Archive for the 'The Writing Life' Category
July 2, 2010 @ 6:51 am | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life
MELROSE MIRACLE
by Staci Wilder
…remove far from me vanity and lies: give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with food convenient for me…Proverbs 30:8
Chapter One
Milltown, Louisiana
There was no reason to believe today would be different than any other day.
Ella Paglia glanced—for the fifth time just inside of an hour—at the large round clock boasting jumbo oversized numbers that hung on the far wall of the kitchen. Exactly noon. She blew out a huff of breath and flashed the big, burly cook a wry grin. At least it felt wry. For all Ella knew, as weary as she already felt, her lips could very well be doing most anything they liked and she wouldn’t know the difference. Max returned the grin though, and shrugged his broad shoulders in a way that said, I know…I know…
In Milltown, Louisiana, time crawled on its hands and knees.
“Is it really still Tuesday, Max?”
The older man didn’t answer, and Ella didn’t expect him to. They had opened the diner together this morning at five a.m.—in time to feed the first shift of mill workers before they went on duty and get ready for the onslaught of the third shift when they came off at seven. While Ella felt the rigors of the demanding seven hours—aching back, screaming feet, a mouth stretched sore from hours of being “on”—Max, on the other hand, continued to work tirelessly, his pace never slowing. Now he whistled loudly as he heaped another plate with fried chicken and homemade biscuits. Ella took the plates, arranged them on a tray, and then carefully balanced the load as she used her hip to push through the heavy swinging doors.
It didn’t matter that Ella had now lived in the small piney woods community of Milltown for—had it really been this long?—two full years. She had never quite adjusted to the laid-back lifestyle and the complete absence of all things hurried and planned. Much different than the fast-paced way of life she was used to on the Jersey coast—where everything seemed to pop with activity and people walked with purpose and determination.
Ella swatted at the memories trying to push their way to the front burner of her mind. Memories best left alone. It had been two years since Stephen’s death and her move to Milltown, and still the memories insisted on tormenting her, often at the most inconvenient times and places.
Like right now.
Max’s Diner—located at 4th and Main—held its usual Tuesday summer lunch crowd. A hand full of neighborhood teens huddled in one noisy corner booth. A spattering of local business owners conducted impromptu meetings over huge platters of Max’s fried chicken. The Rotary Club was having its monthly meeting in the back room. And the old fashioned lunch counter was peppered with individuals—mostly overall-clad retired grandpas and housewives busily scribbling their afternoon grocery lists—all stopping by for the Tuesday special.
“Smells delish, Ella.” Reggie, Ella’s best girlfriend, sniffed appreciatively as Ella set the order down in front of her. “Nobody makes fried chicken like Max.” Reggie lifted a fork in anticipation, glanced up at Ella, and pointed to the chair next to her. “Can you take a break? Sit down for a minute?”
Ella surveyed the tables and their occupants. All seemed to be taken care of, for the moment anyway. In a few minutes Ernie Johnson would need a refill of the sweet iced tea he loved so much. His wife, Mamie, would ask for another napkin. And Charlie Mason would request a second slice of the pie of the day—cherry—along with a cup of coffee—black. Ella knew these things because…well, because it had been this way every single Tuesday since she started at the diner nearly a year ago.
“Maybe a small break.” She sank into the chair, trying not to think how wrong it was that a hard, wooden chair could feel so utterly dreamlike beneath her weary body.
“So have you heard anything yet?” Reggie opened a small cellophane packet of honey and drizzled it over her biscuit.
“About what?” Ella watched in amazement as her friend took a large bite of the gooey bread, and then handed her a napkin as the sticky honey oozed from the corner of Reggie’s mouth. She eyed the smart Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress that managed to make her friend’s waist appear even tinier than it actually was. “How do you stay so thin, eating like this?”
Reggie’s eyes widened, practically dancing with delight, but she continued to chew the mouthful, finally swallowing with a huge satisfied smile. “This is sooo good.” She took a sip of her diet cola and shrugged. “You know I only eat like this when I’m in town. Calories don’t count in Milltown, right?”
Ella laughed, resisting the urge to glance down at her own hips, which—if they could talk—would beg to differ. Her once slender five-foot-two-inch frame now nicely filled out a perfect size 12, producing curves Ella hadn’t even known her body was capable of back in New Jersey. She credited motherhood with the added pounds and tried not to resent them too much. The joy of Chloe was worth any cost, even if it meant a rounder behind and a slight stomach pooch.
Regina “Reggie” Bradshaw was another story entirely. Tall and lithe, with waist-length auburn locks and a milky white complexion, Reggie looked as though she’d freshly stepped from the latest issue of InStyle. Ella didn’t know how her friend managed to marry the chic sophistication of her Los Angeles lifestyle with the down-home, what-you-see-is-what-you-get mentality of Milltown. But somehow Reggie not only managed it, but enjoyed it. Her friend had a zest for life that generally proved contagious to all those around her.
No doubt why Kristi fought so hard to get her, Ella thought.
Reggie had scored large when she’d accepted the position of personal assistant to Kristi Carmichael, a twenty-something pop music diva, born and bred right here in Milltown, Louisiana. Bopping between her cozy home in town and her trendy LA apartment, Reggie’s frequent flyer miles earned more perks than Ella’s entire savings passbook. But in spite of the traveling, the concerts, the hob-nobbing with the rich and famous, Reggie managed to remain as crisp and cool as a cucumber in a summer salad. No wilting visible on this girl.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Reggie poked at the chicken breast with her fork, and then peeled back the batter and removed part of the skin.
So calories do count after all, don’t they, Reg? Ella leaned forward, propping her elbow on the table, and her chin in her hand. Watching Reggie forego the batter made her suddenly feel a lot better. “What question?”
“The contest, silly. Have you heard anything yet?”
Ella frowned. The contest—Restaurant 101—the one Ella had no hope of winning. She shook her head. “Not yet.”
She didn’t bother to add that she didn’t expect to hear anything. The idea was laughable at best, if not downright ludicrous. Like McAllister Pruitt—only the most well-known celebrity chef turned Cooking Channel star—would hand-pick her to be a part of his new reality-based series…
Reggie leaned forward and whispered—for no apparent reason—in a highly conspiratorial voice, “Just think. You could be the next Wolfgang Puck. Or Rocco DiSpirito. Or…wait! I’ve got it!” Reggie snapped her fingers, her eyes sparkling. “You’ll be the next Kendall Brooks!”
“That’s enough!” Ella laughed in spite of how far-fetched her friend’s thoughts ran. If McAllister Pruitt was the most well-known celebrity chef, then Kendall Brooks was America’s Sweetheart of the kitchen. Bright, bubbly, and full of energy, Kendall Brooks had single-handedly ushered a whole new generation into the wonders of culinary treasures. Her daily show, Everyday Meals, was the talk of Milltown.
“Don’t you see it, Ella?” Reggie was on a roll. “You’re both Italian, cute, a little on the short side…”
“Stop it, you!” Ella stifled a grin. “This is all easy enough for you. It’d be different, you know, if the shoe were on the other foot!”
But even as she uttered the retort, she knew it wasn’t true. Reggie Bradshaw—her best friend since seventh grade—operated just fine under pressure. Thrived, in fact, flourishing like a flower beneath the springtime sun. But Reggie seemed unaware how rare her laidback confidence was and, although their personalities stood in stark contrast to one another, they’d been soul sisters since junior high. Everyone should have a friend that believed in them as much as Reggie believed in her. If only that belief were enough.
Reggie had been the one to convince her to enter the contest in the first place. Three weeks ago, sitting right here, at this very table. In town for a long weekend, Reggie had unfolded a copy of The Bay Gazette, and pointed to the article mid-way down Page Two of the LA Living section.
McAllister Pruitt and The Cooking Channel
Present Restaurant 101
The prominent headline led into a full-page summary of the upcoming reality series that would follow eight contestants—all vying for a restaurant of their own—and the various challenges they would undertake in the process. All under the intense scrutiny of McAllister Pruitt himself.
Ella had read the article with interest, knowing instinctively that she would be a fan of the show. The Cooking Channel was practically the designated channel in their small apartment. They’d snuggle on the sofa at night, watching Kendall Brooks prepare scrumptious easy-to-prepare meals in thirty minutes or less. Even Chloe—now just two—loved to carry her plastic dishes to the coffee table, letting out a robust Bam! Every now and then.
“You should enter.” Reggie’s suggestion had seemed ridiculous at the time, but her friend had proved relentless. Reggie had waved her arms in the air like one of those guys you see on airport tarmacs. All that was missing was the bright yellow bib and orange light stick.
“Picture it, okay, El?”—her enthusiasm gradually drawing Ella—“There you are, making your famous, scrumptious—” she’d rolled her eyes heavenward—“Vegetable Panini! Something you can practically do in your sleep, by the way.”
In the span of fifteen short, thought-provoking minutes, Ella had been convinced. Tape a three-minute cooking segment—sure, why not? Cooking was her thing, after all, and the kitchen—her domain, no doubt about it.
She and Chloe ate mostly tuna salad sandwiches and cold cereal these days, but there’d been a time when whipping up a last minute dinner party for eight of their closest friends had been nothing at all. After moving here to Milltown, Reggie had insisted she have some business cards printed and advertise her catering services.
In spite of the fact it meant more time away from Chloe, Ella rather enjoyed the creativity catering allowed. Of course, around here she mainly did children’s birthday parties, an occasional anniversary celebration, and the annual Christmas dinner sponsored by the mill each December. Certainly not enough to pay the ever-growing mound of bills, and certainly not enough to leave her position at Max’s.
Ella tried not to look at “what could have been”. The restaurant she and Stephen planned to open. The siblings they’d planned for Chloe. The anniversary vacation to Hawaii they’d never taken. Ella knew if she did began to glance in the rear view mirror too often she’d somehow lose what quality still did exist in her life. Chloe. Her friends. Max, and his incredible generosity.
No, it was better if she didn’t dwell on the fact that she and Stephen had been just one signature short of signing a six-month lease on the building that would have housed Ella’s Little Italy.
What a difference twenty-four hours could make…
The very next day the doctor had delivered their life sentence. Six to nine months—if they were lucky. The restaurant—and the dream it represented—passed away just as quietly as Stephen had on that chilly late October afternoon. Crushed and alone for the first time in her life, Ella had packed up Stephen’s belongings, along with both, her dreams and her faith in God.
“You okay?” Reggie arched two perfectly plucked eyebrows in concern. “Don’t worry about the contest. They’ll contact you, don’t you doubt that.”
There was so much conviction in her voice that Ella almost believed her.
The three-minute taped segment had been sent to the Los Angeles studios of McAllister Pruitt. Ella cringed every time she pictured a group of yuppie Hollywood types pulling her entry from a tightly taped padded manila mailer. They’d no doubt watch with amusement as a single Louisiana mom of one very energetic two-year-old tried to impress them with her simple—all be it delicious—Vegetable Panini.
Ella tried to stifle the cringe now sneaking up her spine. Had she really thought she might win the chance to run her own restaurant because of this old family recipe? The whole thing seemed like a colossal waste of time and effort.
Hers and theirs.
“Think about it, El.” Reggie reached over and squeezed Ella’s hand. “You’re amazing in the kitchen, you have all these fabulous Italian recipes you grew up with, and you’re beautiful. What more could The Cooking Channel want?”
Ella bit her tongue and resisted the urge to clue Reggie in on exactly ‘what more’ an up-and-coming hip network might want. Um…how about a flawless cover girl face, model-thin thighs, and hair that didn’t have a mind all its own. Just to name a few, of course.
Now she couldn’t help wondering if entering the contest had been an impulsive long-shot she’d later regret. Every fiber of her five-foot-three frame doubted she’d ever hear anything. She could never decide which was the worse of two evils: taking a chance and falling on your face or never taking a risk and feeling like you’ve missed out on something. Something that could potentially change your life.
So she’d taken the risk this time. What was the worst that could happen anyway? They’d view her taped segment and decide she wasn’t quite the character or the cook they were looking for in this series. And then her life would continue on as it had for the past year. She’d continue to work her shifts in the diner. Continue to treasure her evenings and weekends with Chloe. Continue to scramble to climb out of the monstrous debt. Life would go on. Just as it had after Stephen’s death. Just as it always would.
She straightened in her chair now, widened her eyes, and flashed Reggie her profile. “But the thing is…I don’t have any dimples.” Sticking a finger in her cheek, she attempted a lop-sided grin. “You know, like Kendall Brooks’—”
Reggie giggled and dragged a fry through the last bit of gravy on the plate. “Maybe not, but you’ve got something else, Ella. Something far better. You’ve got…moxie.”
Ella struggled to swallow. She couldn’t believe Reggie had found the guts to utter that word to her. It had been Stephen’s special word for her.
Reggie continued, apparently oblivious that she’d stunned Ella. “And that, my sweet friend, is going to take you to amazing places, Ella. I just know it.”
Charlie Mason twisted in his chair across the dining area, craning his neck as he no doubt looked for her.
“I’d better get back to work.” Ella stood, then bent and hugged Reggie. “What would I do without you, Reg?”
Reggie grinned, shrugged, and slipped the remaining bite of biscuit between her lips. “Don’t worry about it—you’ll always have me.”
Ella brought Charlie’s pie, grabbed a handful of napkins for Mamie, and refilled Ernie’s tea glass. But her mind stayed glued on Reggie’s words. You’ll always have me. Reggie might be the more worldly of the two of them—with her world travels, multi-city concert dates, and glitzy Hollywood lifestyle. But losing Stephen had taught Ella a lesson her friend had yet to learn.
You just never knew when you might be saying good-bye to someone…for the last time.
***
It was close to one o’clock in the afternoon when Luke Abney pulled open the front door of Max’s Diner. He followed his buddy Kurt to a table near the large picture window that overlooked the sporadic traffic on Main Street.
“Cool place, huh?” He dropped into a chair and glanced around the small cafe with a grin. It had been a while—in fact, his last visit home—since he’d eaten in a place like this. The red vinyl booths, black-and-white checked floor, and old-fashioned lunch counter reminded him of Percy’s Drugstore back home. Just like Percy’s, it was a little like stepping back in time.
And taking a step or two back in time—or at the very least, slowing the pace a bit—sounded like a good plan to Luke.
Kurt eyeballed the room, shrugged, and quirked an eyebrow. “Cool? Yeah, I guess so. If you like this kind of place.”
“Aw, man.” Luke teased his buddy and reached for the plastic-coated menus that stood propped between the bottle of ketchup and a salt shaker. “Don’t tell me you’ve allowed Tinsel Town to jade your thinking.” He motioned with his arm. “This is awesome, small-town America at its best. The real world. Real people.”
Kurt grinned. “As long as they have real food I’ll be a happy customer.”
“It’ll be good, trust me.” Luke jabbed a menu under Kurt’s nose and then bent to study his. In seconds his mouth started to water as he read about the homemade chicken pot pie and English pea casserole—dishes you just couldn’t find in trendy LA restaurants.
“Hi, welcome to Max’s. Would you like to hear today’s special?”
Luke glanced up into the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he ever remembered seeing. In person, that is; the video segment had been his first clue. The petite waitress looked to be thirty-ish, with olive skin and a mass of sun-tinted brown curls that she’d tried to capture—rather unsuccessfully—in a ball on the top of her head.
Luke tried not to stare, and tried even harder to find his voice. He’d known from the contest entry that she was attractive, but in person her freshly-scrubbed good looks rendered him speechless.
“Sure, we’d love to hear the specials.” Kurt answered her, and then kicked him beneath the table, just the nudge Luke needed to remind him it was rather rude to stare. “Okay. Today’s special features Max’s—” she gestured in the direction of the kitchen—“famous fried chicken and homemade biscuits.”
Kurt’s eyebrows rose and he glanced at an elderly couple seated at the next table. The man—dressed in worn coveralls and white t-shirt—winked and nodded.
“The best fried chicken this side of the Mississippi.”
Luke closed his menu and grinned at the waitress. “That’s good enough for me then.”
Kurt looked skeptical, but he nodded. “Make that two. Oh, and a couple of espressos, please.”
Luke coughed into his hand, trying to send a signal his buddy’s direction. No way was Kurt going to find one of his beloved coffee specialties in this diner. He risked a peek at the waitress and glimpsed a hint of amusement playing in the corners of her lips.
“Espressos?” She tapped her order pad with the eraser end of her pencil and leveled a smile at Kirk. “And is our house ground okay? Or would you like for me to grind the beans myself?”
“Fresh ground would be great—” His voice trailed off as she giggled and held up a hand to stop him. “What? Did I miss something?”
“Hey, the only thing you’re going to miss today, my friend, is a strong shot of liquid energy.” Luke couldn’t hold back the laugh another second. He wasn’t sure which was funnier—the way this pretty waitress had pulled one over on Kirk or the fact that his buddy just couldn’t seem to separate himself from the alternate universe that was Los Angeles.
“I’m sorry.” The waitress’ expression turned contrite, though the smile proved that she, too, had enjoyed the moment. “I couldn’t resist. No, we don’t have a way to do espressos here, but Max does make the best cup of coffee around. If it’s a caffeine jolt you’re looking for, I can fix you up.”
“It’s not that chicory stuff, is it?” Kirk’s nose turned up.
“Have you ever tried it?” Her eyes nailed his.
“Okay.” Kirk rested his palms on the table in a signal of surrender. “Chicory coffee, it is.”
“You won’t be sorry, honest. It’ll take just a couple of minutes, then I’ll have your order right out.” The waitress’ smile was pure delight. It seemed to light up her entire face. Genuine warmth—something you didn’t see much of in Los Angeles.
A mixture of something strange yet wonderful flopped around in the pit of Luke’s belly as her eyes locked on his. It was a feeling he hadn’t experienced in quite a long time. But one he certainly recognized. He tried to kick at the disappointment when she’d finished scribbling their order and walked away.
“That’s her.” Kurt pulled a folder from the briefcase he’d dropped into the chair next to him. He opened it, and then skimmed the contents. “Ella Paglia, waitress, formerly of New Jersey, specializes in Italian dishes.” He glanced up. “What do you think, Abney? Ready to let our eighth—and last—finalist know she’s been chosen for Restaurant 101?”
Christian fiction, Staci Wilder books, summer reading
September 24, 2009 @ 6:20 am | Filed under: The Solid Rock,The Writing Life
Sometimes I think we look at Bible stories and imagine the characters in those stories to have been perfect in their own imperfect-ness, if that makes any kind of sense.
Though we read about their shortcomings, their weaknesses, their failures, it is almost always the moral of the story – or the end result – that we walk away with. These are the parts of the stories that we tuck like nuggets into that secret place in our souls where we capture the essence of what it is we think we are supposed to be. Or supposed to do. Or supposed to accomplish.
The reality is much more human, and it is that element that I think about this morning.
I love how Moses’ story ties into this. God heard the cries of the Israelites and He desired their freedom, so God invited Moses to join Him. It really didn’t matter what Moses thought the plan for his life was. What mattered most was God’s plan for Moses’ life.
So many of us today have a preoccupation with knowing God’s will for our lives. I know I’ve struggled with this before – some days, I still struggle with it. There are some areas where it is very evident that God is at work (like with my family), but there are other areas where it appears God is silent (like with my writing.)
What I am trying to remember is that God’s focus has always been on getting His people to come into line with His will and with what is on His heart, so that we (I) can adjust our lives (my life) to Him, rather than having God design His plans around us (me).
And what is God’s plan? God is, and always has been, actively drawing people to Himself.
This should liberate me; should free any reckless, nervous thoughts about the future. Because this alone means that I do not have to come up with plans for God, or design ways to achieve kingdom goals.
He is at work, and when I join Him – right where He is, I am in perfect alignment.
devotionals, life lessons, walk with God, writing
September 1, 2009 @ 6:44 am | Filed under: The Solid Rock,The Writing Life
Sometimes our lives can resemble a book.
There is a little romance. A little drama. A little humor. And a little (or a lot) of conflict. Of course every story needs conflict. That’s what keeps us interested. We enjoy seeing the characters of our books get into – and then out of – trouble.
Of course, in reality not every situation has a happy ending in 30 minutes or less. Real life is different, but it’s also better.
Every day there are words coming out of our mouths.
They can either build people up. Or they can tear them down. In the United States we having a saying, “Sticks and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.”
Truth: words hurt. They maime, they wound. Every word that comes out of our mouths will either hurt or help. It will either bring loved ones closer or push them away. This is something we need to consider when we are speaking—to our children, to our spouse, to other family members. To friends.
But this is not the only dialogue happening in our lives. Whether we know it or not, there is another continual dialogue going through our minds. It’s our internal dialogue. The dialogue occurs in two ways. “Thorough and organized” dialogue or dialogue that “bounces around like a little rubber ball in your mind.”
“Thorough and organized” thinking is similar to a great novel plot or movie script. A script is something the writer uses to put the movie on paper. It provides direction for the producer, the actors, and even the set directions.
The script isn’t the movie. The script is direction for the action. The script guides everything. Without the script there is no order and the action has no meaning. would jump around. Nothing would make sense.
Sometimes we don’t organize our thoughts in our mind, and our actions are the same. Our actions, our lives, seem to be without meaning and order.
Those times when I find my thoughts just running around in my mind, with no plan or purpose, I know I am in the big middle of chaos. I’m not talking about organizing daily activities. We all somehow manage to organize our days, some better than others.
But the BIGGER thinking, such as: Where do I want to be in the future? Where would I like to see my family in the future? What would I like my marriage to look at five years from now?What kind of adults do I want my children to be?
Sometimes we let our minds get carried away with concerns. We think about things that happened ten years ago. Or maybe we consider worries we have about tomorrow.
We also find our thoughts are full of emotions. Happy thoughts, sad thoughts, excited thoughts, or scared thoughts. Our thoughts are focus on whatever is going on that moment. One day things are good. The next day things are not so good. Our actions then follow our emotions, which we know can lead to all types of trouble and issues.
I don’t want to allow my thoughts, or what is happening around me, to be in control. I want Him to write the script of my life and then I want to allow my thoughts to follow that script and no other.
Why is that so hard at times?
March 19, 2009 @ 9:10 am | Filed under: The Writing Life,Uniquely Me
When I started this blog, the intention was to give tiny glimpses into a writer’s mind. Not necessarily a writer’s life. ‘Cause let’s face it. The writing life – most days – isn’t that grand! Instead, it’s a lonely road, one you want to detour from often, just so you can ‘see’ folks again. Feel connected to the real world.
That’s on most days.
But then – quite unexepectedly – comes that morning when you wake up, your blood pumping just a bit quicker, your heart fluttering with excitement, nerves calm, fingers itching for the keyboard, your soul full to overflowing.
Fresh annointing.
A renewed one-on-one connection with God. The assurance that you’re on the exact path He has laid for you. The certainty that the stories on your heart – the ones that won’t leave you alone at night, even hours after you’ve logged off the computer – are the ones you’re meant to write.
You, and you alone.
Those mornings, those days – as rare as they sometimes seem – are worth everything.
Worth every hour I spend staring at the blank page, certain I’ll never come up with another intelligent, inspired sentence again. Let alone a whole book of them.
Worth every hour I stay shut inside my office, refusing to free myself from my self-imposed prison until I achieve my daily word count.
Worth every rejection I receive from well-meaning publishers, who love my writing (okay) but “don’t see your stories fitting the direction we plan to go at this point.”
It’s all worth it. And the reason for it seems so simple on those rare mornings.
I’ve found favor with my Maker. I’m doing the very thing He’s asked of me. I’m writing, and I’m writing the stories, the characters, the events He lays on my heart, imbeds in my conscience, and pierces through my soul.
I’m content in obedience.
I think I’ll be forever thankful for this call to write. Thankful for the privilege of having days free to pursue this calling. Thankful that He trusts me - ME – to tell stories that, in faith, will one day minister to specific needs in the lives of people I’ve never met.
I love being a writer.
Today.
March 9, 2009 @ 8:22 am | Filed under: School Stuff,The Writing Life,Uniquely Me
“Talent without discipline is like an octopus on roller skates. There’s plenty of movement, but you never know if it’s going to be forward, backwards, or sideways.” — H. Jackson Brown, Jr. Author
I’m considering this quote this morning as I sit at the computer and try my best to put the busy weekend’s activities behind me, and begin yet another week of writing and school work. It would be nice right about now to be able to lasso the euphoric feelings of this past Friday afternoon when I contracted the fever while at Hobby Lobby. Instead, it’s not only Monday morning but Daylight Savings Time Monday morning. I have the yawn factor, puffy eyes, and slightly disoriented feelings to prove it!
Not a lot has changed between five o’clock on Friday and now except the need to once again apply pressure that just doesn’t feel so good. Especially on Monday mornings, right? It’s time to dive back into full story mode and – write. And study. And be as diligent as possible at both. I keep waiting for the “warming up” period of writing to be obselete. But you know what? I think I’m beginning to realize that this apprehension, this hesitancy when I first sit down to the keyboard, is just going to be part of the game plan.
So as I try to rein in my thoughts, corral my emotions, and begin the arduous task of enforcing a huge dose of self-discipline, I’m thinking about the words in this quote. When I begin a story, I have a pretty good idea of the road map the story will ultimately travel. What I don’t know, however, is how it will GET there.
It’s always a faith walk with me, and maybe that’s one of the reasons I feel such uncertainty on some days. I’m relinquishing control, and asking God to once again speak through my words. I learned long ago that giving over that control brings the greatest sense of liberty and productivity. But it still doesn’t make it an easy task, does it?
For me, it means becoming quiet in spirit and in mind. While it’s not always easy getting there, it’s only when I’m enclosed with Him, that I can finally tap into the inspiration I need to get the work accomplished. So – with a fresh cup of coffee at my side, my manuscript on the screen in front of me, and His truths blazing in my heart – I begin this day.
What about YOU? How do you self-motivate?
What works for YOU?
February 11, 2009 @ 9:43 am | Filed under: Faith Lifts,The Writing Life
February 9, 2009 @ 7:04 pm | Filed under: The Solid Rock,The Writing Life
“I knew then that “w-a-t-e-r” meant the wonderful cool something that was flowing over my hand. That living word awakened my soul, gave it light, joy, set it free!” –HELEN KELLER
_________________________________
My mind has been on living water a lot lately.
I’ve felt like a kid at a big giant water fountain – one so large that I’m raised on my tiptoes, with tongue outstretched, eyes shut tight in wonderful anticipation – loving the cool wetness as it bathes all the parched spots that life sometimes dries up.
Jesus has always delighted in giving water.
I think about the Samaritan woman. It’s often bothered me that she was never known by name, but rather by her location and her place in life. But today – as I sit here, reading through the story again, I’m touched by just how electrifying it must have been to meet Him.
He, who reached out to her – a woman and an untouchable – and with kindness she’d never known before, he softly, politely, lovingly gave her water to drink. No doubt she had come to draw water at that hour in order to avoid the mass of other women who would do nothing except point, whisper, and avoid all contact with her.
But this man – he looked her in the eye, perhaps even touched her sleeve to get her attention, and then he proceeded to begin a conversation that, interestingly enough, is the longest recorded conversation in the Bible between Jesus and anybody.
That is fitting, I think.
The water He offers us – all of us, the ones from the wrong side of town and the ones raised on church pews, the ones with faults and failures and the ones who’ve yet to taste bitter disappointment – is the same. What better way to demonstrate sharing this living water than by making direct eye contact, speaking words of truth in love, and taking time to meet a person in need – right where they are?
In a global community that is so caught up in living green, how is it that God’s love – this living water – is very often the last place folks go for solutions. This living water is pure, it’s free, it can be recycled over and over again, and will never clutter anything.
It breathes life, restores life, gives life.
It’s that wonderful, cool something that flows over my hand – and my heart, and my soul, and my spirit – awakening me, giving me light, joy, and setting me free!
January 29, 2009 @ 6:49 pm | Filed under: Faith Lifts,The Writing Life
I posted over at Faith Lifts today. If you have time, pop in and read some of the inspirational thoughts written by my fellow contributors. They are awesome women of God!
July 23, 2008 @ 8:19 pm | Filed under: Books,The Writing Life
July 10, 2008 @ 11:57 am | Filed under: The Writing Life,Uniquely Me
- If you win, do not brag; if you lose, do not show anger.
- When meeting new people, shake hands and repeat their names.
- If someone bumps into you, say excuse me, even if it was not your fault.
- If you are asked a question in conversation, ask a question in return.
- Do not stare at a student who is being reprimanded.
- Do not ask for a reward.
- In a hotel room, leave a tip for the hotel workers who clean your room.
- Make eye contact.
- Stand up for what you believe in.
- Live so that you will have no regrets.
I’m reading Ron Clark’s The Essential 55 again. He is a teacher who is known for the amazing inroads he has made with underprivileged, undernourished, undereducated students in rural North Carolina.
I wake up some days and am still amazed that I’ve made the decision to teach. Me – the same girl who grew up swearing (that would be figuratively, not literally) that she would never teach. While I’ve always had a healthy respect for my dad’s career and have had some amazing teachers in my own life, I wanted something different.
Or thought I wanted something different.
This desire to teach is something that is more like a calling to me right now, I guess. It’s a part of that urgency that is burning in me. I think that maybe I am just now at the point in my life where I am ready to fill up young minds with exciting possibilities that can be theirs. That should be theirs.
There is just something so special about young minds – when the mind and the heart is so open to influence – that tugs at my heart. Makes me want to help channel all that energy into positive avenues. Creative avenues. Avenues that will leave them changed, that will make them thinkers for life.
I believe that writing can do that for a person. It is a way to work through issues, to create a world of your own, to reach out and touch someone, to leave your fingerprints all over this life by the words you pen…
I want to teach that.
