A call to arms...

An amazing thing is happening in the publishing world. Like many other terrorist regimes (no, I did not use the wrong word here, as you will see if you read on) it has finally begun to implode. Where once bookstore shelves were so crowded that new authors were relegated to the end of long lines and audaciously handed a pile of guidelines that read more like applications to the underworld, we now find...

Row after row of empty shelves.

If you don't believe me, I dare you to visit any bookstore of your choice and see for yourself. And let's look past the economy excuse. Please. It is the consumer that ultimately rules the economy, and they have finally spoken. Their verdict? "Not worth it." "Don't even bother." "And -- for heaven sake -- don't waste any money on it."

All death knells for any form of the arts. Yes, after two generations of eating garbage (both mentally and physically), diners have turned suspicious eyes toward the kitchen and decided to fire the cooks. Not because they are so moralistic or health-minded, either. It's simply because they are tired of feeling like crap. Which is what a steady diet of dead things (both mentally and physically) will do to you.

But don't worry. It is not the end of the world, yet. 

Only the regime. All those readers who are sick and tired of being scared to death, worried to death, and shocked to death, have simply got up and left the table. To go where? Hey -- this is not hoodoo voodoo, here -- everyone knows you cannot live without eating and thinking, and no one wants to revert to the Stone Age. No matter how much revived the planet would be if we did so. No, they are just off looking for a bromo. A little relief. Something to counter-act the nausea.

So, all of you good authors out there who have been bemoaning the fact that you cannot write the things you would really like to -- the things that make you feel good, or even just better -- NOW IS THE TIME. The doors are not only open, readers are wandering around outside looking for something like that. Anything. And for once, there are no waiting lines to get shelf space. 

This is the ultimate time and hour for you to give us your best shot, without any fear of what the terrorists (those who control through fear, dehumanization, and brutality) might think. Because if it is true that history repeats itself, booksellers might even be willing to go so far as to gamble at taking a chance on another book similar to the one they put a bet on , years ago. It was about some guy who was raised by apes but eventually came to the shocking but wonderful realization that he was not an animal. 

None of us are.

Which is why that single character not only worked out for them, but succeeded in pulling the whole industry through the Depression right along with them. Along with a very few others that you can probably count on one hand. Never mind that the author's facts about the particular country this character lived in were not "spot on." The readers voted. They not only reached into their pockets and paid the bills, they breathed the faith into that character that made him immortal. Yes, he's still on the shelves, even though so many others are not. Go ahead, check it out. And why is that? Because -- to this day -- he's still paying his way.  

Now, once again, the booksellers are in the same spot. And any moment, some poor, starving, battered reader is going to bravely approach the lord of the table and ask, "Please, sir, could I have some more?"

So... what will you do with your moment?

What's happening on the farm today: Triple digit heat, so, all the animals are waiting it out in patches of shade or under buildings. Even the babies have slowed down because it takes too much effort to play. Oh, yes -- and I have finally solved the snake problem in the goat barn. I simply knock and call out, "Housekeeping!" before I go inside. Haven't come face-to-face with one of them since.

Time out...

I am relegating myself to the corner today for having – once, again --broken the rule of not writing long comments on other people’s blogs (sorry, Gina). I think my problem lies in not knowing the difference between a comment and a discussion. Hmmm…

At any rate, I have this wonderful discussion going on in my brain (blogs are not discussion boards – I have a feeling the same rules apply to them as dinner parties) so I will have to discuss it with all of you, here, instead, or I won’t get anything else done today.

“You mean you’ve been gone for months and all we’re going to do is discuss blog comments? When are you coming home?”

“Quiet, Lilly, at least she’s here.”

I believe the topic was editing, and the way in which different people go about it. At first, I didn’t think there was any particular way I went about it, but looking a bit closer, I find that there is. So, in a nutshell, here it is…

For me, there are two types of editing that apply to my fiction. The first is mechanical, and I do it like housework: picking things up as they catch my eye, so I don’t trip over them later. The second type is more complicated because it is for content, and done best only after I have collected all those serendipity discoveries along the way that add a more believable light and reason to the story itself. It isn’t until I am in possession of all of these gems that I can go back and place them into the hollow spots in order to clarify the original pattern.

Until then, I treat a hollow spot rather like a zero: its value lies in holding the place for what I will discover later… based on the amount that has happened before. But the time element – that percolating mysterious infusion factor must always be there in between the inspiration (rough draft) and the translation (content editing). Without that, I am still too close and emotionally involved (and hearing too many voices) to trust my own better judgment. Personally, I do not have the capacity to listen and translate at the same time.

But that’s me.

Oh, and I too, have a point at which I am thoroughly convinced that everything I have written is crap (another element brought up in the original blog). It comes somewhere between three-quarters of the way through and the end. Which I can only handle by considering it a form of postnatal depression, where one’s only hope lies in knowing that it will eventually pass. And it always does.

In summing up I must say that – unlike editing the work of others (which becomes more professional with experience) – self-editing can only be perfected by a better understanding of one’s personal experiences along the writer’s road, and a growing faith in what works best for them in striving toward their own particular destiny.

There. That pretty much covers it.

Now, how is everybody?

What’s happening on the farm today: I have not been home for months, but Pops has made a quick trip back to fix fences, get in firewood, and generally get ready for winter. And thanks to our many advances in modern communication, I know that there is a warm fire crackling in the stove right now, and there will be a delicious pot of cabbage and potatoes for dinner tonight. Me? I’m in a rainy, blustery storm moving across San Francisco Bay…

Real voice...

My days seem to be getting longer and longer, while my weeks and months are passing by like a runaway train. Hmmm… now, let’s see, where were we? Ah, yes, the bones…

I am still marveling over the bones of this new story. In the past, I would have sailed on toward the finish of the rough draft as if some sort of bomb threat were imminent. Driven might be a better word for it. Where does that come from? I am now convinced that it is one of the many intruding voices that authors are deluged with. It is not THE voice. The real voice never drives. It is more quiet, gentle, and easy to get in touch with. And it always invites us to "regard and consider" rather than "do this!" or "do that!" It has more respect for our talents, perspectives, and experiences: those things that make us truly unique individuals. It knows we have the capacity to create a story no one else can write. One that might possibly encompass the world if we are wise enough to "regard and consider" it.

The true voice for a writer is the one that inspires a partnership in great things. The one that says, "Let’s think on this a little longer. Look closer – there’s a treasure hidden for you in there." It is a good voice. To listen to it never makes you tired. It never fills you with regret. Most of all, it doesn’t desert you on some dead-end path to feel your own way out through the darkness, encountering any number of horrors along the way.

So, I am thinking about the bones. Of structure. Yes, and (as I said last time) the individuality of them, and the way all the joints fit together to benefit the whole, and the beautiful harmony of all the parts – the very craftsmanship of a working skeleton is beyond me. My eyes have gone over the whole thing countless times, and surely it must be time to go on.

Yet the voice keeps telling me to "Look closer, there’s a treasure for you there!" So, I agree. And continue to wonder what could be more fascinating about bones other than the way they – if fit together properly – are capable of moving so beautifully. Ah, but wait… perhaps there is some secret hidden in the bones themselves. And it isn’t until I take the time to actually look inside that the "secret" is finally revealed to me.

The secret of the bones… the secret of the bones… good heavens! The secret of the bones is that they are WHERE THE BLOOD IS MADE.

And where there is blood there is life.


What’s happening on the farm today: Beautiful day – a harbinger of summer. The horses have been allowed out onto a small piece of the prairie, where they are gorging themselves on grasses that have grown naturally and without the aid of chemicals or machines. Whenever I go out to check on them they glance up with concern. "You’re not going to make us go back home, yet, are you?" their eyes say. "Because we are not ready!"

Dem Bones...

"Without bones you'd be just a puddle of skin and guts on the floor."
yucky.discovery.com

If we were to look at an outline as the bones of a story, our own natural logic is more than enough to pick up the lesson. However, it has been tickling my mind lately how I could have multiple tasks for my outline (or in this case, outlines) that would be much more useful to me than just a place to hang up the "skin and guts." Which forced me to do a little research to back up the theory, since the Professor is still locked up in his laboratory and refuses to be bothered with impertinent questions.

"The only reason we even know he’s still alive, is that the food disappears from the trays we leave outside his door."

"And such noises!"

A bit more information than we need in this blog, ladies. I hope we don’t have guests. Now, back to this theory on outlines. On closer investigation it turns out that a skeleton is not just some rack upon which we hang ourselves, it is a veritable community of living parts. So well organized that, at first glance, one only notices that familiar hobgoblin of a person who either makes us laugh or scares the daylights out of us. It isn’t unless one scrutinizes that we find out it is a myriad of little things working together better than a well-oiled machine, yet each is doing their own peculiar job. That being the case, it might behoove me to look at my outline with an eye toward whether or not it has the right components included in it to bring a story to life. Hmmmm…

I can see right now it’s going to take more than a morning to figure out just what those components are. So, I suppose I’ll just think of them tomorrow.

"What -- did she leave again? Now, what are we supposed to do?"

"The only thing we can do, Lilly. We sit in Casablanca and wait. And wait. And wait."

What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is on the roof this morning, hammering and pounding away as he builds a covered porch outside the Livingstone guest room. The curiosity room is quite finished except for hanging up all the curiosities, and the kitchen window-seat (with its country French windows that open IN to let the outdoors inside) turned out absolutely charming. If it gets any better around here, nothing less than a boat could entice me away this summer.

And the answer is...

There we were. Clipping along at a good pace on the new project when suddenly – BAM! – the answer to a plot-tangle that has been hanging around for so long it’s embarrassing, suddenly revealed itself. Amazing in its simplicity… there must be some hidden flaw in it (I’m almost always the last to know about such things). On closer inspection it not only looks sound, but brilliant.

Where in the world did that come from?

All my usual sources are quiet. I haven’t worked on that particular manuscript for quite some time. Yet, something has been percolating in my brain that is larger than any one manuscript. Something of a revelation, only it wasn’t coming in very clear. Here’s how it started.

I was watching an old movie and keeping tabs on the "one darn thing after another" concept that I felt had contributed the most to its success. Suddenly I realized that it wasn’t just "one darn thing after another." It was ONE PARTICULAR DISTURBING UNIVERSAL HORROR after another that kept audiences glued to their seats. Here’s the difference…

One darn thing:
A stranger is in your house.

ONE PARTICULAR DISTURBING UNIVERSAL HORROR:
The college student you have agreed to rent a room to for the semester turns out to be a psychopath.

But that isn’t the complete concept. There are lots of successful plots that incorporate one particular horror. The difference with this new idea is that there must be several. Such as…

You forget to lock your door and wake up later in the night to the sounds of someone walking down the hallway.

You discover you have left your cell phone in the car.

You panic and climb out the window, only to realize your keys are still in the house.

You dart over to the neighbors as a last resort and no one is home.

You suddenly realize you are running around a public street in your underwear.

A patrol car pulls up to the curb because another neighbor has reported a half-naked predator slinking around people’s houses.

Hmmm. Now, if this were the new requirement for plots, just how might this effect my current WIP…



What’s happening on the farm today: Rain, wind, and a crackling fire to work by. The only interruptions come from "Boo Radley" who has not been in the family long enough to know rainy day schedules relegate all wet dogs to kitchen-only status. He thinks he must have done something really bad, but he just can'’ figure out what.

Game Over...

I apologize to the group, but we must take time out to play a game last week. You see – once again – I realize I have not gone by the rules.

"Oh, no, this isn’t going to be another self-analysis thing, is it? Production hasn’t even got up-to-speed since that last tangent."

Of course not, Ann. Though I will admit there is more than one lesson to be learned from this experience. At any rate, it occurs to me I wanted to read what others had taken the time to list, without doing the same thing, myself. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t even realize it was necessary. I mean, nobody ever comes here but us, so what would be the point.

"Then what exactly is the point?"

Integrity. If one says they are going to do something, they should do it. Builds integrity. Actually has a bigger benefit for the person who speaks up than the one who simply hears. No one can survive in any circle these days without at least a moderate amount of integrity, so let’s get to it. We are to go to page 123 of the nearest book at hand that we are currently reading, count five sentences down the page, and then copy the next three.

"Whatever for?"

I have no idea. Except that there are a lot of people who refuse to even get involved in this stuff. The majority, in fact. Which is a good reason to re-evaluate. It’s just that the three lines on page 123 of my current reading book moved me to tears, put me in my place, realigned my priorities, and made me want to be a better person. Which tells me I have been entirely too self-absorbed lately if the only vehicle through which I am open to receiving inspiration is a game of tag. Why, Lilly – whatever is the matter? I haven’t seen you cry in years.

"Those three lines on page 123, I’ve just been looking them up."

Let’s get on with it, then…

"So I lagged behind and made a circle over the town, and it was burning, all afire; it looked like Stalingrad had looked. Besides the streamer itself, we penned a letter to the Borisov Party Council. The letter said that we wished the inhabitants to restore the city, to flourish, continue peacetime jobs, and help people survive, while we continued our job at the front."

Taken from A Dance With Death: Soviet Airwomen in World War II by Anne Noggle

Of course, I had to read the entire account (which there isn’t time to go into) and here is the point that struck me like a lightning bolt:

How much impact can a word of encouragement carry? Especially in the face of such heavy losses and utter destruction as this town was experiencing? Even the highest declarations of comfort might be perceived as insult under these circumstances. Who would even dare to speak up at such a serious time?

Her name was Mariya Dolina, and she was a captain in a women’s combat squadron. Her fellow pilots had been so moved by the destruction they had seen that they risked reprimand (for which Mariya was later arrested) to throw a streamer with this message of hope down to the suffering people below. Was it worth it?

If you were to visit the Minsk Museum in Russia, you would still see this streamer with its original message on display today. Signed by Mariya Dolina. Only now she is referred to as, Captain Mariya Dolina, pilot, deputy commander of the squadron, Hero of the Soviet Union. She flew 72 combat missions and survived the war.

So, I make a pact with myself never to pass up any opportunity to encourage others – I must practice! Less I should one day find myself in such a moment…

And not even see the need.


What’s happening on the farm today: Spring fever! The weather is gorgeous, Pops is raking and burning leaves… and giving me five more minutes before I simply MUST get out there and enjoy some of it. Ahhh, Sundays!

Starting Rough...

"Thank heavens we can skip the rough draft and go straight to the good stuff! It’s such a drudge figuring out all that motivational detail."

Lilly, I have no intentions of skipping the rough draft. You wouldn’t build a house on top of the dirt without first putting down a foundation, would you?

"How big of a house and how long would you want it for?"

We’re not skipping the rough draft. It’s where all the treasures are hid. The most exciting part of the creative process, if you ask me. You look up something to check on accuracy and – boom! -- discover an entirely new possibility that threads in perfectly. Takes me beyond my own ideas. Too flat and confining to have to depend solely on my own scope of imagination. Besides, I’m way too dependent on those intricate details of other people’s lives to breathe life into a character without them. Those little nuances that have actually happened to somebody – no matter how bizarre -- make fiction more real, somehow. I love that.

"But we already have the rough draft for this one."

Well, it’s outdated.

"How could it be outdated if it’s set into a specific time and place? What do you think, Ann? Have you even been listening to a word we’ve said? You can work on that list anytime. Who knows when D. Ann Graham will show up, again?"

"What? Oh. I’m going to have to agree with Lilly. We did a lot of research on this one, and I don’t see how the word ‘outdated’ can even apply to research. Unless you’re talking methods. Which is the Professor’s department."

"Ann, we’re talking about rough drafts, not research. Pay attention, will you? I think D. Ann Graham wants to start the rough draft all over, again."

"Well, then it wouldn’t be a rough draft. It would be a rewrite."

Mere technicality. I’m calling it a rough draft for the simple reason that we seem to have entirely lost the original copy.

"Oh, good lord – not again! I thought Ann was backing everything up."

"Whatever was there, I backed up. It must have been lost before we put in the new system. If that’s what you meant by outdated, I agree. But don’t worry, Lilly, it won’t take long because it isn’t really lost. Just percolating around in her brain somewhere. So, you’d better get to work on your accessories and details, because I have a feeling… you see? She’s gone already."


What's happening on the farm today: Another spring day smack in the middle of winter -- even Nature doesn't seem to know what to make of it. Bugs are hatching, birds are house-hunting, and the leeks are popping up in the garden already. Why, I had a beautiful one to add to the chicken soup, yesterday. Weather predictions are for a freeze tomorrow... but today, I'm going to hoe in the garden!

On Your Mark...

How’s it going, everybody? Big things happening in here, no doubt, because they’re looking pretty good outside, too. So, where are we at, Ann?

"I rather think you should tell us, since there’s a new project in the number one position and I don’t recall putting it on the list. In fact, I don’t recall anything about this project, period."

"Personally, I think it bears a striking resemblance to that Africa thing she started way back during our island farm days. Ah, those were the days!"

Very perceptive, Lilly, and right you are. It suddenly sprang to life all by itself – with the knots worked out and perspectives on a dead aim – I couldn’t do anything but run with it.

"What about the magazines? Are they relegated to the bottom – at last?"

Hardly not, Ann. They’ve got such momentum of their own at this point, I’d get run over if I turned my back on them, now. But I think I’ve hit on a plan. Worth trying, anyway. I’m going to work on both projects every day.

"Good lord – you’ve never been able to do that before!"

I realize that, Lilly, but I’m more mature these days.

"Who ever heard of age being a guarantee of maturity? It’s not in your psyche, if you ask me. But you’re the boss, so I suppose we’ll have to give it a go. I do wish the Professor was here to give us his input, but he’s sticking to his guns about his alternative fuel thing."

"Not completely sticking to them, Ann. He let the cousins out to visit with that Laurie person, didn’t he? And that little WK is always going back and forth with errands for the PBS contest he’s got everybody talking about. Maybe if we knocked quietly on the laboratory door and said it was an emergency--"

Certainly not. One of the first ways I’m going to be able to work on more things every day is to stop getting involved in shenanigans like these. Entirely without purpose. But I would like help dredging up some of the research on the Africa project. Anybody have any objections to that?

"As long as you don’t mind us keeping a running account of how you handle it all, and a good supply of aspirin. You be in charge of the aspirin, Lilly. And make good and sure it’s just aspirin."

We’ll start tomorrow, then.

"What about our account?"

Go ahead with it, but don’t let out any secrets.


What’s happening on the farm today: A glorious day! Seventy degrees and springtime, when only two days ago there was snow on the ground. I realize it was all probably brought about by global warming, but never-the-less it does wonders for cabin fever. Pops and I tramped though the back pasture and made all kinds of plans…

The Importance of Lists...

"It’s a good thing we have nothing but time at our disposal because you certainly are wasting enough of it for us."

I realize that, Ann, and I apologize to the group.

"But look at this ‘to do’ list – it’s got seven-hundred-and-fifty things on it."

"Good lord! I hope my ladies-trapped-in-the-basement predicament is at least somewhere up in the top ten!"

"Quiet, Lilly. We don’t even know, yet, if D. Ann Graham is here to actually work or just peek in at us."

Just a peek, I’m sorry to say. I’m barely treading water out there in the real world and about ready to go under. Haven’t any of you got anything encouraging to say? Any brilliant ideas or schemes that might be able to help get me out of the soup? I don’t suppose it would do any good to remind you that if one goes, we all go…

"We’ve got a list, haven’t we? But a lot of good it will do you if you don’t even bother to read it once in a while. It’s amazing how little distraction it takes for you to close off your doors to inspiration entirely. Reminds me of the panic of twenty-nine: everybody so worried about themselves, they didn’t recognize the real catastrophe until it sneaked up and kicked them in the—"

All right, all right, I get the point. Let me see that list. And you might as well call the Professor in here so I don’t have to repeat myself.

"I’m sorry to inform you that the Professor has locked himself into his laboratory and refused to come out until he gets the bugs worked out of his alternative fuel formula. Something about the necessity of making it available before what’s-his-name gets enough nuclear reactors in place to set us all back a thousand years."

Then who’s watching the cousins?

"He’s taken them all with him. Including that new boy you sent over last week."

"You mean, W.K.? From over there at http://www.wildernesskidsclub.com/ – I think he’s the cutest little new blogger that ever ventured out into the—"

"Quiet, Lilly. This is no time to bring up the fact that you’ve been flitting around cyber-space so much, you haven’t contributed anything worthwhile around here, lately, either."

I don’t know how many times I’ve told the Professor that laboratory of his is no place for kids, especially when he’s tinkering with explosives. I guess I’ll have to go over there, myself, and—

"He knew you would. So, he left this note for you. Shall I read it?"

Please.

"My dear… it is at times like these when explosives are the very things children need most."

Why, it’s almost as if he’d been listening in! Don’t you think so, Ann?"

"I'll tell you, Lilly, it wouldn’t surprise me a bit if he had this whole place wired for—"

Nevermind, ladies. However he did it, that’s exactly the sort of inspiration I was looking for. I guess sending W.K. over here wasn’t such a bad idea, after all. Now, I’ve got to get back to work because I’m late, already. Keep those ideas coming.

"Does that mean you’ll be back tomorrow?"

Without doubt.


What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is hard at work out in the shop, building a canoe. I hope it isn't an indication of the mode of travel we will be taking when summer comes around this year! Seems he must have some distraction from all the repairs needed around the place. I suppose we all have our own ways of dealing with things. I write a book and he builds a canoe. In the meantime, there's a storm blowing in and we’re preparing for a freeze. All supplies are running low, but our ship is on the horizon. Now, if we can only hold out until it docks…

Value status: It occurs to me this blog has become more than an experiment.

Meanwhile, back at the ranch…

Home, at last, after a very long season of travel. I’m looking forward to the working months ahead with the continued sense of urgency I brought back with me, along with a thankfulness that I have such a pleasant study to work in. Ah, Toto – there’s no place like home!

Tomorrow will mark my first day back in my study, but I can’t help peeking in every time I pass during the chore of resettling. Is everybody there? Ann – Lilly – Professor?

"Of course we are."

And the cousins?

"Even the cousins."

Then my world is complete.


What’s happening on the farm today… the prolonged and unusual rains have reeked havoc on our little place. Pops is hard at work patching leaks in the roof, shoring up pieces of shifting foundation, and getting in firewood. Me, I’m trying to make trails through the jungle that was once my garden, and chase all the bugs out of the house. Could it get any more glorious?

Status: My new year begins (I have always been on a different calendar than the rest of the world)

Simmering in Summer...

Back. But only for a moment. If there’s one thing I like about all of you, it’s that no explanations are ever needed. Suffice it to say I’ve missed you more than you can imagine. No time for sentimentality, however – I have a job to do.

“If you’re worried about the plots that are on the back of the burners, we’ve got you covered.”

“Thank you, Ann, I never worry about that. After all these years, I know the basics are always taken care of quite nicely. Our calendar – or should I say, lack of it – must be put on hold for the first time in our partnership. You see, I’ve been out and about in the world, again, and walking up and down in it. The place is in a terrible state. The thing is, I am convinced that life as we know it is shortly to become a thing of the past.

“The very subject I’ve been trying to get you to look at for months.”

I know that, Professor, and I should probably beg your pardon for not taking those comments more seriously. At any rate, it has suddenly become imperative for me to finish whatever I’m responsible for as soon as possible, as the opportunity may suddenly evaporate.

“Good lord, where does that leave me? My contribution – at the very least – is nothing but shear entertainment. What good is that in a time of crisis?”

A very good thing, Lilly, if you want to know the truth of the matter. People in crisis are always in need of a few moments of escape now and again. And to be perfectly honest, there aren’t half enough of them to be found during hard times. So, I’d say you better go right on with that humorous survival manual of yours. It might come in handy after all. Ooops… I have to run. Don’t know when I’ll make it back, but I can assure you it is my utmost priority. Meanwhile, I appreciate you all holding down the fort. By the way, where are the cousins?

“Off hob-knobing with some agent who’s taken a bit of an interest in them. Been quiet as a tomb around the laboratory without them, I can assure you.”

I’ll leave them to you, then, Professor.

“As always.”


What’s happening on the farm today: Being away for so long, I have no idea but I’ve heard rumors. The weather’s gone completely crazy and it’s been raining cats and dogs all summer. There’s a nest of snakes in the barn and one on the back porch of the house, too. The local coyotes have killed every last one of the Peabodys. Bad omens any way you look at them!

Value status: Recent events have made it necessary to change the judgment criteria. In the future, things might have to be put to a vote for reevaluation.

The End of the World...

When we finally made our way back to regular society we discovered we had become ghosts. It is a true term in the monetary world. It means someone who has "left no trace." No paper trail. No permanent place of residence. Someone who is impossible to track down. In the eyes of that world it seemed even bad credit was preferable to being a ghost.

That’s not all that had changed. The information age had also exploded onto the scene. Now turning out a technically perfect manuscript could be managed by anyone who had the funds to purchase a computer. Suddenly the publishing industry was swamped with so many submissions that slush piles turned into a veritable sludge. That’s because ninety percent of it sank immediately to the bottom and solidified as such. The trouble was, the sheer manpower needed to wade through the muck in search of the remaining ten percent, was financially unfeasible. Something had to be done in the wake of such a flood… and it was.

In the relatively short time we had been gone, an entire new "middle industry" had sprung up in the literary world. Where once one could number good agents in the business at less than a hundred, there were now thousands… and not all of them good. As yet, there were no standards for the new operations. Anyone and everyone could hang out a shingle and declare themselves an agent. Mostly because publishers were more than happy to relegate their slush piles to companies that would wade through all that dirt on mere speculation, with no money up front to do so. Under the circumstances, it worked out for everybody. But an alarming number of the new guys were sharks, and had no scruples about what to do with the dirt.

They were no better than the carnival types who preyed on certain quirks of human nature (the kind Pinocchio became famous for). It was now possible – and even legal – to make something of a living off suckers. Several new publishing companies even sprang up around the fringes of the legitimate ones who did the same thing, because there was a lot of money to be made that way, too. It was rather like the Golden Era in Hollywood, when anyone who was half-beautiful or thought they could carry a tune was willing to pay to wait in long lines and crowded hallways in the hope of being discovered. Anyway, the results were the same. The only way out of the dilemma was to know somebody who knew somebody.

Which, thankfully, I did.

Only come to find out, she had died while I was gone, and I found myself relegated to standing in the same lines as everyone else. There might have been some benefit in that if the old adage, "if it’s good, you’ll eventually be recognized" was true… only it wasn’t anymore. That’s because something else ungodly had also taken place that changed things. The former literary standards had toppled. Come to find out most of the people who ran those middle industries were as unskilled in literature as their clients. They were getting by mostly on salesmanship, trends, and shock value. By the time we got back into society, it was a completely different world for everybody.

So, here we are.

Not that I feel things are hopeless, because I don’t. Even though the publishing industry is about as slow as the medical one when it comes to making changes, history tells us that the general public (who is generally good) still holds the greatest clout. Because they are the ones who spend the most money. And people in the business world always follow after the money – it is their first priority – taking precedence over even their personal preferences and values. So, I can only believe that things will eventually swing back into some sort of good and reasonable balance, again.

Which leaves us with nothing to do until then but learn new strategies and continue to perfect our craft. There, now, that’s done. Are you all still with me? Or are you contemplating desertion now that I have finally revealed the true coordinates of – not only where we’ve been – but where we’re headed.

"Well, it certainly took long enough."

Thank you, Ann, I can always count on you to be perfectly frank. What about you, Professor?

"It seems to me, you have come full circle, my dear, only to end up setting your final course on the same one you started out with. A shame to have wasted all that time, but – like most necessary experimentation – one needs the lessons learned in failures almost as much as what might be learned from success. Sometimes even more. Often the most powerful substances are found in the minutest of quantities. Look at Madam Curie, for instance, and what her agonizing search for radium ended up doing for the world."

"Madam Curie – really Professor – our D. Ann Graham is more comparable to Pinocchio, if you ask me! But who are we to criticize? There’s certainly no place else for us to go. I vote we pick up where we left off before all this self-analysis started. Don’t you think so, Ann?"

"I do. Because while the three of us have endless time at our disposal, it’s become quite clear after hearing the whole story, that D. Ann Graham has the same limitations as any other mortal. So we’ll have to work especially hard to help her fulfill her destiny before her time runs out. Which we can only do if we agree to stop distracting her so much and start inspiring her, instead. Especially you, Professor."

"I couldn’t agree more. How long have I been telling you we’ve got to get even more serious before someone finally delivers the bomb. Which is a much bigger threat to the existence of the planet than running out of all the basic elements we’ve wasted so much time talking about."

"The bomb – oh, good lord, Professor! Are you trying to scare us with that nuclear threat thing, again? What on earth can we do about that, other than be so scared stiff we won’t be able to accomplish anything of merit at all?"

"Not a threat, Lilly, it’s inevitable. Which renders everything we’ve been groveling with, here, utterly useless in the true perspective of things. I suggest we get our priorities in order. Stop looking at the whys when we should be contemplating the hows."

"But how on earth can you expect us to do anything to save the world when we can barely manage to take care of ourselves?"

"A legitimate question, Ann. The answer to which is that only by taking care of others, can you possibly save yourselves. And that, ladies, is the proper perspective on everything."


What’s happening on the farm today: Rain, floods, and tornadoes. Oklahoma’s violent spring multiplied by the global warming that is still under controversy as to whether or not it actually exists. Which makes about as much difference in what we should do about it, as the natural cycle of things had on the dinosaurs.

Value status: Day 3 (our days, that is), and today everything is debatable.

The Gypsy Years...

Nothing beats getting rid of a bout of self-pity better than seeking out others who are worse off than yourself. You never have to look long because the world is full of them. And if you want to be so bold as to include the WHOLE world, they are the majority. We started out by hiring on as a cook and chief engineer on a Swedish mercy ship that was being refitted for a special mission. It was to be used to ferry Jewish refugee families from the Russian port of Odessa, to Israel’s Haifa. When we arrived, the old WW II troop transport had just been towed into Seattle from the "Mothball Fleet" and wasn’t anywhere near special, yet. It still even had ghosts.

I could write a book about that experience all by itself, but this is not the place. Suffice it to say it was one of the most pivotal points in my entire life. For it was there – in a microcosm of the perfect world (there is nothing that illustrates this better than shipboard life) – I began to truly learn about people. All kinds. From all walks of life. From many countries. Though my duties got me up before five to have breakfast ready for a crew that fluctuated between thirty and fifty, I had wonderful hours in late afternoons. Before having to get dinner ready, I was always pounding away at an old typewriter I found in one of the supply lockers, with the salt air wafting in through a brass porthole of my stateroom.

After that, we bought a camper for our truck and toured the entire U.S. Since we started from our home in Alaska, that included parts of Canada. Then – lonesome for the sea – we moved aboard another sailboat and explored every nook and cranny of Washington’s Puget Sound. Everywhere we went, we met children who wanted to join us. A few times, we gave into staying someplace long enough to start a school before moving on, again. We took miles of video documenting our teaching methods, as well as hour upon hour of wildlife and the "great outdoors." Pretty soon patterns began to emerge.

I discovered I loved the study of human nature. It had its forces and laws in the same way that the natural world did, and – if one took the time to learn them – was not only identifiable, but predictable. It was also the same in any country in any language. Suddenly, I wanted to illustrate these most universal traits of all mankind. Not so much the big stuff as the little stuff. The stuff that we could see in ourselves no matter who we were. The stuff that could make a person laugh or cry with empathy because I painted it – in the words of Hemingway – "… so true that’s the way it happens."

I also wanted to answer some of Life’s more pressing questions in a more gentle, roundabout way that didn’t blast people in the psyche or make them feel worthless. That’s because in all these travels and experiences, I found that I absolutely, positively, LOVED people. I even found myself wanting to tell them that there was a place for everybody, no matter who you were or where you came from: a truly wonderful place if only they looked long enough to find it. So many seemed to stop – disappointed -- in the middle of life and never go on.

During these adventures I never stopped writing. I couldn’t. In spite of a strict speech to all of my "alter egos" before leaving, they simply picked up their bags and followed me. However, I did discover my own voice in the midst of all these things and stopped writing in flavors. I now knew what I wanted to say and how I wanted to say it. I even felt I had enough energy to get back into the marketplace, again.

But it was like Rip Van Winkle waking up from his nap in the woods only to discover that twenty long years had gone by. What a shock to find out that during the seven years (yes, another seven!) we had been "…wandering to and fro over the earth and walking up and down in it…" that everything had changed. Not just in the publishing world…

But the world, itself.


What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is involved with other things, so I have to handle the farm chores, again. Morning AND evening. I must calculate very carefully, as this coincides with quitting time in my study. Which is not a problem at other times of the year. In the short days of winter, however… the night creatures are already up and on the prowl. And neither opossums, coons, or skunks, are very cute when they are cornered unexpectedly in a barn.

Value status: Day 2 (the days are getting longer again, but only because I’m being chased by the necessities of the real ones. This, too, shall pass…)

Following the Yellow Brick Road...

The Yellow Brick Road came into sight again when I landed my first agent. She was a good agent, had good contacts in the industry, was well respected, and knew her stuff. She thought my work showed great promise, and that the novel manuscript I sent her had the sweep of GONE WITH THE WIND. But it needed a little more work.

This time I was willing to cooperate at all costs, even if it meant learning the craft all over again, using strictly conventional methods. I was determined to be conventional. I was willing to put a cap on my opinionated brain, listen to my betters, and – above all – no more shortcuts. Really. So, we set to work. I rewrote a couple of times, added a few scenes that she "would have liked to see included," and took out a few others she "didn’t quite care for." At last, it began to make the rounds.

First response: they liked it. But the dialect was a bit too laborious – could I cut back on it? Or – better yet – take it out completely. Which I did. After another rewrite, it went back to them. Sorry, no longer interested. Twenty-seven times it went out, with a total of about eight additional rewrites, many of which included putting things back that others had requested be taken out. Or vice-versa. The eighth time was a real doozie.

As a family, we were not made of money at this point. One does not grow rich in the teaching trade, or even working as a stringer on some local newspaper. Especially when you are turning over fifteen percent of your salary to an agent who might sell the great American novel for you one of these days. Not that she wasn’t worth it. I’m sure she was hard pressed to break even on submission costs without it, and she was banking on the "big break" as much as I was. I had a lot of confidence in her. But there were times when I had to choose between making a back up copy (this was before PC days, when such things take only minutes to transfer files to disk) or a pair of kid’s shoes. Most of the time I was lucky to scrape up more typing paper and postage money. After all, how many times did things get lost in the mail?

Not half as often as they get lost at large publishing houses. The eighth rewrite was done from memory and original research notes because the worst case scenario had happened and the only copy had disappeared into the abyss of one of the larger houses. No, I did not save old manuscript versions, because we lived on a forty-three foot sailboat at the time. Besides being limited for space, you wouldn’t believe what effect water could have on twelve copies of a five hundred page manuscript that would have to be stored in plastic containers down in the bilge. It was hard enough to keep a new ream of typing paper from starting to mold before project’s end, much less not to smell like diesel fuel.

Starting over from scratch practically killed me, but I did it.

It took months. But in the end (as with most rewrites) it was a better book because of it. The first time out after that we hit pay dirt. A direct call from a top-notch editor at a big time house who… wanted another rewrite. Other than that, she loved it. The first thing out of my mouth was, "I’m not doing another rewrite without a commitment!"

I should have remembered the frozen vegetable experience. Because after all these struggling years, I still could not tell the real opportunities from the false ones. What’s more I didn’t even have enough discipline to put a "safety cap" on my inappropriate responses that would have at least kept one in reach long enough for me to recognize it. In all twenty-seven submissions that was the only one that could have amounted to anything if I had seen it at the time. But I didn’t.

In the meanwhile, I was selling freelance articles to national magazines and writing other novels. Trying my hand at any and all genres even if I didn’t like personally reading them, and changing, changing, changing. More graphic. Less graphic. This may have happened in true life, but it’s not politically correct – has to be changed, etc. etc. Rewrite after rewrite. Nothing ever sold.

Seven years went by.

My children grew up and all left "the nest" in the same year, and suddenly my entire life seemed less than worthless. I began to wonder if it was my destiny to be a wilderness dweller all my life, why I kept dreaming of the Emerald City. Now, even the Yellow Brick Road seemed impossible, because every time I came near it, there was always some great crevasse that kept me from crossing over. What if I had already used up my entire allotment of Life’s opportunities? What if there was absolutely nothing left for me in the world? So – in the face of such catastrophe -- my husband did the only thing that could be done with a wife in such a state…

We embarked on a grand adventure.


What’s happening on the farm today: Tilling the garden, adding ashes to the peach tree soil, planting all manner of seeds in pots inside the house, and keeping the fire well stoked because it’s still ABSOLUTELY FREEZING AROUND HERE. I think I have spring fever and it’s such a long way off, yet…

Value status: Day 1 (if nothing else, I’m going to save money on psycho-analysis)

Learning From Editors (part two)...

We were still adventuring when I hired on at the newspaper. University days were long over, we had found our calling and discovered our gifts, and we were still headed for the mission field. Not just any mission field. We had our hearts set on the Pacific Islands… any of which that could be found along the Pacific Rim. There had to be ocean, there had to be wilderness, and there had to be boats. Especially boats.

We were living aboard a forty-three foot sailboat when we pulled into a remote little town on the Oregon coast and decided to stay for a while. The newspaper business proved much different than magazines. Newspapers are not enterprises they are organisms. They are the pulse and beat of a place, and a good one will not miss any pulses or beats. You especially do not miss deadlines. Even if it means working twenty-four hours straight. If you can’t do it in twenty-four hours, others will step in to help you: but if that happens too much, you’ll get fired. You can get fired for other things, too.

My new editor and I had a tumultuous relationship. Which was mostly my fault. Looking back on it, I must say I am amazed at how much patience he had, considering he was the one that got called on the carpet for any of the mistakes I made. Things like leaving the soda out of the recipe for Irish soda bread in the Coastal Cooking column. Or asking subversive questions in the public opinion polls that generated hostile calls to the publisher from half the town. Or having to buy air time at the radio station because I got the date wrong for when all our senior citizens would be bussed up north two hours for free flu shots... all of these he bailed me out of and forgave me for.

But he never forgave my being biased. Such as when a revolutionary from Nicaragua came through town to raise money and I was sent to cover the speech. I had no right to persuade people in the man’s favor, he said. But if an issue was clearly black and white, I argued, wasn’t it our duty to support the white? Especially if the black side failed to even show up at the event?

No.

Well then, if something pretty darn lousy was going on in town, weren’t we obligated by our integrity to expose it to the citizens – whether it "fit in" with our publishing philosophies or not?

No.

How about if you knew a dangerous crime was eminent because of something you became privy to during an interview? Were you not more than obligated to report it to the police?

No.

I had too many "scruples" to be a good reporter.

After having to kill too many articles that I would not budge on, I got demoted to the entertainment section. After writing a scathing review of James Michener’s latest book (it was anti-American -- for goodness sake – was no one supposed to mention that?), I was hauled by the collar into the publisher’s office to face the music myself this time. After which I was relegated to advertising for the duration. I did have one consolation out of the entire newspaper experience, however.

While I was dutifully sitting in the composing room, making up slogans for this week’s special on vegetables down at the local market, a buzz went around the room that THE EDITOR was making the long walk down from his office just to see me. Uh-oh. I hadn’t written anything subversive in weeks. What could he possibly –

He sat down on my desk that was littered with grocery coupon memos and clipart suggestions for various food items. "That little article you wrote for the Fourth of July special edition -- the one about the rights of every American?"

"Well, if you think I should I have expanded it to include Hispanics, Asians, or even Middle Eastern--"

"I think it was the best thing ever written for this newspaper. I’m going to put it on the front page."

Did that get me out of the advertising department?

No.

But it got me an agent.


What’s happening on the farm today: All that noise yesterday was a new set of double doors leading from the living room into the curiosity room. Finishing touches wrapping things up this afternoon. Such loveliness! The word "art" can encompass so many forms.

Habit status: Day 14. Round 2 is over. It is no longer a question of habit now, but whether or not it has any relative value to our craft. Thus we will devote one round to a value meter, and then… the end.

Learning From Editors...

All right, so it was an automotive magazine. Even though I never owned one until after I was married (had been driving less than a year up until that time), I did feel some affinity with the inner workings of cars. I had spent many hours in mechanic’s overalls, fiddling with some mundane chore (taking out bolts, putting in bolts, retrieving various tools, etc.) for my father, who spent over ten years restoring a 1934 Ford with a rumble seat. I loved that rumble seat! At any rate, I felt qualified for whatever assignment they might give me… how hard could it be?

Of course, they wanted a sample of what I could do. They gave me a feature article that had been written for one of their clients by the man I was to replace (there were rumors he left to work for the National Inquirer), that had been rejected. If I could fix it up into something the client would approve, I would officially be put on staff. It was like the Fox throwing Brer Rabbit into the brier patch. Give me a set of facts, and I could arrange them into any flavor there was. Had spent years doing that. So, I poured over the last three issues of the magazine, fixed up the broken article to match… and I was in.

Thus began several years of learning the magazine trade from an editor whose teaching sessions were doled out in three to five minute sessions at his desk while he scrutinized my latest article. I stood looking over his shoulder while he read with a pencil.

"This is good…" It passes. "We don’t need this…" He scribbles out the excess words with the pencil. "OK… OK… this is great…" He chuckles. "This is crap…" He vehemently scribbles out the offending words. "OK… OK… good… crap… really crap…" and so on. The single most important thing I learned while working for this enterprise, was how to tell the difference between the good stuff and the crap.

Which is extremely important if your goal is to become a professional writer.

Later, when we moved farther north, the small town we settled in did not have any publishing houses or magazines in their local business repertoire. But they had a newspaper. Feeling fairly professional at this point (I had risen to the position of assistant editor before I left the automotive magazine), I armed myself with numerous clips, and applied for a position as reporter. All I needed to know was what flavor they wanted… exactly how did they want me to report things?

This editor was the full-fledged, journalism degree college type. "Flavor? For God sake – we don’t want any flavor. No slant, no bias, no nothing! Just the facts – the straight facts. We’re not running a factory for yellow journalism here. We’ll start you off with a couple of columns where you can’t get into trouble. Public opinion polls, and Coastal Cooking."

"Coastal Cooking?"

"It features a different person each week along with one of their favorite recipes."

Ah, yes. Interviews. No problem -- I was good at those. How could anyone possibly get in trouble taking snapshots and writing feature profiles of prominent local citizens?

You wouldn’t believe the kind of trouble a person can get into in situations like that.


What’s happening on the farm today: Pops is home and I’m hearing all manner of work going on in various corners of the place. Anything is possible. I might venture out of my study and find a doorway put through somewhere there wasn’t one before. Or some new renovation to the barn. A boat or canoe might even be taking shape out in the shop. The temptation is mounting to find out just what it is and any minute now I will have to go out and see…

Habit status: Day 13 round 2 (and tomorrow’s the big day)

The Yellow Brick Road...

I did not take the Yellow Brick Road in pursuit of my writing career. It would have been easier if I had. Instead, I looked up from that winding path that lost itself in the first turn that was nearby, set my gaze on the glow from the Emerald City, and took off for it in a straight line through uncharted wilderness. I did not want to waste time on any long and winding roads.

There are dangerous places hidden in wilderness areas, to which the ignorant are not immune. Deep woods, wild seas, trackless deserts, and backwaters that often lead to bogs and swamps are there. Rarely will one come upon fellow travelers in such places. Once lost – and there were many times that I was – the option to go back becomes marred by the fact that you no longer know how to do that.

Not knowing enough was my worst enemy.

It was different back then. There were no droids named "Yahoo" or "Google" that could conjure up answers to questions on any subject within a mere few seconds. If there was an Internet, I didn’t know about it, and if there was such a thing as a "PC"…. I couldn’t have afforded it even if I wanted one. A writer could glean a bit of knowledge from what others had written down, but few did anything beyond telling their own personal stories, and those usually scarce of the nuts and bolts of how they actually did things. Even less of them were accessible to the general public, with hardly any networking (outside of personal friends) going on at all. It was a lonely road.

I made countless mistakes: some that still make me cringe even to this day. Like looking up the telephone numbers of publishing houses, getting them on the line, and boldly proclaiming, "I’m a writer – do you need one?" Usually, no. At long last (probably in another Writers’ Digest article) I came across something called the submission process. Ah-ha. So, that’s how it was done. Immediately, I took one of my best offerings (a children’s chapter book titled The Swan Hero) and sent it off to the first company on an alphabetical list that had been included there. Not long after, I got a reply.

"We would be happy to publish this delightful story. Enclosed, please find a copy of our standard contract… you should see your book available in about eight months…"

Eight months? That seemed an inordinate amount of time. Why should I wait so long when I had been waiting years already? Surely there was someone who could do better than that (nearly a whole year!), and – now that I finally knew the process for getting my material looked at by the right people – I was sure I could find more of them. This was a great story (in my opinion), and children needed to be able to read it right now. So, I typed up a letter that said as much, requested they return my submission, thank you very much, but eight months to publish something was bordering on the ridiculous. Then I went shopping.

Somewhere between the frozen vegetables and the cereal isles, I came to my senses. What had I done? What if EVERYBODY took eight months to publish a book, or maybe even longer? What if this had been my one and only shot out of the wilderness, and I hadn’t taken it? Worse yet, I had shunned it. I had never actually seen the Emerald City, only the glow of it. Perhaps it was not the great castle I had imagined, but only many small houses nestled close to each other. If that was the case, then this little publishing house could very well have been –

I didn’t even finish my shopping. I left my half-full cart in the middle of an isle (my kids thought that was hilarious) and tried to race home before the mailman came so that I could snatch that ungrateful, offending letter out of the box.

Too late!

We had pancakes for supper, my lovely manuscript came back in a few days, and there was not another house on that entire list that was willing to so much as give me a look – much less a contract. Meanwhile, I went back to the yellow pages. I had gone through all the book publishers, and was now down to periodicals.

"Hello, I’m a writer… do you need one?"

Finally… one did.


What’s happening on the farm today: Temperatures dropped overnight and the water in the horse trough had turned to ice, again. Trudge back across the pasture for the ax, duck under the fence and haul it back (it’s a splitting maul, really, so it’s heavy), and then try to break through. I learned something in this exercise. The ice seemed thicker than it was last week. Nothing but little chips flying at each swing – it would take me all morning to do this. Worse yet, I’d run out of energy because I was too out of shape to swing that ax for very long. Then I remembered some ancient karate wisdom and – instead of trying to get through the ice – started trying to get through the underlying water. It worked! Now I am convinced that if you want to break through anything, you must think beyond it, and not simply concentrate on how strong the obstacle is.

Habit status: Day 12 round 2 (the end is in sight)

Mr. Right...

We met on a street corner, passing out tracts for a youth rally that was to take place later that evening. He was older, having just finished up a six-year stint in the Navy. A few days before that, he had gone to a Billy Graham crusade and had a similar experience to my encounter at the surf club. When he said he would like to see more of me, I told him I would pray about it.

I did not date. Long ago, I had decided I was not interested in trying out partner prospects in the same way one shopped for new shoes or bought a car. Besides that, I was far too sensitive to others, and didn’t know anyone that I didn’t like immensely. How could I ever choose? So, I asked the Lord if He would just let me know whenever the right person came along. That way, there would be no mistakes. When I asked Him about this new acquaintance, the reply was, "I have given you to him as a gift."

Three weeks later, we were married.

My parents might have objected, only I was adamant. I had also turned eighteen two weeks before, so there was little they could do. In their estimation, it was probably better than taking off for any more foreign countries by myself. I had already been to six since my newfound freedom, and they were getting gray hairs. It bothered them that he was twenty-seven, but then again, maybe he would have some sort of a stabilizing effect on me.

Which he certainly did.

The first thing we did – before even renting an apartment – was take off for Europe. We went to Denmark, where we stayed with relatives of his and participated in youth rallies, hosted coffeehouses, and visited various churches. It was winter, the country was beautiful, and we walked between ten and fifteen miles a day to the different activities. The more we got to know each other, the more we realized how similar we were. Even in small things.

We both liked travel, we both liked simple living, we both wanted to do something worthwhile with our lives, and – most importantly – we both loved the Lord more than any of these things. At some point during this trip, we realized we were perfectly cut out to be missionaries. But neither of us had been raised in church. Just how did one go about it? Then we found a small pamphlet on a table at one of the churches called, "Ten Steps to the Mission Field." Number one was go to college.

He asked where I would like to go. I was from the West Coast, which still symbolized everything restrictive to me. So, I said, "As far away as possible." We went to the East Coast, starting out at a little Bible school in Pennsylvania. If I was going to be attending a Bible school to become a missionary, I decided I better start out clean. There was one part of my life I still hadn’t shared with him, yet. It was a bad habit I had. Almost an addiction. Matter of fact, I still did not have complete control over it.

He was so understanding. Whatever it was, we could handle it. We would work it out together. "I write stories," I confessed. "My head is absolutely full of them. Sometimes, they seem more real than life to me. I scribble them down everywhere and then hide them."

He bought me a desk and a typewriter – the first I had ever owned – and said, "Write."


What’s happening on the farm today: Still melting, and warming enough in the afternoon to turn the heat off in the study. Just when I reached the conclusion that all the bugs are either asleep or dead altogether for the season, I swallowed one in my tea this morning. Global warming seems to be effecting more than just the weather.

Habit status: Day 11, round 2 (drawing close to a judgment)

Freedom (part two)...

We all sat down cross-legged on the floor in front of the bed.

"How would you like it if you had a telephone that was a direct line to God," said Crazy Ed, "and you could talk to Him personally, anytime you wanted to?"

I could use one of those right now. Couldn’t anybody? "I would like that," I admitted.

"Good. I thought so. Now, here’s how it works. Right now, you’re not connected. God wants to talk to you, but it’s expensive to get hooked up because of all the sin in your life… and you don’t have enough to cover it."

What – did I have a sign on my forehead that said "sinner" or something? How should he know? I had a hard time believing all those other people outside the door hadn’t done plenty of sins themselves. What kind of a club was this, anyway?

"Nobody does," he answered the question like he had read my mind.

"So, what’s the point then?" I asked.

"The point is, somebody already paid the bill for you. Jesus did. He took the rap for every bad thing you did, just so you could have one of those connections, free and clear. He did it because He loves you."

"I don’t even know Him."

"He knows you, though."

"I thought He was dead."

"Nope."

"What?" I had never heard of such a thing. I looked over at the teacher.

"He’s alive," she informed me. "He loves you. And He has a wonderful plan for your life. Something you’ve always wanted to do and never thought you could. Better than anything you could imagine."

"That’s a fairy tale." At least in my life it was.

"It’s no fairy tale," said Crazy Ed.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Because He told me. Pointed you out to me the minute you came in tonight."

"It’s because I didn’t eat the snack. I didn’t want to be guilty of anyone’s body and blood."

"That was communion, and you were right not to take it. That’s only for people who have accepted the sacrifice He made by dying for their sins."

"I thought you said He was alive. That you even talked to Him tonight."

"He’s alive because the power of God shot its way into hell and raised Him from the dead. Because he didn’t deserve to be there. He was just taking the rap for all of us who did. It was such a selfless act it was enough to pay for a free ticket to heaven for anybody who wants to take it. The phone connection comes with the deal. You want one of those tickets?"

"What do I have to do to get it?"

"You can’t do anything to get it. You can’t buy it. There’s no way you can earn it. Nobody can. That’s because it’s a gift straight from Him. Of course, it’s your choice. You don’t have to accept somebody’s gift if you don’t want to. But it would be pretty lame to turn your nose up at something that cost so much… especially when He’s been waiting to meet you for a long time. It would be sort of like making Him suffer all over, again. For nothing."

"I wouldn’t want to do that to Him."

"Tell Him, then."

"Right now? But I don’t have a connection."

"He’s on the line, go ahead."

"What do I say?"

"Just say, Jesus, I’m sorry for what you went through because of me, and I would like to accept your gift of heaven, with a direct line to God – right here in my heart – for anytime I want to talk."

I repeated it. The teacher sniffed and then blew her nose. She was sort of teary-eyed, like she had just been at a wedding, or heard news that a new baby had been born. I didn’t feel any different. No thunder had rumbled, and there had been no earthquakes. I definitely didn’t hear any voice saying, "Hello."

"About that voice…" Crazy Ed explained. Was this guy a mind-reader, or what? "It takes a little practice to get used to hearing it, because it comes from the inside of you, not the outside."

"How do I know it’s even real?"

"Tomorrow -- maybe even the minute you leave this room – there’s going to be a lot of people, and circumstances, and maybe even your own thoughts that will try to convince you that it isn’t real. That’s because there’s still a battle going on for people’s souls and the devil doesn’t want anybody getting a free ticket. They’ll especially try to convince you that nothing supernatural happened in this room, at all. But every time something like that pops up, you just start thanking Jesus for that wonderful gift all over again. And don’t worry, He’ll prove Himself to you. Matter of fact, why don’t you ask Him to prove He’s real to you right now?"

I did. Nothing happened. I looked at Crazy Ed.

"Well, it’s like any other gift," He picked up his big black Bible and held it out to me. "Say, this is it and I’m offering it to you. What would you do?"

"I’d take it."

"So, take it."

I reached out and put my hands on that book… and took the first whole breath I had ever breathed in my life. All of a sudden, I had enough air – I had more than enough – I had so much, I felt lightheaded! It was the last thing in the world I expected. All I was asking for was a connection, and now… "I can breathe – I can --" I felt like I could laugh and cry all at the same time.

"She got it," said Crazy Ed. "Now keep talking to Him every day. And read the Bible. It will help you learn the difference between right and wrong."

I did. And Jesus continued to prove Himself to me over and over, again. I was a junior in high school, and I got to take a P.E. class for the first time in my life. I took archery, and tennis, and swimming… and I could still breathe! If this is what knowing Jesus was, why weren’t people running after Him in droves?

They were. I discovered miracles were happening all over the place. I went from church to church, meeting to meeting, just to watch this miracle-working Jesus prove Himself to people. It was so much more exciting than hanging out at the local hamburger joint with friends, asking each other what we should do that day. If I wanted an adventure, Jesus had one going any day of the week. There was no shortage of them, and they were thrilling. I got better and better at listening to Him, too.

I even stopped lying to my parents and my teachers. After a while, I began to wonder why I ever felt I had to. I felt like I could do anything. I wanted to do everything. What if I wanted to do nothing but travel and have adventures for the rest of my life? Was that possible?

He said anything was possible.

He said yes when everyone else in my world had been telling me, no.

By the time I was seventeen, I had not only brought up my grades, I accelerated my classes and graduated early. I was so starved for a big adventure by then I was ready to head out to Africa by myself if I had to…

And that’s when the most wonderful man in the world stepped into my life.


What’s happening on the farm today: Hay is scarce in these parts. You can’t buy it at any of the feed stores in town anymore, and people are even driving up from Texas to get it from local farmers around here. We were down to our last bale, and the guy we regularly buy from said he was running low himself but might be able to sell us a couple of bales. Definitely not a truck load, though. Then he didn’t call back, and we thought we might have to drive all the way to Kansas to get some. And there was a freezing rain, with the threat of snow in the next couple of hours. Come to find out, he HAD called – our phone just didn’t ring. He let us have a whole truck load. Not only that but he also said he would save some back for us for next time, too. We felt highly favored!

Habit status: Day 10 round 2 (if this isn’t a habit, I don’t know what is)

Freedom...

As well as being born into a family that treated girls like something out of the Victorian Era, I also happened to have been born with weak lungs. This further restricted my activities, for I was not allowed to exert myself, since it always brought on some sort of breathing distress. Thus, I spent most of my early childhood watching other children play but never participating. Oddly enough, this did not stifle my desire for adventure, but only heightened it.

I found a measure of freedom "visiting at a friend’s house," where there weren’t so many watchful eyes around. If there were, they rarely knew what to watch for. So, in the middle years I managed to taste some of the joys of climbing trees, exploring dry riverbeds, and wandering miles on end through open fields. My favorite place was the beach, where one could wander endlessly, climbing over rocky points, exploring caves, and marveling at all kinds of sea creatures. There was also the added thrill of occasionally getting caught in some distant cove when the tide came in… but one only had to swim out and around to be saved. As wonderful as these times were, they were still stolen moments, and added to my growing burden of guilty pleasures.

Then one day a neighbor invited me to come to a surf club meeting. They met at someone’s house (a schoolteacher, so my parents approved) during the week, where they sat around and talked. Then on weekends they car-pooled to surf at local beaches (which my parents would only approve if I did not participate in the surfing). I could hardly wait.

The house was packed with so many people when I arrived that every inch of living room floor space was taken, and kids were spilling out down hallways and into the dining room. All of these were surf enthusiasts? The furniture was taken by adults. A particular figure seated in the middle of the couch looked like a priest. Not that I had ever seen one outside of movies, but he had on a backwards collar and a black suit. Not long into his speech, I discovered he was a missionary from Africa.

Africa! One of my all-time favorite places, since one of my heroes was Tarzan. He told some interesting stories about his experiences, which I enjoyed very much, even though they had nothing to do with surfing. Then something very strange happened. They passed around grape juice and soda crackers so that we could all "commune" together. Whatever that was. While we were holding our little snacks (they were so little!) the missionary took out the Bible and read two warnings. The gist of it was that anyone who was not worthy to eat and drink these little specialties, would be guilty of the body and blood of Jesus Christ.

Jesus Christ – my father only said that when he was angry or extremely emotional: usually before a complete blow-up was about to occur. My inner warning signals began to go off. Besides that, I was having an increasingly difficult time carrying the burden of my own sins around. Adding murder to them would probably kill me. So, even though I would have enjoyed communing with these nice people, I quietly set my little snack aside.

Which somebody named "Crazy Ed" took notice of.

When everything was over, he cornered me at the front door and asked if I would like to go into one of the back rooms and talk for a while. Not really. I began looking around for that teacher. Our eyes connected above a sea of heads, and in a few moments, she was beside us. Whew! I was about to whisper into her ear that this guy was way past high school age and he had just invited me into –

"I see you’ve met Crazy Ed!" Her eyes sparkled like he was Santa Clause. "We call him crazy because he will do anything to--"

"You got any empty rooms back there, Barb?" He used her first name (how inappropriate was that?). "This girl has never met Jesus."

"Sure. You can use my room."

Oh, God. I started to shake. I was petrified, and my feet felt like they were rooted in cement. But the teacher put an arm around me and propelled me down the hall to the master bedroom. At that point, I wasn’t about to let go of her, because there was no way I was going in there by myself. My parents would hit the roof if they found out, and probably put me on restriction until I was thirty. I was not allowed to date until next year (when I would turn sixteen), or ever be alone with any boy – much less, a MAN with curly blonde hair that was too long… and a tan that looked like he lived at the beach...

******

"Why are you stopping?"

Because, Lilly, this is a blog, not a biography. It’s getting too long.

"What did you even start it for then?"

I don’t know. All this delving into character suddenly made me want to understand my own, I guess. More often than not, who I really am eludes me. Especially with all of you crowding around. Every once in a while I have to remind myself.

"But you can’t stop in the middle. Tell her, Professor."

"If D. Ann Graham stops in the middle of anything, she will inevitably return to finish it later. I suggest we all meet back here on Monday to hear the conclusion."

"Oh, drat – it’s a weekend, already."

What’s happening on the farm today: The arctic freeze has passed, and there is a pleasant dripping off the eves of my study. It shouldn’t be long now before the water pipe at the horse trough unfreezes. Tomorrow will be a wonderful day…

Habit status: Day 9 round 2 (interrupted but still consistent)