Thank you, Hedy
I found out this morning that a friend of mine passed away. Hedy was a grandma or friend or mama or sister to everyone. You pick. She’d be what you needed. I don’t know that Hedy would have been comfortable being called a Prayer Warrior. Prayer, in her life, was just something she did. Every day. Early. Very, very early.
It seems fitting that she passed away early this morning.
Here’s my feeble attempt to share her with you. You would have loved her just as much as I still do.
My heart is heavy and light. Both at the same time. Grieving and joy-filled.
I’m so happy for Hedy. She’s been looking forward to this day for a good long time. I know. She told me. She told everybody. For all the time she spent with Jesus in her prayers and in her reading the Scriptures, now is different, I’m sure. It’s more other-side-of-the-world different.
It’s complete.
You know how it feels when you watch a mother-of-the-bride? She’s so excited to see her daughter unite with her new husband. At the same time, there’s a longing, a knowing that she’s going to miss her girl. There’s a big change. New name, new home, new…everything. But the joy of the day wins. The mother, because she loves her daughter so much, lets the sweet overwhelm the bitter.
That’s how I’m feeling right now.
Hedy would have giggled at that analogy. Then she would have said some kind of down-to-earth and beautiful truth about her love for Jesus. She would have called Him her groom. I’m sure tears would have filled her eyes.
She loved Jesus.
And Hedy loved people.
When someone she loved walked in the room, her big brown eyes would crinkle up in the corners and her smile would spread all the way across her face. She’s reach for them. Hug them. Ask about specific things in their lives that she’d been praying for.
Hedy never forgot a prayer request. Never did a prayer-promise go unfulfilled.
The last time I saw her she asked about my writing. When I told her that my books were published, she wasn’t surprised.
“I knew they would be. I prayed for them,” she said.
That wasn’t out of ego or thinking she had an exclusive hold on God’s ear. It was out of her unwavering faith in the effectiveness of prayer.
In prayer and supplication, she made the requests of hundreds known to God. And, in doing so, held up a whole lot of people in troubling times and rejoiced with them in good times.
Hedy was small, but she was big with love.
I have faith that she’s hearing, “Well done, good and faithful servant”.
And I imagine she’s blushing with true humility and putting the glory right back onto Jesus.
Because that’s what she always did.
Thank you, Hedy.
And, Thank You, Jesus for sharing her with us. In her way…which was trying to be like You…she changed the world.
That Thing You Can’t Do…A Birthday Letter To My Boys
Boys, you’re six today and that’s one-third-of-the-way-to adulthood. You should know a few things about life and love and God by now.
At least I hope you do.
We’ve tried. And failed some. We’ve succeeded some, too. These parents you got, your Dad and me? We’re human and not-perfect and often-messing-up.
But we love you. We hope you know that for your whole lives. You are loved regardless of what you do/say/think.
Ours is far from a perfect love. But it is powerful. You can’t understand that now. But some day you will.
Some day, I just know it, you will.
Boys, I want to tell you something. Well, I want to tell you lots of somethings. But we’ll just pick one today.
There will come a day when you feel defeated. You’ll want to give up. You’ll feel worthless and empty and you will despair. I can’t keep you from that.
You’ll find that there is something big that you can’t do. Something you wish you could fix or achieve or have. It’s disappointing. Disheartening. Upsetting. I know. Your Dad and I know this fact-of-life well.
Sons, that thing you can’t do will teach you more than all the things that come easy. You’ll receive more from it than anything you’re given.
That thing you can’t do? It will feel like a curse to you. A thorn in your side. I know it. I’ve had more than a few things I couldn’t do. I don’t ascribe to the idea that you can do whatever you set your mind to. Because…well…it’s not always true. And some of those mind set desires aren’t good for you or others.
That thing you can’t do, don’t let it steal your joy. Don’t allow it to make you hard or bitter or envious. Instead, look at all the things you can do. Allow those things to feed your joy. Let them make you thankful and generous and loving.
Your Dad and I love you. I know we say it all the time. That’s because we know it all the time. We want you to as well. You guys were a great surprise. And you keep shocking us and putting wide grins on our faces.
We know God loves you more than we do. And that His smile is even bigger than ours.
Keep opening doors for the girls (not because they can’t, but because they shouldn’t have to). Always say “please and thank you”. Don’t lose the wonder in those big blue eyes.
And always, always know that we love you. We’re good listeners. We will always open our arms to you.
Happy Birthday.
Tug of War
Last fall I blogged about my boys (who are in Young-5’s) playing soccer against the kindergarteners at recess. They never won. Not even once.
Then I heard a few stories of the kindergarteners puffing themselves up. Trying to lord over the Young-5’s.
“They won’t let me on the monkey bars,” my son Mr. A said. “They block the way.”
“What do you do when that happens?” I asked.
“I go around to the other side.”
“Sounds like a good solution. Or you could always tell the teacher if they get really mean.” (I’m a firm believer in them solving problems like these…it empowers them when I don’t hover too closely…ahem.)
I didn’t hear too much else about the kindergarteners/young-5’s rivalry. Not until spring came, at least.
“We’re playing soccer against the big kids again,” Mr. A said.
“Not me,” Mr. T added. “They don’t play basketball, so I’m doing that now.”
“The big kids are still beating us.” Mr. A shook his head. “We’ll get them some day.”
Then I went on about how important it is to have good sportsmanship regardless if you win or lose. Then my daughter went on about how it’s important to have good sports-woman-ship, too. Then I explained that, throughout time, we’ve referred to the human race as “man”. She took exception to this, which is fine by me.
I gave them pudding. All was well.
A few days later, we were at the store. Mr. A spotted a kindergartener from his school coming out of the bathroom.
“That’s one of the big kids,” he whispered.
“Do you want to go say ‘hi’?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
With all the resolve an almost-six-year-old can muster, my son walked to the bigger boy.
“You’re one of the young-5’s, aren’t you?” the kindergartener scowled. I’m not kidding. He scowled at my baby boy.
Somebody hold me back.
“Yeah.” Mr. A didn’t cower. “Hi.”
The big boy leered at him.
His mother came around the corner. “Oh!” she said in a very happy, sweet, cheerful voice. “Is this one of your friends from school?”
“He’s a young-5.” The boy didn’t break his glare.
He started looking bigger and bigger to me every second.
“Why are you looking at him like that?” the mother asked. “Why do you look so…so…severe?”
I knew, right then, that this rivalry was serious. The mama bear in me had to calm down.
This. Was. Serious.
Field day came. You know field day, right? At most schools these days, everybody’s a winner. Not so for our school. There are winners and losers and icy pops. So. Many. Icy pops.
Kids need to learn how to lose well. In my opinion, it’s more important to learn how to lose with grace than to be the victor. (Man alive, I’m on a soapbox today, aren’t I?)
The kids competed in three-legged races, water-balloon tosses, and…
TUG OF WAR
I knew that the different grade levels competed at tug of war. I knew that the young-5’s would be up against the big, huge, wooly-mammoth kindergarteners.
I had my “It’s important to give it your best, even if you don’t win” speech ready.
After field day, my three got loaded up in my mini-van. Mr. A plopped into his seat and buckled up. He looked exhausted.
“How was your day?” I asked.
“Well, we had to play tug of war with the big kids,” he said. Then, he smiled. “And we won.”
I wanted to pull the van over, climb on the roof, cheer out loud and do a backflip.
I was so proud.
Instead, I drove like the responsible tug-of-war-mom I’m supposed to be.
Mr. A’s grin grew. “They were so mad.”
“What did you guys say to them after you won?” I asked.
“We told them, ‘good game’.” He laughed. “I think that made them even more mad.”
***
Are you facing any “big kids”? If so, take heart, they don’t always win. Sometimes you do. And, when you do, it’ll feel pretty doggone good.
Be kind to yourself today. And, while you’re at it, be kind to someone else, too. You never know what kind of big kids are defeating them over and over.
Editing Life
You, dear friends, will never read my first draft. I don’t show them to anyone. Not my best friends, not my husband….not my AGENT (who I would trust with my offspring and my chocolate, which is saying a lot).
Nobody sees them but me. Because they are just-got-up-in-the-morning and still-has-mascara-caked-in-the-corner-of-her-eyes. Raw and ugly and icky.
I edit my manuscripts so they’re ready for their close-up.
I’m in the editing phase of this little novel I’m working on. Now, editing has a way of making me contemplative. Not only about the work, but about me.
Over the years I’ve started to edit, not only my work, but my life.
I choose the status updates that will make me look witty or loved or perky-peppy. I never post about being too hard on my kids or the times I’ve messed up big time with a friend.
When I put up a new profile picture, I choose the one that makes me look prettiest. I try to find one that catches the light just right…and I always angle the camera so you don’t see my chins. And, I make sure my gray hairs aren’t glistening under the flash.
If I ever talk about rejections or reviews that weren’t great, I reframe it. I talk about how these things have made me grow (which they have). But I never tell you how bummed I was about a few of them. And I don’t tell you much about the bitterness that threatens to snake into my heart.
I am very careful, very deliberate about what I show. I am editing and revising myself near constantly. Why? Because there seems to be a standard. A level of perfection expected of me. Of you. Of all of us.
Yeah. Yeah. Facebook. Twitter. Blogs. Yes. We’re sharing more of our lives than ever before.
But, really, I’ve been doing this longer than Al Gore’s been running the internet.
I started in Kindergarten.
Yup.
At least that’s when I remember doing it for the first time. I told my whole class that I was in ballet and piano lessons. I was not. And that was very clear when the teacher asked me to show them what I’d learned in those classes.
Uh. Oops.
But I wanted my classmates to think I was that kind of girl. The kind who got special lessons. The kind that could perform Swan Lake and be her own accompaniment.
Why did I do that? Why do I still?
Because sometimes I just don’t feel like I’m good enough. Sometimes I’m embarrassed that the laundry room is a complete disaster. That I have 3 or 4 or maybe even 5 baskets of clean laundry that still need folding. That my tupperware cupboard scares me a lot. Because I want you to think I have it together.
So…instead of this as my profile picture…
I put up this…
Instead of this as my Facebook status…
I just massively overreacted to a motor oil spill on my living room floor. The way I acted, I should be the one in time-out.
I put this up…
Um, motor oil spill on my living room floor. Only in the Finkbeiner House. Yikes!
And yes, that really did happen.
Just like my novels, I edit all the things that don’t seem to work from my life. Well, the part of my life that you see, at least. I cover it up. Sweep it under my carpet which, frankly, could use a good cleaning.
Why? Because I want you to think I’ve got it all together. I really want you to see the good parts of me. The cleaned up version with no errors or poorly constructed ideas/thoughts/actions. I don’t want you to see my laundry room (gracious, I don’t even want to see it). I don’t want you to know how much I weigh or what size my pants are. Or that I struggle with perfectionism and envy and low self-esteem.
I do all of this because when I look at Facebook, I see perfect profile pictures and witty or sweet status updates. I see the beauty and the good and the cleaned up version of life.
Because, really, we’re all working so very hard to edit life.
And Now The Fun Starts — I Love Editing
Last night I wrote the last words of my latest novel. Well, the last words of the first draft, that is.
I posted to Facebook, downloaded the latest Mac software, brushed my teeth, went to be, read for an hour, fell asleep.
No major celebration. No binge eating popsicles. No sobbing my eyes out.
Why not?
Because the job isn’t done yet.
In fact, it’s just now getting fun.
Now I get out the purple pens and slash through my story. I’m going to amp up a few characters and kill off a couple more (I know, heartless). I’m going to exterminate weasel words (those tricky verbs that I use over and over). I am going to x out what doesn’t work and build up what does.
Where the drafting stage (when I write the first version of the novel) is like a pressure cooker that builds and builds until the top blows off and I write like a mad women, the editing stage is where I pick through what blew out of the pot and piece it all together. I find that, for me, the editing stage necessitates more of my creative juices and much more focus.
The editing phase is where I take a rough construction of a novel and turn it into something meaningful. It’s where the real story telling happens.
Editing is the fun part.
So, what do you think? Are you a writer? How do you feel about editing? Are you a reader? Have you ever found holes or parts of a novel you wish would have been edited better?
I love to hear from you!
So, You Want To Write A Book, Eh?
Just about every month, I get an email from someone who wants to write a book. Usually, the emailer has about twenty questions…most of them are about how to get published.
I try to back the truck up (beep, beep, beep).
First, before editing and submitting and rejection…First. You. Have. To. Write. A. Book.
After that come the questions about how To. Write. A. Book.
Is there a “how to” guide?
Where can I get the “Write A Novel For Dummies”?
Where do I start? How long will it take? HOW DO I DO IT?????
Again. Let’s back the truck up. (beep, beep, beep)
First, before fretting over how and where and when and why to start To. Write. A. Book. First. You need to know what you like to read.
Yup. Read.
This is where librarian Susie pushes up her glasses, tightens her bun, shushes you, and tells you to put that nose in a book.
Move it, move it, move it. (to be read in my best drill sergeant voice)
Before I was a writer, I was a reader. Writers must must MUST be readers first. Can I say it again? If one wants to write, one absolutely must be a reader.
Must.
Read.
Everything you can get your hands on.
The best writers I know spend as much time reading as they do writing. The best writers I know learn more from reading than anything else. The best writers I know learn from other writers.
People who never move beyond “I want to write a book” are those who, sadly, don’t understand how essential it is to read. It hurts my soul when someone says, “I want to write a book…but I don’t read…I don’t like to read.”
Yowch! That’s like telling an Olympic 100 meter sprinter that you want to compete, but you aren’t going to train…that you don’t even like to run.
It just doesn’t work that way. Sorry.
I’m not trying to scare you, but writing is a lot, a lot, a lot of work. And a massive part of that work is…you got it…reading.
I stayed up far too late last night so that I could finish Okay For Now by Gary D. Schmidt. It is beautiful. It is raw and subtle and moving. I cried. A. Lot. I laughed just as much. I gasped at the luxurious prose somehow delivered in the voice of a 14 year old boy. Often, while reading, I paused and thought, “Now, this is how a novel is written. This is how it’s done.”
Yes. Read how-to books about writing. Go to conferences (meet other writers!). Join a critique group if you’d like. Those are good things.
But.
First.
Read.
Then, after you’ve done some reading, get in a chair and start writing. It doesn’t have to be good. It can be junk. All first drafts are. But sit and click.
Then read some more.
Then write.
And repeat, repeat, repeat.
That’s how you write a book.
Tell me, what books have you read that inspired you? Do you want to write a book? What’s holding you back? What are you reading these days?
Why My Leading Lady Isn’t a Size 2
You’ve read that book, right? The one where the leading lady is a size 2. A man could put his hands around her waist and touch thumb to thumb, middle finger to middle finger.
Oh! And she’s g-o-r-g-e-o-u-s. Perfect hair. Supple lips that are the perfect tone even without lipstick. Her cheeks are blushing perfectly. Her nose curved cutely. Tiny feet.
She draws the attention of EVERY man in town. Right? But especially the eyes of the most handsome man. They fall in love. It’s perfect…kind of…yada yada yada.
I will never write a character who could stand in for a super model. I won’t make her a skinny mini just to fit the norm. I won’t. I won’t. I won’t write perfect looking characters.
Why not?
Because that isn’t real.
Yeah. There are beauties in this world. A whole lot of them. And they all look different. Some are thin, others are curvy. Skin tone and hair texture and facial features are unique…and beautiful.
We have enough media screeching at us to be the “ideal”…whatever that is. To have bikini bodies. To zap cellulite. To make our legs look longer and our hair smoother and our wrinkles disappear. (Ironically, I just now…JUST NOW…got a Groupon email about teeth whitening)
Do you know what I think is beautiful? Crow’s feet. Because my Great Aunts had them due to lifetimes of smiles. Bellies of mama’s that have lines from carrying babies. Hands calloused from hard work to provide for a family.
Beauty is life lived well. Storms weathered. Mercy given. Babies loved. Kisses on a wedding day and kisses 50 years later. Feet that bring good news and little hands that bring dandelions.
A tiny waist is…well…just a tiny waist.
Beauty is so much bigger than a size 2.
Monuments of Wit
Words are powerful. Like Mr. Bacon (not of the movie or pork variety) said, they are monuments that outlast the powerhouses of this world.
I had an online exchange with a writer I greatly admire. We were discussing the fear we have when release date for a novel looms near.
Hear me, friends. It. Is. Terrifying.
For many reasons. But one in particular.
Our words are linked to who we are. What we feel and think and remember. All that we’ve experienced and loved and hated. Words reveal us. Even when those words are used in fiction.
Recently, I’ve been convicted by the thought of words as weapon or balm. Destructive or edifying.
Hundreds of girls in Nigeria were kidnapped because they dared to go to school. They knew the risk. That for their learning, they could be punished. Yet, they got up every day, went to school, and allowed the monuments of words to rise within themselves. They were taken.
And nobody did a thing. Not their government or the police or the United Nations.
That is, nobody did a thing until the mothers of those girls started to use powerful weapons. They paraded, united, made a whole lot of noise with their weapons.
Their weapons? You’ve got it.
Words.
They took their words, insisting that their government take notice, that their government DO SOMETHING, they took those words to the internet.
The world sat up. Read the words. Allowed those words to move their hearts. Let them speak into their empathy and, with tears in their eyes, used words to further the knowledge of these girls.
Because of the words, world leaders woke up. They joined the words. Sent the forces, the money, the know-how to search.
#BringBackOurGirls became a monument large enough for the world to see.
The words we read about these beautiful girls narrowed the space between us and them. We listened and read and ached because, in Christ there is no Greek nor Jew nor American nor Nigerian. And these girls are our sisters, made in the same image by the same Father.
I can’t and shouldn’t go to Nigeria today. I can’t and shouldn’t forge through the forests of West Africa. But I can and should and must use my words.
I can and should and must carry on the message of the mothers.
I am a writer. Words are my vocation. They are my calling. Often, I feel selfish for my time spent at my computer, tapping stories onto the screen. The thought that I’m not providing much cash for my family makes me wonder if this time is well spent. Looking at the volumes of stories and sentences and paragraphs that already exist, I think that, perhaps, there’s plenty enough without my words.
Those are the days I forget that every word I pen or type is a monument. Not to myself. Not to my pride or ego or wealth or ability. I forget the power that words carry. The weight.
The heft of a monument that marks life. An Ebenezer, if you will.
In the Old Testament of the Bible, the Israelites (or God’s Chosen People) had a practice of collecting stones to build monuments after major battles or victories. They did so to remind themselves of God’s goodness, His salvation, His provision.
My words are stones that I stack, one on top of another, to build a monument to God.
So that I remember. So that my readers will, too.
So that, when I think and pray for the girls in Nigeria, I can be reminded that there is still hope. That, with the bold words of power and passion, a world can come to care.
That sometimes, God can use our words to bring back His girls.
Characters Taking Over
I sat at Starbucks, trying to write even though Oprah was behind me, watching my every move.
I’m writing a novel with a pre-teen protagonist…no, it’s not young adult…no, it’s not fantasy fiction…
I got to the point in my story where my protagonist meets a man in a field. All that was supposed to happen was the man planting a seed of information…just a tiny nugget that would push the plot forward.
Instead, he revealed a plot twist.
Without permission, mind you.
And it’s a doozy of a twist. My readers won’t see it coming (I hope).
And this not-even-secondary character decided to bust in and reveal it.
I guess he was tired of me sitting on the secret. He thought it was time for it to come to light. I’m pretty glad he did. I had no idea how to smash-bang it into the story.
It had to be this guy. I know that now.
***
Often, when you read a novel, it’s hard to imagine that the author wrote some parts without know what the hee haw was going to happen. Yeah. He or she may have outlined and made copious notes. But. But. There are always moments that take the writer by surprise.
There is nothing like that.
What I’m about to say is going to sound a bit strange (only if you aren’t a fiction writer). But what I’m about to say is true. And one of the beautiful things about writing novels…
The characters get to have their say.
If they want to cross the room and look into the mirror for a minute, I let them. If they want to bust my plans, I allow it. If they want to be big fat liars that cheat to get their way, all righty tighty.
If it doesn’t work, then, well, I edit it out or clean it up.
If you’ve read Paint Chips, you might remember when Promise is pushing the baby stroller, trying to get away from Taz (her pimp). He’s being awful, abusive, and threatening. As I wrote that scene, Grace (the sailor-mouthed roommate of Dot) kept saying, “Let me at him…let me just get him…I don’t care if I go back to jail…” So. I let Grace go. I let her take over the scene for a bit. And it turned out to be a better scene for it.
If you’ve read My Mother’s Chamomile, you may recall the scene at the end when Olga’s leaving her home for the last time. I’d intended for her to just leave. Shut the door and be done. But she asked, very sweetly (of course) for a minute to take one last walk around the rooms, empty as they were. That ended up being a remarkably moving scene to write. I’ll admit, I wept as I typed it.
Now, I’m not going to get into the psychological aspects of letting a character take over (it’s actually a character that is part of my subconscious or blah, blah, blah…). But I am going to tell you this…when I allow my characters to assert their will, I end up with a better novel than I ever would have put together by myself.
The Cure for a Dreary Day
This morning I read a post by John Blase that has me feeling contemplative. And it has me feeling like I need to let you see me. See past the happy selfies and the snarky-snark-snark.
I’m feeling blue this morning.
It could be the dreary skies. The fact that school is going to be done for the year in just a few weeks. It might be the migraine I’ve been trying to shake for the last week or so. Or that I’m not as far along in writing this novel as I’d hoped to be. That I wish My Mother’s Chamomile was selling better. Oh, and finding Paint Chips for sale, used, from the online West Michigan Goodwill store didn’t help, either.
Plus, sick friends and family. Missing girls in Nigeria. War. The ick of living in a broken world full of broken people.
But I’m blu-ooo-ooo, blu-ooo-ooo, blu-ooo-ooo, OOOOOO.
Honestly, it isn’t the rejection. I’m actually completely fine with that. Isn’t that weird?
I’m. Just. Feeling. Blah. Meh.
It’s a shrug-your-shoulders kind of day.
And that’s the truth. It ain’t purty, that’s for sure.
You know what I want to do? Sleep. Eat chocolate. Watch TV. Stop writing for a day or two. Or a week. Or just go get a job at…well…anywhere. Actually make minimum wage for the first time in 8 years.
Quit.
Problem is, I can’t do that.
But I’m in too deep for that kind of thing.
So. Here’s the plan. I’m going to accept the blue. I’m going to nod at it, let it have its day. I’m going to feel it and observe it. Store it up for when I need to write it.
I’m going to read encouraging emails that I’ve gotten recently from people who have read one of my books. I’m going to accept extra hugs from my kids and husband. I’ll work furiously on my novel while my boys are in school. I’m going to get a coffee at the Starbucks where the baristas know my name (I’m like Norm there).
And I’ll keep on praying. Yeah, I know. Sometimes that doesn’t garner the results I want. Sometimes praying feels empty. But I’m going to do it anyway.
Because I’ve had a lot of days like this. I’m prone to them. Isn’t that nice? And I’ve learned something about days like these…
They end.
Sunny days always come around again eventually.
I’m a believer in hope.
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