The Forest at the Edge of My Yard (or, whatever you’re asked to sacrifice will eventually be no sacrifice at all)

My past forests have been pathetic. In 2015 when we lived in Utah,  I wanted a real forest  even though we lived in a desert. I was in the middle of writing this series and it seemed wrong that I didn’t have a real Forest at the Edge of my yard.

side view of forest

This was it–our “huge” forest. (And the pine tree died the next year. Typical.)

So we created one that summer in the name of xeriscaping, and I documented it in a blog. I even slashed an aspen to see how the markings the Shins left in the forests might look, and I used that tree as the teaser for Book 6.

book 6 teaser front cover

See the lovely scars of black under the W?

Only two short years later I sold that house and mourned the loss of my little forest.

I didn’t realize that God would compensate my sacrifice, and in a grand manner. Now, this is the Forest at the Edge of My Yard in Maine:

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(Morning from the back porch.)

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(Sunset on aspens slightly larger than what I had in Utah.)

This compared to what I left behind last year? There’s no comparison.

We don’t own this land, but my husband’s job allows us to live here and wander in acres of old forests. I just need a geyser somewhere to make my life complete.

I write this as a witness to you that whatever God asks you to sacrifice, it will be only temporary. We’ve left homes we’ve built, we’ve said good-bye to friends and family, we’ve given up jobs and dreams.

Then we’ve been granted new homes, additional friends, ways to see our family, better jobs, and grander dreams.

In fact, if we hadn’t sacrificed what we thought was good, we never would have been granted what was far better. 

But first we had to be willing to give up what we didn’t want to, without knowing what might come later.

That’s immensely difficult: to have enough faith in a different future to walk away from a good present; to find enough hope to believe that what comes next will be worth the current loss. But as someone who has “given up” a few houses, a couple of careers, a lot of friends (but thanks to Facebook they’re not entirely gone), and some big dreams, I have seen–time and time again–that what I’m eventually given in return was well worth the sacrifice.

No real sacrifice HORIZONTAL

In fact, all of our sacrifices have turned out not to be sacrifices at all, but instead were the means to leading us to far richer lives.

“I won’t do it!” said another man in the crowd. “I won’t leave behind everything we’ve worked so hard to build. And not just for me, but for my congregation, my family, my neighbors—I can’t just abandon all that we have.”

“Why not?” Mahrree said.

A man in the middle shouted, “Why not? Do you have any idea how hard it is to start again?”

“As a matter of fact, I do!” Mahrree told him, and nearly grinned as she realized how perfectly the Creator had prepared her for this moment. “I know exactly what it’s like to leave a home I love, to leave books that I considered my closest friends, to say good-bye to memories, possessions, the graves of all those I loved, and to have nothing more than the clothing on my back to walk to a future that I knew nothing about.”

The crowd was silent as she continued. They’d heard her story before in her class, but not told quite like this. Today, it was more than just history.

“Twenty-seven years ago I came to Salem, nervous and at times terrified as to what I would find. All I knew was that the Creator told us to go, and in faith I went. Not blindly, because every previous time I followed His plan, He was right.

“I ran through the forest in the darkest night I’ve ever seen, with hazards on either side, the army right behind me, and a lightning storm before me. But I came out of it safely and my faith stronger than ever. And then I came to Salem, which was a far greater life than I could’ve ever imagined. Now, none of that would have happened if I had said to the Creator, ‘No thanks—I think I’ll just handle the army on my own.’ I realize you’re worried, but staying here and fighting is far more terrifying than trusting in the Creator!

“Soon I’ll be making that journey again,” Mahrree’s voice threatened to quaver but she held it strong. “But I know that whatever sacrifice the Creator asks of me, He will reward me again a hundred times over.

“So what if you lose your homes? Your flocks and property which you don’t even own? Isn’t the risk of losing your souls worse? There’s a saying in the world: It doesn’t matter how you begin the race but how you end it. How tragic it’d be if you’ve spent your entire lives living as the Creator wanted you to, then now, at the very end of the race, you jump off the path and ignore all that you’ve been taught? Why fail the Plan now?”

Mahrree knew she was saying the right things. Her chest burned and she felt such energy she could have flown right off the small tower. She watched their eyes as she spoke. So many were hardened and impenetrable, but others’ eyes were softening.

“How do you know this isn’t His plan?” one man demanded. “This can’t be it—”

“How can it NOT be it?” Mahrree shouted, throwing her hands in the air. “Have all of you missed the signs? Land tremors! Deceit awakened! Famine in the world! Now the army marching upon the Creator’s chosen? THIS IS IT, PEOPLE!”

~Book 8, The Last Day, available HERE on Amazon, or HERE as a pdf. download, or HERE on Smashwords.

Book 8 FRONT COVER

Is your life going exactly as you expected it would? Same here. Maybe that’s not a bad thing.

Not what I expected BOOK 8 teaser HORIZONTAL

I hate surprises, procrastination, and not knowing how things will work out. So I plan for every contingency and emergency, and STILL God finds the one (or likely millions) of scenarios I didn’t anticipate and throws that one at me leaving me to think, “Why didn’t I see that coming?!”

And that sums up life, I’ve realized.

How many of you are living exactly as you expected you would? With all your family, financial, and employment goals achieved?

Yeah, same here.

Yet how many of you, if given the opportunity, would go back and reverse all the unexpected twists in your life?

I used to think I would, but now I realize I wouldn’t. Everything good and bad and perplexing has worked to shape me into the person I am right now, and I like who I might finally become.

The unexpected is good, in a long, roundabout way.

Speaking of the unexpected, I’ve heard back from a lot of you about the ending of Book 8. So far no one has said, “That’s exactly what I thought would happen.” (Which is a huge relief because I did NOT want to write a predictable story!)

To be honest, a lot of how the story went caught me off-guard as well. Trying to avoid a spoiler here, but about Lemuel and Perrin? That smacked me upside the head and added an unexpected layer of insight and depth that I didn’t know was coming. I didn’t set out to write the story that way, and that’s why writing this has been so darn fun.

Nor did I expect how eagerly you snatched up the book when it came out. You threw The Last Day to “Bestseller” status–thank you!

Best Selling Book 8 24 hours after release

I’m also happy to report that The Last Day is now available in paperback for $16.65, and for free on Smashwords. In fact, the ENTIRE SERIES is on Smashwords and for free!

I never expected to write this series, never expected to find so many new friends as readers, and never expected to have a little bit of success.

I guess being surprised every now and then is acceptable.

Yes, I know I’m writing these books wrong, but I don’t care. (plus a sneak peek to Book 8)

Over the years I’ve been told by critics that:

  • I wrote my books “wrong” (whatever that means);
  • That that my series wouldn’t be “successful” (by whose standards?) because it wasn’t like other people’s books series;
  • That if I really wanted to be popular (why would I want that much attention?!) I needed to change x, y, z and rewrite the whole thing;
  • And my biggest problem, I’ve been told by a few, is that my books don’t fit neatly into one particular genre. Didn’t I know I was supposed to write to conform to what’s already out there?

Yes, I knew I was doing it “wrong.”
But I didn’t care.

I wanted to write something that I wanted to read (selfish, yes—but it’s my time I’m investing in this project). I wanted to do something different, unpredictable, and not easily shoved into some neat little box.

Deciding not to conform is what made writing this series so much fun.

I took inspiration from J. R. R. Tolkien who wrote a huge fantasy series when no one else was, and he didn’t even know if anyone would read it, but that was ok because he loved what he was doing.

I also took inspiration from Terry Pratchett whose Discworld doesn’t follow any order or even scientific laws, but he didn’t care because he loved what he was doing.

I certainly don’t class myself with those two, but I sit on the sidelines and point, saying, “See? They did what they wanted—so can I!”

And so can you.
Who cares what you’re “supposed” to do? It’s your life—try something different.

I’ve been at this book series for over eight years now: has it been “successful”?

Yes, because I’ve never had so much fun in my entire life! I’ve researched, studied, learned, developed, and accomplished more than I ever thought I could. That, I believe, is success.

Some want to measure success in money and numbers, but those are meaningless to me because I make my books as free as possible, and whatever revenue I do make each month I donate to charity. As for numbers, I don’t know how many books have been downloaded on other venues, but I know that on Amazon a couple of months ago it was around 70,000 downloads. Is that a “successful” number? I have no idea. I’ve never bothered to find out.

You’ve heard it a hundred times before: be yourself, don’t follow everyone else, be your own drummer, don’t copy everyone else . . .
But hear it one more time: noncomformity is too much fun to pass up.

“She always said exactly what she thought, and she didn’t care how others took it. She only wanted to say what she was sure was right, even if she might be wrong.”

~Book 8, The Last Day, coming summer 2018

BOOK 8 teaser HORIZONTAL say what you want

Sneak peek book 8: Anyone else clean a home to say “good-bye” or am I the only weird one who negotiates with houses?

Nothing is quite as melancholy as cleaning out an empty house. Again. Alone.

Last night as I scrubbed another kitchen sink for the last time I thought of how many times I’ve cleaned out a house as I moved from it.
Apartments: 3
Houses I’ve owned: 5
Houses I’ve rented: 6

Last night was the 15th kitchen sink in 30 years. (Three times in the past year alone!)

This farmhouse in Whitneyville, ME is now added to the list of “Places where we once lived.”

It was for a good reason: we were in our cute rental house for only nine months instead of three or more years as we planned because my husband has a new job at his school, and we get to live on campus now. It’s a fantastic opportunity.

Still, it’s a melancholy thing to remove, room-by-room, floor-by-floor all evidence that we once called a place “home.” Slowly, the new place becomes “home,” but it takes a few weeks for me to feel comfortable enough to sleep deeply (why I dislike vacations—I can never sleep in strange places).

The new house and I have to come to some understanding, establish some terms, tell each other our secrets before we fully accept each other.

(Does anyone else feel this way, or am I the only one who feels the house is a slightly sentient being with whom one must negotiate living with?)

This is why leaving is also difficult, even if the move is welcomed. Piece by piece I pull myself from that house, extricate our existence, leave it alone and lonely again. Another family will move in, put their mark upon it, but not entirely: each house I leave, I seem to pull a strand from it and layer it in my psyche. The new family never gets that part. Every home is still in my head, never fully left. The house will forget me, in time, but I haven’t let any of them go entirely.

That’s also why I clean each place as fully and deeply as time allows. (And not just to get back my deposit.) In the past, I’ve needed help: sometimes I had a new baby and/or lots of little children and was overwhelmed, or I was on a deadline and had to get out before the new owners arrived, or our plane/truck needed to leave for the next place.

Once, there was no deadline because the house had been condemned, but we lived in the leaky, infested place anyway until our situation stabilized and we had a new house.

virginia house

The old, condemned house we lived in Virginia in 2001. There’s a parking lot there now.

Even though that house was to be demolished, I still swept the floors as we left. Not out of pride, but out of gratitude. It let us live there, even though it was dying, and it allowed our family of eight to be together again since we’d been apart from my husband for six months.

I didn’t bother vacuuming the molding carpet in the kitchen, though, or wipe down the perpetually slimy bathroom sink, but I swept the floors as a thank you, so it could be clean one last time before the bulldozer came.

Late last night as I wiped down the new white country sink in the 1870s Mainer farmhouse, my phone started to play Dr. Who’s “A Dazzling End.” I nearly laughed, then nearly cried.

This morning I’m fully in another house. Built in the 1970s, it looks like a typical New England house on the outside with cedar shingles, but on the inside it reminds me of an alpine chalet, and a part of me feels like I’m living in a lodge in Yellowstone—my favorite place on earth. (I’m not posting a lot of pictures because we’re still in boxes everywhere. Suffice it to say our cat approves of the open balcony and natural cat walks.)

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For now, this house and I are still making friends with each other, trying to figure out where everything goes. Some year I’ll clean its sink for the last time, too. But for now I can’t bother to think about how long this gets to be “home” and where the next one some year will be. My back’s too achy and my hands are too dry from scrubbing, and I’m done!

“Where’s Mahrree?” Shem asked.

“She’s hiding in the house, cleaning things,” Jaytsy gestured. “She doesn’t want to face the horses, and she also doesn’t want to leave a dirty house this afternoon.”

Noria and Calla nodded in understanding, but Shem waved his arms in disbelief. “I’ll never understand that. Who’s going to see the house?”

Calla patted him. “It has nothing to do with pride, but everything to do with gratitude. The house is being thanked for its service to us. We just want our houses to feel . . . clean. Before the soldiers do whatever they’ll do to them.”

~Book 8, The Last Day, coming this summer . . . after I’ve finished moving again.

Bethany wrote a song, guys! To accompany Book 5—”Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti.” Come listen and wear a sweater (because it gave me chills)

I hardly know how to write this post because nothing like this has happened before. I’m on the floor (because I was floored, literally) to receive an email from Bethany Cousins, a reader who’s become a friend (a side benefit I never realized that comes with writing: new friends!). She, with her husband (i.e. NuminousBand), wrote a beautiful song to go with Book 5, Safety Assured Leaving East of Medicetti: “I Found My Life.”

I’m floored (and this floor needs mopping, but I can’t focus on that right now) because this song is so amazing: the melody, the key shifts, the words all so perfectly fit the book. I pictured Mahrree singing it, and I sobbed. Seriously, I sobbed. Listen to it, right here: (lyrics are below)

“I Found My Life”

V1
Darkness covered our steps
The woods were calling us deep into the night
What once meant danger has now turned
Into the safest place to hide

PC1
The impossible came to be before my weary eyes

C
When I found my life
Over the mountains, beyond the trees
My heart found a home
When I stepped out into the valley

V2
I cannot begin to count the years
That I have searched for something more
A life spent fighting for the truth
And now I’m hiding from the world

PC2
But I’m already forgetting what I left behind

C
When I found my life
Over the mountains, beyond the trees
My heart found a home
When I stepped out into the valley

B
Here is peace, here is mercy
Long-awaited happy ending
Promises of something better
This is what it feels like to come home

How could I ever wish for
Anything more than this
It’s everything the Creator intended
This is what it feels like to know
We are a family
We always have been

C
I found my life
Over the mountains, beyond the trees
My heart found a home
When I stepped out into the valley

Like Versa Thorne (books 6 and 7), I believe in “never letting them see my tears.” But I couldn’t hide them when I listened to this song.

I’m also floored (thank goodness my son just swept it) because I feel like I just became part of something actually magical. Someone was actually inspired by something I wrote, and they created a song for it?! An original melody is a precious gift—an exceedingly rare commodity–and for me, an impossibility. I can never come up with something original, so I’m always astonished when someone else can.

So to have the Cousins take this unique and beautiful melody, and apply it toward something I wrote, to so succinctly condense five massive books into one pure song . . . that’s gotta qualify as magic, doesn’t it?

(I also stink at poetry, as my students will testify to, so to see this story turned to poetry is another piece of magic.)

I’m so honored, and so tickled, and so needing to mop this floor, if ever I can pull myself off of it again.

Thanks, Bethany (and hubby), for “I Found My Life.” Amazing.

(And if this series is ever made into movies, I’ll insist this song gets played in the credits.)

How an invasion of ladybugs brought down this pacifist and is making her rethink her stance on guns.

See this photo of our latest snowstorm?

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Look closer—see all the spots on the image when I turn on my camera’s flash?

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Ladybugs.

No, no, no—don’t start saying, “Oh, how sweet!” because they aren’t. Not one bit.

They are everywhere. Hundreds, every single day, springing up in the oddest of places. Usually I find them my bedroom and in kitchen–literally IN the butter dish and in the refrigerator (under the veggie drawer, trying to get to my lime).

 

They don’t respect anything or care where they die. My curtains seem to be their favorite death spot. And our cat is useless against them.

 

Did you know that when you step on them with bare feet, they have the softest crunch? Not as bad as cockroaches, but still very unsettling when, in the middle of the night, you pad clumsily to the bathroom and feel tiny “crunch . . . crunch . . . crunch” under your feet.

This has been problematic for me because I’ve gone on the offensive, vacuuming up these creatures every day—hundreds a day–and every morning the window looks again like this:

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I like to believe I’m a pacifist. I don’t destroy spiders, but back away respectfully and let them have the room until they feel like leaving. I’ve caught mice in past houses and released them into the wild. I have a “live-and-let-live” philosophy: everything deserves life, as much as I do.

Except for hornets. Just the other day I followed a disoriented one who must have come out of hibernation early in my classroom. It landed on the floor and I whacked it repeatedly with a binder, to the cheers of my students. Hornets serve no purpose except to sting me and make my hands swell up.

And ants. They can do anything they want outside, but if they invade the house, they’ll meet my can of Raid and my cries of “DIE! DIE!”

Ok, so I’m a pretty bad pacifist, with a “live-but-not-in-my-house” philosophy.

Funny how circumstances can make you rethink your philosophies, how something hitting close to home—or invading your home—can shift everything.

For example, I hate guns. Always have. I recoil when I see one nearby, and the desire to run for cover overwhelms me.

Until recently, when I realized that as a “permanent substitute teacher” I have a responsibility beyond myself.

Our school has recently been discussing ways to improve safety. New measures began this week, and as I explained them to my students, we naturally joked about how to deal with real threats. (These are teenagers—the only way to deal with heavy issues is to make them lighter.) We talked about the door, and how I might be rearranging the classroom to put me nearest the door, in to open it first whenever someone knocks.

A student said, “So that means you get to die first? Mrs. Mercer, how’s THAT supposed to help us?”

Before I could answer with, “Gee, I really don’t know. I hadn’t considered that,” another student suggested, “Seeing her get shot gives us half a second to realize what’s happening so we can hide under our non-bulletproof desks.”

“But if Mrs. Mercer had a gun,” someone said, “she could take out the shooter and save us all!”

Shockingly, I found myself smiling at that.

Wait, what?!

No. No, no, no I hate guns. I don’t even like their shapes. But suddenly, looking at all of my students who daily test and try me, but who I love far more than I ever thought I would, I wavered.

Would I try to take out their shooter? I like to think I’d rush him, like a manic mama bear, screaming and flailing and maybe doing some good before I was cut down.

But if a gun appeared in my hands at that moment—and I knew what to do with it—would I use it in a situation where I thought my students were in danger?

Shockingly, I just might.

Oh, I know all of the arguments against guns—I’ve written them all in my head. Every time I read about an accidental shooting, or another child finding a loaded gun, or someone else being careless and causing injury or death, I point it out to my husband and say, “Again, THIS is why I insist you keep the ammo and guns separate.” He does. It took him years to convince me to let him have any weapons at all.

I’ve always maintained that I would rather lay down and die in front of a gunman, instead of risking taking someone else’s life. Especially if there was the possibility of my misreading the situation and using a weapon on an innocent bystander. Judging a life-or-death situation accurately in a moment’s notice is difficult for highly trained soldiers and police. They sometimes get it wrong, despite all their experience.

But someone like me? Untrained and emotional and terrified? I wouldn’t trust myself to make the right decision. That’s why I’d prefer to lay down and let happen whatever would happen. God will sort it all in the end.

But as a teacher—even a mere permanent substitute—it’s not just my life in that classroom. I’m a pseudo parent for every child in that room, and I have to consider, “What would each of those parents expect me to do for their child?” I still hate guns. I never want to hold one, but . . .

I’m wrestling with that idea as I vacuum up yet another batch of invading ladybugs.

Only a year ago, I would have carefully rescued the stray ladybug I found in the house and escorted it outside, not unceremoniously suck them up and throw them into 22 inches of new snow.

Circumstances have changed, and I’m changing too.

And I’m still debating if that’s a good thing or not.

Mrs. Yordin chased after Mahrree. “Don’t you dare interfere with my soldiers!”

Mahrree stopped. “Your soldiers? Eltana, no one in Salem owns anything, especially soldiers! But this is what it’s about for you, isn’t it? Revenge for Gari? You don’t care one bit for these people. You never really tried to live the Salem way. You harbored resentment and anger all this time, and now you’re using these gullible people to try to, what, kill Lemuel Thorne? Is that your goal?”

“Yes!” Mrs. Yordin declared. “For me AND for all these people, and even for you, Mahrree! We kill Thorne, we change the world.”

“Change it to what? Not all change is for the best, Eltana, I promise you. The kind of place where bitter old women like you get their way and peace-loving people suddenly want to know how to bleed a man to death is not a place I’d want to live in!”

Mrs. Yordin folded her arms. “You were always so self-righteous,” she announced smugly. “Always had to tell everyone else what they were doing wrong and why nothing was ever right. No wonder the world forced you from it. They were sick of listening to you. Everyone in Edge was. And now you’re breathing your sanctimonious ranting here.”

“Yes, I am.”

~Book 8, The Last Day, coming Summer 2018

How not to fill out a press release (but I feel obliged, so I tried anyway)

WHITNEY AWARDS finalist 1(I was sent this press release template in conjunction with being announced as a finalist. Having no idea what to do with it—marketing isn’t my strength—I’ve done my best to customize it. But as for sending it anywhere? Terrifying.)

THE FLIGHT OF THE WOUNDED FALCON NAMED AS FINALIST (because I’m guessing my category was fairly thin) IN 10th ANNUAL WHITNEY AWARDS

Whitney Award Winners to Be Announced at the Provo Marriott Hotel on May 5, 2018

[PLACE: Whitneyville, Maine. (Ah, that explains things! I live in WHITNEYville, therefore they have to let me be a finalist in the WHITNEY awards)]

[BOOK TITLE—(Umm, MY book title?] was named a Finalist in the General category in the 10th annual Whitney Awards celebrating excellent fiction by LDS authors. (Or celebrating authors living in WHITNEYville.)

The Whitney Awards program honors the best novels published by Latter-day Saint writers each year. It was founded in 2007 by novelist Robison Wells and named after 19th century Mormon apostle Orson F. Whitney, a writer who preached of the importance of literature, including his famous prophecy that “We shall yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own.”

(Ironically, just DAYS BEFORE I got the notice, I posted this on Facebook:

not shakespeare

(I still ain’t no Shakespeare. We won’t even mention Milton.)

More than 200 books were nominated for consideration in ten categories: General Fiction, Historical, Mystery/Suspense, Romance, Historical Romance, Speculative, General Young Adult, Speculative Young Adult, Fantasy Young Adult, and Middle Grade. [AUTHOR NAME trish mercer–augh, I can’t even bring myself to capitalize my own name]’s [BOOK TITLE the flight of the wounded falcon–my caps button must be stuck] is a finalist in the [CATEGORY NAME general–but I feel more like a corporal] category. 

[PARAGRAPH ABOUT THE FINALIST AND HIS/HER ACHIEVEMENTS, INCLUDING A RELATED QUOTE. Crickets chirping followed by first words uttered as she read the email: “Oh . . . no. Oh no! How did THIS happen?” Panic attack followed. She’s good at panic attacks. Yeah, mention that.]

The Whitney Awards differ from other literary awards in that they are reader-based. Novels can be nominated by any reader (via the Whitney Awards website). Once a book receives five reader nominations, it advances to the judging round. The top nominees in each category become finalists, and are then voted on by an academy of industry professionals, including authors, publishers, bookstore owners, distributors, critics, and others. (Oh, crud—this means REAL people will be judging it next, not just my friends and friends-of-friends. <grabs paper bag and starts breathing heavily into it>)

“LDS authors have been making their mark in fiction all around the world,” 2017 Whitney Awards president Peggy Eddleman said. “With an ever-increasing number of LDS authors coming onto the scene each year, bestsellers and award winners and new voices and seasoned veterans combine to make fierce competition in the Whitney Awards. The list of finalists showcases some of the best fiction out there, and is a notable literary achievement.” (I’ve never felt more like an impostor than I do right now. First, I worry that at the school I teach at, they’ll barge one morning and announce, “FAKE! Hand over your keys!” Now I have to worry about an email arriving with the headline, “Whoops, obviously we made a mistake.” I need more paper bags to breathe in to.)

[SUMMARY QUOTE FROM AUTHOR ABOUT THE FINALIST ACHIEVEMENT. (“Flabbergasted and gobsmacked,” are two of the best words in the English language. Along with “rumpled” which I just read this morning, but can’t think of how to incorporate it. And “groke.” That’s all I’ve got. Do you have another paper bag?)

Winners will be announced and the awards presented at the Whitney Awards gala held at the Provo Marriott Hotel on Saturday, May 5, 2018, at 7:30PM, following the annual LDStorymakers Writers Conference. (I’ll be waving vigorously from my house in Maine, then hiding under my bed until it’s over.)

Details about the Whitney Awards and the list of Finalists in all categories are available at http://whitneyawards.com.

(By the way–thank you. From the bottom of my quaking boots to the top of my dizzy head, I’m filled with an excited, tickling sensation that, now that I think about it, is more like nausea. But a good kind of nausea, that happy-ill feeling that makes you double over in sickening joy and . . . urp–I gotta run . . . But thank you, still. Where’s my paper bag?)

Book 7 Teaser–Force them to see reason

We’ve learned absolutely nothing. And we’re growing stupider.

Forgetting our history, we’re making the same mistakes we’ve been making for decades–no, for thousands of years.

We repackage every old injustice and sell it as something new.  Every rising generation decides it’ll be the one to end it, but they use the same flawed techniques of arrogance and force, creating even a bigger problem that the next rising generation is sure they can resolve by using the same flawed techniques themselves.

We’re only recycling old hostilities, the same old selfishness, the same “us-versus-them” mentality that caused Cain to kill Abel, that made the Assyrians, the Greeks, the Romans, the Nazis, ISIS and even us rage war against those we think are “wrong.”

We try to force them to believe our point of view, but when EVER in the history of the entire world has that EVER WORKED?

That’s what I thought.

Here’s the secret to real peace: We each give up our own selfishness first. Until we are right with ourselves and right before God, nothing else will ever work. You’ll notice the most aggressive people are also the most personally bitter.

Once we fix ourselves, the rest of the world will follow suit.

GEDSC DIGITAL CAMERA

“I’ll force it! I can force the world to see reason like you forced me—”

We forced you to see reason?

“Yes!”

Obviously it didn’t work, did it?  It seems that forcing someone to accept your position only forces them to find new ways around it.

~Book 7, The Soldier in the Middle of the World, coming October 2017

In praise of regular days

My 10-year-old said, “I’m bored. What are we doing today?”

“NOTHING!” I shouted in delight. “Isn’t that amazing!”

“So,” she said, “we’re going nowhere and have nothing to do?”

“Isn’t that WONDERFUL?!”

She frowned but I was grinning. It’s been months–maybe even a year–since we’ve encountered so many quiet days. The frenzy of fixing things up, of taking things down, of moving cross country, of readjusting to new normals . . . all of it’s over, and for the past few weeks we’ve had boring days. Lovely!

I probably don’t appreciate regular routines as much as I should, but I am today. In fact, I feel guilty for not realizing that a couple of weeks ago we “settled in” because I’ve been glued to my laptop, deep in final edits of Book 7 (and Book 7 will likely be ready much faster than I expected–WONDERFUL!).

There’s immense comfort in knowing we’re facing another dull day, another routine with no pressing matters looming. School won’t start for us for a few weeks yet, and while we’ll have to move from this rental house again it won’t be for a couple months, so for right now we have blissful, sweet boredom!

It’s like God presses the pause button on occasion and says, “Let’s give you a few days, see if you notice that the biggest problems are that all the purple popsicles are gone and that the kitten mistook the bathroom rug for the kitty litter box again. For a few days, you can just be. Look outside, take a walk, notice the groceries aren’t running out too quickly, and breathe deeply.”

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When I’m done writing, I’m going to sit outside in this chair (apparently it’s not just decorative but useful), maybe get a few splinters in my behind, but enjoy it and a dull day.

Not everything is a crisis, not every day with children is chaos, despite what so many blogs and memes want you to believe. There’s no need to look for or create drama. We don’t even have to check the news or social media to find a reason to rage and roar at the world.

We are allowed, believe it or not, to simply sit back and enjoy the pause button days.

Real troubles will come again on their own, so let’s revel in the days that are dull.

“And what are you planning to do to Peto? Another dishonest distraction? I think Rector Shin is dealing with enough real problems without you creating a new one for him to chase!” ~Book 7, title to be announced VERY soon!

 

To all my high school teachers 30 years ago–I’m so very, very sorry

While I was getting fingerprinted yesterday, I realized I had a lot of apologies to make.

No, I hadn’t committed any crime, except for becoming a substitute teacher for a local high school.

Which means I remembered my high school years and the way I behaved.

No, I wasn’t smoking in the east parking lot, being a vandal, or getting into an other 1980s-teen-movie troubles.

My greatest problem: I was obnoxious, with a capital O-B.

I was sweet and charming (or so I thought) and I would never, EVER shut up.

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Gee, which one might I be?

So to all my high school teachers who I interrupted with some clever quip which derailed their excellent explanations or lectures, I am very, very sorry.

I wasn’t clever–I was annoying.

We all know it, don’t bother trying to save my feelings at this point. I’m a grownup now.

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Yeah, that girl–the “charming” one.

I did get to apologize directly to my AP Biology teacher about a year and a half ago. I found him online and thanked Doyle Norton for his wonderful lessons (I still remember the ATP Choo-Choo train). Then I wrote, “I also want to thank you for your incredible patience, especially with students like me who never shut up, trying so hard to be funny when you were trying so hard to teach us about the circulatory system.”

Generously, he responded with, “Oh, I don’t remember you being obnoxious.” I’m sure he didn’t remember me at all out of thousands of students, but I’m sure he remembered the mouthy ones, putting them all in a category which, at the end of the day, made him rub his face in exasperation.

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Dear Doyle Norton even took a busload of his biology students to southern California each Easter. Patience of a saint. Or the madness of a scientist–I’m still not sure which.

I rub MY face in exasperation just remembering what I was like 30 years ago.

So to all my teachers at Viewmont High School–I am so, so sorry. I don’t remember any of you losing patience, becoming angry, or doing anything more than smile with GREAT forbearance at me, and now that I’m your age (and older, I’m sure), I’m even more impressed with the examples you set.

I also need to apologize to my friends, particularly Heather McClure, wherever you are: you not only sat next to me in AP Biology but also AP English, the two classes where my mouth was the mouthiest. I kept up a quiet running dialogue during both classes all year long, and you so very generously, very kindly, would only smile and keep your eyes on our teachers instead of turning around and screeching at me, “SHUT UP ALREADY!”

I would have deserved it if you had.
Did you pass the AP tests?
I’ve worried about that, for 30 years now.
More apologies if you didn’t. It was completely my fault.

I’m remembering all of this as I mentally try to anticipate what substitute teaching will be like, and I’m reminded that we never fully escape our past but usually end up paying for it in some way.

I think I’m about to pay for it this fall, and now I’m praying earnestly for the same great forbearance my teachers showed to me. Because the one thing–the main thing–I remember about my teachers was their enormous kindness.

Even when there were kids mouthier than me (shock!) I remember my teachers’ patience and  . . . I guess it was love. Their concern for us was greater than their need to protect their egos. They put us first instead of themselves or their lessons.

I realize teenagers and times have changed dramatically over the past 30 years, but what hasn’t changed is that children of all ages need to feel loved, need to be treated with kindness, need to have great forbearance shown to them.

I’m praying daily now to develop those essential skills myself, and hope I’ll never have to apologize to my future students for never being kind enough. (But I probably will–I’m sorry. Again. Already.)

    Go bold, Mahrree wrote on the scrap paper late that night.
    She frowned at it.
    It should have been Go boldly, right? She got it wrong all those years ago. But that indicated going somewhere, and what she’d meant was, Be bold.
    But then it would have been, Be bold, or don’t be at all, which was far more fatalistic than she intended.
    She scowled at the paper. Things are so much simpler when one approaches them with the over-confident superiority of a teenage mind.
    Now, as an adult, she finally realized just how simplistic and incorrect her old motto had been.

~Book 1, The Forest at the Edge of the World