Smashing Stories

Snow Day

2012-02-02T07:38:00.001-08:00

I grew up on a hill overlooking Puget Sound. Most of the time it rained. Sometimes there was a week or two in July when the sun would shine, and I loved the summers, but the most magical time of the year was in the winter. When arctic air from Alaska would drift south, the rain would turn to snow. The city had no snowplows. They didn’t need them. It would snow for a day or two, then the rain would wash the snow away.

But, when it would snow, the city would shut down. School buses couldn’t take us to school. My Mom would turn on the radio as she fixed breakfast and we would listen to the announcements.

Snow day.

Mom would make sure we had on our snowsuits. They were big and fluffy and I felt like I was in slow motion when I moved. But, before the sun was up, we were outside.

One particularly cold winter, we had several days of snow. Then, it turned cold. Really cold. Everything froze. Our sprinkler pipes broke and watered the front yard for hours before we got up to find magical ice castles growing on our shrubs.

After several days of intense cold, the snow on our hill was packed and iced and perfect for sledding. My brother and I built a snow ramp at the bottom of our hill and began the half-mile trek to the top.

This was it. Epic. The most historic, totally awesome ride. Ever.

I looked at my brother. I could see his breath in the frigid morning air. The sun was just up and the sky was cobalt blue.

Ready?

Go!

I started to run, my brother next to me. You can’t really run in a snowsuit with snow boots, but you can shuffle pretty fast. We held our sleds out in front of us. I reached take off speed about the same time he did. I remember, my sled was airborne and I was attached to it. I knew it couldn’t fly, but the longer I could stay in the air the better.

My sled hit the ground first and then I landed, hard, the impact compressing the fog from my lungs. This was good. The ice was slick. My radio flyer glazed the surface of the road, nearly out of control, picking up speed.

When we hit the steepest part of the hill, I could see the ramp getting closer, faster. I looked left. My brother was right beside me. He was staring straight ahead. His concentration was unbroken. He was going for the record.

Then, I realized. The ramp was only big enough for one of us.

Faster. Faster.

My brother hit the snow ramp at the same time I hit the curb. The jolt shocked my whole body. I could feel it in my teeth as I left my sled behind.

Somewhere, somehow, I could hear my brother whooping. I could see him in my mind’s eye, sailing off the ramp and flying over the rocks and stream of the vacant lot.

Meanwhile, I shot across the icy ground in my snowsuit and hit the rocks in front of the stream. That’s when I got some air.

Not enough.

I landed in the stream, which was mostly frozen. At first, I was too stunned to move. Then I rolled over and sat up in the muddy ice, dazed.

COOL. AWESOME. BAD.

My brother was pretty excited. He must have set the record. I climbed out of the stream.

“Let’s do it again,” he shouted.

I checked myself for breaks. I knew I was going to have bruises. Wiping the mud off my snowsuit, I realized that I was still dry inside. Mom would be proud.

“Okay,” I said. “You first.”

Danger Avoided and Shock Absorbed

2012-02-01T10:56:00.000-08:00

I’m reading RUN by Anne Patchett. The inciting incident of the story is when a guy’s biological mother—who he has no idea has been keeping tabs on him ever since he was adopted—happens to be close enough to shove him from getting hit by an SUV. She gets banged up instead, and so the drama begins.

With the vivid portrayal of the accident and emotion, you find yourself imagining that moment of watching a car come at someone. Yeah, you’re pretty certain the ONLY way you’d come NEAR that catastrophe as it happened is if that person about to get hit was someone you loved. And even then you have that sliver of doubt about whether or not you’d really forget yourself to save ANYONE.

Well whaddya know…

Yesterday I was walking back to our car after shopping when a woman pulled her SUV out of the parking lot towards me, but with her head turned the OTHER way. I ran, pushing the cart carrying my kids farther out of the way, but when the car kept coming I realized I forgot to give myself time to get out. I screamed, NO! and pulled my hips sideways just in time to dodge the bleepity-bleep-bleep woman’s headlights plowing by me. By that time we were face to face at her window and she just dropped her jaw and, yes, drove on.

First, my angry thought: Do you have any idea what you almost did to me?

Second, my terrified thought: Did I have any idea what she almost did to me?

I sobbed the entire ten minutes driving home.

I would have cried the rest of the afternoon if my husband hadn’t called as soon as I pulled into the garage. Telling the story helped relieve the shock. But even replaying it now has me shaking again. Nah, I wouldn’t have died or anything, but I would have hit that asphalt hard. No question a head injury and emergency room visit would have come from it. Sigh. Anyway.

What really amazed me was how the impact of a one second event shook me up entirely. I couldn’t control the sickness in my stomach and stress. How something so fast scared me so badly. Naturally, I’ve analyzed the moment about 125,000 times. And aside from coming out okay, I’ve been rewarded w/ one comforting thought:

That, yes, at oncoming danger I only saw my children.

The morning drive

2012-01-30T15:52:00.000-08:00

It’s time to drive my son to school, a little before seven a.m. We pull out of the garage; I make sure he’s buckled, and say softly, “Night night,” and he smiles, eyes already closed, because we both know he’ll fall back asleep on the drive.

He attends a charter school that is twenty minutes away without traffic. He’s had hot chocolate for breakfast and it’s cozy in the car, heated seats and still dark outside. It feels comfortable and safe, like family.

My thoughts are my own for the next fifteen minutes or so, but as we get close to school I take a turn and he sways gently in his seat, totally relaxed, maybe allowing a half snore to escape.

I remember what it was like to be the kid in the car, dark outside, comfy inside, knowing proprioceptively where we were because I knew which turns came when on the journey.

I remember faking being asleep when we got there – because back then, “there” was home, and I had a high chance of being carried in if I was asleep.

As comfy and cozy and safe as it felt then, I’m grateful now to be the grown up. I feel both lucky and content to be the parent.

Challenges

2012-01-29T13:56:00.000-08:00

Early in my life I’ve had some tough challenges given to me without my input. I was blindsided and thump – I had to rise to meet it. Many of these days I just wanted to hide and not leave my house. Through this rough time I learned how to find the good in my day and how to hide.

I wrote books to hide. I didn’t talk to my peers, most of whom I ignored because I happened to be in the same school as them, I didn’t socialize with them either. My characters were much better companions.

The point is, from that time in my life I have never really sought challenges because life gave them to me if I wanted them or not. Now, I find that I enjoy challenges because my schooling is done. I work and at five pm, I go home to free time most nights. My life is the opposite of when I was young. It is peaceful and calm.

About two weeks ago my writing teacher issued me a challenge. To write all the scenes for my main POV character by the end of February. I gave a ‘yes-I-think-I-can-do-that-some-of-the-scenes-are-written-everything-is-plotted-out-so-I-think-I-can-yes’. As soon as I got home I tallied up my work and timeline – 42 scenes and 42 days. There was no time to dawdle.

I’m happy to say, I have risen to the challenge. The first draft of all 42 scenes will be completed by the end of next week. Then I’ll have time to edit, fix mistakes, insert narrative voice and find any tongue/mind twisters I inadvertently put in. Writing takes effort and many reviews of the material before anyone else reads it.

While I don’t seek challenges, I know I can rise to them with confidence. And no matter what is thrown my way – in life or writing – I just have to map out my plan on how to deal with it and stick to the plan.

Think about your problem, create a plan of action, and walk forward without tripping.

Life as a writer is good.

Soaked in Happy--Anyone?

2012-01-21T12:11:00.000-08:00

On vacation to California last weekend my kids managed to drench themselves TWICE. Once at a tadpole pond. They were supposed to use little fishing nets to scoop up what tadpoles they could find, but, being the middle of January, tadpoles were scarce, so they took up the task as if they were panning for gold. They tramped right in, shoveled the pond muck with their nets and shook them until they sifted out mud and left behind…well…I don’t know if they really ever found any tadpoles.

Drench #2 happened at the ocean. I couldn’t stand at the shore for more than two passes of the water without feeling the pain of oncoming numbness. The kids? Waist high in the freezing stuff.

Both times I was 100% positive I’d be comforting the misery of their decisions afterwards.

But I didn’t get one complaint.

In a child’s world: What’s a little sacrifice of future comfort in exchange for the time of your life? Childhood is an easy time to envy. Kids are carefree with no real responsibilities, right? But I don’t think I envy their stage in life anymore. I just envy their perspective of it.

Wednesday Night's Free Class

2012-01-15T03:14:00.000-08:00

Yes, last Wednesday Caleb offered a FREE writing class. About 25 people took advantage of the FREE class. I expected triple but that shows you how much I know about FREE classes. It was a great class. Kinda like a mini-conference. I rather enjoyed it. I guess I should mention that I was one of the presenters but I do so in all humility... Here's a critique I picked up from Facebook. The reviewer condensed the info better than I could have so have a read...

Had a wonderful time with some awesome authors at the American Fork Arts Council writing workshop. Eric James Stone talked about the importance of putting your genuine self into a manuscript. Loraine Scott discussed dialogue, how it's properly handled in writing, the magic 3 in using humor, and leaving some things suggested but not said. Tristi Pinkston shared her insight into having a successful book signing and the different avenues to getting published. Chrisy Ross shared how important it is to become our own best writing advocate. Caleb Warnock also discussed how to have a successful book signing and writing/publishing trends for 2012. You might want to look into the on-line writing class offered by American Fork Arts Council. They have some real talent there and are ready to assist you in writing successfully.

Rachel's Birth

2012-01-12T06:31:00.000-08:00

I was standing by my wife’s shoulder. Monitors were beeping. The air was cold.

“Breathe…relax.”

I was a pretty good coach. I thought. This was our sixth.

“Push.”

She grimaced and groaned and strained. A nurse wiped her forehead with a cloth. Her hair was damp with sweat.

“Have you ever done this before?” the doctor asked from his position at the foot of the bed. I realized, slowly, that he was talking to me.

“This is our sixth,” I said proudly, looking down at my wife. I didn’t want to look up at the doctor because there was a large round mirror just over his head. I had been known to get a little queasy.

“Have you ever done This before?” he repeated. I had to look up. I tried very hard to look just at the doctor.

Don’t look in the mirror.

Breathe.

“Come here.”

It felt like a command. It was a command.

“No, that’s okay. She needs my help.”

“Do you need his help?”

Of course she needed my help.

“NO…” she said through gritted teeth.

“What do you mean you don’t…”

“Come here,” he repeated.

I looked down at my wife. She was busy. I shuffled down to the end of the bed in my paper green pajamas.

“Sit here.” A nurse slid a rolling stool under me so I wouldn’t hit the floor. The doctor scooted over and I took his place.

“What do I do?” I was not entirely comfortable with this whole thing. I was paying him a lot of money to do this.

“You ever play baseball?”

“What?” I was in a pretty precarious position and he wanted to talk baseball.

“You’re the catcher.”

“Oh!”

“Push.” I don’t know who said it. Not me. I was holding my breath.

“HARDER!”

“NOW.”

“PUSH. PUSH.”

From somewhere far away, I could hear a scream. Voices. Sounds. Crescendo.

I held out my hands and a slippery baby filled them up.

“It’s a girl.”

A nurse slid her hands under mine. I was relieved. She was very slippery.

The doctor handed me a funny shaped pair of scissors. I cut where he said to cut. The nurse took the baby.

“Well done.”

“Congratulations.”

The doctor and nurses were patting me on the back. I felt like I just caught the winning pitch in the World Series, like I’d done something great.

The nurse laid the baby on my wife’s abdomen. She looked exhausted.

I shuffled around to her side. For a few moments, we didn’t speak.

“You did great, honey.”

The doctor and nurses were doing whatever it is they do with a newborn. I looked down at my wife. She was sweaty and tired, and absolutely beautiful.

“Thanks,” I said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“I know,” she smiled, as they laid the baby in her arms.

Your Mission For Today:

2012-01-11T16:18:00.000-08:00

Ask someone to say

"Irish Wristwatch"

3x fast.

If you can make it past one time fast with out giggling, well, I'd feel sorry for you.

Enjoy! :)

Idiosyncrasies

2012-01-10T18:00:00.000-08:00

“Write down our new number,” my stepmother tells me. “OK, it’s 901-0640.”

“I don’t need to write that down,” I blurt out. “I mean nine minus one is eight, and eight squared is 64. The rest is just zeros! What a great phone number!”

“Here’s your dad,” she says, and hands over the phone. “Definitely your daughter,” I hear her laugh.

So maybe I have a teensy thing with numbers. Before cell phones just stored the numbers of those near and dear to us, my husband called me his pet Rolodex…

…and I will admit I can’t stop the microwave unless the last number is a five or a zero. Doesn’t everyone keep that little rule? Wouldn’t it be disorderly to just rip the door open at, say, 0:27 or 0:14?

Symmetry appeals to me too. When I get eggs out of the carton, I remove them appropriately so there’s a nice little pattern in the box. You know, the end rows emptied at the same time, or diagonal corners filled…

…and cereal boxes wait patiently on the pantry shelf from tallest to shortest.

The dining room chairs need to be pushed in all the way, and isn’t it best for the side of the chairs to line up with the leaves in the table? I mean, that’s just clean looking, right?

So maybe not everyone sees the world this way. But maybe you have your own way of looking at certain things that you’ve realized isn’t universal…do you dare to tell?

"The talent is work and the work is talent"

2012-01-10T00:00:00.000-08:00

Inscribe it on something indelible. It is undeniably true. As author Daniel Coyle points out in the video below, "the talent is work and the work is talent."

Birthdays

2012-01-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

I have an odd relationship with my birthday. Mostly it’s not good. Me turning another year, I don’t care. Having people remember my birthday – that’s what I usually didn’t get growing up.

Here’s why – my birthday is an internationally celebrated Holiday that just past. Yes – New Year’s Day. No I wasn’t the first baby of the year, I had more sense than that. I waited until most of the hard partier’s were passed out. My mom said the hospital was quiet before I came.

What really gets me sour is the fact that if I tried to plan a group of friends coming together, it failed. When I planned my own 16th birthday everyone who I wanted to stay had to leave. And everyone I had to invite to be polite and wanted them very much to leave stayed.

So I decided that I would never expect anything big for my birthday again. I aim to be with family and/or traveling to keep my flight costs down. I don’t expect anyone to remember and I don’t expect any gifts. This keeps me grateful for when people do remember or do give me gifts. It’s sad and true.

I know most everyone else has a more positive, much healthier, experience with their birthdays. I’m glad for you. Enjoy every one of your birthdays. For me, I hope that none of my future kids have an international or national holidays for their birthday. And if they do, I’ll do my best to ensure they have much better memories of their birthdays than I did.

And I will make doubly sure they never ever receive long johns as a birthday gift in three packages. Awkward doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Happy New Year

2012-01-06T06:42:00.000-08:00

I was browsing through Vogue Magazine and I came across an incredibly inspiring ad by Rolex. The caption said, "And so it begins. Another year. Another clean slate. It is a fresh start. It is a celebration."

LOVE the idea that the New Year is a chance to celebrate your past hard work and glance at the bright future that awaits you.

Happy New Year, my friends. May you have all you need as you embrace your new beginning toward your dream.

PS- I, so, didn't get compensation by Rolex, I just adored the advertisement.

N-E-W

2012-01-01T13:16:00.000-08:00

I hope everyone celebrated the onset of the new year with all the vigour they cared to give it!

Everyone in some form or other greets a new year with refreshing hope, don't they? Whether they enjoyed the year before or are relieved to see it go, there's something about that opportunity to start over that keeps us (some of us) up late and looking forward to kicking off that first minute of a new year just how we choose to: a kiss, a dance, a song...

A blank slate. A fresh start.

A second chance.

We cherish these notions universally. We love them so much we anticipate celebrating them every 365 days. (364 for 2012, I guess!) "Starting January 1st, things will be different."

So I was thinking about new things, that "clean slate" mark we've declared every January 1st, and I wondered, who decided to measure every beginning every 365 days? Why can't the first of each month be a chance to start over?

The start of each week?

The dawn of every day?

Can't we look forward to EVERY TIME THE SUN RISES as a fresh start? How happy could we be knowing that midnight every night marks that precious moment to try again. Tomorrow will be different.

I liked that thought.

So I think that will be my among my 2012 resolutions--to treat every night like a "Happy New Day's Eve", to lie in bed filled with gratitude for a New Day, another blank slate.

Tomorrow anything can happen.

My Friend

2011-12-29T09:38:00.001-08:00

I've lived into what is now called the "Golden Years." Yes, I've lived long enough to rate senior discounts and to be called Ma'am and Grandma and "Hey Old Lady!" Because of this "live long and prosper" stage I've entered, I've lived long enough to stand by while other people die. I've lost family and friends -- most of my family members -- a few friends, lots and lots of Branch members but mostly those who have passed onto the other side (so to speak)were older than me, frail and sick or living life-styles that contributed to an early demise. Until last week, December 23, I cannot recall being shocked at another passing like I was at my friend Nita's.

Why would I blog about this? Simple. Nita was my Summer Winter. Last September, reluctantly I must add, she and her husband, Clayton, posed for the cover of my book. Reluctantly, is probably not a strong enough word for Nita. Loath would probably work better. She did not want to be photographed! She did not want to be known as the woman on the cover. She hated looking at her picture. (The shadow is her husband who loved doing it cause he got to hold his gun :)) But because she was my friend and wanted to do something for me, she agreed. I love the cover--always have. It turned out exactly as I imagined. I knew the cost Nita gave and it made me feel special that she would give of herself in that manner... Now, I feel... I'm not sure. I miss her already. The pain at her loss is already subsiding but the longing to have said goodbye is strong and palpable. The joy in her sacrifice for me will ever be with me ... I hope anyway. Her laughter rings in my heart but each time I look at Nita as Summer, I get a little sad. I am grieving.

Because of my knowledge, I know I will see my friend and all those others who have passed from this life to the next, but the "mourn with those who mourn" is alive and well. I find great comfort in the gospel of Jesus Christ but doggone it, friends should not leave us...

Chelsea Handler-inspiring go-getter

2011-12-26T05:31:00.000-08:00

This weekend I was watching a Biography special on Chelsea Handler and she said the most fascinating quote. Maybe it will help you in your journey.

"If you put the time and effort in, there will be results. There will always be results. So, when people say I can't, I say, you can do whatever. If you don't fail a lot, you're not even going to know what success is."

Granted I paraphrased a touch but the message is still true. Failure is all a part of the journey. We need it to succeed. Embrace the failure and keep working hard, your dream awaits you.

The Jewelry Box

2011-12-22T08:06:00.000-08:00

I had been saving my money to buy a Christmas present for my Mom. I mowed lawns in the summer and did chores to get a little extra. I didn’t have a lot and Christmas was coming. I wanted so desperately to get just the right present, the present I knew she would love, the present that would tell her how much I appreciated what she did for me, because I could never tell her those things. I was eleven.

One night close to Christmas, my Mom took my little brother and me shopping at the Mall. Mom smiled when I told her I was old enough to go shopping by myself. We set a time to meet back at the fountain.

As I watched her walk away holding my little brother’s hand I suddenly felt very small. There were so many people and so many stores.

I wandered into a department store and began looking at the dresses. I knew my Mom would like a new dress. The sales clerk, an older lady with glasses, scowled at me so I kept moving.

I walked by a jewelry store. There were so many sparkling things. Surely Mom would like one. I stood at the counter and stared at the necklaces. A man in a suit looked over the edge of the counter and asked if he could help me.

“I’m looking for a present for my Mom.”

“This store only sells fine jewelry.”

“Oh.” If I was going to get my Mom a necklace, I wouldn’t want to get her something that wasn’t fine. He turned away, so I kept moving.

As I walked through the crowded Mall, I started to panic. What if I couldn’t find something? What if I couldn’t find the right thing. The right thing was just as important as finding some thing.

In desperation, I went back into the department store. As I walked by the counter a jewelry box caught my eye.

“May I help you?” A college girl smiled at me from behind the counter.

“How much is the jewelry box?”

She lifted it off the shelf and placed it on the counter.

“It’s very lovely,” she said.

“It’s for my Mom.”

She leaned closer. “Listen,” she whispered.

She opened the box. It began to play a tinkling song. “Misty,” she said. “It’s a beautiful song. She’ll love it.”

I’d never heard of the song, but it was pretty. And, the girl who said my Mom would love it was pretty.

“I’ll take it.”

The musical jewelry box cost all my money. I would not have any money to buy my brother a present.

“Would you like it wrapped?”

“No.” I grabbed the bag and ran out of the store. I was late.

As I ran through the Mall, I could see my Mom and my brother sitting by the fountain. She smiled when I ran up.

“Wha’d you get?” My brother asked.

“Shut up,” I said. I was suddenly angry. I knew I hadn’t got the right thing. Tears stung my eyes. I wiped them away.

“What’s wrong?” My Mom asked.

“Nothing,” I said. “Let’s go.”

All the way home I was quietly angry, trying to fight away tears. My desperation to get the right present had brought too many emotions I wasn’t prepared for.

I remember, on Christmas morning, when my Mom opened her jewelry box, she told me she loved it. She said it was the best present ever.

I knew better.

*****************

My Mom is now nearly ninety years old. She’s gotten quite frail and very forgetful. This year, she was going to spend Christmas with us.

When I drove to St. George to pick her up and bring her to our house, she was still in bed. She didn’t want to get out of bed. She didn’t want to come for Christmas. She said she didn’t understand why the Lord didn’t just take her.

“Come on, Mom, your grandchildren want to see you.”

It took some persuading to get her out of bed. When she was just about ready, she went into her bathroom. She said she needed to put on her favorite necklace. I heard her open something. And then, I heard an old familiar tune tinkling from the jewelry box.

My eyes grew misty, and I was transported right back to that night in the mall so many years ago. Maybe she did know how I felt about her.

The box closed and the music stopped. My Mom came out of the bathroom.

“Now, I’m ready,” she said.

Jumping in Again!!!

2011-12-19T20:45:00.001-08:00

I know this is getting old...

However, consider this a commercial break!

This is the last week to purchase NYC:Murder Brooklyn Style -- A Summer Winter Mystery for the special Christmas pricing of 2 books for $20.00.

After Christmas the price goes up to $15.00 each.

So, get them while you can!

Tribute to children

2011-12-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

When you teach children, some interesting things happen.

First, you become sensitive to their behavior, even to how they sit. Their under your charge and you’re given the right to guide the children in their behavior of what is right and wrong. You develop a sixth sense on where they physically are. Second, you start seeing their strengths and weaknesses. This one you have be careful with and emphasize the good while correcting the negative as you go. Third, you start tracking their obedience when you correct them. I like the kids when they are well behaved instead of wandering off into belligerent attitudes.

Every Sunday my husband and I get to teach three kids at church. These children are energetic, want to do what is right and are incredibly eager to participate and contribute to the lesson every week. Being 6-8 years old it’s impressive what they know and what they retain, especially when they don’t seem to be paying attention.

And anything hands on is a winner with the kids – drawing pictures, Simons Says (to let them wiggle before they have to sit through another lesson) and any hand out that they get to put together. They want interaction more than discussion.

There are sweet moments when they give you a hug and say thank you for teaching them. We’re just doing our part without expecting any thanks; their thank you takes us off guard. When the children work together to be reverent (this can work in reverse too). These are great days, you can focus on the lesson you prepared instead of pulling to kids apart from each other because they won’t stop poking one another. When their parents say thanks for being their teachers – I never know how to reply but to say they have a good kids. I could never take credit for a kid who has so many good adults who influence their life.

What my husband and I always strive to do is help the children become better than when they first entered our classroom. So they are better prepared for the next step in their lives. Some days we think we are doing a better job than others. But the question – is it worth it? To struggle to get the kids to listen, to teach even though one has to switch positions every three seconds, to take a child aside and address their misbehavior – is it worth it?

Oh yes. Those kids will turn out better than we think. We are a step in their journey of growing up. I often remind myself when my nieces and nephews are three – they aren't stuck there, it’s a phase of growing up. That helps me restrain my concerns and feel hopeful about every child’s future.

Forget the naysayers, go for it

2011-12-16T05:59:00.000-08:00

I dunno about you but lately I have had a lot of people telling me the odds are against me with this writing dream. No joke, in a matter of 24 hours I have had 3 people say that it's useless going for what I want.

And then in my anthropology class I read a quote that said, "The odds of someone poor becoming a success is slim to none." And I am sorry but I don't accept that fact.

Look at J.K Rowling, Steven King and even Charles Dickens, they all struggled to reach their dream and because of them we are better.

I vote we all call a ceasefire on these negative people in our lives. The naysayers are going down because our will is too strong for them. I also vote that every person that says a dream isn't possible gives us more fuel to keep going.

We can and will do this, we just have to work, work work.

Book signing

2011-12-15T05:57:00.000-08:00

A simple announcement! I am doing a book signing and selling, (of course, I'm selling...after all, isn't that the purpose of a book signing?) at the South Town Mall in Sandy, UT... on Saturday, the 17th from 1-4 hosted by Eborn Books which is upstairs by Dilliards. Great store and greater opportunity to Sign books... Kinda Excited Here!

Also, to all you ebook readers... you can buy both books for your Kindle or you Nook... not sure about the Nook... some strange things happening in that arena.

Summer is having fun creating her next adventure so stay tuned for more exciting times.

And Have a Merry Christmas by the way!

Write Crafters

2011-12-11T11:05:00.000-08:00

Writing is art.
The first time I read an agent’s blog post describing an author’s work as their art, I really didn’t get it. What’s artsy about blabbing out a story? I’m sure its been over a year since I read that. I’ve learned a lot.

I’ve been thinking about writing as a craft. For some reason I kept some practice essays from my AP Lit class—we had 40 minutes to analyze a passage, usually a poem, and explain how the author used tone, syntax, imagery, diction, etc. to convey their attitude.
Have you ever looked back at something you did when you were younger and wonder who’s brain you had back then? I couldn’t believe I knew what I was talking about—believed LESS that I spit it out so fast.
Anyway, my awe has been renewed concering the tools of literature and its power as an artform.

I think the power of art is the power to conjure emotion. I’m not sure why we value that so much—loving things that make us feel, and wishing we could wield that power to affect others. But artists want to share something they feel.
Writing as my medium of expression stayed hidden from me for a long time. I had no idea the hours I’d spend imagining how I’d describe something meant I was a writer. I didn’t know that every time I was surging with emotion, the fact that I’d search for paper and pen to articulate it meant I was a writer.
The only thing “being a writer” means, is that it’s the way you are drawn to communicate.

Now using stories as a means of communication is a whole different sphere of write-crafting I think. One that takes quite a bit of mind bending.

So what am I doing? Am I taking this writing stuff too seriously, getting all pensive about it? I don’t know.
I’m probably just blabbing.

The Dentist

2011-12-09T16:37:00.000-08:00

Okay so I went in for my twice annual checkup this morning. My feelings about the Dentist have changed from dread, to avoidance, to I-should-have-known-better, to finally resigned acceptance that it's something I have to do and hope for the best while I cross my fingers.

Homecare, as the hygienist put it, was not a message I received as a kid. The basic brushing and flossing the teeth routine. I knew I was supposed to brush my teeth but putting the knowledge into action didn't seem important to me. Every Dentist visit as a kid was not happy memory, especially since I had to hold those mouth guards filled with goop in my mouth for three minutes. Invariably the taste of the goop, didn't matter which flavor, was all nasty. Bubble gum and grape should be banned from dentistry all together. Ugh. Of course you try not to swallow any of it down but have you tried to tell your mouth not to salivate when it was holding something that seemed like food to it? It's not possible.

I'm getting sidetracked. Basically, I got by with good grades this morning. I wouldn't stop eating chocolate even if I did have another filling to be filled. But I must say, I'm grateful it's been over a year since I've had another filling join me. Homecare is slowly, painfully, getting better. But I also think that I may not have many teeth left that don't have a filling in them.

I'm not joking. I avoided the dentist for four years once. The first office visit I made, boy, my teeth told me how stupid I had been with 14 cavities. Yes, that's right. Fourteen. On top of my past history of an occasional cavity here and there.

I have been converted to the resigned acceptance that if I didn't have a dentist I may not have any teeth left in my mouth when I'm sixty. No thanks. I want teeth to chew with. We don't think about it much but if we can't chew our diet becomes very limited to soft things only. Like Jello, applesauce, mashed anything with no skins, or plain ice cream because you might choke on a chuck of fruit or chocolate if it’s flavored. How sad that would be?

So don't avoid the Dentist friends. We may not like the service but at least we can guarantee that we’ll still be able to chew when we're older than sixty. That counts for a lot.

i dont care

2011-12-07T17:10:00.000-08:00

Part of making great art REQUIRES you, at some point, not to care what ANYONE else thinks about what you've made. Doesn't mean you can make junk and shrug off the well-deserved knives thrown at it. Doesn't mean you don't have to work 'til your bones snap to make the finest thing your soul is capable of shaping. It just means that ONCE you've done true soul-craft, don't listen to the naysayers. To that end I liked what Mr. Martin had to say in his little video clip up above. "I don't care."

Jony Ive, chief design master at Apple, said it thus: Being different is art; anyone can do it, because we all have something already there that distinguishes us from everyone else. But being different, wow, that takes time, decades even. Being better is the same as being different, but it's being different with a purpose.

Just so.

And on a completely different note, please stop by my new blog at sleye1stories.com and (should you wish) follow along. I'd be obliged.

Let's BE different.

What kind of success do you want?

2011-12-06T06:27:00.000-08:00

One of the things I am learning about this process of chasing my dream is that nothing worthwhile comes easily. Have you noticed this, my dear friends? If you want something bad enough you are going to have to accept the fact that repition and practice is your new best friend.

If you want a different life for yourself than you have to understand that now is about sacrifices. My tennis coach said it best when he said the phrase, "Do you want well-deserved success?"

Those three words have gotten my mind thinking. Everyone wants success but when you add well-deserved into the mix it puts a whole different spin on this chasing a dream thing.

Let's go nab our well-deserved success, my friend.

A Volcano, Lost Luggage and Tender Mercies

2011-12-02T16:47:00.000-08:00

I had a morning flight from Buenos Aires to Salta, Argentina. The airport was crowded and the lines were long. My film assignment in Salta was important. Extra baggage fees. Just how much is 2000 pesos, anyway?

The PA announcement was so loud it was unintelligible. My ears were ringing. The fact that the announcement was in Spanish made no difference. I would not have been able to understand it in any language.

“What did they say?” The people around us were scowling and murmuring.

I got in line to find out. As I listened to the conversations around me, the stress level and anger index had risen significantly.

After 45 minutes, my turn came. The gate agent was pleasant and professional. With a strained smile and heavily accented English, she informed me that due to the Chilean Volcano’s most recent eruption, an ash cloud over Southern Argentina was delaying flights. Our flight would be delayed for at least 3 hours.

“Siguiente en la linea, por favor.”

“What’d she say?” my videographer asked.

“Three hour delay.”

“Why?”

“Volcano.”

He slumped in his seat and closed his eyes.

Good idea. I closed mine, too.

My eyes snapped open as the sound assaulted my ears. I must have slept. I was disoriented. My neck hurt. “What now?” I looked at my traveling companion. He was still asleep.

I got in line, again. The airport was more crowded than before. People kept coming in, but no one was going out. The anger index was red-lining. People were yelling at the gate agent. She no longer had on her professional plastic smile. She was yelling back, rapidly, in Spanish.

“All flights have been cancelled. The air traffic controllers have gone on strike” an Ex-pat shouted as he stalked off, rolling his oversize carry-on. “Argentina!” He said it as if that explained everything.

I woke up my cameraman. Our equipment and baggage were supposed to be in a holding area. I sent him to get the gear. I went to get my 2,000 pesos. We’d meet out front of baggage claim.

I fought my way through wall-to-wall, shoulder-to-shoulder people. Thousands of people. Angry, tired people.

The line for refunds and rebooking was long. I couldn’t see the end. A guy in line told me he’d already been waiting for two-hours. He was half-a-mile from the front. I gave up on my 2000 pesos and headed back toward baggage claim.

My cameraman was there, with our gear.

“Where’s my suitcase?” I couldn’t see it under all the gear.

He shrugged. Bad sign.

I asked again. “Where’s my suitcase?”

He didn’t have it.

Really bad sign.

I went back inside the terminal. When the guards weren’t looking, I went back through the exit door to the baggage holding area. There were only a few bags left. Mine wasn’t one of them.

I felt a heaviness in my chest. Anxiety was building. I walked around the holding area hoping my suitcase would magically appear.

It didn’t.

I went to the unclaimed luggage counter and waded to the front. The frazzled girl asked for my luggage tags. I didn’t have them.

“I can’t help you,” she said.

“What do you mean, ‘you can’t help me’?”

Panic.

My hard drives were in that suitcase. My clothes were in that suitcase. My toothbrush was in that suitcase.

“I can’t help you,” she said again.

“Can I speak with your supervisor?”

“I am supervisor.” Her English syntax was slipping. She waved her hand at the angry mob behind me and the next person stepped forward and began yelling.

I stepped aside.

What would I do for two more weeks in Argentina, without my clothes, my toothbrush, my hard drives. My hard drives. All my footage.

I closed my eyes and said a silent prayer. I asked God to help me find my suitcase.

I had no faith. I knew it. It was gone forever.

“Please Help.”

Then, it came. That feeling of peace that is so unmistakable. I knew it would be okay. I just knew it.

I opened my eyes. The angry people were still yelling. Thousands of them.

I interrupted the person next to me and asked the counter agent again, “Isn’t there something you can do?”

“No.” She was emphatic.

The panic returned. I tried to push it away, but the fear was rising. I tried to hold onto the peace. The answer. The assurance. It was fleeting.

“Help.” I had no one else to call on.

It came again, like a wave washing over me.

Peace.

I walked away from the crowd, the line. I returned to the holding area. In the middle of the tiled room, my suitcase was waiting.

“Thank you.”

A tender mercy. A personal miracle.

I don’t know why God does not intervene in my life all the time. There have been times when I desperately needed, desperately wanted, pleaded for him to intervene, and he did not.

This time he did. And, I knew, it was his intervention that inspired some other soul to return my suitcase.

Looking back I recognize this was a teaching moment. I learned, with greater depth, what it feels like when the inspiration of heaven touches me. I also learned that I must hold onto the peace of heaven in spite of the rising fear and clamoring anger of the world around me. With God’s assurance, it will be Okay.

I also learned that God loves us, always. He loves us when he grants our requests. And, he loves us more, when he does not.

As I struggled through the crowded airport, I no longer felt the turmoil around me.

“You found it,” my cameraman said.

“Yes I did.”

Breathing

2011-12-01T08:25:00.000-08:00

Today is my son’s birthday.

I did not remember it was my son’s birthday until well after he had scarfed cheerios and soaked his shirt in milk this morning, and I was running back and forth between the paper towel rack, his high chair, the coat closet, the backpack folders, pushing the older kids' out the door, tossing booster seats in the car, etc, etc, etc...

Realizing I hadn’t kept up, that I forgot my youngest child, only son’s, BIRTHDAY…

Made me feel very tired.

So tired that I haven’t got much to say right now, which, really, I think is okay.

I think it’s okay that I stop running today and play with my baby.

It’s his birthday.

You are the trip I did not take;
You are the pearls I cannot buy;
You are my blue Italian lake;
You are my piece of foreign sky.
(Anne Campbell, “To My Child,” quoted in Charles L. Wallis, ed., The Treasure Chest [1965], 54)

Making Change

2011-11-30T06:01:00.000-08:00

I used to have a long list of Places I Must See Before I Die: Israel, Hong Kong, New Zealand, the Amazon, Egypt, the Maldives, Florence. As I’ve aged, my list has shrunk. My life is crazy busy. I’m embarrassed to admit it, but new places to discover? Meh.

I like the places I already go. San Francisco, Lake Powell, Portland, New York – Paris and Stockholm on a good year. When planning a trip these days, I don’t even consider somewhere new.

Once a year, my husband and I have a standing date in Las Vegas with several other couples who fly in from all over. We go the third week of August, admittedly the hottest possible time to be there, but we are celebrating the birthdays of the wife in one couple and the husband in the other. Once there, we settle in for three days and nights of fun. Much longer, and alcohol poisoning sets in.

Admittedly, Vegas is many things to many people. My husband says being in Vegas is like being at the prom every night. Everyone dressed to the nines. Everything over the top. Vegas is endless limousines, world renowned chefs, delectable wine flights, sumptuous suites, ultra-polite concierges, lovely cabanas, mint mojitos, gorgeous nightclubs, and one driver after another.

On our most recent trip to Sin City, we clambered in the back seat of a cab, happy to escape the oppressive heat at one in the morning. I love seeing the cabbie’s name, talking to him about where he’s from, hearing his views on a thing or two before we scramble back out at our destination. It's like we're in a stranger's living room for a moment, and in Vegas, that stranger is never from Elko or Winnemucca, but from Romania, or Iran, or Venezuela.

As we slipped into this backseat, I got an interesting read on the driver. His presence was so powerful, but I couldn't place it . . . Jamaica? British Virgin Islands?

“Niger,” he told me, calmy. He was in control but relaxed, weaving in and out of traffic, attentive but undisturbed. I was fascinated.

“I’ve never been there,” I told him, “Africa.”

“You must go. You must see Africa,” he replied, and something about him, about the way he told me, convinced me in a heartbeat. Africa had never been on my original list. But I was enraptured, transported, convinced.

My husband had opened the door, slid out, and turned around to give me his hand to help me out. I hadn’t noticed. I was astounded, mesmerized.

I must see Africa.

Cutting down the Christmas Tree on the Freaking Mountain

2011-11-29T19:00:00.000-08:00

Any writer knows that when you have an experience that is emotionally charged you write it down. Then you edit – putting in all the thoughts and emotions you don’t tell your family. So, with some risk, here’s the story.

Cutting down the Christmas Tree on the Freaking Mountain

Short story: carsick ride, finding trees (this should be easy right?), getting trees tied down, walking to de-thaw my toes and a slightly queasy ride back.

My husband and I don’t get carsick. But as the driver raced up the mountain, my husband and I were taking deep breaths to keep the contents of our stomachs in that organ. We didn’t know how far away the mountain was, so the hour plus ride became a guessing game and a determination that we wouldn’t lose our breakfast in the car. The only things we can figure that affected us that day was eating a bigger breakfast than we usually eat and the speed of the vehicle.

As soon as we arrived my brother and husband immediately set off to find the perfect Christmas tree. I was glad they went straight into the forest because I’m not a ‘let’s-play-in-the-snow-on-the-mountain’ girl. I’m a ‘let-me-look-at-the-mountain-through-a-window-from-my-warm-house’ girl. We had come on good faith even though I had concerns about staying warm and the amounts of snow that we’d actually have to deal with. I didn’t want to get stuck on a mountain.

Thankfully if you know how to layer, you don’t get cold. I didn't get cold. We were there for 4-5 hours. It's nice to know that I know how to layer clothes if I ever get pulled up a mountain again.

By the time all five trees were dragged out of the forest I was an hour past ready to leave. The kids and moms had fun; the men were proud of their trees and worked to tied them into the small trailer they’d borrowed. One person directed and fairly quickly the trees were piled and tied down. I walked back to the rest of the cars – across the freeway – to de-thaw my toes that were hovering in the painfully area of ‘I’m cold but I’m not numb yet’.

After another slightly carsick ride back to the house, our adventure ended. Ugh – I am so grateful that I hate throwing up more than any other illness. The best part of this experience is that there were enough extra boughs that my husband created a wreath for our window and a Christmas bush for our home.

You can't rush the process of learning

2011-11-26T06:13:00.000-08:00

This weekend my tennis instructor gave me the best advice and I had to share it with you all. The goal for the past month has been to get a killer back hand. We have been drilling the sucker to death. In a warm heated gym, I'm cursing under my breath. My arms are tired, I just found a new muscle around my neck and it burns like no other. I start to get sloppy in my choices.

The tennis instructor (who has a serious over bite) said, "Stop confusing ambition with impatience. Slow down, you can't rush this process."

Which got me thinking, the dude is right. To get a killer backhand (or anything for that matter) it's gonna take months and months of practice. You're gonna get tired and restless. The trick is to slow down and focus on the steps toward your success. The end result will make the effort worth it.

A Hearty Thanks for all the Giving that's been done!

2011-11-23T16:26:00.000-08:00

I know, jumping in again. Can't remember if I posted or not on my day but since I have seniority...
Ah, I've read all the recent posts and laughed a bit at some, reminsced at J. Cricket and the determination encased in those words, but Loved...okay, I cried but still I absolutely, LOVED James observations re: his trip. He said he'd be home for Thanksgiving... sounds like he just made it.

I did cry reading his post. I looked around at how much I have. Tons of stuff. Some good stuff and some just stuff. But, even if I should have nothing one day, I'd still have more than many people in the world.

Thanks to James, to all my Smash friends, writing friends and anyone else who reads our blog. The journey is wonderful. The joy full and my happiness complete.

I am grateful to a Heavenly Father who loves all of us and has given us, if there were nothing else on my list, beautiful scenery. Let's all remember to look up and live and then drop to our knees in gratitude for all we have.

Oh, and P.S. Summer is officially now on Kindle, Nook and whatever else you might have! Yep, both books. Another reason I'm thankful I have friends who stare in the face of a computer and laugh.

In Thanksgiving

2011-11-22T11:19:00.000-08:00

I missed my last post, so I hope you'll forgive my long post this time.

It is good to be home.

In the last 6 months I have been in 13 countries; Hong Kong, Korea, Mongolia; China; Great Britain, Germany, Denmark, South Africa, Madagascar, Malawi, Kenya, France, and Argentina.

In my travels, I have had some amazing experiences, humbling experiences, humorous experiences and transformative experiences. I am grateful for these experiences; yet, my skills of storytelling are inadequate to communicate the impact they have had on me.

Nairobi

Our driver picked us up at the Nairobi, Kenya airport. Our hotel, he said was just a short drive from the airport, only 3 kilometers.

Great. I was exhausted. It was late in the day and we’d been traveling all of it.

It was raining as we pulled out of the airport, onto the main road. The driver called it a highway. Two lanes. He said it ran the length of East Africa, all the way to the tip of South Africa. I’d just come from there.

We made small talk for a few minutes. He spoke very good English. Then, we stopped.

“Not to worry,” he said. “Not far to go. The rain sometimes slows traffic.”

We weren’t moving.

After 15 minutes, I noticed that some of the other drivers were getting out of their cars.

“Not to worry,” our driver said again. “We’ll get there soon.”

True to his prediction, traffic started moving, very slowly. We moved about 400 meters then stopped.

“Good progress,” he said.

“How long ‘till we get there.” I could hear my children.

“Soon,” he said, with a friendly smile.

I discovered, that night, that soon, in Africa does not have the meaning I associate with it.

As we sat, in our taxi, not moving, surrounded by other cars, crowding a very tiny highway, using both lanes to go one direction, I looked up and noticed three camels, with very weathered riders, moving slowly along the side of the road. I was fascinated. They were moving so slowly, awkwardly, swaying side to side in some kind of inefficient forward motion. Yet, they were moving. It took a while for them to catch up to us. Then, they passed us. Then, they were ahead of us. Then, they were gone. In some tribute to an ancient world, a challenge to the post-modern era, the camels and their drivers moved toward a destination I could not even begin to imagine.

Three hours later, I finally arrived at my hotel, just a short three kilometers from the airport.

Paris

I was about to board my plane from Paris, France, non-stop to Salt Lake City. The line was moving forward. I gave the gate agent my boarding pass. She looked at the boarding pass, then looked at my passport, then looked up at me. She wasn’t smiling. She then looked over at the security guard standing close and nodded.

“Come with me,” the Security Guard said, with a very heavy French accent.

“Why?” I said.

He didn’t answer. A security guard stood behind me. The first security guard led the way forward, down the jet way. Everyone in line stared at me.

The guards parted the crowd and we proceeded uninhibited down the jet way, toward the plane. When we nearly reached the plane, the guard opened the jet way door and said, “This way.” I walked through the door and proceeded down the metal stairs to the tarmac, just below the nose of the plane. A van pulled up.

“Get in,” the guard said.

“Why? Where are you taking me?”

“We have identified some suspicious materials in your luggage.”

I got inside the van and we drove away. I looked back through the very tiny rectangular window at the back of the van and watched my plane, which was supposed to leave in 8 minutes, get smaller, then disappear.

Approximately seven minutes later, the van pulled to stop, it seemed like a very long distance from my plane.

“Get out,” the guard said.

I was not thrilled with French Airport Security manners.

I got out.

“This way.”

I followed the guard into a very large warehouse. We walked down a very large, very long, very dark passage.

“In here.” The guard opened a metal door and yellow light spilled out.

Inside, I could see my tripod case sitting in the middle of a concrete floor.

“What is inside?” the guard asked me. His eyes were cynical. His words, accusing.

“Tripods.”

“Open it.”

I did. He looked inside.

“Very well. You can go.”

“That’s it?”

“This way,” another guard said. We walked back down the very long, very dark passage.

“Get in,” he said. I got in the van. He drove me back to my plane. It hadn’t left. I got out of the van, under the nose of a very large Boeing 767. It is amazing just how large those planes are, when you stand beneath them.

“Have a nice flight,” the guard said with an even thicker French accent. I walked up the metal steps, entered the jet way and boarded my plane.

San Miguel

I took Spanish in 7^th and 8^th grade. I still remember. I got an A. My Spanish vocabulary today is probably just over 100 words, because I can count to 100.

In San Miguel, Argentina, we were invited into a very humble home by a sweet family of 5, Mom, Dad, two boys and one girl, 8, 6 and 3. We were there to take pictures and record video.

They were thrilled to have us. After our interview, the Mother fixed us an elaborate meal. Empanadas and sandwiches. I’m sure they made a huge sacrifice to feed us. The Mother fixed her own children noodles. We could not say no. We would offend the family, even though they would go with very little for several days.

The more we ate, the more they smiled. I was humbled by their hospitality.

When at last we could eat no more, the Mother asked us a question in Spanish. I did not understand what she said. I was not fast enough with my Google translate app to interpret. My cameraman thought he understood, so he said, “Si.” “Yes.” Even I could have said that.

When he said, “Si,” the Father and the Mother offered us huge smiles and disappeared behind the woolen drape that separated the “kitchen” from the “dining room.”

“What did she say?” I asked my cameraman.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“What do you mean, you don’t know. You said yes.”

Just then, the mother came through the drape with two very large bowls of noodles. She placed them lovingly in front of us.

We could not say no. It was our sacrifice to fill our bellies beyond comfort while this humble family sacrificed their very sustenance to feed us.

Resistencia

I was standing in line at the Resistencia, Argentina airport. The airport is small, very much like a private airport for small planes. A young boy, with thick wavy black hair and dark chocolate eyes stood in front of me.

“Tu es Norte Americano?” He said. At least that’s what I thought he said. Or, I thought I understood—You’re from North America?

What was your first clue? I thought.

“Si,” I said. It felt good to be speaking Spanish.

The boy broke into a huge smile. His eyes twinkled. He fired off a string of sounds I could barely recognize as Spanish, none of which I could understand. That didn’t stop him. He kept going. Whatever it was he was saying, he was passionate about it. And, he was happy. I could feel laughter and light as he talked. I couldn’t help smiling. I had no idea what he was saying.

His Dad came to our rescue. His dad knew as much English as I knew Spanish. Together, with the help of my iPhone, we were able to communicate. This boy, of twelve years, loved futbol, soccer. He wanted to know if we loved futbol. He wanted to know which team we were fans of. He told us that the greatest futbol player in the world played for Barcelona and was from Argentina and also played for the Argentine National team. But, the boy said that he did much better when he played for Barcelona, much to the boy’s disappointment.

I learned a lot about Argentine futbol, even though I probably only understood about 10% of what the boy said. I also learned, that this little boy loved life. He was enthusiastic. He was passionate. One day, he told me with his brilliant smile, he would be a great futbol player.

The line moved forward. I asked the father where he and his son were going. I could see moisture well up in the father’s eyes. He said some things to me. I didn’t understand. I wrote them down in my translate app. Before I got them written, the boy and his Dad went through the security line. Later, as I sat waiting for my plane, I looked at what I had written and pressed translate.

“I am taking my son to Buenos Aires for treatments. You see, he has leukemia.”

I looked up and could see the little boy watching me from several seats away. He smiled and waved.

My eyes filled with moisture.

In all of my travels, the experiences I cherish the most are those associated with the people I have met. Everywhere in the world, people have stories to tell. Most stories, most lives are filled with adversity, much greater than anything I will ever experience. Most have far less than I will ever live without. Most have far fewer opportunities than I even recognize to take for granted. However, in all of the adversity and challenge and poverty and illness and heartbreak, I have been enlivened by the human capacity to love, to give, to serve and to press forward.

I hope that I will not forget what I have been given. I pray that I will never take for granted the love I have received. I will try to not neglect my responsibility to use the talents, gifts and blessings I have been given to bless the lives of those who come into my circle of influence.

It is good to be home.

Living The Dream

2011-11-21T20:43:00.000-08:00

So lately whenever someone asks how my husband’s doing, he answers with the big grin he has and, “Just living the dream, man.”

I know how some people are. As Nathan explains the thrill of landing his dream job this month, I know there are some people who smile and nod while thinking, darn that lucky guy. He must have it so easy.

If we all spoke in brainwaves and I received this signal from anyone, my waves would promptly butt in, shaking a finger in their faces: Don’t you think for one minute that we’ve had it easy!

You hear about treading through blood, sweat, and tears in the journey to achieving your dreams, and I say every word is true. But what value does a dream have if you didn’t literally ache for it a little? Since our time starting a family, Nathan and I have been through some “ache,” certainly. But it’s that pain that pushed us to strive for more. Of course, suffering wasn't enough to deserve anything. It took fighting.

I guess the phrase “blood, sweat and tears” became notorious thru a speech of Winston Churchill’s. He said, “I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears and sweat.”

But a later excerpt is my favorite:
“You ask, what is our aim? I can answer in one word: Victory. Victory at all costs — Victory in spite of all terror — Victory, however long and hard the road may be, for without victory there is no survival.”

Every time you admire (or envy) someone’s victory, don’t ever believe that they achieved that dream by sleeping.

Work. Period. It’s the only way it’s going to happen. Blood. Sweat.Tears.

So Nathan’s dreams are all about guiding people to the open doors provided by a higher education. If you are interested in free computer and technology education/certification, funded by an NSF grant awarded to Utah Valley University, then dive in. Contact nathanh /at/ uvu /dot/ edu.

Swimming in a sea of testosterone

2011-11-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

I live in a house of men. I'm married to a man, and we have three boys together, who are all now man-sized. A slew of their friends, pals, acquaintances, and buddies revolve through our life and home.

All pets over the years have been male as well: the bearded dragon, the short-lived hamster, the majestic Rottweiler. Even the cat turned out to be boy.

The cat was a particularly insistent stray, and although my husband is violently allergic to cats, and we tried to shoo it away, then give it away, it wasn’t going anywhere. People familiar enough with cat genitalia pronounced the cat a girl, and we gave her a girlie name, “Summer”.

And since she was a stray, I drove Summer to the vet to be spayed. The vet called, confused, as I was driving away from the drop off.

“Are you the one who brought in the stray cat to be spayed?”

“Yep!” I said, proud about assuming this civic responsibility for someone else’s abandoned pet. (I knew rabies shots and city licenses would follow, and I was willing to take care of those things too.)

“Yeah, that’s a neutered male,” the vet explained.

“Well of course it is.” I turned the car around.

We renamed the cat Boomer, because it sounded a little like Summer, the name s/he had gotten used to, and because it was short for Boomerang, since no matter how many times we threw him out, he came back. I remain the only female in the house.

New Laptop (it's black and beautiful)

2011-11-19T07:00:00.000-08:00

The other week my husband and I agreed that it was time to update my laptop. My old one was…very old and decrepit in terms of current events of electronics. It worked – slowly – but it worked. My mother taught me that old saying ‘Do or do without, wear it out and then keep using it until it falls apart.’ Totally paraphrasing that.

I agree with my mother and try to ’do without’ a lot of the extras. But you don’t want to get too far behind in electronics/software programs. It’s hard to play catch up with the technology freight train express. And another motivation for me is my profession. I have to keep up with computers as they are my main tool almost every minute of my work day.

Finding a computer that is well priced, with just enough bells and whistles that doesn’t over whelm me or make me wonder if the machine will explode when I don’t keep up with the updates can be challenge. In all reality, I only need three things – Microsoft Word, Microsoft Excel, and Internet. That’s it. No fancy operating system, graphics or video editing. My husband keeps pushing me to convert to a Mac – no thanks.

Thankfully my wish came true at Costco…with a couple twists.

I have to learn a new operating system and layout of the keyboard. I can live with that – have been for a week now. It’s amazing how life is a little easier with a tool called ‘a computer’.

A random thought today

2011-11-16T05:53:00.000-08:00

A quote that has been on my mind this week was once said by Bela Karolyi, famed gymnastics coach, "You can always do better."

He also believed that perfection is within everyone's reach-if you work for it day after day.

One of the main things in achieving a goal is to dig deeper. The fact of the matter is we are in a fortunate position. We get to chase our dream and to be blunt, not many people get that chance.

Dreams die or they can be taken from us by life's twist and turns, which mean we have to give our dream our very best. Deep deep and go for what you want.

I AM REALLY OLD NOW

2011-11-15T05:38:00.000-08:00

I have been in denial for many years but I cannot avoid the truth any longer. I'm old. I applied for Social Security and will begin getting my pittance next month. Wow. I am old. I just had a birthday and I'm sure that is what has brought about this new pain. No matter how you try to push back the years, wear that new style, grow out your hair, try a new make-up, or color the gray -- your body eventually starts to break down. Its natural. Even desirable in some degree.

And, as Summer would say, Oh well.

Life is really great and I'm not complaining. Way too many blessings to ever complain about a little thing like another birthday. Every one has them (if they are lucky, that is) and if you can count as many well-wishes and cards as I was given, you'd feel fortunate also.

This blog is about nothing in particular but filled with lots of thanks and gratitude for aging and friends.

Wishing all you birthday participants a very Happy one! Embrace it and if you're old enough to be OLD then good on ya! Like my mother-in-law used to say: "It beats the alternative."

My First (and last!) Ever Reference to Desparate Housewives

2011-11-11T11:41:00.000-08:00

The fabulous Brodi Ashton has the following subtitle to her blog:

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

When I first read it, I knew it was one of those quotes saying more than I understood. I thought the idea here was that the real work behind writing is excruciating. Difficult. Downright Painful.

The true interpretation came to me through THE most unexpected medium:

Reputation Necessary Disclaimer: I HATE THIS SHOW.
Just the commercials make me choke. But I happened to get snagged when the Teri Hatcher character can’t put her paintbrush to the canvas because her teacher’s criticism keeps stifling her creative thoughts.

Red-Head: Is everything alright?
T.H.: Oh I can’t get his voice out of my head…He keeps telling me how bad I am…
I’ve been staring at this blank canvas for two days. I don’t sleep, I don’t eat.

Naturally, my empathy hooked me. And fortifying myself through the extra “drama” proved so worth it, I’m blogging about it!

Teri finally confronts her teacher at his home, desperate for validation that she’s good enough. Otherwise she can’t move on with her art. The cunning, wise, so often misunderstood but truly devoted—*cough cough cough*

Sorry, something caught in my throat!

Anyway, the teacher promises her an A+:

T.H: I do not want you to give me a fake grade. It doesn’t mean anything if you’re lying.
Teacher: Why not? You’re lying.
T.H. (dumbfounded) : No I’m not.
Teacher: Every time you sit down to paint and don’t paint the fear and pain that’s in you, you’re lying.
Every time you care about what someone else thinks about your art, you’re lying.
I used to think you were holding something back. Now, I wonder if anything is even there.
So enjoy your A+. Don’t come to my class anymore. We’re done.

Wow. Did the Desperate Housewives really just preach to me? Am I about to get struck by lightening?

"There's nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and open a vein." ~Walter Wellesley "Red" Smith

It’s not the pain of the cut Smith valued. It’s the blood you’ve exposed. Art is sharing the most intimate voices inside you—-the ones that prove you’re alive. Maybe they keep you alive.

So, what do you think? Do you have to courage to open a vein? Or are you already worn out by the thought of cleaning the mess?

(cause Teri made a mess when she did--it's the entire premise of the next epis. You can bet I'll avoid it.)

Fall

2011-11-10T06:00:00.000-08:00

“Fall is my favorite season,” someone pipes up. I’m stunned. How is that possible? Sure autumn is gorgeous. The leaves are spectacular. But fall represents, well—death.

Everything dies. Animals hunker down. The days get shorter, the darkness longer. In Utah, you have to wear a hoodie and ski socks if you’re going to sit out on the back deck. And you better do that before we roll the clocks back because then it’s pitch black by 6 p.m. As seasons go, fall forebodes doom.

Sure, Halloween is a fun day. And Thanksgiving: a beautiful holiday about families and nourishment and hearth and home. And football. All good things.

Admittedly, winter has its charming moments. That sparkle of fresh snow in the sunlight. The view of evergreens from the ski lift. The pleasure of giving during winter holidays. But, people, it's cold! Cold enough that you need to wear boots and gloves and maybe even a scarft to step out and get the mail.

I like the sun on my face. I like light, warmth, and flip flops. I like seeing swim trunks and beach towels come through the wash—it’s how I gauge the success of a summer week. And summer vacation is three seasons away.

So I’m battening down. I’m focusing more on my craft. Logging more time at the computer. Hoping the next few months pass quickly. Because once it’s spring, summer is just one bright, hopeful, beautiful season away.

Dream Career

2011-11-09T07:00:00.000-08:00

The luckiest people, to me, in the career world are the ones who have the job they love. The job they've always wanted and never want to leave. Those people have made their passion profitable, to take care of their families. I hope one day I can say the same about my novels.

I grew up with a mother who taught all her girls to be independent and capable. So when I went to college I insisted that I would pay for part of it. My education wasn’t going to be paid for by mummy and daddy alone. When I was home in between graduation and a mission for my church, I insisted I pay rent to my parents. Existing on air is not remotely possible; it cost to have me home again. Then I move out on my own and got a job within a week. Bills were in my immediate future of 30 days. I planned to maintain/purchase my car, live indoors with electricity and a roof (that is very important), eat regularly daily and have a wardrobe dominated by professional clothing.

But I look forward to the day when I don’t have to have a 7:30am-5pm job, day in and day out. And my wardrobe can have a healthy section of jeans and T-shirts again. I look forward to a time when my job starts at 8am, or 9am if I don’t want to get so early, while I’m still in my pajama’s and munching on breakfast, going through a couple narrative voice exercises before starting to work on my current project.

Because I visualize my dream, my journey is easier to go through. One day I too will say – “na-na na-na naa! I commute down the hall to my writer’s lair and don’t have to report to a boss – I have an agent instead.”

The qualities of a dreamer

2011-11-06T05:39:00.000-08:00

This month in Tennis magazine they stated, "A singles competitor is dependant on his Tennis IQ, fitness, guile and tenacity."

This quote got my mind thinking about the goals we are pursuing. As a someone chasing a dream we have to know our industry, research like mad.

Fitness, could be anything, if you're a painter-how strong are your hands? Personally, my fingers are weak. They ache after a major write session, so I have had to buy one of those dinky hand strengtheners that you saw in 80's movies. Lame but you got do what you gotta do for your dream, right?

Guile- I have no idea what this term officially means, so let's look it up. Dictionary.com states that guile is 'cunning in attaining a goal.' I'm sixxes on this one but the last quality I fully believe in.

Tenacity is everything in achieving a dream. It goes hand in hand with your passion for your dream.

There is something beautiful in our future but for now we must strengthen the qualities that will carry us far in this dream. Keep working hard, my friend. I believe in you.

Apartheid

2011-11-02T12:54:00.000-07:00

“What was it like?” I asked him. “Apartheid.”

Joseph. Our driver.

He was a large, jolly man in his mid-fifties. He had dark chocolate skin with curly, salt and pepper hair. He looked at me and the smile lines around his eyes wrinkled.

Then, he laughed.

Not just a chuckle. Joseph burst into a full belly laugh. He had lived through it. He was 33 when Apartheid ended.

“You would not believe me if I told you,” Joseph said, as his laughter faded. “My children do not believe me when I tell them.”

At first, I didn’t understand why he was laughing. I didn’t understand how he could laugh. I pressed him.

“Tell me.”

He tried.

“It was horrible. We had no freedom. We had no jobs. We had no hope.”

He drove us to a township just outside of Johannesburg.

“Three-thousand people live here,” he said. “They have no running water. They have no electricity. They share 3 water taps. They share 20 portable toilets.”

He introduced me to the people. They were quick to smile, but their eyes were guarded, skeptical. I did not understand their words.

Joseph translated.

Who is this white face with a camera? Why does he take our picture?

Joseph told them I was there to tell their story. They were glad. They were friendly. They wanted me to understand. They wanted others to know of their struggle. For them, Apartheid was very real.

I was stunned. They had so little. Yet, they seemed happy.

“Why?”

Joseph told me it was time to go. It was not safe.

I got in the car.

This time, Joseph did not laugh.

“Apartheid ended in 1994. Those were difficult times. I lost my best friend to a gunshot. I cannot describe…I will not describe the trials of those days. We did not know if we would live or die. We had no hope.”

“But, Apartheid has been over for 17 years.”

“These people believe the government will take care of them. They believe the government will educate them.”

“Will they?”

Joseph laughed. We can only hope.

Ready...Set....Go!

2011-11-01T10:28:00.000-07:00

An unofficial guest post today from the excellent J. Scott Savage.

The Good The Bad and The Ugly of NaNoWriMo

This will be my first year giving it a go, but I'm jumping in for the word count challenge, not to claim I wrote a novel in a month. I'm already a fifth of the way into my "outline" draft. Can't even call it a first draft because it's brainstorm spew, guided by my outline created with Caleb's fabulous PLOTSHOP.

If you're diving in: GOOD LUCK!

Are You Afeared?

2011-10-31T09:20:00.000-07:00

So this is fun—as ruler of the “1” dates, I get to blab to you today AND tomorrow!
If you’re moaning, guess what? I can’t hear you!
*Sinister laugh*

I sent Harry Potter and a Hawaiian Mermaid Princess off to school this morning. Ty Lee (Avatar) is hangin’ at home with me today. DESTRUCTOR is here too, but that isn’t news. He’s here every day of the year. Blows through my house on a consistent 15 minute schedule.

Ty Lee keeps calculating different ways to bribe me into an early trick-or-treat run:
     me: “Eat your cereal.”
     T.L.: “I will if you take me trick-or-treating right now.”
     me: “Put your coat on.”
     T.L.: “I will if you’re taking me trick-or-treating right now.”

Long day ahead.

So what do we talk about today? Writing fears? Developing nail-biting suspense? Villain profiles?

I like the villain idea. Put the holiday to your advantage and ponder your villain a bit today. Pull out the character sheets and go over them again. Is your villain cuttin’ the mustard? (or…the throats?)
*geeky snort-at-my-own-joke laugh*

My favorite villain so far this year has been August in Water for Elephants. That was one creepy guy.

The evil seeps through that smile. See it? See it?

Villainy isn’t always about muscle is it? I think the value of a villain comes from the tension he/she brings to the novel. How much power a villain has over the aspirations of the hero and how much they get in the way of those dreams.

You KNOW a novel is only as good as its villains are bad. Halloween is a great time to do some villainous self-evaluation. ("Self" refers to your story here, please don’t spend time contemplating how to bring out your bad self. Please.)

In fact, let's do this together. Share your favorite villain and explain why they were so effective to you. Let's get the *blood* flowing on how to conjour up some truly mean people.

The making of a great pianist

2011-10-26T06:16:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe I watched a documentary on the making of a classically trained pianist. Not only that- I learned a lot more than I did watching the show than during my 2 years of piano lessons as a kid.

One of the things that I felt totally fascinated by was the fact that everything a pianist does has to be heartfelt. Their number one objective is to obey the score with heart. Sometimes they sit at the piano for a few minutes just mentally preparing to perform a piece.

A musical score is not just lines and notes mashed together. Oh, no, this is a conversation with the audience. The performer has to disappear until there is only the music.

To get to the professional status is physically demanding. Not to mention an emotional experience. They intensely practice for 15 years all to become a professional. Some pianists practice for 5 hours a day, some 8 hours. The formidable training years are in their youth.

Can you imagine sitting your butt down and practicing for hours on end? Oh, that's right, we already do, I say that with a smile.

The best thing we can learn from a pianist is to have heart-put your whole selves into your dream.

Madagascar

2011-10-22T15:25:00.000-07:00

I sat in a colonial French restaurant just after sunset. A light breeze drifted through the iron bars of an open window, offering slight relief from the day’s oppressive heat and humidity. A Muezzin’s call to prayer echoed across the steep hills calling faithful Muslim’s to prayer. I was transported to another time, another world.

From my home in Utah, a 4-hour plane flight took me to Atlanta. A 16-hour flight to Johannesburg, South Africa, left me groggy and jet lagged. A 3-hour flight to Antananarivo, Madagascar, delivered me to a foreign place far from the life I know, much farther than miles.

I saw contrasts all around me—French colonial architecture rose above thatch-roofed mud huts. Islands of open-air markets rose above rise paddies, beckoning the hungry to escape the crowded city in search of food. Pungent smells scented the heavy tropical air.

People stared at me with guarded eyes. I carried a camera. They would not see my pictures.

I don’t speak their language. I could not write their story. They would not read my words.

A little boy with dirty arms reached out to me with cupped hands. He had no shoes. He had no shirt. His eyes were sad for one so young. My driver whisked him away. I would not help him by giving him money…my driver said. But, there were so many just like him.

My heart broke for the opportunity that little boy would never know he did not have.

The Necessities

2011-10-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

Are you reading?
I don’t mean this post. Are you a fiction writer reading a novel?

You should be reading.
And you should be thinking. Are you thinking?

Because writers have to think while they read. No more lazy, hide-myself-in-an-imaginary-world reading. Nope. Not gonna cut it. And don’t whine to me that you don’t understand why.
You know why.

YOU KNOW WHY.
Because they’re published and you’re not.

Yeah. I said it.
Now GO. Do as you’ve been told.

You can only learn how to do what you dream of doing from the people who have done what you dream to do.

Cutting In Again!

2011-10-19T08:55:00.001-07:00

I know, I'm cutting in again but I got this great review from another author and thought I would share it. The author, Roseanne E. Wilkins writes LDS Romance and read my first debut novel. This review was unsolicited which, of course, makes it even more special. I can't wait for her to read my current release. What a review!

"NYC: A Mission To Die For is a delightful debut novel by Author Loraine Scott. If you love murder/mysteries with LDS main characters, this is a book you won't want to miss. Although the main characters are and LDS missionary couple, the story is about the murder mystery, so you don't have to be LDS to enly it. Loraine starts out the story in the streets of New York with an automobile accident. Not long after, Summer and Anthony Winter are met with the distinctive odor of decay when they enter the mission home after a weekend away. Summer, the main character, automatically assumes something has died in the fridge. Something has died alright, but it isn't in the fridge. When they discover the source of the smell is the body of a transient man whom they've previously come to care for and NYC's finest wants to dismiss the case as another homeless person's death, they take the reins and investigate the death themselves. It helps that Anthony is a former detective with the LAPD and their son is currently working there. Well written and fast paced, this is a book you'll have to drag yourself away from. Pick up a copy. You won't be disappointed."

WoW!!!

This book is only available on line at Amazon Kindle e'books, at BYU Bookstore and at Canyon Copy in Highland. Officially, from my publishers view point, it's sold out! But, read my current book-- NYC: Murder Brooklyn Style. I think you'll like it.

Bringing Your Umbrella.

2011-10-17T08:01:00.000-07:00

"Coyote's Dance" Melody Johnson
I attended the American Fork e-book Conference last week end. So much useful information my head is swimming. As I listened to the stories of the writers and how their hard work brought them "instant" success, I remember one of my favorite Jewish folktales. There was a drought in a small village and all of the crops were drying up. The people went to the Rabbi to ask if he could do something to bring rain or they would all have to migrate. The Rabbi assured them that if they all had enough faith it would rain on the following Sabbath. After services on that Saturday, the villagers all angrily complained to the Rabbi. "Did you all have faith?" the Rabbi asked. "We all had great faith that the rain would come. Now where is it?" they asked. "I don't understand. If you all had such faith, where are your umbrellas?" I really have to start carrying an umbrella.
Luck, Melody

Dominique Moceanu- one of my heros

2011-10-16T05:16:00.000-07:00

Its no secret-every now and then I get in a gymnastics binge mode. Lately, I have been reading a book about Dominique Moceanu, 1996 Olympic Champion.

In the book she says, "I wanted to learn new skills and get better at everything. Sometimes I was even in too much of a hurry to learn new things-I didn't always perfect what I already knew."

I loved this quote because she's right. As dreamer, we must perfect the skills we are acquiring. The only way to get better is through constant repetition.

We also cannot get down on ourselves. I dunno about you but sometimes I look around at some of the brilliant mind's in my chosen field and get a little bit daunted.

In Dominique's autobiography, she said that she was in awe of the older gymnasts, Kim Zmeskal and Kerri Strug. She said, "I also saw, to my amazement, that they were human. They were just girl's like me. They had good day and bad days-and great days."

There's no need to get daunted or overwhelmed. The brilliance you have inside you can't be contained. Let it out because goodness awaits.

Here's a link to show you Dominique's mad skill . http://www.akilli.tv/video/144329/Dominigue-Moceanu.aspx

Summer is back and it's hotter than ever!

2011-10-15T02:30:00.000-07:00

Yes folks. Summer is back. Summer Winter anyway -- in her new adventure, "NYC: Murder Brooklyn Style."

The launch party was a blast and the book is selling like wildfire... Is that a cliche or what?

Check out my other blog -- lorainescott.blogspot.com -- to purchase the sequel to NYC: A Mission To Die For!

Discover the zany life of Summer Winter as she uncovers more than she expects -- Really, all she wants to do is be a Sister Missionary. If only dead people would stop interfering with her goals.

Shining the Sink and Mysterious Ways

2011-10-11T10:05:00.000-07:00

So I was web surfing - ridin' the waves. On my honor, I was doing research for my book. The flashing-line-typing-thingy just wouldn't budge til I learned what sounds a drawn bow and arrow really make. I mean really make. Crucial.

One thing led to another--as an internet search tends to do--when lo and behold I landed at:

FlyLady.net
(The logical progression from scouring youtube for
bow and arrow audio to floating around FlyLady = mysterious ways)

LONG story short: Here at FlyLady, I learned of the power wielded by the magical tool of a Shiny Sink. Apparently, a shiny kitchen sink will heal every malady suffered by you and your household.

I blinked in awe at FlyLady's claims...I blinked in time with the flashing-line-typing-thingy controlling the blank page of my manuscript...

Blinked in awe...

Blinked in time...

Flew to the sink...

Of course! Here lies the evil mucking my creative power!

I raised a can of Ajax, ready to cleanse the demon. Apparently, the evil influence seeped into my children, desparate to distract me. My four year old clawed at my legs in agony, crying for TV while I scrubbed. My two year old sprawled himself across the floor, slapped the floor, and rolled around begging for food. I resisted their disctractions. This was for the good of everyone. I used a toothbrush.

My sink has shined non-stop for 4 days now, and OH has life changed. Now I must have shiny everything. Shiny counters, shiny mirrors, shiny doorknobs, shiny hair, skin and teeth. I used a toothbrush. By the time I reached 8 year old's mouth, she wasn't havin' it. The battle resorted to hair pulling. The family gathered and instead of helping ME, they helped HER, screaming, STOP SHINING EVERYTHING!!!!

Well. Needless to say, I composed myself. I know a lost battle when I meet one. The sink shines alone.

Take that back--the blank screen of my manuscript is shining pretty bright too. Blindingly, in fact.

Concussed

2011-10-10T06:56:00.000-07:00

I miscalculate. The sum of new socks + hardwood stairs = a shocking morning surprise. I bang every stair on the way down, tailbone, elbows, shoulder blades, back of the head. Repeatedly. People rush out of their rooms.

“MOM! Are you OKAY?!”

“Honey?”

“Whoa. That was YOU?!”

I repair to the couch to ice my sore spots, and then carry on with regular morning duties. Foggy by the afternoon, and with some paranoia, I Google “symptoms concussion”. Headache, nausea, confusion.

Yes on all counts.

Who is the president, WebMD suggests as a litmus test of sensibility. That’s a relief, I think: Bill Clinton of course! But then I know that’s not quite right. A Bush? No, that’s not right either.

I call my husband. “The things I think sound crazy when I say them out loud.”

“I’m leaving work right now,” he hangs up.

By the time he gets home I remember about Obama and am embarrassed that I’d called. He opens the blinds, reassures me, and recommends hydration, the cure-all of our household.

Three days later, I get rear-ended on State Street. Again, my occipital lobes are shaken. For the second time in a week, I retreat and repose, like a middle aged Victorian woman. This is preferably done on a chaise longue in the grand salon, but I retreat to my bedroom, whose eider down trifecta of pillows/featherbed/duvet soothes me.

The side effect of all this head trauma is that my senses are stuck on some sort of magnification setting, and my writer’s mind, which I usually compartmentalize - well, repress - cannot be turned off. I wake up to hushed traffic tones humming their Monday warning. I note the stale scent of the dish soap, the tangled emotions in a child’s voice. I am mesmerized by the zebra pattern on the bistro chairs. I sense the cool, sharp promise of a productive week at the keyboard.

Insanely great

2011-10-07T15:47:00.000-07:00

Much has been said about the passing of Steve Jobs, the co-founder of Apple. His life is a testament to the truth that one person truly can change the world.

There have been a number of mentions about his 2005 commencement address at Stanford University. This quote in particular has been oft-cited:

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma — which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

I think everyone working away at the work of becoming a writer can draw some real power from this statement. Too often we can care too much about what someone else says about our work. Of course we need critiquing of what we write - no question. But we also have to learn to trust our gut, and to fight for what we believe in. Such was the life and career of Steve Jobs.

Being "insanely great" at whatever we choose to do is in fact a choice. R.I.P Mr. Jobs.

How to get to the top of the game

2011-10-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

In Tennis magazine Brad Gilbert (a tennis great) summed up a new player named Nishikori, he said, "He has excellent movement and a calm, relaxed demeanor. But he's got to improve everything to get to the upper echelon of the game."

I think this quote made me think because I am the exact opposite of Nishikori. I am far from calm when chasing this dream of being a writer. Do you know what I mean? As a dreamer you want something more than you could possibly vocalize, so instead you put pressure on yourself to constantly improve. Sometimes the pressure can be too much for your body.

Lemme give you an example, while at a recent writers group we began discussing my need to take a leap of faith. (And they were right, I have to step outside of my comfort zone.) But the stress of the situation caused my body to have an absolute meltdown. My head started to throb and I got a nose bleed. Oh, I was mortified and livid at my body. But the quote in the Tennis magazine got me thinking, the only way to get to the 'upper echelon of the game' is to forget about the pressure, the stress and etc.

You have to have a calm demeanor (or at least pretend like you have one.) The only way to reach the top is to get out of your comfort zone.

My Book!

2011-10-05T11:37:00.000-07:00

I'm posting out of turn... I know, but I did ask so it must be okay. It's just that I am so dang excited about my new book coming to town! The cover is titillating. The pages visually look appealing and the story... Let me tell you... the story is...

Well, you'll just have to read it.

NYC: Murder Brooklyn Style officially releases on October 13, during the American Fork Arts Council Book Launch held at the AF Library from 7-9. I will be there signing books and so will Chrisy Ross. Her book is a hoot! I read it in one sitting and loved every word. It's a must buy!

If you don't want to come to buy the book, come for the dessert -- Chocolate Strawberry cake... Yum

Hope to see you there!

Spelling Test

2011-10-02T12:19:00.001-07:00

He had a spelling test tomorrow. 4^th grade. He was one of the big kids now.

He didn’t look like a big kid to me. He looked so small. He was struggling so hard.

It was past his bedtime as we sat together at the kitchen counter, practicing his spelling words.

He was frustrated, distracted, tired. He wasn’t getting it. I hoped he could. I didn’t know if he would. These words were hard for him.

It was easy for me, these words. I’d known them so long, I didn’t know how I knew them. I couldn’t remember not knowing them. I struggled to help him know them. Words came easy for me.

Try again. You’ll get it.

I won’t.

You will. Remember the word groups.

T H O U G H. I spoke slowly. I gave him a sentence.

He picked up his pencil and wrote, tho.

I waited, not long enough. What about the rest?

Oh yah. I forgot.

He wrote U H…

G. Don’t forget the g.

He erased the H and wrote a G over the black smear.

He wrote an h.

See, you got it.

He didn’t believe me.

Next word.

T H O U G H T.

He tapped his pencil. He kicked his feet against the counter. He picked up a Lego guy.

Stay focused. You can do it.

I could feel his frustration. I felt it, too.

I watched him wiggle. I watched him squirm. I could see him struggle. I had no idea how he would do on the spelling test in the morning. I wasn’t sure he would get them right. I put my arm around him and pulled him off his stool, onto my lap. He was still small enough that I could hold him close. He calmed down.

Let’s write the words again. Look at them. Read them out loud.

Better.

I calmed down.

The next day, I asked him how he did.

Okay, he said. He didn’t get them all right. But, he did better than the week before.

I smiled and we bumped knuckles. If only I could do so well.

My tests were not his tests. I seldom got them all right. As we struggled together, I was grateful I could still hold onto him. He was so precious. He had so much to learn.

So did I.

Watch It. Believe It.

2011-10-01T17:23:00.000-07:00

Ira Glass on Storytelling from David Shiyang Liu on Vimeo.

Perseverance in writing

2011-09-29T06:17:00.000-07:00

My eyeballs feel fried as I type this. It’s been a long day. The day isn’t as important as the evening. It was an evening that made me drill deeper into the beginning of my plot and storyline. It was an hour long discussion between the teacher and the student that made me begin to verbally work out the motivations of my characters and align their actions faster.

This is a sometimes tedious task but an author is so much better off when it is done. You are clear upon the driving motives of your protagonist and the rest of the cast. But the only way you can know that you are successful is by having someone question you the entire way.

The conversation goes something like this: so woman A is jealous of woman B – why? Because Woman A has the jeweled basket from their mother. How is that important? the jeweled basket holds the secret of their mother’s bloodlines... Yeah this is a slow conversation, especially when the writer had to think about those answers before speaking.

The point is, if you can’t persevere through these time consuming plot shops, working through the logic, figuring out the tensions and fears of the characters you will fail. If you think it’s a waste of your time to figuring out any of these facts – Bad news friend, you don’t want to be a writer. You want to say you’re a writer and you want to write by the seat of your pants. Please don’t be surprised when your story falls apart.

Good writing, Caleb has often said, only comes through blood, sweat and tears. I can vouch for this. And I’m grateful for my Pennsylvanian stubbornness that I know how to persevere. We taught mules the definition of stubborn.

Oh yeah, my goal for December – it just meet with an unforeseen circumstance. If I didn’t love my story so much I would absolutely chuck it out a window and find out how much I liked pottery instead.

2011-09-26T07:33:00.000-07:00

"My mind jumps around like monkeys." Agatha Christie

The quote comes from an older "eccentric" woman in the play "The Hollow". Christie loved those kooky woman of a certain age.

I recognized myself immediately even though I was younger when I directed the play.

A former student, Rosilyn, recently said she first loved me was because I was so random. She didn't understand the randomness at first but I think now she does. It's just because I have an overstuffed brain. I chase after every idea that excites me and I get carried away with ideas a whole bunch. Blessed with a memory from hell there are 100's of thousand of thoughts rolling around in my head.

I simply make connections that others don't see. When I try to explain, too many people's eyes go glassy. Some students even drool. The randomness all makes sense to me.

How can we have a new idea unless our minds are producing a plethera of ideas? Make those connections from every thing you know and learn. According to Steve Johnson in Where Good Ideas Come From , the great ideas of this century come from people who know wide variety of things. People with a diversity of interests. Maybe Steve Jobs would understand me.

Enjoy the simple things

2011-09-26T05:14:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe I am about to admit this but I took one hour out of my Monday to read children's books. For some reason, I had this desire to rediscover my love of books from my childhood.

With a cup of hot cocoa, I settled into my blue velvet round bed and ventured into the world of Where's Waldo, Richard Scarry and Make Way for Ducklings. Something came alive within me while reading these books.

As a dreamer, we must have an intense amount of focus while pursuing our dream. But along the way, we cannot forget to stop for a moment and enjoy the simple things. They helps us remember why we create.

Drinking Fountain

2011-09-22T19:42:00.000-07:00

I barely made it to my gate in the Frankfurt, Germany airport. I was exhausted and thirsty. Security wouldn’t let me keep my water bottle.

Stay hydrated. You’ll live longer. You’ll live better. My wife is always telling me I need to drink more water.

Thank Heavens. Our plane was late. I could relax.

When I finally sat down, I spotted a drinking fountain across the way. I stood up to get a drink when an older man, dressed in a long colorful robe stepped up to the drinking fountain. He pressed the button on the side of the fountain and cupped his hand under the stream. He drank the water from his hand. I stopped to watch.

When he finished drinking from his cupped hand, he rubbed both hands together, rinsing them as if he had just washed them. He pressed the button again and filled his cupped hand and began to wash his face and neck.

I went back to my seat.

I was still thirsty, but when the man opened his robe and began to rub water on his chest and under his arms, I felt like proper hydration may be over rated.

When the old man closed his robe, an older woman in similar dress joined him at the fountain. She began to repeat the same ritual, with one difference.

She reached into her mouth and took out her false teeth. She set the dentures down, in the drinking fountain basin and then continued her ritual bath. When she had finished cleansing, she picked up her teeth, placed them back in her mouth and the couple continued their journey.

I must admit, I felt guilty for watching them bathe. I couldn’t believe the old woman would place her false teeth in the drinking fountain and then wash herself with them sitting in the drain. I couldn’t believe they didn’t conduct their cleansings in the restroom. I don’t know what they were thinking. I was in a foreign country. So were they. They brought their customs and cultural practices with them. So did I. What I would never do, they didn’t seem to have a problem doing. Odysseus discovered the same thing.

I was still thirsty. When another gentleman in a business suit stepped up to the drinking fountain and took a drink, I decided I would stick with bottled water.

You Know You're a Writing Mom If...

2011-09-21T07:47:00.000-07:00

Instead of sloughing off backpacks and running for the Wii remotes after school, your kids stand at the top of the stairs for 10 minutes gawking in awe of the clean family room.

"We have a coffee table?!"

Yeah. Ever since taking on this writing challenge, housework has become a challenge of its own.
I take comfort in knowing I’m not alone, though. Turns out that tug-of-war between duties—can the kids handle re-wearing crushed pants out of the hamper or should plotting that next scene wait?—is common to all of us.

Think this post is gearing up to offer you a solution? 'Fraid not.

My first year going at this, I chose to only write. Everything and everyone around me “suffered” for my cause. I’ve realized this year around that I can’t take it that easy. If my family is going to survive my ambitions I have to work twice has hard and that’s just IT.

“If it wasn't hard, everyone would do it. It's the hard that makes it great.” (Tom Hanks playing Jimmy Dugan From A League Of Their Own)

Yep. That’s all I have to say about that.

But maybe you have some solutions...How do you balance (or sacrifice) it all?

Canning Peaches - First attempt rushed

2011-09-20T19:34:00.000-07:00

Yesterday evening, I was going over the peaches spread out on my living room floor to find a ripe one for desert. Not only did I find a ripe one, I found a moldy speckled neighbor along with four peaches starting a community of fur. Yikes! I shouted for my husband, informing him we had to can the peaches the next day instead of the weekend. It was late in the evening when I made this gross discovery.

Sidenote: This is the first time we have canned peaches. I have some experience by watching my mother when I was a child. I watched because she is a hands on person who doesn’t know how to share her tasks very well. So I ended upon the cooler in the kitchen talking to her as she worked.
So the skinning commenced. Some of those peaches were so ready to be sliced, put into quart jars, and submerged in orange juice flavored water for a bath in the big kettle pot. Some of the pits shot out of my husband’s hands – as if they had refused to leave the center of the peach until forced to abandon all hope and fly – when the force of pressure from slimy fingers overpowered their determination. Some of the peaches had parts that had to be cut out, coloring the garbage bucket with dark rotten slime and the aroma of overripe fruit.

The hardest part of this process was gauging how much water we really needed to put in the pot and then how to get the first batch in it without scolding fingers. My husband sacrificed his hands, out of chivalry no doubt, as the steam was not to be lingered in. We pour some water out, then we poured some more out – creating a sauna in our small walk-in kitchen – and then we had to pour some back in.

Honestly, prepping the fruit was easier than waiting for the stupid water to boil. I didn’t hover over the pot, I promise, but I was trying to mark time from when the water started to boil so I didn’t overcook the peaches. – Is that even possible? In the end – I guessed. And within minutes of pulling the quart jars out, I was rewarded with the wonderful soft popping sounds of lids sealing shut.

My wish for peaches in December is guaranteed.

Just Go With It

2011-09-17T09:09:00.000-07:00

Mistake after mistake after mistake adding up to just the right thing. Don Wentworth

In the visual arts they, call it Leonardo's mark. You begin a new piece with an accidental mark. It is the same in any creative endeavor. You start an improve and someone misunderstands the instructions and off goes the scene in a new "right" direction. In writting you sometimes have to follow the fundemental rule of improve. "Just go with it." I have misspelled a word, looked at it and found it pushing me into an exotic plot I didn't know was inside me. Some of my best comic ideas come from my habit of misreading signs in public. That is how a package of wierd little sqaushy things "Bun Lifts" became bum lifts and hover crafts became Hoover crafts. I can just see the mighty vacuum now, fighting off a flotilla of allien space ships.

Mark Victor Hansen, The Richest Kids in America

2011-09-16T05:57:00.000-07:00

One of the books I have been reading is The Richest Kids in America: How They Earn it, How They Spend it, How You Can Too by Mark Victor Hansen.

When I was given this book as a gift from a friend I didn't know whether to be depressed or inspired. When I was their age I certainly wasn't running a massive business. All of the kids in this book are seriously driven. But then I figured we could learn something from these talented entrepreneurs.

One of the qualities that sets them apart is their "I'll-stay-out-there-all-day-if-I-have-to sensibilities"-Taken from Tennis Magazine.

This book shows how much drive you must have when chasing down success.

One of the tips in the book that I adore is "My definition of success is the difference between where you are and the use of your full potential. Each of you has a multiplicity of talents, and you need to exercise all of your potential to realize your dreams."

PS- I just adored this book, so I had to share it with you. I didn't get any compensation.

A Real Murder Mystery -- Maybe

2011-09-15T04:55:00.000-07:00

I haven't checked the validity of this story so it could be FACT or FICTION. Whatever the case, it is a GREAT mystery.

At the 1994 annual awards dinner given for Forensic Science, AAFS President, Dr. Don Harper Mills astounded his audience with the legal complications of a bizarre death. Here is the story:

On March 23, 1994... The medical examiner viewed the body of Ronald Opus, and concluded that he died from a shotgun wound to the head. Mr. Opus had jumped from the top of a ten-story building intending to commit suicide. He left a not to that effect indicating his despondency.

As he fell past the ninth floor, his life was interrupted by a shot gun blast passing through a window, which killed him instantly.

Neither the shooter nor the deceased was aware that a safety net had been installed just below the eight floor level to protect some building workers and that Ronald Opus would not have been able to complete his suicide the way he had planned.

The room on the ninth floor, where the shotgun blast emanated, was occupied by an elderly man and his wife. They were arguing vigorously and he was threatening her with a shotgun! The man was so upset that when he pulled the trigger, he completely missed his wife, and the pellets went through the window, striking Mr. Opus.

When one intends to kill subject "A", but kills subject "B" instead, one is still guilty of the murder of subject "B."

When confronted with the murder charge, the old man and his wife were both adamant, and both said they thought the shotgun was not loaded, the old man said it was a long-standing habit to threaten his wife with the unloaded shotgun. He had no intention to murder her.

Therefore, the killing of Mr. Opus appeared to an accident, assuming the gun had been accidentally loaded.

The continuing investigation turned up a witness who saw the old couple's son loading the shotgun about six weeks prior to the fatal accident. It transpired that the old lady had cut off her son's financial support and the son, knowing the propensity of his father to use the shotgun threateningly, loaded the gun with the expectation that his father would shoot his mother. Since the loader of the gun was aware of this, he was guilty of the murder even though he didn't actually pull the trigger. The case now become one of murder on the part of the son for the death of Ronald Opus.

Now comes the exquisite twist... Wait for it...

Further investigation revealed that the son was, in fact, Ronald Opus. He had become increasingly despondent over the failure of his attempt to engineer his mother's murder. This led him to jump off the ten-story building on March 23rd, only to be killed by a shotgun blast passing through the ninth story window. The son, Ronald Opus, had actually murdered himself.

So the medical examiner closed the case as a suicide.

The story is attributed to the Associated Press. You decide: Truth of Fiction

Nine Flights in 13 Days

2011-09-12T06:00:00.000-07:00

Salt Lake City to Chicago.

Chicago to London.

London to Munich.

Munich to Frankfurt.

Frankfurt to Copenhagen.

Copenhagen back to Frankfurt.

Frankfurt to Birmingham.

(Two hour drive to London) London to Chicago.

Chicago to Salt Lake City.

Tomorrow I go home.

I didn’t want to wash my clothes in the sink of my hotel because I would never be in one hotel long enough for the clothes to dry. In Reading, England, I had two days. Great opportunity to have the hotel do some laundry. It was Friday night. They promised same day delivery. I’d have them by Saturday night. We were checking out on Sunday. The desk clerk was very helpful. He said my laundry would be ready on Monday. I asked him about their same day delivery.

They don’t do laundry on weekends.

I took enough underwear to last me for 13 days. Tomorrow is day 13. For the other passenger’s sake, I better make it home tomorrow.

Jagerschnitzel in Frankfurt. Pastries in Denmark. Bread pudding in Birmingham. When I had time to eat, the food was good. Alas, there wasn’t enough time. We settled for Big Macs in Munich.

Dollars to Pounds. Pounds to Euros. Euros to Kroners. Kroners to Euros to pounds. I lost money on every exchange. Tomorrow, I’ll change what’s left back to dollars.

Three hours of sleep per night for 13 days induces hallucinations. You would not believe the things I’ve seen, or, did I really see them. I’m not sure. I’ll get back to you on that.

Big Ben. Parliament. Driving on the wrong side of the road. Driving on the autobahn, really fast. The original Christus Statue. Fredericksborg Castle. Carl Bloch masterpieces.

And friends—new friends in parts of the world I never dreamed I would visit.

I don’t speak German. I don’t speak Danish. Most of the Germans and the Danes speak English. We were able to communicate, deeper than language. People are people in spite of our cultural quirks. In Europe, I was the quirky one. I guess that’s true at home, too.

I’ve picked up a few new quirks on this trip, maybe an extra tick, and after nine flights in 13 days, I’ve had an incredible experience I will never forget.

What's a Story For Anyway?

2011-09-11T10:28:00.000-07:00

Admit it. Maybe it’s not true now, but at some point in your story-fantasizing career you knew you’d conjure something as life revelatory and history defining as King’s I Have A Dream Speech, or Star Wars, or…Twilight? Anyway. Ya dreamed big, didn’t ya? Didn’t ya?

Well, the people over at StoryCorps are dreaming big. And after watching a few stories I’ll tell you right now: There is nothing more beautiful than a true story. There is nothing more beautiful than human life. As fiction writers, we have to remember our challenge: Provide a believable imitation of the real stuff.

Listen to these people. Listen how effortlessly they tell their stories.

Listen to your reactions.

Which ones make you laugh? Which ones make you cry? Which ones will you find yourself thinking about days later and sharing with a friend? Why?

Does your narrative flow like a memoir? Does your fiction compete with these realities?

Writing As Personal Discovery - CDalley

2011-09-10T21:18:00.000-07:00

Writing As Self Discovery

After writing for the local paper for over ten years, I thought I would venture into writing a novelized version about my grandmother as she crossed the plains in a Mormon wagon train.

My goal was to make her struggles come alive for her descendants. I found the various life histories of her written many years after the fact to be interesting but mostly glamorized and shallow.

I wrote it up with descriptions and dialogue I thought appropriate to the times and places. It still felt flat so I decided to take a community writing class and here I came up against the stark truth.I had no narrative voice. I had written the book as I had reported stories in the paper keeping myself out of it.

You always hear about an author “Finding their Voice”. Well, this is no easy task. Even after many attempts to define it in my mind, narrative voice still hasn’t manifested itself in my writing.

Oh, I have come close at times but mostly because I have deliberately injected the elements of narrative voice such as metaphors and similes or some unique aspects of my characters.

Others in the class have struggled but seem to have hit their stride but I still cannot seem to immerse myself deeply in the scenes I try to bring to life. Oh, sure, I see them in my mind but rarely as if I am part of them. I remain an observer. How can this distance from my work be breached?

I have searched my soul (I know that is a cliche - a no no in any writing) and have wondered if my writing is evidence that I have spent my life more as an observer than participant.OUCH!

Yes, I had a horrible childhood. Not that many others haven’t but now I wonder if one of the ways I survived was to distance myself somehow which would keep me safe from my parent’s constant conflicts. Safe from my father’s horrendous temper. Safe from the flights of fantasy he took on manic highs when I would be the darling of his attentions.Safe from the abandonment I felt when I was non-existent to him in his depressive lows. Safe from seeing my mother destroy herself with her addiction to sleeping pills alternated with NoDoz to keep her functional at work.

Will the process of writing from within and finding my voice help me decrease my need for distance and thus safety or will it be the other way around? Do I have to break the barriers within myself in order to break the barriers in my writing?

Adventures of Life as a Writer: The Shade opens 2.25 inches

2011-09-10T08:16:00.000-07:00

My sister-in-law told me about the American Fork Art’s Council Writer’s conference in 2009. It was a great experience (making me feel good that I did something to encourage my hobby) but I wasn’t ready to take advantage of the weekly workshop. After the 2010 April Conference I knew I had to get my butt in to Caleb’s workshop, I was overdue to get serious about my heart’s desire. My first class was May 5, 2010. I have now attended sixty-two classes and I have written half of my manuscript that I’m going to publish next year (with no unforeseen circumstances popping up).

When I was fourteen I started writing stories since I couldn’t change schools or untie my tongue fast enough to wage a verbal battle with my emotional abusers. I only thought about what I should have said after the daily incidents. In the beginning of my quiet undiscovered talent my formatting was horrible, I wrote in summary more than scene and imitated the books I was reading, which put me twenty years behind the curve. However, I received encouragement along the way, watering my beaten-up-shrunken courage. My tenth and twelfth grade English teachers in particular fanned my creative flames, even with the glaring hazards within the handwritten pages.

While I share my adventures of life as a writer, never can I forget that I could not have gotten to this point with out the encouragement from before and the drop kicking I get from Caleb now. Thankfully when I started his class, I was ready for his buckets-of-love shouting page-ripping ‘this stinks and here’s why’ feedback. I never forget mistakes shouted clearing into my ears – for me it works.

PS – If you ever find grammar problems (which you inevitably will) be kind. I haven’t yet convinced my intellect that I need to be friends with grammar. I find the mechanics of my craft much more interesting than the little monsters of grammar that continually nip at my heels.

Writing is seeing

2011-09-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

Miss Kate di Camillo has some deceptively simple advice for those wanting to be writers. I say "deceptively simple" because it is easy to look at her list and think "I already do all that stuff. Next."

I appreciate her suggestions in part because they are as much about living as they are about writing. To me, this is where the fakers and the doers are separated: Connecting the life I live with the way I write is vital. Thinking these are unrelated is a form of self-deception and that's not a happy place to find (or lose) yourself.

So take it away Kate -

If you are interested in becoming a writer ...

	1.		WRITE. This may seem like an obvious piece of advice, but there are a lot of people (and I was one of them for a very long time) who think that somehow they can become a writer without doing the work of writing. Make a commitment to yourself to write a little bit (a paragraph, a page, two pages) every day.

	2.		REWRITE. You can't sit down and expect something golden and beautiful and wise to spring forth from your fingers the first time you write. You can, however, reasonably expect a piece of writing to get better each time you rewrite it. I can't emphasize this strongly enough; writing means rewriting.

	3.		READ. You have no business wanting to be a writer unless you are a reader. You should read fantasies and essays, biographies and poetry, fables and fairy tales. Read, read, read, read, read.

	4.		LOOK—at the world around. Pay attention to details. Open your heart to what you see.

	5.		LISTEN—to people when they talk. Everyone has a story. Eavesdrop. Join in conversations. Ask questions. And pay attention when people answer them.

	6.		BELIEVE IN YOURSELF—there is no right or wrong way to tell a story. This is one reason that writing is so wonderful and terrifying: you have to find your own way. Be kind to yourself. Listen to other people. And then strike out on your own.

Lance Armstrong- brave as all get up

2011-09-06T06:35:00.000-07:00

Health trials and I are no strangers. In fact, every few years we are reacquainted, become horrid rivals and then finally make nice. This year has been the battle for my mouth. Telling you these details are extremely personal to me. I only offer them to help someone else who may be going through their own health trial.

Someone that has totally inspired me along this road of healing is Lance Armstrong. Everyone knows the basics of this man's life-talented cycling star who won the Tour De France numerous times and has also beaten cancer.

The thing that makes Lance so strong is the fact that "his discipline matched his heart and gave him an edge over lesser-willed competitors." -Taken from Success magazine.

But did you know that his recovery from cancer is what makes him even more courageous. In his autobiography It's Not About the Bike: My Journey Back to Life with Sally Jenkins, Armstrong says, "he finally began to see his life as a whole. It was as if he had traveled full circle. He saw the pattern and privilege of it, and the purpose of it too."

"Armstrong said, the message he was given was simple : His entire life was meant for a long, hard climb."

Lets be frank, if you are dealing with health issues, count yourself as lucky. This is your chance to "courageously endure immense suffering as you fight the disease."

At first, I thought that line was full of crap but now, I am seeing the truth in it. Pain will teach you how much you can endure. And isn't that what you want when chasing a dream?

PS- I just adored this book so I had to share the details. I didn't recieve any compensation.

Garage Band

2011-09-02T06:12:00.000-07:00

The band was called Tempest when I joined because the drummer was a really angry guy. You could see it on stage when he beat the crap out of his drums. Most of us were starving students—four guys and a girl. The girl sang lead because she couldn’t play an instrument. She wasn’t old enough, but she’d already been divorced. She gave the band an edge.

I went to college in the morning, worked a part time job in the afternoon, studied for a couple hours and then played in the band. Starving student by day. Starving rock star by night—AM/PM hotdogs at 2:00 am notwithstanding.

Alter ego.

I played keyboards and wrote the songs. People didn’t come to hear my songs. Our girl lead singer was hot and she booked our gigs.

“Saturday night—Ballroom.” She strolled into the garage and dropped her leather jacket on my Korg Poly 61 synthesizer. Was she trying to annoy me or flirt with me?

GONG!

My head was reverberating, from the inside out.

The angry drummer loved to pummel his Chinese gong. The sound was impressive. When we mic’d it through our ten-foot tall sub-woofer-active-crossover-horn tweeter-stadium-speaker stacks, the pain threshold obscured the marginal musicianship. Nobody could hear anything after we played.

“Dude!” The guitar player put down his flying V and did an air guitar rif. He was pretty good.

“Righteous.” Every body turned to look at the bass player. I think he was preparing to serve a mission.

“What do they want?” I was still entertaining thoughts of record deals, large venues, world tours.

She smiled at me, the kind of smile a snake would smile.

“Covers,” she said.

“Covers? Really?”

“Dude.” The word had multiple meanings. The guitar player used it for all of them.

“That’s right,” she said. “Journey. Van Halen. Joan Jett.” She loved to sing Joan Jett. “Who’s in?”

The drummer picked up his mallet. The bass player popped a rif. The guitar player nodded to the beat in his head and repeated his favorite word.

“How about you?”

She slithered behind me. She reached over my shoulder and slid her finger over the keys of my keyboard. I had it set to an organ sound.

“What about our musical integrity, our creativity…our…our spirituality?” I thought that might appeal to the bass player.

“I said nothing about creativity,” she said. The words sounded vaguely familiar.

The guys looked at me. If I said no, they’d say no, too. But, I could see they wanted to do it.

“How much?” I said.

“Six bills.” I think she’d been reading Raymond Chandler.

I did need to pay tuition and I was, after all, a professional.

“I’m in.”

GONG!

I’d seen it coming. The cotton in my ears was a good decision.

Alison Sudol- A Fine Frenzy

2011-08-26T05:21:00.000-07:00

While reading Vogue magazine I came across an article on Alison Sudol,"a 24-year-old who records under the moniker A Fine Frenzy (it refers to the madness of the poet in a Midsummer Night's dream)."

I was absolutely captivated by one sentence in the interview, she said she found the process, "magical and rejuvenating. It made me realize that this is what I want more than anything in the world."

My first thought was- Really? Magical and rejuvenating? Give me some of that.

I dunno about you but the words magical and rejuvenating don't even cross my mind when working on any project. More like angst ridden and full of self doubt.

A lil further down in the interview Alison said, "There's a lot of pressure. I started writing these new songs to rediscover why I love music."

Now that I can relate to. So, the question in my mind is-why do you create?

Mission Topflight

2011-08-22T21:50:00.000-07:00

It was a dark, dark night.

There were six of them running in single file. They were dressed in black and they looked like Special Forces.

My heart was beating fast as I ran through the woods. I couldn’t see. I thought I was going to trip. I was trying to run quietly.

I was twelve.

My older brother had asked me to go with him, on the…mission.

I heard some noise up ahead and then I crashed into someone.

Thump—my brother’s buddy—one of the guys.

“Ouch.”

“Whaddaya think you’re doing?” I think he swore.

“Be quiet back there.” It was my brother. “Over here.”

I could hear him scuffling with stuff.

“Hold this.” There was just enough starlight through the trees for me to see the backpack he held out.

I took it.

I could see him opening a black duffle. He pulled a mask and snorkel out for each of the guys. They all had underwater flashlights.

“You wait here. We’ll throw them to you. Put ‘em in the backpack. If you hear or see anybody coming, blow this.”

He handed me a duck caller.

“Ready? Go.”

My brother took off running and the others followed. They ran out into the open, across the black velvet fairway. I watched them slide, almost noiselessly, into the pond and disappear below the inky surface. Lights began to glow beneath the water. I could hear splashing, then thump, thump, thump.

I dashed out into the starlight and gathered up the slimy round orbs, trying not to get hit as they bounced all around me. They smelled terrible as I stuffed them in the backpack.

I thought I saw something. I blew the duck caller.

QUACK!

It was amazingly loud and didn’t really sound that much like a duck. The glow beneath the black pond disappeared.

I waited.

Nothing.

I blew the duck caller again. Twice. Quick.

I heard the splashing and saw the shadows rising out of the water.

“Go. Go. Go.”

The guys landed near my feet. They threw their masks and snorkels into the duffle.

“You stink.”

“So do you.”

“No I don’t.”

“Come on.”

My brother grabbed me. “Let’s go.”

Later that night, over Heaps pizza and root beer, we counted nearly 200 golf balls.

I have since lost at least that many golf balls to various water hazards, perhaps in an effort to make restitution. My brother’s done some crazy things in his life—not all of them entirely legal. I wasn’t sure about the relative legality of that particular mission, even then. But, I was twelve and he was in college and he made me feel like one of the guys.

Congrats to Caleb Warnock & Loraine Scott

2011-08-16T05:42:00.000-07:00

For my post today I am dropping a note about Mr. Caleb Warnock's newly released book called Forgotten Skills of Self-Sufficiency used by the Mormon Pioneers.

Did you nab your copy yet? Because you really should. The guy has a book filled with helpful skills, beautiful pictures and divine recipes.

For more info on the book, check out his blog, http://www.calebwarnock.blogspot.com/

Also, Loraine Scott, the author of the Summer Winter Mystery Series, has the second book coming out shortly. She has a book signing on August 17 2011 at the American Fork Library. Need a good murder mystery novel? Loraine's your gal. Her blog is http://www.lorainescott.blogspot.com/

So, freaking excited for you, Caleb and Loraine on this tremendous achievement!

Stealing Words????

2011-08-15T02:51:00.000-07:00

Stealing is usually not nice but of course we all do it. We steal words. We hear someone use a particular word and suddenly it becomes ours. Otherwise, we would have no cliches, no slang or no profanity. Ta Da!

Admittedly, I've stolen quite a few in my day. Delish... is one. I stole it from Janiel. I don't think she invented the word but whatever its origin, it is now mine.

Today I'm stealing lots of words. They are from my sister-in-law ( the one who is more like my own sister.)

She said:

"Just got around to reading your last Smashing Stories entry. Egad!! Yes, I am using an archaic exclamation! Might as well be a verbal old foggy as well as a social networking one. I have refused to join My Space, Facebook and all those other forums people keep inviting me to join. I once signed up for "Classmates" and unfortunately was deluged with emails from forgotten high school classmates with whom I no longer have anything in common...makes me wonder how I connected with them in the first place. I have managed to dodge the high school reunions (the 47th one is this Oct 1) but have maintained a great friendship with one friend from 8th-12th grade. And, I have a so-so friendship with a few others (it was always so-so). That is enough for me.

"I am already a slave to the ping of incoming email. I'm like Pavlov's dogs. I hear the bell and I run to the source! (I just don't salivate on the way.) And, before bedtime each night, I just have to check certain blogs to find out how my kids are doing...or rather WHAT they are doing! Then, there is texting. I have only been practicing that fine art of communication for about 6 months. I must admit I adore the stealth ability of sending a message to someone across the room without others knowing about my comments...but I worry about my message being "saved" with all the crazy spelling and whatnot.

"I also admit that I cannot buy anything online without reading EVERY review people write about the product!! Seriously, I wonder where my ability to make a decision without taking an opinion poll has gone!

"Nevertheless...I am so in awe of all this amazing technology! I can spend hours on Mormon.org or reading blogs! I love reading the Smashing Stories entries and often link to the writer's blog where more great stories reside. The enticing magic in these wondrous forms of communication is the feeling...the knowing ... the bonding...with other people that you already care about or that you come to care about. This is something thrilling about knowing there are wonderful people out there.

"I LOVE reading what you are thinking about!! I miss good conversation...but I actually don't have time for it. So hooray for blogs and email and texting and so forth! I can read one side of the conversation at my leisure. And, it is usually the better half of the conversation!! LOL (I love the "LOL" and the ;-p and the :-x and all the crazy techno babble)

"Just don't invite me to join Facebook or Twitter. I am not THAT sociable. And most importantly... I don't know how to work the format. I am OLD!!!"

I couldn't have said it better myself.

An Answer

2011-08-12T22:58:00.001-07:00

I was a missionary for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My missionary companion, Elder Peterson was asleep. Whenever we got in the car, he went to sleep. So I drove. He slept. When we tried it the other way, I woke up in the middle of a potato field in Northern Maine.

I was driving. It was very late. We had been to a mission conference that day in Boston. We didn’t leave Cambridge until 9:30 pm. It was nearly a five-hour drive to Augusta.

The later it got, the more tired I got. It had been a long day anyway. The lights and lines in front of me were getting blurry. We were deep in the forests of Maine where it got very dark at night. I was struggling very hard to keep my eyes open. Then, the lights were gone.

I could tell that my eyes had been closed too long, when I opened them. The car was in the wrong lane. I corrected. Too much. Again. Again. I regained control. My heart was racing. But I was still exhausted.

“Elder. I have to pull over.” I knew I couldn’t keep going like this. We’d never get there.

Snore. Elder Peterson was oblivious.

I pulled to the side of the two-lane road. It was winter. The temperature outside was well below freezing. I got out of the car and the cold air stung my face. It felt good. I was waking up. But I could still feel the overwhelming fatigue. Being a missionary is hard, hard work.

I did wind sprints up and down the road. I did pushups. I was now fully awake and I was cold. But, I knew I couldn’t make it all the way. I wondered what I was doing there in Maine, anyway. Was it worth it? Was I making a difference? Could I do it? Could I do what needed to be done?

I looked up at the clear night sky. The stars were so bright it seemed like I could reach out and touch them. I said a silent prayer. I asked God if it was worth it, if he was really there. As I thought the words of my prayer, an amazing light skittered across the sky. It looked as if someone had shaken a glowing silk sheet beneath the Milky Way. The Aurora Borealis began to shimmer in the cold night sky—greenish white and rippling.

I wasn’t cold anymore, but I had goosebumps. God spoke to me in the Heavens with a sign that made me feel both small, and loved, at the same time. I was humbled and exalted. There was purpose in my being, in my being there. I knew, without words, that I could do what he asked. But, not by myself. Such beauty.

When I understood, the shimmering light rolled across the sky and was gone. It only took a moment and I was left in peace.

When I got back in the car, Elder Peterson opened his eyes.

“Are we there yet?”

“Not yet,” I said. “But were getting closer.”

Sondheim Says

2011-08-07T23:00:00.000-07:00

Legendary Broadway lyricist and composer Stephen Sondheim had a book published last year. It's called Finishing the Hat.

Sondheim provides a significant insight on the very first page of the preface that sets the tone for his entire story. I thought it had great application for writers, so I share it here:

"There are only three principles necessary for a lyric writer, all of them familiar truisms. They were not immediately apparent to me when I started writing, but have come into focus via Oscar Hammerstein’s tutoring, Strunk and White’s huge little book The Elements of Style and my own sixty-some years of practicing the craft. I have not always been skilled or diligent enough to follow them as faithfully as I would like, but they underlie everything I’ve ever written. In no particular order, and to be inscribed in stone:

Content Dictates Form

Less Is More

God Is in the Details

all in the service of

Clarity

without which nothing else matters."

The longer I write, the more I see the personal truth found in each of these Truths. I commend them to myself and to any that may stumble upon this humble post.I also found this little story about Sondheim that I thought was quite enlightening. It relates to his thinking early in his career that there were no "rules" to great writing. It was all about the muse. Here he relates the moment when the lights came on:

"In 1950, Sondheim graduated magna cum laude from Williams College in Williamstown, Massachusetts, where he was a member of Beta Theta Pi fraternity. His first teacher at Williams was Robert Barrow, and according to Sondheim

...everybody hated him because he was very dry, and I thought he was wonderful because he was very dry. And Barrow made me realize that all my romantic views of art were nonsense. I had always thought an angel came down and sat on your shoulder and whispered in your ear 'dah-dah-dah-DUM.' Never occurred to me that art was something worked out. And suddenly it was skies opening up. As soon as you find out what a leading tone is, you think, Oh my God. What a diatonic scale is—Oh my God! The logic of it. And, of course, what that meant to me was: Well, I can do that. Because you just don't know. You think it's a talent, you think you're born with this thing. What I've found out and what I believed is that everybody is talented. It's just that some people get it developed and some don't."

It's TRULY all about the WORK.

An excersise for building your willpower muscle

2011-08-06T05:47:00.000-07:00

"Growing pains are an inevitable part of the process of transitioning from the juniors to the pro's."- taken from Tennis magazine.

In the beginning, I was absolutely naive about the process of chasing your dream. The fact of the matter is you can't learn from success. You need to fail. If you want to have a career of substance you're gonna have to slug it out to get your dream.

You can achieve what you want but you need willpower. The only way to gain strength of will is to practice. According to Glamour magazine,"One exercise to amp up your determination: Brush your teeth with your non dominant hand for two weeks."

Really? Well, I guess anything is worth a try at least once, right?

My Father Went to War

2011-08-02T17:56:00.000-07:00

My father went to war before I was born, long before. My Mom told me all about it. WWII.

My Dad never mentioned it.

My Mom showed me the letters my Dad wrote. He couldn’t tell her where he was. He couldn’t tell her much of anything.

“The military redacted anything, almost everything they thought would compromise security.”

I asked him to fill in the blanks.

He didn’t.

My Mom told me a German U-boat in the Mediterranean torpedoed his troop ship. He almost drowned. She told me he saw heavy fighting in Europe. He was almost killed.

I played army in the backyard with my friends. We used sticks for guns.

My Mom showed me his medal. It looked important. He wouldn’t tell me what he did to get it.

My Dad was gone for four years. My Mom said he wasn’t the same when he came home.

I wouldn’t know. I was born after The War.

My Dad talked in his sleep, especially when he was drunk. Sometimes I could hear the war in his words and it scared me.

My Dad was sleeping in his easy chair. I’d been out playing.

“Hey Dad,” I said.

“Let him sleep,” my Mom said.

“GET OUT OF THERE,” Dad shouted.

I jumped. I thought he meant me. His eyes were open, wide, and he looked mean. I didn’t know what to do.

“LOOK OUT. LOOK OUT. LOOK OUT.”

I didn’t know where to look.

He jumped out of the easy chair. I backed away. His eyes were wild. He was screaming at me.

“GET DOWN. GET DOWN. GET DOWN.”

I fell to the floor.

He bolted across our small living room and crashed into the black and white TV set. The picture tube exploded.

My Mom screamed.

My Dad staggered backward and fell down.

“DAD!” I thought he was dead and I couldn’t do anything.

The TV rocked forward and fell to the floor. Glass shards crackled around it.

My Mom stood in the midst of the wreckage, holding her hand to her face. Silence survived and I could hear her weeping.

I was on my knees, crying. I looked toward the backdoor. My friends had seen it. They’d watched the whole thing. When they saw me look, they ran away.

When my Dad woke up he wouldn’t talk about it. My Mom cleaned up the mess.

When my Dad would see the American Flag pass by on the 4^th of July, I could see tears in his eyes.

Moved

2011-08-01T11:48:00.000-07:00

I believe in art therapy. There is just something about a smear of color on an empty canvas that is absolutely liberating. Emotions are abstract and so is art. Our heart recognizes emotion before any other tactile sense. I have rested my eyes on a painting, and before I understood it with my brain, my heart told me there was something inside myself reflected in that painted mirror.

My sister came over to smear some emotion on a canvas. She was full up to the top with sadness and needed overflow. The willow tree that was left on the canvas when she was done pulled up memories like a slideshow in my mind. I had drawn that same tree thousands of times in the saddest snippets of my 31 years.

What is it about willow trees that make them such ready symbols of sadness? Watching the wind blow through the tree down the street, I notice something. Every other tree in sight is standing rigid against the wind, doing their best to resist the temptation to move. But the willow tree, she dances. She let's the wind move her, her branches savor the expression they can lend to a force unseen but not unfelt.

She is moved.

Transparency is what moves us. Honesty and the ability to show our vulnerability regardless of the risk. Because it is usually through our weaknesses that we are moved, not our strengths. Strengths do not savor movement. Maybe it is my weaknesses that I must rely on in my writing. I must allow myself to be moved even when the expression is uncomfortable. True art, whether in paint or ink is found in the artists ability to give expression to what is unseen but not unfelt.

The willow tree, she is more than trunk, limb, and leaf, she is an elemental artist.

She is moved.

The War Against Cliches

2011-07-30T11:10:00.001-07:00

According to British novelist, Martin Amis, the effort to create good literature involves engaging in a war against cliches.

Phrases like "the heat was stifling" or "she rummaged through her handbag" kill literature.

Think of cliches that have become novelties in pop culture like:

"Been there, done that."
"He went ballistic."
"I don't think so."

Amis, who teaches Creative Writing at the University of Manchester, says that these are "heard phrases." Cliches are "heard writing," "heard thinking," "heard feeling."

Writing isn't about taking a cliche and rewording it with new synonyms, although many writers do that. Writing is about perspective - being true to what you observe and putting your perceptions into clear, truthful, descriptive words. There are no original ideas, but there are a million new ways of looking at the same old ideas. Good writing is a search for freshness - fresh perspective, having something unique to say.

Writing is not about decorating paragraphs with rumble and glitter. Rather, writing is giving your story song - choosing the words which become the music on which your story will sing.

mw

Success through repeated failures

2011-07-28T15:56:00.000-07:00

(This begins a short series, appearing now and again, that will focus on the value of failure in both writing and life. Enjoy!)

Blogger: Chris Dalley

For me, failure is a process of elimination. I write it. Its wrong so I try another way. If I hadn’t held it up for scrutiny I would have thought it was fine and had no chance to get it right.

First, I wrote with a lot of choreography. Was it a failure? More like ignorance which can amount to the same thing. Then I wrote as if from a distance. No emotional goal. Failure? Yes. Start again. No narrative voice? Start again.

Are these failures? Yes and no. I see them as just part of the process of learning which i, after all, is the value of failure is it not?

Abraham Lincoln- my newfound hero

2011-07-26T05:29:00.000-07:00

I cannot believe I am about to do a blog post on Abraham Lincoln. The fifteen year old me would be absolutely baffled. Everyone knows the usual details on the man-insanely brilliant President.
But did you know that his personal passions could inspire you in ways you didn't know?

While watching a documentary on the man I learned that he often felt less than everyone in college. He had the ambition to be a lawyer but was stricken with poverty. Before he could liberate a country, the thing that he had to beat was his background. Mr. Lincoln knew he had to rise above the situation he was born into.

I don't know what you but that totally inspires me. The one quote that got me the most about this hero-of-a man was the fact that he knew the odds against him were more than he could bear.

The task of liberating the slaves was so big that he knew he might not be able to do it.

What about your dream- do you worry that you don't have the chops? I say, forget about that-learn from Mr. Lincoln. You can rise above all odds and make a difference. The question is- do you have the determination, passion, vision and focus to make your dream happen?

My Daughter's Wedding

2011-07-22T00:58:00.000-07:00

When he called to ask me for permission to marry my daughter, I could tell he was nervous. I put my hand over the receiver, part way.

“Just what do we know about this guy?” I asked my wife.

“He can hear you,” she said.

“I know he can hear me,” I said. “I want him to hear me.”

“Don’t torture the poor boy,” she said.

“Why not?” I said. “He wants to marry our daughter.”

She threw a sock at me.

“What’s your name again?” I said into the receiver.

He told me his name, again.

“You want to do what?”

When he finished telling me how much he loved her, how he pledged his life to her, how he would take care of her and cherish her, I didn’t respond. I just breathed, heavily, into the phone.

He asked if I was okay.

I didn’t answer. I didn’t want to lie.

“He says he loves her,” I told my wife.

She smiled.

“He loves her,” she repeated.

“As if that’s enough,” I said.

She threw the other sock.

“I will hunt you down,” I growled into the phone, “if I ever hear you’ve mistreated her, in any way. Even though you’re two states away, I will find you.”

He promised.

I could hear his breathing. Rapid and shallow. Hoping and waiting.

“He’s going to marry her anyway,” my wife whispered.

“Over my dead body,” I said.

He thought I was talking to him. I could hear him talking—not to me.

“He said no,” I heard him say. He was panicking. I heard my daughter’s voice in the background. They weren’t talking to me anymore.

He came back on the line. “Please,” he said. “I love her.”

I could hear it in his voice.

He did love her.

My eyes got blurry. I couldn’t wipe them. My wife was watching me.

“Okay,” I said, finally.

I knew he was nervous and I hadn’t made it easy on him. So I gave him my permission and I gave him my blessing. When I hung up the phone, I watched my wife wipe her eyes.

“That was nice,” she said.

“That was hard,” I said.

“For him or you?”

“For me. I’m not ready.”

“He loves her,” she said, mostly to herself.

Now, I wiped my eyes.

I love her, too.

Tour de Baking

2011-07-20T18:07:00.000-07:00

I was asked to supply three dozen homemade rolls for a church social.

Baking rolls to serve women in my neighborhood (who have been baking since before yeast was invented) is like asking, "Would you go for a bike ride with Lance Armstrong?"

Here enters Connie Jo, my college roommate, who in one afternoon of bread-making lessons took me from baked rock loaves to blue-ribbon at the Utah Country Fair! So there!

Tour de France? Bring it ON!

I'm not The Bread Geek, but I can marathon bake. (As long as I can use commercial yeast.)

mw

The Tour du France-how do they do it?

2011-07-16T05:44:00.000-07:00

Summer is my fave season. Sure, you have the sunshine and fun times but there are also two events that thrill me. Wimbledon and the Tour de France. I know, I know, tennis and cycling. The 15 year old version of me would be mortified.

I was watching a preview of the Tour on Versus and the cyclists quotes got me thinking. They said that the Tour de France is like having the Superbowl everyday for three weeks.

Kinda makes you think of your own dream, doesn't it? You're fighting for a chance to live your dream. You can't take for granted the position you are in. Some people don't get the chance to pursue what they really want. My tennis coach said it best, "Every day is a promise to yourself."

In cycling they strive for 2%. The goal is to work hard every day to increase your talent by 2% because the numbers add up fast. Hit a break though and it's 2 plus 2 plus 2= 6% (better than where you were before.)

Some days you will have nothing left in your body to give. Work harder. In the Tour du France, cyclists have to climb a steep mountain. In truth, there's no pretty way to get up the steep slope. Everyone suffers and they do it for their dream.

Generation Gap? Really???

2011-07-15T01:37:00.000-07:00

Yes. I've always known this abstract, gossamer-like atmosphere called the "Generation Gap" existed somewhere but not until the other day at our family party did it manifest itself so vividly. The younger ones -- those with phones and "those" include down to the ten-year olds and up to the 40-year olds -- were regaling the benefits of Facebook. I, of course, was scoffing.

My angel daughter reported that she found a friend from high school and they were going to hook up while she was in CA. Another daughter announced that she found a grade-school chum and he was going to stop in while traveling across country.

Me, I scoffed. Who cares? If I haven't seen you in 40 years what makes you think I want to see you now?

My were they offended. "These were good friends," they said. "People who had impacted our lives," they protested.

Still, I scoffed. Until yet another daughter said. "You can certainly see the GENERATION GAP when it comes to social networking."

I was struck through the heart? Me? A part of the G.G.? That's something my parents belonged too! Not me!

I was the hip Grandma... I've even had glitter toes! I wear makeup and flip-flops. I can't possibly be OLD and out of touch.

So, I admit to Facebooking daily -- reading at least. But a love of mine? No. Never. I am purely separated by my age into another generation where social networking is a necessary evil and not a modern marvel.

Oh well. Someone has to be there. It might as well be me.

Forgiveness

2011-07-12T18:27:00.000-07:00

He stood on the hill overlooking our practice field. I could see his silhouette against the late afternoon sun.

Watching.

He came everyday. He loved to be there. He loved the game. He loved to watch me play.

I did my best—not to notice. His demons wouldn’t let him in.

I knew he loved me. I knew he wanted me to have the things he never had. I knew he was proud of me. I knew he wouldn’t be there when I got home.

Forgive me, he said.

I couldn’t. No. I wouldn’t.

The whistle blew. End of practice.

I looked up at the hill. I saw his hand raise, just a little. Mine did too, just a little.

He saw it. I think.

Then he was gone.

What Should I Do With My Life?

2011-07-10T15:32:00.000-07:00

Aaaaah. Passion.

I'm not talking perfect smile Fabios, sun-glittering vampires, or bare-chested werewolves. If I had an "Edward" spying on my every move and constantly telling me where I could or could not go, I would die of suffocation.

I'm talking about Zing, Pizazz, Passion, Calling, Finding your life's work - what makes you excited to wake up and get out of bed (most) mornings.

Identifying our gifts, knowing our passions, finding our "calling" is the real work of our life.

Po Bronson talked about this in his book, What Should I Do With My Life?

In an insightful lesson, Prof. Jeffrey Thompson discussed five common myths about finding our life's calling. The five myths are:

Myth #1: You might have a calling, if you are lucky, or you might not.

Myth #2: You have to find your one true calling in order to be fulfilled.

Myth #3: When you find your calling, work will be bliss.

Myth #4: Finding a calling means that the world will take notice.

Myth #5: Work gives life meaning.

I want to emphasize Myth #3: The False Promise of Bliss.

Joseph Campbell coined the phrase "follow your bliss" to imply following your heart to find your passion rather than chasing money or fame. After several years of seeing how people were misunderstanding the phrase, Campbell said, "What I meant was, 'Follow your blisters.'"

It's great to enjoy your work, but it is a fallacy that finding your calling will mean that work will always be fun.

Prof. Thompson studied zookeepers because they are some of the most passionate people when it comes to their work. They care for animals, educate the public about conservation, and develop a deep love for nature. They find their work deeply satisfying despite the low income and limited opportunities for career advancement. But, their life is not always "a day at the zoo." Talk to a zookeeper and he will tell you about sacrifice, about caring for sick animals in the middle of the night, doing unsavory work, and going without luxuries. For zookeepers, the pain and burdens and sacrifice are not threats to their sense of calling - they are an integral part of it. Their work is meaningful because of the trials and burdens. We can't expect deep meaning from our life's work unless we are willing to assume its burdens as well.

There is always good with the bad. The good is defined, refined, pruned and produced through the bad. This is a great lesson to me. If, no, when I find myself in a quagmire of muck, or at the bottom of a very steep peak to climb, or exhausted, discouraged, or even bored, these situations do not necessarily indicate that I have not found a life calling. They might actually indicate that I am on the cusp of finding a real treasure.

mw

*Note: You can read Jeffrey Thompson's full text at speeches.byu.edu.

The end of agents?

2011-07-07T22:26:00.000-07:00

My lovely and talented writer friend Demetra recently sent me this article about yet another upheaval in the world of publishing, this one having to do with whether or not agents are still necessary.

Weigh in, I implore...

Bela Karolyi- a major motivator

2011-07-06T05:19:00.000-07:00

Bela Karolyi is the epitome of excellence. He has coached 9 Olympians, 15 world champions, not to mention a staggering amount of European medalists and U.S. National Champions in Gymnastics. He's coached the likes of Nadia Comaneci, Mary Lou Retton, and Kerri Strug.

Sure, he's a lil taboo but who doesn't need a papa bear going to battle for their dream?

You, as a dreamer, can learn much from Mr. Karolyi. If you're going to take your dream all the way you have to have focus, discipline, humility and work hard. Every day you must rededicate yourself to the pursuit of excellence. When you are tired, dig deep.

And as Bela Karolyi teaches us- make the most of your potential and talents.

Happy 5TH of JULY!!!!

2011-07-05T01:00:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this in the midst of hundreds upon hundreds of fireworks exploding across the entire Utah County scenery. Still, bombs are literally bursting in air! Red fire glares from rocket after rocket as I relax with my family as we celebrate the 4th of July. Our porch allows us to sit under a protective cover and watch the night sky light up with millions of colors. Each blast more impressive than the last. What must it have looked like when the Star Spangled Banner was penned those many years ago. How blessed we are that we live in a country of mock bombs, pretend rockets and pretty explosions. How grateful we should be to those who did not live as we now do -- to those whom bomb were deadly, whose explosions created chaos, where rockets destroyed. As Francis Scott Key visualized the poem that later became our national anthem, he watched the stars and strips fly proudly through real smoke and real destruction. May we never forget upon whose backs we stand. To those original patriots and to those who still protect our freedoms -- I salute you... even the day after the fourth.

"Patriotism is not short, frenzied outbursts of emotion, but the tranquil and steady dedication of a lifetime."
Adlai E. Stevenson

Happy Birthday

2011-07-02T09:02:00.000-07:00

My Mom turns 89 this month. Eighty-nine years old.

There was a time, a time which lasted for a long time, when my Mom didn’t age. She just was. I didn’t really think about how old she was. She was just old.

I wasn’t.

But I was getting older. Someday, I’d be old. I couldn’t wait. That would be good. That would be great.

Then I had children.

They grew so fast, they changed so much. I stopped aging. Everyone around me was growing older, but I, I was staying the same.

My children told me they couldn’t wait to get old. It would be great. I wanted them to slow down.

They told me I was old. I was really old.

It was easy to ignore them. I wasn’t old. They were young. I took it as a compliment. They wanted to be like me.

They reminded me that I was old. It wasn’t a compliment.

I took my Mom to lunch last week. She needed help getting into and out of the car. I held her arm and helped her up and over the curb. She moved slowly. She seemed so small. She ate so little. She seemed so…

I didn’t say it.

She talked of days long gone. She told stories of my life. I was little. She was young. Her memories were vivid. My memories were, too. We laughed.

Then she cried.

“I’m old,” she said.

“No you’re not.”

“You’re a bad liar.”

It was true. She was right. She was old.

“I don’t remember how I got here,” she said.

“I brought you, Mom. Remember?”

Her eyes flashed with anger. I remembered that look from when I was small. I was in trouble. Again.

"No you didn't," she said. The anger changed to sadness. "I got here all by myself."

How to Spot Wild Buffalo in Five Easy Steps

2011-06-30T06:46:00.000-07:00

It's my last post in June and the end of my buffalo series.

Is it just me, or did June morph into warp speed. Hold on, Scottie, we're going through a worm tunnel! Never seen Star Trek? Sorry.

The final lesson: How to Spot Wild Buffalo.

About five years ago I had one of the HUGEST aha moments of my life. I'm talking light bulb, epiphany, angel's singing, paradigm shift, vision opened - you name the metaphor, I experienced it.

I wish I could re-create the experience for you instantaneously here on this post. Such experiences loose some of their Sha-Zam in the retelling.

In that moment, I discovered that my brain was lying to me. How rude! I assumed (took for granted, really), that my brain would always tell me the truth.

Not so.

It turns out that the human brain is a massive recording device that captures every message the five senses receive and deliver even from the time we are embryos growing in utero. Imagine. Every conversation, sound, and TV commercial we've ever been exposed to is swirling around in our brain's data base. When we are not consciously in control of our thoughts, the brain flips through its myriad files and chooses its own "scripts" or programs to run. This is the brain on autopilot, and its a dangerous thing because those automatic programs are not always accurate. And they run amuck like stampeding buffalo.

How to Spot & Tame Wild Buffalo in Five (not so) Easy Steps

First. Pay attention. Identify your ANTs.

Big concept here. What are the ANTs (the Automatic Negative Thoughts) your brain defaults to when you are not consciously running your brain?

Second. Write Down your ANTs.

Write down your ANTs. Get a notebook and draw a line down the middle of the page. On the left, write down your ANTs. What does your brain tell you over and over, like a broken record? For years, one of my ANTs was that because I was a full-time mother without a salary check with my name in print on the payee line, I was a sub-par version of a successful person. My brain would tell me this concept over and over with different wording or presentation, but the message was always the same. This really made my life miserable, because I was a full-time mom spending every waking hour (and lots of midnight hours) doing "mom work" for no pay. And I wasn't even aware that my own brain was making me miserable.

Third. Write Down the TRUTH.

On the right side of your paper, next to your ANT, write down the truth. This is how you train your wild buffalo. For example, on my paper I wrote:
ANT: By choosing to be a mother without a paying career, I am not as important, successful, or valid as a person with a paying job.
TRUTH: Being a Mother is the most important, critical, valuable job in the world. Even if I earned a paycheck, my work at a "job" would not be more important than my work as a mother.

Fourth. Replace your ANTs with Truth.

Be conscious of when your brain hits the "continual repeat" button and plays your ANTs like a broken record. When you catch your brain "playing" an ANT script, consciously replace that ANT with your truth.

Fifth. Feel the Power.

There is power in writing down the fallicies that your brain automatically tells you. Putting those falsehoods into words drains them of their power. Writing them on paper makes you realize how absurd they can be and diminishes the hold they have on you.

Writing down your truth is powerful. Verbalizing how you really think and feel (or want to think and feel) gives you power over your brain's auto-programming. It's amazing how much power we give away. We let the messages that have come into our brain for years dictate how we feel about our lives. No one can drive your life wagon better than you can. No one can decide better than you can where you want to go.

Once you start to become aware of the wild buffalo (those untamed ANTs) that steer your wagon off course, it's amazing how you can whip them into shape and start driving off into the sunset. If that's where you want to go.

mw

Writers Reading

2011-06-28T00:00:00.000-07:00

There are many rules of good writing, but the best way to find them is to be a good reader.

Stephen Ambrose

One of the indicators that you have "become" a writer is manifested in the way you read what others have written.

I've certainly discovered this in my own reading. In a sense, I am two people as I read: A reader and a writer. As a reader, I read for pleasure, for enlightenment, etc. As a writer, I attempt to observe myself as a reader in hopes of discovering why and how the writer is able to move me emotionally.

I've even taken to writing notes on what I've read with the objective of improving my own craft.

Writers must read and read some more, so that your bloodstream is charged by the alcohol of fiction and you come, at last, to feel and see and believe in the visions that fill your head.

Hallie and Whit Burnett

Writing is a skill that can be learned. Talent is insufficient. I can think of no better way to learn the craft of writing than by carefully studying the work of great writers and then seeking to nurture the tools they employ in their work.

The man who doesn't read good books has no advantage over the man who can't read them.

Mark Twain

The official Olympic Creed

2011-06-26T05:08:00.000-07:00

The following statement was written by Baron de Coubertin- all athletes look to this creed each year. I vote as a dreamers, we do the same. There's so much more I long to say but Mr. de Coubertin worded this perfectly, so I'll shut my trap.

"The most important thing in the Olympic games is not to win but to take part, just as the most important thing in life is not triumph but struggle. The essential thing is not to have conquered but to have fought well."

Good, It's Shallow!

2011-06-25T01:04:00.000-07:00

Now, don't we all love it when we find a ford in a river (shallow crossing point) that allows us to make it to the other side?

Don't we? Metaphorically or in reality rivers are, often times, hard to cross. My #2 daughter, along with her husband, crossed a river this last month. A baby a bit anxious to be born tried to emerge into life 7 weeks too early. A shallow place was discovered and they crossed without being drowned in its rapids or washed out to sea. Thanks to God, and the wonderful doctors in the world, this early by only 4.5 weeks came into life safe and sound. She should be going home soon. Yet another miracle.

Life often tries to drown us. Troubles overwhelm us and consume our very thoughts making all the rest of life disappear into despair. Sometimes we are the victims of other's evil choices. Sometimes we alone set up our own destructive river. But most often, it is simply the fact that we are mortals and mortal things happen to mere mortals.

But we all look for shallow crossings.

I am often chided -- well really, all the time -- for touting the shallowness of my nature.

Now, I ask you, is shallowness such a bad thing? I know where and how to cross rivers. I often find my life on the brink of with deep waters. They swirl around me threatening to crush the very air I need from my soul but fortunately, I have been taught to look for shallow crossings.

Since writers have the reputation as being morose, solo people who think deeply about life and its meanings, of wanting to impart to the world sage advise as only they can. I have a bit of difficulty dropping into that reputation. I know the meaning of life, I enjoy being part of the BIG plan and I find most things funny... more than I probably should.

Ah, yes, Shallowness. So, I write my characters from a shallow view point. Will I ever be Hemingway or win a Pulitzer or change the world with the great American novel... Um, no... not in this lifetime or the next but... Who cares? Not me.

I'm content not having the rivers of life, the rivers (GREAT BIG HUGE ONES) of publishing or real rivers for that matter, bring me to despair. I'm happy to wade in a bit letting the water lap at my ankles and then to seek safety on the bank. If I must cross due to some ordained reason then let me ford the river at its safest point. The shallow part.

Now, I ask you again -- don't you often long for shallowness?