Make sure you check out the Inspired Novelties Featured Item of the Week! This week’s item was inspired by one of my favorite poets. And remember, 50% of all sales this month go toward the Wartella Family’s adoption of 2 children from Ethiopia! 

Being a writer can be challenging.

Yeah. You know. The whole, coming up with something to write thing.

And finding the best  nicest goodest perfect word.

Dealing with near constant rejection.

Learning how to manage the emotions surrounding said constant rejection.

Realizing that writers are a bit more sensitive than the average person and that said constant rejection damages deeply.

Getting to the point where said rejection feels like a numb stab in the heart.

Wait.

Sorry.

Back on track here.

But, seriously. The rejection is tough. And we just keep setting ourselves up for it. Every time we hit “send” on an email with a manuscript attached…man alive.

Right.

Focus, Susie.

Honestly, I’ve been rejected. Several times. Did you know that a few years ago someone rejected me with the words, “You are not a writer. Find something else to do”?

True story.

It hurt. I threw up. Felt like a fool.

Then I determined to use those words to push me forward. A year and a half later, my first play was published. And now, I have a novel releasing in January, 2013 (Paint Chips…it’s going to be great. Shameless plug…you’re going to get used to it).

Anyway. Rejection, for the determined writer, is like giving a latte to a four year old. It gets us hopping and restless and ready to get to work.

You know what will kill the writer’s soul? And I don’t mean that it will weaken it or distract it. No. I mean KILL it. Snuff the life out. Strangle out the beauty and the art and creativity.

The one thing that will destroy the writer is….

Comparison.

“I write better than he does.”

“She’s so much better than I am.”

“I’ll never have that success.”

“I can’t believe that he got that agent. I should have that agent.”

“How is this junk getting sold at Barnes and Noble? Who reads this crap?”

Comparison starts in the toes and works its way up to the neck. That’s where it gets tight, wrapping itself around us so many times that we can’t get any breath. We just suffocate.

We get paralyzed when it’s time to write because we’re focusing so much on everybody else.

Our conversations turn bitter. All we can think to talk about is how other people get what we should have. Or how we’ll never be as good/sell as many books/score the big publisher like that other writer.

We allow fear to enter into our art. And the fear makes us desperate. Undisciplined.

The cycle of comparison continues as some writer out in Facebook land finishes her 76th novel only to start the next day on number 77.

We Can’t Live This Way.

I know I can’t.

Comparison is a sour drink.

But.

But.

But.

When we choose to be ourselves, we can accomplish so much more.

We train our eyes to our own fingers moving across our own keyboard. We watch our letters appear across our screen. Sentences that belong to us. Paragraphs that reflect our soul, heart, passion. Pages and pages of us.

Not Miss 77th novel.

Not Mr. Has the agent we wanted.

Not Mrs. Not that great a writer, but keeps getting book deals.

Because they have different lives. Different families and homes and jobs and responsibilities. They are not us. We are not them.

I am what I am.

You be you.

Live the life that God has given you. Not the life He gave to someone else. Or the life you THINK He gave them.

Write your own story.

Tell me…what are of your life do you often let get tangled in the comparison game? Do you have any funny stories that go along with it? How did you overcome this issue? Or how are you working toward overcoming it?

This is why I didn’t have a post on Monday. Several scratches on my eye. Come back on Wednesday for…well…something. 🙂

Yesterday I packed my kids into Minnie (our black van) and took off to Kalkaska, Michigan for a speaking engagement at a women’s retreat held at a church.

Where is Kalkaska, Michigan, you ask.

 

 

Seriously. Do you know how cool it is to live in a State that looks like a hand?

Yeah. It’s pretty awesome.

Well, Kalkaska is about 2 hours, 15 or so minutes from where I live.

That is, if I made the trip alone.

With no stops.

And no pleas for chocolate milk.

Okay. Fine. You caught me.

I was the one who wanted the chocolate milk.

Anyway, I had planned two extra hours to make the trip. You just never know. And I didn’t want to cause any undue anxiety over a few extra potty breaks.

The trip started out great. I listened to a little Gotye. The kids watched “Follow That Bird”. We stopped at a gas station about an hour into the drive for a snack and the aforementioned chocolate milk. Then a quick stop in Cadillac as a result of that chocolate milk.

Smooth. Well, accept that once we passed the middle of the State, 9 out of every 10 radio stations were Country (which I’m not all that into).

We celebrated when we saw the sign that welcomed us to the Village of Kalkaska. The kids wowed over the enormous Trout Fountain.

Yes. A fountain shaped like a trout.

Norther Michiganders don’t mess around.

They love trout.

We drove along. My three city kids excited about being in a small town.

I kept driving.

And going.

“Hey, a funeral home,” I thought.

I’m writing a novel about funeral directors. I’m a little obsessed right now. Don’t worry.

“Arriving at destination on left,” my English GPS stated.

“Sorry. That’s not a church,” I whispered. “It’s a funeral home. Silly GPS.”

“Off route. Redirecting.”

“Whatever.”

She led me back to the funeral home.

I drove past again.

“Redirecting.” That time, I was sure I heard an edge to her tone.

I turned down the radio.

“Hey, Mom!” My daughter bounced in her seat. “I’ve never been this far north.”

“Yup. Okay,” I said. “Shh…I’m trying to think.”

“Think about what? I like to think. I think all the time. Like about butterflies and unicorns and math. Math is a fun game. When I’m in school I’m going to be so excited. I think I’ll wear my purple dress for the first day. Can I wear my necklace? Do you think that purple is pretty? We have the same favorite colors. When it’s raining, what color is the ocean?”

“Please! Please, honey. I need to focus.” I pulled into a gas station.

“Off route…”

I threw the GPS and her smug little British accent to the floor of Minnie.

“Redirecting…”

A girl stood outside the gas station. She wore a smock that matched the sign. I assumed she worked there.

“Hi,” I said, rolling down my window. “Do you know where Kalkaska Church of Christ is?”

“You know, there was this guy looking for that church yesterday,” she said, hiding her cigarette behind her back.

“Oh. Well, that’s great.” I looked at her. A little afraid that she would ignite. “So, could you please tell me where it is?”

“Nope. Sorry.” She smiled.

“Well, do you know where South Cedar Street is?”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

“In 100 feet turn right.” Stupid GPS.

“Great. No problem. Thanks.” I pulled away.

“I liked her hair,” my daughter said. “What was she hiding behind her back? Why do people suck on those things? I like to use straws when I drink milk. That chocolate milk was good. I think I want some for lunch….”

“HONEY! Please…”

I drove. The GPS yelled at me. I drove past that ridiculous funeral home over…

And over…

And over….

AND OVER…

Finally, I pulled over into the parking lot of a different church to call my Mom (who is the keeper of all knowledge and facts).

She didn’t answer her phone.

Or her work phone.

I left a voice mail.

And kept driving.

45 minutes before my workshop started.

I found a woman walking to her mailbox. She seemed nice.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “Gosh, that church moved, dontcha know. They’re in this brand new building. Just beautiful. So, you gotta go that way, then the other way. Then I think you gotta make a right and left before that one street. Okay?”

I nodded. Then realized that I didn’t really listen to her at all.

“Thanks!” I drove away.

“No, Mom! She said to turn right…I’m kind of sure.” My daughter usually has a solid memory.

Maybe she didn’t listen to the lady either.

“Off route! OFF ROUTE!!!!” My GPS was about to have a panic attack.

I pulled over. Called my mom again.

“Well, I sent you the directions to the new building,” she said.

“Yeah. I’m sure you did.” I wasn’t in the mood to admit that I probably deleted that email.

“Then why can’t you find it?” She knew. She wanted me to admit it.

“I don’t know. Can you please tell me the address?”

“Just a minute.”

40 minutes before I needed to speak.

“Okay. Ready? Do you have a piece of paper?”

She told me the address. I entered it into the frazzled GPS. Thanked my mom.

“In 400 feet turn left.” The GPS reclaimed her stiff upper lip. Good old gal.

Well, at least I thought she was good.

Until she led me into a cemetery.

“Am I in the Twilight Zone?” I asked.

“Yeah,” one of my boys said. “I think so.”

He’s four.

My daughter started to cry. “This isn’t fun anymore. Where’s the trout?”

“In 100 feet turn right.” Seriously. I detected malice  in the GPS’s voice.

She wanted me to turn right into a headstone.

I made sure to turn her off before throwing her to the floor that time.

Maybe she was just upset that I made her work while the Olympics were in her hometown.

“Okay. Don’t cry. We’ll get there,” I said.

My little girl didn’t stop crying. Heck. I didn’t even believe myself.

We turned around. Drove out of the cemetery just as the grave digger dude was driving in with a back-hoe.

At least I assume that’s who he was.

But one never knows in a small, Northern Michigan town.

I turned left. Then right. Then that way and before the highway. Another way.

Sorry. I wasn’t even paying attention to my own directions there.

Somehow, though, we made it.

Pulled into a parking spot. Breathed deeply.

25 before my workshop.

“Mom! Hey, Mom!” my daughter sang, unbuckling her seat belt. “That was the best adventure ever!”

Gotye. Big Bird. Chocolate milk. Giant trout. English GPS. Girl at the gas station. Funeral home. Cemetery. Grave digger dude (hopefully). Arriving at the destination. Kalkaska.

Yes.

It was an adventure.

An adventure for champions.

 

 

Every once in awhile, I’m wrong.

Well…

Sometimes, I’m wrong.

Other times, I’m really wrong.

I mess up. Misread someone. Make a quick judgement.

Do you do that?

How many times have I met someone and made up my mind right then and there about that person? Oh. So many times. And this has gotten me into trouble.

Because sometimes I like them a whole lot. Then I learn that they aren’t kind. Or careful with others. Sometimes they turn out to be people who want, actually like to damage others.

Boy. Oh, boy. Can that be an earth shattering conclusion to come to.

But, on the other side of the big, shiny coin, how many times has it been the other way? I met someone and hopped quickly to the assumption that the person is bad. Or annoying. That the person might just end up harming me.

Then I learn that the person has some kind of pain that motivates their actions. Or they just don’t make a good first impression. Sometimes they turn out to be people who want, actually like to build up others.

Man alive. Can that be a humbling realization.

Now, this next bit is going to sound crazy. Well, unless you write fiction. But, if you don’t write fiction, don’t worry…I’m a-okay. 

I misjudged a character. A character I wrote. From my soon to be published novel, “Paint Chips”. (Watch for it as an ebook in January, 2013 and paper book April, 2013 from WhiteFire Publishing…plug, plug).

This character is mean. She’s bitter. Vindictive. Judgmental. Acidic. A viper.

Yeah. She’s all those things.

And I disliked her very much. At a few points during the writing of her character in the novel, I was tempted to toss her off the side of a mountain or have her break a nail or some other mean spirited mishap.

But now, a few years after I made her such a sour-puss, I’m beginning to understand her.

I’m writing her story. Giving her more life. Room to be. Allowing her a tenderness that was hidden.

And I pity her.

She is full of bitter bile. But that’s to conceal her deep devastation over how her life has turned. Gone bad. Rotted.

I am filled with compassion for her.

Now, before you go and accuse me of having more compassion for a fictional character than a real life, skin and hair person, you need to know this.

She is based on people I have actually known.

This character is the compilation of so many men and women who have used their words to hurt. Manipulate. Condemn.

Especially one woman.

A woman I never want to see again.

Who literally tried to destroy me.

And almost succeeded.

I have hated that woman. Wished ill upon her.

But that is a long story. And it isn’t fiction. So, I don’t care to share the whole of it.

However, now I see this woman. That something ate away at her. Some sort of canker grew in her soul, causing her to claw and tear at others.

My heart is broken for her.

And in the silence of my late night house, I want to grant her forgiveness.

I guess the best way that I, a fiction writer, can do that is by having mercy. On this character.

And, by doing so, help us to see that the most hurtful people are the ones who are more hurt.

 

Check it out! Another jewelry give-away!

And this time the 50% goes to support a family that is adopting 2 children from Ethiopia!

Time For a Give-Away!.

You all know how much I love fiction, right?

I’ve proclaimed my love from every nook and cranny of the internet that will let me in.

Burnside Writers Collective (see my fiction HERE)

Catapult (HERE)

My archives.

But right now, fiction is kicking my tuchus and mocking me. Silly fiction.

Still, I love it.

I’m currently anticipating the release of my first novel (Paint Chips). So, while I wait, I’m writing a collection of short stories and a second novel.

There are moments in which I wonder if I am attempting to much in this novel. If I’m shooting for something above my ability.

But today, after my critique group, I sat in my good friend’s car. I shared my anxieties.

“You’re going to push through those feelings, right?” my friend asked.

“Yup. I can’t give up,” I answered.

Thank goodness for friends.

As I struggled to write today, I thought of this quote from Flannery O’Connor. I just needed to share it with you all today. I think it applies to much more than writing.

“Writing a novel is a terrible experience, during which the hair often falls out and the teeth decay. I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.”

And oh so worth it.

So, share with me. What in your life is a struggle? What is difficult, but you push through it anyway? How do you push through? Why?

The summer before I got married, I took a lot of gigs “house sitting”.

Basically, I’d hang out at a friend’s house while they were on vacation. Feed the cat. Water the plants. Make sure the cable still worked.

It was a pretty cool job.

My friend Chris asked me to house sit for her family. I figured it would be fine.

“Well,” Chris said over the phone. “We’ve got a lot of animals. A cat, rabbits, guinea pigs, goats.”

“Goats?” I asked.

“Yeah. Goats.”

“Right.”

“So, do you want to come over so we can show you how to take care of everything?” Chris asked.

“Nah. I should be good.”

“Okay. Well, I’ll leave a list of how to do everything.”

“Cool.”

Goats. She had to be kidding. Right? Nobody keeps goats for pets. That Chris. Always messing with me.

The next day, I drove out to their house. Used the key to let myself in. Found the note on the kitchen counter.

Cat food under the counter. Guinea pig food in the basement. Rabbits in the hutch. Goats out back.

Shoot. She was serious about the goats. Well, I figured, I could handle them. I’d been to enough petting zoos. Couldn’t be too hard.

After a few minutes of snooping around the house (seriously, Chris told me to), I headed out to see the goats. Surely they were pygmy goats. Some cat sized creatures. I could handle that.

As soon as they saw me, they screamed at me.

“Bah. BAH. BAAAAAAAH!”

I grabbed a bucket of food and walked to the pen.

The goats were huge. Like small horses. Wide as cows. One of the, the white one, looked me in the eyes.

“Bah.”

Okay. This is where I tell you that I am a city girl. To the core. I grew up in a place where squirrels were wildlife. Just so you fully understand the idiocy of the situation.

I took a few steps toward the gate of their pen.

“Bah.”

Reached for the latch.

“Bahhhh.”

Opened the gate.

“BAAAAAH!”

Took one more step.

“BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!”

The biggest one jabbed me in the stomach with his rock hard head, knocking me on the ground.

“Run for it!” he yelled.

Well, at least that’s what it seemed.  Because then the other two took off.

Who knew? Goats can run.

Now, this is a family friendly blog (kind of). So, I can’t share the word that came out of my mouth.

It wasn’t “bah”.

The goats tramped around the yard. Every time I got close to one, it ran away. They had no intention of letting me catch them.

They did, however, intend to eat the green off everything in sight.

The rose bushes.

The trees.

Everything.

“What the hee haw am I going to do?” I asked. Out loud. Perhaps VERY loudly. To no one. Because the only living creatures around were…well…goats.

“Bah.”

“I HATE GOATS!” I yelled.

“Bah.”

That’s kind of how it went for about three hours. I cursed them to eternal torture. They responded with, “bah”.

Curse.

Bah.

Curse.

Bah.

In circles around the yard.

But then I remembered. The extra goat food was stored in the garage.

Brilliant!

I got a bucket full of food. Did the Hansel and Gretel food trail. They fell for it.

Stupid goats.

Ate their way into the garage.

“Aha!” I yelled in triumph as I slammed the door shut. “I got ya! I win!”

“Bah.”

Then I got scared. Stuck in a garage with three large creatures.

“Goats eat anything,” I whispered. “What if they try to eat me?”

“Baaah.”

As if they discussed it, all three turned to the bin of tin cans.

I had three goats trapped in a garage. Chris and her family wouldn’t return for another week.

What was I going to do?

Then, in a moment of absolute clarity, I noticed a few very important details.

Each goat wore a dog collar. A leash hung on the wall of the garage.

I would lead them, like dogs, to the pen.

Yes. Genius.

Well. Except that goats are a bit more stubborn than dogs.

No matter.

I still got them to the pen. But only after many minutes of tugging. And begging. And praying that the stupid animals would go back inside their pen.

“Bah.”

By then, the sun was down. My muscles sore. My hatred for goats deepened.

I did win, though.

And that’s all that matters.

 

  My kids have a new favorite book. It’s called “King Arthur’s Very Great Grandson” by Kenneth Kraegel (buy it HERE for $9.75!!! What a deal!

Usually when they get a new favorite book, I get tired of that book quickly.

However, this book is one that I gladly read several times a day. It is funny. Exciting. Heart warming. And the illustrations (also by the author) are gorgeous.

With nothing I have to censor.

No bratty characters.

Nothing scary.

No marketing of toys or candy.

No dumbed down language (my kids have learned some big words from this book).

Just good, clean story telling. With a message that touches my heart.

I highly recommend this book. Nobody paid me. I didn’t get a free book. I just love this book.

My kids have a new favorite book.

And so do I.

 

This month, my Etsy shop is raising funds for the Wartella Family. They are in the process of adopting 2 children from Ethiopia. Learn more about their family HERE. 50% of the purchase price of every item in my Etsy shop will go toward their adoption this month. Click HERE  to see the jewelry that you can buy (all inspired by literature). 

 

We have to be so careful with our words. They can be daggers, you know. We don’t need to name-call or label or jab at one another. The scars from those wounds heal. But leave jagged, rough lumps on our hearts. Even if we can forgive.

My kids know not to say dangerous words. We taught them early. We teach them daily. The lessons will carry over until adulthood.

Tongues are not trained overnight, are they?

Bones broken by sticks and stones are healed by casts and surgeries.

The words that aren’t supposed to have the power to hurt are venom rich. Acidic. Caustic.

We toss the acid at one another. So casually. Without thought. Without regret. Remorse. Fear. Burning each other’s souls with our carelessness. Our inconsideration.

We figure that if it is done in an email, a comment, a post that it’s not hurtful. Not real. Because we don’t see the look on the face of our prey. We can’t hear their sobs.

They must be too sensitive.

I didn’t mean it that way.

Snipe. Jab. Blow. Destroy.

Create a division between us and them. Call them a nasty name. Attack people we don’t even know. Decide that they are destined to hell simply for the fact that we believe we are right and they are wrong.

Judge. Condemn. Dismiss.

It runs both ways, my friends. Both poles suck out the air. Toss daggers. Slap faces that will not be turned in peaceful resistance. Force loads on the backs that will not consider the extra mile. Demand a tunic without  receiving the shirt, too.

No more.

Please. Have mercy.

Think before you speak. Comment. “Like”. Re-post.

Consider the other.

Is it worth being right?

Or can we, who are flawed, learn a lesson from the Master?

The One who stooped low. Ran his perfect finger through the dust of the earth.

The One who could righteously throw a stone.

Or acidic words.

Or condemnation.

The One who, instead, chose to Love.