I have a hard time ignoring my husband in the evening to read a book I'm too busy during the day and when I collapse at night, I'd really just like to cuddle up with a book occasionally, instead of with my husband watching TV for an hour. But at 6:00 last night, he announced he was sorry he wouldn't be watching anything - he was going to down a dose of Nyquil and go to bed and see if he could nip his cold in the bud before it took him over. I turned sorrowful, sympathetic eyes to him, bid him good-night, and grabbed the first book my fingers touched in the stack. I hoped he hadn't noticed my eagerness to see him disappear down the hall!
You have to understand, reading has always been a treat to me - something I could only do when my work was finished. (My mother must have had something to do with that, don't you think?) So I don't treat myself nearly as often as I'd like - or as I should! I console myself with the idea that I am getting through ten or fifteen books a year listening on CD in the car. But it really isn't the same, is it?
I immediately turned the furnace down, wrapped in a blanket, put the phone where I could easily reach it, and opened the book. In the first paragraph, I was transported to another time and another place, a different world than my own. What a wonderful blessing we have in books and in the ability to read them. I take that for granted far too often.
Then the ability to write them is another huge blessing. I have always written - created - something: poems, made up stories and songs for my siblings, written Christmas and Easter presentations for sacrament meet, road shows (wasn't that fun, traveling from church to church at night when you were a teenager!) And I've always been an avid reader, but when my favorite authors began filling their books with offensive material, I decided there must be others like me who liked a good mystery with all the garbage that you had to skip over. Thus was born a new career - at age 55!
I loved Anna's thoughts on writing. It is very hard work. But the creative process, the ideas pouring forth when you're on a roll, the scenes that play in your head as you write as fast as your fingers can type - that is pure joy! Then to hold that finished product with its shiny beautiful cover is almost - well - akin to holding a new baby in your arms. Unfortunately, sometimes the birthing of that book is almost as painful as the birthing of a child. I'm certainly glad I didn't have to carry any of my babies in the womb as long as this last book has taken to see the light of day! (I'm being optomistic and thinking it may actually be published this year!)
I actually stayed up last night and finished the book - a real treat to be able to read a book cover to cover in one sitting. Of course, I didn't get up at 4:00 this morning, therefore many of you may have to checked in to read the blog and found it wasn't posted yet. My apologies. But I know that I will be forgiven - especially knowing that every one of you feel the same about getting lost in another world in a book. That is one of the truly great pleasures of life.
So keep writing, you wonderful ladies. I would hope one of my last acts, just before I die in my sleep, is to finish one of your books and lay it aside with satisfaction at having entered, just for a brief time, a new and wonderful and different world from my own. Thank you for contributing to my well-being and enjoyment of life!
Friday, February 20, 2009
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Love the Library!
by Gale Sears
My love of books began before I could read. My older sisters had a set of bedtime story books with bright red, yellow, and blue covers. When I was three I remember often sitting on the floor with the books surrounding me. I would run my hands over the shiny covers, then open the books, look at the pictures, and smell the pages. The pages smelled really good, like the garden after a rain, or fresh clothes from the dryer.
In Kindergarten I learned my letters and began reading Dick and Jane books. In fourth grade I hit the literary jackpot with a teacher who read stories to us every day. Mrs. Pannatoni opened up the world of reading with books like: Penrod and Sam, The Middle Moffett, Mr. Poppers Penguins, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks. My love of language expanded, and I journeyed to the most delightful places. I was so enamored with the promise of writing that I began creating little tomes of my own, and when people responded with appreciation and encouragement, I was hooked.
In my college years I was torn between creative writing courses and Theater. I choose Theater, and for many years devoted myself to playwriting, acting, and directing. It was a rewarding adventure--the only problem was the stories that kept bumping around in my head. After both my kids were raised, I decided to wrestle the characters out of my head and onto the page. And so it began with my first book of historical fiction, Autumn Sky.
I have just completed my fourth novel which is now in the hands of my editor. I feel very grateful and amazed. The story is set in 1917 Russia during the Bolshevik revolution. My husband and I were extremely lucky to be able to travel to Russia for research. I share with you pictures from that exciting trip!
My love of books began before I could read. My older sisters had a set of bedtime story books with bright red, yellow, and blue covers. When I was three I remember often sitting on the floor with the books surrounding me. I would run my hands over the shiny covers, then open the books, look at the pictures, and smell the pages. The pages smelled really good, like the garden after a rain, or fresh clothes from the dryer.
In Kindergarten I learned my letters and began reading Dick and Jane books. In fourth grade I hit the literary jackpot with a teacher who read stories to us every day. Mrs. Pannatoni opened up the world of reading with books like: Penrod and Sam, The Middle Moffett, Mr. Poppers Penguins, and Bedknobs and Broomsticks. My love of language expanded, and I journeyed to the most delightful places. I was so enamored with the promise of writing that I began creating little tomes of my own, and when people responded with appreciation and encouragement, I was hooked.
In my college years I was torn between creative writing courses and Theater. I choose Theater, and for many years devoted myself to playwriting, acting, and directing. It was a rewarding adventure--the only problem was the stories that kept bumping around in my head. After both my kids were raised, I decided to wrestle the characters out of my head and onto the page. And so it began with my first book of historical fiction, Autumn Sky.
I have just completed my fourth novel which is now in the hands of my editor. I feel very grateful and amazed. The story is set in 1917 Russia during the Bolshevik revolution. My husband and I were extremely lucky to be able to travel to Russia for research. I share with you pictures from that exciting trip!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Each Life That Touches Ours for Good
As I sit at the computer this morning to write a blog, there are two things rolling around in my mind. One is the hymn, “Each Life That Touches Ours for Good” and the other is my experience at work last night.
We all know I work at the Jordan River Temple. I am finishing my eleventh year as an employee but I worked as a receptionist for roughly two years before that. The Temple has been my home away from home, the people, my Temple family.
With our beautiful new Draper Temple opening up at the beginning of March, we are losing well over 1,000 workers. As volunteers and workers prepare for their work to begin, there are tearful goodbyes to be said. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be.
While at work last night, many long time friends, came to give me a hug and say their goodbyes and though they assured me they would come back for a piece of pie and to say hello, I had to wonder how many of them I would actually see again.
There is the sweet couple that every week came down for a cup of soup, a roll, and a bowl of pudding. She would hug me and he would wave his cane and smile and say, “It’s
good to be seen and not viewed. Now at my age, that’s really saying somethin’!” He’s in his 90’s now. I love that couple and looked forward to visiting with them each time they came.
There is the lovely worker who made sure that every Mother’s Day every woman in the cafeteria had a bundle of fresh cut flowers to take home from the flower shop she worked at so that we wouldn’t go with out. She wanted us to be sure we knew we were not forgotten and that we were loved.
There is the kind brother who every week, twice a week, for as long as I can remember bought us a treat to thank us for our hard work and efforts.
There is the trainer that made sure that with every new group he brought around, would be told to love and appreciate our staff, because,” Until you go behind the doors of the kitchen you have no idea of the hard work they put forth to serve each of us.”
One brother that really started my tears flowing came and thanked me for caring about his health. He said, “No one else really would have given two hoots and a holler, but you always asked if I was okay. That meant more to me than you know. I won’t ever forget that.”
Truth was, he reminded me of my dad. He lost his wife to cancer several years ago and he had heart problems. I worried about him so I made him report in twice a week. Everyone loves that brother including all the workers on his shift. They looked out for this kind, elderly, man.
The list goes on and on. I could tell you about so many incredible people who have served at the Jordan River Temple over the years, both as workers and as staff. Each have made my job worthwhile. They are the reason my job means so much to me.
It has been a privilege and a tremendous blessing in my life to serve with such wonderful people. I have laughed with them, talked with them, some I have even cried and celebrated with them. I look forward to seeing them. I can’t possibly say goodbye to them. I love them.
So I sit here with tears overflowing once more, because I know that once again when I go to work today, there are more friends that will be leaving. I hope with all my heart that our paths really will cross again; that the busy-ness of life won’t take over and that we won’t lose contact.
It is with a grateful heart that I can sit here this morning and think to myself that I have so many people that have touched my life for good. What a very blessed girl I am.
Each life that touches ours for good
Reflects thine own great mercy Lord;
Thou sendest blessings from above
Thru words and deeds of those who love.
What greater gift dost thou bestow,
What greater goodness can we know
Than Christ like friends, whose gentle ways
Strengthen our faith, enrich our days.
We all know I work at the Jordan River Temple. I am finishing my eleventh year as an employee but I worked as a receptionist for roughly two years before that. The Temple has been my home away from home, the people, my Temple family.
With our beautiful new Draper Temple opening up at the beginning of March, we are losing well over 1,000 workers. As volunteers and workers prepare for their work to begin, there are tearful goodbyes to be said. I didn’t realize how difficult it would be.
While at work last night, many long time friends, came to give me a hug and say their goodbyes and though they assured me they would come back for a piece of pie and to say hello, I had to wonder how many of them I would actually see again.
There is the sweet couple that every week came down for a cup of soup, a roll, and a bowl of pudding. She would hug me and he would wave his cane and smile and say, “It’s
good to be seen and not viewed. Now at my age, that’s really saying somethin’!” He’s in his 90’s now. I love that couple and looked forward to visiting with them each time they came.
There is the lovely worker who made sure that every Mother’s Day every woman in the cafeteria had a bundle of fresh cut flowers to take home from the flower shop she worked at so that we wouldn’t go with out. She wanted us to be sure we knew we were not forgotten and that we were loved.
There is the kind brother who every week, twice a week, for as long as I can remember bought us a treat to thank us for our hard work and efforts.
There is the trainer that made sure that with every new group he brought around, would be told to love and appreciate our staff, because,” Until you go behind the doors of the kitchen you have no idea of the hard work they put forth to serve each of us.”
One brother that really started my tears flowing came and thanked me for caring about his health. He said, “No one else really would have given two hoots and a holler, but you always asked if I was okay. That meant more to me than you know. I won’t ever forget that.”
Truth was, he reminded me of my dad. He lost his wife to cancer several years ago and he had heart problems. I worried about him so I made him report in twice a week. Everyone loves that brother including all the workers on his shift. They looked out for this kind, elderly, man.
The list goes on and on. I could tell you about so many incredible people who have served at the Jordan River Temple over the years, both as workers and as staff. Each have made my job worthwhile. They are the reason my job means so much to me.
It has been a privilege and a tremendous blessing in my life to serve with such wonderful people. I have laughed with them, talked with them, some I have even cried and celebrated with them. I look forward to seeing them. I can’t possibly say goodbye to them. I love them.
So I sit here with tears overflowing once more, because I know that once again when I go to work today, there are more friends that will be leaving. I hope with all my heart that our paths really will cross again; that the busy-ness of life won’t take over and that we won’t lose contact.
It is with a grateful heart that I can sit here this morning and think to myself that I have so many people that have touched my life for good. What a very blessed girl I am.
Each life that touches ours for good
Reflects thine own great mercy Lord;
Thou sendest blessings from above
Thru words and deeds of those who love.
What greater gift dost thou bestow,
What greater goodness can we know
Than Christ like friends, whose gentle ways
Strengthen our faith, enrich our days.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Perils of Publishing
by Anna Jones Buttimore
I just had a Eureka moment on my latest novel. Well, maybe "latest" is stretching it a bit and "current" would be more appropriate. I wrote it several years ago, and am reworking it to resubmit it and try to get accepted by my lovely shiny new publishers, Leatherwood Press. On rereading it when it was initially suggested that I dust it off, I realised why Covenant rejected it. It's dull. It's probably the least thrilling thriller ever penned - or tonered, or whatever we should say these days. The bad guys are caught by page 100, and the hero and heroine engage in a predictable and plodding romance for the next fifty pages or so until the wholly predictable proposal on the final page. I was relieved to get to the end and quite certain that nothing I could do to it would ever make it worth the time I spent on it.
Then, quite out of the blue on Sunday afternoon, a plot twist popped into my head which would completely change the whole dynamic, and suddenly I am loving writing again and seeing my dreary manuscript slowly mutate into what I hope will be an edge-of-the-seat keep-'em-guessing fast-paced truly thrilling thriller. I'll let you know. Or, hopefully, you'll let me know when you'v read it.
What I'm getting at is that writing is actually really hard work, and not terribly well paid when the hours spent are factored in. I'm convinced no one would do it if not for the actual love of the creative process itself, especially those wonderful "Eureka" moments.
A recent article in the Law Society Gazette (which is possibly even less thrilling than the first draft of Kept in Trust) about solicitors who are also authors raised two points 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.
I just had a Eureka moment on my latest novel. Well, maybe "latest" is stretching it a bit and "current" would be more appropriate. I wrote it several years ago, and am reworking it to resubmit it and try to get accepted by my lovely shiny new publishers, Leatherwood Press. On rereading it when it was initially suggested that I dust it off, I realised why Covenant rejected it. It's dull. It's probably the least thrilling thriller ever penned - or tonered, or whatever we should say these days. The bad guys are caught by page 100, and the hero and heroine engage in a predictable and plodding romance for the next fifty pages or so until the wholly predictable proposal on the final page. I was relieved to get to the end and quite certain that nothing I could do to it would ever make it worth the time I spent on it.
Then, quite out of the blue on Sunday afternoon, a plot twist popped into my head which would completely change the whole dynamic, and suddenly I am loving writing again and seeing my dreary manuscript slowly mutate into what I hope will be an edge-of-the-seat keep-'em-guessing fast-paced truly thrilling thriller. I'll let you know. Or, hopefully, you'll let me know when you'v read it.
What I'm getting at is that writing is actually really hard work, and not terribly well paid when the hours spent are factored in. I'm convinced no one would do it if not for the actual love of the creative process itself, especially those wonderful "Eureka" moments.
A recent article in the Law Society Gazette (which is possibly even less thrilling than the first draft of Kept in Trust) about solicitors who are also authors raised two points 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.
Monday, February 16, 2009
A Tale of Love and Vehicles
In honor of Valentine's Day, here’s my how-I-met-my-husband story.
When I started my second year at BYU, my cousin, Darrin, had just returned from his mission. Darrin is one of the nicest and wittiest guys on the planet, and my sister and I were excited to have him at BYU. (And the thought did cross our minds that having a male cousin nearby could be a very good thing, since male cousins have male friends).
When we went to Darrin’s apartment to say hi, he wasn’t home, so we left him a note telling him his gorgeous cousins had stopped by. (Okay, so maybe we fudged a bit on the gorgeous part. Chalk it up to wishful thinking). Darrin called us and we arranged to meet at the Wilkinson Center.
At this fateful meeting, Darrin brought his roommate along. Who could resist the chance to meet the self-proclaimed Gorgeous Cousins? Brian was from Rochester, New York, had roomed with Darrin freshman year, and had recently returned from his mission. He was also the proud owner of a new pair of socks. This was in the days when male students were required to wear socks and Brian had—oops—come to campus sans socks. In order to get his ID card, he had to make a quick stop at the BYU Bookstore. I soon discovered that, besides being handsome and well-supplied with socks, Brian was also brilliant, funny, witty, kind, and everything else wonderful.
In those early days before classes started, my sister, my cousin, Brian and I liked to have fun together. Not many weeks passed before Brian and I started dating, and the rest is history. We got engaged in March and were married in the Salt Lake Temple in August. But within hours following the wedding, we found that one thing we’d taken for granted in the naïve, love-struck days of our courtship was soon to disappear from our lives.
A working vehicle.
The car trouble began after our wedding reception. The key to the trunk of Brian’s ancient Audi (a separate key from the ignition key) fell off the ring while he was loading his suitcase. His key got locked in the trunk. There was no spare key and no way to access the trunk from inside the car. Thank heavens my suitcase wasn’t in there yet, but Brian had to make do with the clothes he’d left at his grandmother’s (where he’d been staying) until we could get the car to a key shop the next day. We spent a good chunk of our first day of married life at a locksmith’s while they got the trunk opened for us.
With the trunk problem fixed, we headed toward Springdale (near Zion’s National Park) where we would be staying in a condo. Partway there, our Audi started doing some terrible car thing and we had to stop in Nephi to get a hose replaced. While we waited at the garage, I looked with interest at the Hostess Fruit Pies for sale, but told myself no, don’t buy one, we’ll be eating dinner when we arrive at our destination.
I should have gone for the fruit pie. We got the car fixed, but not much farther down the road, the car started spewing white smoke. Apparently white smoke coming from a car is double-plus ungood. We pulled off I-15 and, from a rest stop, called a tow truck. The tow truck took us into the quiet little town of Parowan and dropped us at a motel. We’d had no dinner, it was midnight, and not even the vending machines had anything good to offer.
The next morning, we called Brian’s parents to come rescue us. Yes, folks, we had to call my husband’s parents to come pick us up while we were on our honeymoon. They were headed in our direction anyway, en route to our open house at my parents’ home in Southern Utah. The open house went well, my parents lent us a car for our honeymoon, we got a nail in the tire of that car and had to get it fixed; they gave us another car for the drive back to Provo and we blew a tire on the freeway on that one. But we were young and in love and the birdies were singing and all that.
Now, nineteen and a half years later, we’re still young and in love, and, thank heavens, the car curse hasn't continued.
When I started my second year at BYU, my cousin, Darrin, had just returned from his mission. Darrin is one of the nicest and wittiest guys on the planet, and my sister and I were excited to have him at BYU. (And the thought did cross our minds that having a male cousin nearby could be a very good thing, since male cousins have male friends).
When we went to Darrin’s apartment to say hi, he wasn’t home, so we left him a note telling him his gorgeous cousins had stopped by. (Okay, so maybe we fudged a bit on the gorgeous part. Chalk it up to wishful thinking). Darrin called us and we arranged to meet at the Wilkinson Center.
At this fateful meeting, Darrin brought his roommate along. Who could resist the chance to meet the self-proclaimed Gorgeous Cousins? Brian was from Rochester, New York, had roomed with Darrin freshman year, and had recently returned from his mission. He was also the proud owner of a new pair of socks. This was in the days when male students were required to wear socks and Brian had—oops—come to campus sans socks. In order to get his ID card, he had to make a quick stop at the BYU Bookstore. I soon discovered that, besides being handsome and well-supplied with socks, Brian was also brilliant, funny, witty, kind, and everything else wonderful.
In those early days before classes started, my sister, my cousin, Brian and I liked to have fun together. Not many weeks passed before Brian and I started dating, and the rest is history. We got engaged in March and were married in the Salt Lake Temple in August. But within hours following the wedding, we found that one thing we’d taken for granted in the naïve, love-struck days of our courtship was soon to disappear from our lives.
A working vehicle.
The car trouble began after our wedding reception. The key to the trunk of Brian’s ancient Audi (a separate key from the ignition key) fell off the ring while he was loading his suitcase. His key got locked in the trunk. There was no spare key and no way to access the trunk from inside the car. Thank heavens my suitcase wasn’t in there yet, but Brian had to make do with the clothes he’d left at his grandmother’s (where he’d been staying) until we could get the car to a key shop the next day. We spent a good chunk of our first day of married life at a locksmith’s while they got the trunk opened for us.
With the trunk problem fixed, we headed toward Springdale (near Zion’s National Park) where we would be staying in a condo. Partway there, our Audi started doing some terrible car thing and we had to stop in Nephi to get a hose replaced. While we waited at the garage, I looked with interest at the Hostess Fruit Pies for sale, but told myself no, don’t buy one, we’ll be eating dinner when we arrive at our destination.
I should have gone for the fruit pie. We got the car fixed, but not much farther down the road, the car started spewing white smoke. Apparently white smoke coming from a car is double-plus ungood. We pulled off I-15 and, from a rest stop, called a tow truck. The tow truck took us into the quiet little town of Parowan and dropped us at a motel. We’d had no dinner, it was midnight, and not even the vending machines had anything good to offer.
The next morning, we called Brian’s parents to come rescue us. Yes, folks, we had to call my husband’s parents to come pick us up while we were on our honeymoon. They were headed in our direction anyway, en route to our open house at my parents’ home in Southern Utah. The open house went well, my parents lent us a car for our honeymoon, we got a nail in the tire of that car and had to get it fixed; they gave us another car for the drive back to Provo and we blew a tire on the freeway on that one. But we were young and in love and the birdies were singing and all that.
Now, nineteen and a half years later, we’re still young and in love, and, thank heavens, the car curse hasn't continued.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Hope Springs Eternal
Alexander Pope truly hit things on the head when he penned the infamous words I quoted above. It goes a little something like this:
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin'd from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.
-Alexander Pope,
An Essay on Man, Epistle I, 1733
Incidentally, I looked up "expatiates" and it means to wander without limits. Food for thought. =) So in other words, we cling to hope in this life, doing the best that we can, and someday, we'll get to catch up on little things like rest, relaxation, and travel in the next realm. =D That's something to hope for, to my way of thinking.
As you can possibly tell, I've been thinking about hope lately. It must be important, considering how many times it's mentioned in the scriptures. I believe that hope is crucial to surviving mortal mode, and all of the adventures that go along with it.
We've been experiencing a few adventures in our neck of the woods lately. Some are incredible blessings, like the sealing that took place between a nephew and his wife on Saturday. Several of us gathered for this event at the Logan Temple and it was a wonderful day. Tim and Heidi were glowing with happiness, as this picture depicts:
It was truly the highlight of our week. And after witnessing the eternal union of this wonderful couple, we then traversed across town to the famed Bluebird Restaurant for a delicious bite of lunch. We ate, we visited, we took lots of pictures.
It was a fun day, and one we'll remember fondly for a very long time---even if we had to drive back to Bear Lake in yet another winter storm. ;) We returned home safely to the 2-3 feet of snow that blankets our front yard. Despite the white fluffy stuff, we have hope that someday spring will make an arrival. The Gurney's Seed Catalog showed up at our house over the weekend, so I know winter will eventually depart and I can play in the dirt. =)Tomorrow I will be singing at a funeral. My sister's m-i-l passed away and it is a time of sorrow for this family. Still, there is hope. This good woman is no longer suffering from the physical ailment that caused such misery in her life. And family bonds are eternal bonds. This should give us all the hope in the world when a loved one moves on past mortal bounds. There will be tears and tugs at the heart, but in time, that will be replaced by a calming peace we call the Comforter. That precious gift helps us to survive stormy moments in our lives. It is a gift of loving hope.
Recently I faced quite an obstacle. I serve as the YW president in our ward, and the famed New Beginnings program is on the horizon. As a presidency, we had decided that it would be wonderful to show a DVD containing all of the pictures we had taken of our YW during this past year, complete with accompanying music. We planned for it to be a goodly portion of our program, something we hoped would be entertaining and inspiring. The only downside: one of us needed to put the thing together.
I volunteered for this task. I had received a new external DVD burner for Christmas a couple of months ago, and I had high hopes that I would be able to figure out how to run it, and the new programs that came with it. As time progressed, I discovered that the manual that came with this DVD burner wasn't much help, nor was the online "help" site. It repeated everything that I found in the five page manual, which pretty much shared how to turn on the machine and plug it into my computer. Ahhh.
A few months ago, I suffered a little head injury this past summer at girls' camp. A heavy metal pipe bonked me on top of the head. I suffered a bit from this adventure, and I still seem to have a few glitches, as my children would be the first to point out. Like the time over Thanksgiving when I asked one of my sons to retrieve some potatoes from our pantry downstairs. I handed him a bag and said:
"Would you please bring up some Yakima potatoes?"
I thought I had made perfect sense. In my mind I had said Yukon. It wasn't until my children roared with laughter (thank heavens my cute granddaughter was too little to point fingers and make fun) that I realized my mistake. Sigh . . . and yes, "Yakima" has become a family saying, whenever someone in the family slips up in some way. "Was that a Yakima moment?" tends to be asked. Did I mention, "sigh . . ."? ;)
Time passed and I figured all was well. I've been playing several computer games that make one think, like puzzles, word games, hidden--object adventures, etc. determined to help my poor brain heal. Then the other night as I attended a town meeting, I messed up again. This time I butchered someone's name. I've known this lady for years, and I completely botched her name. Once again, people were rolling off their chairs laughing hysterically. It was another "Yakima" adventure.
Despite all of that, I still had hope that I would be able to figure out my new DVD burner and complicated programs. And after a week of pulling out my hair, I finally experienced success. I was able to put together a DVD of the YW pictures, and I even figured out how to make a copy of this same DVD for all of our YW, since I'm certain it will be a treasure for them to cherish. ;)
I'm sharing this experience because I think it represents how we can cling to hope during these crazy latter-days. First, we have to be grateful for all that we've been blessed with, even items like snow. Because of all of this snow, we'll have plenty of water during the warmer spring and summer months. Stuff like that.
Next, we have to persevere, despite "Yakima" moments. We push on, doing the best that we can, trusting that we'll have the help of heaven after we've done our part.
And after we've endured a bit of testing and stretching, then we'll see the end result if we don't give up, whether it's a temple sealing, mashed potatoes for Thanksgiving dinner, or an inspiring DVD for New Beginnings that is our goal. =)
Hope does spring eternal within our souls, though we may not realize it when trials descend and all seems lost. The key again is to never give up.
Thomas Edison is one of my heroes---for this very reason. The man never gave up. When he was growing up, his teachers thought he was slow. He finally dropped out of school and his mother taught him at home. He finished his own education by reading constantly and performing experiments in the basement of his home. He never did attend college. This didn't stop him from inventing numerous devices that we still use to this day, like a durable incandescent light bulb, and the phonograph. He invented the phonograph despite the fact that he was partially deaf. What a guy! People like Tom inspire me to hang in there, despite my little Yakima glitches. ;)
So my message today is simply this, despite the challenges of our time, allow hope to spring eternal. I suspect when it's all said and done, items like that will be what really matters.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Keeping the theme - my journey as an author by Michele Ashman Bell
If the V-formation was a chain, I would definitely be the weakest link. I am so honored to be part of this great group of women, as well as have an association with so many other wonderful LDS authors. I marvel sometimes that I am even able to count myself as one of them.
My journey to becoming published, and the journey I believe I'm still on, is definitely the way NOT to get published. I did everything wrong. I will get to that in just a minute.
Like most, my desire to get published was born out of love for books. Fourth grade was a pivotal year for me. I clearly remember my teacher reading us the book, My Father's Dragon, by Ruth Stiles Gannett. For me, that story came to life and was so visual that I felt as if it was a movie playing in my mind. That was also the year I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder. I started with Little House in the Big Woods and read all the way to the Happy Golden Years, then started all over again. These are beloved books for me and cemented my passion for reading.
Here's the funny thing, on my 4th grade report card my teacher actually wrote, "she has a tendency to daydream. She would probably do well with creative writing." HELLO!
I am a little ashamed to admit that as I grew into a teenager, I didn't always read the most uplifting books. In my defense, there weren't a lot to choose from. LDS fiction hadn't taken off yet and except for the occasional Jack Weyland book, I read what was out there. A favorite was LaVyrle Spencer. Her historicals were rich and wonderful and beautifully written. I was guilty of hiding my paperbacks inside my textbooks so I could read during class. Yes, I got busted a few times and got in trouble, but that was how much I loved reading.
I was so busy reading that I didn't pay attention in English, nor did I bother excelling in any kind of literary pursuit. It hadn't occurred to me yet that I might actually need to use this knowledge someday.
The writing bug bit me when I was in my mid-twenties. I had two small children and while they were sleeping I would spend time reading. Back then Good Housekeeping always had a short story in it and I enjoyed reading these stories until one day I read a story that I thought was so stupid I proclaimed, "I could have written something better than that!"
My journey to becoming published, and the journey I believe I'm still on, is definitely the way NOT to get published. I did everything wrong. I will get to that in just a minute.
Like most, my desire to get published was born out of love for books. Fourth grade was a pivotal year for me. I clearly remember my teacher reading us the book, My Father's Dragon, by Ruth Stiles Gannett. For me, that story came to life and was so visual that I felt as if it was a movie playing in my mind. That was also the year I discovered Laura Ingalls Wilder. I started with Little House in the Big Woods and read all the way to the Happy Golden Years, then started all over again. These are beloved books for me and cemented my passion for reading.
Here's the funny thing, on my 4th grade report card my teacher actually wrote, "she has a tendency to daydream. She would probably do well with creative writing." HELLO! I am a little ashamed to admit that as I grew into a teenager, I didn't always read the most uplifting books. In my defense, there weren't a lot to choose from. LDS fiction hadn't taken off yet and except for the occasional Jack Weyland book, I read what was out there. A favorite was LaVyrle Spencer. Her historicals were rich and wonderful and beautifully written. I was guilty of hiding my paperbacks inside my textbooks so I could read during class. Yes, I got busted a few times and got in trouble, but that was how much I loved reading.
I was so busy reading that I didn't pay attention in English, nor did I bother excelling in any kind of literary pursuit. It hadn't occurred to me yet that I might actually need to use this knowledge someday.
The writing bug bit me when I was in my mid-twenties. I had two small children and while they were sleeping I would spend time reading. Back then Good Housekeeping always had a short story in it and I enjoyed reading these stories until one day I read a story that I thought was so stupid I proclaimed, "I could have written something better than that!"
The declaration caused something inside me to click and I dared to wonder, could I really? Soon after I took my kids to the library and checked out some books on writing. I devoured them, absorbing each page like it was feeding an empty spot I had inside that I didn't even know I had. I also took a Creative Writing class through the community education system. I absolutely loved going to class, doing the assignments and receiving feedback for my efforts. Learning took on a whole new meaning for me. It wasn't long after that I joined the Utah League of Writers and attended their conferences, even receiving an honorable mention for a short story I'd written. From there I found critique groups existed and joined two of them so I could have a place to read my work and have a support group who understood why I spent so much time writing and why I was so determined to get published. No one understands authors like other authors. My husband didn't get it, my friends and family didn't get it, only my wanna-be author friends got it. Thank goodness I was too dumb to know how hard it would be to get published or I would've given up before I started. For TEN YEARS I wrote, submitted and collected rejection letters. I kept every stinking one of those rejections because I vowed that one day I would prove them all wrong. I keep them in a binder to remind me of the dues I paid to get where I am now. Finally, after giving up on the national market, I decided to try the regional/LDS market. It was just taking off thanks to Jennie Hansen, Anita Stansfield and Chris Heimerdinger. They are groundbreakers and deserve a lot of credit for the success of the LDS fiction market. I came up with a story that I thought was the perfect LDS story. A romance/conversion story. I thought it out very carefully and wrote 400 pages of a story I thought would be perfect for the market. It was sent back after six months with a suggestion to get rid of 100 pages and to change my main character because none of the evaluators even liked her. That really hurt! And I was used to rejection by this time! Anyway, I threw the manuscript on the shelf and moved onto other projects because I was so discouraged. Then, after about a year, I started thinking about my story and what I would need to do to change it. I began the rewrite and took out 100 pages of unnecessary story and I changed my main character by giving her an eating disorder, something I had strong feelings about because my sister suffered with anorexia when she was a teenager. Suddenly the story I had thought so much about in my head, became an effort from my heart. I developed a love for the character and a passion for the story. I learned an important lesson about writing from this experience. Stories from the heart will touch other people's hearts. I sent the manuscript back to the publisher and several weeks later a wonderful woman by the name Valerie Holladay called to tell me that Covenant Communications wanted to publish it. Ten years of hard work had paid off and I was so glad I never gave up on my dream. It has been so rewarding and such a thrill to write books and receive touching letters from readers, and to get to know the amazing authors that I call my friends. When I go to writers groups and libraries to speak, my message is always one of encouragement and hope. I firmly believe that if someone wants something badly enough and is willing to work hard enough, they can make their dreams come true. Dreams aren't usually handed to us on a silver platter, they happen because we make them happen. Those are the best dreams of all. Those are the dreams that last.
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