A Poem For Good Friday
Anxiety is a free-fall from too-high-up,
Jetting toward the rock-hard,
Flailing in a grab-nothing way,
Screaming in a make-no-sound panic.
Anxiety is Good Friday.
Not in a Sunday’s-coming hope
But
In a hidden-through-Jerusalem grief.
Good Friday is dark Friday,
Black Friday,
Nothing-good-about-this-day Friday.
Good Friday is rough wood,
Rusted nails,
Sharp thorns.
But a hyacinth I believed long dead
Is growing purple among weeds,
Pushing up through hard ground
With aroma sweet as hope.
3 Reasons to Read My Mother’s Chamomile
I saw a friend the other day at Starbucks. He happens to have written the #1 helpful review of Paint Chips. He told me that he hasn’t read My Mother’s Chamomile. Then he asked me why he should read it.
What a great question.
I’ve been thinking about the answers to that question ever since. And here are a few answers I came up with.
1. Because it’s about Funeral Directors: Unless you are one or have a friendship with one, you might not understand what it means to work in the funeral business. I did a lot of research, educating myself about their lives. They are not only interesting because of what they do, they are also extremely mercy-rich people who live the life of service to others.
2. Because it might help you mourn: A few years ago, a friend of mine died. I had the hardest time grieving her until I read a book by Lisa Samson. Because of that novel, I was able to mourn and heal from the loss of my friend. Now, I know that we don’t like to get too emotional. And I realize that grief is uncomfortable. But to allow ourselves to really feel those emotions, we are behaving in a healthy way.
3. Because it will help build empathy muscles. Science has proved it; reading fiction makes us more compassionate, empathetic people. Novels have a way of putting us in the shoes of others, causing us to see the world in a different way. A way that links us to other human beings. Gary Schmidt (author of Young Adult books such as Okay For Now) said, “Story makes us humane and more human”. If nothing else, My Mother’s Chamomile will put you in the shoes of Funeral Directors. It will help you see the world through the eyes of a family who is in the middle of a great loss. It will cause you to think about how much we humans really are very much alike.
I believe in this story. Yes, because I wrote it. But also because I know the impact it had on me as I wrote it. And I’ve heard from others who have been moved by it. It isn’t my story. It’s the story of all of us, really. And I sincerely hope that you’ll consider giving it a read.
The Conference I Couldn’t Wait to Leave — or–My Weekend at the Festival of Faith & Writing
Every other year I attend the Festival of Faith and Writing at Calvin College in Grand Rapids. Since graduating from high school, I’ve attended 8 of these conferences.
You can thank FFW for this blog (which I started after the 2010 conference). And, because of FFW, I wrote for the Burnside Writers Collective which gave my career a little boost. Oh. And I met Amelia Rhodes in 2010 at the festival. A lot of good has come from FFW.
Can you see why I was so excited for the 2014 conference? I was absolutely giddy! I remembered how remarkable it was in 2012, attending for the first time as a contracted author. I sat in one of the sessions and wished I could be there all the time. Constantly surrounded by writers. Always gleaning wisdom from the presenters.
This year was different.
I went from session to session, gulping all the information offered me. I was so encouraged by the humility of authors leagues ahead of me. I scribbled notes furiously.
People, I cried in almost every single session. Quietly, thank goodness.
I believe I learned more this year than any other. But I never once wished I could stay there forever. I was eager to soak in the knowledge and then get back to my novel.
This year was different because I have work to do. By Friday evening my fingers were itchy to get back to it. I had a whole day left with some of the most impacting presentations to attend. And it all just built up the pressure to get this novel out of me. Onto the paper. Into the hands of readers. Then dive into the next novel. And the next and the next and the next.
At the Festival of Faith and Writing, I filled my well so that I can pour it all out in my writing.
And, speaking of my writing, I’ve got to get to it.
Interestingly, Bonnie Grove (author of the brilliant Talking to the Dead) wrote a post about this kind of thing at Novel Matters (if you’re a writer you must, MUST follow that blog). Click HERE to read what Bonnie had to say.
I like you. Do you like me? Yes. No. Maybe
I spent my middle school years with perms, bad fashion sense, and an ailment called “Love Sickness”. It’s a serious condition. Symptoms include: Spontaneous giggling. Throbbing zits. Fall-Over-Your-Own-Two-Feet. Call-and-hang-up-as-soon-as-someone-answers-the-phone. Boy Crazy Syndrome. And all around uncool awkwardness.
I had it bad.
I could name the four handfuls of boys I adored in middle school. Seriously. I still remember all of them. But I’m friends with some of them on Facebook…and…it would be weird.
Anyway, I had the love sickies for this one boy so badly and I wanted him to know. Now, this was me being Don Quixote. Dreaming the impossible dream. This particular fella was the popular kid. He had the adoration of all the girls in the 7th grade. I had frizzy hair and warts on my fingers. Enough said.
I had my friend Sarah declare my affections to the boy. She asked if he liked me back. He did not.
My little 7th grade heart was broken for about 15 whole minutes before another boy caught my eye.
By 8th grade, I still hadn’t figured boys out yet. Or how to tame a bad perm. But that’s beside the point. I’d write anonymous notes which my best friend delivered (um…hello? Miss Obvious?). These notes were the “I like you, do you like me” notes.
Love Sickness renders a girl without the access to logic or reason. Don’t believe me? Read Romeo and Juliet. That didn’t end so well for anybody. Oh. Oops. Spoiler Alert.
My friend delivered all of the notes back to me with a rejection.
Eventually, I learned to play it coy. I learned that right before I started dating my husband. At least I finally had a cure for love sickness.
Can I tell you something? At times the publishing world feels a lot like this. Writers have a crush on a publishing house. They write a letter (in the biz we call this a query letter) declaring our love…and talking up our good features. Oh, and downplaying our bad ones. If we’re lucky, we’ve got a wingman (agent) who delivers the letter…and who binge eats chocolate with us when we get a rejection. Eventually we have an editor or publisher who is interested in us, too. We try to play it cool. Force ourselves not to call and hang up as soon as someone answers the phone (because caller I.D.). Spontaneous giggling is unavoidable. So is the neurotic checking of email (refresh inbox. refresh inbox. refresh inbox). We get a big old tube of zit killer (seriously…I’ve got more zits in my 30’s than my teens! What’s with that?).
Difference is, I now know that my worth isn’t tied up in all of it.
Oh. And now it’s not a bad perm. This time it’s wonky, frizzy, grays.
Being Fruity Is A Good Thing
My friend Amelia Rhodes and I text many times a day. A common theme in our messages lately has been…
“The internet is ruining the world”
Now, I don’t really believe that. Without the internet, I wouldn’t have this blog, connections to many of my friends, a way to know what Snooki’s up to. Oh. And I wouldn’t have 2 books published (it’s amazing the connections made through Facebook).
No. The internet isn’t ruing the world. It’s just that some of the internet’s users are…ahem…meanies.
You all know what I’m talking about, right? If you don’t then do me a favor. Go on over to any news station’s Facebook page and look at the comments sections under any given story. Vile. Malicious. Hateful. Vitriol.
There is just something about being able to type a hateful phrase. It’s so detached. The sender of hate is in his or her space, looking at a screen of someone whose face only occupies about half an inch. That person doesn’t feel all that real. Not as real as someone sitting across the table.
So the hateful thing is typed. Posted. Read by just about anybody.
Basically every hateful, combative, ugly thing I’ve read online came down to this…
I’m right. You’re wrong. Therefore, you don’t deserve dignity or my respect. I don’t know you. I don’t know your circumstances. Frankly, Scarlet, I don’t give a hooey. I have the right to say whatever I want. So there.
Insert an emoji blowing a raspberry and you’re all set. (By the way…inserting a smiley face… 🙂 …or writing “Just Saying” doesn’t make it right, either). Oh! And don’t forget the cuss words typed with !##%#$@&^ because that makes it so much better.
My friends, can I tell you something? I get really embarrassed for the people who go off on rants like that. The ones who puff their chests and beat them like gorillas, trying to assert their authority and power by bullying other people.
I get especially embarrassed when the discussion is of the theological/moral/ethical variety and the puffy chested howlers are professing Jesus followers.
It gets me to longing for a cabin in the woods with no internet signal…but with indoor plumbing. I can’t do without that. Oh. And a coffee maker. Just no internet.
Um. Rabbit trail. Sorry-o.
Back on point.
Some of the most hateful smattering of words I’ve seen online came from the typing fingers of people who claim Christ as their Lord.
(Note: MOST Christians are not like this online. MOST Christians, I suspect, feel a lot like I do when they read the bravado of others. MOST Christians are loving people who are fully aware of their flaws…but are doing their best.)
Just over the last few weeks I’ve seen arguments (which in real life would be screaming matches complete with arms cocked to throw punches) about the hottest of the hot topics. Homosexuality. Abortion. Guns. Republicans vs. Democrats. Liberal vs. Conservative. Contraception. The Affordable Care Act (or “Obamacare”).
Insert big huge honking sigh. And insert me refusing to riff on any single one of these issues.
I know. I KNOW. We’re entitled to our opinions. I know. Freedom of speech. Cool. Got it. And, yes, I understand that some people feel the need to be loud about their convictions. Okay.
But…please…can we stop being ugly about it? Can we temper our convictions with love? You know, stop being bonging gongs and clanging cymbals.
Can we be fruity?
We’re all on the internet. Most of us daily. Sometimes it seems like we’re messing in our own nests…you know what I mean? I’d like to challenge you…and me…to class up the internet a bit.
How?
By being fruity!
Somebody reacts in anger to something you post? Don’t take their invitation to banter. Bow out. Believe me, you aren’t the lesser person for doing that. You’re keeping the peace.
You know someone is having a rough time? How about sending them a direct message telling them how much they mean to you. Give them a little encouragement. You’re sprouting love and kindness there, my friend.
One of your Facebook friends has a success/once-in-a-lifetime opportunity/etc? Don’t be jealous. Share their excitement. Tell them how glad you are for them. Rejoice with them. Joy, friends. JOY!
Got someone who’s constantly inviting you to play Rocket Smash or Candy Collision (or whatever the new game is this week)? Don’t get all in a huff. Just over look it. Show off that patience. It looks good on you.
Someone trashing somebody else online? Stand up for the right thing. Don’t be a jerk. But call it out (in love, remember). That’s goodness. And, when you do it with grace and humility, you’re being faithful!
Ooo. See something you shouldn’t be looking at? Yeah. Some of that’s porn. Look away. Other things we shouldn’t be looking at are the things that steal our satisfaction with what we have. I guess that’s porn of a different variety. Look away. Self-control is a pretty difficult thing. But you can do it.
Be fruity, friends. Other people will notice. They’ll want to know why it is you’re doing these things (which are straight from Galatians 5:22-23). It might just make someone think twice about posting something ugly.
It also might make people angry. Well. Good excuse to keep practicing.
How about we all try this out. I will, too. You never know the difference it can make.
Please feel free to share this. Or write a blog post of your own. Send me the link and I’ll add it to this post. I love connecting people, especially when we can bounce encouragement off each other. Let’s keep sharpening one another!
We’ve Got A Couple Winners Over Here!
I’m happy to announce the TWO winners of the My Mother’s Chamomile Give-Away!
First, the winners will receive a prize package of these fabulous items…
Ahem…Here we go…
First we have Alexis De Weese, the lovely blogger over at Postcards from Preppy Bohemia. Next is Kelly Haven, the beautiful lady behind Our Haven, Our Home.
Congratulations, Ladies. And thank you a million times over for your friendship and support!
Happy Sunny Sunday!
Toot Toot — Or, My Least Favorite Part of the Job
I love writing. When the ideas pop into my head. When I get a sentence just right. The editing. The rewriting. Days of daydreaming. Research.
I love my job.
Well. Most of it.
There’s one part that I don’t particularly enjoy. Marketing.
See, my mama always taught me not to toot my own horn. Not to brag about myself or my accomplishments. She also taught me not to beg.
Now, I’m a grown up. I’ve written two books that were published. I believe in both of those books. I really do. I’ve gotten really good reviews for both along with a few tepid ones (which is completely okay! My books aren’t everyone’s flavor). I believe that with each book I write, I’ll improve and mature.
This is my career.
So, why do I get a funny feeling in my tummy when it comes to marketing? To selling these books? Well, for a few reasons.
1. I don’t want to brag. Telling people to buy my books feels an awful lot like telling them how awesome I am. I’m not comfortable with that.
2. I don’t want to annoy anybody. If all I do is tell people to buy my books, I’ll end up being a spammer. Nobody wants to be a spammer. They’re like the mosquito of the internet.
I’ve struggled with this part of my publishing career. I ignore that funny feeling in my tummy and push through.
Then, yesterday, I read an article on Donald Miller’s Storyline blog. Then, my friend Paul (who is really named Nathan…but I’m so scatterbrained I decided to rename him) sent me the link to that same blog post. It really made me consider a few things about marketing/self-promotion.
1. These books aren’t all mine. They belong to me, yes. But also to my family who supported me through the writing. To my publisher (WhiteFire Publishing) who took a risk on me. My editors who spent time teaching me how to be a better writer. They belong to my readers who have invested time and emotions in their reading. I owe it to all of them (and all of you) to really get my stories out into the world.
2. Writing is my calling. I feel deeply that writing is my calling. That God has given me this ability for a reason. Part of that calling is (gulp) getting the words into the hands of readers.
3. In order to keep publishing, I need to keep selling. Publishers and editors perk up their ears when they hear about sales an author is able to make. They love hearing that good authors are successful marketers. It’s essential to my future that I sell LOTS more books.
4. I want this to be a source of income. I work very hard to write my books. Very hard. I put in long hours. And, as it is right now, I don’t even make minimum wage (that’s some raw honesty for you, folks…and I’m not alone. Most authors are in the same hole-ridden shoes). Marketing is how I can make more money so that I can contribute to my family, even in a small way.
So…
Can I interest you in a couple books? A digital download of each book is less than a grande latte. Not too bad a price for a work of fiction. Check them out! Click on the book cover to buy from Amazon.
Don’t forget to enter to win the My Mother’s Chamomile Give Away!
Skipping State Solo and Ensemble
There’s something you might not know about me. In fact, if we didn’t go to high school or college together, there’s a good chance you have no idea about it.
I’m a classically trained vocalist.
I don’t get the chance to sing in front of people very much anymore. When I do, it’s at church and I keep the opera tucked away.
But, back in the day, I sang in a whole bunch of choirs and ensembles. I even performed in Gilbert & Sullivan operettas (I was the lead in H.M.S. Pinafore…I was 17 and the male lead was 12…ahem).
I exaggerate not when I say that, for a good long time, singing and performing was my whole life.
My senior year, I competed at Solo and Ensemble. If you aren’t familiar with it, Solo and Ensemble is akin to the auditions on American Idol, complete with a Simon Cowell type. A singer or duo, et al, enter a small room and sing two songs for a few judges. Then, the judges, well, they judge the singing. The pitch, rhythm, breath, and on and on. Then, the waiting begins. Waiting to learn what rank the singer earned. 4 is bad. So bad. 3 is eh. 2 is good. 1 is close to perfection.
My senior year in high school I received a 1 for my solo performance.
Not only did I get a medal, I qualified to compete at the State level.
Sadly, I didn’t go to the next level. I declined.
Because I was afraid. I didn’t think I could compete and that I’d fail.
Friends, I regret that. I wish I would have at least tried.
Fast forward to today. Now I’m a writer (um…I know…obvious). Recently, I entered Paint Chips in a contest that will, I believe, include a rating from the judges (I just hope that the Simon Cowell types aren’t on the docket). It’s a risk.
My entire career is one big risk after another.
I could write a novel that will never be published. Maybe one of my novels will flop completely. Someone might tear apart one of my books in the reviews on Amazon or Goodreads. One of these days, I might run dry of ideas. Risk. Risk. Risk.
But I’m not going to pass on the chance I have to keep writing. I’m going after it. And, if I fail, well, it’s not the end of the world. I’ll just try again. And again. Even when it’s scary.
And you, my friends, you have something to do. I don’t know what it is. Maybe you’re a teacher or an accountant, serving others. Or you work retail, dealing with grumpy guses all day. Perhaps you stay home with your kids, working endless hours and getting paid in hugs and sloppy kisses (I held down that gig for a few years…it wasn’t all that bad). Maybe you’re writing something that is burning inside you and you don’t know if it will ever be seen by eyes other than your own.
Can I just give you a gentle nudge? Go for it. Don’t quit. Don’t give up. You have something wonderful to offer. And we need you in this world. We do.
Don’t give up.
Keep going.
Even when it’s scary.
I promise you this: if you give it your all, you’ve already succeeded. And, in my heart, you’re a hero.
“Never, never, never give up.” ~Winston Churchill
What is it that you’re pressing on to do? What keeps you going? What would happen if you gave up? Have you ever passed on a great opportunity?
First Draft
Don’t forget to enter the drawing for a wonderful My Mother’s Chamomile prize pack! Click HERE for details. Also, remember that there are some entries you can do every day!
I’m writing a novel. I’m in the first-ish draft phase. That squishy place in writing that feels a whole lot like the Wild Wild West. Anything could happen.
For instance, a wild dance party in chapter 8 or 9 or 10 (whichever that particular scene ends up being).
This book, unlike My Mother’s Chamomile and Paint Chips, wants to be written by hand.
I’m needing to keep lots of reinforcements with me. So far, I’ve killed 4 of my beloved purple pens.
And I’m tearing through the yellow legal pads.
And my hands are paying the price. My pointer finger is flat and my middle finger has a Quasimodo bump.
What do I have on my hands? A great book? Well…er…um…not yet. You see, this Wild Wild West draft is full of rogue characters and empty plot saloons. There are parts that I’m not proud of. Other parts might be okay after a few swipes of my editing eye.
You know what? It’s all good. This is how it works.
Yesterday, after a good many hours writing, I wondered if other authors have a similar experience. Or if this was all a result of me still being a rookie.
This morning, I read the most affirming post on Novel Matters. It’s by the illustrious Bonnie Grove. She articulates the Wild Wild West draft better than I. You should hop over and read what she has to say.
Be encouraged today, my friends. Your first attempt at something is always wild. It isn’t perfect. There’s room for improvement. But keep working. Keep going.
And, most importantly,
Don’t Give Up.
WIN My Mother’s Chamomile!
All righty tighty, friends. It’s about time for a big give-away.
Are you ready?
You could win one of two fabulous prize packages!
Prizes include a signed copy of My Mother’s Chamomile, a Paint Chips tote bag, a super cute chamomile necklace, box of Honey Vanilla Chamomile tea, and a cool travel mug (in brown or blue).
Already have a copy of My Mother’s Chamomile, you say? Not to worry. It makes for a good gift! Don’t wear jewelry or drink tea? Then give it away!
Or…
You could always tell your buddies about this give-away! In fact, that’s how you get more entries into the drawing!
So, just follow the Rafflecopter instructions below to enter the fun! And make sure to post on Facebook and Twitter every day for extra entries! I’ll announce the 2 winners on April 7!
Whoop!
a Rafflecopter giveaway (click the blue letters to find the Rafflecopter site…it’s really easy)
*Note: I’m sorry, but this give-away is limited to the Continental USA. But, soon I’ll do a digital give-away for the entire world. 🙂
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