The Ease of Some Things, The Difficulty of Others

I was invited last night to talk to the members of a local book club about Pursued: A Maggie McKenzie Mystery. Of course, I was delighted to go do that (even though I was totally exhausted from a long few days with my two youngest grandchildren.) There is something exhilarating - even rejuvenating about discussing something you love or something you've accomplished.

I promised my also exhausted husband that I would hurry home as quickly as possible so we could collapse in bed in a quiet house without having to listen for crying babies and get a good night's sleep. But, as it frequently happens, as soon as they began asking questions about the book, I completely forgot how tired I had been. It was a full two hours later that I returned home to my very weary husband (who had lovingly waited up for me.)

Contrast that pleasant experience with anticipating my turn to blog. I approach it with not just trepidation, but a blankness of mind. What subject might be of interest? What won't sound trite or foolish? How long will it take me because I have to rewrite it so many times to make it sound like I am actually literate?

Why isn't it as easy to write as it is to talk? I can talk forever on many subjects and actually make some sense. But shouldn't it be as easy to just write the things that I would say if I were having a conversation with a friend? I just sat and pondered this question for a few minutes, and decided that when we speak, it goes away rather quickly. In one ear and out the other, so to speak. But when we are writing, it is there - a record in black and white to be called up again and again or passed along to others - and who knows how many will see it?

And judge.

That is the root of the problem. The fear that we will be judged. I really don't want to be known as a blithering idiot. By my age, there is supposed to have been acquired a certain amount of wisdom and knowledge. Unfortunately, I'm not a witty person. I don't make people laugh with clever dialogue or witticisms. That leaves the opposite pole - being wise and knowledgeable. And lest at this point, I show my lack of either wisdom or knowledge, I will leave you to ponder these questions: Why do we fear what other people think? Why should it matter if we are secure in our knowledge of who we are? Why can't we just be ourselves and not worry over every word we write?

Off to Washington, DC

Today I leave my quiet little Utah home, and journey with my sister and two friends for the wilds of Washington, DC.

We are attending the Restoring Honor Rally on the steps of the Lincoln memorial. We will be four of many...many thousands of many, and I'm sure we'll spill down the steps and into the mall area surrounding the reflecting pool. Perhaps our numbers will be such that we'll reach the World War II Memorial and encompass the Vietnam Memorial. Perhaps our prayers and our voices will reach the White House and the chambers of the Congress. One can only hope.

We are going because we love this country. We are going peacefully, but with purpose. We are going to show that we, as individual Americans, are willing to strengthen our integrity, to make changes in our own financial responsibility, and to stand firm for the founding principles that made this country unique in the world.

We call out for our elected leaders to make the same commitment.

Vanity Publishing

I recently listened to a very interesting debate on the radio about self-publishing.

Years ago, self publishing used to be called Vanity publishing, and it was pretty much that - someone thought so much of themselves and their book that they would part with thousands of pounds to have it printed and then try to flog it themselves by hawking it round bookshops and calling in favours from polite friends and acquaintances. Apparently in these days of print-on-demand and Amazon things are very different and it is becoming quite acceptable to self publish, as well as much easier to marker your self-published book.

There was a contributor to the discussion who had self-published his book, had it fall into the hands of an influential journalist and subsequently been offered a £2.5 million deal for his next three books. Another had written a book called "The Father's Home Birth Handbook" which he had self-published; it sold very well and he was then offered royalties by a publisher who offered to reprint it. So I guess sometimes it can be OK. Sometimes. I still come down against it for several reasons.

1. I have always taken the view that if my manuscript isn't good enough for a reputable publisher to offer to pay me for it, then it isn't good enough. What's the point of trying, researching, working hard to hone my skill and perfect my craft if any rubbish I write could be published?
2. One of the contributors on the show - the managing director of a self-publishing company - admitted that they don't read the manuscripts they publish. I think that speaks volumes. Those books could be obscene, inflammatory, misleading or badly researched. There's enough of that on the internet without it appearing in print too.
3. The public only have a certain amount of money to spend on books, and self-published dross dilutes the market.
4. The book-buying public deserve the best; a book is an investment. As a teenager I bought a book by Rosemary Conley, my favourite fitness guru, only to discover when I read it that it was basically a rehash of her last book. Off I trotted to the shop to return it as unsuitable. Of course, I was told I couldn't return it. Innocently I asked why. "Because you might just have read it and be bringing it back," I was told. "I HAVE read it and it's no good," I replied. "That's why I'm bringing it back." That's when I learned the truth. If any other product or service is shoddy or substandard you can return it for a full refund. Not so books. That's why we need discerning agents and publishers to ensure that the books we buy are worth the price we pay for them.
5. Yes, it's very difficult to get published. Yes, it's tough to have a manuscript you've worked hard on rejected. I know, I've been there many times. Even the best authors have a box full of rejection letters. But it's partly the fact that so few people succeed that makes it worth aiming for. These days we seem to be getting rather too politically correct about not letting people experience rejection. It's part of life - get over it. What would be the point of an Olympics where everyone got a medal, or where the losers said, "Never mind, I'm going to pay someone to make me a nice shiny gold medal anyway and that'll be just as good."
6. Books enjoy a better reputation than the Internet. It used to be that in order to get a serious work of non-fiction published you had to show your publisher meticulous research and well-reasoned arguments. This, in turn, meant that books could, to some extent, be trusted to be accurate. I decry anything which leads to the printed work becoming untrustworthy and of less value.
7. Publishers do far more than simply edit a book. I don't yet know the title of my next book because my publishers are choosing it, and I trust them to do so. They know the market, they have been able to cast fresh eyes on my book and although in this case they didn't edit it, I know that the input of a professional editor is invaluable. They also take care of the marketing - generally the most difficult part of the process.
8. Call me old fashioned, but I like to be paid for my work. I don't pay someone for the privilege of sitting at my desk for five hours a day keeping databases up to date any more than I pay my neighbours to look through Avon brochures. If I do a good job, I expect to reap a financial reward, and writing is no different.
9. I understand what it is to have such pride in your work that you want to see it in print. But if you've watched "America's Got Talent" you'll know that not everyone who thinks they are a great singer is correct. Humility involves accepting that your best is not as good as someone else's, and doesn't meet a required standard. It doesn't mean paying out to give your ego a boost.

So having said all that, I give you full permission to point, laugh and say "I told you so" when my Magnum Opus gets rejected everywhere and I resort to publishing it myself...

Service Soothes

This past week as I prepared a lesson for the YW in our ward, I came across some inspiring words about service. We all know that we feel better about things when we reach out to help others. The following quotes help explain why that is:

"When we are engaged in the service of our fellowmen, not only do our deeds assist them, but we put our own problems in a fresher perspective. When we concern ourselves more with others, there is less time to be concerned with ourselves! In the midst of of the miracle of serving, there is the promise of Jesus, that by losing ourselves, we find ourselves.

"Not only do we find ourselves in terms of acknowledging guidance in our lives but the more we serve our fellowmen in appropriate ways, the more substance there is to our soul. We become more significant individuals as we serve others. We become more substantive as we serve others--indeed, it is easier to find ourselves because there is more of us to find." (President Spencer W. Kimball)


Supposing today were your last day on earth,
The last mile of the journey you've trod;
After all of your struggles, how much are you worth,
How much can you take home to God?

Don't count as possessions your silver and gold,
Tomorrow you leave these behind,
And all that is yours to have and to hold
Is the service you've given mankind.
(Anonymous)

I fully believe in the miracle of service. When I'm hurting, or when life bogs me down, if I do something for someone else, the pain fades, and life seems brighter. It truly does bring joy into our lives when we serve others. That is part of how I survived my father's suicide death 27 years ago next month.

My adventure with the healing power of service began when I was asked to take dinner to an ill woman in our ward. Long story short, I didn't begin this task with the best attitude. Because of the nature of my father's death, I had been feeling like a non-person. Back then there was such a stigma attached to suicide, most people didn't know what to do or say. An example: one day as I walked down the aisle of the local grocery store, I spotted a friend of my parents. I offered a small smile, and saw the panicked look on her face as she whirled her cart around to head in the opposite direction. I would like to say that was a one time occurrence, but I can't. It was a difficult time, and while I tried to understand my sudden plunge into non-personhood, I struggled all the same.

Guilt kept me from declining when I was asked to take dinner into the sick woman's home two months after my father's death. As I angrily chopped up the vegetables for homemade clam chowder, I silently fumed over the unfairness of the situation. That all changed when I entered this woman's home later that day and saw for myself how ill she really was. She was so weak, she needed help to eat. Her home had been neglected because of her illness and while I was there I tidied things up a bit. As I drove home, a piece of the ice-burg developing inside my heart melted. The pain I was feeling lessened, and I realized I was onto something.

After that experience, I began looking for ways to serve others. The more I did for other people, the better I felt inside. It was one of the tools I used to heal from that deep loss. That lifeline saved me from becoming embittered. I will be forever grateful for the lesson learned.

Service does indeed soothe when hearts are shattered. It is a wonderful way to heal and to help those around us who are struggling---proof yet again that a wise and loving Father in heaven is at the helm, and that He knows best how to help us find joy in this troubled world.

Plot or Characters

Plot versus characters is a little like the old chicken and the egg question. To many readers It's not a matter of which comes first though, but which is more important. For me, plot might just have a little edge, but no matter how great the plot, I never am satisfied with a book peopled by crummy characters.

Plot is vital to me; I've never really enjoyed the kind of novel where the angst-filled protagonist flirts with insanity, struggles with some kind of mental complex, or grapples with depression if that is the main crux of the story. Many literary novels take a character and build an entire book around the character's inner emotional struggle. These same problems are fine character attributes if there's a plot to the story too. Other writers concentrate so heavily on action and plot twists, the characters are the same at the end as the beginning and the reader has no idea who they are. Many readers and writers seem to think a novel should be all action or all inner character development. The best novels in my opinion are those where the characters become real to the reader and grow and learn through the course or events of the story. One of the nicest compliments I ever received was from a reader who said when she finished reading When Tomorrow Comes she felt she should call up George and Jacey and invite them to dinner.

So how do we create characters that feel real? Some writers, including me, take a sheet of paper, put the character's name at the top, then list eye color, hair color, physical details such as height, weight, where and when the person was born, where went to school, employment record, parents, siblings, hobbies, likes, dislikes, and everything else that identifies that person. One romance writer who spoke at a conference I attended said she goes to a doll-maker who makes a doll from her description of her heroine and she keeps the doll on her desk while writing her story. Another says she hunts through magazines and clips out pictures that fit her idea of each character and tacks them to a board by her desk. The important things is a character must be firmly entrenched in the writer's mind if there is to be any hope of the character being real to the reader.

I commented once in a review that an author's heroine didn't feel real and she sent me an angry email telling me how real the character was because she was actually herself. I suspect she read much more into the actual words she wrote than her readers possibly could. Most writers, unless they're writing an autobiography, don't project themselves well into their novels because our characters seem to take on better or worse attributes than we actually possess. In one of my early books I thought I was using myself as a model for a character and wound up seriously wounding my ego as I got letters from several readers saying how much they loved the book, but they disliked that character.

Another conference speaker once advised the audience not to create "stupid heroines." I've always considered that good advice. She also said our heroines need to be strong in their own right and shouldn't have to be rescued by a "man or a miracle." More good advice. On the other hand, I dislike wimpy heroes who can't get anything right either.

It's possible to have the best characters in the world and still have a poor story. Something has to happen or there's no story. That something needs to place the protagonist or someone he/she cares about in danger, be a changing point in the main character's life, or in some way present a puzzle to be solved. There's a good reason why the major genres appeal to readers. It's because the characters are pitted against a major challenge they must defend against, outwit, or in some way overcome. In a well-written novel the reader identifies with the antagonist and pits her/his own reasoning and skills against the problem, gaining a sense of achievement as the problem is solved whether it's defeating the bad guys, planning a wedding, or moving forward with renewed purpose.

I freely admit I like a book with an intricate plot and strong characters. I read all kinds of books, but I prefer action and a well thought out plots whether the story takes place now or in the historical past. I've read and enjoyed some books in almost every genre, but I quickly become bored with mythical characters, unreal worlds, and magical potions, and the frenzied attempt some writers make to be meaner, bloodier, or more shocking than anyone else. Shock is not a substitute for plot. Whatever genre I pick up I want characters I can like and believe in and a problem with challenging twists and turns.

Okay, I've expressed my feelings about plot and characters, I'd like to know how other writers view these two important components of writing, and more importantly, I'd like to hear from readers about whether you consider plot and characters of equal importance or does one matter more than the other? Anyone who leaves a thoughtful comment will be included in the Wish List drawing on my blog http://notesfromjenniesdesk.blogspot.com

When You Don't Know What's Next

Last week I went to one of my favorite stores, Barnes & Noble, to get a birthday gift for my brother. While I was there, I found a small sale book ($5 is about what I can these days) from Ann Patchett (author of Bel Canto and several other books). The book was based on Patchett’s graduation speech to her alma mater, Sarah Lawrence. The title is What’s Next?

I remember the questions I used to get as a college student that really had no answer, which were variations of “What next?” What was I going to do with an English degree? I had the answer once upon a time. I was going to teach. Looking back, I’m grateful I had an answer for so many years, even if that answer wasn’t in fact, “the answer,” since after one year of teaching high school, I decided I wanted to do something else. So for a few years I worked different jobs and tried to figure out “What next?” Then, in one day, I had the answer, I was going back to school. It felt right and also good: it was completely paid for.

As a graduate student, the question came again, “What next?” and like the majority of students, I had no idea what I would do next. More college for a Ph.D. is a nice answer, but I didn’t think I wanted to do that. One friend finally asked in exasperation, “Do you even know what you’re doing?” Well, now, that question I had an answer to. I didn’t know what I was going to do NEXT, but I knew what I was doing right at that time. I was taking one step at a time, doing whatever was next in front of my face. An assignment, a work project, whatever needed to be done, that’s what I was doing.

In the 20 or so years since then I've had times when I knew both what I was doing and what I would be doing next; I’ve also had plenty of the other when I had no idea what I was going to do, what I should be doing, how I was going to support myself, what was next. Right now I have what I see as the luxury of knowing what I’m going to do from September to December. I have two classes to teach; the money isn’t fabulous but I can mostly live on it. After that, who knows? Maybe I’ll have a better idea as we get closer to December. Or maybe I’ll finish up and have no idea until January. In the meantime, I found some comfort from Ann Patchett’s experience (which included a lot of waitressing, even after she earned a graduate degree, which makes me feel better). She says:

Sometimes we don't realize what we've learned until we've already known it for a very long time.

Receiving an education is a little bit like a garden snake swallowing a chicken egg: it's in you but it takes a while to digest.

If you're trying to find out what's coming next, turn off everything you own that has an OFF switch and listen.

I guess it’s time to turn off my computer and listen for while. I’ll let you know if I hear anything.

Multigeneration Fun!

I love being a gramma! My spell check always flags that word, wanting me to put grandmother - which I'm not - or even grandma - but I'm really just a plain old gramma. My youngest grandchildren can say that word easily and it isn't as pretentious and formal as grandmother. So that is the moniker I choose.

All summer I've been playing with grandchildren. I've taken them to skating parks and applauded their blossoming skills on skate boards and razors, and bandaged scraped knees and elbows. Fortunately, we didn't have any broken bones while I was in charge. I've been drowned by squirt guns in the swimming pool, made innumerable batches of cookies, dished up gallons of ice cream, counted tokens from video games, and chauffeured countless miles. That's just one set of three grandsons. We also took two of them with us to Bear Lake to the family reunion and tried to keep them entertained on the long drive from California to Idaho - no small feat. Thank heaven for books on CD since my car isn't equipment with TV as theirs and my daughter's is. (C. S. Lewis, thank you for your incredible imagination!) They laughed when I fell off the jet ski and begged me to take another picture of their magnificent sand castle to show their parents.

Two weeks ago, I went to the Bowers Museum in Santa Ana with my two youngest grandchildren and their parents to see a Silk Road Exhibit, complete with mummies and lots of fun artifacts. Five-year-old Violet was entranced with the little girl mummy, and the jewelry and things found with her. Nineteen-month-old Julian liked the Fu Dogs at the entrance to the China exhibit much better. He pointed and babbled and laughed, and was very good as long as I was pushing him. I think I got in about 1000 steps that day keeping him entertained in his stroller while his parents actually saw the exhibit.

The first weekend in August, Violet, Julian and their Mom met me and my Las Vegas daughter and her four kids at the Getty Villa Museum in Malibu where we spent two hours enjoying the incredible treasures J. Paul Getty collected. The Family Forum room was so entertaining and educational the kids didn't want to leave. Then we hit the beach. Tailgate picnic, collecting rocks and seas shells, running in the surf (I didn't join my 14-year-old grandson body surfing this time - the water was FREEZING!)

This week, I drove to Las Vegas, spent the rest of Wednesday helping my daughter hang all her certificates and memorabilia on her wall, mending, remodelling some clothes for the kids. Thursday we drove to Cedar City and took in a Shakespeare play while the kids did the movies. We all went swimming at our hotel, walked a mile to eat, walked back to the Festival and laughed till we were exhausted at "39 Steps." Who'd have thought they could turn that Hitchcock mystery into something almost slapstick? It was pure delight.

We walked back to our hotel in the dark and talked about the play, about the funny things in the shop windows, and plans for tomorrow. My almost-8-year-old granddaughter slept with me in my king-sized bed and managed to end up finding me clear on the other side of the bed and snuggling with me before the night was over.

Why do I tell you all this inconsequential "stuff" of my summer? Because, first of all, it was tremendous fun for me. And second, I believe it is extremely important to stay connected to the next generations. I remember my grandmother. I knew she loved me more than my own mom at times (or so it seemed.) After all, she didn't have to discipline me. She could just love me.

I believe all children need to know there are other people in this world that love them as much as their parents. I believe that we have gained much insight in our many years on the earth that can help those of the younger generation see things in a different, maybe more positive light. I believe it is our privilege and responsibility to pass on some wisdom we've acquired that they might not experience for many more years.

I tended my three grandsons for a week while their parents celebrated their 20th anniversary. The 15-year-old pressed-to-test a couple of times, wanting more freedom than I knew he should have. It could have gotten sticky if we hadn't already established a great rapport during the years. But he knew how much I loved him, and we made a couple of compromises that kept us both happy. He will probably get to the point where coming to gramma's isn't the cool thing to do, but until then, we enjoy each other. (By the way, Rat-A-Tat Cat is the most fun game for kids!)

During all those hours and days I've spent with my grandchildren this summer, I've been able to interact with each one individually. At the museums, I've told stories about the man who carved the statue we were observing, or pointed out something I knew this particular grandchildren was interested in that they had missed. Their moms can't answer all their questions all the time, and if we divide the group, we can give them a more personal view of what they are seeing.

At the play, I kept whispering quietly to my granddaughter the Hitchcock titles that were visual jokes, explaining why black birds were falling out of the sky, (The Birds) or someone climbing a high ladder was terribly afraid (Vertigo) or why a bi-plane was straffing the character (North by Northwest).

I ask lots of questions about their interests so when I run across something they like or that fascinates them, I can send it to them, or call them to talk about it. We can stay connected.

I truly believe grandparents can make a tremendous difference in the lives of their grandchildren simply by being interested. One of our granddaughters is graduating from high school in the spring. She has lots of decisions to make. We can help guide these young people so they don't have to make all the mistakes we made.

And besides, there isn't anything that compares with having one of them throw their arms around your neck (or legs) and say, "Gramma, I love you!" It just doesn't get any better than that.