it wasn't in my tire." **This visual is a lot more fun if you imagine me as a 110 lb., 5'9, chesty redhead with flowing hair, porcelain skin, pouty lips, and a ravenous voice. **

He turned back and said, "It was in the groove and it was really short, so it didn't penetrate the tire."

"Oh, okay, thanks," I said, feeling a bit like Mary Jane (Spiderman heroine for you non-superhero fans) being rescued from a hissing kitten.

Okay, Karen, so what's the analogy, you ask? Oh, you all know me too well. I'm a writer -- my whole life is an analogy. And if I know you personally, so is yours (oh, I'm so facebooking that). :)

Oh, and I just realized I can make a double-duty impact with this analogy -

Writers AND Christians - Are you enjoying and savoring the journey? Even when the trip is hard, challenging, or maybe even a bit dangerous? Or are you so focused on the destination that you rush the journey and learn nothing in the process? Sure enough if you focus on the nail in your tire, you're going to be very dissapointed when the destination isn't what you expected and you missed the entire journey worrying about that stupid nail.

I leave you with this great quote:

"It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end." - Ursula K. LeGuin

New Blog Clothes and "Steph in the City"

2009-08-25T12:38:00.011-05:00

I want to say an extra special "thank you" to my friend, fellow writer, and fellow blogger, Stephanie Faris, for naming my blog as one of her favorites on her top, award-winning blog, "Steph in the City." Stephanie recently moved to Blogger from My Space where she was a Top Blogger drawing thousands of visitors to her posts daily. She instantly gained a huge following here on Blogger, and I know you will enjoy reading her blog. She posts on a variety of topics, so there is something there for everyone. Click on her picture below to link to her blog.

Also, a very special "thank you" to Stephanie's readers who have hopped over here to read my blog. I hope you keep visiting.

Do you like my new blog clothes? My old blog clothes looked like this:

This was, and still is, my dream loft. "My Writing Loft" is actually in the corner of the guest bedroom under a sloped ceiling. Right now, I am looking at a bed holding only the box springs (we're using the mattress in my son's room). The chest of drawers is in front of my desk and holds all of my ideas, via post-it notes, on the side of the chest. A stack of books, thigh high, are on the floor behind my chair. Another stack of books, magazines, and newspapers rests next to a small bookshelf a few feet away. Oddly enough the bottom shelf of the the bookshelf is empty. And some books from the top shelf have fallen off of the unprotected sides. They've been laying there for a few weeks. In fact, here's a peek:

I know! It's not very glamorous is it? No one ever said the life of a writer is supposed to be glamorous. Even Stephen King uses a desk shoved into the sloped corner of a room, so I guess I'm in good company. You can see why I used my dream loft picture instead of the real thing.

I hope you like the new clothes. It truly does look like me -- sitting here in my "loft," slumped over my desk, typing away on my keyboard. I even prop my foot up like that sometimes -- when I don't have them criss-cross-applesauce in my chair. Except, I guess I better go ahead and confess that I don't really have blue hair.

Writing friends -- tell me about your writing space. Is it as glamorous as mine? Don't leave out any of the glamorous or not-so-glamorous details.

What's Your Motive?

2009-08-19T18:37:00.005-05:00

My son occasionally asks me questions about Heaven: “Will my toys be there?” “Will our dog be there?” “Will there be swimming pools?” “Will our house be there?”

“Of course those things will be in Heaven,” I used to say. “It wouldn’t be Heaven without it, would it?” My imagination bridged the gaps, creating my own personal Heaven. In my Heaven, I envisioned a resplendent farmhouse nestled in rolls of majestic mountains surrounded by God’s perfect nature. I was surrounded with all the treasures with which God had awarded me. And there would be many treasures – after all, I would have lots of service tally marks to trade for my treasures.

How do you envision Heaven, and what is your motive when you are serving God? Are you, like I was, collecting tally marks that you hope to trade for treasures in Heaven? Deuteronomy 10:12 reads, “What does the LORD your God require from you, but to… serve the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul.” Your desires to serve may be authentic, but could your motives be tainted?

In the book Room of Marvels by James Bryan Smith, the main character gets a sneak peek of his home in Heaven. Inside, he discovers a wall filled with tiny pictures of people. As he touches each picture, the person talks to him, sharing how he spiritually impacted them during his time on Earth.

I began to view my opportunities to serve as tiny pictures hanging in my ever-expanding mansion being built in Heaven. God’s Word does not promise material abundance in Heaven, but my human do-more-get-more experience had tainted my expectation of Heaven. The more pictures I could collect, the bigger my house would be.

Last summer, my overloaded schedule was burying me. A tragic realization gripped me: my heart was not joyful, it was burdened. I was scattered and without focus, and I had reached my breaking point. I didn’t know who I was doing it all for, but it wasn’t God. It was time for me to listen to God’s expectations of me instead of following my own expectations of what I wanted Heaven to be. With God’s guidance, I adjusted my areas of service and refined my motives for serving.

How do you feel about each area in which you serve? Is it a joyful experience, or is it one more thing to scratch off of your to-do list? Are you well prepared and excited when you arrive, or are you rushing in at the last moment, scrambling to prepare your materials? Do you thank God for giving you the opportunity to serve and grow His kingdom, or do you thank Him that it’s over? Are you instilling a spiritual lesson in your life or someone else’s life, or are you making no spiritually significant impact in anyone’s life? Are others inspired by the way the Holy Spirit works through you, or would they describe you as bored, exhausted, or fake? Finally, what is God telling you? He will tell you where He wants you to serve Him. Be quiet and hear Him, then do what He says, and do it joyfully.

Search your heart, and determine if your motives are kingdom-serving or self-serving. Are you fascinated with worldly materials? Evangelist Leonard Ravenhill said, “Is the world crucified to you tonight or does it fascinate you?” If the world fascinates you, consider if you are expecting Heaven to materially fascinate you as well. If so, your motives for serving may need to be adjusted.

I have changed the way I answer my son’s questions about Heaven now. “I don’t know if those things will be in Heaven,” I say, “but I do know we spend our entire earthly lives anticipating Heaven. And I am certain that once we get there, we will never miss the things we left behind.”

What's your motive? And how do you ensure your motives stay pure and untainted?

Sculpture In Process

2009-08-13T11:12:00.007-05:00

I wonder how many people give up on Christianity because they feel like they aren't very good at it. I'll bet there are more of them than there are of us. You know "us" right? We are the ones who don't give up on it even though we know we aren't very good at it. No matter how hard we try, nothing feels good enough.

We work every day to sculpt ourselves into the image of Jesus, but we never quite get it right. Some days, it's something simple like maybe our mouth is not forming appropriately. Other days, it might be more severe - so severe that maybe we have to resculpt our entire head. Then there are those days, weeks, months that we have to destroy our hardened sculpture and start with a whole new lump of clay.

This is called sanctification. Once you become a Christian, you have experienced salvation. The next step is sanctification - working hard to mold yourself into the holy image of Christ.

This is where it gets tricky. On this side of Heaven, our sculpture can NEVER be complete.

Each day, I can measure my sanctification effort by visualizing my sculpture. Some days it looks pretty darn good. Other days it can be a huge lump of clay that overwhelms me with fear and exhaustion just looking at it.

So here's my problem. I like to complete things, and since I can't finish my sculpture, I always feel like I could be doing better.

God has given me two ministries to glorify Him through. I help collect food for hungry children in Kentucky and talk to people about a maternity home called Lydia's House through Backpack Mission Ministries. God worked through me this summer to collect enough food and donations to feed 125 kids for a month. He also worked through me to collect some financial donations and allowed me to make some incredible contacts for Lydia's House. I rejoiced and praised Him for what He did. Then I looked inside myself and became despondent. Should I have worked harder for God? Maybe He wanted me to collect more money, more food. Why do I do this to myself? Do you do this or am I alone?

The other is my own personal writing ministry. For my Christian writing friends - you do consider your writing a ministry don't you? If you don't you must change how you think. Each day before you tap your first word into your computer, ask God to pour His message through you. Will it be perfect? No. Will pieces of your flesh seep in? Yes. Your sculpture is still in process, remember. But, His message will come through if you ask Him for it.

I wonder if some of those Christians who many of us view to be great soldiers for God ever felt like their efforts just weren't good enough. I recently read James Lindquist's blog post, "The Little Brown Cardboard Box." It was about our worth -- about how when we die all of our stuff will be burned away, while all that is pure in us will be refined. It reminded me of John Wesley.

John Wesley was a Christian theologian who is credited with the founding of the Methodist movement. He also published Bibles and hymns. He founded orphanages and funded missions. He made a lot of money in his lifetime. When he died he owned a preaching gown, a few books, some silver spoons, and six pound notes (a total worth of $30). Everything he made, he gave to God. Do you think he ever said, "I'm just not doing enough." I'll bet he did because, like us, he was human and imperfect.

I think as long as you are sculpting every single day, you are pleasing God. Your sculpture doesn't have to be perfect or complete, -- in fact it never will be until the day of judgement when your salvation is complete -- but it does have to be in process.

What does your sculpture look like today?

Keeping It Fresh

2009-08-05T16:30:00.011-05:00

One of my biggest writing fears is that I will run out of writing ideas. In fact, it probably is THE biggest writing fear I have.

I often wonder if the reason I am such a night owl is because sleep makes me anxious about what I might lose (you can read my humorous thoughts about my writing/sleeping struggles here). What if I wake up in the morning, and all of my ideas are gone - poof, right out the window, never to return again. All of the time and energy spent getting to this point, wasted. And all I'll have to show for it is $7 for one short story. And in time, my poor kids will be stuck with a folder full of my useless ramblings that they would like to toss but doing so would weigh them down with an immense amount guilt.

Somewhere in the future, I imagine Brandilyn Collins's children explaining to their children, "Yes, children, your grandmother is a famous author. She has so many great ideas, she can't stop writing, and all forty of her books are still in print."

Then I imagine my kids talking to their kids, "Yes, children, your grandmother used to like to write. She made $7 for a story once, but she ran out of ideas when I was a kid. Her stories are in the bottom of a box somewhere in the back of the attic."

I know most of us will never achieve the kind of idea factory that Brandilyn Collins has, but how do we strive for something more than what we have? How do we reach something somewhere between $7 and 20+ novels (Brandilyn Collins is currently working on 21 and still has 19 in print - amazing!). How do we keep it fresh? How do we keep it flowing? How do we keep ourselves excited about our own writing?

It seems logical to me that if a story (fiction or nonfiction) doesn't excite the one who wrote it, the writer can't expect it to excite another reader. Are you excited by what you write? When I use the term "excited" what I mean is, does it touch on an emotion: fear, anger, sadness, humor, happiness, etc... ? And does it do so in a moving, unique, or extreme way?

What does excitement have to do with ideas? There is nothing better to fuel the idea engine than to be excited about what you are writing. Find what excites you, and write about it.

I am so afraid of running out of ideas that I stay involved in a number of writing activities to keep my thoughts fresh and flowing.

First is my local writer's group. It was here, about a year ago, that I regained a new exitement for writing. Our writer's group has a subgroup that meets to do creative writing exercises and another subgroup that meets to provide critique and be critiqued. We meet 2-3 times per month and I rarely miss a meeting, because the activities keep my ideas fresh. If you don't have a writer's group, consider starting one.

For my Christian Writer's Guild (CWG) peers, I love to participate in the monthly Armadillo writing contest at the Christian Writer's Forum. This forum is only open to CWG members and students, but I am sure there are similar forums for other writers. The thing I like most about this contest is that it keeps me writing, and it gives me ideas to write about. Each month, they provide a topic and contestants write up to 1,500 words (fiction or nonfiction) on the topic. Currently in my CWG lessons, I am writing articles. This contest allows me to feed my fiction addiction (my favorite thing to write), and I have a small collection of short stories that are being added to monthly, thanks to this contest.

Although I have not utilized the weekly writing contests at Faithwriters, this is another great contest. A topic is given here as well. The maximum word count is 750, and you submit into your specific skill category (I believe there are four options). If someone has experience with this contest, feel free to expand.

I also read, a lot. Read everything you can get your hands on because reading is a great idea generator. I don't know how many times I've been stuck on something I'm writing only to have it jogged loose by something I've just read. It can even be a single word. I once wrote an entire short story just from seeing the word "tragic." The only thing more powerful than reading is being an avid observer of real life.

Warning: By "real life" I do not mean reality television or television in any form, really. I truly think television and movies can have a reverse effect - leaving so little to the imagination that ideas have no room to grow. There are always exceptions, I realize, but as a general rule...

Finally, if you just need something to give you a little creative jolt while you are sitting at home, try these creative writing prompts. This web site has over 300 fun writing activities to get your ideas flowing.

How do you keep your idea factory crisp, polished, and producing? Let us know - your techniques may help the rest of us.

Thankful Thursday 7/30

2009-07-30T23:47:00.015-05:00

1. I am so thankful for my family, friends, local writer's group (Living Writer's Collective), CWG mentor, CWG friends, facebook friends, blog readers, and everyone else who supports and encourages me in this crazy habit I have of writing. You all ROCK!

2. I am thankful that I'm just barely getting my "Thankful Thursday" post in before the deadline... sort of.

3. I am thankful for all of the ideas God feeds me each and every day. I could spend all day writing for Him and still need more time. Thank you, God, for keeping my mind full.

4. I am thankful for the happy crickets chirping in the wet, green grass (odd to have wet, green grass in July in Tennessee) outside my window. Their lullaby will lull me to sleep tonight.

5. I am thankful each and every day that I know that Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life and that no one comes to the Father but through Him (John 14:6). I pray for those who do not yet understand that.

I Was a Fifth Grade Plagiarist...

2009-07-30T00:36:00.016-05:00

...or so it was alleged. Here's the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth -- so help me God:

When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher gave my class a poetry writing assignment. When she passed out the graded assignments, my poem was not graded. Written at the top of my paper, in big red letters, were the words "SEE ME".

When I went to see her she said, "Where did you copy this from?"

I had done nothing wrong, but her accusation scared me a little. I cowered and squeaked a reply. "From my head."

"Well," she said, waving me off, "when I find this poem, you're getting an F."

That poem had indeed come from my head, but it never occured to me, until adulthood, to be flattered by the fact that she thought my poem was that good. At some point during that school year, my paper was uncerimoniously returned to me with an "A" written at the top.

A good teacher might have apologized and said, "your writing is good - maybe we should try to develop it further" or "keep writing, I think you could do something with this." Even a simple "good job" would have been nice. But my paper just appeared among a stack of papers, and no words were ever spoken about it.

It was, however, the conception of something deep inside of me that wouldn't start to spread it's wings until almost thirty years later.

(pause) - *I can't believe I'm embarrasing myself like this, but see the bottom of this post to read my 5th grade poem.*

Even though I have never loved my writing, I have always loved to write... for myself. I have always had notebooks filled with poems, short stories, and journaling shoved into the nooks and crannies around my house. What had been conceived in childhood had been growing for thirty years, but I had no intention of ever letting it leave the nest. It was for my eyes only.

But then, God got in the middle of things.

I was saved in my late twenties, and it took a few years after that, but my writing began to shift. God was filling me with stories and ideas, and I soon realized that what I was writing was no longer for my eyes only. Then fear set in. I had no idea how to write for other people.

My vocabulary was weak, my language skills clumsy. Why would God call me to do this?

But I am obedient, so I did what anyone in my position might do. I began writing a novel. Yeah, I just jumped right in the deep end, knowing I couldn't swim. If nothing else, it would prove to God that I couldn't do what He was calling me to do.

My novel was, and still is, halfway through and yes, it was REALLY bad. But it showed me something I didn't expect. There was potential there. If I could just develop this and brush up on that and fine tune a few things here and there... but how?

I had decided on a writing program, but for two years God kept closing the doors to the one I had planned to take. I used that time to study grammar and strengthen my vocabulary. At the end of that second year, God closed that same door one more time, and I began to get frustrated -- maybe God didn't really want me to write.

One night, after meeting with my writer's group at Books-A-Million, I decided to pick up a writing magazine. I grabbed a Writer's Digest and sat down right there in the store and started reading it. I came to an ad for the Christian Writer's Guild. I had never heard of it before, but I had an attack of Holy Ghost bumps that instant and knew God was telling me something.

I spent a week learning everything I could about the CWG, and in that time God opened the doors wide for me to start the writing program. Then I knew, all at once, why He had been shutting doors for two years. The secular program I had planned to attend wasn't where He wanted me. He wanted me intensly focused on Christian writing - something I would have missed in the secular program.

We've all heard the saying, "God doesn't call the equipped, He equips the called." Well, that is definitely me. I am so completely a work in progress, but He is doing something amazing in me. I know because I have never been so at peace with any other task He has ever given me.

As soon as I started the Apprentice program at the CWG, I studied the scripture below during my quiet time. Anytime I become unsure of my abilities, I jump full force into this verse and I know God's got me covered:

To this end also we pray for you always, that our God will count you worthy of your calling, and fulfill every desire for goodness and the work of faith with power, so that the name of our Lord Jesus will be glorified in you, and you in Him according to the grace of our God and the Lord Jesus Christ. – 2 Thessalonians 1:11-12

For humor purposes, here is my 5th grade poem that caused all the trouble. It's been in my head for years, and reading it written, I'm thinking my 5th grade teacher may not have been the sharpest tool in the shed.

Butterfly

Way up high, high in the sky
There flies a lovely butterfly

Yellow, orange, black, and red
Once a caterpillar, now has fled.

The prettiest one that you should see
Should be the one you choose for me.

But if it should fly a long, long way
We could just go outside and play

Until it returns, soon again, someday.

Writing From an Honest Place

2009-07-27T22:34:00.007-05:00

I once took a poem I wrote and converted it to a short story. The story ended up being stunning and rhythmic. And because my poems tend to be more personal and written in darker moments of my life than my stories, it was the most honest and uncompromising story I have ever written. I loved the result.

I wrote this to a friend on the Christian Writer's Guild forum tonight and realized I gave myself some insight in the process. Lately, I've been burdened in my writing. I feel like I'm trying to squeeze myself into a style of Christian writing that isn't quite fitting. It's not from external pressure but from my own internal uncertainties.

What I'm finding when I write is that I am somewhat removed from my stories. There is a density there that I can't seem to poke holes in. I am making my own personal compromise in an effort to appeal to a Christian audience.

And yet, I am a Christian writer. I wouldn't even be in this writing place if God hadn't led me here and told me to write for Him.

Maybe my ideas of what a Christian audience wants are inaccurate. There are times when I write that I come to a split in the road. One way leads me on the straight and narrow, and the other explores something a bit more crooked and broad - maybe even dark at times. I almost always choose the straight and narrow because that's what Christians want to read... right? When I do this -- choose the path I'm less inclined to choose -- I sacrifice the passion, the honesty, the connection of my story.

The funny thing is, every time I take that straight and narrow path, something tells me I'm on the wrong road, but I persist because it's safe.

I have considered that maybe God didn't send me to this place to write to a Christian audience. I can be a Christian writer and appeal to a secular audience. What an incredible honor it would be to be sent to the writing field to speak to God's lost children. How does a Christian writer balance such a call? In this day, how do you meet unbelievers where they are and not compromise your Christian values and commandments?

Is it possible to appeal to both? Is a story that is not blatantly Christian throughout, but that you know is nothing but Christian in the end, going to hold the attention of a Christian reader until they realize its message? Is a story that isn't filled with graphic sex, morbid violence, or a multitude of obscenities going to hold the attention of an unbeliever long enough for them to be gripped by the possibility of Christianity?

I love thinking things out in a blog because as I read through what I've just written, something occurred to me. It doesn't matter which path I follow as long as it's the path that God is on. If I look ahead and He's not in front of me, I have to change paths. If I stay on the wrong path, then it's not actually His message I'm delivering.

Father, may I always write from a truthful, passionate, and connected place, and above all else, may I carry only Your message as I go. - Amen

"Wow! I'm a Good Writer... or Am I?"

2009-07-23T21:26:00.005-05:00

I've always been an "I'll believe my writing is good if..." person.

Before I was brave enough to show my writing to my family and close friends I said, "I'll believe my writing is good if someone else likes it."

When my friends and family loved my writing I figured it was just because they are close to me, so I said, "I'll believe my writing is good if someone else who writes likes it."

When I joined a writer's group, and they were moved by my writing, I decided they were just being nice, so I said, "I'll believe my writing is good if someone who is a published author likes it."

When I began my Apprentice program at the Christian Writer's Guild, my mentor was a multi-published author. She has given me helpful criticism but also incredibly positive feedback on my writing ability. I assumed she was just going easy on me since I was new, and I said, "I'll believe my writing is good if someone actually publishes something I write."

When I received my first publishing acceptance with an online magazine, I thought they must be desperate for writers (even though I had to wait 3 months to see it published), and I said, "I'll believe my writing is good if I actually see it in a print publication."

A couple of months ago, I sold a fiction short story to The Storyteller -- it will be printed this winter. This publication is a well-respected, high-quality magazine, and it is an honor to be printed there. I will receive a one-digit figure for it (chew on that for a sec - here's a hint: I spent more on the subscription so I could see it in print than I will make). Then I said, "I'll believe my writing is good if I ever make a two-, three-, four-digit figure for it."

Then there's writer's schizophrenia. Why is it that I can read a story I've written one day and think, hey, that's pretty good. Then two days later I can pick up the exact same story and think, what was I thinking - this is the crappiest story I've ever written. And I guarantee you, if I let the same story rest another couple of days, I'll like it again.

Okay, so we've established my insanity (which is supposed to be a requirement for a writer so I think I'm already ahead of the game).

My fellow writers, I just have to ask - if there are any of you out there whose minds work like mine and you are willing to admit it, does this cycle ever stop?

When do you finally look at your work and say, "Wow! I'm a good writer?"

Thankful Thursday 7/23

2009-07-23T20:55:00.010-05:00

1. Thank you, Father, for Your abundance at our Backpack Mission table at my church's preschool VBS this week. I prayed asking You to fill up at least one kiddie pool with food, and with two nights and one day left to go in VBS, my table looked like this:

2. Thank you, God, for all of the blessings you are currently pouring over our other Backpack Mission ministry, Lydia's House . Thanks to the love, support, and time of so many of Your children, this maternity home in Kentucky is being created according to Your plan.

3. Thank you, God, for giving my boys the opportunity to grow even closer to You during their time in VBS this week.

4. Thank you, God, for the spring-like weather You gave us this week during a time when we are typically scorching hot in Southern Tennessee.

5. Thank you, God, for making my shorter writing times, due to the boys being out of school for the summer, seem doubled.

"Alone" in My Car

2009-07-16T22:20:00.007-05:00

God and I have the best conversations when I am alone in my car, driving on the interstate. It has to be the interstate because it is constant and unrestrictive, and as the car penetrates the air before it, a gentle hum fills the car's interior creating the perfect meditative environment. I was blessed today to have some alone time on the interstate. And, of course, God was there.

I was driving the stretch of I65 North from Spring Hill toward Nashville. My destination was the Applebees on Thompson Lane (just south of downtown Nashville for my non-Nashville readers) where I was meeting my dear friend Diane for lunch. I was absorbed in some awesome worship tunes -- Travis Cottrell's newest CD, Jesus Saves Live. Visit Travis's blog to hear one of my favorites off of the CD and see some great pics from the most recent live event.

So, I was singing along (at the top of my lungs because that's what you do when you're alone in the car - even if you can't sing, which I can't):

"Hear the heart of Heaven beating
Jesus saves, Jesus saves
And the hush of mercy breathing
Jesus saves, Jesus saves..."

Then suddenly an interruption in my worship time:

"Diane needs this CD!" God said. Diane, remember, was the friend I was meeting for lunch.

Yeah, I thought to myself, she would enjoy it.

Back to my singing:

"...And the sounding joy repeating, Jesus saves
See the humblest hearts adore him
Jesus saves, Jesus saves
And the wisest bow before him
Jesus saves, Jesus saves..."

Another interruption:

"Diane NEEDS this CD!" He said again.

"I know, God, this is a GREAT CD!" I said out loud.

On with my song:

"...melting darkness in it's blaze
There is light forevermore, Jesus saves"

"KAREN," God said, a bit perturbed," Diane NEEDS this CD!"

"Diane needs THIS CD? But this is my Travis CD, I love this CD." I said.

God said, "Not YOUR CD, goofy girl" (yeah, God sometimes calls me "goofy girl") "but this CD. Lifeway is at the next exit. It won't take you five minutes to run in and grab it."

Oh, I understand, Diane needs this CD. Yes, I can do that.

After picking up the CD, I was a few minutes late meeting Diane for lunch, but I happen to know that God likes to ride in Diane's car too, and apparently He really wants to hear Jesus Saves Live when He's in there. So she understood.

Lydia's House

2009-07-10T11:31:00.034-05:00

As the opening prayer began, my calm began to dissipate. My mind was telling me, "Focus on the prayer, and don't worry. You're going to do just fine." My heart, however wished to be speeding down its own private autobahn and was not happy being restricted to the confines of my pericardium.

Ten seconds into the public prayer I faded into my own prayer. "Be still my heart, Lord. Be still my heart, Lord. Be still my heart, Lord." I must have said it twenty or thirty times before I heard the speaker introduce me. "Please welcome Karen Aldridge who is going to come up and talk about our summer mission focus."

Okay, let me back up just a smidgen. I have talked in front of groups before. Talking in front of groups is not a problem for me. This was a much larger group than I have ever talked to, but that in and of itself really wasn't an issue. Although, I did experience a first with this group: I have never used a microphone... ever. I can't sing, so I've never even attempted karoake. I've never been in a play. Unless you count those little colorful, plastic, preschool, echo microphones, which I don't, I've never used one.

I'm not sure what I expected. I guess I thought I'd stand on the stage and holler at the top of my lungs -- I don't know. I just never considered the microphone. So when the speaker handed me the microphone, I panicked just a little. Many questions zoomed through my head in the three seconds or so it took me to climb the steps and approach the podium. Do I hold it up to my mouth? Do I hold it down low? Do I hold it straight out? Should I hold it with one hand? Should I hold it with two? Do I talk loud? Do I talk soft? WHY, OH WHY, HAD I NOT PAID CLOSER ATTENTION TO PEOPLE HOLDING MICROPHONES ALL MY LIFE? The only microphone vision I could conjure up was Steven Tyler and all his scarves, but I had no microphone stand, and I hadn't worn a scarf.

So, I decided the best possible solution was to just admit my microphone ignorance to the group. It was the best thing that could have happened because right away the crowd laughed which calmed me and slowed my heart back to country road speed. I hadn't even intended it as my opener, but there it was, and it was a success. It's amazing -- God can even work through the clumsy mechanics of a microphone to answer a prayer.

But none of this was the reason my heart began to race in the first place. This time and this group was different. I wasn't talking for me or for the crowd or for a company I worked for. I was carrying God's message, and having Him entrust me to deliver it with the power that only a message from God deserves was a bit scary. I couldn't mess this up -- it was for God -- it was for the ministry -- it was for Diane, my sweet sister in Christ and spiritual mentor -- and it was for the unborn babies.

The ministry is Lydia's House. Lydia's House (pictured below), when it opens, will be a maternity home deep in the Appalachian Mountains of Southeast Kentucky in a little town called Benham. Lydia's House is part of Backpack Mission Ministries Inc. which feeds hungry children in this extreme poverty-stricken region. Through God's prompting, Diane Durham created Backpack Missions and through her work with the children she found out about another desperate need in the area.

There are unborn babies who could be saved if only their young mothers had some place to go. In many cases, the families of these young, pregnant women cannot afford to feed the family they have much less another mouth. And the fathers of these unborn babies don't want to have anything to do with the woman or baby once they find out the woman is pregnant. Abortion, to these women, is an easy solution -- and in their minds, it's the only solution.

Lydia's House provides another solution. Pregnant women who choose Lydia's House will find:

a respite from the harsh environments in which they live (rumbling creek running through Lydia's back yard pictured right).

a soothing haven in which to grow and nurture their unborn babies.

Christian people who will feed their souls with the good news of Jesus Christ.
the time to focus on their situation and make the best choice for their unborn babies -- not abortion, but whether to raise the baby or place baby for Christion adoption.

if they choose to keep baby, skills lessons and all the support they will need to help them prepare for a return to the real world with their sweet babies.

We are finishing up remodeling and reconstruction projects at Lydia's House, but God has already done some great things there. Some big and some small, but all are a part of His plan.

There are four bedrooms, each holding two women. A few months ago, Diane and three others were there painting and someone said, "What are you going to name the girls' rooms?"

Diane said, "I haven't thought about naming the rooms, but I would definitely call one of them Hannah's room."

One by one, they each gave a name they liked. Elizabeth, Sarah, and Mary were the three additional choices. Just like that the girls' rooms were named and they painted scripture to associate the biblical woman with the room on the focal wall of each room.

A little later someone said, "do you realize that all of those names we came up with are the names of women who had miraculous births?" God is so sweet! At Lydia's House every baby saved from abortion will be a miraculous birth.

By the way, God kept my presentation focused and powerful (just what I had been praying for in the days leading up to the event), and the night was a success. I made some great contacts -- people who may like to share their talents or time at Lydia's House, and we received over $300 in donations.

If you want to learn more about Lydia's House or Backpack Mission Ministries, click here.

Scripture inspiration for the naming of Lydia's House -- "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come into my house and stay." - quote from Lydia in Acts 16:15

The Result of Passionate Faith

2009-07-05T21:35:00.006-05:00

The result of the drought was parched, sooty earth making planting conditions impossible. The South African farmers were losing profits and their land. Financial ruin was inevitable for those left, especially if crops were planted in another El Nino season. The farmers were paralyzed.

Angus Buchan was an angry farmer experiencing the devastation. He was a Scotsman who had recently come to Christianity, and his fiery nature began to feed his faith. Angus gave his anxieties to God, and God turned Angus’s passion into a love for South Africa, its people, and his fellow farmers. He began spreading a message of faith among the farmers.

“To heck with El Nino,” he said, “put your trust in God… Don’t be gripped by what El Nino can do to you, but be gripped by what God did for you through Jesus on the cross. God answers the prayers of His people, and that’s why we’re going to plant potatoes”

“Potatoes. In the middle of a drought. It’s impossible,” some said.

“Potatoes need too much water,” others said.

Though most thought he was crazy, Angus never wavered in his faith. He listened to God and planted his potatoes. The entire village came to the harvest. With a pitchfork, Angus loosened a potato mound. As the people watched, he plunged his arm into the dust. He pulled his arm out and looked down at the plump, flawless potato in his hand. Excitement washed over him, and the community celebrated with him, their faith likely strengthened by what they had witnessed.

What do we do when we are confronted with an issue that requires great faith? Do we dwell on the obstacles, or do we respond with the passion of Angus?

The Israelites were confronted with this issue in Joshua 6. God said to Joshua, “I have given Jericho into your hand.” The city was surrounded by towering walls and sealed to keep the Israelites out. A person with small faith might have fallen under the weight of this obstacle and turned away. Joshua demonstrated great faith and listened to God.

Joshua instructed the people to march once around the city in silence, following the armed men and the priests blowing trumpets and carrying the ark of the covenant. For six days, Joshua gave the same instruction. Do you think any of the Israelites thought Joshua was crazy? In their camps, were they discussing ways to get out of these daily marches? Were they saying, “This is never going to work?” Given their history of complaining, it is likely.

Finally, on the seventh day, Joshua’s instruction changed. They marched around the city, not once, but seven times. Then, at the blowing of the trumpets, the people shouted, and the wall fell. They had just witnessed the result of Joshua’s unrelenting faith. With the power of that realization sinking into them, they fought valiantly and overtook the city.

Unrealized faith makes us question, search, and wonder. Faith in action has the power to grow in the most infertile places and knock down walls that an earthquake couldn’t budge. It inspires others and pleases God, and faith like that – like Angus and Joshua – is rewarded.

"Death of a Whippoorwill" and "Anticipation"

2009-07-03T17:49:00.011-05:00

Here is an excerpt (1st paragraph) from my newest story, Death of a Whippoorwill. Enjoy -

----- In the distance I see the low-lying creek bridge and our cabin just beyond. I listen to the river grumbling along just outside my passenger window, oblivious to the fact that I have come here to die. If the river only knew that the reason I chose this place is because of the peace that river offers, it might respond more respectfully – stilling itself in honor as I pass by. The fish, if they knew, might gather along the banks in a show of appreciation that I always threw them back. The dozens of turtles I’ve moved off of this tiny river road over the years might stretch their necks out of their shells and, with tears in their eyes, mouth a little prayer to thank me. But no, this river does not love me like I love it. And yet, it does. I will listen to this river’s voice in my last days, and that voice will deliver me home.

***************************************

Okay, I'm on a kick. Here's a poem I recently wrote as well. I'm still working on the accents (poetry is not my strong point), but this is the general framework of it. Enjoy -

Anticipation

(title may change - it hasn't grown on me)

I wait,
anxious for His
rapture while I wander
this virtue-stripped earth distended
with goods.

Heaven
beckons my dry
soul sending quenching drops
of anticipation as I
question.

“When,” I
plead, “will You come
and rescue me from this
slow death of flesh upon Satan’s
playground?”

“When,” I
beg, “will You shout
my name and bestow grand
ascension in a flickering
moment,

Bringing
enduring peace
to my restless spirit
and revealing a salvation
complete?”

Let me know what you think. Don't forget, when you click on comments you can respond anonymously - you know... just in case you don't want to tell me openly how much you hate it. :)

All That Jesus Is

2009-06-30T12:25:00.003-05:00

I am so completely cheating today by sharing something I have not written, but a friend e-mailed this to me and I just felt the need to pass it along.

Here are some beautiful thoughts about Jesus from an anonymous writer. Enjoy -

The First and The Last

He is the First and Last,
The Beginning and the End!
He is the keeper of Creation
and the Creator of all!
He is the Architect of the universe
and the Manager of all times.
He always was, He always is,
and He always will be...
Unmoved, Unchanged, Undefeated,
and never Undone!

He was bruised and brought healing!
He was pierced and eased pain!
He was persecuted and brought freedom!
He was dead and brought life!
He is risen and brings power!
He reigns and brings Peace!

The world can't understand him,
The armies can't defeat Him,
The schools can't explain Him,
and The leaders can't ignore Him.

Herod couldn't kill Him,
The Pharisees couldn't confuse Him,
and The people couldn't hold Him!

Nero couldn't crush Him,
Hitler couldn't silence Him,
The New Age can't replace Him,
and "Oprah" can't explain Him away!

He is light, love, longevity, and Lord.
He is goodness, Kindness, Gentleness, and God.
He is Holy, Righteous, mighty, powerful, and pure.

His ways are right,
His word is eternal,
His will is unchanging,
and His mind is on me.

He is my Savior,
He is my guide,
and He is my peace!
He is my Joy,
He is my comfort,
He is my Lord,
and He rules my life!

I serve Him because
His bond is love,
His burden is light,
and His goal for me is abundant life.

I follow Him because
He is the wisdom of the wise,
the power of the powerful,
the ancient of days,
the ruler of rulers,
the leader of leaders,
the overseer of the overcomers,
and is to come.

And if that seems impressive to you, try this for size.
His goal is a relationship with ME!
He will never leave me,
never forsake me,
never mislead me,
never forget me,
never overlook me,
and never cancel my appointment in His appointment book!

When I fall, He lifts me up!
When I fail, He forgives!
When I am weak, He is strong!
When I am lost, He is the way!
When I am afraid, He is my courage!
When I stumble, He steadies me!
When I am hurt, He heals me!
When I am broken, He mends me!
When I am blind, He leads me!
When I am hungry, He feeds me!
When I face trials, He is with me!
When I face persecution, He shields me!
When I face problems, He comforts me!
When I face loss, He provides for me!
When I face Death, He carries me Home!

He is everything for everybody everywhere, every time, and every way.
He is God, He is faithful.
I am His, and He is mine!
My Father in heaven can whip the father of this world.

So, if you're wondering why I feel so secure, understand this...

He said it and that settles it.
God is in control, I am on His side,
and that means all is well with my soul.
Every day is a blessing for GOD Is!
-Anonymous

Stellasue Lee Poetry Reading

2009-06-25T22:37:00.011-05:00

The room at Rippavilla Plantation, in Spring Hill, Tennessee, was swollen with poetry lovers last Saturday night. If there was a poetry skeptic in the room, maybe dragged there by a persistent spouse, I am quite certain they left with a new fervor for the art.

The event was, Firecracker Red: This Ain't Your Grandmother's Poetry Reading. Pulitzer-nominated poet, Stellasue Lee, was the main attraction, and her apprentice, Ramon Presson, was the opening act.

Presson is a highly respected and successful Psychologist in the field of marriage counseling. He has authored ten books on the subject. On Saturday night, he took off his counselor shoes and shared his passion -- poetry -- with the audience. Under the mentorship of Stellasue Lee, he has refined and chiseled his gift of poetry into a precise soul-awakening tool.

I became quite distressed afterwards to find that Presson did not have a book of poetry. There were so many lines that moved me, and I wanted to remember them fully. There was the pregnant robin preparing to drop her luggage; the taste of Haagen-Dazs vanilla bean ice cream that lingered so vividly, I had to pick some up at the store the next day; the emotional scars of young Staci, looking out her car window at the grotesque wounds of a dead deer on the side of the road in the elitist Brentwood, Tennessee of all places; and the note to Pablo Neruda whose poetry gave Presson something, he just wasn't sure what. Presson instilled a bit of southern dialect into his writing giving us all a chuckle at times.

Imagine my excitement when I found his blog site with all of his great poems and many more. Click here to read his poems (click on each month in his side bar to read more). I found this great quote on his site that explains why his and Stellasue Lee's poetry is so intoxicating:

Folks, here's the bottom line....if a poem or a poet's body of work is so dumbed down that most of it would work in a Hallmark card, it's not great poetry. If a poem or a poet's body of work can only be understood by elitists or by readers on LSD, while it may even have some elements of genius in its lines, it is not ( in my opinion ) great poetry. In my opinion great contemporary poetry makes language dance to a tune that a skilled reader can follow. It is said that 'art is man's attempt to explain his humanness.' If the only one who comprehends the (published) poet's 'explanation' is the poet himself, he has pleasured himself rather than serving his reader. Thus great modern poetry is both artistically exceptional AND intellectually accessible. -Ramon Presson

Stellasue Lee took us on an emotional journey through pieces of her life. There were glimpses into the despondent life of her alcoholic, homeless father with a glass eye, who suffered from haunting demons of his military past. Lee's transparenecy induced tears in my eyes as she read of her daughter's death. We traveled back to Lee's childhood when she was the self-proclaimed "Queen of Jacks". Her husband was not immune to her poetic musings, and, to be fair, her battle with pizza was a crowd pleaser. There were also her wavings to the John Lund cross on I-65 because she felt it was important to make contacts on the other side.

We had the privilege of being the first to hear work from Lee's new book, Firecracker Red, due out later this year.

I was able to pick up Stellasue Lee's book, Crossing the Double Yellow Line, and she signed it. You can read some of her poetry here.

Both Stellasue Lee and Ramon Presson emphasized in their readings that poetry can be fictional. People always assume poetry is so personal that it has to be true. Stories can be made up and told through poetry. Both Lee and Presson use this technique. Much of their poetry is created through experience, but not all, making the poetry mysterious at times (leaving the audience to wonder, did that really happen?).

They both made poetry sound so easy. As if the words they used were just always meant to be together, and indeed that is poetry isn't it? The challenge is using the perfect combination of the perfect words to create the perfect poem. Lee and Presson appear to do it effortlessly, and I was thoroughly inspired.

If you have never been to a poetry reading, I encourage you to seek out a good one. I will be attending more in the future. In fact Stellasue Lee is planning another one this summer. I will keep you updated.

Pigtails, Xanadu, God, Etc...

2009-06-24T22:59:00.008-05:00

I'm in the mood for a little fun tonight. Jump in with me.

In my creative writing group, last week, we wrote letters to our 10-year-old selves. I have some thoughts to add before I send my letter to me.

Things that are not nearly as good at age 39 as they were at age 10:

1. A big, chilled glass of Tang (yuck, has that stuff changed? It used to be so good, didn't it?)
2. A PB&J sandwich (on white, not wheat and with the good old processed PB, not the natural or organic stuff)
3. Candy corn (wasn't that the best stuff when you were a kid -- have you tried it lately? It's like eating wax)
4. Spending summers in a swimsuit (at 10 I could just throw on any old suit and go -- now I have to work out for a few months beforehand, find just the right suit, shave -- there's just too much preparation involved)
5. Pigtails (I've tried them, not nearly as cute now)
6. Dressing up in my mom's clothes (ummm... kinda weird now, and her high heels are two sizes too small)
7. Swinging high enough to touch the sky (makes me a little dizzy now)
8. Riding my bike with no hands (I simply can't do this now -- I've tried -- I can't do wheelies or stand on my seat either, not that I ever could, but I have two boys now so I've tried)
9. Roller skating to "Another One Bites the Dust." Roller skating backwards. Roller skating limbo. Roller skating girl's choice. (okay, I know that's technically four, but it's in one topic)
10. Bubblegum music (click here to listen to some Bubblegum tunes), Shaun Cassidy (click here to listen to some Shaun Cassidy tunes), and my Xanadu soundtrack album (click here to listen to some Xanadu tunes). Okay, who am I kidding, this music is still super cool, even at age 39.

Things that are much better at age 39 than they were at age 10:

1. God (I didn't know Him when I was 10)
2. Summers (now I get to watch my kids live in their swimsuits)
3. Beets and spinach (self explanatory)
4. Gardening (I can honestly say I never had a conversation with a friend about my struggles with beetles on my basil when I was 10 -- now I anxiously post it on Facebook)
5. Tom and Jerry (seriously, I think I laugh harder now than I did at age 10)
6. Books (I wish I'd enjoyed them and read them as a kid)
7. Easter (now I know it's not about the bunny)
8. I can see the top of the chest of drawers (this was a huge goal when I was too short to see it)
9. Getting my teeth cleaned (because I know if I don't do it regularly, at my age I may end up needing a root canal)
10. My purpose (now it's raising my kids and serving God -- then it was catching frogs and climbing trees)

What was better for you at age 10, and what is better for you now?

"Scent"sational Memories

2009-06-22T21:23:00.017-05:00

There is nothing that shows me the obviousness of God more than nature. The first thing I do each day is step outside and inhale because the scent of nature sticks with me like nothing else does. It's like my own little God-manufactured scratch-n-sniff right outside my back door. Whatever He's working on out there, morning is the best time to get a whiff of it. Lilacs in the spring. Petunias and basil in the summer. The spicy decay, of all that was green, in the fall. Crisp frost in the winter.

This morning, and for the past few, I had a difficult time inhaling. It's very difficult to take a strong, deep breath when you're in a steam furnace. We've been clocking high temps in the mid 90s for about a week now. The humidity is so thick I could probably wash my hair in it. Right now, for example, it's 10:15 p.m. and it's 72 degrees -- sounds nice, right -- but it's 94% humidity. So it feels like it's about 180 degrees out there. You can only imagine what it feels like when it's midday and 95 degrees. That sticky, muggy, stagnant air causes a traffic jam when it hits the bottle neck at my nostrils, and I smell nothing. Every time we walk outside my son says, "I can't breathe out here."

So I can't put words to the smell outside right now, and I'm disturbed by that. I like to have words for my sensations. There's an uneasiness in me that refuses to pass until this weather breaks.

A very fast-moving storm just passed through. I want to know if it smells different -- we haven't had rain for a few days. Hold on...

Oh yes, the rain brought some fresh, dry air. I could smell petunias and clean earth when I stepped out onto my deck, and a soft, silent breeze is blowing. WSMV needs to update it's weather page because it is definitely not 94% humidity now.

All of this makes me think about writing. About three months ago I had a lesson on sensations in my Christian Writer's Guild program. One question said, "How might descriptions highlighting one of the five senses enhance a reader's experience?" Here was my answer:

"I know that using a variety of senses in writing can really bring a setting to life in a reader’s mind. When I write, I don’t want someone to simply read about it, I want them to experience it.
The one thing that always pulls me back to or into a setting is that smell. I can smell something I haven’t smelled in twenty years and suddenly I am transported back to a moment in time when I came across that smell before. The smell of fresh ginger root growing somewhere, for example, instantly takes me back to my childhood camp on the riverside, the mountains behind it thick with fresh ginger root growing wild, the scent absorbed by the forest surrounding it. To me, capturing the details of scent can bring writing to life like nothing else can. If written well, a reader can actually smell a description of eucalyptus mint; mountain oxygen; mist rising off of a river; a damp, muddy cave; fresh vanilla mingling with wild mountain fern; the smell of a dog after he’s rolled around on a rotting wild animal carcass; and the difference between the smell in the air of a snow storm headed for the lush mountains of West Virginia and a snow storm headed for the dense, urban metropolis of Atlanta, Georgia."

And it's those descriptions of scent -- the kind that a writer can describe so well it puts a taste in your mouth -- that make a book or story memorable. You may not remember a man giving his dog a bath, but if the man's eyes are watering and he's gagging as he douses the skunk-sprayed dog in tomato juice, the scent of that scene gets branded onto your brain making it difficult to forget. And many times, that's all you need to take you back to a story.

In honor of the Facebook quiz, "Which crazy writer are you most like," I picked up The Road by Cormack McCarthy. I was most like Cormack McCarthy. :) In the book, a man and his young son are two of the very few people left on a post-apocalyptic earth. They are starving and McCarthy's writing is so vivid and pure that I was starving for them. I was so enmeshed in the lives of the two and so worried about their fate that I couldn't put the book down -- I read it in three sittings. After five days without food, they wander upon a field and find some dried apples. By the time they get there, I am so hungry for them that I can smell and taste the apples as if I were there. All McCarthy had to write was that they found some dry apples. I will never forget the smell and taste of those apples, and he never had to describe it. He just built the scent through anticipation. He uses this technique flawlessly throughout the book.

How does scent capture you? Do simple scents conjure up distant memories? Are there books or stories vivid in your mind because of a scent the author described?

"Almost Heaven" Bound

2009-06-10T21:42:00.008-05:00

I'm quickly coming out of my funk. I'm sorry you all had to follow it through my most recent blog. A few weeks ago, a close friend said, "If God leads you to write something, never compromise -- no matter what it is. Always listen to Him first." So even in my dark ramblings, I know God has a message to share.

The truth is my excitement has fizzled my funk. I am preparing for a long weekend at a great river cabin in West Virginia. River tubing, biking and running on the Greenbrier River Trail, cookouts, dips in the swimming hole, and a variety of other great adventures beckon, and I want to leave right this minute. But, I have to wait one more day. Look at these awesome cabins:

Greenbrier River Cabins

Our cabin has a front view of the beautiful river, and the back yard is the Greenbrier River Trail, a popular 79 mile rails-to-trails path that runs along a good chunk of Eastern West Virginia. The boys and I won't be traveling the entire trail since they are only 4 and 6, but someday...

Oh yes, look at those pictures. West Virginia, just like its motto and welcome sign says, truly is "almost heaven". It is my absolute favorite place to be. I can't wait to send you all some great pictures next week.

As always, when I get some extended time in nature, I come home overflowing with writing ideas. I am so excited to see what God fills me with this time. The only problem is, when I expect something -- like fresh ideas -- I tend to not get it. It's only when I least expect it that it comes.

So, I enter into this blissful weekend with no agenda, no expectations, no calendar, no WiFi access (gasp, I know -- I will be off line for 5 days straight), and no cell phone (yes, we're going old fashioned, I believe -- a land line).

I plan to spend my time lounging in an Adirondack chair, skipping my cell phone in the crystal clear water, and sipping on a Corona with the lime. Uh... wait... I mean sitting on a dusty fishing log, skipping my cell phone in a muddy river, and guzzling an ice-cold can of Budweiser (okay, I don't imbibe -- at least not openly -- I'm Baptist :), but you get the picture).

Oh, and just in case God tells me to write, I will have my ruby red, Dell Core 2 Duo laptop. Come on! You can't expect me to resort to pen and paper now can you?

Off topic: I coordinate a fun creative writing group in my town, and I stumbled upon this great creative writing ideas web site. If any of my fellow writer friends ever experience writers block, or if you just need some prompts to help you generate some new ideas, here's a great web site:

Creative Writing Prompts

Your Memory, The Monster

2009-06-04T23:32:00.026-05:00

"Your memory is a monster; you forget -- it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you -- and summons them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!"
John Irving, A Prayer for Owen Meany

I saw this John Irving quote in the front pages of a new book called Return Policy by Michael Snyder. I could write an autobiographical book of lamentations on the musings shared in this one short quote.

Why does that monster (our memory) jump out at us when we least expect it? I am in a memory abyss right now which is why this quote struck a tender nerve tonight. When Irving referred to our memory as a monster, I don't think he was addressing our good memories. Although I have some good memories, that isn't what's consuming me currently.

It's the callous stuff -- the bitter stuff -- the dark, brooding, regretful stuff -- the stuff that ensnares the heart and attacks the spirit. Yes! That's where my thoughts live today -- dwelling on the ugly actions in my past. The thoughts aren't there every day, but they are today and were yesterday and the day before. And unfortunately they come and go in my life. God always pulls me through it, but many times I kick and scream the whole way out.

It's funny because before I became a Christian, dark memories didn't consume me. In fact dark thoughts rarely intruded my thinking. I guess it was because I never did anything wrong, I was always right, and I led my wicked life by my own self-created instruction manual (the one that said, "in life, only do what benefits Karen").

I found out that following my manual led me to some horrid and stupid decisions in my life. If I had lived my life according to God's manual, I would have made better decisions. Therein lies the problem. It's a classic case of dark versus light.

But here's the hard thing about becoming a Christian later in life: you've had all those years of dark living, not knowing, or not believing, that there is a light to compare it to. So, it was simply living -- not good, not bad, just living and doing what people in the world do -- mainly becoming numb to the constant promotion of extremes and jumping off the bridge with everyone else.

No harm in that... UNTIL you become a Christian.

A couple of years ago, I read a C. S. Lewis book called, The Problem of Pain. Many people think that once they become a Christian this solves the problem of pain in their lives. Lewis, who was an atheist before becoming a Christian, took the opposite stand saying that Christianity "creates rather than solves the problem of pain." Christianity brings to light all of the preexisting darkness in our lives. It's at that point of light that we look back at our lives before Him and plead, "God, what have I done, and can it be fixed?"

It's all of that unfixed stuff that hurts like hell, drives the evil memory monster, and leaves us brooding in moments, hours, days, or weeks of consumption.

That unfixed stuff is our guilt over all of those painful memories of our past: the people we harmed, the addictions that ruled our actions, the hurting people we ignored, the regrets, the mistakes, the stupidity... . God can and will remove our guilt if we release it to Him.

So why does our flesh hold on to it so stubbornly? I haven't figured that out yet which is why every six months or so memories of the dark consume me. If you have some insight here, I welcome it.

You may wonder, if you are not a believer, if you should even bother with this Christianty stuff if it opens your life to more intense painful realizations. The answer: YES! YES! YES! The reason why: because in the end, God will eliminate your memories of all that ugly stuff and instill you with a complete and perfect happiness. But, only if you choose Jesus, and you must choose Him now because you never know when that end is coming.

*****************************

I've added a new Crapsey cinquain to my side bar that relates to my blog above. I know you are all avid readers of my side bar (yeah right), but I'll post it here anyway.

My Chains

Benumbed
amid distant
recollections, dense scars
shield a black, ragged heart while guilt
ripens.

I've also updated my Christian Writer's Guild lesson summary in my side bar, if you are interested. It's a summary of my ponderings on an interview article about the stage adaptation of the C. S. Lewis book, The Screwtape Letters, which I desperately want to see.

Have You Sought Atonement?

2009-06-01T20:49:00.009-05:00

Atonement is that unity between God and man provided to us by the perfect sacrifice of Jesus Christ. We have to ask Jesus to cleanse us by washing away our sins. What happens to us when we do not seek atonement for our sins for which Jesus died? That atonement must be pursued in the flesh or it's too late. If we physically die with our sins still on us, our access to Heaven is blocked. Nothing I could write could share it more powerfully than this old Bruce Springsteen song.

MY FATHER'S HOUSE
(Bruce Springsteen)
click here to listen

Last night I dreamed that I was a child
Out where the pines grow wild and tall
I was trying to make it home through the forest
before the darkness falls

I heard the wind rustling through the trees
and ghostly voices rose from the fields
I ran with my heart pounding down that broken path
with The Devil snappin' at my heels

I broke through the trees and there in the night
My father's house stood shining hard and bright
The branches and brambles tore my clothes and scratched my arms
but I ran till I fell, shaking in his arms

I awoke and I imagined the hard things that pulled us apart
will never again, sir, tear us from each other's hearts
I got dressed and to that house I did ride
From out on the road, I could see it's windows shining in light

I walked up the steps and stood on the porch
A woman I didn't recognize came and spoke to me through a chained door
I told her my story and who I'd come for
She said "I'm sorry, son, but no one by that name lives here anymore"

My father's house shines hard and bright
It stands like a beacon calling me in the night
Calling and calling, so cold and alone
Shining `cross this dark highway where our sins lie unatoned

If you have not sought atonement and would like to, you can do so through the salvation prayer in my sidebar (scroll way down). Leave me a note if you pray this prayer or if you'd like for me to contact you and pray with you.

I Was Almost Attacked By Giant Slugs!

2009-05-31T21:42:00.018-05:00

I'm going Fun Sunday this week and adding some humor to my usually serious blog posts. I hope you enjoy the mood change -- just for today.

A couple of years ago I saw some slugs in my strawberry patch. They were small, about the size of my pinky. I started putting slug stuff (don't know the official name) around my strawberries to keep them from getting in -- that is until I found out the little white pellets weren't just a deterrent, but a slug execution device. I think they eat the pellets which expand in their bellies and ... well, I don't know... maybe they explode or something. At first I thought it just filled them up so they wouldn't be hungry for my strawberries, but no, it's a poison.

If you follow my blog, you know my aversion to killing anything. So as soon as I found out the little white pellets weren't just a yummy slug snack, I stopped putting it out.

If you know me well, you know that there isn't much that grosses me out. I've always been a tomboy. I love creepy, crawly, slimy things: all bugs, spiders, snakes, lizards, mice, snails, frogs, worms.

But, SLUGS...

I've never had the desire to pick up a slug and explore it, and the thought of one touching my skin makes my stomach do that weird roller coaster climb and drop thing. I have a slight stomachache just writing about them right now, and there's a little gag-inducing lump in the back of my throat. I truly think my biggest fear is being attacked by giant slugs. Something I thought impossible until this past Thursday night.

WARNING: If slugs make you a bit nauseous, you may want to pop a Dramamine before you read further. :)

This past Thursday night we "lost" a fish. Our sweet little fantail guppy named Clock passed away, and since he was a cherished pet, we'd had him since Tuesday afterall, Hayden insisted we wrap him gently in some newspaper and take him out back to bury him -- right then, at 8:30 at night. So, my hysterical six-year-old son, my really-could-have-cared-less four-year-old son, my husband, and I wandered out into the yard to bury Clock below the lilac bushes.

I had a small hand shovel, and I used it and my hands to scrape away the layer of mulch to get to the dirt below. It was very dark, and as I was scraping I noticed a couple of extra-large chunks of mulch and thought it was odd, but didn't give it a second thought. I dug the hole, we dropped Clock in, Hayden cried out a few special memories of the fish and said a prayer, and then he went back inside with his dad. Brandon suddenly became emotional and decided he needed some quiet time to mourn Clock's passing, so he and I sat graveside for a few minutes.

It was during this quiet time that I took the time to glance around us and noticed a HUGE HUGE HUGE slug. I mean HUGE. Did I say HUGE? This is no joke - I am almost certain it was about the size of an empty toilet paper roll. Then I realized the big chunks of mulch weren't mulch at all, but more HUGE slugs. So, I looked around in the areas of the grass where the deck light happened to be shining and they were everywhere -- HUMONGOUS toilet-paper-roll sized slugs. There may have been hundreds, or it could be that the eight I did see were just so HUGE that it seemed like hundreds. Either way, my fear of being attacked by giant slugs was unfolding right before my eyes.

Brandon and I were barefooted and had to go through dark stretches of grass to get back to the deck steps. Did I mention we were SITTING there and had been sitting there, in the slug infested grass, for at least five minutes at that point. I knew they couldn't have crawled up our shorts without us noticing - considering they weren't much smaller than our rear ends, but could we have possibly sat on one? -- doubtful, but I wasted no time jumping up and throwing Brandon as high up onto my body as I could get him - you know... in case they started flying through the air and splattered on to us.

We were going to have to take our chances and make a blind run for it through those dark stretches of grass. It was either that or stand there and be slug slimed.

I would have never thought it would have been possible for a human to go from 0 to 60mph in 3 seconds running on the tips of their two big toes, but I'm here to tell you, IT IS POSSIBLE. I'm pretty sure I did it last Thursday night while carrying a four-year-old on the top of my head and chanting eeeyew, eeeyew, eeeyew (and I'm not an eeeyew kinda girl).

We made it to the deck without a squish, and I now realize why I'm harvesting about 1 quart of strawberries and tossing 1 gallon each time. Those slugs are eating good in my back yard. I'm wondering if those little white pellets a couple of years ago were enhanced slug vitamins instead of poison.

Have you ever seen a slug that big? Look at this big slug video. There's got to be an old movie about attacking slugs. Let me know if you know of it. Not so I can watch it but so I can be sure to steer clear of it.

I find it hard to believe our world would be worse off without the slimy slug, but God made them for a reason, so I did some research. Read slugs to find out the good, the bad, and the ugly about the slugs purpose on earth. They really do have one.

My husband had another great suggestion for our special quarter pounder backyard slugs. Survivor and Fear Factor are always looking for juicy appetizers.

Seriously, if anyone knows of a humane way to get the slugs out of my strawberries, let me know. Please don't tell me to get rid of my strawberries. :)

What Do You Do When God "Reep Reep Reeps" At You?

2009-05-27T14:27:00.024-05:00

If you've read my welcome note in my side bar, you may be wondering who it is you are supposed to be scratching behind the ears. So, here she is showing off her big, pink belly rolls. She's the furry, orange one. She's actually waving at the camera with her left, front paw. The other two are my beautiful human children.

My Writing Loft is kind of my "me time" blog (the one place I can go and not talk about mommy stuff), so you don't see much about my kids or family on here. I have an entirely different blog for my mommy stories, My Chronicles of Parenthood, but today I have a story to share on this blog that involves mommy stuff - kind of.

As you can tell by Hobbit's size, she is a 100% indoor cat. She will occasionally walk out onto the deck with us and wander to the foot of the steps and roll in the landscape mulch beneath the bushes. But, beyond that she does not stray -- ever. Ten minutes tops her outdoor excursions, and she quickly waddles back into the house. I usually leave the deck door open, and we just kind of come and go. Later I chase all the flies out of the house because I refuse to kill them -- it's not their faults afterall that they wandered in through my inviting wide-open door.

This morning, the boys and I slept in. Around 9:30 Hayden, and I wandered into the living room still shaking the extended sleep off of our bones. The first thing I usually do is open the curtains to the deck door and walk outside. This morning when I walked out and leaned over the deck rail, Hobbit came running up the stairs, and from the sound of her voice she was extremely irritated that she had to camp out last night.

Hobbit's not really a camping out kind of girl. She gets a little repulsed over bugs, and flying and chirping things send her scurrying for cover. I guess she's a valley girl at heart.

My boys were very upset with me when they realized Hobbit got stuck outside for the night. I tried to explain to them that she probably enjoyed her camping adventure, but they weren't buying it. They quickly put her bowl of fresh seafood platter canned food in front of her, which she gobbled right up, and then followed her into the bedroom and helped her curl up on the bed. I guess she intended to sleep off the trauma I had put her through. I suppose we will be battling PTSD for a while.

I have no doubt my boys were having secret conversations about what a bad mommy I had been by not noticing Hobbit had been outside all night. They may have even discussed among themselves if it were possible that I could do such a thing to them as well.

Before you think too terribly of me, it's not like Hobbit could have gone anywhere. The yard is surrounded with a six-foot privacy fence, and it meets the ground all the way around, so she can't fit under. And she doesn't like to work up a sweat, so she'd never even attempt a jump.

Just as the Hobbit fiasco was coming to a close we heard a hysterical Red Breasted Robin outside. It was screaming in a high-pitched, continuous "reep reep reep reep reep reep." There are baby robins in our tree, and they've been out there for a while now. The mommy and daddy have stayed busy feeding these little babies, and we have enjoyed sitting on the deck watching them. So I knew the instant the "reep reep reep" started up that it was Daddy Robin. I just didn't know what was wrong with him because he'd never done this before (this is him sitting on the fence next to the tree).

On closer inspection, I noticed the problem. One of the babies had fallen from the tree. He was laying in the mulch below. I ran down to check on him, and he was okay. Nothing appeared to be broken. I ran up and grabbed a rag so I could pick him up and look at him a little closer and also to give him a soft spot on the mulch. He was happy and eagerly hopped onto the soft rag. I thanked God that he was not injured, but I wasn't sure what to do with him -- leave him there or put him back.

I ran back in and checked on the internet. Thank God for the internet in times like this. I saw comments saying "definitely leave him on the ground." The problem was that I saw an equal number of comments saying "definitely put him back." Ugh!

So much for the internet.

Daddy Robin was still having a fit over his baby being down there on the mulch, so I followed my initial instinct and made the decision to put him back. I set up the ladder as Daddy Robin "reep reep reeped" and watched intently from the fence a few feet away.

Baby Robin had settled in the middle of the rag which was the perfect spot for him. I slowly lifted him in his tiny little rag sling, and Daddy Robin instantly became silent. As I climbed the ladder Daddy Robin watched from his fence perch, a tiny little worm hanging from his mouth. Mommy Robin quietly watched from the neighbor's roof. My boys begged me to be careful as I neared the top of the ladder (not for my own safety mind you, but for the sake of the tiny baby robin), and I'm sure Mommy and Daddy Robin were thinking the same thing.

As I gently tilted his sling above his nest, Baby Robin realized where he was and hopped up and into his nest on his own. He snuggled in close to his sibling and the two gently "reep reep reeped" at me as I descended the ladder. I gathered up the ladder and headed toward the deck. Quietly Daddy Robin sounded off a few "reep reep reeps." As I looked back he was flying his little worm piece into the tree. His hysterical reeping was silenced now that his baby was safe.

A few hours later, I snuck back up the ladder to snap a picture of the babies. Only one was in the nest, and Daddy Robin caught me, so I snapped one picture fast and hurried back down. Both babies were hanging out on the branches yesterday so the other one was probably in the tree somewhere.

Later this afternoon I asked God what I should blog about today. I've been asking Him this for the past few days, and I guess I haven't been listening well because my mind has been blank. A few minutes later He reminded me of that "reep reep reeping" daddy robin.

God wants to know: "How many times do I 'reep reep reep' a warning signal over one of my troubled children? How many times do you heed My call and come to My lost child's aid?" God does not physically reach out and pick them up and sit them into a nest of safety. Instead He calls out to us -- those of us who can be His hands and jump to attention when He "reep reep reeps" at us to let us know He has a child in trouble.

What do you do when God "reep reep reeps" at you? Do you look around to see what it is He wants you to do?

Do you see a bigger picture? Do you hear God "reep reep reeping" at Christians in this world -- how are we responding collectively?

Crispy Pages Versus Dusty Covers: What's Your Pleasure?

2009-05-20T23:07:00.020-05:00

I have had a big dream for years, and every time I get on a dream kick, the dream gets bigger and bigger. I know what you're thinking:

World peace (not really -- I'm actually looking forward to the rapture -- the only reason I ever watch the news is so I can pick out prophetic signs, seriously)

A cure for poverty (actually yes, I would trade any of my dreams to achieve this one for all of the hungry children in this world)

A mansion (nope, I have enough trouble cleaning the house I have -- I like to look at them, but I wouldn't want to live in one)

A convertible Mustang for each of the major production years starting with 1964 and ending with a metallic midnight blue with silver racing stripes 2010 Shelby GT500, which can go from 0-60 in 4 seconds, and a garage to hold all my 'tangs in (okay, a Mustang or ten would be AWESOME, but that's not it -- although when I was 10 I did want to be a female race car driver -- maybe I haven't quite moved past it. Check them out 2010 Mustang Shelby GT500, but be warned, looking at these pictures may make your mouth water)

Summers in Hawaii (okay, maybe I have a few dreams, but most of them will have to wait until I become a multimillion-dollar best-selling author -- yeah, right)

No, this is a dream that is within reach which is why it makes it all the more dangerous to dream. I want to own a used book store. I know... I know..., but hear me out.

I love books. I don't need to make any money (who needs money when you're a writer -- okay, I admit I glossed over the part in my writer's manual that said writer's don't make any money). I just need to sell enough books to pay the rent or the lease on the store.

What? You don't think I'll even get that... hmph, some friend you are. Good friends are honest, you say? Well, what if I told you I planned to sell rare books and 1st edition, signed books and that I plan to have an online used book store as well? Sounds a little better, don't you think? You're right, there are about a bagillion (yes, I know that's not a word) people selling used books online.

Why do I even need a store front if I plan to sell them online, you ask? Well, the store would be a great and quiet place for me to write. And, it would be nice to get out of the house to write. Yes, I have heard of a library, and yes, I know it's free to go there.

Did you ever see Ellen (the first Ellen sitcom in the 90s - I think it was also called These Friends of Mine) before it went off the deep end -- when it was just one of the funniest shows ever? Ellen managed a small book store, and it was the coolest book store. I've seen other shows and movies with book stores just like that one, and they all feed my dream when I see them.

Uh yes, I have seen You've Got Mail. Yes, I know what happened to Meg Ryan's little book store. :( What's that? Is there a big name book store in my town? Well... there's that little store called... uh uhm... Books-A-Million (she quickly says through a sneeze into her hand), but it's just so big and sterile with all of it's constant newness. Where's the character? Where's the love? Where's the history?

Wow, you can be harsh. Do you really think people would rather have crisp, clean pages that smell like fresh ink and a cover that has almost never been touched than pages stained with who-knows-what and a cover that you have to blow the dust from who-knows-where off of?

I was in a used book store, Landmark Booksellers, this weekend and 1st edition, hardback Stephen King books were listed at $55-$65, and that wasn't even the good stuff, like Carrie or The Shining. This was more recent stuff. The older classics would go for a lot more and a signed copy... wow, could you imagine. Still think I'm crazy?

You do? Seriously?

Okay, maybe you're right, but it's not going to keep me from dreaming. Thanks for the dose of reality. I need it sometimes.

So, what's your pleasure? Do you prefer shiny, crispy, new books, or do you enjoy popping open a dusty book that has more of a story to tell than just the one that is printed inside?

Confessions of a Reformed Bible Speed Reader

2009-05-15T22:20:00.011-05:00

My son pulled out a toy today that he has almost never played with. He got Batman a couple of months ago and the toy has been in his closet ever since. Today, however, he has played with him all day long. A few minutes ago, he brought pieces and parts of Batman to me and asked me to put him back together. Unfortunately Batman was broke. I couldn't fix him. The tiny, interior, plastic pieces that connected at his waste and pelvis and held his legs on just split apart.

I just happen to be laying back in my son's bed as I write this, and as I look around the room I see a variety of toys in disrepair. Most of them are toys that just never connected appropriately to begin with. I'm looking at his Pokemon Center right now -- the top has fallen off -- again. This one toy challenges my sanity because I spend more time fixing it than he spends playing with it. Air seems to be too heavy for its fragile makeup.

I still have toys from my childhood that are in better condition than most of my kid's toys. Sure, my Barbies' may have teased hair or no hair at all, and I may have drawn makeup on their faces in permanent marker, and one or two may have a tattoo they didn't start with, but that was all my doing. It had nothing to do with how they were made.

Toy companies, like many other industries, just don't make good products anymore. They've fallen under the curse of the production-driven society. They use cheaper materials, cheaper manufacturing methods, and cheaper labor, and they charge us way too much for the junk they make. But they sure are making a lot of it -- why? -- because we keep buying it.

Production over quality has become such a habit in our lives that it has bled into our Christian thinking as well. What is the trendy Bible reading method I'm sure we all hear about, and maybe even participate in each year? It becomes a HOT topic in churches around December.

--Read the Bible in a year--

Does your church do this one? Mine does. All through the month of December we hear about reading through the Bible in a year. Even testimonies make their way into an occasional service. And for the rare few of us that actually make it through, there is no victory because other church members immediately begin to encourage us to read a different version this year and the whole process just keeps cycling.

I've been driven by the masses the past couple of years. The first year, I think I made it to 1 Samuel and still experiencing Leviticus aftershocks just couldn't dig in and move forward. Last year was much more impressive, I finished the New Testament and made it through Isaiah in the Old Testament. It was August and I could have easily finished, but I chose to stop.

I had finished my reading that night in August and sat my Bible to the side.

God said to me, "What did you just read."

I said, "I don't know, but I read all that I was supposed to."

God said, "Says who?"

I said, "my Read Through the Bible in a Year schedule."

God said, "What did you read last night?"

"I don't know."

"What about the night before that."

"I don't know, but I don't have to remember it, I just have to read it."

"What's the point in reading My Word if you can't remember it?"

"Uh... well... um... maybe, no... I... well... I guess I'm not sure." I sputtered out.

Suddenly I was convicted. Reading the Bible wasn't taking the place of studying the Bible, but I wasn't studying it every day. I was reading it for 20 minutes a day and was comprehending nothing. But, doggone it, I was going to get through it in a year -- I was on a schedule after all and I was nearing completion.

God made me realize it would be better to study small passages for those 20 minutes each day than to read through multiple chapters each day. No, I wouldn't read the Bible in a year, but I would have 365 fully understood pieces of the Bible under my belt.

God's Word is too amazing and too important to be production driven. If we read for speed, His Word will be about as useful as my son's legless Batman. If we read thoroughly and deliberately, His Word, like my Barbies will last forever.

Have you ever read the Bible in a year? Did you maintain undestanding or was your main goal completion? Tell us about your experience.

Troughs and Peaks

2009-05-14T00:36:00.012-05:00

How many of us have spent an entire day cleaning our house only to wonder why we even bothered by 2:00 the next day – then swore off cleaning our house till the kids go off to college – then got tired of the mess and started the whole process over again two weeks later?

How many of us have started that great diet and exercise program and followed it for those “21 days until it becomes a habit” only to abandon it on day 22 – then picked it back up again on day 83 only to abandon it again on day 91…?

How many of us have been on cloud nine over some great project we aced at work one day, only to be brought back down to earth the next day when our boss gave us a “3” during a job review for an item which we felt sure we’d get a “5” on?

How many of us have loved… and lost… and loved… and lost… and loved… and given up on love… and kind of loved… and lost… and looked for ourselves… and wished we had found ourselves before we lost that last time… and loved… ?

It’s human nature to go through ups and downs. Some of us do it on a roller coaster and some of us on a long, slow hike, but the fact is we all fall into the undulating trap of our nature. We can thank mother Eve for passing down that gene. It is permanently ingrained in all that we do.

In The Screwtape Letters, C. S. Lewis uses the character, Screwtape, to share a message about human nature, “Humans are amphibians – half spirit and half animal. As spirits they belong to the eternal world, but as animals they inhabit time. This means that while their spirit can be directed to an eternal object, their bodies, passions, and imaginations are in continual change, for to be in time means to change. Their nearest approach to constancy therefore is undulation -- the repeated return to a level from which they repeatedly fall back, a series of troughs and peaks.”

Our Christian life is no exception. Being a Christian does not make us any less human or any more spirit. Some of us have a human nature that allows us to express our spirit side more boldly than others, but it doesn't make the rest of us less spirit than them. Even an atheist is a spirit being, although they may not face this side of themselves until judgment day.

In what area of your Christian life do you repeatedly fall into a trough only to turn around and climb right back up to that mountain peak again? Is it church or Sunday school attendance? Is it reading your Bible? Is it praying? Is it tithing? Is it serving? Is it maintaining a relationship with God? Is it persistent, intentional sin that you sometimes run from and sometimes run to? Is it all of these things at different times -- It is for me.

I’m in a trough right now, in fact, in my relationship with God. Something is tight in my spirit, and I’m not letting God in like I normally would. Instead of asking Him to come sit with me on the front porch and chat, I’m making Him stand outside the fence, in the street, while I occasionally holler out a “help me.” He’s responding with, “I’d love to, but you’ve got to let me in.” Why do we do that? Why don’t we just open up the gate and let Him in? Darn this human nature.

Eventually I’ll climb back up to that peak and let Him in, but for some, digging out of the trough is more challenging than it is for others. For some, the trough’s lowest spot isn’t the worst place to be. For some, their undulation is a roller coaster with multiple loops and double drops, and they just want to get off, and we are left praying that they don’t get off at the bottom. Sometimes in the pit of the trough, the rain comes and floods the trough leaving them struggling to stay above water and gasping for air. And sometimes the peak washes clean away and they don’t know what to do.

I haven’t been there, but I’ve seen it. My best friend, Traci, lost her 15-year-old son, her only child, in a horrible car accident last year. I listened and prayed when her 2am hysterical phone call informed me, “I don’t think he’s going to make it.” I listened to her and prayed for her as shock buried her in a false sense of calm the following morning when he didn’t make it. I cried as we embraced, when all I could say was, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.” I watched her and prayed for her as she strongly carried his pictures, his history, 15 short years worth, into his visitation. I stood behind her and held my hands on her as we gathered around the casket and prayed before the casket was closed – her last human look at her young son. Another friend and I strongly stood close beside her – at just the right time – when suddenly reality sunk in and her legs stopped working and we had to carry her as we walked out of the visitation. Just before his funeral, I pretended to be strong, and I prayed as I fixed Traci's hair and put on her make up because she could barely move. I listened and prayed when she asked, “why would God let this happen?” and all I could say was, “I have no idea why these things happen.” In reality, I was scared, I wanted to curl up into a ball and cry, and I was mad (how could God allow this – she had just lost her father to suicide a few years before – how much can one person be expected to take). I listened and prayed in the months following when all she could do was sleep because when she was sleeping it didn’t hurt . And most of all, I prayed, even when I just didn’t understand. I just kept praying.

Now, 14 months later, Traci has opened a youth center in her small town in New Mexico named, Thomas House, in honor of her son and his love of Jesus and children. Even in our flooded troughs, the peaks can reappear. And even though her climb may not be as easy or fulfilling as it may have once been, eternal lives are being saved through Thomas’s death, and a time is coming when God will bring it all to perfect completion.

No matter how simple or desperate our situation is, God will always give us the ability to climb out of our trough. Our peaks may not always look quite the same, but they will be there.

All we have to do is open up the gate and let God back on the porch.

"Faith Like Potatoes" - Get It!

2009-05-08T15:47:00.032-05:00

I have been so encouraged recently to see so many Christian movies hitting the big screen. Movies like Amazing Grace, Facing the Giants, and Fireproof have done well and given Christians a reason to go to the movie theatre occasionally.

But even these movies, despite their inspiring messages and beautiful stories, leave me wanting a bit more. And usually the "more" I'm looking for is acting that doesn't look and sound like... well, acting. Don't get me wrong, in all of the movies I mentioned above, within 20 minutes I was so enthralled with the story that I didn't dwell on the acting. However, I usually feel like I am just watching a great story, rather than being pulled into the world the filmakers have created for me.

So when I came across Faith Like Potatoes I wondered how in the world this award-winning, international, Christian movie had bypassed the big screens of America -- and why. The Christian message is strong and clear -- was that a deterrent to our American film companies? The acting did not appear to be an act at all: it was sharp and rich and I felt like I was eavesdropping on the real lives of real people.

Based on the true story of the Buchan family, Faith Like Potatoes focuses on Angus Buchan and the extreme anger, stress, and fear he battles while he struggles as a white farmer in South Africa -- in a time when white farmers and their families are being murdered in massive numbers and extreme drought makes it impossible to grow anything, much less water guzzling potatoes.

About 40 minutes into the movie, Angus, at the prompting of his wife, goes to church. He is so moved by what he hears there he prays for salvation and immediately begins telling everyone, including the Zulus that help him run his farm, about Jesus. Everyone around Angus thinks he and his faith are crazy when he tells them God wants him to plant potatoes. South Africa is suffering a severe drought and nothing can grow in the resultant dust, especially potatoes. Angus's faith does not waver and he obeys God and plants his potatoes. His new faith leads to some beautiful spiritual moments in the movie and an emotional struggle when he realizes some things God does are beyond his understanding no matter how strong his faith is.

As I sat, alone, in my living room watching this movie, I was sitting on the Buchan family farm in South Africa; or maybe I subconsciously wanted to be, so I pretended throughout the duration of the movie that I was. At one point, during a particularly emotional scene, I actually jumped off the couch and screamed, "NO! NO!" at my television screen and caught myself whispering a prayer. Knowing this was a true story based on the book written by the real Angus Buchan made it all the more powerful as I was treated to a viewing of his life.

Despite the fact that the ending is given away in the title and a flash-forward scene at the beginning of the movie, knowing makes it no less dramatic when it happens, and I found myself rejoicing right along with Angus, his family, and the entire community when plump brown potatoes are pulled out of the scorched, brown, dusty earth. The movie is about a journey of faith and how God works when we trust in Him.

If there were any cons to the movie, it would have to be the relatively slow start. However, stick with it for 15 minutes or so, you WILL NOT be dissapointed. And it took a few minutes for my ears to adjust to the accents, but once I got used to it, I had no problems understanding what they were saying.

I highly recommend this movie and an occasional tissue. You can order it through Netflix or Blockbuster (I'm not sure if it's in the store).

Click here to view the video trailer: Faith Like Potatoes

Salami "GOD"

2009-05-06T12:28:00.015-05:00

Did you see this story today? A woman in Miami said she was frying three slices of salami, and when she flipped the first piece, a "G" was seared into the meat. When she flipped the second piece, an "O" was seared there, and then she thought, wouldn't it be weird if the last piece had a "D" on it. Then she flipped it and, sure enough, a "D" was there.

Okay, here's my question: at what point did she decide this was newsworthy enough to alert the media? And why? The funny thing is, she's much wiser than I am because I would have simply thought isn't that cool as I gobbled up the salami (okay, I don't eat salami, but you get the point). Alerting the media never would have crossed my mind. But, sure enough, the media jumped on it. Who would have thought... seriously.

What exactly are we supposed to do with this "newsworthy" story?

Are there atheists out there making phone calls saying, "yeah, did you see this salami "GOD" thing. It seems we've been wrong all along - there really IS a God?"
Are there masses of disobedient Christians watching this story and praying, "oh, God, thank you so much for that message. Had it not been for the salami, I would have continued in my intentional sin having never devoted myself fully to You?"
Are there agnostics out there having instant revelations and praying for salvation in record numbers while saying to each other, "oh my gosh, the proof is in the salami, and had I not seen it, I would have gone on living a wretched life and been condemned to hell for all eternity?"
Are there pilgrimages being planned to Miami so we can all see the "holy salami?" Oh please, I hope not but would it surprise me...?

I just don't believe any of these things are happening. If you are reading this and you do fall into one of those categories above, drop me a comment. I'd love to know if you actually exist, and if you do, I will publically declare on my blog, "yes, God does speak through fried salami." Otherwise, could someone please explain why this is on the news.

And, of course, here I am blogging about something that really shouldn't be newsworthy. Why do I do that?

By the way, the woman said she's looking into having the meat and it's message preserved. What do you think? Does God speak through deli meat?

The Dove of Love

2009-05-05T20:50:00.011-05:00

I was wandering around Lifeway today, doing a little mother's day shopping, when I came upon a charming votive candle holder in the shape of a dove. The dove appeared to be carved from a resin material and had intricate designs and textures detailed in rich shades atop a bronzed ivory colored body. Painted on one side was the word "FAITH." On the other, "LOVE."

I was strangely drawn to this little bird. I don't collect birds, and I detest shopping, so I wouldn't normally form an attachment to a trinket such as this. When I noticed it was the only one left, I became quite possessive of it and picked it up and carried it around with me while I shopped. I wasn't necessarily planning to buy it, but I knew I needed to spend some more time with it. As I tried to shop my attention stayed focused on the little bird, and suddenly a buried memory resurfaced.

When I was a child, my stepmother had a little, roughly carved Indian in the same resin type of material as the bird. He was painted in bright, primary colors and if you turned the Indian one way he wore red clothing, had a big smile, and had the words "great spirit happy," on him. If you turned him around, he was an entirely different Indian, wearing blue clothing with a big frown and had the words "great spirit sad," on him. My stepmother loved the happy Indian, and I loved the sad Indian, so we would spend all summer turning that Indian around and around to respectively display our favorite side. I suspect at the end of each summer, when I traveled back home to my mom, that Indian was probably pretty happy to be able to have a few months' reprieve to regain his equilibrium.

"FAITH" or "LOVE" Which side of the bird will I display, I thought and just like that I knew he was no longer just along for the shopping excursion - he was coming home with me. I decided "FAITH" would be the most important for me to display. Love is great, but faith says, "I'M A CHRISTIAN." I grabbed a Christian Research Journal, paid, and drove across the street to Schlotzsky's for some lunch.

I go to Scholtzsky's occasionally for lunch and I always take a book or magazine. Engrossed in my reading of choice, I absolutely never pay attention to what is going on around me. I read while I eat, and then I leave. But today was different. It was a little later than usual so it wasn't overly crowded and it was quieter. I had maintained intense focus on an article in my magazine until I had finished it, and as I was turning to the next article, I recognized something -- a song -- a (Christian???) song -- an obvious Christian song. Chris Tomlin's "Holy is the Lord" was actually playing on Schlotzky's radio at lunch hour. Wow!

Allow me to digress for a moment. I had a similar "Wow!" moment last Wednesday at Kohls department store when I heard Addison Road's "Hope Now" playing on their radio. Not as obvious of a Christian song, but a Christian song nonetheless. These kind of moments always excite me.

Back to Schlotzsky's. I closed my magazine and took some time to look around. Did anyone else notice the song? The four guys in business suits at the table next to me? Nope, they were talking shop. The two guys and the girl sitting on the other side of me? No, the couple was telling the guy how they met. The single guy across the way gnawing into his humongous sandwich? Don't think so -- it didn't seem to phase him. All around me, life was going on and an honest-to-goodness Christian song, a full-on worship song at that, was playing all around us. Were there Christians in this crowd? I wondered. Wouldn't they notice this song? Wouldn't they be looking up in excitement over a public place playing a Christian song so boldly, just like I was?

Then I realized, maybe not. Maybe they don't hear it. Or maybe they are so used to not having their senses filled with anything Christian in places like this that they just don't notice it. Who, in here, needs to hear about Jesus, and who already knows Him? Who has faith that I just can't see, and what exactly would I need them to do to show it to me?

How do people know that we are faithful followers of Jesus Christ? Do we put our faith on display like I wanted to do through my special little dove? Throw our hands up in the air and start praising God when a worship song surprises us at Scholtzsky's? Run to the most non-Christian looking patron in the restaurant and boldy demand, "If you died today, Sir, do you know where you would spend eternity?" Proudly display our Jesus fish and John 3:16 bumper sticker but walk right past the begging homeless guy in the parking lot?

The answer is no. We don't do any of these things. People know we are Christians by the love we share, not by the faith we say we have or the trinkets we display. We build relationships with others, we share our experiences of Jesus with others, and we help those in need. The loving actions we perform are the outward representations of our faith. People don't see our faith, they see our love which evidences our faith.

Thanks to Schlotzsky's, my adorable little dove will show "LOVE."