Rest

Just a quick note to tell you that Aaron's grandma died yesterday evening.

I'm planning on being quiet for a few days.

Thank you for all your kind words and prayers!

"The soul takes flight to the world that is invisible but there arriving she is sure of bliss and forever dwells in paradise." -- Plato

The Gift

We hurried to the hospital tonight after dinner because we were told Aaron's grandma had slipped into a coma and would probably not make it through the night. She's been in the hospital for a couple days now. When she first went in, we were expecting her to stay a few days and then move into an assisted living home in our town.

But once at the hospital, she went downhill more rapidly than anyone expected.

Driving to see her tonight had a surreal quality to it. I hadn't been to visit because I wasn't sure if having all the kids around would be helpful. I thought I'd wait for her to stabilize and then go see her. As we drove to the hospital, though, it seemed I wouldn't get the chance to even say goodbye.

But when we walked into her room, Aaron spoke to her and she responded.  Her eyes were shut and her lips moved. The noise she made was a restless murmuring, but we were sure she knew we were there. At one point she opened her eyes. Aaron and I were standing right over her and she actually smiled at us.

A few minutes later, Aaron's parents and sister arrived. They'd taken a short break to eat dinner. When we told them about the smile, my father-in-law was shocked. He was sure she'd slipped out of consciousness for good.

But sure enough, as the evening progressed, she had moments of lucidity. As we were leaving, I held my two-year-old Sophie up to give Grandma a kiss. Grandma opened her eyes when she felt the kiss on her forehead and breathed, "Thank you."

I don't know what will happen. Grandma Helen is one tough lady. She may yet surprise us by bouncing back. But I'm thankful for tonight in any case, that we had the chance to gather around her and let her know how much she means to us.

Tonight -- that smile, that kiss, that thank you -- was a gift.

Now go and remind someone you love how much you love them. Because that's always a lesson imminent death teaches us: not to cling to today, but to make the most of it.

The Typewriter Technique

Psst. Over here.

A little closer ... C'mon, scoot in a little closer....

I wanted to tell you, I'm trying something new with my WiP.

It's an editing technique I've never tried before.

I discovered it because I rewrote my first chapter in a different document. Then I pulled up the document with my critique partner's comments in it and laid the documents out side by side on the screen.

Now I'm retyping the whole book from the old document into the new document.

I feel a little bit like I'm using a typewriter, because I'm not using the cut-and-paste function.

I'm retyping.

Editing as I go.

It's amazing how many unnecessary words are going away. It's easier to hack them out when I don't have to dive into the text and delete them. And if I feel like rewriting a whole scene, it's less painful.

I'm calling this my Typewriter Technique. I'm about 12,000-words into my 65,000-word novel. I'll let you know how it goes....

Slow and painful, yes. But so far I like the results.

Has anyone else tried this?

(And why am I whispering? Maybe because I'm wondering if the Typewriter Technique is editing's best kept secret.)

One of Those Weeks

Sparse blog posts. Falling behind in every area of my life. It's been one of those weeks.

But that's okay. I've learned to give myself grace and not feel too guilty. I  remind myself that feeding and clothing and raising my children (and talking to my husband) is my priority and that if everything else falls away, that's okay.

Still, I'm feeling a lot like this picture:


Sometimes it's tough being a mama bear.



What I have accomplished:

I read SOLD, which I reviewed last night.

I plowed through a rewrite of my first chapter (after receiving feedback from my good blogging-writing buddy, Krista V. Thanks Krista!). I've lost count how many times I've rewritten this first chapter. I thought I was done with it earlier this week, but when I went back and read it through, I realized it was crap disguised as a first chapter. It was discouraging. In fact, if I'd written a post on Monday or Tuesday it would've been a discouraged post. But then I decided to let loose a bit, to stop worrying so much about making it good and just write the characters. So I added two more pages. When I went back and read them again with the new material, they actually worked. At least for now. So, today I feel encouraged. We'll see how long that lasts.

I got my first rejection for my literary short story, The Tiffin Box. Blaggh.

I had two dreams last night with two directions for this week's Story A Week. Weird that they both came in dreams. I'm still deciding which one to take.

Monday was my day to volunteer at my daughter's preschool. It's so much fun, because she's always so delighted to have me there, and the other kids are so cute.

My oldest daughter got her second round of spacers in yesterday at the orthodontist. Next week we go in for the real thing -- the appliance. It's a metal thing that's going to fit against the roof of her mouth and hopefully expand her upper gum line. The goal is to be able to do a major grafting surgery in about six months to fill in missing bone in her upper jaw. (The joys of being born with a cleft lip and palate, let me tell you! Poor baby.)

I've been playing musical beds every night this week with almost every one of my children. There's a nightmare epidemic in the house (I'm sure I have Halloween to thank for this, because it happened last October too!) AND my two younger girls have bad colds. So with all that, I have been bed-hopping. And not getting too much sleep. I always end up in my two-year-old's double bed with one of my children. Last night it was my son who woke up screaming. And all the other nights I slept with my two-year-old, who's sniffly and uncomfortable (did I mention the kicking and the thrashing?). When I leave my bed, my oldest daughter climbs into my spot ... and around and around we go!

So, that's the update from here.

What's new with you?

Sold by Patricia McCormick

Have you read this book?

SOLD by Patricia McCormick.

It's completely and utterly horrifying.

But amazing.

The writing is incredible,

the main character unforgettable.

It's about a thirteen-year-old Nepalese girl who is sold by her stepfather into prostitution.
Pass on it if you can't handle heavy subject matter.

But if you handled MOCKINGJAY, I think you're strong enough to handle this.

I guess what's worse about this book is that things like this happen all the time. 

In real life.

This isn't a dystopian. This is now.

In our world. In our time.

Which is disturbing.

But disturbing in a healthy way:

 by ripping off the blinders and forcing you to look at the lives of people in other parts of the world;  

by making you want to reach out and help;

by reminding you to be thankful for the simple blessings we take for granted.

This book is so powerful.

So go ahead.

Take a chance.

Read it.

Thanks to Dawn for recommending this book to me. And thank you to the Grace and Peace Gals, my friends from China (two of them were my downstairs neighbors!), who are headed to Cambodia soon to work with women who are trapped in prostitution. You go girls!

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins

I'd read a few blogging friends' reviews on MOCKINGJAY, the last book in Suzanne Collins' best selling Hunger Games trilogy. I hadn't read the book yet, but I always came away with this weird feeling.

Everyone, of course, said how good it was. Many pointed out its great strengths, awesome plot twists, all without giving too much away (thank you!). But nobody raved about it.

Now that I've read MOCKINGJAY, I understand why.

This book, even more than the other books in the series, compels you to read it, but you cannot love it.

I take that back. You can love it on a certain level, appreciating everything that it is. You can spread the word to all your friends and relatives that this is a book that demands to be read.

BUT you don't close the book with a smile. You don't walk away feeling good.

After finishing MOCKINGJAY last night, I went to sleep with a headache. (Probably because of all the crying I did at the end.) And woke up this morning with a headache. Yes, MOCKINGJAY gave me a headache.

I couldn't stop reading, but it made me sad.

Sad for our human condition.

Sad for the senselessness of war.

Because even though it's fiction, there's so much of it that hits you where it hurts. War is not glorious. Death does not always make sense to us. People don't always live happily ever after.

And Collins' underlying theme seemed to be the senselessness of it all. Hopelessness.

That's why I both love and hate this book, though it's with a passionate love and hate. It reminded me of everything that's wrong with our culture, everything that's wrong with the world. And even though it ended on a (dare I say it?) positive note, there was an undercurrent of sadness and loss in the ending that was inescapable.

I'm almost upset with Suzanne Collins for making all of us suffer. Couldn't you just give us something to hold onto? But I don't think it's in her worldview to do that. (I could be wrong. I don't know Suzanne Collins' personal philosophies on life. But that's the feeling I personally took away from this series.)

For me, dandelions aren't enough. The scars run too deep.

Still, it's an excellent book. Excellent books make you feel something, and this one did. If you haven't read the series, you should. Because maybe it's good to have our hearts cut up occasionally. If anything, this sort of story reminds us of who we are, how careful we need to be with power, and how humble we need to be as human beings.

So now it's your turn. Have you read it? Thoughts and opinions? Please don't talk plot specifics just in case there are people reading the comments who haven't had a chance to read the book. I'm looking forward to reading your comments!

A Story A Week: Fading

Esther loved the window seat best. She loved covering herself with the quilt that always lay folded there, that always smelled like cinnamon sticks and sunshine. She had a way of arranging the pillows for maximum comfort: two behind her back, one behind her neck. Then she’d curl her legs under her, tuck the quilt around her, and that was that.

Sometimes Nana gave her a glass of cold sweet tea on a coaster.

Sometimes the sun streamed in and made the quilt too hot.

But mostly it was perfect, as long as the book was an old one with heavy covers and thick, well-worn pages that could stay open on their own. That way her hand didn’t tire with holding it. Nana’s house had plenty of these kinds of books. Esther could lay them open across the pillow at her side, right where her gaze naturally fell, and read, read, read until the daylight faded away.

Nana’s house was so quiet. Just house sounds and that was all: the clock ticking, Nana’s footsteps as she moved slowly in the kitchen. No laughing, running brothers. Esther had lots of brothers. They were cheerful boys. Sometimes too cheerful. Mostly too loud. She didn’t normally mind, but then she’d come for an afternoon at Nana’s and she’d smile and hug herself, because the silence was sweet. As sweet as Nana’s sweet tea.

She’d come here more and more lately. Probably because her mother knew she was tired.

Her mother’s eyebrows would wrinkle together and she’d say in a gentle voice, “Enough for being industrious today, Esther. What if Papa drives you over to Nana’s for the afternoon?”

And Esther knew when she looked in the mirror why her mother worried. She knew she wasn’t quite right.

Eleven-year-olds shouldn’t have dark circles under their eyes.

Eleven-year-olds should be able to climb the flight of stairs to the second floor without puffing.

Eleven-year-olds should be gaining pounds, not losing them.

Esther remembered when she’d been able to climb stairs, when she’d been able to keep up with her brothers around the barn. She remembered liking food and eating platefuls of it.

Now a knot of worry settled in the pit of her stomach. Every time her mother’s eyebrows creased, the knot tightened.

Then one night she’d slipped downstairs after she should’ve been asleep. She wanted water. She stood at the bottom of the stairs to catch her breath. Her father and mother sat at the dining table in the front room. She heard the scuff of a chair scooting back, and her papa’s low voice, gruff when he was upset, saying, “We’ll find a way to pay for it, Anna, but you must take her in.”

“They won’t see her unless we prove we can pay.” That was her mother’s voice, so soft and quiet.
“Dr. Marchen would see her,” her papa said.

A long pause with only the clink of a spoon against the side of a mug. “There’ll be tests, though, Paulie. He can’t tell just by looking at her. Tests cost money, he said so himself.”

Esther crept down the hallway and out the back door. There were three steps. At the bottom, the cats were gobbling scraps her mother must have just set out. Barefoot, Esther crossed to the pump and felt the frigid water slide over her hands in the black stillness of night.

And all the while she thought. All the while the knot in her gut cinched tighter.

But at Nana’s house, it eased a little. Because it’s hard to stay worried in sunshine, in silence, with a book open at your side, a book with a hard cover and thick, well-worn pages. The books and the silence took her away. Just for those few hours. And the quilt – the old, familiar quilt – smelled of cinnamon.

Thank you to Esther for her  inspirational words industrious, reader and cheerful. And I know for a fact that Esther is turning thirteen in just a few days, so if you leave a comment, please wish her a very happy birthday! Happy birthday, Esther. I hope you liked the story.

Farm Girl by Karen Jones Gowen

A lot of you writers probably follow Karen Jones Gowen's wonderful blog.

She's such a sweet blog friend, always taking time to encourage and help aspiring authors -- and published authors, too. She is published twice, first with her debut FARM GIRL, and second with her novel UNCUT DIAMONDS.

I had wanted to read FARM GIRL for awhile because I'd heard it compared to the Little House books and I love the Little House books. I love reading history.

I knew FARM GIRL was a true account of Karen's mother's childhood on a farm in Nebraska. The subject intrigued me, so I ordered the book on Amazon.

I happened to order The Hunger Games trilogy at the same time. (You know, you've gotta love spending over a certain amount on Amazon, because sometimes you get free shipping.)

So, the box arrived with FARM GIRL and MOCKINGJAY both inside.

And guess what?

I went for FARM GIRL first.

And read the whole thing in a couple of days.

And read little bits of it to my husband at night when we were lying in bed.

Now Karen herself tells her readers in the introduction: this book isn't meant to read exactly like a novel, because it's a folklore study. Karen collected the information about her mother's life and then went about writing it in her mother's voice, most specifically her mother's farm girl voice. "The advantage to this book being told by Mother rather than written by her, is that when she recalls her early years, she talks like Lucille Marker the Nebraska farm girl...." (from the Introduction)

Karen's grandmother was an avid painter. The book also features many of her paintings and lots of old photographs of their family. It really is a delightful read and it was so interesting to dig into the lives of people who lived in another time and place, their attitudes and opinions, their hardships and triumphs.  

Karen, thank you for sharing your mother's wonderful story! I thoroughly enjoyed it.

A Story A Week: The Watch

She had seen him come in before. This was not the first time.


He slipped in through the shop door so quietly that the bell on the handle scarcely jingled, then padded past the front displays on cat’s paws, 'til he reached the case where the pocket watches were kept. That’s where he stopped, dark head bent, fingertips pressed against the glass.

Ms. Flannigan did not speak to him, just watched him over the tops of her spectacles. She normally didn’t permit children in the shop, and certainly never unaccompanied children. Still, there was something about this young boy’s delighted curiosity that stopped her mouth like a cork in a wine bottle. She simply couldn’t tell him to leave.

Today she cleared her throat. It was the closest she could come to uttering anything. But the boy did not look up from the case.

Is he looking at one watch in particular? She fingered the cameo brooch attached to her collar as she peered around the African violet pots next to the register to get a closer look.

Yes, his gaze was set.

She couldn’t tell on which item exactly, not from this vantage point, but it appeared to be the large silver watch in the second row, the one with the elaborate inscription. It was her favorite, actually. She had displayed it with the case open so that interested customers could read the words, etched in an elegant script:

To my son, Evander Jedidiah Oliver, who in his person fulfills his father’s every fond wish.

September 29, 1867.

The script was what made the pocket watch so unusual, and so valuable. The watch itself was worth over forty dollars, the price written in Sherri’s sloping hand on a white tag hanging from the chain.

The boy continued to stare, and then the bell jingled.

Ms. Flannigan lifted her head. When she saw who it was, she smoothed her tightly coiffed hair, and stood up.

“Hello, Jeremy,” she said, stretching her mouth into a smile.

“Hello, Sherri!” Jeremy Coslow’s voice boomed from beneath his salt-and-pepper moustache. “Keeping busy, I see.” He swept past the watch display, his cape billowing out behind him. The edge fluttered against the boy’s thin shoulder.

“Oh, just the little customer today,” Ms. Flannigan said, nodding in the child’s direction.

The boy looked up then, eyes black as pits of pitch and just as deep. They burned her with their coldness.

“Ah, well,” said Jeremy Coslow, setting two packages wrapped in brown paper on the counter. “I brought these things from Mother, as promised. Look them over at your leisure. I’m in no hurry to be on my way.”

“Maybe you’d like to pull up a stool,” Ms. Flannigan said. “I’ll put the kettle on for tea.”

“Sounds lovely,” said Mr. Coslow.

Ms. Flannigan was about to turn away, to hurry up the rickety back stairs to her flat to start the kettle, when she happened to look back. She stopped with a gasp.

Mr. Coslow’s light blue eyes widened. “Everything all right, my dear?”

“The boy,” stammered Ms. Flannigan. “Did you see him go? Is he still in the store somewhere?”

“The boy?”

“Yes, that little dark haired boy looking at the watch display when you came in.”

Mr. Coslow shook his head. “I’m not sure I saw anyone when I came in.”

“But I mentioned the little customer,” she said. “Didn’t you see him?”

“I didn’t know what you meant,” he said. “I assumed it was someone who’d already been and gone.”

“But he was standing right—”

“Now, now, Sherri,” Mr. Coslow said. He reached across the counter and pressed her hand. His fingers were warm. “He probably just slipped out. Don’t alarm yourself.”

But Ms. Flannigan couldn’t help herself. She stepped around the counter to the pocket watch display and leaned over to inspect the glass. Yes, ten finger smudges just above the silver watch. And she’d wiped the glass only that morning.

“Yes, I suppose he slipped out when I wasn’t looking,” she said. “Still— You didn’t see him? You’re sure?”

Mr. Coslow’s brow crinkled. “Now, now, Miss Sherri,” he said gently. “How about that tea you promised, eh?”


Thank you to Sherri for her inspirational words elegant, curiosity and delight. This was a fun one to write, and as this is story number thirty-two, I only have twenty more to go before January!

Gotcha Day

Today is Olivia's 9th Gotcha Day.

In other words, nine years ago I brought our daughter Olivia home from the orphanage.

Talk about a life changing event.

Talk about a surprise baby.

We'd been in China for two months.

And my husband was away at school camp.

I went to the orphanage where I volunteered and asked the director if they would consider letting me foster care for six-week-old Li Juan because she was losing weight and the baby room was overloaded.

Next thing I knew, the helpers in the baby room were changing her into a disposable diaper and wrapping her in a blanket. That same day I was riding home in a friend's van with a baby!

When Aaron came home from camp, I said, "SURPRISE!"

That was nine years ago.

6.5 years of foster care + 2.5 years of post adoption = We are beyond Blessed!

New Beginnings

Since we were talking a bit about beginnings and first chapters the other day, I was thrilled to see this post on Literary Agent Jill Corcoran's blog. Definitely worth checking out, especially if you're struggling with where to start your book, or you're in the rewrite phase after finishing a first draft.

I sent off my WiP to a writer-friend this afternoon for her to critique. It's always hardest to push the send button when you're getting a brand-new manuscript off to a critique partner. Much like a first query.

After the initial shock of sharing your soul with others, it gets easier.