We just returned from a trip to Bryce and Zion Canyons with two of our daughters and their families. Eleven of us made the trip - my husband being the oldest at 71, and my new little grandson at age 12 weeks being the youngest. Trying to coordinate that many people of vastly different ages for meals and lodging was interesting, to say the least, especially with a nursing baby. Julian always decided it was time to eat just as we were about to embark on a new adventure, so sometimes we waited for 45 minutes for him to eat, and sometimes we just left mom and baby to do their thing and went to do ours.
The decision to leave them behind when we hiked down the Navajo Trail at Bryce was a good one. I took 3 1/2 year old Violet while my husband and my other daughter and her family started down the trail in head of us. We were told this was an easy to moderate hike of only a mile and a half so we didn't think anything about Violet's little legs giving out on her.
The sky was a deep blue, the rocks were incredibly red and pink and orange, interspersed with the dark green of the pines and junipers. Such an unbelievably beautiful place. The hoodoos took on personalities and everyone had fun naming the different formations. "Oh, that looks just like ...." Fill in the blank.
The trail down was fairly steep in some places, with a lot of switchbacks. Violet shied away from the muddy places at first, but then it became sort of a game - plop into the mud and see if your shoes get stuck! We slipped and slid down the shady areas where the sun hadn't yet melted the snow and ice on the trail, and took pictures of the older grandchildren climbing up into holes in the rocks for photo ops, or posing for pictures in twisted cedar trees. They took off on their own into little side canyons (really nothing more than steep crevasses) and crossed the dry creek bed on fallen trees while the slower members of our party (mainly Violet and me) stopped to look at bugs and squirrels and explore shallow caves.
It was a gloriously beautiful day and the sun became warmer as it got higher in the cloudless blue sky. By time we began the trek back up from the bottom of the canyon, I was ready to shed more than a few of my layers. We were all melting. What a change from the 18 degree temperature when we watched the sun come up that morning at Sunrise Point!
Grandpa praised Violet a couple of times, telling her she sure was a tough little hiker to keep going and keep up with the older kids (a motivation to keep her moving), but when the trail got harder and steeper and Grandpa offered to carry her on his shoulders, Violet shook her head and her long blonde curls bobbed from side to side. "I'm tough. I can do it." And she did. We stopped and rested and enjoyed the view back down the steep trail and took lots of pictures, had a drink, and then started up again. I think a couple of times, if someone had offered to carry me, I would have taken them up on it.
The next day we did the two mile hike into Zion Canyon along the Virgin River to the Temple of Sinawava. What a contrast from the day before. It was early morning and the sun hadn't yet reached into the canyon. We were freezing. But no one complained. Not one of the five grandkids who were hiking did anything more than snuggle closer when we stopped for pictures. And of course, Julian was nestled snug and warm in his little carrier and slept through the entire hike.
The whole trip was a great experience in watching how our children are teaching their children to appreciate the beautiful world God created for us. The older cousins were so helpful and watchful with their younger cousins, it was a pleasure to see. All in all, it was an unforgettable few days. A wonderful time bonding with grandchildren that no longer live close enough to see every day - or even every month - and discover how they are changing as they grow up.
My beautiful 16 year old granddaughter confided if she had to be something else, she would choose to be a yellow flower because they are so bright and cheerful and hardy, and seem to grow everywhere, even in rocky places and along the road side. My 13 year old grandson, now almost a head taller than me, enjoys my company and I love his running commentary on the world. Emily, the 9 year old, is independent and always running ahead to explore, (driving her mother crazy!) while Heather, my six year old granddaughter, loved holding my hand while we walked - and talked non-stop, of course.
What an opportunity to get a glimpse of the world through the eyes of my grandchildren and share my feelings with them. But am I ready for a month long cross-country trip with them this summer? Mmm. We'll see. And when I figure out how to get the pictures from the DVD into this, I'll forward them!! :)
Friday, April 10, 2009
Write What You Know?
So one of the most basic pieces of writing advice you're ever likely to hear is the old, "write what you know," phrase. It's certainly good advice; when you're writing about something with which you have a lot of experience, it's bound to come off sounding authentic and will draw your reader that much more into your story.
But what if you don't like what you know? Take me, for example. I'm a SAHM with a degree in elementary education. Now, there's probably a great story out there waiting for me where the heroine is a teacher and a bunch of crazy things happen. But that's really not what I want to write about. Now, anyway.
In my books, my characters have time traveled, been doctors, spies, private investigators, archaeologists, antique experts and survivors of the Civil War. Some of my heroes have been accountants, tech guys, former drug addicts, blacksmiths and victims of amnesia.
Nothing in my shorter novels, (those that exclude the Civil War seris), has ever happened to anyone I know. A lot of what I've written is what I call "escape fiction," and is totally out there. That's because it's what I like to read, as well. When I read for enjoyment, I like to be completely and thoroughly entertained.
I also happen to love research.
Eeewww! So many people hate research, but I really love it. And here's one of the biggest benefits to spending a bit of time researching: it becomes what you know! I know, how great is that! If you spend some time becoming familiar with something else- a different occupation, location, time period- you have moved yourself into the realm of knowing something about the subject and when you do that, all sorts of things open up for your writing. Suddenly it becomes very easy to imagine a character with a given set of traits who, when you put her into a given set of circumstances or a profession, takes off on her own.
I suppose what I mean with all of this is that while yes, you will write with your own set of experiences behind you, it's ok to venture out into the unknown and make it known. Don't be intimmidated about writing something you haven't personally experienced just because you haven't personally experienced it.
Crack open a book on ancient Egypt, google archaeology, buy a guidebook on India or England--the sky's the limit if you don't limit yourself.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
There's Nothing Like Family
First, my apologies to the wonderful women who faithfully blog on this site for missing my last turn. I didn’t know how to turn my thoughts into something others would want to read. However, this time, I'm ready and will just hope that this is something someone will want to read. Be warned, I love learning about my ancestors and thinking about their lives, which means—genealogy. It can be frustrating and difficult but I find it fascinating to look into history and into others’ lives that have a connection to mine.
Three years ago a job change led me to sell my house and move 50 miles south to Nephi, a town with one traffic light and a population of 5500. I knew the town and had even done some genealogical research in the area but had certainly never planned to live there. It took me months to realize that it was an opportunity to learn more about an ancestor’s stepfather who had settled in Moroni, a town just 20 miles east of Nephi.
When Peter Anderson had first surfaced in my research for my great-great grandmother, he was something of a mystery figure. No one in my family who researched Mary knew anything about him. There was only one record giving the names of Mary’s parents, and Peter was not her father’s name. Since so little was known of Mary’s parents, it was assumed they had died when she was very young. At first I thought Peter and his wife had adopted Mary.
But I learned that Peter’s wife’s name was Catherine Thomas, Mary’s mother’s name. My research uncovered that Mary’s father had died when she was small, and her mother had married Peter when Mary was four. Nine years later, in 1854, Peter and Catherine joined the LDS church and emigrated from Denmark to America with Mary, her young brother, Christian, and their other children. Catherine and four of the six children had died of yellow fever or cholera after the ship passed through New Orleans. Mary and a younger stepbrother named Peter were the only children to survive. Peter Sr. had remarried while traveling westward, possibly so his children would have a mother. (A note for mothers: I love thinking that Catherine would have felt the sacrifice of her life was worth the opportunity for her children to go to Zion.)
After a few years in Utah, my ancestor married and moved to the northern part of the state, to Wellsville, while her stepfather settled in Moroni, which is in the central part of the state with his new wife and son Peter in the county next to my new home. Since no one seemed to know about Mary’s stepfather, I started to wonder if she’d ever talked about him, or if they had perhaps been estranged.
However, I learned from another person’s research that Mary had not only stayed in contact with her stepfather, she had even made the 200-mile trip to visit him and his family. I was so busy packing and moving that this information was slow to register, but it did seem to indicate that Mary had been close to her stepfather and stepbrother.
At first I made the 40-mile commute to my job in Provo, I hardly thought of Mary or her stepfather, but over time the thought occurred that I might easily be taking the same route Mary took to visit her stepfather. If I kept driving north another 160 miles, I would pass through Logan and Wellsville, two neighboring towns where Mary lived for over 60 years. I wasn’t certain but thought it likely that my drive to and from work passed through much of the same territory as Mary’s journey would have. To the west of the valley lay the Ochre Mountains, to the east the Rocky Mountains. Much of the land I drove past outside of Nephi was undeveloped, open and desolate, the land covered with clumps of sagebrush with a few stubby trees. Except for the fences and power lines, it might have been the same view Mary saw on her own trip.
Each day I drove to work I found myself grateful to be driving rather than riding in a wagon or even on a train. I had a heater and stereo and could stop at a convenience store for a cold drink or snack. For me a 200-mile trip would only be a matter of hours; for Mary Ann, traveling in the West between 1860 and 1900, it would have been a hot and dusty, even grueling, trip to make.
Over time it occurred to me that my genealogical research had only confirmed that this particular Peter Anderson was Mary’s father. My visit to the town cemetery had confirmed that the birth dates and places on his children’s gravestones had matched the dates and places in Mary’s life. I hadn’t found any obituaries in the two largest newspapers in the state and my search ended there. Now I began to wonder if any local newspapers might offer more information.
I learned that three small newspapers had covered the county since the late 1800s; the Mount Pleasant Pyramid was the paper I wanted. Their office had hard copies of their newspapers from about 1940, too late for what I wanted, but a small college in the county had microfilm of earlier copies of the Pyramid so I shot off an email to verify this and made my plans to visit the college, an hour’s drive away.
At the college, my first reaction was one of disappointment. Somehow I hadn’t realized that the earliest microfilmed newspapers in 1915 was still too late; Mary Ann’s stepfather had died in 1900 and by 1915 she would have been nearly 60, too old to make such a long, difficult journey. Still, I had come this far so I began by looking for her stepbrother’s obituary in 1917.
When I found it, I was momentarily elated until I remembered that this Peter Anderson was her stepbrother, not her stepfather. But I read the print with hopes of some discovery of value. Mary had been seven when her half-brother Peter was born, thirteen when their mother had died, and 16 when she had married. Was it possible that for those nine years she had mothered him, as big sisters often do, building a bond that would last their entire lives despite the years and the distance?
“Respected Man Dies at Moroni,” said the front-page article. One of the county’s most successful farmers, Peter was praised for his service, teaching the other farmers to raise sugar beets successfully.
The final paragraph was the gem I sought. Peter had left a wife, four sons, and one daughter as well as two brothers and one sister, Mary, who was living in Logan, in northern Utah. It was a small thing but important to me that Mary was not identified as a stepsister or half-sister. She was his sister, he was her brother; they considered each other family. That single word gave me a new understanding of Mary and her family.
This may seem such a very small and insignificant thing, but it made me feel a lot better, knowing that Mary had a loving family in her new life in a new land. Yes, she had children and a husband, but she also had family members who had shared her life in Denmark, their voyage to American, their native language, and their shared loss that would nevertheless be restored to them one day.
There's just nothing like family, is there?
P.S. For genealogists who want to know the rather amazing story of how I was able to learn Mary's story--when she had changed her name and left very few clues about her life--you can find the article I wrote with another genealogist who (1) I met by chance at a work luncheon and (2) had done Mary's research using Danish records, allowing me to confirm my own research. The article is at http://www.ancestry.com/learn/library/article.aspx?article=11134.
Three years ago a job change led me to sell my house and move 50 miles south to Nephi, a town with one traffic light and a population of 5500. I knew the town and had even done some genealogical research in the area but had certainly never planned to live there. It took me months to realize that it was an opportunity to learn more about an ancestor’s stepfather who had settled in Moroni, a town just 20 miles east of Nephi.
When Peter Anderson had first surfaced in my research for my great-great grandmother, he was something of a mystery figure. No one in my family who researched Mary knew anything about him. There was only one record giving the names of Mary’s parents, and Peter was not her father’s name. Since so little was known of Mary’s parents, it was assumed they had died when she was very young. At first I thought Peter and his wife had adopted Mary.
But I learned that Peter’s wife’s name was Catherine Thomas, Mary’s mother’s name. My research uncovered that Mary’s father had died when she was small, and her mother had married Peter when Mary was four. Nine years later, in 1854, Peter and Catherine joined the LDS church and emigrated from Denmark to America with Mary, her young brother, Christian, and their other children. Catherine and four of the six children had died of yellow fever or cholera after the ship passed through New Orleans. Mary and a younger stepbrother named Peter were the only children to survive. Peter Sr. had remarried while traveling westward, possibly so his children would have a mother. (A note for mothers: I love thinking that Catherine would have felt the sacrifice of her life was worth the opportunity for her children to go to Zion.)
After a few years in Utah, my ancestor married and moved to the northern part of the state, to Wellsville, while her stepfather settled in Moroni, which is in the central part of the state with his new wife and son Peter in the county next to my new home. Since no one seemed to know about Mary’s stepfather, I started to wonder if she’d ever talked about him, or if they had perhaps been estranged.
However, I learned from another person’s research that Mary had not only stayed in contact with her stepfather, she had even made the 200-mile trip to visit him and his family. I was so busy packing and moving that this information was slow to register, but it did seem to indicate that Mary had been close to her stepfather and stepbrother.
At first I made the 40-mile commute to my job in Provo, I hardly thought of Mary or her stepfather, but over time the thought occurred that I might easily be taking the same route Mary took to visit her stepfather. If I kept driving north another 160 miles, I would pass through Logan and Wellsville, two neighboring towns where Mary lived for over 60 years. I wasn’t certain but thought it likely that my drive to and from work passed through much of the same territory as Mary’s journey would have. To the west of the valley lay the Ochre Mountains, to the east the Rocky Mountains. Much of the land I drove past outside of Nephi was undeveloped, open and desolate, the land covered with clumps of sagebrush with a few stubby trees. Except for the fences and power lines, it might have been the same view Mary saw on her own trip.
Each day I drove to work I found myself grateful to be driving rather than riding in a wagon or even on a train. I had a heater and stereo and could stop at a convenience store for a cold drink or snack. For me a 200-mile trip would only be a matter of hours; for Mary Ann, traveling in the West between 1860 and 1900, it would have been a hot and dusty, even grueling, trip to make.
Over time it occurred to me that my genealogical research had only confirmed that this particular Peter Anderson was Mary’s father. My visit to the town cemetery had confirmed that the birth dates and places on his children’s gravestones had matched the dates and places in Mary’s life. I hadn’t found any obituaries in the two largest newspapers in the state and my search ended there. Now I began to wonder if any local newspapers might offer more information.
I learned that three small newspapers had covered the county since the late 1800s; the Mount Pleasant Pyramid was the paper I wanted. Their office had hard copies of their newspapers from about 1940, too late for what I wanted, but a small college in the county had microfilm of earlier copies of the Pyramid so I shot off an email to verify this and made my plans to visit the college, an hour’s drive away.
At the college, my first reaction was one of disappointment. Somehow I hadn’t realized that the earliest microfilmed newspapers in 1915 was still too late; Mary Ann’s stepfather had died in 1900 and by 1915 she would have been nearly 60, too old to make such a long, difficult journey. Still, I had come this far so I began by looking for her stepbrother’s obituary in 1917.
When I found it, I was momentarily elated until I remembered that this Peter Anderson was her stepbrother, not her stepfather. But I read the print with hopes of some discovery of value. Mary had been seven when her half-brother Peter was born, thirteen when their mother had died, and 16 when she had married. Was it possible that for those nine years she had mothered him, as big sisters often do, building a bond that would last their entire lives despite the years and the distance?
“Respected Man Dies at Moroni,” said the front-page article. One of the county’s most successful farmers, Peter was praised for his service, teaching the other farmers to raise sugar beets successfully.
The final paragraph was the gem I sought. Peter had left a wife, four sons, and one daughter as well as two brothers and one sister, Mary, who was living in Logan, in northern Utah. It was a small thing but important to me that Mary was not identified as a stepsister or half-sister. She was his sister, he was her brother; they considered each other family. That single word gave me a new understanding of Mary and her family.
This may seem such a very small and insignificant thing, but it made me feel a lot better, knowing that Mary had a loving family in her new life in a new land. Yes, she had children and a husband, but she also had family members who had shared her life in Denmark, their voyage to American, their native language, and their shared loss that would nevertheless be restored to them one day.
There's just nothing like family, is there?
P.S. For genealogists who want to know the rather amazing story of how I was able to learn Mary's story--when she had changed her name and left very few clues about her life--you can find the article I wrote with another genealogist who (1) I met by chance at a work luncheon and (2) had done Mary's research using Danish records, allowing me to confirm my own research. The article is at http://www.ancestry.com/learn/library/article.aspx?article=11134.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
Shoelaces
by Gale Sears
My husband, George, ties his shoelaces in a weird way. The first time I saw him tie his shoe, I laughed. Shallow, I know, but I did. I said, “What are you doing? I’ve never seen anyone tie their shoes like that.” He looked at me sheepishly and said, “Well, no one showed me how to do it when I was little. I had to figure it out on my own.”
You can imagine what a wakeup call that was to my superior I-tie-my-shoes-the-right-way sensibility. I apologized to my dear hubby, and used the incident as a metaphor for a broader life lesson.
Not everyone is going to approach a task, problem, challenge, or crisis in the same way; indeed, most often solutions are as individual as the individual. My mother and I used to argue about the best way to load the dishwasher. Boy! Was that a waste of time and energy? Who cares? The dishes came out clean regardless of how they were stacked. My sister and I do our laundry differently. My friend and I have a different liking for books and movies. At one time, my children journeyed off on different roads I certainly wouldn’t have chosen for them.
The philosopher, Hermann Hesse said, “Each man’s life represents a road toward himself.”
Life isn’t a ladder. I am not above or below anyone. Life is a circle. When I stand in a circle with my fellow life travelers, I can see them and they can see me. We can hold hands and help each other along. God is in the center of the circle—equally accessible to all. Each person has their own unique path to walk, and who am I to judge their journey?
A broadening of vision brings us to examine the history behind people’s decisions or behavior—therein we find understanding, tolerance, and compassion. When I knew the unsettled nature of my husband’s childhood upbringing, my compassion grew. Now when I watch him tie his shoes I do so with great tenderness and admiration, and the Native American saying, “Don’t judge another until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins,” has much greater meaning.
My husband, George, ties his shoelaces in a weird way. The first time I saw him tie his shoe, I laughed. Shallow, I know, but I did. I said, “What are you doing? I’ve never seen anyone tie their shoes like that.” He looked at me sheepishly and said, “Well, no one showed me how to do it when I was little. I had to figure it out on my own.”
You can imagine what a wakeup call that was to my superior I-tie-my-shoes-the-right-way sensibility. I apologized to my dear hubby, and used the incident as a metaphor for a broader life lesson.
Not everyone is going to approach a task, problem, challenge, or crisis in the same way; indeed, most often solutions are as individual as the individual. My mother and I used to argue about the best way to load the dishwasher. Boy! Was that a waste of time and energy? Who cares? The dishes came out clean regardless of how they were stacked. My sister and I do our laundry differently. My friend and I have a different liking for books and movies. At one time, my children journeyed off on different roads I certainly wouldn’t have chosen for them.
The philosopher, Hermann Hesse said, “Each man’s life represents a road toward himself.”
Life isn’t a ladder. I am not above or below anyone. Life is a circle. When I stand in a circle with my fellow life travelers, I can see them and they can see me. We can hold hands and help each other along. God is in the center of the circle—equally accessible to all. Each person has their own unique path to walk, and who am I to judge their journey?
A broadening of vision brings us to examine the history behind people’s decisions or behavior—therein we find understanding, tolerance, and compassion. When I knew the unsettled nature of my husband’s childhood upbringing, my compassion grew. Now when I watch him tie his shoes I do so with great tenderness and admiration, and the Native American saying, “Don’t judge another until you’ve walked a mile in their moccasins,” has much greater meaning.
Monday, April 6, 2009
General Conference
I remember talking with my brother in law one day. He said to me, “If you knew that Christ would be speaking to his people hear on earth, what would you do?” I looked at him a little confused, not sure where he was going with this, and I guess not being a real deep thinker, I shrugged and said, “I’d listen.” “So, would you give anything you had to be there, to hear what he had to say? To feel of His spirit? To be a part of that experience?” he asked. “Well, yeah” I simply said. I still didn’t know where he was going with his questions, but I figured, who wouldn’t do that? He nodded at my answer but didn’t say anything more. Finally I asked him, “Why? Wouldn’t you?” “Well, sure I would. But when you think about it, what do you think General Conference is?” Then he walked away and left me alone with my thoughts. That conversation put a whole new perspective on conference for me.
As a child conference was about picking my mom out in the crowd of Tabernacle Choir singers and to see how often the camera showed her on TV. As I grew older, I tried to see how close she was to the Prophet and General Authorities. Again, as I grew older, the messages grew more important and it was with some disappointment when the choir sang the closing hymn. I finally started to recognize the importance of the words being spoken to us over the pulpit.
This past weekend I had a really interesting experience. I mentioned to someone I hoped they had an enjoyable conference weekend. They replied, “I guess it’s time for me to be called to repentance again. I’m going to be told what I need to do to improve and better myself and be told all the things I am doing wrong.” Wow. Though I think it was mostly said in jest, I was saddened to think that conference would ever be looked on in this manner.
This conference was a highlight in our family. The Gilchrist men have a tradition that has been going on since my husband turned twelve. It has followed through all the brothers and is now continuing on through the grandsons. With every Priesthood session of conference the men all attend together then after the session, the patriarch of the family treats all the men to dinner. My youngest son is the latest to join the ranks of the Gilchrist men. This Priesthood session was his first and what an exciting time it was for him. He came home that night to tell me all he had learned during the meeting and then all he had for dinner. It’s a tradition he is determined to carry on with his own sons.
At the close of conference yesterday, I noticed on the news, saints from Africa and Spain spoke of the joy and love they felt being in the very room with all of our church leaders. They both spoke of feeling the spirit and how strong it could be felt. It was gratifying to note that evangelical college students from California attended the afternoon session of conference and spoke of it being a blessing to attend that conference session. They were the first students from their school to attend.
I know the areas I need to improve. I know the areas I fall short. As Pres. Hinckley asked of us to, “Try a little harder to be a little better” conference inspires me to want to do just that. Most of all, I walked away from conference with a feeling that our Father in Heaven may have billions of children, but I am indeed one of them. There is such a feeling of love and gratitude that conference provokes in me. I am always left feeling so uplifted by the experience. I feel spiritually charged and anxious to set goals to find ways to better myself.
Conference ended with the Tabernacle Choir singing “God Be With You ‘til We Meet Again.” It was a song I have heard my mother sing with them hundreds of times. It touched a tender place in my heart. Just as all of General Conference has done over the last two days.
As a child conference was about picking my mom out in the crowd of Tabernacle Choir singers and to see how often the camera showed her on TV. As I grew older, I tried to see how close she was to the Prophet and General Authorities. Again, as I grew older, the messages grew more important and it was with some disappointment when the choir sang the closing hymn. I finally started to recognize the importance of the words being spoken to us over the pulpit.
This past weekend I had a really interesting experience. I mentioned to someone I hoped they had an enjoyable conference weekend. They replied, “I guess it’s time for me to be called to repentance again. I’m going to be told what I need to do to improve and better myself and be told all the things I am doing wrong.” Wow. Though I think it was mostly said in jest, I was saddened to think that conference would ever be looked on in this manner.
This conference was a highlight in our family. The Gilchrist men have a tradition that has been going on since my husband turned twelve. It has followed through all the brothers and is now continuing on through the grandsons. With every Priesthood session of conference the men all attend together then after the session, the patriarch of the family treats all the men to dinner. My youngest son is the latest to join the ranks of the Gilchrist men. This Priesthood session was his first and what an exciting time it was for him. He came home that night to tell me all he had learned during the meeting and then all he had for dinner. It’s a tradition he is determined to carry on with his own sons.
At the close of conference yesterday, I noticed on the news, saints from Africa and Spain spoke of the joy and love they felt being in the very room with all of our church leaders. They both spoke of feeling the spirit and how strong it could be felt. It was gratifying to note that evangelical college students from California attended the afternoon session of conference and spoke of it being a blessing to attend that conference session. They were the first students from their school to attend.
I know the areas I need to improve. I know the areas I fall short. As Pres. Hinckley asked of us to, “Try a little harder to be a little better” conference inspires me to want to do just that. Most of all, I walked away from conference with a feeling that our Father in Heaven may have billions of children, but I am indeed one of them. There is such a feeling of love and gratitude that conference provokes in me. I am always left feeling so uplifted by the experience. I feel spiritually charged and anxious to set goals to find ways to better myself.
Conference ended with the Tabernacle Choir singing “God Be With You ‘til We Meet Again.” It was a song I have heard my mother sing with them hundreds of times. It touched a tender place in my heart. Just as all of General Conference has done over the last two days.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Perils of Publishing
by Anna Jones Buttimore
This may come as a surprise, but I don’t only write novels. This year, in fact, I will be a contributor to both The World Wide Ward Cookbook and Famous Family Nights. I also had an article published in LDS Living magazine a few years ago. However, the publications I am most often seen in are dull periodicals issued by the various branches of the British legal profession.
My day job, you see – the one that actually pays the mortgage - involves regularly writing articles to advise British lawyers on subjects such as stress and alcoholism.Recently the two worlds collided when the Law Society Gazette published an article about solicitors who are also authors. Most of them were much more prolific and successful than me and yet they too still needed to keep the day job in order to pay the mortgage. There were two points raised in the article that made me start nodding furiously to myself and mentally muttering “Amen”.
First, a quote by Sean Longley, a London lawyer and author, who said, “You are built up to the idea that [getting a book published] is great and magical and life-changing, and it’s not. It just becomes something that you have done.”I have rarely read anything so true (with acknowledgements and apologies to Holy Scripture). Holding your book in your hands is a wonderful moment, but people don’t bow and scrape as I walk past, and I still have to trudge though the rain to collect the children from school. Once the “Oh, you wrote a book, how clever!” comments have run their course, everyone politely forgets that they have a genius in their midst, and no one really wants to hear about what I’m working on at the moment.
Another author mentioned in the piece commented “Staying published is as hard, if not harder, than getting published in the first place.” Further nodding and muttering on my part. Covenant just turned down my latest masterpiece, the once I designed specifically to appeal to their audience (exotic location, romance, comedy and intrigue) and before that it took me six years to get a publisher for Easterfield.
Anyway, I have had something else published very recently. A Letter to the Editor of the Law Society Gazette, congratulating him on such a pertinent and excellent article.
This may come as a surprise, but I don’t only write novels. This year, in fact, I will be a contributor to both The World Wide Ward Cookbook and Famous Family Nights. I also had an article published in LDS Living magazine a few years ago. However, the publications I am most often seen in are dull periodicals issued by the various branches of the British legal profession.
My day job, you see – the one that actually pays the mortgage - involves regularly writing articles to advise British lawyers on subjects such as stress and alcoholism.Recently the two worlds collided when the Law Society Gazette published an article about solicitors who are also authors. Most of them were much more prolific and successful than me and yet they too still needed to keep the day job in order to pay the mortgage. There were two points raised in the article that made me start nodding furiously to myself and mentally muttering “Amen”.
First, a quote by Sean Longley, a London lawyer and author, who said, “You are built up to the idea that [getting a book published] is great and magical and life-changing, and it’s not. It just becomes something that you have done.”I have rarely read anything so true (with acknowledgements and apologies to Holy Scripture). Holding your book in your hands is a wonderful moment, but people don’t bow and scrape as I walk past, and I still have to trudge though the rain to collect the children from school. Once the “Oh, you wrote a book, how clever!” comments have run their course, everyone politely forgets that they have a genius in their midst, and no one really wants to hear about what I’m working on at the moment.
Another author mentioned in the piece commented “Staying published is as hard, if not harder, than getting published in the first place.” Further nodding and muttering on my part. Covenant just turned down my latest masterpiece, the once I designed specifically to appeal to their audience (exotic location, romance, comedy and intrigue) and before that it took me six years to get a publisher for Easterfield.
Anyway, I have had something else published very recently. A Letter to the Editor of the Law Society Gazette, congratulating him on such a pertinent and excellent article.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Just Kidding
Some holidays arrive and I don't realize the significance until something happens to remind me that it is a special day. Today was one such day. I had just returned home from helping my oldest son teach a cooking class for a group of Relief Society sisters and I jaunted out to pick up the mail. Included in that postal treasure pile was the weekly edition of a local newspaper entitled, "The News-Examiner." As I brought it into the house, I was stunned by the following headline: "COUNTY DECLARES BANKRUPTCY!" I was floored. I knew the local economy was struggling, but to read that our county courthouse was going to be sold on an auction block was staggering.
I read the entire article to my son and we gaped at each other, alarmed by what we were learning. Then I read the following paragraph:
"A county employee was in tears as she talked about her $750,000.00 mortgage, child support, car payments, and the Caribbean cruise she had just signed up for."
Wait a minute . . . who in the grand metropolis of Bear Lake lives in a $750,000.00 home?! Unless you count the celebrities who have extremely fancy cabins above Bear Lake---and I don't believe for one second that they work at the county courthouse. I wondered if the reporter had his\her facts straight.
I glanced through the rest of the paper and saw the following article: "Sorry, They Were Hoaxes." It was all a sham . . . our newspaper's way of playing an April Fool's joke on the entire community. And I sponged for it. (This is a secret.) My son enjoyed a good laugh at my expense, since I had been waxing eloquently about how awful it was that this had happened to our county.
As I read through the tongue-in-cheek apology, I learned that there had been two misleading stories, the one about the county's fictional financial woes, and another about a pack of 50 wild wolves that had supposedly devoured an entire herd of sheep on the other side of the valley. I didn't see it until after I read the "hoax" article.
The reporter who obviously enjoyed pulling these two pranks said in his\her defense:
"It was bad judgment to say the least, and great fun at the most . . . For those of you who spotted the hoax right away, we hope you enjoyed the fun. For those who fell for the hoax, we apologize."
Uh, huh. Sigh . . . Actually, it was pretty funny and rather gutsy of this newspaper to run these articles. I can just imagine the letters to the editor that will show up next week. ;)
I like April Fool's Day. I've even been guilty of pulling a few pranks through the years. I'll never top what my father did one year. Long story short: There was a beautiful Gunnie Sax dress in a store that used to exist here in Bear Lake. My dad had been living in the area for a couple of months, waiting for me to graduate from high school . . . and for our house to sell in Ashton. He had secured employment as the hospital pharmacist for Bear Lake Memorial, and our entire family was moving to Montpelier. While looking things over in Bear Lake, my mother and I entered a dress shop and found this gorgeous dress. The top was cream-colored with gauzy lace, and the skirt was a perfect match. I tried it on and fell in love. But it was a little pricey, so we left it there.
When my father found out how much I liked that Gunnie Sax dress, he said he would buy it for me and bring it up so I could wear it for graduation. I remember being so excited, I could hardly wait. Then the big day finally came and my dad arrived in Ashton with a beautifully wrapped box. He handed it to me with a big grin on his face.
"Is this the Gunnie Sax dress?" I asked, excitement filling my bosom.
"Yes, it is," my dad replied, encouraging me to hurry and open the package.
I did, and I know my jaw hit the floor. Inside the fancy box were a couple of gunny sacks (coarse material used to house grain). My entire family erupted with laughter and then the zinger line was shared: "APRIL FOOLS!!!"
Yeah . . . it was a joke. I must have looked so crestfallen, my dad didn't have the heart to prolong my agony. He was still grinning when he handed me the box that contained the dress I had longed for. My family has laughed over that memory for years. It was possibly the best prank ever played in our family.
This leads me to my question of the day: what is the best April Fool's prank you've experienced, or created?
P.S. I'll be sure to leave today's newspaper where my husband can see it upon his return home from work today. I may even have the video camera running to record his reaction. =D Could be interesting.
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