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Book interrupted

I’m in the middle of rewriting a nonfiction book for republication. I’d been working on it for a couple of weeks when I was interupted by my son’s wedding. A weekend affair ended up taking two weeks out of my writing life. Today I’m trying to pick up the pieces and I feel very much like the proverbial woman who spread a pillow case full of feathers around the countryside. So many ideas and thoughts and half-formed suggestions have to be picked back up and put into my brain. I have to juggle what the editor said in his rewrite letter, what I want to do to make the book better than it was orginally, the new research I’ve done, and a list of things I have to cut, add, and rewrite. I have to remember to delete the footnotes, add the questions at the end of the chapters, and not tell the same story twice.

It seems impossible, like picking up those feathers. I put it off all morning and finally began after lunch. A tentative start, but a start nontheless.

Will I make the deadline? Right now it seems unlikely.

when a son weds

I don’t have daughters and so I don’t know what it feels like to watch one marry, but I’ve now had two sons marry (the last one just a week ago). I looked forward to each occassion with happiness and expectation, for I wasn’t losing a son (as I’d been warned), but gaining two cohorts in this male-filled world of mine. They’re not romantic, they’re both practical, but they like feminine things. I’ve been up to my ears in G.I. Joe, Star Wars, baseball, football, creepy crawlie things, motors, and tools. Now I get to buy pretty clothes, flowered centerpieces, scented candles, and pretty knitted things. Perhaps one day we’ll even talk babies. Do I dare dream?

Son’s wedding

In three days my youngest son is getting married. It’s been hectic, getting the house ready for out-of-town guests. My husband has been an incredible help. He shampooed all my carpets and is outside right now working in the yard.

This evening my oldest son and his bride of one year will be flying in from Tennessee and staying with us for one week. My husband and I are as excited about this as the wedding for we haven’t seen them in over a year.

Weddings are a celebration of love, but they also bring two families together, who just a short while ago were total strangers. Now we’re linked forever by a simple “I do.”

My prayers is that God will be present in every aspect of the ceremony and the days leading up to the big event. May the newly weds understand that he wants to be part of their relationship and that if they invite him in, he will help them have a fuller, richer relationship.

Tonight the two immediate families are meeting at our home for dinner. Friday night is the rehearsal dinner and then a cruise on Lake Washington for all invited guests. Saturday is the wedding, at the Seattle Tennis Club. The couple want Mt. Rainier in the background as they exchange their vows. Reception to follow.

You all can come to the brunch the next morning at our house and watch them open their presents. It will be an informal affair.

A new project

I’ve just received the rewrite letter for my book What’s in the Bible for Mothers. It’s nine pages long. Yikes! I have two months to make the changes and get it back to my editor. I’m filled with dread at the possibility of missing this deadline. I have an editing job, my son’s wedding, a trip to Idaho, and other assorted responsibilities cluttering up my life. Will I make it? Can I do it?

Janet Lee Carey, author of numerous children’s books including her latest The Beast of Noor, has given me this great piece of advice. Take in one step at a time. Do the little things first.

She should know. I’ve watched her over the years make major changes in her novels. If she can do it, so can I. Thanks, Janet, for showing me the way.

I’ll keep you posted on my progress.

Walk two moons

There’s a saying that goes something like this, if we’re to understand someone else we need to walk two moons in their shoes. For most of us we easily apply this to friends, nieghbors, and casual acquaintances. We give these people lots of grace and understanding for their little quirks, afterall they had a tough life, a mother who was overbearing, a father who abandoned them when they were a teen, or a handicap that held them back. But when it comes to our spouses, are we as generous?

I don’t like that question. Even though I asked it myself I have to answer no. I set almost an impossible standard for my husband. And yet, to truly love him, to understand why he is the way he is, I must see the world through his eyes.

A challenge to me, and to you, is to try walking in his shoes for one day and record what you find.

Let me know what you discover.

Camas Prairie vacation


Roast beef on a bun slathered in BBQ sauce; homemade baked beans and potato salad eaten under the pine trees in a community park as a local rock/country/oldie band plays live music–all for six dollars. It’s the annual June Picnic in Craigmont, Idaho (population, under 600). I go every year to remember what life could be like–simple, pleasant, no one in a hurry. People have time to stop and ask me what I’ve been up to and how are my children. They share with me about their daughter who’s getting married, the new grandbabies, the job, the remodeling project, and none of it sounds like one upmanship.

The sun is warm and I’m too full for the huckleberry pie I had my eye on earlier that was being served by the Winchester church ladies. I didn’t win anything in the church raffle, but my sister did. She’s taking home the handstitched dishtowels. My cousin won the afghan.

My nephew and his wife leave early–a disappointing loss in the volley ball tournament. My brother tells me there was a good turnout up at the amateur logging exposition. My nieces and nephews all want to go up town and buy a Lion Club’s hamburger (voted best in the Lewiston Tribune’s latest poll). This after eating candy they’ve collected from the floats in the parade earlier. One said it’s like Christmas, Halloween, and his birthday all rolled into one.

My husband stretches out on the grass and takes a nap. I hear about my nephew who’s going to Iraq in October and my brother-in-law who will be climbing a mountain in a few weeks. My uncle talks about his cancer treatments and my aunt about the death of her son, but it’s not sadness that I take away from these conversations. It’s hope.

God’s not mentioned and yet he’s there among us–made more real by the everydayness of our conversations.

A desire to be loved

Since I was little, I’ve had this inner desire to be loved. Now I’m in a marriage that often doesn’t fulfill that deep need. To those who know my husband, this may be a surprising statement, becasue he’s a wonderful man on so many levels. But let’s face it, he’s not affectionate. He grew up in a home where love was expressed by how hard you worked. He saw his mother and father kiss once and can’t remember ever being held on his mother’s lap. So when it comes to showing outward affection for me, it’s like asking a blind man to describe his face.

Intellecutally I know this, but it still doesn’t quench the thirst in my soul. But it’s interesting how prayer helps. I will often pray that he’ll take my hand or put his arm around my shoulders or say some word(s) that express his love of me, and he does.

Another thing that helps–when I hug my husband, he has to to hug me back. When I take his hand, he has to hold mine in return.

I also remember: he needs my love probably more than I need his.

It can be difficult living with a man like this, but on the other hand, those moments when he remembers my need and shows me clearly that he cares are treasured highly.

If you live in a marriage like this, then I highly recomment my book When Love Dies: how to save a hopeless marrige. You can find it at amazon.com.

As useful as an old shoe

“I’m as useful as an old shoe tossed in the corner of a closet,” I moaned to God during my morning prayer time. It seemed like forever since I’d felt as if my life mattered. Oh, sure, there were things I was doing, but in the big picture what did they really matter.

The next morning my phone rang. It was a woman from New Jersey calling to ask me a question. She’d gone to Amazon.com to buy a book for a friend who was having problems in her marriage and she saw my book, When Love Dies. She bought it instead and one for herself. She’d read it and it had changed her life. She saw herself through the words I’d written and she’d forgiven herself and her husband for thirteen years of misery. She saw her husband with new eyes. She also had a new realtionship with Christ. It had made such a difference in her life, she’d bought three more copies to give to friends.

I wept as she talked. God was using me. I might not be able to see it, but my willingness to put on paper the journey I’d made through my marriage–putting it back together after wanting to divorce my husband–was still saving others.

This morning I no longer see myself as a discarded shoe. Instead I’m an important tool in God’s arsenal. I’m sharp and ready to be used at a moment’s notice.

Sisters

Today I’m going shopping with my sister. I haven’t seen her for over a month and that’s a shame since we live within two miles of each other. She went back to work. That’s not an excuse, but a reason, I suppose.

Sisters are different than friends. Friends come and go, but sisters are ever present in your life. I have some friends from high school that I see about every ten years (reunions) and hear from only at Christmas time. Other friends, we get together once a year for our annual Fourth of July celebration. But my sisters–they’re there at Easter, Thanksgiving, weddings, funerals, and every celebration in between. There’s a special bond. We know our history. We’ve seen each other at our worst and at our best. We know each other’s weaknesses. And we love each other anyway.

Sisters–I’m fortunate. I’m rich. I have two of them. And I get to spend time with one of them today–shopping.

Truth in Fiction

The buzz over the Da Vinci Code has brought to mind the importance of telling truth–even in fiction. I hear people saying to those that are upset over the misinformation that is being passed off as truth in this book to, “Get over it. It’s fiction.”

Okay, but where do we draw the line? How many people are reading this, and other books, and believing what they read? The line between fact and fiction becomes fuzzy and readers can’t tell the difference. As writers we have a responsibility to present truth.

Historical fiction writers do research to make sure that what they are presenting is as close to what actually occured as they can make it. They study language. Did that word even exist back in 1897? Could the main character have picked up a gallon of milk at her local grocery store in 1900? When was sagebrush introduced into the U.S.?

Most fiction writers that I know do as much research to make sure the facts in their books are as acurate as the nonfiction writers.

Why? Because we know the power of the written word. It’s easy to pass along misinformation to our readers. We also don’t want anyone putting our books down because they know we got the facts wrong–a doctor or nurse would know if we misstate a medical fact.

Dan Brown purports that his book is fiction. Okay, the characters are made up. But the facts behind his story must be historically acurate. No one should read his book and come away believing something that isn’t true. He owes us truth.