A new baby about to be born...

Being a woman has some great advantages some days. I occasionally get doors opened for me, I can usually wheedle my way into having some guy (even a stranger) carry heavy boxes to my car, and I get all the pretty jewelry. :)

What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.

Congratulations on your 8-pound bouncing baby novel. Now to nurse...the paper cuts.

First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.

Or a rug to cover London, for my British readers.

My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.

Although there really should be limits to said creativity.

When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.

Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.

To be fair, we'll show Yao Ming in the infamous position. Push, man, push!

Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.

What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )



A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.

Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.

A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?


Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.

Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.


Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.

When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.

And we end with Little One swaddled in my only knitted project to date. Cue "awwww" to cover the weird sensations of being far too involved in my reproductive post.

Teaser for "A Daughter's Heart"

Yes, I am still plugging away on final revisions (getting closer!) but I thought I'd post just a snippet to intrigue those of you who might be forgetting how much you want to read this tome of mine:



Tuesday morning had come around too quickly for Karen’s tastes. She had spent most of Monday at home, organizing her books and catching up on laundry, but would be reporting bright and early to the college for in-service hours. She pushed aside her glass of milk to look at the schedule again for today. Assessment practices for a couple of hours, a half-hour break for lunch, then a department-level series of meetings regarding entrance exams and support services. Important issues, but they all added up to a very long day. Nothing got people arguing faster than trying to agree on how tests should be administered and interpreted—a sign of a diverse system of teaching theories. In theory, having such a wide range of opinions was not only appropriate but desired. In practice, however, it meant that nothing got done on time and nobody agreed with any system put in place. Lord, whatever stores of patience you have up in Heaven, I could use about a gallon or two.

When she arrived at the school a half-hour early for the proceedings, a few of her colleagues were already in the shared adjunct office, crowded around the coffee pot and discussing, amiably at the moment, whether the contemporary American literature courses should be restricted to sophomores. It was a nice change from the concerned whispers over the events of the fall semester. The light odor of fresh paint still lingered in the air, enough of a reminder and yet faded enough to keep most memories quiet.

Karen smiled at her colleagues but didn’t join their conversation, electing instead to quickly check her e-mail and registration lists. Turning her back to the room was an effective way to discourage most people from eliciting her support for their arguments. If she was going to make it through the day, she would have to start pacing herself now. When Don called out her name, though, it seemed like her methods weren’t going to work this time.

“Karen, I was going to put this in your mailbox, but I got a little distracted. Someone slipped it into mine by mistake again—they really need to make it clearer that your shelf is above your nameplate, not below.”

She smiled gratefully, thanking him as he passed her the long white envelope. A single piece of paper was inside, the bold black letters comprising the simple message nearly stopping her heart.

“Something wrong?”

Karen glanced back at Don, concern evident in his tone of voice. She quickly smiled to reassured him. “Not at all. I’m just trying to do too many things at once and having trouble concentrating. Let me just check a few things online and I’ll walk with you to the auditorium for the opening session, ok?”

Don nodded and turned back to refilling his coffee thermos. Karen shoved the note back into the envelope and slid it safely out of sight in her coat pocket before turning back to the computer monitor.

A few clicks had the registration lists up, her creative writing seminar on top. Her eyes quickly scanned the last names. Arton, Attison, Becker, DeNalli, Guzman, Kellmann… Her heart slowed as relief washed over her. Ben had dropped the class. If she was lucky, he would be out of her life forever. Moving away and leaving her to a quiet existence would be the kindest thing he could ever do for her—and now, the safest thing for himself. Her focus reacquired, she pulled up her email browser and began sifting through the override requests, questions about textbooks, and notes from the department head about new class proposals for the summer.

“Are you looking for someone?”

Karen turned at Don’s deep voice, curious about the visitor to the office. Her face froze when she recognized the tall man in a dark blue uniform.

“I think I’ve found her, thanks.”

Karen cleared the computer with a short series of keystrokes and grabbed her things. “Sorry, but I have a meeting in just a few moments.”

She tried to brush past him in the small space, but the officer caught her arm. “Karen, we need to talk.”

Her glare was intense. “It’s Professor Edwards to you, and I really don’t have time right now.”

Don wiped the surprised expression off his face as he tapped his debating partner on the shoulder. “Patricia, we’d better be off.” He turned towards Karen, giving her a small smile. “I’ll tell everyone that you’ll be a little late—don’t worry about it. We’ll save you a seat.” He nodded respectfully to Ben and led his colleague out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.

Now that she had a little more room to maneuver in, Karen angrily pushed Ben off her arm and stepped backwards. “Despite what Don—Professor Fulton—said, I really don’t have time for this.”

Ben let her have some space but maneuvered himself closer to the door so she couldn’t escape. “I have no doubt that he’ll make excuses for you.” He grinned a bit sheepishly at his clothing. “The uniform helps.”

Karen closed her eyes, willing her temper under control as she pulled her lips between her teeth. While she really wanted to let him have it, a little voice reminded her that Grandma Susie’s funeral was just a few days ago and it wouldn’t be right to let her temper flare.

“I know you’re upset, but I really need you to look at me.” Karen obeyed, but allowed the simmering anger to prevail in her expression. Ben sighed. “I need to apologize for what I said that night.” Her expression didn’t change. He ran a hand over his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Karen crossed her arms protectively in front of herself. “Ben, no one says things like that unless they want to hurt someone.”

“You know what I mean. It’s just that I didn’t expect you to react like that, and with everything going on, I just lost it. There’s no excuse for it, and I’m sorry I was so cruel.” Karen looked away, staring at the coffeepot for a few moments, biting her lips again. The apology was sincere—that much she could tell. She couldn’t take any more risks, though. She forced her arms to relax.

“I dropped your class this morning.”

Karen glanced back at Ben and nodded, her eyes dropping to her fingers fidgeting with the ring on her right hand. “I know. I appreciate it—things would have been awkward otherwise for both of us after the fight.”

Ben took a step forward, reaching for her shoulder. She allowed the hand to rest gently there, gazing at his long fingers curving over the fabric of her blouse. “Karen, I didn’t drop the class because of the fight. I dropped it because of the kiss.”

She started at bit at his revelation and looked up at him. Focus, Karen. Don’t give him anything, don’t say anything. You have to let him go. You have to make him go, now more than ever. Ben continued speaking.

“When you left, Will told Courtney how upset you were. The two of them tag-teamed me before the service. Courtney told me something that morning: there’s no way that I would have reacted so poorly, let alone kissed you like that, if I didn’t really care about you—not just as my teacher, or even as a friend…but as something more.” Ben paused, looking over her features with obvious caution. “I know there’s a lot going on right now, and you’re probably confused and overwhelmed, but I need you to know that I’m not giving up. I want to be with you, Karen. Can you please forgive me, give us a chance?”

There was real pleading, honest desire in his eyes. He really wanted her. Her eyes closed softly, the familiar prickling sensation behind her lids warning that if she didn’t regain control soon, she might just cry for the first time in years. The pain of rejecting him might destroy her. Her hand rearranged the coat slung over an arm, a slight crinkling of paper accompanying her movements. Her resolve returned. She slowly turned her eyes back onto his face, a hand reaching to cover his still resting on her shoulder.

“I can’t do that, Ben.”

His face fell. “You can’t forgive me?”

“I can forgive you, Ben—and have.” Karen gently pushed his hand from her shoulder, letting it fall to his side. Her sigh was deep but only vaguely audible. She was going to hurt him—there was no way to avoid it. He wouldn’t understand, but she had to give him the truth. “I just can’t trust you.” Her mouth twitched slightly as she fought the urge to say more. Instead, she quietly slipped past him, opened the door, and left him inside the shared office space. Her hand trailed behind on the doorknob after pulling the door shut behind her. The pain in his eyes was killing her, haunting her as she rested against the wall and pulled in a shaky breath. She had to do this. It was the only way to protect herself. The only way to protect him.

The envelope crinkled as she folded her coat neatly over her arm. She pulled it back out, rereading the block-style letters. Talk to the cop again and the blood spilled will be worse. This wasn’t a prank anymore. There was a creep out there who could get to her car, her house, and even her office without being detected. This wasn’t a matter of bored kids or even wannabe gangsters. This was serious. Karen glanced back at the still-closed door to her shared office and sighed. It was better this way, for everyone.

A Story of Faith...

My dad told me this story--I'm not sure what school it is from, but I'm sure someone out there will recognize it. :)

A student was preparing for a speech in his public speaking class. He went to the classroom early and taped a tennis ball on a string to the top middle of the chalkboard. He then pulled the ball to one side, marked the placement, and let the ball go. Every time the ball swung back, it reached a lower height. The student took great pains to mark everything as exactly as he could and finished his other preparations before the class arrived.

When it came to be his turn for his speech, he showed the class the tennis ball markings and explained the law of inertia--that when swinging from a fixed point, an object in motion will come back at a slightly lower place than before due to the forces of gravity. ((As best as I can tell, this is accurate--science majors can correct me if they like.)) He fully demonstrated this law and then turned to the class and the professor.

"Do you believe in the law of inertia?" The class agreed. "Do you really believe that no matter how many times I repeat this experiment, even with different materials, the results will still be the same?" The class, including the professor, agreed. The student smiled. He walked over to the corner of the room and pulled a blanket away, revealing a chair seated on a table. He turned to the professor and invited the man to take a seat. Being a good sport, the professor oomplied. The student asked the professor again if he believed in the law of inertia. The professor, once again, agreed.

The student then walked a few yards away and pulled another blanket off a hidden object, revealing a bowling ball suspended by a rope. The student pulled the bowling ball to within an inch of the professor's nose and looked his professor in the eye as the class oohed, giggled, and gasped.

"Do you believe in the law of intertia?"

"Yes."

The student let go of the bowling ball. The glossy black sphere swung out at a surprising speed, reached its zenith on the other side of the room, then began to quickly return towards the professor. The professor dove off the chair and crashed to the floor just before the bowling ball came within a foot of his body. The student turned to the class and grinned. "You see, he didn't really believe in the law of intertia, did he?"

**

So many times in our lives it's easy to say we believe in things. We believe in equality for the sexes. We believe that we should follow the law. We believe in God, Allah, Yahweh, or according to some of my friends, the Flying Spaghetti Monster (I don't think their being Italian has anything to do with it, though). We claim a lot of things, but when it really comes down to a show of faith, do we perform according to our beliefs? Do we hire the female daycare worker instead of the male because she'd supposedly be more motherly and caring? Do we actually follow the 55 mph speed limit on the highway? Do we really follow the God we claim to be our own?

We're not perfect beings. We all make mistakes and fall short of glory. As a Christian, there are times that I have had opportunities to share my faith, but I've backed off even though it's what I am commanded to do. Sometimes it's because in that particular situation it would be unethical to "preach my religion," mostly because of my career as a college professor. Sometimes it's because the people I am with are obviously not receptive to having a theological discussion. Sometimes it's because I'm not prepared to answer the questions I know are hard enough to answer even with a degree in Biblical studies. Sometimes it's because I'm just plain scared--scared of being rejected, ridiculed, or failing so badly that the person will chalk me up as just another "Bible thumper" or "hypocritical Christian."

Maybe witnessing isn't just about the ABC or Roman's Road methods. Maybe what a pastor said a few days ago to me is another key to changing a person: "Share the gospel--and if necessary, use words."

Actions do speak louder than words (anyone in a relationship of any kind can testify to this...oy, vey!). If we don't live our faith, make it clear to every bowling-ball-weilding person that we do have a trust in God that defies even primal instincts, then what does that say to the person about Who we believe in? We trust God, but only in these areas? What kind of faith is that? Who would want that?

The next time that an opportunity arises for me to prove my faith, whether it's prioritizing someone over myself, actually following the speed limit, or not being afraid to say on a very liberal college campus that I am a Christian, I pray that I have the strength to follow through. Who knows--maybe someone is out there with a bowling ball, testing the waters, and willing to consider belief based on what I do.

Bittersweet Blessings

I'm addicted to Facebook...to a point, anyway. A certain somebody in my life can distract me well from my online pursuits. Ah, well, enough mushy stuff--back to the point. I love Facebook, being able to see pictures of my friends and family, keeping up with status updates, and even being reminded when I've forgotten someone's birthday.

I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).

"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."

"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."

Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.

I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.

I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:

*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.

So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)

Check Your Tongue with Your Teeth

As a younger sister, I learned early how to share (and demand my part). For most of my friends, I don't mind sharing things that truly bother some people. If someone's really thirsty, I'll unscrew the top of my water bottle and let them drink. If they're hungry, I'll cut my lunch in half and offer it. In the case of my boyfriend, since we kiss each other, I figure it's perfectly acceptable to drink after each other and, in certain cases, eat off the other person's plate (this way I get the momentary bliss of a crispy french fry before I return to my responsible order of string beans and broccoli).

My pastor is another case, however. In the middle of a sermon, a gnat flew right into his mouth. He grimaced and asked for some water--fast. Since I was sandwiched between several people in the pew, I couldn't get up to get him water, so I offered him my half-full bottle. He turned it down. I wasn't offended, but did lightly tease him about "beggars can't be choosers." He didn't want to share some things with me. It's understandable--because there are some things I don't want to share with him.

Last night at church, it was announced (since the pastor and his wife are driving me) that I am about to get my wisdom teeth pulled on Friday. People prayed, which was comforting, and I'm a lot less nervous about this procedure than before. After the service, the pastor came to sit next to me and proceeded to tell me about his ordeal with getting his wisdom teeth pulled. The story started out on a high note--he woke up feeling just fine, very little pain. Then it took a very dark turn. He developed "dry sockets", which sounds innocuous if you're referencing lighting fixtures but is apparently Dante's eighth circle.

Not to be confused with Dante's fifth circle, which is apparently an extreme form of unending constipation. Yeah, that'll ruin eternity for you.

The story stretched on, including phrases such as "worst pain of my entire life," "filling holes," and "excruciating torture." I'm sure my eyes had to be reflecting my growing horror and unease. I'm a very imaginative person, and my pastor knows this. He paused in a Sunday School lesson regarding cannibalism to warn me as I was munching on my breakfast (a new habit as I can't eat before singing practice lest I lose my voice). He knows I'm a writer, which only furthers the need to watch what is said around me (although I find it funny when he rants about Christian romance novels...and that's what I write). I've admitted to both him and his wife that I'm nervous about the surgery and the recovery. And yet he's sharing his wisdom with me.

I don't mind listening to other people's stories--in fact, I love it. I get to learn about the person and possibly glean some ideas to twist into my next novel.

I *so* want this shirt...because it is *so* true. Bwahahahaha!

Still, I'm uneasy about the future, and getting yet another worst-case scenario in my head to add to all my other fears and doubts that had me sobbing into my boyfriend's chest for an hour Tuesday night wasn't exactly a great idea. I think a female friend noted my look of increasing dread, and so decided to step in. Just as my pastor is getting to the high point of his agonizing memories, she comments, "I had mine out when I was around your age, and I hardly had any problems. A little pain and bleeding, but it healed quickly without any drama."

Bless you, friend.

I understand the need to share horrifying stories, but I liken this to telling excruciating tales of how things went terribly wrong during the birth of a child to a woman in her third trimester (especially if it is her first child). We're already freaking out in vague terms and ideas--we don't need new specifics to color our fears in full Technicolor brilliance. I know it's a way of bonding, even a way we try to prepare others so they can avoid the mistakes we made. Sometimes, though, the trips through memory lane need to be scheduled for more opportune times...like a few months later when we can all look back on it and laugh (or wince).

It's my new motto: A wise tongue is valued, but wise teeth are highly overrated.