Listening from the Front Porch

As the title of the blog indicates, a lot of my life in represented on the front of my refrigerator. Kids, weddings, friends, ticket stubs, author magnets, etc. But it also occurred to me that I learned a lot about life sitting with my mom and dad on our front porch, watching the neighborhood and discussing our concerns, big and small.

It was a familiar habit, especially in the spring and fall, and sometimes even in the height of summer. We’d finish dinner, clean up the kitchen, then someone would say, “Let’s go to the front porch.” We’d all troop out there and settle, usually with Daddy smoking a pipe, ostensibly to keep away the bugs. I can still smell the cherry scent of his tobacco, see the huge puffs he’d blow around our feet and legs to send mosquitoes scurrying back into the dark.

We’d talk about school, friends, plans for the next few days. The front porch is where I broke the news that I wanted a new flute. It’s where we sat, a little stunned and embarrassed, as the neighbors’ marital spats spread into their front yard, with accusations echoing over the neighborhood. Divorce, we now knew, was imminent. When things quieted down, my parents and I talked about their marriage, and how they worked to keep it solid after all the years. Eventually, they made it to 48 years together before my dad died.

Sometimes I crave that front porch. The intimacy of it, yet all that it revealed about the broader world.

I often hear folks talk about how important it is to receive life’s lessons from experience, but I know that if you really LISTEN to the wisdom of those who’ve already been there, you can still absorb lessons that change your lives. It was also thus that Jesus talked to his disciples, encouraging them to listen and HEAR all he had to say. For me, for instance, reading the Sermon on the Mount is akin to being on the front porch with God, taking in all he had to share. Yes, we should put all he teaches into practice, but first we have to hear him. In his words—and the words of those he has already taught.

My son, accept my words

      and store up my commands.

Turn your ear toward wisdom,

      and stretch your mind toward understanding.

Call out for insight,

      and cry aloud for understanding.

Seek it like silver;

      search for it like hidden treasure.

Then you will understand the fear of the Lord,

      and discover the knowledge of God.

                                    —Proverbs 2:1-5

And...we have a cover.

You can't believe how excited I am about this book. I'm chomping at the bits to get word out to everyone who's ever loved a quilt. Or a quilter. Or who IS a quilter. I'll be blogging, tweeting, and Facebooking a whole lot more over the next few months, not always about the book--but a lot about, as the subtitle says, love, legacy, family, and faith. I hope you'll join me for the ride.

Flame

A few days ago, I commented on a friend’s Facebook post that my inspirational word for 2015 is flame. This garnered some intriguing private comments, so I thought I’d explain.

I admit, at first, I didn’t put a lot of stock in the idea of a “word for the year.” But the more I read about the reasons people felt led to a particular word, I gave it more consideration. Almost immediately, flame came to mind.

I’ve been through a few rough times lately, along with many of us. In 2015, I am determined to turn those experiences into positives, to light a fire under my goals and dreams. My writing goals call for more focus and more projects than I’ve attempted in years. As an editor, I’m facing new challenges that I embrace wholeheartedly, knowing they will further bolster my skills and growth. I plan to work on my health, travel to more conferences, and renew work on the crafts I enjoy so much.

I also hope to be more active in my church, which brings flame full circle. This is the emblem of the United Methodist Church. The flame here is a representative of the Holy Spirit, of the moment when He unified the faithful at Pentecost. Since I returned to the church 20 plus years ago, He has been by my side, with strength and ongoing support through every trial.

Flame. An indication that I’m putting the sad times behind me and lighting a fire under my career, my faith, and my future.

Other People’s Cars: Creativity in the Ordinary

Much has been written about the tendency humans have to imbue automobiles with personality. Literature abounds with cars as characters, sometimes carrying as much weight in the story as the people do, and often with longer-lived popularity. Stephen King’s Christine comes to mind, as does the Dukes’ General Lee, Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, and a certain Aston Martin of note. I even made this car a major character in my last book, Memory of Murder. Knight Rider gave KITT special powers and William Daniels’ voice. And, of course, Pixar turned autos and planes into a virtual motherlode of merchandising ideas.

But for me, cars are a source of an entirely different type of creativity. They break writer’s blocks.

This harks back to a question every writer hears sooner or later: Where do you get your ideas? I’ve finally broken this down to one answer: Parking lots.

Y’see, I’m nosy. When I’m walking through the parking lot at Publix, WalMart, wherever, I look at other people’s cars. I look at bumper stickers and those little stick people on the windows. I glance to see what’s in the back seat or how many child car seats they have. When I’m sitting in traffic, I people watch, to see if the person matches their car. (Seriously, folks, your car reflects you in SO many ways.)

And I make up tales, little stories to go with what I see. This keeps my writer’s brain spinning at all times, sometimes at high speed. Sometimes these little stories turn into big stories…one of them became my novel TheTaking of Carly Bradford. A pottery piece became The Face of Deceit. A pickup sitting in a cornfield became Field of Danger.

Every writer has felt what I call the post-book slump. That first day or two after “The End,” when you don’t know if you’ll ever be able to do that again. Write another book. Some of us have ideas stored up for years, more ideas than we can use in a lifetime. But others . . . not so much.

For those folks, or if you just want to practice your flash fiction skills, I’d suggest a stroll through the closest parking lot. People, and their cars, are infinitely fascinating.

Just don’t linger too long or peer too closely. Security guards can be a bit touchy about this.

How I Learned to Text . . . and Call the Suicide Hotline

This is my old phone. I got it in 2003, after my previous one (of a similar model) went kaput in the middle of a phone call. I'm reluctant to change technology because I feel as if I could be doing something better with my time than learning which new buttons to push. So I didn't upgrade until 2013. This was a workhorse of a phone, and I keep it for a lot of reasons.

One thing it was NOT particularly good for was texting. Clunky and slow. So I swore I'd never learn to text. No use for it. Waste of time, yeah, yeah, yeah, rinse, repeat. Drove a couple of my friends nuts.

Then on December 20, 2005, just before 2:00pm, I received this text:

Thank u please  do 

not give up on me 

love your brother 

chuck  depressed 

lonely

I ignored it. I thought it was one of my friends pranking me. Then, sixteen minutes later, I get this one:

I cannot do this 

alone I am 

homeless angie 

I want to die 

please help 

me

This time I checked the number. It was a Kentucky area code. I completely panicked. I had no idea how to respond. I dug out my book, and I figured it out. I sent back:

Don't give up! You have the wrong number. Let me help you. I typed in my number, and asked him to call me. Instead, I got another text:

Thank you 
whoever my family 
has given up on 
me im 25 and about 
to die sorry 
my sisters 
number is XXXX 
allways chuck d-------

Oh, dear Lord in heaven! What do I do?  His sister's number was one digit different from mine. Did I call her?

Instead, I called the suicide hotline. I read the texts to the terrific woman who answered, and she thought he might be serious. She gave me the number for the suicide hotline in Kentucky. I hung up and I sent him the number. I begged him to call them, to not give up. To call, really CALL the number, then his sister.

Silence. Then, twenty minutes later:

Have nothing left 

no one to talk to my 

alcoholism has driven 

everyone away 

can I get those 

numbers again 

sorry to bother

I sent him the numbers again. Once again I pleaded for him not to give into this urge.

I never heard from him again. I have no idea what the outcome was. I have to trust that he called the number, that his texts were a sign he wanted help. I can trust and hope. This year, Chuck would be 34, and I dearly pray he's somewhere safe, with family around him.

And, yes, I've saved those texts for almost a decade. They weren't normal texts to be read and discarded.

Over the course of 90 minutes, just before Christmas 2005, I learned to text out of pure desperation. And I've avoided the word "never" ever since. After all, saying, "I won't," is a serious chance for God to say, "Oh, really? Oh, my dear child...."

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PS: The list of suicide hotlines is here. If you know someone who could use one of them, please share.

Ledge Walking

 When I was nineteen, I broke my ankle on a backpacking trip. It was not a happy adventure for me, although it makes a great story almost 40 years later.

Yeah, OK, it also made a great story about three days later, when I returned to my backpacking class and propped a cast up in the chair next to me. I’m a writer. Life is fodder for stories. Sue me.

The accident also made for a lesson in humility. Y’see, I had just chimneyed over a frozen waterfall, something I didn’t know I could do. A log had fallen over the chasm, just below the crest of ice. We crossed, hands on the log, feet UP on the falls, inch-by-inch. I did it. I couldn’t believe it. I did it! I scrambled up the trail, turned and cheered, celebrating. I jumped up and down, thrilled beyond belief. I did it!

And…my feet shot out from under me on the loose gravel of the trail. I slid, feet first toward the icy stream. I threw myself backwards over my pack (think upside down turtle) and started trying to stop with my feet. I stopped, snapping my ankle in the process.

The next two days were NOT fun. We were several miles into a wilderness area. And, yes, I walked out on that ankle, getting lost for a bit in the process. I learned something hard about celebrating too soon, but it didn't stop me from taking the occasional risk. After all, the outcome made for an even greater success.

And while it was the first time I tumbled off a ledge, it wasn’t the last. Although the later ones were more metaphorical. I’ve walked a lot of those kind of ledges.

Now I don’t consider myself brave—STUBBORN is the better description. I don’t like to let life get the better of me, and it’s tried a few times. But long ago I got two pieces of advice that made all the difference in the world. One from a spiritual mentor, the other from one of my favorite authors.

1)     "You have to trust God and give Him your concerns. This will NOT be easy. In fact, I give a lot of stuff to God every morning because by afternoon, I’ve yanked it back. But I never stop trying to trust and let go. The more you try, the more you succeed."

2)      “Jump, and you will find out how to unfold your wings as you fall.”

       —Ray Bradbury

I also try to keep in mind a corollary to that last one, given to me by that same mentor: “Sometimes when you are standing on the ledge, you need to take the leap of faith. If you don’t, God’s very likely to shove you off.”

I’ve been shoved off a few times as well.

Sometimes, we need to take risks. We need to apply for that job, submit that manuscript, go on that date. We need to stretch our minds and our bodies. While some Scriptures counsel us to be content with what we have, we’re never coached to be complacent. Being content means being grateful for what we have, not stopping in one place. In fact, Scripture frequent urges us to grow in mind, body, and spirit, to push ourselves in our work and our relationship with God.

After all, one of God’s greatest apostles would have been happy to keep making tents; God lit a fire under him, however, that sent Paul to the far corners of the known world.  

So I’m a firm believer in walking on a few ledges. Because we never know what grand adventures God has in store for us.

Maybe We're Just Tired

Recently, I read a blog asking the self-referential question: Is Blogging Dead?

That has been latest buzz out here on the Internet, that blogs are going the way of MySpace and Netscape, in favor of lighter, airier forms of communications, like Instagram and Twitter.

Right.

Well, my own personal experience says something a little different. I don’t think blogs are dead.

I think we’re all just tired.

I used to start my day with Google reader, skimming down the topics and openings about almost 40 (yes, FORTY) blogs. Mostly publishing industry related, but also some that I just like, such as Stonekettle Station and People I’d Like to Punch in the Throat. Now, I occasionally read blogs that are linked on Facebook or Twitter, or I binge read industry blogs, consuming three or four posts at a time.

In part, because blog reading had begun to take over too much of my day. I found I read blogs instead of books or news sites. Blogs began to take up time when I should be more productive. While they were great for staying informed, too much information had made me brain fogged and weary. It was, quite simply, information overload, and it bogged me down in other areas.

And not all of it was information I needed. Intriguing, yes. But helpful? Most of it might be so in the future, but for too many of them, it was a bit like reading the encyclopedia . . . as delivered by a fire hose.

I had to pull back.

Yet I still read blogs on a regular basis. I’m just a lot more judicious about when, where, and what I read. I’m more responsible with my time and less attracted by a blog just because it has a tempting topic or funny video. I really don’t want to get ten years along and find myself thinking, “I shouldn’t have watched so many cat videos.”

So, no, I don’t think blogs are dead. I think we’re just getting used to them, so we’ve become more sensible about them.