Whose Path of Choice? (Part Two)

Well, to continue from this blog post…

As the song in Avenue Q asks, “What do you do with a BA in English?” especially if you’re not going to teach. My first option was to go for a Master’s Degree.

Yeah, that didn’t last long.

Over the course of my life, I’ve discovered that when I push too hard and too long in my own direction, instead of God’s, He just bides His time until I hit a wall. Then I bounce around for awhile, looking like a dog who's caught a car he'd been chasing, until I realize which direction He wants me headed, at least for the time being.

A year into my master’s degree, I hit one that was big and hard. And it wasn’t the only one. Stubborn as I am, I kept trying to go MY way. I would not listen. MY way or no way. Stubbornness took root, and the next decade plus involved some of the roughest years of my life.

Don’t get me wrong. I had some good times; some great times. I advanced some in my career, but not much. Most days toddled along with the usual ups and downs. But the setbacks were huge. My marriage struggled. I finished my MA, but the job I'd finished it for disappeared overnight. I had Rachel, and all my dreams for a princess child shattered and had to be reformed. I lost a job, as did my husband. I stopped writing. I stopped editing. I stopped reading. I divorced.

I hit my knees and surrendered.

And the world suddenly turned on a new axis.

This is hard to explain to someone who’s not a believer. From the outside, I still struggled and had hard times. Financial and career valleys as well as mountain peaks. From the inside, however, the struggles were no longer against a wall. They were now obstacles on a new and open path. I stumbled. I skinned a few knees and palms. I twisted the occasional ankle. I praised and I sorrowed.

But hope and a clear direction had returned. And as I closed in on middle age, I discovered a new clarity on all that I’d been through.

I had been prepped. Every step along the way.

Remember that shotgun approach to education?

·         An interest in archaeology led me to take a class in Greek – which was instrumental in my getting a job with the Bible department of Thomas Nelson that salvaged me after my divorce.

·         A class in linguistics provided me with a background in how children acquire language and what they can learn in the womb – which helped me care for Rachel and find ways to help her progress and learn words.  

·         All that science-based education made me able to seek out freelance jobs in a variety of arenas when I was working from home (either by choice…or not). (Yeah, I’d always wanted to proofread HVAC educational materials, but, hey—they paid well.)

I could go on like this for days. Sometimes it seems as if everything I've been through has all led to what God wants me to do. Or, to look at it in another way, He turned it all for good.

And, trust me. If He can do it for me, He can do it for anyone. He can lead anyone to the mountain top.

Whose Path of Choice?

When my brother was in his pre-teens, he tried to blow up his bedroom. After that, my mother insisted all chemistry experiments be conducted outdoors. These experiments fascinated me as well, and I spent much of my childhood peering over his shoulder.

His initial miscalculation in the bedroom left an indelible stain on the ceiling. It was a light brown, shaped like a Rorschach inkblot gone wild, and refused to go away. My parents painted over it several times, but it slowly eked through the paint until it returned in its full color. This determination fascinated me. How did the paint cover at first, but not for long?

I loved science (still do). I wanted to be an astronaut. We had a built-in toy storage in our house, and my brother and I regularly dragged everything out of it and crawled inside. He learned to close us in by yanking the door suddenly and pulling away his fingers just before it slammed. We’d twist until we’d have our feet on the wall and our backs on the ground, like the real astronauts did. I wanted to see the stars from the stars.

I learned about chemistry from mixing vinegar and soda and sending a plastic rocket flying. I learned about physics from tagging along with my brother's rocket club...and trying to run down a slide board only to land on my face. (But I never gave up; I had a bit more luck a little later in life, as you can see in the picture.)

 

My brother encouraged me to study as much science and math as I could, and I took all four science and math classes (biology I and II, chemistry, and physics; algebra I and II, geometry, and trigonometry) in high school. In chemistry, I repeated the family history by trying to blow up the lab (by accidentally mixing two acids) and causing a class evacuation (by creating ammonia nitrate outside of a hood).

I also played five instruments, which blended well with the science. I was in band and chorus. I wanted to play music. I wanted adventure and travel. I wanted to be a doctor!

What? The writing? Oh, well, yes, I wrote all the time. I knew I was meant to write, even as a kid. But . . . no one but the famous people made a living at it. Right?

Then, when I was 18, I hit a wall. In the course of two years, I walked away from my science studies and my music. I put down all the instruments, and began to bounce willy-nilly through the university, taking everything from history and foreign languages to acting lessons and political theory. A class in linguistics changed my life (a subject for a later blog).

Only later did I realize that my writer’s brain had kicked into gear. I wanted to learn it all. Still do.

My shotgun approach to education befuddled my advisors and my parents. My mother was convinced I’d spend my life hanging out a drive-thru asking about French fries.  

But I forced myself to trust. I had to. I had to believe that God had the bigger picture in mind, and He wouldn’t let me starve.

Only later did I learn that God’s sense of timing is quite different from our own, and that He has a great sense of humor.

(More to come…)

Memory of Murder Scene 1

CHAPTER ONE (Excerpt)

Her every nerve suddenly on edge, Lindsey Presley stared at the blond man confronting Deputy Jeff Gage.

Reaching behind her, Lindsey double-checked the lock on the front door of her restaurant, then hugged the night deposit bag more tightly. She prayed she was wrong about the stranger. After all, he didn't look all that different from other young people in the area. Clean-shaven, short hair, T-shirt, jeans. Barely more than a kid. Average.

Except for that vintage orange Pontiac GTO that waited behind him, blocking Jeff's patrol cruiser. The GTO's front door stood open, waiting. Its motor idled with the distinctive rumble of a pampered muscle car.

The top step of the Cape Cod–style building gave Lindsey a view of the entire parking lot. Empty, except for the three of them and the two cars. She blinked hard, distracted as the kid shook his left hand out to one side, as if trying to fling a bug from it. His right hand remained hidden behind his hip.

Go back inside. This isn't right. A streetwise instinct honed in her childhood urged Lindsey to flee behind closed doors. There a kitchen bristled with knives she could use for defense. But that instinct fought with her reluctance to leave the sheriff's deputy who stood between her and the young man. Jeff had promised to protect her on the nightly deposit runs to the bank and had done just that since she'd opened the diner six months ago. During those short rides to the bank, they'd become close friends. She didn't want to abandon him. She wouldn't.

Friends don't do that. And the guy still hasn't done anything wrong. Logic told her to wait. Friendship begged her to stay. Her gut told her to run.

Jeff, who had been waiting for her at the foot of the front steps at eight o'clock, also seemed to sense something odd about the way the young man had slid the GTO into the parking lot after closing time. He stood with his back stiff, feet apart and firmly planted, his hand on his gun. On guard and wary. The man's left hand shook harder, and Lindsey's muscles tensed. Now, she thought. It's going to happen now. What do I do?

Trip the alarm. The thought startled her, but she immediately knew it was a good idea. Turning, she thrust her key in the lock, twisted it and cracked open the door. If she didn't close it or enter the code inside within thirty seconds, the alarm would sound.

"Sir, you need to leave." Jeff's firm command echoed over the empty parking lot. "The restaurant is closed."

Lindsey pivoted back toward the parking lot, eyes fixed on the two men. The younger man shook his head, now holding his left hand high and smiling broadly. "I understand. I understand. I just need directions. I drove all the way from…from Chicago. Trying to find a girl I met online. Just a girl." He stepped forward, as if to go around Jeff.

Jeff blocked his path. He glanced warily up at the kid's left hand. "Where are you going?"

The blond never responded. Instead, he swung his right arm around from behind his back. He ground a stun gun into Jeff's chest. With a stark cry of pain, Jeff dropped to the asphalt, his body twisting in spastic seizures.

"No!" Lindsey screamed. She dashed down the steps toward them, throwing the money bag at the man. "Take it!" She lunged toward Jeff.

She never reached him. Fire shot through her skull as the man grabbed her by the hair, yanking her backwards. He punched her in the solar plexus. Lindsey's breath stopped and spots danced in front of her eyes as she collapsed. Her assailant grabbed her arm and slung her over the hood of the GTO.

The restaurant alarm blared through the night, the sirens radiating off every wall in the neighborhood. The man cursed and pressed his arm on the back of her neck. "Stupid woman!"

Lindsey fought for air as he yanked her arms behind her. Plastic ties cut deep into her skin as he secured her wrists. Finally drawing a raspy gasp, Lindsey tried to scream again, but a sharp blow to her ribs cut it off as she curled up in agony. He snapped her ankles together, wrapping the ties around them. He tossed her over one shoulder, her small frame no burden at all to him.

He bent to scoop up the money, then kicked Jeff twice as he passed the struggling deputy—once in the side, once on the back of Jeff's skull. Jeff went limp.

Lindsey found more breath. "No!" She bucked against the man, but he ignored her, shoving her unceremoniously into the back seat of the GTO. "Scream away, darlin'. No one will hear you over this baby."

The guy got in and gunned the engine. The fine-tuned rumble exploded into a roar that split the night air.

The orange car spit loose gravel, and smoke bellowed from beneath its tires as it spun out of the parking lot less than five minutes after it had pulled in.

Lindsey pushed herself around, still fighting to breathe normally, regularly. Not an easy task with the pain throbbing through her ribs and head. She struggled against her bonds without success. Sweat coated her back and legs where they pressed against the vinyl back seat of the car. The fury and adrenaline that seared through her made Lindsey's mind spin. Her muscles trembled, but terror and pain kept her sane and focused as the last few minutes played over and over in her head.

God, how do I get out of this? Help me.

Lindsey twisted until she could see her attacker over the low, split front seat of the GTO. His pasty face glowed in the glare of oncoming headlights, and rivulets of water dripped out of the man's hair and trailed down his cheeks and neck.

He's sweating! Despite the open front windows and light chill of the early fall night, the man's hair remained plastered to his scalp. He fidgeted, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel and squirming in his seat. He pulled a slip of paper from his shirt pocket to check it, mumbling directions to himself. Over the roar of the engine, Lindsey barely caught the words, "Go slow. Careful. Left after three miles." He shoved the paper back in his pocket. He let up on the gas, and the car slowed.

He's going to turn. Leave the main road. Lindsey knew the road he planned to take. It ran deep into an almost impenetrable Tennessee woodland. In that second's realization, Lindsey knew she was about to die.

No! Her mind screamed the word, and in pure desperation, a rough idea formed in her mind. And insane idea.

He'll be focused on the turn, the other cars…

As Lindsey slowly shifted her body into position, her assailant's words repeated over and over. "Turn, three miles. Turn, three miles."

Lindsey frowned, then blinked the words away. She must get ready, no matter how crazy her plan seemed.

You can do this. You can do this! Pushing over on her back, she ignored the agony in her hands as she braced her shoulders against the middle of the seat and cautiously drew her knees up to her chest. Her short, petite frame let her curl into a tight ball, and Lindsey had never felt so grateful for being so short—or for taking that Pilates class her sister had insisted on.

Still mumbling, the man braked the car suddenly, shouting at an oncoming vehicle to get out of the way. As he stomped on the accelerator again, heading the car into the left turn, Lindsey shrieked with all her might. Startled, the man's head snapped around to glare at her, just as she kicked both legs with as much strength as she had, thrusting her thick-soled, restaurant-durable shoes directly at his face.

His scream matched hers as blood shot from his crushed nose. He jerked, twisting the wheel to the right, veering the car out of the turn and straight toward the corner where the two roads met. He never had a chance to touch the brakes as the orange GTO crashed through the guardrail and soared into the air.

The engine howled as the tires left the road. Lindsey felt weightless, her body floating above the seat as the car arced into the ravine. Then the car plowed into the rock and dirt, landing grill down with a deafening sound of sheared metal and shattering glass.

Lindsey plunged forward over the seat. Searing pain sliced through her as her shins hit the man's head, which slammed forward into the steering wheel with a sickening crack. She crashed into the windshield, then down on the dash, as the car rolled over on its right side. It slid another few yards before the weight of the engine pulled it upright again.

Lindsey's head thudded into the dash a second time, and the darkness of unconsciousness consumed her.

***

MEMORY OF MURDER

Love Inspired Suspense

Available March 2013

To read a blurb about the whole book and see links to pre-order, please visit the book's page on my website. 

Rabbit Trails and the Odd Little Surprises in Life

I'm single. No big surprise there. And at my age, romance is pretty much out of the picture. There's no one reason for this - more like a bunch of little reasons that start with a busy schedule and lots of friends and ends with a jealousy of my solitude. I consider myself an introvert with ambivert tendencies - I honestly enjoy being alone a lot.

Yeah, fear might play a small part as well. To be honest, I never developed the thick skin for dating rejection that I have for writing rejections. I was reminded of the latter one this weekend. I worked with a friend on a de-cluttering effort (my living room), and I opened a box containing nothing BUT rejections. Dozens of envelopes instantly recognizable by the label with my name and address in MY handwriting. If you're a working writer, you've seen a few of these.

My friend is looking for a job, as are two others in my circle. One of the hardest parts of the process for them all is the rejection. No advice from my writer's thick skin helps them at all. I have to remind myself that this is all raw and new for them, as it is for many of the writers I work with. I've worked on that thick skin for 25 years.

Sorry...rejection rabbit trail. I do that. Anyone who talks to me for five minutes knows that I live by the rabbit trail. It's sometimes where the more interesting tidbits of life live.

It was, in fact, an odd little rabbit trail that led me to one of this weekend's little surprises. I love those. You'll just go along in life, thinking things are one way, and lo and behold, something jumps up and startles you.

I'm not in the romance game, true, but that doesn't mean I'm blind to attraction. Ever so often I'll be attracted by some male or another, usually an actor or musician who makes me cock my head to one side like the RCA pup, eyebrows raised. The Internet is particularly useful for such rabbit trails. I'll go off on one, do some research, store it away for future reference (usually for character building), and get on with life.

The latest rabbit trail has been going on for about a week (two weeks is usually the max for a good rt; anything longer gets another label entirely, usually followed by an intervention...). It's an actor who's been around for a long time, does some serious character work. I found the usual gossip trash, but then tripped over an obscure interview during which he mentioned being "blessed by the good Lord."

Odd coming from the typical Hollywood guy. So I rt'd a search on his name and the word "faith." Up popped an interview about his faith and his art on a religious radio program. He's Catholic. Apparently rather devout. It's not something ever, ever mentioned about him in the main press, but he apparently isn't worried about hiding it either.

I loved that. I work in an industry where most people carry their faith proudly as a label. This reminded me that for many folks, it's a more private thing, something not to be declared as much as lived.

Little surprises can be great joys. Has anyone, or anything, pleasantly surprised you lately?

Chi Rho

Ever since I was a kid, I've loved music built on Celtic roots, whether it's traditional, folk, punk, or bluegrass. From medieval ballads to the Dropkick Murphys. I once sang with a small group that specialized in medieval folk music, and I studied the Child ballads in college.

As a friend of mine says, "It's all good."

One of the groups I've enjoyed for a long time is the Celtic rock group, Iona. Their songs tend to be long, faith-based, and filled with soaring melodies. One that I want to leave you with this weekend is "Chi-Rho." With a chorus based on Colossians, the song reminds me it's all about Him. Everything. All of it.

You may have seen the Chi Rho symbol without realizing what it is or that it has a name. Based on the first two Greek letters of the word for Christ, it was first used in a significant way by Constantine I. It can be exceedingly simple (as is the image on the right) or extremely elaborate (as is the illuminated image from the Lindisfarne Gospels.)

Romancing the Shoe

Like most women, I wear a very specific shoe size, and the design of the shoe has to meet certain requirements. In my case, I’m a 6-Wide - a compromise since one of my feet is a 5 1/2. The top of the shoe needs to have a bit of give.

And after a few too many sprained and broken ankles, I avoid all but the lowest, widest heels. No Jimmy Choo’s for this girlfriend. Unfortunately, this pretty much limited me to little ole lady shoes and cowboy boots until the increased popularity of the ballet flat, which I think is a boon for all women.

So here I was, shopping with my friend Sharon in a national shoe store chain. This chain marks wide widths with a bright blue spot on the boxes. As you can see, boxes abound. So while she was checking out the design, I was rapidly scanning boxes for a blue circle, then looking for the 6.

“You’re not even looking at the shoes?” Sharon asked.

It was one of those moments I replied without thinking. It was just out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Why should I? Falling in love with a shoe I can’t wear is like falling in love with a 20-year-old man. Pretty, but what would I do with it?”

Sharon hooted. “Oh, I can think of a few things.”

Yeah, right. Well…um… When I was in my late 30s and early 40s, I dated a number of younger men. (Yes, I had a cougar phase…) One gentleman was a mature 24. Another was a not-so-mature 31. They were all very pretty to look at. For the next step, not so much. Age may be “just a number,” but my relationships have to be functional as well as fun. Otherwise, they just sit on the shelf. Like a pretty shoe I can’t wear.

Oh, and no…no purchases. In 3½ aisles of ballet flats, the store had not one pair of 6Ws. Yeah, for me, shoes and relationships should be pleasurable but practical.

Of course, this may explain why I’m still single.…

Welcome to the front of my refrigerator!

Transparency.

When I asked on Facebook what readers really wanted from a blog, one of the answers, "Transparency," caught me a little off guard. But it made sense. Some of the blogs I love the most tackle all sorts of things, but they also feature personal asides and honest opinions, even when the authors know they may not be popular.

So as I start this new blog, I want to keep that in mind. As the name suggests, I intend the blog to be a lot like the front of my fridge (which you can see in the background). In so many homes, the refrigerator has replaced the bulletin board. That's where we stick magnets, homework, art projects, concert tickets, articles, postcards. Bits and pieces that are important to us.

So that's my goal. Posting stuff that's important to me. Transparent and honest. In the future, you'll find:

Articles and advice for writers. Some original. Some not.
Interesting bits of research that may appeal to just about everyone.
Reflections on things going on and around my life.
Self-promotion (It IS my blog...).
Book reviews.
Fun stuff. Maybe even the occasional cat video. Maybe.
Devotionals.
Guests posts.
Pictures I take. Sometimes with inspiration, funny, or sappy sayings.

A note on the book reviews. I am not, nor will I be, a part of a book review circuit. I won't take submissions. These will be honest thoughts on books I buy and/or choose to read. They may or may not be from the Christian marketplace, but I won't write about anything racy or overly offensive. I may recommend without reviewing. They won't be Abingdon books (for a lot of reasons), although I MAY post a list of AP's upcoming publications.

So...here we go. Be aware that I'm sometimes caustic and snide. Other times, so sentimental you'll think I'm a total sap. Life is, as we all know, full of mountains and valleys. Smart and dumb. But I hope to approach this blog in the same way that Rachel and I approach life. Eyes wide, ready for whatever appears next to us.

Hope you come along for the ride.