Dreaming

Several years ago I set five goals for my writing: write, polish, learn, attend, and send.

I’m a prolific writer so the first goal wasn’t a problem. I’ve always got a pen and paper—or laptop—in my hands. The second goal, polish, was a challenge. I’m a perfectionist and felt my work was never at its best. With the help of other writers, however, I learned that polishing a story, article, or novel is just that—polishing. Polish, by definition means to buff up. When I spray furniture polish onto my piano, it doesn’t automatically shine. There is, in fact, a dull residue which only after lots of elbow grease—buffing up—begins to yield results.

I began to understand that though my writing starts out needing lots of work to make it shine that doesn’t mean I am doomed to fail. It only means I need to work until I get the results I want—just like polishing the piano.

For me that was a great realization—a blessing.

Since fifth grade, I knew I wanted to be a writer. I just didn’t know it was okay to work at making that dream come true. When I was young I wrote with enthusiasm, then I followed my mother around reading my work. Her response was constantly harsh and to the point: “Lori, writing is not your forte.” She didn’t believe I could become what I dreamed of being, and she feared I’d embarrass myself; her fears became mine.

It took a long time for me to start believing in myself.

Knowing it was alright if my words didn’t shine the first time I wrote them, or when I rewrote them the second time, or even the third, I came to the realization that I could help myself by striving to learn more about writing in general. I began to read more, books on writing and books in the genres I wanted to pursue, thus helping myself meet my third goal. Attend, fourth on the list, involved writing classes and being part of critique groups. I met lots of other writers and would be writers who shared dreams and goals similar to mine.

I become conscious that early on in my life I’d been lead to believe that writing—being a writer—was something you either could or could not do, like walking or talking. When I understood that (just like playing the piano with any degree of proficiency) becoming a writer takes time, effort, and practice I was able to let go of old fears and enjoy the process of becoming.

The last item on my list, send, became easier as well. I analyzed, versus agonized over, rejection letters and resumed polishing before I again sent my work out. In time my efforts paid off. I found many opportunities and enjoyed writing for the newspapers and magazines that asked for my work; it felt good to have my articles, short stories and essays—my own words and feelings—appear in print.

But there was something more, something I dreamed of for a long time: I wanted to write children’s books and novels.

Gathering courage amidst continued opposition, both interior and exterior, I set out once more with my five writing goals. I still have a long road to travel but I enjoy being on that road, grateful to know it's okay to do more than just sit by the wayside and wish.

Happy Birthday, Birthday Lady

by Lori

“Happy burffdayh to you…Happy burffdayh to you…”

The off-key, seven a.m. solo always made me smile. I never met her face-to-face, never knew her name, but a decade ago, I looked forward to the Birthday Lady’s yearly phone call. For me, it was a pleasant start to the day I celebrated my birth.

In our small town, a ladies group published a calendar which listed the birthdays of their friends and relatives. Since, my grandmother belonged to the group, my name and all the names of my family members were included. Sometime, during the early 1990’s, the unknown “Birthday Lady” decided to start calling everyone whose name appeared on the calendar to personally wish them a happy birthday.

The first year I received her call, I dismissed the elderly woman with a chuckle.“Is this Lori?” she queried. Following my reply in the affirmative, she began to drone, “Happy burffdayh…”
When she finished crooning, she added in a lilting voice, “And I hope you have a very special day.” Without identifying herself, she hung up.

Days later, my husband and daughter received calls on their birthdays. Within a few months, several people we knew reported that the same woman had contacted them. The following year, precisely at seven a.m. on my birthday, she phoned again.“Is this Lori? Happy burffdayh to yooouuuu….”I had to admit, I admired her tenacity -- there must have been hundreds of names on that calendar. And, I found her sincerity and good will refreshing.

Year after year, my family members looked forward to our annual calls from the Birthday Lady. However, there were others in our community who were offended. The Birthday Lady had a bad lisp and some people claimed she was a nuisance, a blight on our fair town. “The nerve of such a person,” they protested, “how dare she rudely awaken innocent citizens with an early morning phone call, and her less than perfect voice!”

Someone did some checking and identified the Birthday Lady. A couple of people phoned her to complain. Soon, she stopped singing. A short while later, the Birthday Lady passed away.

I recently celebrated another birthday and, yes, Pollyanna that I am, I miss the Birthday Lady. I regret that didn't ask her when her birthday was. I don’t sing, but I could’ve called and wished her my best. I could’ve thanked her for the joy she brought to each of my birthdays; it breaks my heart to think no one else thought of thanking her either. Maybe one day I’ll be given the chance to tell her what her calls meant to me. Until then, if blogs are read in heaven, I’d like to say, “Happy Birthday, Birthday Lady.”

A Plan of Action

by Lori

I’m with Janet (see Wednesday, January 2 post). Resolutions set me up for failure. Yet I need some sort of quantitative goal to keep me pointed in the right direction.

I’ve made the mistake, in Januaries past, of setting near unattainable writing resolutions: write for three additional hours a day, send out five queries every other day, submit three manuscripts each week, read dozens of books on writing and editing, etc., etc.

When February rolled around, I was exhausted. Trying to jam so much in caused lots of stress. My efforts were not well thought out. The quality of my writing suffered.

My hard drive overflowed with articles, stories, and books. However, I didn’t polish the majority of what I started. My office was a hub of activity, with myriad distractions and interruptions. I could write amid the chaos but effective editing and rewriting were difficult. I ended up submitting only a fraction of what I wrote because I knew my work wasn’t up to par.

Last November, I decided not to wait until January to set new writing goals. I wanted to try something different. I didn’t want to feel so stressed that the mere thought of writing evoked dread.

I needed a place away from the bustle. My bedroom was the only feasible option. I purchased an inexpensive desk and set up my laptop. Viola! Almost zero interruptions. Plus, with no Internet connection, I wasn’t tempted to waste time checking and rechecking email, or visiting blogs.

I established five simple goals, sans rigid restrictions: write, polish, learn, attend, and send. I posted the list at the bottom of my computer screen. I already wrote on regular basis, a habit I would continue. Polish could be achieved when I secluded myself at my new desk; my flash drive made it easy to transport files from computer to computer. Learn took in studying anything that would further my knowledge of writing, editing, markets, etc. Attend meant going to workshops and critique group. The first four goals set me up for the last: submit, which I felt better about than ever before.

My life is far from simple. No two days are ever the same. But, with my new goals in place, I've resolved not to fret over daily or weekly quotas. Instead, each day, I ask myself if I'm doing my best in at least one or two things on the list. I focus on feeling good about my accomplishments, not dwelling on what I haven't done.

Now, writing is once again enjoyable. Overall, I feel the quantity and quality of my writing has increased. So have my submissions and publishing prospects. I’m excited about the possibilities the New Year will bring.

Faith, Hope, and Charity

Ten Reasons Why You Know You're a Writer

By Lori Nawyn

10. You don’t know when your spouse will be home but you know exactly what time the mailman will arrive.

9. Your neighbors want new living room furniture. You just want a comfortable desk chair.

8. You find yourself stopping past bookstores and libraries that aren’t on the way home.

7. You buy computer paper and ink cartridges in bulk.

6. Your friends want to go on extended, exotic vacations. You just want to spend time alone with your computer.

5. You’ve learned to carry on conversations with family members and type at the same time.

4. You’d never think of spending hours in front of the TV but you don’t find it abnormal to spend days at the computer screen.

3. Some people fantasize about meeting celebrities. You fantasize about meeting editors and publishers.

2. You analyze all your conversations with family and friends to see if there are any good snippets of dialogue for your WIP.

1. Your fear of rejection has nothing to do with romance.

Sarah Jane's Very Best Story Ever

By Lori NawynFrom the back cover of the book Sarah Jane's Very Best Story Ever:

"Sarah Jane Van Komen was a most amazing storyteller. Now what made her such an amazing storyteller was that she always knew exactly the right kind of story to tell. Sarah's simple tales began when she first started to speak. Those tales carried children, as well as adults, into her gifted imagination of wonderment and purpose.

Many admirers, friends, and family members were brokenhearted at her tragic death in an automobile accident when she was only sixteen years old. However, not long after her death her mother began to record the occasions of people calling her to report that Sarah had indeed come back and told them stories in their dreams. The common thread in all the reports was that the story or message Sarah brought them was one of purpose and peace. This story is one such story, and Sarah believes that it is her Very Best Story Ever. All of the events in this story talking about Sarah really happened.

Sarah claims that the entire story is true."

I never knew Sarah Jane Van Komen while she was alive, yet she is a person I can say I am much the better for having known about. I know her from the book Sarah Jane's Very Best Story Ever, a book compiled by her mother, Janie Van Komen, which details Sarah's life, death, and return to our Father in Heaven. Sunday night, while I sat in a packed audience listening to Janie speak about Sarah, I savored the comforting surety that heaven and earth are not so far apart and that miracles still occur. I am grateful for the power of the spoken and written word to bear witness.

Thank you, Janie. Thank you, Sarah.

Fear -- cluck, cluck -- of Failure

By Lori Nawyn

I write manuscripts then file them away like a squirrel hoarding nuts for winter. Unlike a squirrel’s stored supply, however, my stashed manuscripts do me little good. That’s because I’m not a squirrel…I’m a chicken. I never submit half the manuscripts I write.

At first, I thought I suffered from manuscript rejection anxiety, an ailment I have yet to find a clear and concise definition of. After an internet search, I discovered it’s not uncommon for authors to suffer from such a malady. I found this appeal from John Last, Emeritus professor of epidemiology of the University of Ottawa, wherein he pleads for a colleague:

“Are there any editors aware of support groups for authors who have something original and important to say but suffer from obsessive anxiety that inhibits their ability to pursue their ideas to fruition?...My admittedly rather superficial inquiries about the prevalence of this condition suggest that it is not uncommon among creative artists and writers, which leads me to wonder whether there is/are support group(s) for victims.”

I didn’t have time to attend a support group, even if I could find one. So, I further researched the subject and stumbled upon the following advice, intended to ease the pain of rejection:

“When submitting manuscripts, send two SASE's, one rose colored enveloped labeled"Acceptance Letter," and a black envelope labeled "Form Rejection Slip.” Enclose a smiley face sticker, with instructions to the editor to affix it to the black envelope if he has scribbled a personal note of encouragement or advice in the margin of the rejection slip.”

Interesting counsel, but not applicable to my particular situation because, after reading and contemplating the advice, I realized it was not the rejections, or the words therein, that unnerved me. Some of my rejection letters actually evoked a smile. One I still have:

“Had we had received your manuscript a year ago, we would have been eager to publish it. However, due to what we perceive as instabilities in the market that render us unable to make a profit, we cannot do so as we plan to cease publication. However, please feel free to send additional manuscripts as we enjoy reading your work.”

And, my personal favorite: “If you were a well-known author, or a male author, we feel your manuscript would be saleable.”

I was working on the first problem. However, since the publisher didn’t mention an option to adopt a masculine pen name, there wasn’t much I could do about the second!

I decided to break things down to see how I really felt about the whole process of writing and submission. Writing - good. Rewriting - check. Filing - great. Getting manuscript out and rereading, revising, and rewriting - wonderful. Putting manuscript into envelope and sending -- eeekkk!

Two images popped into my head. The first was of my fiery, redheaded high-school typing teacher, Mrs. Weidman, who gave my fingers a sharp rap with her ruler if I erred at the keyboard. She made it plain she didn’t like me, and she had zero tolerance for my inability to produce spontaneous, blunder free papers. To this day I don’t know why -- it wasn’t for lack of trying -- but my brain and fingers could simply not make a connection that would allow me to type 100 plus words per minute with no errors.

The second image was of my mother. In my youth, I frequently followed her around and tried to get her to listen to my stories. Her response was almost always the same: “Lori, writing is not your forte.” I knew she thought she was doing me a favor by discouraging me from making a fool of myself. She believed writing, for me at least, to be a frivolous occupation. Her words stung.

Silly as it seemed, though nearly two decades had elapsed, I continued to allow my self-esteem to remain in a battered state. I wasn’t really afraid of rejection -- I pretty much expected it. The problem was I feared I would never measure up. My efforts would never -- ever -- be good enough for the Mrs. Weidman’s of the world. Sometimes, I could almost feel the smack of her ruler on my fingers when I even contemplated putting a manuscript into the mail. “Yes, Mrs. Weidman, I’d better check it one more time -- I’ll file it away until I can…”

In addition, as I’d discovered with a handful of other things in my life, when a parent expresses stringent and repeated opposition to your choices, it can be difficult to overcome. Could my manuscripts ever be perfect enough that my mother would believe writing was my forte?

My yearning to have my manuscripts be undeniably perfect in every aspect, to the point I feared sending them out (some even after private editors combed over them) was rooted in a fear of failure. I had to have a stern talk with myself and remember failure is a normal part of life. Without it, like I often told my children, how could we learn? It’s not failure that matters, it’s the way we handle it. It’s getting up one more time and trying again, even if those who oppose us think we shouldn’t.

I’m getting braver at submitting manuscripts. As a result, I’ve enjoyed some rewarding achievements, milestones I never would have reached had I always been a chicken and not tried. Now, each time I submit, my fingers and heart hurt less because I know I haven’t truly failed until I quit, and I don’t intend to quit.

Blessings

One summer. Two scares with my health.

I tried to figure out what in my life to throw overboard as I battened the hatches for an anticipated storm. Long abandoned were several time-consuming habits and hobbies, like watching daytime television or nighttime dramas. The cable had been disconnected for years. Gone, too, were hours spent shopping with friends. Those had been replaced with mom-and-daughter bonding time that occasionally took us to the mall. I did, however, continue to spend too much time at local garden centers admiring yard décor and perennials. If indeed I were gravely ill those excursions would need to cease, as would time spent fussing with my yard. I wanted to spend every minute possible with my family.

.

In order to make the most of the precious time I had left, there would be no more long phone conversations with friends pursuing idle chitchat. Lunches and movies with friends would have to be cut. My frequent, obsessive visits to the library would need to stop. Except for projects I’d committed to finish for the magazines and publishers I worked with, time spent on art and illustration would come to a halt. And, writing…what would I do about writing? It consumed so much of my time, so much of me. Could I really bind up my laptop, my journals, my pens and pencils, and my writing tablets and toss them out of my life?

One more afternoon. One more test. I waited to see a lab technician with cold hands and an austere demeanor. As I sat, I took in the faces and emotions around me. All of us suspended in the act of waiting for the unknown seemed engulfed in our own trials yet we managed, from time to time, to exchange brief smiles of compassion and understanding. I mentally jotted down the experience and the feelings that coursed through me. I had neglected to bring a notebook. How I missed it!

Something in my stomach caught as I realized writing was the backbone of my existence. A good fifty percent of what I wrote I’d never share or attempt to publish but it truly kept me sane and focused.

From a strong warning from an invisible messenger I ignored that instructed me not to weed with my bare hands -- right before I got stung by a hornet -- to unseen help in locating my grandmother’s lost necklace, my M.O.M., Mindful of Me Journal, was a place to record all life’s moments when I knew Heavenly Father was watching over me. My gratitude journal held accounts of sweet moments spent with my family and descriptions of things sacred and dear. My daily journal tracked events that were both funny and heart wrenching. I drew in a deep breath. I knew had to continue to write in my journals.

I had to.

My short stories were my way of reaching out. My way of sharing what I viewed as good, valuable, and wonderful in the world, an attempt to help others travel the rocky paths I had already crossed. I couldn’t give those up either.

Another day, another test result. Everything was fine. I was okay. I’d envisioned spending my last few moments, pencil in hand, scrawling out my innermost feelings, as well as what I wanted to impart to future generations and a last few stories I’d forgotten to tell. Thankfully, I didn’t have to face that yet.

I looked into the faces of my family. I had time -- more time to spend with those I loved. And, a trickle of guilt seeped in, time to write.

.

Now, it was back to the balancing act which ruled my life. My family came first. No question. I balanced time with them with moments stolen in the tender light of early dawn or the darkness of late evening. Moments found in the cracks and crevices of my life that allowed me to write. It was a process that was often exhausting, sometimes frustrating, but always an adventure.

Always a blessing.

Memories

The other day, over on Six Writers and a Frog, I read a post by Robison Wells wherein he gave a vivid account of his recent trip to Yellowstone. The post unleashed a plethora of memories. Some brought a smile. Others evoked emotions similar to those you experience when you realize once you’re strapped into a scary amusement park ride they won’t let you off if you change your mind.

The memories that made me to smile were of my grandfather, Helmet. The eldest son of a desperately poor farm family, he became a self-made man who forged his life with hard work and determination. His stern German father forbid him to pursue his dream of attending flight school. However, after seeing a photo of an ice-plane in a magazine he purchased at a Rigby, Idaho drugstore, Grandpa decided to build a plane of his own. After scavenging parts for years, he finally came up with enough components to create a Sno-Plane.

Grandpa’s Sno-planes (he built nearly 90 of them) were tri-skied vehicles powered by an airplane engine and propeller. The speeds they were capable of reaching enabled Grandpa to “fly” over snow, and ice. With each subsequent model he constructed, he added improvements that allowed him to go further and faster. He captained Sno-Planes for endless hours across ice-covered Jackson Lake -- even as the ice cracked and parted behind him -- without even flinching. Insurance companies wouldn’t have touched him with a ten-foot pole!

He decided to haul one of his creations to West Yellowstone on a flatbed trailer. From there he traveled by Sno-Plane to Old Faithful Lodge and became the first man ever to enter Yellowstone during the winter via mechanical means. In ensuing years, he frequently toured the park by Sno-Plane. Even had he known the full range of natural dangers inherent to the area, he would not have cared.

Growing up, I loved to hear Grandpa’s stories of adventure. Yellowstone had been his playground. I wanted it to be mine as well. When I visited the park with family I scoffed when adults said children were boiled down to nothing when they fell into geysers. Not even their bones, I was told, remained to bear record of their demise. I smiled politely but ignored my mother when she droned on about bears eating people alive.

“Don’t you dare roll down that window!” she’d screech as I deftly slipped a vanilla cookie out to bears that long ago stood by the roadside waiting for kids to defy their parents. Bear, schmer!

That was before I had children of my own. That was before I read Lee Whittlesey’s book, Death in Yellowstone: Accidents and Foolhardiness in the First National Park.
Lee’s parents must have been like mine, constantly bombarding his childhood visits to Yellowstone with gruesome images passed down from generation to generation. Yes, because something obviously snapped inside Lee to convince him he needed to uncover all the deaths that ever occurred in the park and jot them down in grizzly (no pun intended) detail.

The first night after I purchased the book, I sat huddled on the floor of our trailer with a flashlight reading account after account of unspeakable horror. My parents and aunts and uncles, it seemed, had been correct. Yellowstone was a downright terrifying place! I fell into a fitful sleep fully expecting my family to be sucked into the fiery bowels of the earth by sunrise.

The next day, the park just wasn’t the same. There were “bars” in them thar hills of the man-eating variety that could slice you in half with just one swipe of their horrible clawed paw -- the book said so. There were other animals that went crazy and gored you when you simply tried to take of a photo of them grazing with their offspring. And there were cliffs where unsuspecting tourists fell to their deaths without warning, geysers that shot scalding water at you, and hot pots laying wait to drown you in sulfuric mud.

Much to the annoyance of my family, mom turned into a raving maniac.

“DON'T let go of my hand! Stay RIGHT next to your father! DON’T lean against the railing. STAY in the MIDDLE of the boardwalk. Is that a BEAR behind that tree? We’re all going to DIEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

This after we’d already been camping in the park without incident for over a week.

When we got home, and I gave the book away -- permanently -- so the nightmarish scenes it described wouldn’t haunt me, I put things into perspective. We still make one or two trips a year to Yellowstone and the surrounding areas. I love the beauty of the park. I love to retrace Grandpa’s route to Old Faithful in the winter on snowmobile, imagining all he must have seen and felt.

You may or may not be wondering what became of my grandfather. Did he succumb to some terrible demise in Yellowstone? No. His adventures took him all across America, over to Hawaii, and up to Alaska where he sold Sno-Planes to the Eskimos. He died, late last December, at the ripe old age of 96, of a broken heart after my grandmother passed away on Christmas Day.

Yes, there are many dangers in the park and numerous folks have died there. Caution and common sense need rule when one visits. But there are also many dangers right in my own neighborhood. Just this week two of my neighbors were seen waving (then throwing) shovels at each other with the distinct intent to do harm. There are also a couple of moms who think our little lane should be driven like the Indy 500. We’ve had drug dealers and criminals on the lam in the pasture behind our house, vicious dogs and skunks even the dogcatcher is too afraid to apprehend, and neighborhood kids who I fear will be in prison by the time they’re ten.

Like Grandpa, I’ll take Yellowstone.

Robison, as Bob Hope would say, thanks for the memories…