Second place Santiago

Allow me to reminisce-

A quick look back at the submission fiasco of SANTIAGO for the Storymakers First Chapter Contest.

————————————————————————

The deadline was months and months in advance of the actual conference. Although I had written and re-written and taken this chapter to both of my critique groups for deep cleaning, I put off making the actual changes until the day it was due.

Stupid.

I also asked Brenda from my weekly writing group to do a thorough edit. She also did it that night. I was ready to submit but when I saw her edits start coming through, it was so much better. The problem was, it was late. And I was slow making changes. 

By 11:30pm, I was still toggling between documents trying to make the changes. I called Brenda. “HELP!” 

“Just accept the change in the comment box,” she said. 

Duh, Why didn’t I think of that? Uh, because I wasn’t exactly sure how that worked. 

“Do you want me to do it for you?” Brenda asked.

“Yes, please. I love all your changes. Just accept them all.”

So she went to work and I waited, watching the clock.

Ten minutes.

Seven.

“Done.” Brenda’s encouragement flooded through my cellphone.

“What do I put in the cover letter? What do I put in the body of the email? What do I put on the subject line!?!?”

“I’ll have Cindy call you.”

Click. 

The mouse jumped around the computer screen, jittery with nerves, as I tried to find the instructions on the website. 

Cindy called.

“HELP!” I nearly cried.

“OK, type this.” Cindy was calm and confident. She walked me through each line of the email and submission guidelines. I typed like a robot, filling in the blank spaces on the screen until I pushed send. 

“11:58.” Cindy said. “You made it.”

“Thank you.” I could hardly form the words. Nerves and brain synapses were colliding like a train wreck during rush hour. I was in full-on fight or flight mode, adrenaline bouncing through my body like a pinball machine. I stood and walked around the kitchen. My hands shook as I placed them over my heart which was pounding as if the house was on fire and the flames were licking at my feet. 

I looked around the kitchen. I was alone. Everyone was sleeping. No one was there was witness the trauma of my procrastination except two voices on a phone. 

It wasn’t until the next day when I dared to look at the email I sent.  I was devastated to find I’d probably sent the wrong one in. It had many of the editorial marks on it. 

 But what’s a girl to do? The deadline was past and the email was sent. So I waited it out. I waited three long month, the regret passing through my mind periodically. 

When the awards luncheon began, I had already resolved myself to rejection. So when they called my name and posted my title on the screen as Second Place winner of the Adult Fiction category, I was surprised and elated and quite frankly, in shock. And soooo HAPPY! 

Only one of the four judges mentioned the editorial markings. :)

Here is the first page of the chapter-

SANTIAGO

            Santi pulled his blanket over his shoulder and shrugged it up to his chin. It was October, and even in Fairfield, California, the mornings were beginning to chill. The apartment floor provided little comfort, but Santi was too tired to care. With his eyes closed, he turned to lie flat on his back. Careful not to bump any of his cousins sleeping like sardines in the small bedroom, he reached his hands over his head in a long stretch. The rising sun teased the window curtains with the promise of morning.

            Strawberries were the worst to harvest, he decided. Being bent over at the waist for row after row was painful, even with the advantage of being nine years old and closer to the ground. Santi and his cousins would often lie down right on the dirt between the rows of strawberries just to give their backs a break. But when Mama and Abuela gave the order, they were up and picking again, with barely a siesta in between. Santi didn’t mind the hard work too much though. Being with his cousins was worth it, although he did miss his dad, who was hard at work at home in Stockton.

            The door opened to the small bedroom where he lay, and a shaft of light slipped past the figure in the doorway. Dust danced around Aunt Concha, stopping at the dark outline of her wide hips and sloping shoulders. 

            She tiptoed over sleeping cousins and put her hand on Santi’s leg. Motioning to the door, she reached out to help him from the floor. Aunt Concha was a worker, and a good one. She could have lifted Santi’s nine-year-old body up and carried him across the room with one hand if she’d wanted to. Every fall she and her children worked the fields in Fairfield for extra money. And every fall she opened her home to Santi’s family to join in too. Santi followed his aunt through the minefield of sleeping bodies into the living room. 

            Aunt Concha cupped his face with her hands. “An officer is coming to take you to your grandfather. Don’t worry, Santi. I’ll pack you some food.” 

Writing groups

I am a firm believer in writing groups. 

When I first started writing, I was a lone wolf. I sat at my computer in the kitchen while half my children were at school and the other half were napping. I typed away, creating word pictures on the page and hoped they were good. When my first essay, “Typical,” was published in Segullah, I was assigned an editor to work with to clean it up and make it shine. That was one of the most instructive writing experiences I have ever had. I will never forget it. Each editorial comment was a lesson in writing and I learned so much from the critique.

That’s when I knew I needed #1- more instruction on writing. #2- a writing group.

So I started attending writing classes available at local libraries and eventually began attending conferences. Through the conferences, I found friends who would become my critiquing cohorts!

This is a picture of some of the members of REALITY WRITERS- a creative nonfiction group. I met them two years ago at the Storymakers Conference in Provo. We meet monthly and they offer invaluable help on my personal narrative essays.

(Steve, me, Carmen, Rena, Jessilyn)

Tanya is a friend from my neighborhood (who has since moved but not far so I forgive her). She’s a scientist. For a long time, I had no idea she also enjoyed writing. She and I attended our first writing conference together, Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers (WIFYR). We were so naive and had no idea what we were getting ourselves into, jumping right into intensive classes we were not completely prepared for. But it turned out to be a fantastic experience. Now we talk writing all the time and read each other’s stuff.  And we trade manuscripts with another friend from our WIFYR group who lives in Colorado. So writing groups can even work over email. It’s great!

And this is my most recent writing group. This one came about in a very unconventional, creepy stalker-ish way. I was at the pool with my kids and saw a woman sitting on a lounging chair on her laptop. Leaning against the chair was a Storymakers bag that they give out at every conference. So, I took a picture of her because I thought it was cool that she was so dedicated to her writing to bring it to the pool. Then I approached her and showed her the picture and told her I’d text it to her to remind herself how awesome she is. We talked for a little bit about writing and her writing group. Before it got too awkward, I left. Well, a week later, she texted and invited me to attend her writing group and see if I was interested in joining and if they were interested back. Like dating. We each brought our first chapters and read and critiqued and then they said they’d give me a call back if they wanted me to join. Luckily they said yes and we meet weekly and its been great motivation for me to keep  writing my fiction pieces.

Keri, Brenda, me, Cindy (from the pool), Angie

With the help of all these groups, I was able to polish up a great first chapter for the Storymakers first chapter contest and won 2nd place in the Adult Fiction category!

Writing groups are a must-have in my opinion if you really want to improve your writing craft. It’s also such a gift to have a group of people who believe in you and who can commiserate or celebrate with you! I’m lucky to have found such great groups to be part of. 

Book Review: Steelheart

I finally jumped on the band wagon and read a Brandon Sanderson. I know I’m super late to the party!

A review almost seems unwarranted. Everyone knows what a great writer he is but here goes...

Despite all the superhero movies and tv shows that are everywhere nowadays, Steelheart feels fresh. The main character, David, is every kids’ kid. He has a tragic background and wants to right the wrong he survived. He is daring, smart and resourceful and he won’t give up.

Setting the story in a future filled with super-villains yet void of super-heroes is awesome. What greater odds can you face? It turns the super-hero trope on its head and sets the stage for an amazing underdog story.

The characters and setting are believable. The story is intriguing and the action never stops. The twists and turns along the way kept me engaged the whole way through. And its a series so the fun doesn’t end here.

This is a great series for the summer. Anytime really.

Book Review: The Kitchen House

"The Kitchen House" by Kathleen Grissom is a great “escape” read. You will be transported and completely immersed in the story. But its also an intimate look into the life or death details of living with slavery.

“The Kitchen House” follows the life of a young Irish orphan, Lavinia, who is made a slave to a wealthy plantation owner in Virginia.

The colored slaves take her in as one of their own, even though they know she can never really be one of them because she is white and that is enough to make a difference. But she grows up blind to the difference of skin color. And therein lies the crux of the story. Society eventually tries to separate her and teach her where she belongs but nobody is quite sure where that is.

She feels a deep kinship with her slave family and they for her. But she is eventually assigned to the house to care for the ailing mistress. The master is a kind man but is often absent, leaving responsibility for the house and slaves to an abusive field manager, and his children to an abusive tutor. 

The characters are compelling. Every one of them. There is a large cast, running the risk of stereotypes which does happen to some degree. There is enough character growth in the main characters to forgive the flat characters. 

By the end, it almost begins to feel like a soap opera with all the inter-connections of slaves and owners and the traps of misunderstanding and crossed paths. And perhaps it really was that way?

One of the most painful parts for me to read was how trapped everyone was in their roles. Even with good intentions, good peopled were forced to be silent and pressed to inaction. And the evils of slavery persisted. I found myself even feeling sympathy for one of the antagonists. That’s good storytelling. And its tragic and heart wrenching and hard to put down. 

I really enjoyed thinking about and trying to understand the motivation of the characters, why they chose to do certain things. What would I have done in the situation? Would I be strong or weak? And what really is strong or weak when faced with a situation like they were in? Being led to these reflections and discussions with friends in our book club is what made this book so great!

SANTIAGO chapter 1

This is my chapter that won 2nd place in Adult General Fiction at the Storymakers Conference contest 2018. I'm very pleased with it and excited to share it with you!

SANTIAGO

Chapter 1       

            Santi pulled his blanket over his shoulder and shrugged it up to his chin. It was October and even in Fairfield, California, the mornings were beginning to chill. The apartment floor provided little comfort, but Santi was too tired to care. With his eyes closed, he turned to lie flat on his back. Careful not to bump any of his cousins sleeping like sardines in the small bedroom, he reached his hands over his head in a long stretch. The rising sun teased the window curtains with the promise of morning.

            Strawberries were the worst to harvest, he decided. Bending at the waist, row after row, was painful, even with the advantage of being nine years old and closer to the ground. Santi and his cousins would often lie down on the dirt between the rows of strawberries just to give their backs a break. But when Mama and Aunt Concha gave the order, they were up and picking again, with barely a siesta in between. Santi didn’t mind the hard work too much though. Being with his cousins was worth it.

            The door opened to the small bedroom where he lay, and a shaft of light slipped past the figure in the doorway. Dust danced around Aunt Concha, stopping at the dark outline of her wide hips and sloping shoulders.

            She tiptoed over sleeping cousins and put her hand on Santi’s leg. Motioning to the door, she reached out to help him from the floor. Aunt Concha was a worker, and a good one. She could have lifted Santi’s nine-year-old body up and carried him across the room with one hand if she’d wanted to. Every fall she and her children worked the harvest in Fairfield for extra money. And every fall she opened her home to Santi’s family to join in too. Santi followed his aunt through the minefield of sleeping bodies into the living room.

            Aunt Concha cupped his face with her hands. “An officer is coming to take you to your grandfather. Don’t worry, Santi. I’ll pack you some food.”

            “What’s wrong?” He pulled back. “Are the officers taking us away?” He was scared. He’d seen enough of his friends and their families deported back to Mexico.

            “No Santi. It’s not immigration. We are legal citizens.” She pulled him into a bear hug. “You are needed at home.”

            Aunt Concha was not an affectionate person, and Santi pulled against this sudden change in behavior. A knock at the ground level apartment door released him from the suffocating hug.

            “Officer,” Aunt Concha greeted.

            “Ma’am.” A police officer stepped through the front door. His hat was in one hand and the other hand was raised to his face where his fingers fiddled with a bushy mustache. He was tall and thin with a pronounced slouch.

            Santi looked around for his mother and then remembered she had gone home during the night to pick up some more clothes and other items they needed. Mama would be home when he got there and everything would be fine. He reached for Aunt Concha’s hand.

            “Santi, this is Officer… What was your name again?” Aunt Concha held Santi’s hand like a kite string in a strong wind. He tried to adjust his pinched fingers.

            “Uh, Officer Roberts.” The policeman traded his hat back and forth between his hands. His skittish eyes darted from Aunt Concha’s to the floor and back.

            “Officer Roberts is here to take you home.” She released her grip on Santi and turned to the kitchen.

            Officer Roberts raised a hand and motioned as if to speak to her as she left. His lips mumbled a silent conversation with himself and he shook his head, his hat still spinning in his hands. Aunt Concha returned with a brown paper bag bulging with the round outline of an apple and a water bottle. If Santi was lucky, she’d have thrown in one of her secret-recipe empanadas. She thrust the bag into Santi’s hands and pushed him toward the officer.

            “I’m leaving now? Alone?” Santi looked at his aunt, confused. She bit her lip and nodded.

            “You’ll be okay. Go with the officer, Santi.” She ran her fingers through Santi’s hair and gave him a final squeeze then nodded to the officer. He reached for Santi and directed him out the door. As the police car pulled away, Santi watched his aunt through the back window. She stood in the open door, hands clenched over her chest.

            It was a long drive and the sun burned through the car window. His cousins would be hard at work in the fields by now and Santi envied them. By the time they crossed the Sacramento River, Santi had already seen enough field and asphalt to put him in a scenic coma. Everything looked the same but he knew something had changed. Every dashed line on the road seemed to whisper “What’s wrong? What’s wrong? What’s wrong?”

            When Officer Roberts pulled into his neighborhood, Santi released his seatbelt and sat up next to the window. He pressed his nose and forehead into the glass until it fogged up. He wiped and pressed again. The car slowed to a crawl a couple of houses before Santi’s.

            “My house is further up there.” Santi pointed and knocked on the back of the driver’s seat. They were so close and all he could think about was seeing Mama. Then things would feel right again.

            “Yeah, so, we can’t get too close. I’m just going to park somewhere around here.” Officer Roberts picked up the speed a little and weaved between a few of the neighbors’ cars parked on the street until they were one house away. Then he pulled over and parked behind another police car.

            Santi squinted and stared. There had to be ten other police cars parked all over the street and in his driveway. He opened the door and stepped out, eyes trained on his house. Yellow ‘caution’ tape stretched from the back of his house, across the front and up the driveway on the other side. The house looked like the center of a boxing arena.

            “Hey, kid. You stay here in the car and I’ll be right back.” Officer Roberts walked away, his voice trailing behind him.

            Santi stared through the window like it was a movie screen. A man in a suit greeted Officer Roberts and they both walked into the house through the front door. Santi waited until the door closed and then climbed out of the car and followed the yellow tape up the driveway. At first he didn’t dare walk too closely to it. Stay away, it warned. Danger. But Santi had never been able to stay away from trouble, even when he tried. He reached out and touched the tape, muscles tense. The tape felt like wet plastic and he realized his hands were sweating. He trailed his fingers on the tape as he continued up the driveway.

            Closer to the house now, Santi heard a buzz of activity from inside. It sounded like the hornet nest he had found with his brother in one of the dirt baseball fields last summer. Santi knew what might happen when he threw a tomato at the hive but the air attack that followed was enough to scar him for life. Santi was a fast runner but his younger brother was not. Pushing Luis in front of him, he could not stay ahead of the mass of hornets. By the time they reached home, Santi’s back was a bumpy mass of swelling stings and his breathing was no more than a wheezing gasp. Although he was back to playing baseball with the neighbor boys the next day, he never touched another hive.

            Santi stepped away from the tape, shaking. His breath was quick and shallow. Feeling dizzy he turned away and bent to balance his elbows on his knees. The buzz from the house echoed in his head. Danger.

            “Santiago,” someone whispered.

            Santi looked up and saw his neighbor, motioning for him to come to the far side of the driveway. She was the neighborhood Abuela, hard of hearing and nosy, but always sincere.

            “Santiago. What’s going on? What happened?” Stooped with old age, she was nearly the same height as Santi.

            Santi didn’t know how to answer. Something had happened but he didn’t know what. All he knew was that his house was buzzing like a hornet’s nest and he didn’t want anything to do with it.

            “They will ruin your mother’s flowers. They search all through them. And the noise. They make so much noise.” Abuela clicked her tongue and motioned again for Santi to come closer.

            Just as he stood to move toward her, Officer Roberts appeared at his side and pulled on his elbow. “Come with me, boy,” he said. The officer hustled back to the house, dragging Santi behind. Together, they ducked under the tape and entered through the back door, leaving Abuela shaking her head after them.

            The kitchen was cast in shadow as Santi’s eyes adjusted from the outside morning light. He made out the shape of the dining table through the doorway, in the dining room. The vase of fresh flowers his mother always kept was missing. That made sense though, because she’d been with Aunt Concha and the rest of us for a week. The flowers would have wilted by now. Mama probably tossed them out when she came home last night to pack a few more clothes and things. Where was Mama? Santi rubbed his palms on his pant legs. He looked behind him. Two men in suits were talking, making notes on small pads of paper.

            In place of the flowers were a bunch of grapes and a bundle of asparagus. Two shades of green contrasting with the wooden table. Next to the produce was another pile. Also green. Santi squinted and stepped forward. It was money. Piles of it. Bundles of bills falling off of each other like a landslide. Santi had never seen so much money in his life, except in the movies. Is this why they called for him to come home? Had they found a treasure or won an award? Maybe he had it wrong and this feeling he had, like a bomb ready to explode, was because something good had happened.

            Santi stepped forward. He had touched the tape. He had entered the buzzing house. And he was still standing. He stepped into the dining room and reached for the money. With the next step, his foot slipped and Officer Roberts grabbed him under his arms before he fell to the floor.  Santi looked down to see his foot in a pool of red. He slid his toe back, revealing a streak of linoleum before the blood pooled back together. Instantly the smell hit him. Not the coppery smell, like when he cut his finger helping Abuela with dinner or banged up his knee in a bike crash. It smelled like body odor only worse—rancid and dirty.           

            His stomach turned and he pushed his way through the door into the dining room. His arm burned as he twisted out of Officer Roberts’ grasp. Reaching for the table, he held on with all the strength he had left. The officer followed him. Everyone stopped talking and the hive went silent, noticing him for the first time. Santi focused on the green; the asparagus, the grapes, the money in front of him on the table. But all he could see was red.

            “Jeez, kid. Hold on,” said Officer Roberts.

            Santi turned to stare at the officer. He screamed in his head. Why did you bring me here? Officer Roberts avoided eye contact and stood over him, like a sorry excuse for shelter. He glanced at the wall next to the doorway. Santi followed his gaze and saw two names written on the wall in fat, black marker. Rosa and Maria. Mama and Abuela. Beneath the names the wall was streaked with blood. The room spun and Santi stood still, fixated on the wall. Nothing made sense.

            “Roberts!” A man in a suit stood between Santi and the officer, blocking the view of the wall. “What in the…” he glanced at Santi and cut his curse words short. “When I said bring the boy in, I meant to the office where his grandfather is waiting. Get out of here!” He shoved Officer Roberts toward the door then kneeled in front of Santi.

            “What’s your name, young man?” he asked.

            “Santi. Santiago Juarez, sir.” Santi looked around to see who else might be talking because the voice that came out of his mouth did not sound like his own. It warbled and echoed in his ears.

            “Santiago, I’m Detective Allred. You should not be here. I’m going to send you to see your grandfather.” He waved a hand in the air and another policeman rushed over. “This officer will drive you.”

            Santi nodded. “What about Officer Roberts?”

            “Officer Roberts is no longer working this case.” The detective shook his head and stood. He placed a heavy hand on Santi’s shoulder. “Let’s get you back with family.”

            “What about my mom?” As Santi said the words his stomach turned and his throat went tight like he was choking. “And my dad?”

            The new officer looked at the detective, his mouth stretched across his face so tight it might break. Detective Allred knelt again and stared at Santiago. “This officer is going to take you to the station. You should ask your grandfather these questions.”

            At the police station, Santi walked past cubicles like he was on parade. On-looking officers stood to see him and whispered behind their hands. He lowered his eyes and trudged ahead. Grandfather stood in the middle of a glass room at the end of the hall, rigid as a brick wall with his back to the door. Mama’s two brothers were sitting around a table. One held Santi’s little sister on his lap and the other had his arm around Santi’s brother, Luis.

            The officer stood in the doorway and cleared his throat.

            “Mr. Juarez…”

            Grandfather turned and looked at the officer. His eyes were wet and swollen. “Any more news?” He held his hands out as if to receive something and they shook.

            “No.” The officer shook his head. “Santiago is here.”

            Santi took one step forward, hoping his legs would carry him all the way to his Grandfather’s arms before he fell. He scanned the room, trying to make eye contact but all eyes were on the officer and Grandfather. It was like no one knew he was there.

            “Santiago Juarez is no longer my family.” Spit laced Grandfather’s words and his eyes bore into the officer.

            The officer raised one hand to calm the old man and clarify. “I’ve brought your grandson, Santi.” Santi walked into the room and his brother and sister surrounded him with hugs. His uncles sat at the table, thrumming fingers and watching through lowered eyes.

            “Thank you, officer,” Grandfather said.

            When the siblings finished hugging, Santi turned to his Grandfather. ”Where is my dad?”

            “You won’t ever see him again.” The blood vessels on Grandfather’s neck bulged and pulsed. “He’s dead.”

            Santi’s face flushed and the room swung around him like a giant bell. “And Mama and Abuela?”  He knew the answer but didn’t want to hear it. As his Grandfather ranted about death, hell and Santiago Juarez, Santi covered his ears and crawled under the table with his siblings. He held his brother and sister on either side and rocked as his. 

Book Review: The Day The World Came to Town

There are many stories about 9/11 told through movie, book and personal experience. A story less known are the stories in Gander, New Foundland retold in Jim DeFede’s book “The Day the World Came to Town.” When hundreds of planes were stranded in the air on the morning of Sept, 11, with no place to land, Gander opened its airfield and welcomed the panes and the thousands of passengers with open arms. 

Though the heavy feeling of loss and insecurity is still present throughout this telling, the book focuses on how this town opened their homes, hearts, kitchens, linen closers—their lives—to the unexpected visitors. 

I enjoyed seeing the experience and reaction fo such varied groups of people from all over the world. Parents of a New York firefighter, high-fashion NY executives, high-level business leaders, pilots and crew, young tourists and even animal passengers. Each person on those planes had a story to tell, as did the New Foundlanders who helped them.

By spending a good amount of time in Gander, the author was able to get personal with the folks who live there and gather amazing stories. He shares them in an honest and touching way. My only complaint is that with such a large cast, it was hard for me to keep everyone straight. He does a relatively good job but there were just so many people. Perhaps that is part of the magnitude of the event and the story he is telling.

Overall, this is a fantastic story of unity and an inspiring community reaching out to help others in need. This book shows a heart warming side of a harrowing piece of American history. 

Book Review: Spinning Silk

My enjoyment of “Spinning Silk” by Taya Cook began with the beautiful cover and ended with the satisfying journey of a young Japanese girl from orphan to more than anyone ever imagined. 

I love reading stories based on re-imagined fairytales and folklore. This story was particularly intriguing because it is based on Japanese folklore, which I knew nothing about, including legendary spider-warriors. 

Woven in with the folklore is the solid character arc of Furi, raised a slave, coveted for her talent in weaving silk. Her journey crosses paths with a mysterious gardener, a selective illness and a generous provider with selfish motives. Danger and death seem to follow Furi with no easy explanation. All these experiences are filled with mystery and plot twists and turns that lead Furi closer to a destiny beyond worldly understanding. I enjoyed this journey with Furi and became invested in her drive to survive and also to create beauty where ever she went and in whatever circumstance she found herself in.

I recommend this book to anyone looking for diversity and a peek inside Japanese folklore. A huge bonus is that the plot and character development are definitely worth investing in as well.

Book Review: The War I Finally Won

"The War I Finally Won" by Kimberly Brubaker Bradley is a fantastic sequel to "The War That Saved My Life."

Once again, Ada endears herself to the reader with her vulnerability. World War II continues to rage and the aftermath is horrendous. Homes are lost, friends are lost, comforts are lost, lives are lost. Even hope is lost. 

But new friends come, in the form of Ruth, a Jewish German. No one is welcoming or accepting of her at first but soon a sweet friendship grows as well as a new understanding.

I love how this book introduces complex situations and emotions to young children, challenging them to explore and consider situations they may never be in themselves. Things like learning to accept someone different than you. Challenges of living without normal necessary comforts. Loss and death. Loneliness. Emotional and mental frailty. It is through reading books like this that children learn empathy for people and situations that foreign, scary and untouchable.

Another strong part of this book is the historical aspect. I love viewing the war from this perspective. I don't think it is one that is used very often, especially from a child's point of view. 

A couple of my favorite parts are:

example #1:
(Ada is at the top of the church in the middle of the night with Susan looking for fires)
"...I don't believe you're in danger up here, not any more than anywhere else. Think about it. You don't have to feel safe to actually be safe.'
I supposed. I'd never felt safe, so how would I know?"
I love that concept - You don't have to feel safe to actually be safe. That is something that Ada struggles with from the first novel and throughout this one. It demonstrates the power of the story we tell ourselves, what we allow ourselves to believe. Sometimes we are safe, or worthwhile, or beautiful, or whatever else, even though we don't see or believe it. 

example #2:
Mrs. Thornton has the most difficult time accepting Ruth. But in the end, she learns to look at the individual and open herself to understanding.
"I knew about the part of the world I grew up in,' Lady Thorton said, looking directly at me. 'You knew about the part you grew up in. Now we both know more."

This is one of the most valuable lessons of the whole book and why I think young people should read it

Why write?

I enjoy writing. I really do. 

But sometimes I get burned out. 

I lose inspiration

and direction

and confidence.

Getting started again is the hardest!

But I've had some stones in my shoe, 

spurs in my boot, 

kicks in the rear.

For starters, I've decided to create a special writing space for myself. 

Here is what it currently looks like:

Its going to take a litte lot of work. :)

But look at all those books!

HEAVEN!

Another motivation is this cute poster my daughter and her friend put together for me. 

"For the MOTHER" 

(hahaha!)

I just love that they recap the writing process for me and then tell me "Mom your AWESOME Believe in YOURSELF!!!!!"

I needed to hear that. Thank you!

Motivation #3:

Bryce wrote this awesome story in class. 

"Jack was in his bed. The doll had blue and red cracks all over. A bucket of blood and it was from people. The dolls eyes turned blood red. the doll started running at Jack. He raced out of his room. He saw blood eyes, red and blue..." (I took a little editorial privilege)

Ok, so maybe weaving a tale runs in the family and maybe someone wants to hear it. 

And that brings me to my final motivation - 
hoping that people want to hear what I write.

Whether its fiction or nonfiction, I write because I want to tell a story, but I also write because I want to be heard. 

I love the song "You Matter To Me" from the broadway show "Waitress." 

"Its addictive the minute you let yourself think,
the things that I say just might matter to someone."

So, its time to get serious about writing again. I need to clear thoughts and experiences from my mind so I can make sense of them, grow from them and be heard. I also need to finished a couple of middle-grade stories for my children before they aren't children anymore. 

Book Review: Peace Like a River

Peace Like a River, by Leif Enger, is one of the most beautiful books written. It is very poetic and a little slow to begin and for some in my book club, it was hard to get into. But for me, its like swimming in a beautiful ocean of words. 

If you give yourself a little time to immerse into the story, you will fall in love with 11-year-old Reuben and his family. Beginning with severe bullying and a drastic reaction by taking things into their own hands, the family is propelled into a cross-country trip to save their family. 

One of the best parts of this book for me, besides the beautiful writing, was the religious undercurrent throughout the entire novel. I just loved it. Miracles and prophets and the drive to do the right. Also, the character development and family development were so deep and meaningful. The relationships between Reuben and his sister and brother. And the role of his father as the bedrock of the family. Heart-breaking at times but always real and honest. 

Also, the setting is almost a character in and of itself. From the long stretches of road, to the snow, to the fiery crevasse. And the characters that come on scene to help and to hinder are drawn with distinct characterization. 

This is a wonderful book for young adult/adult. If you find it hard to get into, don't give up. It is worth reading! 

Book Review: The Third

Isn't this the craziest cover. I sort of love it and am creeped out by it at the same time. 

The Third is a fantastic book written by Abel Keogh. The story starts by immediately immersing you in the setting of a not-too-distant future that is focused on recycling and saving the earth. Laws of rule and order are passed and families are granted only two credits for children. Having a third or more is against the law. 

Right off the bat, Ransom saves a woman and her child from impending violence on a bus and in the process puts his own life in danger. This would be enough to keep you reading but when the twists and turns start flying, I couldn't put the book down. 

The best part of Keogh's writing is the way he envisions the future and puts his characters in impossible positions where the line between right and wrong is blurred. He does a good job of exploring the issues from every angle. I even found myself agreeing with a character that was in opposition to my own opinion. 

The plot is tight and intriguing and the characters are spot on. I couldn't stop reading and when the book ended.... well, I just can't wait for the next book to come out. 

This is a great book I highly recommend for new adult/adult readers. 

Book Review: Finding Beauty in the Best

"Finding Beauty in the Beast" is a beautiful fairy tale re-telling. Author Jessilyn Peaslee borrows characters from her first novel, Ella (and its companion book, Ella's Will) and turns the fairy tale on its head. In the best way possible. Princess Rose is a monster. Some call her a beast. Corbin escapes heartbreak at home and finds himself in Rose's kingdom and forced to present himself as a suitor. Every suitor is required to present a gift and his, though simple, is the one Rose picks. And so begins the tale of transformation, for both of them.  Certainly the best part of this book is the character development. Peaslee does a wonderful job of bringing Corbin and Rose to life and making them completely relatable. Corbin is kind yet still flawed in his interaction with difficult Rose. And Rose is difficult yet vulnerable at the same time. Their love grows at a slow simmer until it can't be denied.I also appreciated the sweet poetic word-smithing that is so fitting for a fairytale. Peaslee is a master at understanding the workings of the heart and the intricate complications of relationships. You can't help but learn something about yourself when you read one of Peaslee's book. This is a sweet fairy tale I would recommend for any age.

"A Three Dog Life" is a beautiful memoir by Abigail Thomas. Her husband was in a horrible accident which left him with severe brain damage. His body is still there but his mind is lost. Abigail is his wife and caregiver.

This book, written in essay form is so beautiful. If you know someone with memory loss, this book will speak to you. It certainly did to me. She delves into the realities of living with someone who can't remember one moment to the next. And openly admits to the difficulties in putting your loved one in a care facility and all the complicated feelings that accompany that. Thomas writes in such an honest way, it made me feel like I was sharing a drink with her in a small restaurant and there was not a care in the world. It's reflective and beautiful and heart-rending.  

Another great thing about this book is that because it is written in essay form, it is easy to read and much or as little as you need. And it gives you time to think and reflect. It's a book I could read more than once. 

Hymnbook committee Fireside

 


My mom, aunt Cheryl and I went to the most wonderful musical fireside in January! 

The evening was filled with speakers from the 1985 Hymnbook Executive committee. Michael Moody, who wrote Christmas songs with my Grandma (Mabel Jones Gabbott) every year for 20 years was the committee chair. So it was also a little bit of reunion for us. 

Not only did we get to listen to them speak about their experiences on that committee, we were able to sing many of the hymns with their instruction and a tabernacle organist on the organ. It really was wonderful!

One particular part that was delightful to me was hearing how they changed the lyrics to some of the older hymns so that they would fit better with the doctrine and fit the rhythm of the music as well.

The following hymns are organized thus:
Previos words:
You who unto Jesus for refuge have fled.
Because people had too much fun saying "yoo-hoo"
Changed to:
Who unto the Savior for refuge have fled.
("How Firm a Foundation" #85)

There is no tomorrow but only today.
Changed to:
Prepare for tomorrow by working today.
("Today While the Sun Shines" #229)

Only he who does something is worthy to live.
Changed to:
Only he who does something helps others to live.
("Have I Done Any Good" #223)

Tradition flees before its power.
Changed to:
Faithless tradition flees its power.
("Sweet is the Peace" #14)

Bear patiently...
Changed to:
With patience bear...
("Be Still My Soul" #124)

Switched verses 2 and 3
("For All the Saints" #82)

There were also several hymns that never gained the traction the committee had hoped for. They called these the "high Hopes" hymns:

"I Saw a Mighty Angel" #15
"All Glory, Laud and Honor" #69
"Arise, O God and Shine" #265
"Let Zion in Her Beauty Rise" #41
"Father, Cheer Our Souls Tonight" #231

I love the hymns of the church and I love being the ward choir director, immersing myself in these beautiful hymns of worship!

Writing Grandma's song

When President Monson passed away, I decided to change the hymn the choir was singing for January to a song that would honor the prophet. Immediately my mind went to the song my Grandma Gabbott wrote with Michael Moody in 1994. 

"I Heard the Prophet Speak"

The words were based by the teachings of President Benson. Later, Jan Pinborough wrote new words based on the teachings of President Hinckley. It was published in the New Era in 1996 and sung at the General Young Women's meeting. (She's wrote new verses AND a new chorus)

Well, I knew I wanted to sing Grandma's song. But I also wanted to honor President Monson. So I decided to make an attempt at writing new verses and keep Grandma's chorus. 

I went for a hike up Y mountain in Provo. I hiked it twice in a row, the whole time praying for help in writing the new words. And they came. I sang them over and over, in my mind and outloud, and as soon as I got to the top the second time, I sat and typed the words into my phone. 

I was so pleased with how it all turned out. The choir sounded beautiful! I felt the Spirit and also the influence of my Grandma as I worked on this. It was a sweet experience for me to feel like I was collaborating with my grandma in a way. 

Grandma's lyrics:

1. I heard the prophet speak; come seek the Savior's light. 

Be patient, kind, and gentle, be Christ-like, do the right.

2. I heard the prophet speak; inviting us to live,

respecting one another, and willing to forgive.

3. I heard the prophet speak; His words were like a dart,

That pierced my unbelieving. I come with all my heart.

Chorus: Yes, I will follow the prophet, he speaks for the Lord today.

And I will follow him gladly. I will walk the Savior's way..