The Thank You Note
Today I have the honor of being featured on the Chacos site as their Holiday Blogger. I’d really love it if you’d hop over and check it out. Click HERE to see it!
One of the very first table manners we teach kids is to say, “Thank you”. Why? Because we value gratitude. We hand our child a sippy cup and ask, “Now, what do you say?”.
When they respond with thanks in their little voices, it makes us proud.
We’re raising them well.
When my kids were smaller we rarely, if ever, went out to eat. Dinner with a family of five can get expensive, so when we did go, it was a special occasion. Still is, really. I remember the very first time my daughter expressed her gratitude to the server without needing a reminder.
I was so proud, I just about bubbled.
Then I thanked her for using her “best-good manners”.
Yesterday after school my kids asked if they could use my stockpile of “thank you” cards. They wrote messages to their teachers, thanking them for what they do (teachers really deserve all the thanks we can give, by the way. They are real life super heroes). They were so excited to give their thanks.
Then, my daughter bounced over to me (she always bounces when she’s excited). She handed me an envelope.
“This one’s for you,” she said, giving me the biggest of her smiles.
It said, “Thank you for being my mom. Thank you for loving me.”
Oh. My. Heart.
If only she knew what an honor it is to be her mother.
I smiled and we hugged. She bounced away to write a few more notes.
That small note did a big thing for my heart. I’m sure you understand.
I have some thank you cards left. I think it’s time I used them up.
How about you? Do you write thank you notes? When have you gotten a “thank you” from someone that meant a lot to you?
And, just for fun, here’s Jimmy Fallon writing thank you notes.
No Thanks. a little fun blog because I’m drawing a blank today.
Last week I spoke via Skype to a group of moms in Holt, Michigan (that’s just south of Lansing). I was scheduled to be there in person, but Lake Michigan had another idea and pummeled West Michigan with snow.
Thank goodness for technology.
Yeah, that’s me on TV. Fun, right?
I shared about what it means to be people of thanksgiving. That it means we’re content with what we have because God provides and He’s our loving Father.
That’s it in a nutshell.
I opened the talk, though, with a different kind of list…a list of things I’m NOT thankful for.
Would you like to see that list?
Good. Because it’s all I’ve got for this blog today.
What I’m Not Thankful For
1. Spam. Both the email kind and the “meat product” kind.
2. A sink full of dirty dishes.
3. Stinky socks.
4. Legos that are found on the floor in the middle of the night. Yowch!
5. Support top pantyhose.
6. Snow in November. December. January. February. March…April.
7. Goopy mascara.
8. Gas station hot dogs.
9. Chocolate “flavored” candy. Seriously. What a rip off.
10. The tupperware full of leftovers that gets pushed all the way back in the fridge in what I
call The Stephen King Zone (where all things go to a terrible, ghastly, horrifying end) and
stinks up the entire house, sending me on a rampage to find the rot. Also, I’m not thankful that
this always occurs in my best tupperware…the one and only tupperware with a matching top.
There you have it. Nothing profound. Nothing intelligent.
I’ll post something with a little meaning on Wednesday. Until then! Happy Monday!
(OH! Also, this Friday I’ll be featured on the Chacos blog…like, the shoe company…yeah. So, I’ll post the link and it would be super rad if you’d click over to their blog and say “hi” to me. Yes. I just used the word “rad”. That’s what happens when you get a gig writing for Chacos.)
The Muck and the Mud
A few years ago I heard Luis Alberto Urrea speak at the Festival of Faith and Writing. Urrea is a Mexican American poet, journalist, and novelist. Now, before you run out and read his books, just know that, if you want to learn how to cuss in Spanish, you’ll learn by reading his work. Also, if you like to gag on the funk of humanity, his stories will do that.
He’s gritty. There’s no lace on his sleeve.
You know, just a few weeks ago I turned in the latest draft of A Cup of Dust to my publisher. I love the story, probably more than the other two (sorry, other novels). It’s gritty. Literally (yes, I’m using that word correctly). There is a fair amount of blood. Seething hate. Deception.
I felt badly punishing my protagonist (main character). But it was what I had to do so she would learn that God is the one who saves.
Now I’m researching for another project. I can’t tell you much about it. What I can say is…it’s different. I think in a good way. This one will also deal with difficult, gritty issues. The research is showing me a glimpse into the heart of darkness of which humans are capable.
It’s enough to snuff out hope if I’d let it.
But I’m not going to do that.
I think Luis Alberto Urrea was onto something. If we can see God through all the suffering in this world, through the dark times, the fear and agony people endure — if we can see God while we’re wallowing in the mud and muck, then we’ve got it.
What’s it?
Hope.
That’s what I hope I do with my writing. Truly I do.
Lace and Walt Whitman
I’m writing a new novel. Well, “writing” can mean several things. At this moment it means that I’m researching and putting together character sketches. As I said before, I’m not ready for the actual writing (which we call “drafting” in the biz).
Another thing I do at this stage in the novel writing process is what I like to call “pre-writing”. It’s when I try on the voice of my protagonist (the main character). When I stretch out a little into a scene or two that have been bouncing around while I fold laundry or wash dishes.
It’s also when I decide from what point of view I want to write. First person (where the character narrates) or third (where a non-character who is pretty much a know-it-all tells the story).
I’ve only ever written novels in the first person. I decided I’d try a little third in my pre-writing.
What came out was detached, frilly flowers of words. It didn’t match the story I’m trying to tell at all.
That’s when I remembered Walt Whitman.
So, you know what I did? I tried writing in the first person. The frills fell off. The flowers wilted. The lace snagged and got pulled all out of shape. What I got was grit.
Let me tell you something, I like writing with grit.
It’s the style I love to read, too.
I mean, I’ll read something now and then with the smallest amount of lace on the sleeve. But it’s also cool if that lace gets a little blood stain on it here or there.
Back to work.
Hope you have a great day!
Hey, do you like books with lace or grit? Or maybe even a little of both? Do you agree with Walt Whitman?
Support
My husband came home on two separate occasions, hands held behind his back, giddy smile on his face.
“Wanna see what I’ve got for you?” he asked both times.
Now, I’ve learned to be cautious when he asks that. One time it was a frog that ended up peeing on my kitchen floor. I’m not kidding. Another time it was a much needed part for my van (whoopie). He’s a jokester, that Jeff of mine.
I’m not complaining, by the way. He makes me laugh like nobody else can.
Back to those two occasions I was talking about. One time, he handed me a book of Dorothea Lange photos. She is my all time favorite photographer. It was also a book that I could use to research for A Cup of Dust (my novel releasing with Kregel Publications next fall). The second time was a Life special publication that will help me with the novel I’m currently working on.
This man of mine is good at picking out jewelry. He gets me the prettiest flowers. But, what makes my heart pitter-patter extra is when he gives me gifts like those two books. Why? Well, because they’re books and I love books. But really, there’s another reason, a deeper one.
Those two books communicate his support of my writing. They tell me that he believes in me. He’s cheering me on.
Support is something we all need. I know that some of you have challenging jobs in an office, others of you are stay-at-home moms or dads. Some of you homeschool or volunteer your time at school or church or elsewhere. I know a few of you struggle with medical issues, either your own or a loved one’s.
Who is it that supports you? Who prays for you or sends you a card of encouragement? Is it a friend or a spouse or a pastor? Who do you support?
A whole lot of you have been such a great encouragement to me, and I truly appreciate that. I’m thankful for you. I sure hope I can be a support for you too.
What My (non-writer) Friend Taught Me About Writing
My friend Karee does something I’ve never seen anyone do before. When she gets her mug from the cupboard, she doesn’t pour the coffee right away (like I do…because I’m a desperate person, I am). She lets hot water run from her faucet, filling the mug, and letting it sit for a minute or two.
The first time I saw her do it, I thought, “Hm. She was a missionary kid in Africa. Maybe they had mug bugs there and had to kill them with hot water first. Or, maybe these are her ‘company coming over’ mugs and she’s rinsing out the dust.”
I didn’t ask her why she did that because I’d just met her…and…well, sometimes I’m afraid of being awkward.
The next time I came over, she did the same thing. That was when I realized what she was doing.
She was warming up the mugs so they’d keep the coffee warm longer.
That Karee is one smartie pants, I tell ya.
So smart, in fact, that I totally stole her idea.
This morning, while I warmed my mug, I realized that Karee had taught me something about writing without even realizing it (THAT, my friends, is how smart she is).
Right now I’m sitting on a new novel idea, trying to keep myself from jumping out of the boat (I’m so like Peter sometimes). I want to write this thing, like RIGHT THIS VERY NOW! And when I say I want to write it, I mean I want to write the whole thing. Today. All of it.
But then it would be awful. Truly awful. Why? Because I’m not as ready as I think I am. I have a lot of prep work to do. I have characters to meet (yes, I know that sounds looney toons, but it’s important). I have historical events to research (so I don’t have FDR and JFK drinking Starbucks and taking a selfie). I’ve got to figure out picky little details (like point of view and setting and blah, blah, blah, writer stuff, blah, blah, blah).
I need to let my mug warm up a bit. That way my coffee won’t get cold too soon.
See what I’m saying?
So, I sit and wait. Letting my mug warm up a bit. Letting my brain get prepared.
Because once I start writing, I want to do the very best work I can.
The Dreams of Children (and adults)
My kids are dreamers. One wants to be an astronaut, writer, artist, mom, and good cook. Another would like to be the quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers. Why? No clue. It’s his favorite team. Why? Still, no idea. The youngest is going to move to Africa to become an explorer who helps people.
In their minds, these are the futures they’re headed toward. No doubt. It’s all going to happen.
They aren’t thinking about how many years of college may be ahead of them. They aren’t worried about rising tuition. The thought of how really difficult the road to these dreams might become doesn’t cross their minds. They don’t think about concussions or the slim chances of becoming these audacious things.
They just dream without doubt.
My kids are very different from one another. Even the twins. They have distinct personalities (and big ones, at that). However, there is something they each do: they make books. They 
take paper (usually with an edited draft of one of my novels on the other side), draw and color and write. My daughter writes about space or nature or a series of books called “The Blah-Blah Books” with humor that is far too sophisticated for me. The explorer draws wild animals. The aspiring quarterback writes books about match ups between some of his favorite football teams.
They are dreaming. Did you know that writing is nothing more than dreaming on paper?
As adults, we get hung up on the cost of everything. How much effort it will take. The statistics.
We just want to be realistic, we say.
I get that. I do.
But life is too short to say “no” to all of our dreams.
I know, you’re busy. You’ve got a full time job. The kids and the dishes and laundry and soon-to-need-shoveling sidewalks all demand our time and attention.
Yup.
But dreams are in our heads for a reason. I believe that some (if not most) of them are sewn in by God as He’s forming us in the hidden places.
Give your dreams space, my friends. Give them a little breath. It might mean you stop watching TV or stop mopping the floor all the time (who really does that unless their socks get stuck?). Maybe you say “no” to a few other things so you can say “yes” to that dream that’s been nudging you.
Who knows. You might just end up seeing it really happen.
Tell me, what’s one of your dreams? What’s keeping you from trying to go after it? Do you believe that God gives us these desires? What happens then?
When Someone You Love Dies – A Tribute to a Friend
The first time I met Kathy, she was wearing feathers in her hair. She had bright green eyeshadow darkening her lids all the way up to her brows. She was going to a concert for some late 80’s hair band and she could hardly sit still for the excitement. She left the creative writing class I was teaching early to catch the bus. She promised she’d get her homework done by the next time I came.
Another time I saw her, she had bandages wrapped around both wrists. Her hair had been dyed several different colors, but hadn’t been washed in too long. She wore her pajamas. Several layers of them, in fact. She was on so many anti-psychotics she couldn’t hardly talk. She fell asleep easily.
Yet another time, Kathy spoke of a strange, celestial battle over her soul. Myth-like creatures struggled against one another to win her loyalty. Those beings were upset because I was visiting. Kathy asked me to leave, genuinely afraid for my safety.
Then, the next time I saw her, she was smiling, dressed in a colorful and peppy outfit. She was singing and giving hugs and talking about how good life was.
Kathy’s 45 years were full of the ups and downs of profound mental illness. Trying to battle it herself, she struggled with drug abuse and all the darkness that surrounds that lifestyle. Over and over and over, she got clean and tried to stay that way. But the call of addiction is strong and she fell to it several times.
Kathy was a mother and a friend and a daughter. She was generous. She was loving, even when the hallucinations clouded her senses. K was trying. She really was. She was trying to live well.
She died Thursday after almost a week on life-support.
I can’t find an obituary for her. On the funeral home website, there are no details about a service. Just an online guestbook with one entry.
I think that makes me saddest of all.
So here is my tribute to her.
I miss her. And I know that I will miss her over and over. That, in my memory, I’ll keep a snapshot her smile and voice and the struggles she braved to fight. I’ll remember the way she hugged for (maybe) a little too long. How, when given a gift, she was go on and on with her thanks. How she’s write stories with creativity that blew my socks off. How we’d written a poem together and she’d cheered, making me read it no less than 10 times (it was really a great poem because of her words, I didn’t mind reading it). I’ll remember the time she was in charge of making a turkey for our Thanksgiving party. She made it 4 days early because she was afraid it wouldn’t be done on time.
Kathy had a hard life. But she filled this world with plenty of wide smiles and beautiful laughs.
The world is a little bit quieter without her in it.
You Don’t Have To Roar
Today is one of those days for me. I’m battling a several days long migraine (thanks to the air pressure). I feel like all the roar is gone from me at the moment.
Today is a “I will try again tomorrow” day.
Daydreaming and Change
I’m in the wondering phases of novel writing.
What does that mean?
Oh, it means that I’m not ready to write yet. Not. A. Word. I’m daydreaming a lot. Asking, “What if…?” I’m typing about a kazillion Google searches a day, trying to follow my little zippy imaginings of what I can do with this or that character.
I’ve been here before. Two years ago I was wondering about how to set a novel in a funeral home (that one became My Mother’s Chamomile). One year ago I was pouring over documentaries and books and photos from Depression Era Oklahoma (that book is A Cup of Dust, releasing with Kregel Publications in Fall, 2015).
Here I am again. I’m happy to be back in this place as a writer. Why? Because anything is possible.
This time it’s different, though. Instead of starting fresh with brand new characters, I’m keeping with the ones from A Cup of Dust*. But it’s not just about the characters or setting.
I’m not the writer I was a year ago. Or two years ago.
I’ve changed.
As I’m jotting notes in my idea journals and thinking on all the conflict I can pour down upon these characters, I feel like I’ve left Kansas.
I can’t wait to see what this next novel holds.
P.S. The allusion to The Wonderful Wizard of Oz is intentional. It’s a clue. You’ll see later on what it means.
*NOTE: this book I’m working on hasn’t been picked up by a publisher yet…so it might end up being a story about different characters. It could be a second in a series or stand alone. Either works for me. That’s the biz, baby.
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