Thursday, April 21, 2011

Would You Dare to Believe?

This week, another miracle has been added to the tall tower of miracles that have been blessing our lives this past several months.

It was about a year ago that my husband and I discussed his changing career paths. And though at first I resisted, I felt the hand of God patiently urging me to go ahead. I knew, and my husband knew, that this was the right choice at the right time for our family. We felt directed and we made the choice. Mark had put out a couple of resumes before, but then began to send out hundreds over the summer and fall. Yet, there was barely a nibble in response.

Time passed and the expected blessing didn't come. There was no new job. So my husband started working part-time. After a couple of months, I started working too. I worked nights and he worked days and sometimes we barely saw each other. But we did see the boys and we were both able to have several hours a day with them.

It was a dark time November, December and January, despite the mini-miracles and tender mercies that blessed us. The one, big blessing we felt had been promised months ago had not happened. But we would not let go of our faith. We knew God would be faithful. We knew he would bless us. We saw him blessing us, daily. He sustained us with food, enough money for bills, and through the generosity of others we had an abundance of gifts at Christmas time. We knew he was blessing us, but our path was dark and obscured and sometimes it felt really...hard. There were times I whined to God in my prayers. But as I would study the scriptures I found verse after verse that told me not to doubt and that I must trust. So I wrapped my fingers around those verses and gripped as hard as I could. I would get worried sometimes, and feel panicky. Then I would grasp all the harder.

During those months, as I drove an hour each way to work, in the cold and dark and often in stormy weather, I would listen to the Christian radio station. There were so many songs I found that lifted my spirits and reminded me that others had struggled before me. God had rescued them. I knew he had rescued me before and I should trust that I would not be abandoned this time.

As I write, now, my husband has a job that will support our family. We have a contract to sell our house without even needing to list with a Realtor. We have a contract on a house in our new city and it will be closed within days of the sale of our house here. It is working out so perfectly! Why did I doubt? Why did I worry?

Was it hard? Absolutely, stinkin' hard.

Did I like it? Noooooo!

Was I scared? Oh, yeah!

Many times as I looked at my bank balance or in my refrigerator, my heart would beat so fast, seeing so little in there. But it was all taken care of. I never went hungry, the bills were paid ( a couple were a bit late, but they were paid ), and my family is intact. I feel that we have a stronger sense of unity and trust in Heaven.

So I wanted to share one of the songs that got me through the dark nights. It is a song by Josh Wilson, called "Before the Morning". Here is the link to the music video on youtube ( http://youtu.be/New8i_eX3x8 ) and also to a 10min explanation about his friend's situation that led to the writing of the song:
( http://youtu.be/0704_oGFX1w ).

I also wanted to share some of the words from "Before the Morning" that I held onto like an iron rod during that time:

Do you wonder why you have to feel the things that hurt you, 
If there's a God who loves you, where is he now?
But maybe, there are things you can't see. And all those things are happening
To bring a better ending, someway, somehow, you'll see, you'll see.


Would you dare, would you dare to believe
That you still have a reason to sing
Cause the pain that you've been feeling can't compare with the joy that's coming.
So hold on, you gotta wait for the light,
Press on and just fight the good fight,
Cause the pain that you've been feeling is just the dark before the morning.


My friend, you know how this all ends, and you know where you're going
You just don't know how you'll get there. So say a prayer!
And hold on. Cause there's good for those who love God.
Life is not a snapshot. It just takes a little time, and you'll see the bigger picture.


Would you dare, would you dare to believe...

So I ask, if you are in a dark place now, if you would dare to believe. Dare to hope. Dare to trust and try. Because I know that there is a God out there, your Heavenly Father who loves you and wants so much to bless you. But maybe this is your dark before the morning, the hurt before the healing, the battle before the victory.

Let yourself trust in the Lord, and lean on him for strength, and trust that this too shall pass. And when you are able to breathe again, turn around, survey what you have just endured, look for God's hand in it all. When you see the small good or the great miracle, then share your story. Bear your testimony. Give praises to the One who sailed you across the great deep or divided the sea for you to pass through.

I give thanks especially this weekend as tomorrow is Good Friday, the darkest day in history when mankind killed their God's beloved Son. He was burdened with our transgressions on a Thursday night and then humbly suffered and died in the midst of mocking the next day. How dark those few days were!

But then came the glorious resurrection! The hope! The light! The dawn!

We are saved because another went into the deepest night for us. For me. He overcame the darkness and waits with an outstretched hand to guide and comfort me through my own black moments and dark hours. I can trust in him, because he has already overcome.

Precious is his promise that I can overcome too, as I trust in him, come to him, follow him. Will I dare to believe?

I will. I will reach out for his hand and I will lean on his ever strong arm.  And I know, however long the dark night, he will guide me, carry me into the morning.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Different Strokes for Different Folks

I read a great post on Janice Hardy's post called "They're just not that into you." It was about reviews and how to handle them. Reviews, like critiques, are a part of a writer's life and one must develop a thick skin when one has presented creative work to the great wide world. But Janice brought out a great point: not every book will appeal to every reader. Just like in dating, you come across ones that just don't click with you.

But you also find great ones that you absolutely adore and you don't care that Joe Schmo gave it only 2 stars, because this particular book contains the Mysteries of the Universe, or the Best Adventure Ever, or your Favorite Hero/Heroine.

It made me think about an essay I wrote for a scrapbooking page back in 2008 about one of my favorite authors, Essie Summers. I have since shared my favorites with several friends, and everyone returns them unread. WHY? I have no idea.

Obviously Different Tastes.

So here is my tribute to my favorite vintage Harlequin Romance writer in the world.  Maybe you might want to try one of her books. Maybe you never will.

Fine by me. They are out of print and it will make it easier for me to find them on E-bay! Ha, ha, ha!


Essie Summers...My "comfort food" of the literary world. When the week's been rough, or the kids have been extra wild, or Mark's been a bit crabby, or I'm just blue...I can pull out an old favorite and snuggle down for a good read.


"Who is Essie Summers?" you might say. Well, she is and author from New Zealand who wrote romance novels from the 1950's through the early 1980's. My mother used to read them as well as other vintage Harlequin Romance authors while I was growing up. When I got to be a teen and wanted a bit of romance in my reading, my mom would pull out a few shoe boxes from under the bed and I would search through the yellowed paperbacks for something to ease my teenage angst. I loved other novelists like Mary Burchell (London opera world) and Betty Neels (plump English nurses and dashing Dutch doctors). But Essie had something that they never had.


Through Essie, I discovered a wonderful world called New Zealand, long before Peter Jackson was a household name. With her books I have breathed the bracing air of the Southern Alps. I have saved orphan lambs with a bottle of milk near a warm woodstove. I have listened to a different type of "pioneer" tales of whalers, miners and antipodean immigrants. I have experienced life in the "draper's" world, behind a counter in a family department store. Essie's descriptions of Lake Tekapo and Wanaka and the beauty of a sunrise from Akaroa, or a sunset from the Milford Sound, have all thrilled me. "En-Zed" tops my list of 1001 places to see before I die, and I have made my husband solemnly swear to take me there someday...preferably before arthritis sets in.


Her men were bold, but men of honor and kindness, who had a knack of great repartee. Her women had guts, compassion and intelligence. I looked up to her heroines who could hold their own on a sheep station with a ruggedly handsome rancher, a couple of kids (usually nieces or nephews of said handsome rancher), three or four hired hands to cook for and usually the electricity went out at least once. Of course when the soon-to-be-couple snapped at each other, I knew it was just because they were fighting attraction as well as being tired after a long days work. They would often have some quiet evenings sitting on the couch just reading a book by the fire. And towards the end, there would be some great emergency when they would prove to each other their commitment and integrity.  I knew there would be wedding bells soon.


Before I ever fell in love, Essie taught me that a relationship begins with conversation, a meeting of minds and later hearts and spirits. She reminded me that poetry is for both men and women to express themselves. Essie warned me that the path of love doesn't always run smooth, but it does run true. Essie taught me that character matters and an honest man who loves you is worth more than anything the outside world could offer. Everything my mother taught me about love was echoed by Essie. And now that I have fallen in love with my own sweet man, I cherish Essie's stories even more.


If I ever have a daughter, I will share my Essie Summers romance novels with her, like my mother did with me. I remember getting the shoeboxes out from under her bed and her commenting, "If the price tag is about a dollar or less, you know it's a clean read." My sister and I knew that we could read any of them and feel the tingles of vicariously falling in love, without something gross or embarrassing happening. I know I can trust Essie to teach a girl about love...that when Mr. Fantastic comes around, a girl can lose her heart with our losing her head.


Essie has passed away now, and her books are out of print...but that makes my sweet Essie Summers romance novels more treasured than ever.




 So, to all bibliophiles out there, wherever you may be and whatever book is in your hand...


 Happy Reading!

Different Strokes for Different Folks

I read a great post on Janice Hardy's post called "They're just not that into you." It was about reviews and how to handle them. Reviews, like critiques, are a part of a writer's life and one must develop a thick skin when one has presented creative work to the great wide world. But Janice brought out a great point: not every book will appeal to every reader. Just like in dating, you come across ones that just don't click with you.

But you also find great ones that you absolutely adore and you don't care that Joe Schmo gave it only 2 stars, because this particular book contains the Mysteries of the Universe, or the Best Adventure Ever, or your Favorite Hero/Heroine.

It made me think about an essay I wrote for a scrapbooking page back in 2008 about one of my favorite authors, Essie Summers. I have since shared my favorites with several friends, and everyone returns them unread. WHY? I have no idea.

Obviously Different Tastes.

So here is my tribute to my favorite vintage Harlequin Romance writer in the world.  Maybe you might want to try one of her books. Maybe you never will.

Fine by me. They are out of print and it will make it easier for me to find them on E-bay! Ha, ha, ha!


Essie Summers...My "comfort food" of the literary world. When the week's been rough, or the kids have been extra wild, or Mark's been a bit crabby, or I'm just blue...I can pull out an old favorite and snuggle down for a good read.


"Who is Essie Summers?" you might say. Well, she is and author from New Zealand who wrote romance novels from the 1950's through the early 1980's. My mother used to read them as well as other vintage Harlequin Romance authors while I was growing up. When I got to be a teen and wanted a bit of romance in my reading, my mom would pull out a few shoe boxes from under the bed and I would search through the yellowed paperbacks for something to ease my teenage angst. I loved other novelists like Mary Burchell (London opera world) and Betty Neels (plump English nurses and dashing Dutch doctors). But Essie had something that they never had.


Through Essie, I discovered a wonderful world called New Zealand, long before Peter Jackson was a household name. With her books I have breathed the bracing air of the Southern Alps. I have saved orphan lambs with a bottle of milk near a warm woodstove. I have listened to a different type of "pioneer" tales of whalers, miners and antipodean immigrants. I have experienced life in the "draper's" world, behind a counter in a family department store. Essie's descriptions of Lake Tekapo and Wanaka and the beauty of a sunrise from Akaroa, or a sunset from the Milford Sound, have all thrilled me. "En-Zed" tops my list of 1001 places to see before I die, and I have made my husband solemnly swear to take me there someday...preferably before arthritis sets in.


Her men were bold, but men of honor and kindness, who had a knack of great repartee. Her women had guts, compassion and intelligence. I looked up to her heroines who could hold their own on a sheep station with a ruggedly handsome rancher, a couple of kids (usually nieces or nephews of said handsome rancher), three or four hired hands to cook for and usually the electricity went out at least once. Of course when the soon-to-be-couple snapped at each other, I knew it was just because they were fighting attraction as well as being tired after a long days work. They would often have some quiet evenings sitting on the couch just reading a book by the fire. And towards the end, there would be some great emergency when they would prove to each other their commitment and integrity.  I knew there would be wedding bells soon.


Before I ever fell in love, Essie taught me that a relationship begins with conversation, a meeting of minds and later hearts and spirits. She reminded me that poetry is for both men and women to express themselves. Essie warned me that the path of love doesn't always run smooth, but it does run true. Essie taught me that character matters and an honest man who loves you is worth more than anything the outside world could offer. Everything my mother taught me about love was echoed by Essie. And now that I have fallen in love with my own sweet man, I cherish Essie's stories even more.


If I ever have a daughter, I will share my Essie Summers romance novels with her, like my mother did with me. I remember getting the shoeboxes out from under her bed and her commenting, "If the price tag is about a dollar or less, you know it's a clean read." My sister and I knew that we could read any of them and feel the tingles of vicariously falling in love, without something gross or embarrassing happening. I know I can trust Essie to teach a girl about love...that when Mr. Fantastic comes around, a girl can lose her heart with our losing her head.


Essie has passed away now, and her books are out of print...but that makes my sweet Essie Summers romance novels more treasured than ever.




 So, to all bibliophiles out there, wherever you may be and whatever book is in your hand...


 Happy Reading!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

YouTube - Mormon Messages: Create

I love this message by Deiter Uchtdorf a few years ago. It gave me the 'permission' to do what I love...being creative.
YouTube - Mormon Messages: Create

Friday, April 15, 2011

Critique + Work = Better!

Okay, So I submitted the first 255 words of my novel critiqued by author Janice Hardy on her blog (blog.janicehardy.com or click on the link above "The Other Side of the Story") and it was published yesterday.

Yeah, bit of an OUCH!

But then I looked at my work again and I could t.o.t.a.l.l.y see where she was coming from. If a reader doesn't get it or isn't pulled in, then that book isn't flying off the shelf...if it even gets published.

So, REWRITE!!!

Here's my (hopefully improved) first 287 words, tweaked after the critique by Janice Hardy and the earlier critique by my writer friend in England.



“Why, in the name of all things decent, did I let you convince me to ride the last seven leagues in this cursed conveyance?” Cornelius allowed his peevishness and embarrassment to burst out as he clenched his ridiculous crown. It had been jolted off his head for a sixth, and final, time.
His cousin, Henri, Marquis d’Ivrea, was unperturbed. “It is merely a carriage, your Majesty.”
“It’s the devil’s own invention is what it is! Cloth and timber cobbled together to make a coffin on wheels.”
“You are sitting upright, your Majesty, not laying down dead.”
Wriggling in the snug tunic, Cornelius gave his cousin a pleading look. “I’d rather be riding my horse! The men back there were right, only gentle-ladies and the infirm ride in these contraptions.” He scrubbed the sweat from his face with a limp handkerchief, longing for the cooler air of his mountains. “It is absolutely stifling in here! Doesn’t help my nerves to be lurching about in this oven. I don’t think I could save face if I heaved my lunch on the princess’ feet. What a way to impress one’s future bride!”
His cousin allowed only a sliver of a smile to appear.
“Or, I should say my possible future bride.” Cornelius amended, feeling his stomach give a nervous flip. I’m not ready. She’ll know I’m a poseur.
He crossed his arms and felt his face fall into the scowl that was becoming customary. He knew he looked like a stubborn four-year-old; Henri had told him so this morning during their last argument. “Oh, and if you don’t want me in an evil temper when we arrive at this castle, could you leave off calling me ‘Your Majesty’ in private?”

Seeeeeee!

We like critiques. They hurt like alcohol on an scraped knee, but that sting prompts us to fix what ever needs fixing. And who doesn't want to get better, improve, become absolutely knock your socks off?

I know I do! 

The Beauty of Potential

I love it when I find something that has been discarded or passed by unnoticed and for a moment see in my mind's eye how it could become something wonderful, something to bless the world with its beauty, if only someone would take the time to sand it, paint it, fix it, or plant pretty flowers in it.

I was thinking along those lines when prospective buyers came to look through our house. We hadn't even put it on the market yet, but they had heard from a friend that it would be up for sale soon, drove by and wanted to see the inside. After a day of cleaning up, my house was at its best for the moment. There were still a few things we hadn't finished fixing yet and the beautiful landscaping was invisible in the dark of an early spring evening.

I told the couple what the house had looked like when we bought it...a fixer upper with loads of potential. I told them what we had done to improve the property and I shared my vision of what we were planning on doing if my husband hadn't gotten a new job out of state.

Especially, I told them about the flowers. Some past owner must have loved flowers. There is a huge Bradford Pear tree in our front yard that blooms for two weeks every spring and is just gorgeous. There is a weeping cherry and  other blooming trees as well as tulips and lilies and a good sized lilac that was here before. We have added two baby apple trees, a raised bed garden, raspberry bushes (alas, only one survived the winter), tons of hostas, more lilies and tulips and daffodils.

They saw the potential in their minds eye and we agreed at a price of what it is worth now. A price between what it had been and what it will be. Both parties could see the beauty of its potential.

I mowed the lawn for the first time this year and was wondering what that thick, weird, lime-green grass could be that was growing along my back fence. My husband always mowed it down with the rest of the grass, but this time, it caught my eye and I paused before I pushed the mower into the midst. Then I realized what it might be. I rushed around the corner of the house and found similar lime-green stuff growing in a circular bed of mulch. I knew what that was, Lilies. I had lilies along my back fence and I never knew! So I steered the mower around them and let the straggly stuff be. I'll be moving before I can see them bloom. But somebody will enjoy their beauty.

I have a friend who's daughter is almost thirteen and struggling with the social scene of middle school. It's not fun to be a sixth grade girl. I remember. At that point, if you're not popular, you are pretty sure you never will be. You look in the mirror and see that you are no longer that adorable kindergartener in pigtails. But you are not a curvy, cute seventeen year old either. You are somewhere in between and you feel very much like a caterpillar, ready to go into its cocoon for maybe a million years. Because people might label you imaginative, a day-dreamer, sweet or even quirky. And in sixth grade, there doesn't seem to be a happy niche for sweet and quirky day-dreamers. Sigh! Oh, the pain of middle school. It's brutal. And it's very, very real.

Yesterday, I met with one of my son's teachers; his one-on-one reading recovery teacher. I watched a lesson between my son and his teacher and could see so clearly how much he has grown in ability in the last six months. He can read! Not fast and sometimes with a lot of mistakes. But he catches himself most of the time and corrects himself. After he went off, smiling, to his regular class, the teacher and I had a heart-to-heart.

The teacher suggested that we get my son tested for Learning Disabilities.

Part of me felt like I had been shoved. But part of me felt relief.

My bright, happy, energetic, sweet-but-devilish boy! I had been watching his confidence melt this past year as he realized that he was "stupid". Everybody else in his class could do the assignments without the teacher giving a personal explanation of the instructions. Most of the other kids were able read smooth and fast.

In kindergarten, when I had been concerned about my son's lagging behind in learning how to connect the letters to make words, I had been assured that kids, and boys especially, often had a moment in time when reading would 'CLICK'. I had been hoping with the special in-school tutoring, that 'click'  would come.
And in a way, it had. He was reading.

But now, his teacher was sensing what I had been wondering for a while. There was a reason why this awesome, smart kid wasn't keeping up. Maybe it's a visual processing problem, perhaps an attention problem, perhaps something I've never heard of. Or perhaps he has a combination of issues that is hindering his progression.

I don't know.

But the earliest educators like to test for these problems is the end of first grade or beginning in second. Perfect timing.

So now, I have hope for my struggling child. He is more than the kid who can't read. He is more than the kid bringing home low grades. He is awesome! And I am girding up to become his warrior mother.

Because whether its a not-quite perfect house, long, straggling lime-green 'grass' I don't mow because I know it will turn into gorgeous flowers along my back fence in two months, a girl who can't see beauty while she's in her little chrysalis, or a mother who knows her son is not dumb, there is beauty in potential.

Lots of beauty just waiting for a little hope and a lot of work.

And that, my friend, is another name for FAITH.

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

YouTube - Mindy Gledhill - Anchor

YouTube - Mindy Gledhill - Anchor: "http://youtu.be/4AWRHBHDVlQ"

Holding On

I have been thinking about the idea of enduring and "enduring well" the past little bit.

Especially the last five minutes as my two-year-old has been screaming, "Geh 'side! Geh 'side". Which translates to "Go outside!" for those of you with no pint-size guys around.

It is raining and I am saying no. We have friends over and it is a half hour before the kindergartener needs to get on the bus.

Not a good time to get soaking wet.
No way.
Uh-uh.

Ergo, the screaming.
But I was thinking about this before the temper tantrum.

I was thinking about the theme of my life right now and the life of my main-character in my current Work-In-Progess (WIP).

And a lot of it is "Hold On", "Keep Going", "It will be okay. You are not alone and you can make it."

Me, right now, that encompasses keeping myself and the kids semi-mentally balanced as we miss Daddy horribly (Arkansas is really far away from Virginia), try to cope with the emotions of moving away from dear, dear friends, pack up our belongings and (for me) deal with a boatload of paperwork.
And keep writing in my book, (my sanity/happiness saver).

And in the book, my character is struggling with responsibilities that are unfamiliar and sometimes overwhelming, trying to make the right choices and second -guessing herself all the while feeling alone, quasi-abandoned by her loved ones.

Huh, interesting.

I have to say in all honesty that this book was started before unemployment, months-long job search and temporary poverty descended.
*remembering* Boy, was it awful at times. Ugh! Least said, the better.

Our 'reversal of fortune' has now been reversed. The mountainous waves that threaten to swamp our little family have shrunk to only large swells. Another month and we'll be reunited.
In a two or three months, we will be settled in another community, finding our way around, developing new friendships. True, there will be an ache that will flare-up at times, remembering our friends and the wonderful years in this valley. We will feel this loss again.

But this year, this wonderful, terrible year, has made me strong. It has shown me how deep I can go and still come back up, unscathed. It has made my marriage rich and my husband a greater man in my eyes. It has opened me to my God in all my vulnerability and sorrow and he has covered me in his love as thick as one of those expensive down comforters I will never be able to afford.

And as for my story, this year has given me well-flavored stock I've been adding to the thin soup it was before.

So, hard times....absolutely stink!

But, boy do they give good copy!

Perfer et obdura, dolar hic tibi proderit olim.

And for your listening pleasure:


http://youtu.be/yofE9mWrVcc

TobyMac's "Hold On"

Good Things to Come

Sunday, April 10, 2011

Example of a Good Critique

Here is an example of a critique I received from a friend of mine from England. She is a writer...soon to be published...and also a mentor with Writer's Village University. I hope this demonstrates what I was talking about in my last post:


Hi Amelia, success at last. :) I have gone through your first chapter. My comments are in CAPITALS so don’t think I’m shouting at you.  I also use [   ] to draw your attention to my remarks. As you read through always keep in mind that I am merely expressing an opinion or giving advice. This work will always be your own, so use my comments or toss them as you think best.

Now to start reading! 

“Why, in the name of all things decent, did I let you convince me to ride the last seven leagues in this cursed conveyance!” The dark-haired young man WHO clenched [the] A crown in his hands, finally allowed his peevishness and embarrassment to burst out. THIS IS A GREAT START. IT IS CALLED A ‘THRUSTER’ BECAUSE WE ARE THROWN RIGHT INTO THE STORY.
 “It is merely a carriage, your Majesty.” YOU NEED TO IDENTIFY THIS SPEAKER
“It’s the devil’s own invention is what it is! Cloth and timber cobbled together to make a coffin on wheels.”
“You are sitting upright, your Majesty, not laying down dead.” AGAIN IDENTIFY THE SPEAKER. YOU HAVEN’T REALLY SET THE SCENE, SO, AS A READER, I DON’T KNOW HOW MANY PEOPLE ARE IN THE CARRIAGE.
Wriggling in [the] HIS snug tunic, the king gave his cousin an irritated look. “I’d rather be riding my horse! The men back there were right, only gentle-ladies and the infirm ride in these contraptions.” He scrubbed the sweat from his face with a limp handkerchief, longing for the cooler air of his mountains. “It is absolutely stifling in here! Doesn’t help my nerves to be lurching about in this oven. I don’t think I could save face if I heaved my lunch on the princess’ feet. What a way to impress one’s future bride!”
His cousin allowed only a sliver of a smile to appear.
“Or, I should say my possible future bride.” The young king crossed his arms and felt his face fall into the scowl that was becoming customary. He knew he looked like a stubborn four-year-old; Henri had told him so this morning during their last argument. WHO IS HENRI? “Oh, and if you don’t want me in an evil temper when we arrive at this castle, [you’d better leave off ] THIS SOUNDS TOO MODERN. JUST USE ‘STOP’ calling me ‘Your Majesty’.”
“As you wish, Cornelius.” His cousin smiled blandly at him across their knees in the rocking vehicle then flicked his gaze outside the window.
If Henri OK. HENRI IS THE FELLOW PASSENGER, BUT WE NEEDED TO KNOW THIS EARLIER. cared about Cornelius’ discomfort, he remained outwardly unworried. His only concern seemed to be with making a good impression on the local peasantry. Raising his hand, Henri waved pleasantly to the men and women along the road.
Cornelius turned the crown in his hands. He did not want to put the cursed thing back on his head. It would only fall off again. He spied his cousin’s travelling bag and shoved the circlet inside.
He sighed and began fidgeting with his glove. [Though] ALTHOUGH the buff, thin leather gloves had become like a second skin in the past few years, the lowland August heat and his anxiety made him consider removing them. He decided to be comfortable. BRING THE TWO PARAGRAPHS TOGETHER TO MAKE ONE.
But then Cornelius remembered the stares he had received the last time he had gone without gloves in public. He smoothed the leather back over his hands.
Henri watched him for a moment then spoke in serious tones. “It is very important to secure friendly ties during our stay, you know. With that shadowy group, the ‘Manum Sinister’…”
“I thought you said it was the ‘Band Sinister’.”
Henri pursed his lips for a moment in irritation. “Whatever they call themselves, they are getting more bold. BOLDER The whole royal family of Burkhard ARE dead, missing or in disgrace and [only] ALL in a mere two years; PERIOD. USE SEMI-COLONS VERY SPARINGLY. THEY ARE RARELY NECESSARY.  makes one suspicious. They are getting sloppy and impatient.” WHO ARE? He grunted. “You [many] MAY need outside help to keep your throne.” He paused to glance sharply at his younger cousin. “Are you listening?”  YOU HAVE INTRODUCED SOME NEW SUBJECTS HERE. I DON’T KNOW WHO THE BURKHARDS ARE IN RELATION TO CORNELIUS, AND I DON’T KNOW IF THE BAND OF ROBBERS ARE THREATENING HIS FAMILY OR ARE THE CAUSE FOR THE DEMISE OF THE BURKHARD FAMILY.
THIS COULD BE ONE OF THOSE THINGS WHERE YOU, AS AN AUTHOR, KNOW WHAT IS GOING ON BUT WISH TO KEEP YOUR READERS IN THE DARK. IF IT ISN’T THEN A LITTLE MORE DIALOGUE SHOULD CLEAR THINGS UP.
Cornelius rolled his eyes to meet his companion’s glare and snorted. “Why is it when you USE ITALICS NOT BOLD TO STRESS A WORD. understand all of this political chess game and underhanded plots, I’m the one who gets the throne and all of…this.” He waved his gauntleted hand disgustedly to encompass themselves and the hated carriage. “You actually like this stuff, the protocol and the manners and the intrigue – all of it!” He tried slouching in his seat but there was little room. “You even look more regal.” His voice was a bit disgruntled.
It was Henri’s turn to snort. “We look practically identical!”
“You know what I meant, Henri! You hold yourself erect for hours at a time and nod, oh so precisely and every person knows you belong in the higher echelons. Why can’t I do that?” he fumed COMMA as he turned [his] TO gaze out the window.
“You could, you know,” was his cousin’s steady reply. NEW PARAGRAPH. Cornelius flicked him a glance, then [continued staring] RETURNED TO STARE at the gently descending hills covered in fields of grain, pasture[s], and a few copses of trees.
The marquis spoke to the back of his cousin’s head. OK, THIS IS THE FIRST TIME YOU HAVE MENTIONED THAT HENRI IS A MARQUIS. THAT NEEDS TO COME EARLIER. MAYBE YOU COULD ALSO TELL US HOW THE TWO ARE RELATED?  “Do not let your grief over Dolf consume you. Yes, he would have been a fine king, had he not died. However, you cannot drift along and allow present mediocrity to throw a flattering light on Dolf’s brief span as ruler. It will not enshrine his memory with the people. They will instead grow restless…” YOU NEED TO GIVE US A BIT MORE HERE. DON’T ASSUME YOUR READER WILL MAKE THE CONNECTION BETWEEN THE MYSTERIOUS ‘DOLF’ AND THE TWO IN THE CARRIAGE.
SETTING THE SCENE AND DESCRIBING RELATIONSHIPS IS BEST DONE UP FRONT. A GOOD PLACE TO SET THE SCENE WOULD BE IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE FIRST PARAGRAPH, BEFORE THE DIALOGUE. IT ONLY NEEDS TO BE BRIEF, JUST LET US KNOW WHO IS IN THE CARRIAGE. 

And it continues...

But in the end of the chapter, when the main body of the critique is finished, my friend added these words:
THIS IS A GREAT START AMELIA. YOU HAVE A LOVELY WRITING STYLE. VERY EASY TO READ. YOUR DIALOGUE FLOWS VERY NATURALLY. AS I SAID BEFORE YOU NEED TO MAKE SURE YOU SET THE SCENE. THIS IS USUALLY DONE WITHIN THE FIRST FEW PARAGRAPHS OF A CHAPTER. ALSO I DON’T YET KNOW WHAT ERA THIS IS SET. THE DESCRIPTIONS ARE VERY GENERIC, AND COULD PASS FOR ANY CENTURY.
DON’T BE DISCOURAGED BY THE AMMOUNT OF REMARKS THAT I HAVE MADE. REMEMBER I AM READING THIS SPECIFICALLY TO FIND POINTS WERE THINGS CAN BE IMPROVED. IF I WERE READING THIS AS A READER IT WOULD BE A DIFFERENT CASE.
AS I SAID BEFORE, YOU ARE IN CHARGE OF THIS, SO YOU WILL KNOW WHAT TO TAKE ON BOARD AND WHAT TO DISREGARD. PLEASE FEEL FREE TO COMMENT ON MY COMMENTS. :)

Wow!
That last part made me just glow! "...great start...lovely writing style...your dialogue flows very naturally..."
Okay, that part, the ending with the positive encouragement, that makes me willing to roll up my shirt sleeves and start pounding the keyboard. Let's get that speaker identified. Let's get those paragraphs shoved together. Some of this is murky, okay, how can I clear this up. I am ready to fix-it-up, not toss it in the nearest trashcan. Why?

Because the critique came with some caveats, acknowledgements that this person is not God, nor the creator of this work. I have final say. I may have a purpose in doing things that she is not aware of (because I know what will happen 60 pages into the book). Maybe this line is foreshadowing or whatever. But that doesn't mean that I shouldn't look at it and be sure its as clear as it can be. I don't want to lose a reader and a critique partner can help you find those quagmires of sloppy prose.

But best of all, this critique came with plenty of praise. Did you notice after my first paragraph, she wrote "great start" and about how my sentence followed a type that 'thrusts' the reader into the story. That's what I intended and she 'got it'. That gave me enough guts to read the rest of the critique and really listen to her advice.

Good stuff to remember when my kids do something stupid/naughty/dangerous/just plain wrong.

1. Take a little breather first to get perspective. And go to another room so they don't have an audience. Nobody likes to be reamed on in public.
2. Then, tell them what they did right, or how much I love them, or appreciated something they did that day. That will get their ears open. 
3. Next, give the painful analysis of the part that needs fixing. (Ouch!-never fun) Try to get their viewpoint on the event to be sure that I didn't miss something. Skewed info equals skewed judgement. But it also helps them do a self-critique. And gives me the opportunity to stand in their shoes for a moment. 
4. Then, when the big ugly part is over, we can make a plan for fixing the situation and making it better. 
5. Last, pile on the praise. Because everybody needs to hear that they're doing okay, especially after they've been reamed on. And everybody can use a hug then too.
Especially when you are seven or nine or eleven and your world is falling apart because Daddy is out of state with his new job and Mommy is stretched thinner than a crepe with selling the house and packing the stuff and faxing out papers and searching online for a new house and cleaning up after five little boys and fixing dinner and helping with homework and breaking up fights...ad nauseum
Oh, and writing a book...in her spare time.

Okay, enough about me and my domestic arrangements!

So I am thinking...Maybe all of us could use a little help to become a better critique partner. 
Yeah, I think I learned something just by writing this all down. 
If you got something out of this too, then Wahoo! You can be my cherry on top.


Eternal 'Backspace' Bar

I finished reading the talk by D. Todd Christofferson 'As Many as I Love, I Chasten'.

Wow. If I had heard this talk two years ago, I would have felt picked on. I don't like to have my faults pointed out. I get a leeeeeetle bit defensive.
Yeah....Not Fun Stuff.

However. Now I have entered into the world of writing and writers and critiques (as I prepare for the world of agents and editors and query letters and rejections). And its all about the crit. Critique group, critique buddy, beta readers. This is a profession that seeks to be critiqued.

WHY?

To become better.

Because we are all so close to our own work, our own words. We don't notice that typo or that grammar faux pas or that comma that sneakily jumped in to replaced a period.
And because we have read the same typos a dozen times while trying to be sure the words portray the beauty of our internal vision, they go unnoticed.


When we reread our work, we ( or more correctly I....I don't know how you all do it...but I definitely get...) so wrapped up in the story that we/I have labored months over and worked so carefully to develop each new and unfurling sentence, that those mistakes, those grammar transgressions become invisible.
I can no longer see them. 
I have become blind to my own beam.

But, hallelujah, someone else can see it more clearly than I! And if I/we can find a person who is a good critiquer (is that a word?), then our bacon is saved. The faults are pointed out candidly and encouragement is given honestly. And now, I have a new vision of my work. I can see the faults I missed before and as I correct them, I am led to other portions that frankly needed a bit of polishing as well.

But why the huge concern on polishing a bunch of words that are "just fine really"? Why put yourself through that torment, that gruesome ordeal of having someone else rip your heartfelt prose to shreds.

Because 'My mom thinks its really good' doesn't sell. 

'Pretty good' won't get you published.

And isn't that what we want? To have our dream, our words, put out there in the wide world to be read and digested and shared.

But what does that mean for my life?

It means I am seeking to find the typos, the blips, the grammar slips and the gosh-darned superfluousness purple prose that just needs to be cut. I want to see more clearly what I really need to change so I can make my life and my writing cleaner, tighter, more moving. 

I thank God for the Eternal 'Backspace' Bar, the gift of repentance through my Savior, Jesus Christ.
Because this is just my rough draft and there is a whole lot of stuff that needs to be removed and some awfully good stuff I want to add to my character and my plot.

I'm so glad he's willing to coach me through the changes I need to make every day, every week.

Because when I meet my Editor someday, I want to present to him a clean copy of my manuscript.