The Write Reason

To my way of thinking, there is only one reason to write, just as there is only one reason to breathe: because you have to. That’s why I write. Honestly, I can’t think of any other reason that anyone in the world would ever write.

In the first place, you sacrifice and work hard for years for no pay whatsoever. Then, finally, you finish something that you aren’t terribly ashamed to send out. So you send it out. Then you wait and wait and wait to hear. You hope. You worry. You doubt. You pray. And then you begin receiving rejection letters by the truckload. So, you sacrifice and work some more for no pay.

Maybe you finally sell your first book to a publishing house. Then, your editor quits—or dies—and you have to start all over, sending out. This sets you back by about a year, assuming that you can sell your previously “sold” novel to another publishing house, to another editor. And by the time your first published book hits the bookstore shelves, it’s old news, to you and to everyone who knows you. By then, you are worried about your second book.

By then, you’ve already finished your second book, sent it out, waited and waited and waited. You’ve passed through hopefulness, worry, self doubt, and self-loathing. You’ve prayed a lot. So far, God hasn’t answered—unless you consider the few rejection letters you’ve received an answer from God. By then, you are deeply afraid that you are a one-hit-hack.

And then, as if you weren’t tortured and pressured enough, over Christmas dinner, some aggressive, overachieving relative points the finger at you and says, “Shouldn’t you have had two or three books published by now?” And it’s the way he says it that lets you—and everyone else—know that he thinks you’re totally worthless. And you think he’s right. He’s absolutely right.

That’s what happened to me. This Christmas. Just a few days ago, in fact. It was very disappointing. Enormously disappointing. EEEEEE-normously.

Why? I think I thought that when I was FINALLY published, something magical would happen: Everyone would see that I was a worthy human-being, that I was worthy of the oxygen I used, the space I took up on the planet, that my very existence would be validated. And for that reason, I thought that people would like me a little better. But that just isn’t so. The people who always liked me still like me, and the people who always thought I was a worthless flake still think I am a worthless flake. Having my first book published didn’t really change things at all.

And I know that if having my first book published didn’t change things, then having my second or third or thirty-third book published won’t change things either. The people who always liked me still will, and the people who never liked me still won’t. (But even so, I’ve decided that I won’t show up for Christmas dinner next year unless I’ve sold at least one more book. I can’t. I just can’t—sorry, Meemaw.)

So, I say to all you unpublished authors out there, who are desperate to prove yourselves worthy of existence via publishing: Get used to the feeling; it never goes away. So, I hope you’re writing for the right reason: because you have to, because you simply have no other choice.

(You may wonder how I answered this overachieving relative who so viciously attacked me during Christmas dinner. Did I tell him that I was revising my second novel for a Big, Important Publishing House? Did I tell him that I was also currently writing my third novel? No, I did not. Instead, I blurted out, “I’m a one-hit-hack.” The dinner table fell horribly silent. I do not recommend this. People get uncomfortable when you unleash your deepest, darkest fears and let them run around naked during a fancy dinner—apparently.)

December Rush

Winter has officially arrived in Kentucky. There was a little snow this morning. I think my dogs were as surprised as I was—they did their business immediately and came running back to the house like something had bitten them on their behinds—it was the cold, of course, that bit them. But why am I surprised? After all, it’s December. I know. But biting cold is always a little shocking to me. You could tell me you were going to put ice down my back, and I would try to prepare myself (if I couldn’t get away) but the actual feelng of ice sliding down my back would still shock me—and make me very unhappy.

Still, as much as I hate the cold—and I really, really do—winter offers so many treasures. At no other time is my kitchen so full with life and love and laughter. So, I’ll dust off my recipes for beef stew and cornbread and homemade sugar cookies. I’ll stack Christmas CDs by the CD player and boardgames near the fireplace.

I’ll push the cold of darkness away with the warm welcome of candlelight in all the windows.

I’ll hang sleigh bells from the backdoor, and then I’ll wait.

I’ll wait for my family to come through that door in a great rush—just like my dogs—at the end of each day, happy to be home, safe and warm, loved and adored, ready to eat and play games and sing songs and bake cookies. Winter is the only time when my kitchen is as full as my heart, night after night. Hooray! And Yahtzee!

A November to Remember

At the heart of November is Thanksgiving, and I have so much to be thankful for, the whole year through: Good health, a wonderful loving family, caring friends and neighbors, the two best dogs in the world, our new home—in Kentucky!—, food on the table, a job that I’m passionate about doing, and opportunities to learn and grow, both as a writer and as a human-being.

But this November has brought me even more to be grateful for: My first novel, Something to Sing About, was named one of the top ten best religious/ spiritual books for youth in the November 15th issue of Booklist! Additionally, Sing has been nominated for a 2010 Children’s Crown Award!

Had she lived, my writer-grandmother would’ve been especially pleased and proud! And I miss her. Still.

So, I got out my some of her things. Among them, was the opal ring that my grandmother wore daily, a ring I hadn’t dared to touch since the day she gave it to me, knowing she was dying, more eight years ago. For the first time, I tried the ring on. My hand suddenly looked so much like my grandmother’s that if I squinted a little bit, I could see her hand instead of my own.

It comforted me. So, I wore the ring. I wore it on Thanksgiving, and felt that in some small way, Grandmother was there at the table, counting our blessings with us.

Why did I allow eight years to pass without touching that ring ? All I can say is that for years, the ring felt like a--painful--reminder that Grandmother was gone, and now, somehow, it feels more like a reminder that she isn’t.

I was glad to bring a little piece of Grandmother to our Thanksgiving table. So glad that afterward, I wanted to find a way to bring my grandmother and everyone in our family to our dinner table every night.

I came up with a plan. I told my husband what I wanted and why I wanted it. He didn’t laugh. God bless him, he went right out and bought the necessary materials, came home and began putting everything together. There are now more than thirty people hanging around our kitchen table nightly, right along with us.

And I am thankful for each and every one of them. So thankful.

Ooooh! Aaaaah! October!

October is my favorite month in Kentucky. One can still enjoy the warm feeling of sun on skin in the afternoons, yet the mornings and evenings are crisp and cool—perfect for soft sweaters and mulled apple cider.

Meanwhile, the trees offer an ever-changing show of blazing color. There are times, in October, when I spot a stand of sugar maples dressed in the brightest shades of orange and red, and I think to myself, “God’s just showing off now!” I am happy simply to be a witness to October in Kentucky.

Plus, there’s the added excitement and anticipation of Halloween! We went all out preparing for Halloween this year!

I can’t wait for our trick-or-treaters to arrive! Really, I can’t—I need to get all this candy out of my house, or I’ll be as big as a bathtub soon!

What about my writing? I’m still doing it and taking joy in the doing. Everyday. That’s all I can say for now.

September Song

By September, every box was unpacked, every item properly placed or put away.

And just as I began itching to write again, I was given an excellent reason to do so: An editor at a Big Important Publishing House asked me to revise my second middle grade novel, Let it Shine!, (aka: the un-publishable one) according to her specifications, and resubmit—and to think, I had actually given up on that book! Did they put the book under contract? Um, no, not yet, but they called the book “rare” and “unforgettable”—so I’m very hopeful! (Also, anytime that any editor says anything to me, short of, “Buzz off!” I consider it a victory!)

The truth is that we writers work and work and work, for weeks and months and years, and then we wait and wait and wait—and hope and pray—for small victories like this one. But small victories are enough for me, enough to keep me happily moving forward. Yes, yes, I’m sure there are other, far better writers than I, for whom editors show up at the front door like the Prize Patrol from Publishers Clearing House, offering balloons and gigantic checks. But I don’t need all that.

I don’t need any encouragement, as a matter of fact. I would write no matter what—as I’ve proven over the years—so to be given the opportunity to write for an interested editor, fills me with a quiet brand of happiness—the kind of happiness you feel when you’re on your way home; you’ve come to your favorite little stretch of road, and your favorite song is just starting to play on the radio. It is enough for me, this September song. It is more than enough.

AAUUUGH! August

The good news is that our new house was completed in August and we got to move into it! (I now have my very own office, in which to write!)

The bad news is that I didn’t have time to write in August. I’d never seen so many boxes gathered in one place in all my life! They arrived at our new house in waves, coming from Kentucky, Tennessee, and Georgia—yes, we stored stuff across three states—until I couldn’t imagine that there were anymore boxes left in the world!

So what, right? Just sit down and write. Um, yeah, I can’t do that. For me, sitting down to write among boxes is like trying to relax in one of the rooms on Clean House—before Niecy Nash and her team arrive to save the day! Everything has to be just so for me—yes, yes, I agree that I might have just the slightest little touch of OCD—and how kind of you to point it out!

(As you might’ve guessed, there are no photos because I had no idea which box held my camera!)

July Joy!

July offered both fireworks and birthday cake—for me!

What more does a person need to be happy?

Juicy June

To me, June in Kentucky means homegrown tomatoes and fresh corn on the cob—it was a delicious month!

It also means the return of “my” hummingbirds. How I missed them over the winter!

It means the clean, subtle scent of day lilies…

and lazy afternoons on the lake…

Did I say I wanted to be a writer? I did? Oh. Well, I was mistaken. This month, I aspire only to be a good gardener, a good eater, and a good hummingbird feeder! (Not that anyone—like an editor—is asking me to be anything more!) Good thing! Good times! Good month! What? Oh. Miss Haughty High Heels? Um, yeah, she was absolutely right about me: I’m not much of a writer. I’m more of a lazy lake lizard—and I’m fine with it—this month!

May Flowers

May arrived without realizing it: For a week straight, heavy April rains continued. Then, someone must’ve elbowed May and whispered, “Wake up! You’re on!” And May did.

The sun came out, and Kentucky welcomed her with the kind of hospitality we’re known for.

My husband and daughter strung our little boat slip with white lights, in anticipation of long summer nights.


The flowers lifted their heads once more.

The baby birds on our back porch learned to fly.

School let out for the summer, and I was so busy having fun that I forgot to worry about my writing—almost.

My literary agent called. He thought my latest novel was my best work yet! My best work yet! He sent copies to Random House and HarperCollins and all the other big, important publishing houses! (Look out, Miss Haughty High Heels at the bookstore!)

I’m gonna learn to fly yet!

But until then, I’m gonna enjoy life right here on the ground. I’m gonna stay up late and sleep in, read and write, garden and giggle, cook out and catch fireflies, have picnics and popsicles, and I’m gonna revel in one of my favorite sounds on earth: the whir of my husband’s fishing pole being cast.

April Showers

Thankfully, April arrived in Kentucky. Trees that had been battered and broken by the ice storms somehow managed to sprout leaves in the most hopeful shade of green.

Cherry trees blossomed pale pink. Forsythia bushes erupted bright yellow. Daffodils and tulips pushed up through the darkness and dirt, poked their heads out, and held their cheerful faces up to the sun.

Nearly every church marquis announced: He is Risen!

A robin redbreast built a nest and laid four eggs on our back porch.

Our old dog and our young dog reached an understanding: The old dog is The Boss.

And this was enough for me. It strengthened me. It gave me hope.

It gave me enough strength and hope to haul off and turn in my latest middle-grade novel (my third), to my literary agent. He didn’t refuse to read it. He didn’t say anything remotely like, “I’ve given up on you—you are a one-hit hack.” And this, too, strengthened me and gave me hope.

I felt so good the next morning, I left the house, and lifted my face to the sun, like the daffodils and tulips! “Hello! Hello!” I said merrily to the sky. (I told you: There’s no such thing as a mentally healthy writer!)

I left the house some more. My husband and I visited our new house, still under construction, often, and you’ll never believe what happened: We began to think that our new house would be finished at some point, and that we would still be alive to live in it! Hooray!

I continued leaving the house. I noticed that I felt better when I got out of my nine square feet of space—and my own head, where I live much of the time, I’m told.

I felt so good, I left the house and went all the way to San Francisco, for nine days—to attend a business conference with my husband.

In San Francisco, I was privileged to hear Patrick Henry Hughes speak and perform. For those of you who don’t know, Patrick Henry Hughes is a man who was born without eyes and without the ability to straighten his arms and legs—and I’d been worried about my hair! Patrick is blind and unable to walk. He is also a virtuoso pianist, vocalist, and trumpet player. Honestly, as far as I can tell, Patrick is an outstanding musician, student, and human-being, in every way—he obviously does not waste time worrying about his hair! (To learn more, visit Patrick’s website at http://www.patrickhenryhughes.com/ .) Anyway, as I listened to Patrick, I began to realize that I’d been a teensy bit consumed by my own “stuff”. Bad. Bad. Bad.

I decided my hair was fine. Actually, I decided I was lucky to have hair—and eyes, and arms and legs, all of which work just fine.

The next night, my husband and I ate dinner with a marvelous man, who’d recently had a cancerous brain tumor the size of a golf ball removed from his head. He generously told us the story of his unimaginable illness, and his miraculous recovery. And when I say “miraculous”, I am using a word the man’s own doctors use, for he was cured—without any radiation or chemotherapy. All evidence of the cancer simply vanished, not only from his body, but from his genetic coding as well. (He said there had been A LOT of praying.) As I listened to him, I realized that not only had I been completely consumed by my own “stuff”, but it was all small, petty, ridiculous stuff.

So, I decided to let go of it, all of it—even the bookstore thing—mostly. I forgave Miss Haughty High Heels. Okay, well, I’m trying—really hard!—to forgive Miss Haughty High Heels. Okay, okay: I think I’m open to forgiving Miss Haughty High Heels. Someday. But I let everything else go. Really.

The next day, from the balcony of our San Francisco hotel room, this is what I saw:


My husband and I returned to Kentucky just in time for Easter.

The Easter Bunny stopped by our house, leaving polka-dotted rain boots filled with candy and a matching umbrella, for Laurel.

Laurel wore her rain boots—rain or shine—everyday for two weeks. When I pointed out that it wasn’t raining, she wore them anyway. When kids at school pointed out that it wasn’t raining, she didn’t care a whit. “I just love my rain boots, Mama! I just love them!” she told me one afternoon in the car. Then she asked, “Did you have a pair of rain boots you loved when you were my age?”

I thought about this. “No,” I said.

“You didn’t have any rain boots?” Laurel said, sad for me, over my lack of rain boots.

“I had them,” I said. “I just didn’t like them. Back then, all raincoats and rain boots were the same—all bright, shiny yellow—and I hated them. I wore them to school only once each year.”

“Nana-Mama only made you wear them once?” Laurel said, incredulous. (She calls my mother Nana-Mama.)

“That’s all she could do,” I explained, “because the first time I was forced to wear my raincoat and rain boots to school each year, I took them off and put them in the lost and found box—at school. My mother constantly reminded me to bring my stuff home. I purposely forgot—for the entire year. Then, at the end of each school year, my teacher would go through the lost and found box, holding items up and asking, ‘Whose is this?’ When she got to my raincoat and rain boots, I kept quiet and looked around the classroom, as if to say, ‘Yeah, whose dumb coat and boots?’ I never brought them home. Ever.”

“Omigosh!” Laurel shrieked. “What did Nana-Mama say?”

“Nothing,” I said. “She still doesn’t know.”

“Omigosh!” Laurel said again.

I smiled and nodded. Then, I added, “That’s why all your coats and jackets have your name written in them—in permanent ink.”

We laughed and laughed together, in the late afternoon sunshine, though perhaps for different reasons—I suspect that Laurel plans to tell Nana Mama on me, at the first opportunity.

The baby birds on our back porch hatched. Soon, they will learn to fly.

And far too soon, Laurel will learn to fly, too. She’ll fly away. But she will always return to me, in bright, shining moments like these. I hope. I hope. I hope.

I hope I learn to fly, too.

But what I know is this: Whether I am loved or hated by HarperCollins, Random House, or random bookstore employees, I am loved by my family and friends. And I will still write, for them, and for myself. Surprisingly, this is enough. This is more than enough.

What I know is that winter comes and brings with it snow and ice, death and decay—and sometimes mental illness. But spring always returns, to wash winter away, usher in Easter, rain boots, flowers, baby birds, and hope.

I am grateful. My cup runneth over, with laughter and love, happiness and hope.

March Madness

I get caught up in my own stuff sometimes. Maybe we all do—gosh, I hope it isn’t just me! Anyway, that’s what happened in March.

By March, winter had taken its toll on the landscape, and on my spirit. It was worse than usual. If bone-cold weather, gray skies, and shades of brown weren’t enough to dampen my mood, Kentucky’s unprecedented ice storms brought magnificent trees to their knees. Although clean-up was well underway by March, the skyline remained changed—jagged—like something Tim Burton dreamed up.

It really bothered me. Everything bothered me. Little things that I normally wouldn’t have allowed to get under my skin, burrowed deep, grew thorns, and created sore spots. What kinds of little things?

Well, for starters I was suffering from a little too much togetherness. You know those families who do everything together, even the grocery shopping? Yeah, well, my family and I aren’t like those people. Everyone in my family needs togetherness AND aloneness. But since we’re building a house, my husband, my twelve-year-old daughter, myself and two dogs, had been stuck together in a small rental home all winter. This hadn’t been a problem when we’d moved into the house back in June, because we’re all outdoor people. But when the weather turned, and we couldn’t be outside, well, that’s when the walls began closing in—I’m pretty sure we’re living in about nine square feet of space.

In addition, it began to look like the second middle-grade novel I’d written and had had high hopes for, wasn’t, in fact, publishable.

Naturally, this caused me to assume that the other novel I’d been working on—after the un-publishable one—was also completely un-publishable. Yep, I’d lost it—and by “it” I am, of course, referring to any teensy little bit of writing talent or skill I’d ever had. I wasn’t really a writer after all! Something to Sing About had been a total fluke and I would never be published again! Oh, the disappointment! The shame! The horror!

Perhaps worst of all, I realized that if I really was the one-hit hack I feared, then I would never get the chance to prove the manager of my formerly favorite hometown bookstore wrong about me!—and I’d really been looking forward to proving her sooooo very wrong. I’d really been counting on doing that. For sure. (We really don’t need to go into the bookstore exchange, do we? We do? Sigh. Okay.)

Well, first you have to understand that during second and third grades, unbeknownst to me, my daughter, Laurel, went around at school bragging that her mother was “an author”. When I heard about this, I told Laurel she had to stop—immediately. I explained that I was, in fact, an “UNPUBLISHED author”, which in my mind, translated into “wannabe author” or, in other words, “NOT AN AUTHOR”. Laurel was very disappointed to learn that her mother was NOT AN AUTHOR.

She had to suffer this particular disappointment—and keep quiet—throughout the rest of third grade, all of fourth grade, and most of fifth grade, too. But then, at the end of her fifth grade year, I sold Something to Sing About, thereby becoming a soon-to-be published author. A real author! An author Laurel could brag about!

So, she bragged, just a little—to everyone she met. Unfortunately, Laurel happened to meet the manager of the children’s department at the aforementioned bookstore. More disappointment: Laurel just couldn’t believe that this manager didn’t want her mother to come and do a book-signing right away! But the manager didn’t. So, Laurel pushed, just a little.

This resulted in a signing of sorts, but not really a signing. The bookstore never bothered to tell anyone that I would be there. They didn’t even bother telling shoppers that I was in the store, WHILE THEY WERE THERE. I did not read or speak, but simply sat behind a table, far from the kids’ section, with a stack of my kids’ books, as directed. There was no sign, nothing at all to indicate why in the world I might be doing that—even the bookstore employees ignored me entirely. It was all quite embarrassing. But since Laurel was with me for this awful, mercy-signing, I did my best, straightest sitting, and tried to mimic a mentally healthy professional writer. (Do mentally healthy writers even exist?)

When my “sitting” was over, I asked the manager of the children’s department if she might have a few minutes to chat with me, before I left the store. Well. Her shoulders slumped, she sighed a big sigh—as if I’d asked for one of her kidneys rather than five minutes of her time—and said, “I guess…if we can sit down…my feet are killing me.” I said something like, “Sure, of course, absolutely—thank you,” and followed her to some chairs.

When we were seated—and the manager had removed her high heels—I asked her how she thought things could’ve gone better, what I could’ve done differently, and if there was any chance that I could have a more traditional book signing there, IN THE CHILDREN’S SECTION OF THE BOOKSTORE.

She tried to help me—sort of. The manager said that I would be welcome to come to “local authors’ night” at the bookstore, to which all local authors were invited. She then added, “That’s all we ever do for any of our local authors—we don’t have any important authors locally.” I asked what made an author “important”. She basically said that important authors are defined by “big, important publishing houses”—citing Random House and HarperCollins—and the depths of their promotional pockets. She then ended our conversation by suggesting that I try my luck with smaller, locally-owned bookstores where I might be more welcome. Was she indicating that I wasn’t welcome here, at my favorite hometown bookstore? Maybe not. But, yes, I think she was.

Needless to say, I left what had once been my favorite bookstore in all the world with no intention of ever returning. And I chided myself inwardly for being so stupid: Here, all this time, I’d thought that writers were defined by their writing. Of course, I’d also thought that this particular bookstore was the best in the whole wide world. So, yeah, stupid me, right?

Okay, okay: My feelings were hurt; Laurel’s feelings were hurt, and we were both embarrassed. I felt about as “important” as a speck of dust. Laurel felt like the baby speck of the speck of dust. Which made me more upset.

And then I thought of my parents! Augh! My parents had been at the bookstore, and they'd brought friends--all of whom bought books, by the way. My poor parents, who had worried for many years about the daughter that hoped to be a writer, but wasn’t—yet. My poor parents who’d had to suffer in silence, when their friends bragged over the successes of their own children—because I’d had no success—yet. My poor parents! Their one teensy weensy little opportunity to be proud of me had FINALLY come, and now this! How must they have felt at the bookstore? I told myself to calm down. I told myself that yes, my parents had, of course, been embarrassed—just like my daughter and I—but that they were pretty much used to being embarrassed by me at this point. So, they were probably okay.

But that night, when I went to bed, I wasn’t okay. I was still upset. I tried to untangle Laurel’s feelings and my parents’ feelings from my own feelings, and figure out just why I was so upset. Had I expected to be greeted by a parade at the bookstore? No. Had I expected people to line up for signed copies of my book? No. So, what then, had I expected, exactly? I had expected a little basic human kindness from my favorite hometown bookstore, and failing that, I had expected a little common courtesy. I went to sleep angry, and thought I had every right: Shouldn’t everyone, everywhere, be entitled to a little kindness and courtesy? YES!

When I woke up the next morning, and looked around—seeing some dust—I realized something about dust: No matter how much one cleans, dust perseveres, and left to its own devices, it grows. So, I decided I would keep persevering and growing, like dust—or a fungus. While no one was looking, I would get better and bigger and stronger, and who knows? Maybe one day Random House or HarperCollins or some other Big Important Publishing House would notice little old me. Maybe. Of course, if and when they did, I would refuse to do any signings at my formerly favorite bookstore—and I would take satisfaction in telling the bookstore precisely why I refused. Take that, Miss Haughty High Heels!

That had been the plan. Only, none of this seemed likely during my March Madness. Doubts and fears and worries itched like chiggers under my skin. I scratched. They became infected.

I went back to telling people, when asked, that I was a stay-at-home mom. Period. Which seemed to be the truth—entirely.

Honestly, the way things were going, if not for my husband and his business, I would’ve told the builder of our new house to stop building.

Also, I wasn’t sure I liked my hair. I asked my husband what he thought. He wasn’t sure he liked it either.

Of course, I knew things could’ve been worse. For example, I could’ve been in my husband’s shoes, trapped in nine square feet of space, with four moody females: 1.) A writer-wife self-loathing enough to buy into some snotty bookstore manager’s low opinion of her, yet self-aggrandizing enough to be angry about it, 2.) A very twelve-year-old girl, 3.) A cranky old dog, and 4.) An exuberant young dog that nags and makes the old dog even crankier—have I mentioned that both our dogs are female? Well, I figured my husband could always go outside and commiserate with the battered, broken trees.

As for me, I persevered—like dust, or fungus—and I prayed. I wrote. I prayed. I prayed a lot. I prayed for my long-suffering parents. I prayed for Laurel. I prayed for my poor, sweet husband, an otherwise extremely intelligent man, who’d somehow been fooled into marrying me. (I know, I know: God bless him.) I prayed for myself.

And then my prayers were answered: April came.

(In the interest of fairness, I have removed all bookstore appearances from my calendar. Don’t bother asking; I won’t tell which one I am referring to here.)