The Night Owl and the Day Job

By some strange twist of nature, I arrived on this planet an unrepentant night owl. Some of my harshest scoldings as a child came because my mother would get up at 2am to go to the bathroom and find me huddled in the hallway, reading by the nightlight. I was eight.

An accurate picture of me before 7am

As a teen, I struggled to get up and ready for school, but my father could come in at 3am from one of his over-the-road runs and find me excited about some art film PBS had been airing after midnight. In college, I roomed with a morning diva, but we are great friends and managed not to kill each other.

Although I never quite forgave her for talking me into that one 8am class.

But it did sort of prepare me for life after university, when I got a day job. Then had a baby. Dogs and cats also tend to be morning people, and we had a few of those over the years.

But I still hate mornings. The older I get, the more so. Now I have health issues that require about a two-hour prep time before I can leave the house. That means that to get to work on time requires getting out of bed between 5 and 6am.

For morning folks, this is easy. For me…not so much. And for anyone who thinks you can successfully reset that internal clock…that ONLY works if you NEVER STOP getting up early. As an example, I’ve been off for ten days. I didn’t set the clock. Within THREE DAYS, I couldn’t get to sleep before midnight, and I didn’t wake before seven.

What’s even worse for me is that my brain doesn’t really function the first three to four hours after I wake up. Creativity is a bust. When left to my own schedule, my most productive hours are between 3pm and midnight. Forcing productivity into a different routine eventually scrambles the mechanism.

But as all night owls out there know, you find ways to cope, to adjust, to adapt to that required routine. For me, one way that works well is to spend time in the dark, looking up at the sky, talking to God. The night is solace and renewal. I let it—and Him—surround and calm me.

And it’s the Lord who gives me the strength every day to head out to the work I love and the opportunities He’s provided, no matter how grouchy I am.

When Christmas Traditions Vanish

When people ask me what I plan to do for Christmas, I jokingly tell them, "My taxes. It's my last Christmas tradition." 

The reaction to this is mixed...

But the truth is I do usually do my taxes over the holidays, a tradition that started when my daughter and I were stranded at our apartment by an ice storm. No travel to the relatives or seeing friends. All my plans canceled, and I needed to do SOMEthing to get my mind off my disappointment. 

But I found I relished getting all that prep behind me, and I had several undisturbed days to do it. I still talked to my friends and my mom and brother, but it reminded me that the unexpected can happen and we need to be ready for it. 

My family was never big on Christmas traditions, but we did have several. On Christmas Eve, Daddy would take us out to see the houses lit up for the holiday while Santa/Mom would put out the presents. We always opened them on Christmas Eve because Christmas Day meant either work for Daddy or travel to my grandparents. Getting married disrupted these, but some new ones developed as well. When Rachel was born we tried to add more, but none really took. And we divorced when she was six.

My parents are gone now, as is Rachel. My brother lives in Virginia. We talk on Christmas Day. But I no longer decorate or have any strong traditions. I get plenty of invitations from friends and cousins, which I greatly appreciate. But this extreme introvert loves her time alone. Just me and the tax man. 

And I seriously cherish it. 

My memories of those past traditions are delightful and pleasant. But one of the greatest memories was my parents teaching me about the true meaning of Christmas and the greatest Gift of all. And THAT remains my focus, no matter what. 

And I lied. I did put up one Christmas decoration. A few years ago, an author sent me this. Simple. But I love it, and I hang it up every year. This year, it went on my front door, a reminder than whoever enters in, finds glory. 

Here's hoping your Christmas was equally blessed. 

Legacy and Murder - Murder in the Family, Post 1

I have a new book coming out in October 2019. So over the next few months, I’ll be sharing several posts about Murder in the Family. It continues a theme I often write and speak about (our personal legacy, what it is we leave behind), and I hope to engage some of my friends to share their stories as well.

I’m thrilled to be working with the team at Lighthouse Publishing of the Carolinas. The book has been through the content edit and is headed for the next steps. The cover should be ready to share after the first of the year. I hope you enjoy hearing more about it. So here we go with the tagline, basic description, and the first excerpt.

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What if you inherited the one thing you’d been avoiding all your life? The one thing someone else is willing to kill to acquire?

When murder stays all in the family…

Molly McClelland unexpectedly inherits her hoarder aunt’s overflowing house, and she wants to get rid of it as soon as she can, even though she suspects her aunt may have been murdered. When she begins finding caches of cash, journals full of secrets—and a body—she finds herself locked in a cat-and-mouse dance with a deadly endgame.

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Excerpt:

“If you can't get rid of the skeleton in your closet,

you'd best teach it to dance.”

—George Bernard Shaw

The springs of the rickety Explorer squeaked as Molly slid into the warm morning, sneakered feet thumping on the pavement. The scent of the rich blooms wafted over her, and she hesitated, looking up at the sky, this time at the bright blue contrasting with puffy cumulus clouds. Amidst the floral swirls, her stormchaser’s nose picked up a hint of ozone.

A front’s moving in. Rain by late tonight, early morning. Not a surprise. Alabama in the spring and summer almost always held the promise of some strong, juicy storms. Molly used her key to lock the door, tucked the ring into her jeans pocket, and turned, drawing up short so she didn’t trip over the two women who seemed to have materialized in the empty space next to the Explorer.

“Molly? Molly McClelland?”

They were a matched set, although at least twenty years separated them. Stout women in denim skirts, they also wore too-tight t-shirts and sneakers. Wild shocks of brownish hair that longed for a brush wafted in a dozen directions.

Molly, at five-nine, towered over both of them, and she took a step back, trying to get a better look, and bumped into her SUV. “Do I know you?”

“You’re Molly McClelland, aren’t you?” The older one stepped closer, while the younger stared mostly at the ground, glancing up occasionally at Molly. The older one wore glasses, and her hair had unruly shoots of gray throughout. Her t-shirt was a plain yellow that added a sallow tone to her pale skin. The younger one’s dark brown t-shirt declared her allegiance to a country music star who would probably be amused by the shape his face took when stretched across her substantial bosom.

Molly moved to go around them, grazing her shoulder against the Explorer’s mirror. She winced. “I am, but you’ll have to excuse me, I have an appointment—”

They blocked her path, planting their feet in a wide stance, like twin Sumo wrestlers. “Oh, we know all about that appointment. We have to talk before you see that interfering lawyer.”

Greed brightened their eyes, and Molly bit her lower lip. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time. They had to be family, probably cousins, although she didn’t recognize them. Typical. This is why she left Alabama in the first place. She tried to go around them again. “I’m sorry, but—”

The older one put up an arm to stop her, and Molly got a whiff of rotten food and stale tobacco. She grimaced as the woman leaned toward her. “What gives you the right to inherit? We’re the ones who took care of Elizabeth, right up to the end, especially Lyric here.”

Lyric grunted an affirmative, and Molly shot a glance at her. Lyric? Who names their kid Lyric? “I’m sure, but—”

“No buts, Miss Molly. That estate is properly ours. You need to sign it over. Liz had no right to give it all to you.” A hand shot out, two fingers poking Molly in the chest.

Molly froze, her eyes narrow, annoyance building in her gut. Her voice dropped, a harsh growl sounding in her tone. “Don’t touch me. Ever.” The woman stiffened, but Molly continued. “You want more stuff. So you must be kin to me.”

“We are. You don’t recognize us? We’re cousins! I was Kitty Peevey. Filbyhouse now. Lyric’s my daughter. You don’t remember me?”

The angry words were out of Molly’s mouth before she could stop them. “Certainly not like this. The Kitty Peevey I remember dreamed of being a ballet dancer and getting out of Alabama. She would never assault a perfect stranger in a parking lot and demand that she give her more stuff! Especially if you were involved in her death. Were you? If you were taking care of her, why did you let her die like that?” Molly lunged at them, and both women took an astonished step backward. Molly dodged left, then right, scooting around the two. Kitty and Lyric couldn’t move fast enough as Molly sprinted toward the front door, but they squawked after her.

“How dare you! We didn’t have anything to do with it! That old woman died ’cause she was a fool!”

Convenience Cooking - Vegetable Beef Soup

So I posted about this on Facebook, and one of my friends asked for the recipe. I've decided I'll do this ever so often, just because I love gloming together new dishes. I thought this would be a good Saturday post.

I am a convenience cook; definitely not elite or gourmet. Just down to earth and practical, often using just what I have on hand. I hate chopping stuff. 

My mother gave me my first lessons, and I picked up others from my mother-in-law, my grandmother, my college roommate (who is an awesome cook), a superb cookbook editor I worked with (yes, I've worked on cookbooks too), and, believe it or not, chemistry class. After all, cooking and blending flavors is a LOT like chemistry. 

Vegetable Beef Soup

1.5 pounds ground chuck
1 15-oz. bag frozen trinity mix (or similar)
1/2 t. chopped garlic
1 T. Italian seasoning
Salt and pepper to taste
1 jar Classico roasted garlic pasta sauce
1 16-oz. can diced tomatoes
1 15-oz. bag frozen vegetable soup blend vegetables
1 32-oz. College Inn beef broth

In a 6-quart pan (or larger), mix the first five ingredients and simmer until beef is brown and the onions in the trinity mix are clear. Add remaining ingredients and simmer for 30-45 minutes, until veggies are tender and flavors are blended.

Options

1/2 15-oz. bag frozen green beans (I love green beans and there's never enough in those frozen mixed blends)

1 1/2 t. cumin, if you like it spicier

16 oz. additional beef broth, if you like it soupier (I run out of room in my largest pan)

I serve over cooked egg noodles 

Additional thoughts: This is one of those dishes that tastes better the next day. As to the salt and pepper, I use about 1 teaspoon of salt and 1/2 teaspoon pepper. It will depend a LOT on whether you use low salt broth or need a low salt diet. Likewise, your choice of pasta sauce. I use Classico because my ex claimed it was closest to his mother's homemade sauce. (Old habits die hard.) All spices can be adjusted to taste; that's part of the fun of cooking.

To Trip the Light Fantastic

Milton said it first in 1645:

Com, and trip it as ye go,

On the light fantastick toe.

It’s a phrase that’s been adapted, rewritten, and lyricized ever since. It makes the action sound graceful, like a prima ballerina en pointe, doing endless hops and delightful spins.

Not so much the scrambled actions of a lifelong klutz.

That would be me.

Before I was 10 I had done a header off a slide board, stepped backwards off a retaining wall, and been knocked out of the bed of a pickup by a baseball bat. At 13, a grand jete in my den turned into a permanently mangled right ankle. Which I broke on a backpacking trip 6 years later.

I cannot walk straight (I list to the left), my balance has always been off, and I’ve been known to trip over perfectly flat spots on the sidewalk. I sometimes tell people I’m obviously psychic; I’m tripping over cracks that will be there 10 years from now.

I own two pairs of crutches, a drawer full of Ace bandages, and enough ice packs for an NFL football team. I do not wear high heels.

My latest trip resulted in a box of packing peanuts sailing up to be tumbled and spread throughout two rooms by the ceiling fan.

Ya gotta laugh about something like this.

Y’see, while I will never be athletic or graceful or glide through a room like a dancer on silk-covered toes, my gifts lie elsewhere. In words. In a desire to help new writers or encourage established ones. In a faith that I seek to strengthen daily. In my belief in a God who lifts each of His children up in their own unique way—and a belief that He wants me to do the same.

Just don’t be surprised if I plow into you as I reach for your hand.

To New Orleans and Back - a 48-Hour Jaunt

I'd never been to New Orleans, although I have a trip planned there in March 2019. I'm a little nervous about this, since it would be a new city at the very height of its primary tourist event of the year: Mardi Gras. 

Lake Pontchartrain under a gorgeous sky.

So when my boss asked if I wanted to make a quick trip down for business, I jumped at the chance. Drive down Monday, take care of the business stuff that afternoon and Tuesday morning, then head back Tuesday afternoon. Exhausting, but at least I didn't have to do the driving.

We had the first meeting at two, then the hosting folks took us to a local place, Joey K's. Superb food and great company. Then we drove around the French Quarter for a bit, finally stopping at the Cafe Du Monde for beignets, followed by a quick stroll around Jackson Square.

Tuesday brought the final presentations and meetings, lots of quick Q&As with some super smart folk, then lunch at Dooky Chase's Restaurant. Historic and away from the downtown sprawl.

It was the perfect quick and beneficial intro to a town my boss adores--and from the responses I got on Facebook--so do a lot of people. Despite its ups and downs, goods and ills (there are sections that will simply never bounce back from Katrina), the Crescent City is a jewel to be treasured.

Intercession – 2019

When I was in college, intercession was an intense three-week “semester” nestled between the spring and summer semesters. One class, four hours a day, five days a week. I took two intercession classes during my time in college, one in Koine Greek and one on twentieth century drama. In the latter, we read one play each night, discussed it during the next day’s class, wrote an essay on it, then read another play that night. During the Greek class, I lived with flashcards, a Greek New Testament (which I still have), and the classes focused on syntax and translation. The final exam was to translate the first chapters of the gospel of John.

 

During intercession, I did nothing but classwork and eat. Following the class, I’d grab lunch, then start the homework. I’d make dinner in my room, then more studying. Bedtime came early, because the classes started at 8am.

I learned a great deal, some of which I still remember. Just don’t ask me to translate any of that Greek without a dictionary.

But it was in that Greek class that I first heard another definition of “intercession.” One with a spiritual overtone, a reaching out to offer prayer and compassion toward others. And it’s been on my mind as I’ve prayed about my direction for 2019.

A “word of the year” has been a tradition of mine for the last few years. In 2015, it was “Flame.” In 2016, it was “Bloom,” although I had little clue when I chose it what the events of that year would bring, and that blooming would be me in the process of recovery and renewal. The year 2017 brought a time of “Service,” and 2018 brought “Listen,” as I still struggled to find new ground and focus following the changes of the previous two years.

But 2019 is different. This year will be less reflection and redirection than an outward look at the world around me. I’ve taken the year off from conference travel, and I plan to take the first two real vacations in more than 30 years. I plan to use my down time to write, rest, and pray. Pray, especially, for not only the people I love but everyone around me. To “intercede.”

So if you need prayer during the year, never hesitate to ask. It’ll be an honor to do so.

The Art of NOT Scratching . . .

I lay still, ignoring the itch on my foot. A clump of cloth in my shirt pressed into my back. A hair near my face drifted lazily in the breeze from the air conditioner, grazing my cheek. Still I refused to move. No scratching, no brushing away the irritating tickle, no straightening my shirt. Then a bug landed near my eye. I tried to blink it away, but it crawled toward my mouth. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I flicked it away, furiously scratching and wiggling away my discomforts.

I had failed.

My intent had been to step into my daughter’s shoes. Rachel couldn’t control most of her movements, so the simple act of brushing a bug off her face was beyond her. She couldn’t form words, so even telling, much less showing, us what itched, tickled, or ached didn’t happen. So if a hair drifted to lightly brush her skin, she simply had to tolerate it.

It wasn’t the first time I tried to feel what she felt. When she was sick, we often had to deep suction her, so I did the same thing to myself, running that tube through one nostril down toward my lung. Yeah, it hurt. We still had to do it to keep her healthy, but we worked hard to sooth her afterward.

And my little experiment in stillness made me pay more attention to her environment. None of us could watch over her 24/7, but we tried hard to watch out for pressure points, insuring that she wore soft clothes, and that her skin stayed clear.

Why? Because we loved her. We knew that she’d have to hurt sometimes, but we wanted to ease that in any way we could.

Compassion. It grows out of an awareness of the suffering of others and the sometimes overwhelming desire to alleviate it. It’s not a special gift, but a deep, ingrained part of simply being human. And as believers, we are called to it, to reflect outward the same compassion God has for us. Passages that detail His compassion for us abound throughout Scripture, and Paul reminds us that what He has done for us, we should do for others. “Therefore, as God’s chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience” (Colossians 3:12 NIV).

Paul knew compassion can change lives. And with enough of it . . . the world.

The Journey to Rejection (aka A Writer's Journey)

I’ve seen a lot of posts lately about rejection, and the struggles writers have had to be published. In an era when self-publishing seems to be all the rage, and a dozen new technologies are changing the writing world on a daily basis, traditional publishing seems to remain the ultimate goal for many authors.

Yeah, me too.

Once upon a time, no other choice existed. I am just old enough to be part of that reality. Oh, I started out with a bang. My first biographical essay—a look at my great-great-great-grandfather’s Civil War experience—hit the presses when I was all of eighteen. The author photo the paper used was my junior school picture. I celebrated. I was on my way!

Then . . . nothing. For NINE years . . . nothing. Oh, I wrote. Daily. I submitted frequently. I have more than 300 unsold short stories, all written during that time, and multiple rejections on each one. But when I finally sold one of those stories—ah, sky rockets! That 84-dollar check meant I was the next big thing!

Well . . . maybe not. The second sale was still two years away. I had a day job. Then a child. I wrote . . . some. I tried my hand at screenwriting and even won an award and got my first agent. I had dreams of breaking into the film industry.

Then came the divorce. And I wrote not a word for five years. Nada. I finally reconnected with a friend in publishing and pitched a devotional to her. She didn’t want the one I had, but hired me to write a different one.

Once again . . . silence followed.

Then came a movie that lit a fire under my rear. The Matrix. Groundbreaking in a lot of ways, what it did for me was to remind me of all the things I loved that I’d let slip away. I dove back into them. And the combination broke a block that I didn’t even realize I had. I finished a science fiction novella, which got some editorial attention but never sold. I branched out and finished a historical romance novella, which sold to a digital publisher who was way ahead of her time—it sold no copies to consumers.

More rejections. LOTS of rejections. I turned to magazines and sold a few feature articles. But I received even more rejections. At that point, my rejection count was up over 500 of those silly form letters.

So WHY did I keep trying? Because I’m a writer. It’s my mindset. It’s my calling. It’s in my blood. If I don’t write, I go nuts.

In 2005, finally, things began to turn around. I sold two novels. Then a third. But I struggled to sell the next ones. Rejections abounded. I signed with my second agent, so she got to handle the rejections—and I still get them.

For me, thirty years passed between my first sale and the time my writing career did more than stall. But I now have written and sold more than ten books, and I’m working with my third agent.

I still get rejected.

Do NOT let rejections discourage you. The more you write, the more you’ll receive. It’s part of the business.

But the business is NOT about the rejections. It’s about the message, the stories God has placed on your heart. It’s about honoring His gift to you. It’s about giving all of that—the gift, the stories—a voice, and letting them be heard. 

It's about the writing. Always.

Be Careful What You Ask For

2017 was a lousy year for blogging. The last blog in this space was almost a year ago. On January 16, 2016, I posted about how restless I felt. How the sense of being pushed into something new had overtaken me to the point of distraction.

Apparently, God was preparing me for the next stage in life.

My "word of the year" for 2016 was "servant." I prayed frequently for a direction, telling Him, "I'll go where You send me. Just show me."

Well...you know what they say about "being care what you ask..."

Within the next three months, I applied for a job in Birmingham, Alabama, interviewed and got the job, and by March 17th--almost exactly two months from the previous blog post--had relocated to a different state.

I had been in Nashville for more than 50 years.

Seriously. Yes, I really am that old.

Starting March 20th, I became the managing editor for New Hope Publishers, which was owned by the Woman's Missionary Union. The upheaval didn't stop there. On September 1st, the ownership of New Hope transferred to Iron Stream Media. I was promoted to associate publisher.

When I chose "servant" as my word of the year for 2016, I truly thought I'd be working more with my church, perhaps doing more volunteer work with its ministries, and giving time to the programs. I had agreed to be on a committee.

I had no idea God was about to take me seriously with my vow to "go where You send me." I thought I'd be packing food boxes.

He sent me to Alabama.

I have good friends, best friends, in Nashville, who I don't see much anymore. I'd been in the same church for more than 24 years, an integral part of their choir. I had raised my daughter there, and she'd been gone less than a year. My grief was (and is) unexpectedly still quite raw. My doctors were there--I'd just started to get my diabetes under control. I miss all that more than I can put in words.  It's been a disruption, a ripping, a struggle.

It's been a blessing.

The upheaval will continue. I plan to move again in March. I'm becoming reacquainted with cousins I have not seen in 40 years. I'm sometimes stunned how comfortable the family connections are, even after all that time. I'm still learning the city. I'm searching for my "tribe" here--writers, artists, a church--which I have not had time to pursue. And Iron Stream is about to launch a custom publishing line, which I will head up. Change is still in the air.

So my word for 2017 is "listen."

Because, more than ever, I know God has plans for me, just as He does for all of us. If we listen.