A word for 2013

Do you select a theme or a word for the coming year? I’ve played with the idea, but I’ve never done it.

Most people who select a theme pray about what that word will be. Their theme can be an encouragement to carry them through the New Year or it can be a word that comforts when you know this year may be full of challenges. 

It should be a word that speaks to your heart. It can be a dream or challenge or a hope—something that will be personally significant.

It's exciting to anticipate a new year and a word that will hold meaning as you travel into the unknown, isn't it?

What about you? Do you have a word for the new year?

Divine Humanity

For as long as I can remember, my mother put this reproduction antique post card on the table next to our nativity set each Christmas season. The nativity set was passed on to me several years ago. In the box was the post card with a sentiment written by Phillips Brooks, a man known as the greatest American preacher of the 19th century and author of the Christmas hymn, O Little Town of Bethlehem.

Each year when I read the post card, a thrill of joy bubbles up from my heart. At this beautiful time of year, I wish you a similar thrill of joy. . .

     “Lift up your eyes to the great meaning of the day, and dare to think of your humanity as something so divinely precious that it is worthy of being made an offering to God.
     Count it as a privilege to make that offering as complete as possible, keeping nothing back; and then go out to the pleasures and duties of your life, having been truly born anew into His divinity, as he was born into our humanity on Christmas Day.”

Since I was a very young woman, I have given myself, heart and soul, to my Lord. I offer each of my days to Him. And in a most humble way, I think of my writing as something so divinely precious that it is worthy of being made an offering to God as well.

Have a blessed Christmas!

*This is my annual Christmas re-post. I love it so much I trot it out every holiday season.

A singular decision that changed EVERYTHING

Thirty-four years ago this week I made a simple decision that changed everything for me -- I became a Christ follower.

I was raised in a church-going family and even spent 12 years attending schools run by my denomination. Still church, and God, was something done once a week for a little less than an hour, and it never spilled over to regular life. By the time I was 14, attending church seemed like a waste of time. I stopped going, and no one questioned me about it -- not even the pastor of my church who was also one of my high school teachers.

When I was 23 my boyfriend and I would discuss the big issues of life, one of them being God. We came to the conclusion that God existed. My boyfriend worked a night shift, and when he got off work at 5:30 am the only thing on TV was a Christian program. He'd talk to me about what was aired, and we both became intrigued with the concept of a personal God, one who wanted to have a love relationship with us.

The TV preacher suggested that everyone should have a Bible and read it, so we went out and bought a Living Bible. My boyfriend and I lived together. One day when I came home from work he told me he'd called an 800 number to talk to someone about God. He encouraged me to call the same number. The operator invited me to give my heart to Jesus, and I did.

Until then I didn't understand that faith was a choice. I thought we all got to heaven on the group plan -- if you went to church at any time in your life, you were in. If you were a "good" person, you were in.

When we realized there was a God who wanted a relationship with us, we couldn't imagine living a life not knowing and serving Him. We also didn't want to dishonor His name, so about three weeks later we got married.

And the rest, as they say, is history. That singular decision was the best one I've ever made. It's affected every decision I've made since. Every challenge I've ever had and every heartache I've ever endured has been viewed through the prism of His love and the promise of His hope. I'm secure and grounded in my faith, and I wish the same for you.

This Christmas season, I pray you'll open your mind and your heart to know the Jesus who came as an innocent babe and then died, paying the price for your sins, so that you can live, serve Him and spend eternity in His presence.

Haunting Christmas Memories

"Oh, so you let your kids help decorate the tree."

An acquaintance came by my house to retrieve her daughter from a birthday party I'd given for my son.

I looked toward my fragrant Christmas tree filled with shiny bulbs and homemade Sunday School ornaments. "Yes, of course. We spent Sunday afternoon putting up the tree."

Her gaze swept my tree again. "I never let my family put ornaments on the tree. If I let my kids help, the tree would look awful."

I glanced at my tree. Most of the ornaments were clumped in clusters on the bottom third of the branches. I smiled. "I like the way my tree looks."

She shrugged and left hand-in-hand with her daughter.

That exchanged happened over twenty-five years ago, yet I still think of her comment every Christmas season. Since then my children have grown, and the ornaments on my tree are placed in an orderly fashion. Perfect.

She didn't understand what Christmas means. It's not about the bright lights and HGTV decor. It's not about presenting a facade of perfection.

I was too timid to continue that discussion, and that's a memory that haunts me still. If I could replay the experience, I'd tell her about the greatest gift of Christmas -- a God and Savior who came to redeem mankind and loves her more than anything. I'd tell her that He he longs for her to have a life-changing love relationship with Him. I'd tell her that greatest gift -- an eternity of knowing and serving a holy God -- is free for all who ask. I'd tell her the appearance of the surroundings are irrelevant. It's about the condition of the heart and the soul. It's about the realization of a hope that glows beyond any of the brightest Christmas decorations.

I often wonder about that woman, about what became of her. And I pray that at some point in her life her path crossed with someone who wasn't as timid as I was.          

What about you? Do you have a Christmas memory haunts your recollections?

Mistakes and novel ideas

You've heard the saying that the only thing certain in life is death and taxes. I'd like to add to that list--mistakes and the novel ideas that spring from them.

Mistakes. They frustrate us, anger us. Sometimes they make us laugh, and sometimes they make us cry.

Residents in a small town in Bordeaux, France have been stunned by the mistake of a local contractor. He was supposed to bulldoze an outbuilding near a beautiful 18th-Century chateau, but instead -- by mistake -- he totally demolished the historic gem. That's a photo of the manor. Upon seeing the pile of rubble, the owner was in shock, but plans to build a replica.

This was a blurb in the national news and will probably fade from our radar, but I wonder what the implications of this mistake will be. Will the disappointed owner and townspeople forgive the contractor? Will he serve a civic penalty?

I can't even imagine how bad he must feel. Why wouldn't he double check the orders to destroy a vintage piece of local history? Will he forever be defined by this mistake?

In my writer's brain I come up with many "what ifs." What would a novel about a similar mistake look like? What would it be like to investigate someone who made a mistake that defines the rest of their life?

And on and on I go with more novel ideas floating around my crowded little brain.

What about you? How would you envision a novel about a mistake?

Stay productive (AND SANE) through the holidays!

A few years ago I had a book deadline that followed on the heels of the holidays. Since I pride myself on always beating deadlines by at least a few weeks, I panicked when I realized this deadline would fall squarely in the middle of the holidays.

I’m ashamed to admit that when I overheard my family discussing our Thanksgiving plans I barreled out of my office, put my hands on my hips and yelled, “I don’t have time for Thanksgiving this year! First you spend a day shopping, then you spend a day cleaning, on Wednesday you start cooking, and then you waste a whole day eating!”

I regret not having a camera to record the startled and horrified expressions that greeted my moment of insanity. And I’d like to say that outburst has been long forgotten, but my darling family reminds me of those words when we need a good laugh.

The problem is that I had lost perspective on what was most important in my life. A book contract is wonderful, but spending a special day with loved ones is more valuable. Since then I’ve been careful to guard my attitude as well as my goals for the holidays.

Set reasonable expectations and writing goals for the holidays. Time seems to evaporate more quickly during the holidays, and there are more things on our to-do list. If you must write through the holidays—take a deep breath—you can do it! The old tried-and-true method of getting up earlier for some writing time may be all you’ll need to do.

We have an expression in our family, shine your eyes. Take a clear, sober look at what lies before you. There are only 24 hours in a day, and you may have to scale back a bit on your output. It’s not the end of the world. You can up your word count for the weeks leading up to and following the holidays so that you can give yourself a bit more time to savor the season.

Every little bit helps. Incorporate time in your schedule to write, even if it’s only fifteen minutes. I like to keep a forward momentum, so I try to write daily—even if it’s only a few hundred words. One of my favorite tricks is to set a timer for fifteen minutes with the goal to write 250 words. If I have thirty minutes to write, I can easily pump out 500 to 600 words and feel a sense of accomplishment for the day.

Be the master of your schedule rather than the slave of your tasks.

Prioritize what needs to be accomplished. Make a list of what you’d like to accomplish for the day or the week, and then highlight the items that are more critical. Be realistic. Sure, we’d all like to make an assortment of freshly baked goodies wrapped in homemade gift boxes—but let’s not delude ourselves. It’s truly the thought that counts during the holidays, and our friends and family will love us if we don’t turn into a holiday diva working in a frenzy to create the perfect gift.

Schedule time to write, but also schedule time for fun. Remember Thanksgiving and Christmas comes but once a year. Set aside time to make memories with those important to you. Make sure to leave some time fluid in your day or week. You never know what’s going to come up, and you’ll need a little margin in your schedule.

Delegate when you can. You don’t have to be the Little Red Hen, doing all the work by yourself. Ask family to pitch in. You don’t have to make all the meals, do all the housework, and wrap all the gifts. And it’s perfectly okay to take out dinner to give yourself extra time for writing or shopping. You can’t do it all, so don’t try.

Most importantly—enjoy the season!

Expectations and Reality

One day a few months ago I awoke to a rainy, dark day. 

I had several errands to run, and I resigned myself to enduring the gloomy, wet day.  I left the house early wearing a flannel jacket, fortifying myself against the elements. The heavy clouds pressed close to the earth and motorists were driving with lights on.

After my first stop I came outside, hopped in my car, and headed south. I looked up to the sky and witnessed what felt like a miracle. Looking to the southwest I saw a patch of brilliant blue in the sky—right over Pikes Peak. It was spectacular. The sky above me and to the north and east were still dark and menacing, but there was a promise in the sky right in front of my eyes.

By the time I came out of my second appointment, the skies were mostly clear. The day was so lovely I felt as though I had traveled to Eden. The morning rain had washed the atmosphere. The skies were crystal clear, and the snow-capped Rocky Mountains looked like a mirage against the blue, blue sky.

The change in weather created a lightness in my heart. As I was driving, it hit me—my expectations had colored my perception of what the day held. I was so relieved to see the heavy clouds dissipate and the bright sun cast shadows on the greening landscape.

I guess there’s a lesson to be learned here. Don’t rely on your expectations or allow them to rule your thoughts because you just might end up being 100% wrong. Know what I mean? Has that ever happened to you?

Dreaming and creating a new future

Do you have a dream? Do you trust that God has a plan that will take you in a new and exciting direction? 

I always dreamed of being a writer. The hope that one day I would see my name on the cover of a novel first stirred when I was a young girl. By the time I was eleven years old, I would imagine seeing my novel sitting on the shelf in a bookstore or at the library. I would even walk down the bookstore aisles, running my finger along the spines of books, finding the spot where my book would sit in the long row of alphabetized author’s books.

My goal lay in the fertile soil of my dreams for decades before it sprouted, grew, and ripened into reality.  For a very long time, my dream was only shared with God. And that was fine. 

How could I tell people I wanted to be a novelist? What would they say? Would they think I was delusional? Egotistical? My dream seemed so big that it felt like something that an insignificant person like me could never accomplish. And what would happen if I shared my dream of publication with others and it never came true? Would I look like a fool?

Have you ever felt this way? Have you ever felt as if you didn’t deserve to dream big?

This past October I attended a writer’s retreat sponsored by my amazing literary agency, Books & Such Literary. One of the sessions was all about dreaming—dreaming big.

A dream is the first step in a journey of your heart’s desire. But that’s only if you put legs (and prayers) to your dream. 

"Our lives are not made by the dreams we dream but by the choices we make." ~Joseph Stowell.

I always dreamed of being a published author, and I spent years studying my craft and learning about the industry. But guess what? I’m still dreaming. Now I’m dreaming about the next step in my career.

"The unexamined life is not worth living." ~Socrates
I’m so serious about dreaming that I’ve marked off days on my calendar that will be devoted to dreaming and praying and figuring out what I need to do to reach for my dreams.

How about you? Do you take your dreams seriously? What does that look like?

Happy Thanksgiving

Happy Thanksgiving.

If you're surrounded by loved ones today, bless you. If you're lonely and without those dear to you today, bless you.

May God bless you with riches that can't be stored in a bank. My your heart be full of goodness and joy and compassion and generosity. May your prayers be answered in delightful ways.





The illustration is part of a trade card collection from the Rensselaer County Historical Society.

Whatcha reading?

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read. ~Groucho Marx

How do you decide which book to read? I often go on recommendations by friends, but sometimes I just like to look through a book store to find a new read.

I'm curious. What are you reading now?

A new release: Madily in Love

My guest today is author Lynda Schab. I had the honor of endorsing Lynda's debut novel, Mind over Madi, and now she's got another book releasing.

Lynda's latest book, Madily in Love is the second in a 3-book series, and is a lighthearted, fun read about reconnecting with your husband. Madi McCall is just coming out of a marital rough patch (you’ll have to read Mind over Madi for that whole story) and she’s trying to get her marriage back on track. But that’s easier said than done, especially because her mother-in-law has moved in, Madi’s recently started working again after years of being a stay-at-home-mom, and her kids seem determined to do everything they can to turn her hair even grayer than it already is. Madi attends a Revitalize Your Marriage with Romance class at church and gets some great tips…that fail miserably. All she wants is some peace among the chaos. And some quality time with her husband would be nice, too.

Although this book has to do with the importance (and fun) of adding romance to marriage, the main thing I hope readers can take away is that even though life seems unmanageable, disorderly, and chaotic, God is always in control. One of the recurring phrases throughout the book—as mentioned by Madi’s counselor—is “Embrace this place.” In other words, no matter what you’re going through, recognize that it won’t last forever. And down the road, you might just look back and see just how that “unbearable” season was essential in moving you to a place of growth and necessary change.

Lynda, how much of yourself you write into your characters? Well, let’s put it this way. Madi is addicted to chocolate, computer games, and coffee. Her insecurities often get the best of her, and she regularly battles feeling overwhelmed and stressed out. So the answer to your question is WAY too much! 

Tell us what kind of books you enjoy reading. While I’m not a fan of science fiction, fantasy, or historical, I have been known to get sucked into a good story in those genres. My favorite genre to read is mystery/suspense. And, of course, humorous women’s fiction is also at the top of the list.

What is your favorite food? Believe it or not, it isn’t chocolate! Ice cream is my ultimate weakness, most specifically vanilla loaded with Hershey’s syrup and topped with milk (try it, you’ll love it!) I try not to keep ice cream in the house because of its overwhelming magnetic pull, but my husband works for a dairy company! Much to my dismay, half-gallons are always appearing in our freezer. I just try to get him to bring home flavors I don’t like as much. Unfortunately, there aren’t many!

How can readers find your book on the Internet? I have a website and a blog, where I offer signed copies of my book at a discount. You can also order it directly from my publisher’s website or Facebook store. My books are also available on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, CBD.com, and other online bookstores. I also want to add that I love to connect with readers on Facebook, where I have an Author Page and on Twitter. Oh…and look me up on Goodreads, too!

Lynda Lee Schab got her writing start in greeting cards (Blue Mountain Arts, Dayspring) and from there went on to write articles and short stories (Mature Living, Christian Home & School) and in many places online (including Examiner  and WOW! Women on Writing. As a freelance writer, she works behind the scenes at FaithWriters, and is a regular book reviewer for Faithful Reader. She is also the Grand Rapids Christian Fiction Examiner and the National Writing Examiner for Examiner.com and a staff writer for Shared Sorrows. Mind Over Madi placed second in the 2008 ACFW Genesis contest, chick lit category, received a highly commended award in the FaithWriters Page Turner contest, and was a finalist in the 2007 RWA Get your Stiletto in the Door contest. Madily in Love was a semi-finalist in the 2011 ACFW Genesis contest. Lynda lives with her husband, Rob, and two teenagers in Michigan.

A hero who didn't want to be -- A Veteran's Day tribute to Dad

I attended grade school in the 1960s. The day my teacher taught us about WWII I freaked out. The notion of the world being at war shook the foundation of my secure little life.

As the lessons continued in school that week, the 5th grade class of St. Jude's School learned about WWII in personal terms. My friend Jayne brought in photographs her father took in Italy when Mussolini was killed. Another schoolmate talked about her dad being aboard a Navy ship.

I had known that Dad was in the Army, but other than that, little was said of his service. My father was a truly gentle man, and the thought of him being involved in warfare was incomprehensible.

When I went home and asked Mom about my father's service, she took me aside and explained. "We don't talk about the war or Daddy's service." And so I never asked, and it was never discussed in our home.

It wasn't until I got married that I learned my father was an Army Ranger. That information was passed to me from my father-in-law. His WWII experience was practically pleasant. He was a medic, and his unit was always one day ahead of disaster. Any time my F-I-L meets another vet he asks about his service.

My F-I-L explained that as a Ranger, my dad was a true hero. But my father lived with his military service tucked away into a distant compartment in his mind. Stories were never shared, photos were never shown. He may have been a hero, but he didn't want to be. He didn't want the world to descend into the chaos of the 1940s, but when the time came, he enlisted to serve his country.

In our home, no one asked about Dad's Army years, and he never offered any information -- not until a cold, gray morning in December of 1996. I was staying with my parents, caring for my mother as she died. One morning as I sat at the breakfast table sipping coffee, my father trudged in and sat. His eyes held pain, but it wasn't just at the imminent passing of his wife.

Dad started having nightmares about his WWII service the week my mother died. He told me he was one of the few survivors of a battle on Anzio Beach in Italy. The next day when the battle had subsided and smoke had cleared, my father walked the beach leading donkeys. He spend I-don't-know-how-long putting the bodies of dead soldiers on the donkeys and bringing them to an area so the bodies could be shipped home to the states.

We sat together and cried at the horror he lived through. "All my friends were killed." He told me. Yet my father, that truly gentle soul, persevered and did his duty. He was a hero, even though he didn't want to be.

When I think of Veteran's Day and all those who served our country, my Dad is first in my thoughts. He's one of the finest men I've ever known. I'm grateful for his service to our country and for the gentle, loving way he raised me.

God bless America, and God bless the men and women of the armed services who guard our freedom.

The photo I chose to post of Dad is one of my favorites. He's snuggling with my daughter. This photo captures his sweet spirit.

A good read: Lady in Waiting by Susan Meissner

I wasn't nearly as productive in my own writing last week as I should have been, and I hold Susan Meissner personally responsible for this dilemma. I spent too much of my "writing time" reading her fabulous novel, Lady in Waiting.

This is the third book of Susan's that I read and loved. Like her other novels I read (The Shape of Mercy and A Sound Among the Trees), Lady in Waiting is set in two time periods with both stories dovetailing nicely into one another.

Here's the description: Content in her comfortable marriage of twenty-two years, Jane Lindsay had never expected to watch her husband walk out the door of their Manhattan home.

Jane finds an old ring in a box of relics from a British jumble sale and discovers a Latin inscription in the band along with just one recognizable word: Jane.

In the sixteenth-century, Lucy Day becomes the dressmaker to Lady Jane Grey, an innocent young woman whose fate seems to be controlled by a dangerous political and religious climate, one threatening to deny her true love and pursuit of her own interests.

Susan's beautiful writing draws you into other worlds. I love that. Go, read, enjoy!

Early Memories and Gut-Level Writing

Some writing speaks to us on a different plane. It is carried on the breath of spring, the damp coolness that kisses your cheek on an autumn day, and the dazzling blue sky of high summer. It is writing that evokes common memories.

Not too long ago I was involved in a conversation about early childhood memories. My earliest memory is standing outside while my mother pinned laundry to our clothes line. I specifically remember looking down at the grass beneath my feet. It was sparse and tufted. The lawn at my parents' home was sown the same year I was born, so it was probably still growing in.

Today I was outside, and a nearby bluejay was calling. I've always loved the sound of a bluejay, and it stirred a distant memory. It's not a distinct recollection, but I always feel it's the memory of an early vacation, perhaps on Cape Cod. The call of the bluejay always makes me happy. Perhaps it's because of a happy day from when I was a little girl.

Sometimes I'll read a passage, and think -- YES! The writing will hit me on a visceral level where memory can be felt. I much prefer to feel the impact of a great phrase rather than understand it on an intellectual. Don't you?

Have you ever experienced sights or sounds written in a novel on a gut level? Do they stir up your memories? What did they make you think of?

A good read: Hidden in the Heart by Catherine West

It is time for a FIRST Wild Card Tour book review! If you wish to join the FIRST blog alliance, just click the button. We are a group of reviewers who tour Christian books. A Wild Card post includes a brief bio of the author and a full chapter from each book toured. The reason it is called a FIRST Wild Card Tour is that you never know if the book will be fiction, non~fiction, for young, or for old...or for somewhere in between! Enjoy your free peek into the book!

You never know when I might play a wild card on you!

Today's Wild Card author is:

Catherine West

and the book:

Hidden in the Heart

OakTara (September 15, 2012)

***Special thanks to Catherine West for sending me a review copy.***

This is the second novel by Cathy West that I've read--and loved! Just like the first (Yesterday's Tomorrow), West created strong, intriguing characters that you connect with from the first page. This author draws you into a realistic fictional world with sharp, beautiful writing and keeps you turning pages. 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR:

Catherine West is an award-winning author who writes stories of hope and healing from her island home in Bermuda. Educated in Bermuda, England and Canada, Catherine holds a degree in English from the University of Toronto. When she’s not at the computer working on her next story, you can find her taking her Border Collie for long walks or tending to her roses and orchids. She and her husband have two college-aged children. Catherine is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers and Romance Writers of America, and is represented by Rachelle Gardner of Books & Such Literary.


Visit the author's website.

SHORT BOOK DESCRIPTION:

Everything Claire wants seems to be beyond her reach...

After losing her mother to cancer and suffering a miscarriage soon after, Claire Ferguson numbs the pain with alcohol and pills, and wonders if her own life is worth living. Adopted at birth, Claire is convinced she has some unknown genetic flaw that may have been the cause of her miscarriage. She must find a way to deal with the guilt she harbors. But exoneration will come with a price.

With her marriage in trouble and her father refusing to answer any questions about her adoption, Claire begins the search for her birth mother.

For the first time in her life, she really wants to know where she came from.
But what if the woman who gave her life doesn’t want to be found?

For all those who have loved, experienced loss, and lived life’s roller-coaster

Product Details:
List Price: $16.95
Paperback: 248 pages
Publisher: OakTara (September 15, 2012)
Language: English
ISBN-10: 1602903298
ISBN-13: 978-1602903296

AND NOW...THE FIRST CHAPTER:

Claire Ferguson stood outside Baby Gap, unable to look away from the Christmas display. Red velvet dresses and miniature-sized plaid waistcoats. Tiny suede boots, tiny patent leather shoes, tiny colorful striped hats and scarves.

Everything was tiny.

Claire stared at a little red dress, her eyes filling as she imagined and wished for the impossible.

People filed in and out of the store, smiling, laughing. Happy. An ordinary day filled with ordinary tasks and lists of things that must be accomplished. She had no such list—just an overwhelming need to pass time quickly on this day that was not so ordinary.

Claire steadied herself and glanced at her watch. Late afternoon. Shoppers jostled by, oblivious to her pain, all in a hurry to get their purchases and conquer the next store in the mall.

If only she had a reason to hurry.

‘Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas’ crooned from the mall loudspeakers. Claire bit her lip and cursed Bing.

Christmas would be merry when it was over.

Claire tightened her grip around the numerous bags she carried and slowly moved forward. Her heel slipped on a slick patch of tile. She regained her balance before falling, but the effort shook her and sent her pulse racing.

After walking a bit, her arms began to burn. Her overflowing shopping bags were heavy, but gave a sense of accomplishment. She’d gotten out of bed and had the purchases to prove it.

“Claire? Hey…yoo-hoo!” A woman’s greeting floated above the noise of the crowd.

Claire lowered her head and rummaged through her purse. She popped a few breath mints into her mouth and chewed as she weighed her options.

Pretend she didn’t hear. Pretend to be someone else. Or turn around and face the owner of the vaguely familiar voice still calling her name.

Curiosity won out and Claire turned.

“Hi, Claire! I thought that was you.” The woman waved and hurried over. Platinum blonde hair swooshed around her shoulders. “Long time no see. You do remember me, don’t you?”

“Um…” No. Claire pushed through the tangled cobwebs in her brain. “Ashley…right? High school?” The woman’s Colgate-bright smile never faltered. She could have been on the cover of a magazine. Or a toothpaste commercial.

“Amanda. Barrington.” Blue eyes twinkled as though she held some untold secret. “Gosh, it’s been a while. How are you? Have time for a coffee?”

“Coffee?” Claire screwed up her nose. Vodka tonic would be more enticing, but whatever. She didn’t have anywhere to be. Not really. “Sure.”

They settled around a table at Starbucks. Amanda insisted on buying, which was fine with Claire. A few minutes later she sipped an Espresso and managed a smile. “So. Amanda. What have you been up to since high school?”

“Oh, not too much, you know. Busy. You?”

Claire nodded. “Same. Busy. Very busy.” Busy not answering the phone. Busy surfing channels. Busy ignoring the whole world.

Amanda stirred another packet of sweetener into her Caffè Misto. “You got married a few years ago, didn’t you? You and James?”

A bizarre image of Guy Smiley from Sesame Street flashed before her and Claire wondered what she’d done to win a spot on This Is Your Life. She suppressed a giggle. That third drink at lunch probably hadn’t been such a great idea. “Yep. Me and James.”

“Any kids?”

As if on cue, a mother walked past them pushing a toddler. The kid looked her way and released a blood-curdling wail. Claire let out her breath. “Didn’t you go to Vassar?”

“Oh.” Amanda’s pretty smile petered out as she fiddled with the top of her cup. “Yes, but I dropped out. Had a breakdown of sorts.”

“Of sorts?” Maybe that was the same as being a little bit pregnant. A ripple of anxiety washed over Amanda’s face and Claire felt a pinch of guilt. “Hey, it’s cool. I’m the last person to be throwing judgment around.” She pulled at a loose thread on her sweater.

Getting out of bed this morning had been tiresome enough, she hadn’t given much thought to her wardrobe. Just grabbed a pair of yoga pants and a long sweater that covered her butt, and pushed her feet into a pair of Uggs. She took in Amanda’s pristine appearance, fumbled with her hair and tried to remember whether she’d even brushed it. “Are you…okay now?” Stupid question. Of course she was.

“Oh, yes.” Amanda answered too quickly. “Right as rain.”

“Funny, that.” Claire couldn’t stop a grin. “Right as rain. People always complain when it rains, don’t they? I mean, what’s right about it, really?”

Amanda didn’t hide surprise well. She opened her mouth but no words came. She nibbled on a bran muffin and dabbed cherry lips with a paper napkin. “Um. I heard your mother died. Last year, was it? I’m sorry.”

Of course she was sorry. Everybody was sorry. God was probably even sorry.

Claire studied her nails. The pink polish was chipped and faded, most of her nails worn down by her chewing on them. Another habit she couldn’t seem to break. “She had cancer. Only lived a few months after her diagnoses.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yup.” Claire nodded, still pondering Amanda’s mysterious breakdown. She really wanted to ask how the accommodations were at the funny farm, because if things got any worse she might just be heading there herself. “So, what are you doing now, you know, now that you’re…okay?” Small talk seemed more appropriate.

Amanda perked up at the change of subject. “Oh, a bit of this and that. I’m planning a wedding, so you know how that goes. I got engaged a few months ago.” She waved a hand, a diamond the size of a small country in Africa almost blinding Claire. “You know, Claire…when I saw you, I remembered. You were adopted too, right?”

Hot liquid sloshed out of the small hole in the plastic lid and Claire put her cup down in a hurry. She dabbed at the mess and tried to think what an appropriate response would be. ‘None of your business’ probably wouldn’t go over so well.

“Too?” As Claire lifted the top off her paper cup to clean it, the lid on her memory slid off with it. “That’s right. You were the only other kid I knew who was adopted. Our mothers were friends for a while, weren’t they?”

“When we were in eighth and ninth grade.” Amanda’s eyes got misty. “I used to love going over to your house; you were so much fun. But then we…drifted apart I guess. You ran with the cool kids. I was a geek.”

“Oh.” Claire pushed down the lid of her cup and prayed she hadn’t been completely horrible to this poor girl who had apparently once been a friend.

“Anyway. I found my birth mother.” Amanda sat back, a small smile set in place. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I thought you…well…that you would understand.”

“Your birth mother?” The words slammed into Claire, went straight for the gut, held tight and twisted. “No kidding?” She took another sip and hoped Amanda wouldn’t notice the tremor in her hand. “How?”

“It wasn’t that hard, really.” Amanda blinked and gazed across the crowded room for a moment. A bizarre heavy metal version of Jingle Bells blasted through the speakers and they shared a smile. “I suppose I just got tired of looking in the mirror and wondering. You know?”

Boy, did she know. Claire shrugged. “When was this?”

“Two years ago. I talked to my parents first, and they were okay with it. I wrote away for my non-identifying information and next thing I knew, Social Services was calling to put me in touch with her.”

“How’d that go?” A slow pounding began in her temples and Claire swallowed down the urge to puke. There was something wrong about this—having this conversation—today, on the anniversary of her mother’s death. Amanda of course, couldn’t know that. Couldn’t know that Claire had, of late, thought of doing the very same thing.

Searching.

Searching for answers. Searching for truth. As if somehow knowing the circumstances concerning her birth would help her get her life back.

Thoughts of whether or not to proceed had become an obsession.

Maybe her best friend, Melanie, was right. “There are no coincidences, Claire. Only Godincidences.” Claire could hear her Melanie now. “It’s a sign. You should do it.”

The only sign Claire wanted to see was the one that said BAR.

She turned her attention back to her long lost friend and hoped she hadn’t missed anything earth shattering.

“We’re not that much alike, and after the first meeting…” Amanda prattled on. “But you know, did you ever think about it? I mean, your mom’s gone now and…”

“Me? Oh, no.” Claire checked her watch and frowned. She was supposed to meet James for dinner. “Hey, this was great, but…you know. My husband…we have plans.”

“Yes, of course. Well…” Amanda foraged in her Marc Jacobs bag and came up with a gold-embossed business card. “Give me a call sometime, Claire. And if you change your mind, you know, about searching, I’m here to help.”
 “Thanks. It was great to see you.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Sure. You have a good one.”

Claire waded through the sea of shoppers until she reached the doors to the parking lot, and stumbled outside. Cold air brought clarity and she breathed deeply. She clasped her elbows and willed the trembling to stop, willed the world to stop spinning as she tried to get her bearings and headed in the general direction she hoped she’d parked.

She needed to get out of here. But to what?

Claire stopped walking and stared at the slush beneath her feet. The knot in her stomach pulled tight. James would be expecting her.

He wanted to talk. Again.

Claire had run out of words a long time ago.

She turned toward the warm building again, scanned the area inside the doors and spied a TGI Friday’s. It was a bit too early for food, but that didn’t matter.

She wasn’t planning on eating.

Two hours later, Claire peered at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Maybe she should call a cab. She splashed some water on her face, spritzed a little perfume on her neck and picked up her bags.

After waiting half an hour for a cab to come into sight, Claire’s feet were frozen. She gave up and headed back to her car. It would be fine. She hadn’t had that much to drink.

She maneuvered her car down the back roads as carefully as she could. Snow started to fall and got heavier by the minute. Claire shook her head and cursed the snow. Cursed herself for being so stupid.

Staying in bed would have been the more sensible solution.

She’d been doing better. Almost convinced she could make it through the holidays. Now all she could think about was Mom, and that stupid conversation she’d had with Amanda.

Pain rushed her with such force she considered pulling off the road to expel the liquid sloshing around in her stomach. She was re-living it all over again. That long, dark night when her world had shattered like a Christmas ornament dropped from the highest branches of the tree.

“She’s gone, Claire…”

They all thought death was something you could prepare for. Thought if you read up, prayed up and clammed up, it would all be okay.

Her father read books and retreated into silence.

James went to church, put them all on the prayer chain and talked to God.

And Claire just ignored it and hoped the day would never come.

But it had, come and gone, and taken her mother with it.

A blast of sirens jolted her back to the present. Her SUV swerved and she pulled on the wheel, slowing until the vehicle straightened. Obnoxious blue and red flashers intensified the pain in her head. Claire swore, flicked on her turn signal and pulled over. Great. Just what she needed to make a crappy day even crappier.

“Ya better watch out, ya better not cry…” The modern version of the classic blasted from the radio. “Ya better not pout, I’m tellin’ you why…” The Boss’s raspy voice belted out the warning.

Claire almost grinned. Too late, Bruce. Already on the black list this year.

Through the rear-view mirror she watched the officer step out of his vehicle. He sloshed through gray snow, his burly frame shadowed in the setting sun, but she’d recognize that bear-like gait anywhere.

Definitely not Santa Claus.

Claire shook her head, her throat drying up. Why did it have to be him?

She shoved her hand in her purse, pulled out her breath mints and put a few in her mouth, wishing she’d had a second cup of coffee. She chewed quickly and shoved another couple in just before he reached her car.

Robert Ferguson tapped on her car window, a scowl set in place. His dark blue jacket was zipped halfway, his badge glinting. Claire returned the scowl and prayed for an apocalypse.  He rapped again and Claire knew she had no choice. She pressed the button and the window slid down.

“Hello, Claire.” Her brother-in-law stepped back and folded his arms over his chest.

A blast of cold air smacked her face as she shifted to face him, tightening her grip on the wheel. “Robert. What a pleasant surprise.” Not. She forced a smile and thought about sending up a quick prayer, but what would be the point?

God wasn’t listening. Not to her.

Not anymore.

“You okay?” He studied her in silence, suspicion settling in his eyes.

Okay? She had a wet butt from falling in the parking lot, lived through that strange conversation with Amanda and had a case of major indigestion, but whatever. “Sure, I’m okay. Sweet of you to ask.” Her heart rate jumped in time to the music as he let out a sigh.

“Can you turn off the stereo, please?”

“Sure.” Claire blinked at the dash and squinted. The silver buttons were so small and they all looked alike. “Ah. There. Better?”

“Where’ve you been, Claire? You were driving a little erratically.”

“Erratically?” She widened her eyes, surprised he knew such a big word. “Oh, back there, you mean? Yeah, black ice. Thought I was done for.”

His scowl deepened, forming a crater above the bridge of his nose. “Black ice, huh? You were all over the road. Going too fast, then too slow…I’ve been following you about a quarter mile. I guess you didn’t notice.”

“Seriously? Guess I didn’t. You know, female drivers. We never check the rear view mirror unless we’re putting on lipstick.” Her palms grew moist despite the cold air flooding her car.

His bland expression told her he wasn’t buying it. “Have you been drinking?” Robert narrowed his eyes, leaning in a little closer.

Claire shook her head and the interior of the car spun. She covered her mouth with one hand and took a minute. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. I wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Claire,” he growled, placing his big hands on the ledge of the open window, “level with me.”

There might have been a hint of compassion in his eyes but it faded too soon. Claire stared at the falling snow and wondered what she’d look like in orange. “I…um…went out for lunch. I might have had a glass of wine. That’s all. Really. I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.” He took a step back. “Want to get out of the car?”

“No,” she squeaked. “Come on, Robby. I just told you, I’m okay. Thanks for checking up on me though.” The back of her neck prickled and her throat constricted. He couldn’t possibly be serious.

Robert yanked the door open. “Get out.”
 “Please, Robert. I’m begging you. I’m not drunk. You can follow me home if you want to.”

“Get out of the car, Claire.” Anger dripped off his tongue and she knew she’d pushed his limit. Maybe if she pretended to pass out she’d wake up and find this was all some weird dream. Maybe she’d just pass out anyway.

“Claire. Today. If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m coming.” She struggled to stand, slipped on the slush beneath her and he caught her elbow before she fell. The towering pines across the road blurred into one big green snowball, hurtling toward her. She steadied herself and tried to focus on Robert. This was a nightmare. It had to be.

But no, she’d definitely had too much to drink and now she was busted.

Served her right.

There was always a price to pay.

She just wished Robert didn’t have to be the one to collect.

He barked instructions at her and Claire tried to follow what he was saying, but the buzzing in her ears made it hard to understand him. And she really had to pee.

“You’re a mess,” he muttered. He leaned forward, his eyes blazing into her. “You’re going to blow over, you know that, right?”

 “Maybe we should just skip it then.” Claire held out her wrists toward him and smiled.

 “Just get in the patrol car. I’ll drive you home.”

 “What? You’re not going to arrest me? You’re actually going to give me a break?” Claire stared in disbelief. “That’s…so…unlike you, Robby.”

He shifted and put his hands on his hips, his stance wide. “Claire, seriously? I’m trying to be nice here.”

 “Just spreading a little Christmas joy, huh?” Her eyes landed on the butt of his revolver, his hand dangerously close to it. Tears welled and one rolled down her cheek into the corner of her mouth.

“All right.” He zipped up his coat and propelled her toward the police car. “Let’s get you off the road before you kill somebody.”

“I don’t need your help, Robert.” She tried to squirm out of his grip but he was too strong.

“Do you want me to bring you in, Claire? Honestly, it would be a real pleasure. I’m only giving you a break out of respect for my brother. If you want to throw your life away, fine, I really don’t care, but don’t take him down with you.”

Claire whirled to face him. “Then arrest me! Go on. It’s what you’re supposed to do anyway, right?” The words flew out before she could stop them. She watched his mouth twitch.

“Get in the car.” His glare was enough to silence her into submission.

Claire climbed into the back of the black and white patrol car. It reeked of sweat, cigarettes and coffee. She leaned her head against the plastic-covered seat and waited. Out of the corner of her eye she saw him retrieve her purse from her vehicle while he talked on his cell phone. Her heart raced as she tried to second-guess him. He wasn’t going to arrest her. That was the good news.

Maybe she could get home without her father or James finding out. She’d sleep it off and be fine in the morning.

And never, ever, do anything so stupid again.

Done with his call, Robert tossed her purse onto the seat beside her and slammed the door. The car shook from side to side. Claire winced and closed her eyes. She pulled her knees up, resting her boots on the divider as he pulled back onto the road. “Excuse me?” She rapped on the plastic glass between them. “Can you maybe have my car taken home? There’s a lot of stuff in there. I just went shopping.”

“Before or after you stopped at the bar?”

“Robert!”

“Relax, Claire.” He cracked his gum and sniffed. “There’s a tow-truck on the way. It’ll be impounded. You’ll get it back eventually.”

“Stop kidding around. You can’t do this to me. Come on…”

He slowed at a stoplight along Main. Claire inched down on the seat, searching the faces on the sidewalk. “Where are you taking me? The exit is the other way.”

“I know where the exit is.”

He hated her. He was going to arrest her after all.

Claire swallowed back nausea and chewed on a torn fingernail. “So, um…how’s the family?”

Robert’s shoulders stiffened and he cleared his throat, glancing back at her through the mirror. “Claire?”

“Yes?”

“Stop talking.”

“Sorry.” Claire foraged through the jumbled mess of things inside her purse and came up with a lipstick. Didn’t bother checking the color. After applying a generous amount to her dry lips, she smacked them together. Bad idea. Her stomach rolled again and she popped a couple more mints in her mouth.

When he parked the car at the back of the precinct, Claire glared at the three-story gray building, crumbling in places. She swore it would fall down one of these days. With any luck Robert would be inside when it did.

“You said you were going to take me home.” Claire stared at the back of his big head, watching a fly settle on the short dark hair. Maybe she could smack it for him.

He cleared his throat and she pushed aside the idea.

“You’re staying at your dad’s house now, right?”

“Yes.”

“That’s what I thought. That place is at least a half hour out on the other side of town. That would be going way beyond my family obligations. You can wait here until somebody comes for you.”

“Who’s coming? Who did you call?” Claire pushed herself out of the car but he ignored her and escorted her through the back doors. She walked slowly, determined not to slip. Or fall over. They passed a couple of officers in the hall. Claire saw some raised eyebrows and one of the men let out a low whistle. Wonderful. She’d be the talk of small town Connecticut within the hour.

Robert stopped outside a small office at the far end of the corridor. He kicked the door with his black boot and it swung open. He walked in, checked out the room and glanced her way. “Take a seat. Nobody will bother you. Unless I tell them to.”

Claire’s feet wouldn’t move. “Look, I can just call a cab…I…”

“Nope. You’ll stay right here until you sober up.”

She marched to the desk, threw her purse down and turned on him. “You can’t just shove me in here, Robert! I know my rights! Which you haven’t even read me by the way, and…”

“Claire.” He breathed out her name, sounding tired and beyond reasoning. “Sit down, and for the last time, shut up.” Fury ran across his face. “I told you, I’m not arresting you. But I should be. You should be thanking me, not yelling at me like you haven’t done anything wrong.” Robert stood near the door, his eyes softening. “You’ve got to start dealing with life, Claire. You can’t go on like this.”

She pushed hair off her face and pinched her lips together. “Where do you get off telling me how to ‘deal with it’?” Familiar anger coiled inside her stomach and the dull ache returned. She sank into the chair behind the desk. “First my mother dies; then I have a miscarriage. Why does everybody expect me to just forget, just get over it?” Claire leaned back and closed her eyes.

“That’s not what I meant. But it’d be nice if you started acting more like a mature adult instead of a spoiled, out-of-control teenager.”

“Are you done?” She put her head in hands.

“I’ll be back in a while.”

“Fine.” Claire gazed up at him, unsmiling. “Thank you.”

“Sure. Whatever.” He turned and slammed the door behind him. The noise reverberated around the small room and pierced through her skull.

Claire rubbed her temples and wondered if she could down a couple of Tylenol without water. Robert was probably enjoying every minute of this. He’d hold court later at his favorite watering hole and regale his buddies with the story of how he finally one-upped his wayward sister-in-law.

Claire groaned at the thought. Since Mom’s death, things just seemed to go from bad to worse. Her family, her husband, the whole world was against her. Every single day she had to endure some trial.

She slumped down, put her head on the desk and took a deep breath.

Robert was right though. This time.

She was guilty. She should have known better than to drink and drive. But once she got started, it was so easy to keep them coming. She just wanted to get rid of the pain. But whatever the amount she’d consumed today, it wasn’t enough.

It was never enough.

Book ideas popping up . . .

Right now I'm working on revisions for two novels, but I can't stop myself from thinking, what if? 

What if is the question that nurtures a blossoming idea.

Ideas are bubbling up in my brain for the next novel I'll write. Finding an idea is easy for me, deciding which idea I want to put time and effort into is more difficult.

An old poem that I had memorized in my romantic youth has been calling to me. It's titled If thou must love me, let it be for nought, and it is one of the poems found in Sonnets from the Portuguese. Have you ever read it? It's quite lovely. Sonnets from the Portuguese is a collection of poems that Elizabeth Barrett Browning wrote for her husband, Robert Browning.

Here are the words to the poem that is tripping through my mind:

If thou must love me, let it be for nought 
Except for love's sake only. Do not say 
"I love her for her smile—her look—her way 
Of speaking gently,—for a trick of thought 
That falls in well with mine, and certes brought 
A sense of pleasant ease on such a day"— 
For these things in themselves, Beloved, may 
Be changed, or change for thee,—and love, so wrought, 
May be unwrought so. Neither love me for 
Thine own dear pity's wiping my cheeks dry,— 
A creature might forget to weep, who bore 
Thy comfort long, and lose thy love thereby! 
But love me for love's sake, that evermore 
Thou may'st love on, through love's eternity.
.
This poem will just be a jumping-off point in my writing process, and it may never find its way into my novel. But it's important backstory for me and for my character. I can nearly see her face as she looks out a window on a stormy autumn morning. She's pensive, hopeful. A soft smile plays at the corners of her mouth while she watches rain strip colorful leaves from a black-trunked tree. She runs her hand through her short brown hair . . .

Do you have a favorite poem that speaks to you? What is it?

Fiction impacts the reader

I have always been addicted to reading fiction. Books have taken me to other worlds and have helped me to figure out my world.

Now there's proof that fiction is beneficial. Check the links below.

• Fiction gives a boost to your brain. 
• Fiction enlarges and improves us as human beings. 
• Four benefits of reading fiction.
• Reading fiction improves empathy.
• Fiction hones social skills.

Refreshing your Creativity

As a creative person, do you ever feel the need to refresh your creativity? I sure do.

Writers can get overwhelmed trying to find a new way to communicate the ordinary and everyday moments that make up life. As Solomon said in the book of Ecclesiastes, “What has been will be again, what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the sun.” (verse 1:9)

The lovely and inspiring Colorado prairie. 

Aargh! What’s a writer to do?

First, don’t panic. True there is nothing new under the sun, but you can make a concept feel new with your particular way of communicating an idea.

Sometimes it just takes a (brief) break from writing to get your creativity sparking. Here are a few ways to get the creative urge back:

• Read. Often after reading a good book I get the urge to sit down and write. Enjoying the way another author turns a phrase or characterizes the people who populate a fictional world can get you thinking about how you would write a scene or breathe life into a character.

• Listen. Music can evoke a mood or take you to a different world. Sometimes when you listen to music you can hear it from the point of view of one of your characters or you can create a character who would be moved by the composition you’re listening to.

• See. Taking a field trip to a museum can open your mind to many art forms. I enjoy renting the audio commentary available with some art exhibits. You get information on a new culture or a different period of time. You learn what the artist was experiencing when that piece was created or what the artist was trying to express.

• Inhale. Take a walk and concentrate on the fragrances you encounter. Whether it’s a city street or a prairie trail the scent of your environment can trigger a memory or a wish that set your imagination and creativity in motion.

• Taste. Go out to eat. Imagine how your character would feel about the restaurant, the food, and the company. Listen to the sounds around you. Design a scene for the reasons some of the other diners are eating there. Let your imagination fly.

• Be. Sometimes giving yourself permission to sit and relax in a hammock or a chair in a busy shopping mall and just think and observe can unlock creative ideas.

What about you? Do you have any suggestions for unlocking creativity?

How to Write a Novel

A good read: Glamorous Illusions by Lisa Bergren

Yesterday I finished reading Glamorous Illusions by Lisa Bergren.

This is the first book in a series -- thank goodness! I was reading the book on an eReader, so I didn't realize I was close to the end when it finished. I felt one of those pangs of sadness when a book or a movie you love is about to end.

Lisa writes beautifully, and the story was intriguing. I fell in love with the characters and their journeys. From the dusty farms of Montana to the glorious sights of England and Paris, Lisa draws you in with her well-written prose.

Here's the description:
It's the summer of 1913 and Cora Kensington's life on the family farm has taken a dark turn. The crops are failing and worse, so is her father's health. Then a stranger comes to call and in one fateful afternoon, Cora discovers that her birth father is a copper king-a man who invites her to tour Europe with her new family. As she travels across America, then on to England and France, Cora faces the hardships as well as the privileges of assuming the family name. And though now she knows more of her true identity, she soon discovers the journey is only beginning.

So, Lisa -- when does book # 2 release?

Have you read this book (yet)? What books have made you sorry that they came to an end?

Are you a door holder?

Are you a door holder?

Do you notice someone behind you and pause to pass off the door? I know, I know—you’re in a hurry. You’ve got something to do/somewhere to go. We all do.

I always do the pause and pass. And when someone does it for me, I’m appreciative.

A few days ago, I was going into a store behind a woman and her teen daughter. She slowed to toss something in the trashcan by the door, and I know she saw me. But when she passed through the door, she let it slam in my face.

It wasn’t a huge deal. I’m strong and can open my own doors, but her lack of etiquette saddened me. I’m old enough to remember a kinder, gentler society where you were expected to hold the door for another. A time when people made polite small talk when checking out at the grocery store—instead of continuing a cell phone conversation.

A kind gesture or a kind word can make all the difference in someone’s day. 

I think we should make the effort to connect in small, civilized ways, don’t you? Especially now when we’re bombarded by the season's negative political ads, and offended by unkind political updates popping up on Facebook.

What small gesture makes you appreciative of others? How do you extend kindness to strangers you pass in your day? Let's think about it, okay?

The Writing Life

Have you seen this? 

It's been a poster on FB for a while, and it sure made me chuckle. I'll admit to four (maybe five) of the vignettes. Truth is a novelist incorporates their life experiences into their books. 

Not everyone is a novelist, but everyone has a reason for doing what they love. What drives your passion?

Advice from famous authors

Writers and would-be writers are always looking for wisdom from those who’ve gone before us.

I’ve assembled some thoughtful comments and put them in a Q&A format for you to enjoy.

 Question: When is the best time to begin a writing career?
Answer: "Today is your day, your mountain is waiting, so get on your way." ~Dr. Seuss

Question: From where does our writing ability come? Is it inborn? Learned?
Answer: As Mother Teresa said, "We are all pencils in the hand of God."

Question: Is it difficult to learn the craft of writing?
Answer: "Yes, it's hard to write, but it's harder not to."
~Carl Van Doren
And here's more advice on writing from other authors:
"Writing is an exploration. You start from nothing and learn as you go."
~ E.L. Doctorow
"Close the door. Write with no one looking over your shoulder. Don't try to figure out what other people want to hear from you; figure out what you have to say. It's the one and only thing you have to offer."
~Barbara Kingsolver

Question: How much time should a writer commit to his/her craft?
Answer: "The way you define yourself as a writer is that you write every time you have a free minute. If you didn't behave that way you would never do anything."
~John Irving
And as author Ray Bradbury said, "Quantity produces quality. If you only write a few things, you're doomed."
Another thought to ponder is, "Either marry your work - take it seriously and do it every day - or date it - write only when you feel like it - but know which you are doing and the repercussions of both."
~Anonymous

Question: Is writing all about sitting at a computer and pounding out a story?
Answer: Not necessarily so. As Victor Hugo said, “A man is not idle because he is absorbed in thought. There is visible labour and there is invisible labour.”

Question: What about word count? Is there any advice on pacing yourself?
Answer: "The faster I write, the better my output. If I'm going slow, I'm in trouble. It means I’m pushing the words instead of being pulled by them."
~Raymond Chandler
Also, "If the doctor told me I had six minutes to live, I'd type a little faster."
~Isaac Asimov

Question: Must you have all the answers when you sit down to write your story?
Answer: "Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way."
~E. L. Doctorow

Question: How do you know you've reached a level of success?
Answer: "Success comes to a writer, as a rule, so gradually that it is always something of a shock to him to look back and realize the heights to which he has climbed."
~P.G. Wodehouse

Question: Is there a secret to becoming a successful author?
Answer: "The secret of becoming a writer is to write, write, and keep on writing."
~Ken MacLeod

And I leave you with a final thought: " May I never grow too old to treasure 'once upon a time.'"
~Anonymous