Words are dangerous. No really, they are. That old rhyme of Sticks-and-stones-may-break-my-bones-but-words-will-never-hurt-me?

What a load of hooey.

Words are powerful. They are weapons. They are balms. Words change the world.

In the early/mid 1800’s Heinrich Heine, a German-Jewish poet said, “Whenever books are burned, human beings are destined  to be burned too.” In 1933 the Nazis started burning books. Why? Because they had “un-German thoughts”.

Hitler, it seems, was afraid of the power of words. He knew they were dangerous. (Learn more about it HERE)

The other day I started reading Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry by Mildred D. Taylor.

I’d realized that I had somehow missed reading this book in middle school (I missed a lot of the classic teen reads in those days…It’s a long story). I figured I ought to catch up before my daughter hits those novels like the reading maniac she is.

This novel is set in 1930’s Mississippi. The protagonist is an African American girl. I’m sure you can figure out how volatile it was to be black in the south (or anywhere in the U.S.A) in the 1930’s. 1960’s. 2014.

It didn’t take me long to realize that this book must be on the good old Banned Books List. Why is it banned? Because it depicts racism in the south in a way that a white woman deemed “inappropriate for children”.

Because words have power. Words that tell the truth, that strip away a coating of sugar – Those words are weapons.

My daughter, who is often intrigued by what I’m reading, asked about the book.

“You’ll get to read it in a few years,” I said. “And then I want to hear what you think about it.”

“Okay.” She smiled. “Will I read it at school?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a banned book,” I said.

I explained what that meant. She thought it was pretty cool that I would allow the reading of a banned book in our home. I made sure she understood that all banned books read under my roof necessitated a discussion with me. She grinned at our conspiracy. We shook on the agreement.

Man, I love that my daughter is so into words and stories.

You know what? She understands the power of words. Yeah. I’m bragging.

As an author, my days are full up to the rafters with words. I push them around, cross them off, try to spell them correctly (thank goodness for that red dash under the funkily spelled ones). Words can be a balm. They can also be a dagger. I have to be mindful of how I use my words.

Because they have power.

I suspect that Steinbeck knew that. So did Harper Lee. Faulkner and E.B. White got it too. Their words made a difference. They shook things up a bit.

They jabbed at how the world was/is and showed how it could/can be.

This is the power of words.

In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the word was God.

John 1:1 of The Bible (banned book)

I needed chapstick. That’s why I stopped at Meijer (our local supermarket) first thing in the morning. I pulled into a space relatively close to the door so I could get in and out and go about my day.

There was a cart in the space next to mine.

I noticed a brown paper bag on the bottom. The way down bottom. Where you’d put your mega-sized package of toilet paper or mac and cheese.

Inside the bag were about a dozen paperback books.

Interesting, I thought. Who would do that?

So, I hopped out of my van and snapped a few pictures. A woman in an SUV looked up from her texting and looked at me like I was a crazy woman.

I thought about telling her that I’m a writer and that makes my crazy lady badge justifiable. But she had gone back to her texting.

The closer I got to the books, the more my curiosity flared.

What was the story of these books? Where did they come from? Why did someone just dump them?

Then I got a little melancholy about them. No. I know. Books are paper and glue and don’t have what kids these days call the “feels” (that’s whippersnapper talk for “emotions”). But I became sad because I see the culture of paper books declining in exchange for ebooks.

Now, I don’t think ebooks are bad. Not at all. They have people reading. They’re compact. They’re accessible. And they aren’t for me.

I’ve tried. I’ve got a Nook. I have the Kindle app on my laptop and phone and iPod and tablet (why in the WORLD do I have all those devices?). I simply do not enjoy reading from an electronic thing-a-ma-jobber.

I prefer paper. It has a texture which is pleasing. The weight of a book anchors me, reminding me that it’s time to read (not time to check Facebook or Amazon stats or Twitter). I am also a book sniffer. Yes, I admit it. They smell good.

But the best part of paper books? They can be passed down.

This summer I read the 14 Oz books to my kids. As much as I could, I gave the different characters their own voices and mannerisms. We giggled through certain parts and felt the tension build in others. I held the book up so they could examine the pictures. My kids often played “Oz” in the backyard.

I read from the collection we had in my home when I was a kid. These were the books my mom held as she read to us, giving the characters their own voices and mannerisms.

This is the last of the collection. Glinda of Oz. I remember writing our last name in it. Riggs (note: the ‘s’ is below a little). My boys make their ‘i’s the same way I did.

These books held memories. No. Not just that. They are part of my family heritage. Something that links me and my kids to who we are and where we’ve been.

You just don’t get this kind of experience with a glossy screen and fancy finger-swiping page turning (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

The other day my son and I were discussing how fun it was to read these books. He raised his eyebrows and said, “Do you think I could have those books to read to my kids when I’m a grown up?”

This is just another reason why I won’t abandon the paperback.

I’m so honored to have a guest post over at Jessie Heninger’s place. Jessie is a dear friend and fellow writer. Her blog is sweet and lovely. You should look around at a few of her posts!

I’ve read a whole lot of books this summer. Most of them were read out loud, my kids listening and giggling and sitting in wonder of the places story can take us.

We are on the last of 14 books in the Oz series. Yup. There are 14 of them. I plan on blogging about that experience next week.

But I will say this, it’s been good fun. Reading with my kids is one of my very favorite parts of motherhood. As they grow, we’re enjoying the ability to discuss classic literature over PB&J. I’ve even spied on them playing “Wizard of Oz” in our backyard.

I’ve read a few books on my own. A couple of really good ones, too. But when I think about my summer reading, I always remember the books I’ve read with my kids. There’s just more meaning to those.

So, how about you? What have you read this summer? What’s made it so memorable? Make sure you comment below. It’s an entry to the give away I’m hosting today.

Speaking of give away…

Starting Thursday, August 28 and running until the 31st My Mother’s Chamomile is on sale! You can download the Amazon Kindle version for only 99 cents (sorry, folks with other e-readers…still about $4 for you which still is a pretty good price). I’d love to see sales spike during this sale, so I’m trying to spread the word about the sale.

Thus, the give away.

So, feel free to share the news about the book sale and make sure you enter this give away!

Enter by clicking the “rafflecopter” give away link below. Remember, you can tweet about the give away once each day until it all ends on Sunday evening!

I hope you win!

a Rafflecopter giveaway

This has been the summer of dirt under the fingernails. Of worms wiggling in open hands and mud smudged noses.

I told someone at the beginning of the summer that my goal was to let my kids get filthy-dirty every single day. A muddy kid is a happy kid, as far as I’m concerned. So far, my theory has proven correct.

They are having a blast. They are learning so much about the outside world by literally digging in.

They are ingesting it!

Literally!

They are getting their little hands dirty while experiencing life.

I think we could all take a cue from them.

As a writer, I spend a ridiculous amount of time processing ideas. I’m thinking of storyline options while I’m trying to fall asleep. I discover new characters when I’m grocery shopping. I’m constantly writing ideas in a journal (I have a journal started for the next 5 books I’m planning to write).

This work is all in my head. It’s clean hands work.

I watch documentaries on the subjects I wish to write, read books, scour the internet for resources, tip-toe through the library shelves for great ideas.

But that’s all clean. I get nary a chip in my nail polish.

One thing I learned well while I wrote My Mother’s Chamomile was that to really and truly get it (that is, what life as a funeral director was like), I needed to get my hands dirty. Just a little.

That was why I visited the funeral home and took the tour. Why I needed to be face to face with people, talking about grief. Why I needed to tap into the loss I’ve experienced.

I have to get a little muck under my nails in order to be a better writer.

But that’s writing and writing isn’t life. Life is life. Writing is just a shard of it.

I’ve learned over the last few years that living well requires a lot of digging in. In order to love, you need to go through the gunk with people. Love is about the messiest thing I know of. It requires a lot of us.

But it’s worth it.

Raising up kids is sweaty work. It is exhausting and terrifying and the biggest joy of my life.

If I want to do it semi-right, I can’t stand to the side with my hands up, refusing to wipe the snotty nose or the slobbery kiss. Being part of a family (regardless of your familial title) takes so much from us.

It’s worth it, too.

Love and kids and marriage and careers and being a good neighbor, goodness me. These things demand hopping into the ditch and getting a little scuffed up.

But all the living that happens in those moments, well, it’s beautiful and full of wonder.

Don’t worry, a little dirt never hurt anybody.

Late Wednesday evening I finished the second draft of A CUP OF DUST. How do I feel? Well. I feel like I still have some work to do.

I’ve made a list of things that need to be fixed within the plot, a character who needs to be eliminated (as in, I have to make it like he never existed in the first place…oh, the power!), I need to iron out the narrative voice to make sure it’s consistent, and…well…so much more.

I’ve got my purple pens. The novel is printed and in a storage tote (seriously, it won’t fit in a file folder). My brain is making circles around the story.

But I’m not going to touch it today. At least that’s the goal.

What? Why?

Because I need to let it set.

Think of it this way. You want pudding. Not the stuff in the little cups from the store. You want REAL pudding. The kind made with cold milk. The kind you whisk for 2 minutes.

The kind of pudding that makes you pretend to be Bill Cosby for a minute.

If you were to mix up your pudding and right away start spooning it into your mouth it would be…well…pudding broth. It needs time to set up. To thicken. To be right.

Mercy, it’s hard to wait for the pudding to be ready. Right? It’s also hard for me to resist messing with my manuscript. I want to get back at it.

With Paint Chips, I put it aside for about 31 days (remember when I wrote all those short stories? That was crazy). With My Mother’s Chamomile I didn’t have time! I was on a deadline.

This time, everything is different. I don’t have a publisher for it (yet…my awesome agent is working on it). I’m more knowledgable as an author about what works and what doesn’t and how to fix it. And, soon, I’ll have PLENTY of writing time (school is coming). I don’t know how long I’ll let it chill before digging in.

For now, to keep from touching it, I’m going to do some laundry and dishes. Maybe I’ll even dust.

Hm. And I think I’ll make some pudding.

I’m pages from the end of my rewrites of A CUP OF DUST (the novel I’m currently writing).

Can I tell you that this is the point in the writing process where I wonder if the book is any good at all. And this is also the point where I realize the true word count. It actually looks like a novel now. Feels like one, too.

My friends, it’s a good feeling to know that an idea you had less than a year ago has formed into a full story. It wasn’t just on my small abilities as a novelist. This book has been supported by you. Truly.

Thank you.

And, as the process of submitting to publishers continues, I’ll keep up my appreciation of your encouragement and love. And I’ll do my very best to lift you up too.

For now, I need to finish up this leg of the work. I’ve got miles and miles left to go with this one. It’s thrilling.

So, I hope you’ll excuse me, but I need to get back to the novel.

Oh.

But first, I have to plunge the toilet.

This is the glamorous life.