Don’t judge me=I’m already feeling guilty

July 25, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

Some time ago I came to the realization that whenever someone throws out the “Don’t judge me!” line, it’s because at some level they suspect that they’re in the wrong, but they’re not ready to admit it, and certainly not ready to resolve it, and would rather that everyone STOP REMINDING THEM about it.

It’s called GUILT, and for some reason we often think we shouldn’t have to deal with that emotion.

My most amoral character agrees:

“Man’s greatest weakness! Guilt, regret, feeling bad about behavior . . . It’s a forced condition, you know, shame about a misdeed. A behavior taught to humans that can, and must, be overcome. Ignore it long enough, it dies away as simple as that . . . Humans abuse themselves. With guilt. With regret. It holds them back, makes them feel as if they owe some duty to others, as if there should be some level of behavior all should aspire to. Well, there isn’t!
~Chairman Nicko Mal, Soldier at the Door

Well, there is!

And my, do we hate it when someone tries to remind us that the purpose of our lives isn’t to indulge ourselves and hope there aren’t any consequences.

I first encountered this very weak logic back in high school in the 1980s, when punk music hit the US. I had a few friends embrace the culture, dyeing their hair black and using a bottle of mousse each morning to make it stand up straight, putting spikes on every inch of clothing, then scowling when people stared at them.

“Don’t judge me!” I never understood that; they purposely put themselves on display, then didn’t expect people to look?

As a senior in high school I became grunge before Kurt Cobain made a name for himself. I wore holey jeans, didn’t bother with make-up, spent only 5 minutes on my hair (and yes, a few boys commented that I needed to “do something with it”—which pronouncement meant they weren’t boys I’d ever be interested in) and I did so for a purpose. I wanted to prove that I didn’t care about my appearance, but wanted to focus only on trying to get a scholarship (since I hadn’t been the best student for the first 11 years of schooling). Yes, people looked at me–this was the height of preppiness; watch “The Cosby Show” to see how I should have been dressing–and I rather enjoyed it. It was also a good test for my vanity; am I still worthy, even though I don’t “look worthy.” I was trying to make a point, and I made it. Judge me! Go ahead!

Social media has given us even more ways to stand up and be judged, or to scream, “Stop judging me!” Today I read Matt Walsh’s blog on why Christian women should hate Fifty Shades of Grey. I’ll state right now that I think the novel is women’s porn, so I agreed completely with his position.

However, the real lesson is in the comments, as it always is; scattered among the remarks of “Thanks for stating what I always suspected about that horrible book,” were phrases such as, “Hey, nothing wrong with reading about a little sex,” or “So what if I like a little excitement in my books?” and, most common among the dissenters: “Don’t judge me based on what I read! How can you be a Christian and be so judgmental?”

Ah-ha . . . someone’s conscious has been pricked, yet again. If they didn’t feel any guilt, they wouldn’t be justifying themselves, and in the huge social media presence of Matt Walsh, no less. There, for thousands of readers to see, they declare their stance yet demand that no one judge them. How very odd.

Weird Al, Mandatory Fun, Word Crimes, Grammarly

I have no doubt a few grammar Nazis wished they could find a similar uniform.

I see pricks of guilt and judgment everywhere on the Internet, and it always tells much more about the responder than what they respond to. For example, Weird Al Yankovic just came out with a brilliant parody about common grammatical errors, and Grammarly interviewed him about it. Again, the great lesson was in the responses to the interview, because poor Al accidentally used the pronoun “that” instead of “who.”

Oh, there’s no group more self-righteous and unforgiving than Grammar Nazis. (I’ve ranted about them here. Grammar snobs put the Pharisees of Christ’s time to shame.) These responders, instead of appreciating the incredible work of Weird Al, which he shares freely on YouTube so that all of us English teachers can kill another five minutes of class time; instead of being grateful that someone with a greater sense of humor has taken up the grammar cause; no, instead of applauding him, Grammar Nazis vilified him:

“People that know me … people that still haven’t figured out” 😦 And he thinks he’s a grammar nerd. <shaking my head>
[As of this is some kind of special club, and he just violated its most sacred rule.]

I, too, was shocked to see that he used that instead of who.
[Yes, she actually wrote “shocked.”]

Fortunately there was some reason among the rabble:

Alright, everybody caught the “that/who” error. He’s still a satirical genius. Disagreement with that proposition is dissent up with which I shall not put.

Judgment is everywhere on the Internet, and just as we’re quick to not have people point out our faults, we’re even quicker to point them out in others. I think that’s because when we’re feeling guilty, the fastest way to assuage that guilt is to point out how someone is guiltier than us.

For example, I read an article about a woman who recycles clothing from a thrift store, updates it, then donates it back. I was amazed and humbled to realize she’d done over 700 pieces. I can sew (sort of), but it never occurred to me to use that minimal talent in such a generous and creative way.

Again, the lesson was in the comments. There were plenty of judgments which, I suspect, arose out of guilt.

“Look at the photos—she’s just shortening the hems and sleeves. That’s nothing too special.”
[And yet, still likely more than you did.]

“She’s only taking fat clothes and turning them skinny.”
[And what have you done?]

“As a plus-size woman, I take offense that she’s reducing the amount of clothing that would fit me, making it for skinnier girls. They already have plenty of clothes . . .”
[Seriously, she wrote, “I take offense.”]

And on, and on.

What I don’t think people realize is how transparent they are, how they give the world a telling image of themselves through their comments. Invariably, the more defensive people become, the guiltier they demonstrate themselves to be. I find myself cringing at their responses, pitying them that they’d expose themselves so freely and easily, showing the world their self-centeredness and pettiness.

Oh, he’s not getting out. Trust me.

It’s the old crabs in a bucket. If any tries to climb out, the rest drag it down, until eventually the crabs have torn each other into pieces. We envy others who dare to climb higher, feel guilty that we’re not doing likewise, don’t want them looking down at us from above in judgment, so we drag them back down and tear them apart with our criticism.

Now, I realize that what I’m doing here is also criticizing, on the Internet, and demonstrating my own transparency. I’m judging and doing all of the same things I’m nagging about here. I’m not going to rationalize away my post, but I will draw a distinction: our society is very loath to declare something “moral” or “immoral.” You want to see declarations of “Don’t judge me!” fly? Then make a declaration of what’s right or what’s wrong. Oh, they’ll be coming out of the woodwork like termites exposed to sunshine to come after you.

Yet, this is what we must do: make evaluations—of products, of ideas, of media, of people—in order to recognize the strengths and weaknesses, the logic and fallacies, the truth and errors, and publicly declare what we have recognized.

And then, this is very important, then do NOT be offended at what comes back at us. If we’re going to be brave enough to take a stand, we have to remain brave enough to let people see us standing there.

As a practicing Christian, I believe wholeheartedly in the Judeo-Christian beliefs of accountability to a higher Being, in following the 10 Commandments, in realizing that life isn’t about getting what I want and when I want it, but in serving others first. It’s crucial for me to recognize what elements in society detract me from pursuing my chosen lifestyle, therefore I not only read about but also comment on those elements.

However—and this is a BIG “however”—we must also be honest with ourselves as to WHY we are making these public evaluations, these statements of “this is bad, and this is good.”

Are we doing so because we are truly concerned about the direction of our society, and we want to point out the slippery slopes to help our friends and family avoid them?
Or are we critical online because it gives us a sense of superiority?
Because we displace our guilt when we shame others?
Because we’re merely crabs in a bucket, unwilling to let anyone else rise higher?

And when we decide–and it is a decision–that we are “offended,” we also need to be honest as to why.

Has someone pricked our conscience?
Demonstrated where we’ve strayed from our personal yardstick of acceptable behavior?
Were we looking for a reason to hate “X” or shun “Y” and so we’ve chosen to be offended?

Sometimes we swing that word around proudly, as if being “offended” is some kind of virtue.

Personally, I think it’s a weakness. Years ago I heard someone state this philosophy, and I’ve taken it as my own: “You cannot offend me, for I simply refuse to take your criticism, to see your opinion as overriding my own, to give your hurtful words any room in my mind. If I am right with God, then I needn’t worry about where you think I am wrong.”

(Yeah, it’s a lot like, “I’m rubber, you’re glue; whatever you say bounces off of me and sticks to you,” but a bit more eloquent.)

I’m not saying I live this philosophy perfectly—I took a beating from trolls not too long ago that really tested my resolve—but I’ve found that when someone says something that threatens to offend me, it’s usually because they’ve knocked something inside of me that I’ve tried to hide, like C.S. Lewis’s proverbial rats in the attic that we’re shocked to discover, but were always there, hiding despite our attempts to ignore them.

Over the years I’ve learned to not blast those “stupid people!” in online forums, but I instead I retreat to my closet, get on my knees, and ask where I should be doing better.

And I’ve also realized that God’s criticism is much gentler, more instructive, and more uplifting than any arguments I engage in on the Internet.

In the meantime, I appreciate those who state boldly their opinions on issues that concern me. Even if they declare, “There’s really nothing wrong with a little bit of porn,” I’m grateful, because then I know who I need to distance myself from in the future.

Who decides what your children are taught?

July 16, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

Question: Who should be in charge of your child’s education—the school board, or the federal government?

While you chew on that, allow me to introduce you to a concept from classical rhetoric, called the “logical fallacy.” There are dozens of ways in which information is presented to an audience that screws up the logic—either accidentally or purposefully, in order to manipulate—leaving no one the better informed.

The question I posed at the beginning? We call that a “false dilemma.” There are only two options provided, so it’s a trick question.

The answer should be, NEITHER.

When was the last time you heard of a school board visiting an actual classroom?

Who’s responsible for being in charge of your child’s education? It should be YOU!
Years ago, it was. Ever read the “Little House on the Prairie” series? Remember how the school boards came to be?

They were parents of the students, usually over a very limited region, such as a neighborhood or small town, and that board selected the teachers. Not only that, they told the teachers what they wanted their children to learn. If the parents didn’t approve of what the teacher was doing for their children, the teacher was booted out, leaving the parents and the school board to choose someone else more apt to meeting the individual needs of their unique children.

Tragically, we lost that system less than 150 years ago.

Why is that tragic? Because what’s replaced it is so massive and bloated that it cares nothing about your individual child’s needs, but is focused entirely on achieving goals to ensure that this country is producing workers to keep it competitive. Yes, that sounds dismal and even callous, but it’s the truth. No longer are we worried about developing the thought and knowledge of individuals, but in getting those individuals to conform to a group that we can more easily place in order to improve our economic standing. It’s all about money now, not about developing people. (I’ve ranted previously about that here and here.)

And it’s no coincidence that Common Core Curriculum, funded a great deal by Bill Gates, relies the old tried-and-failed assembly line system of education. (We’ve known for over a hundred years that all children can’t be successfully “produced” like a tool, but someone failed to let Gates—the creator of Windows 8—know that.)

Just getting the teenagers to pass the Final Administrative Competency Test—which over the years had been so simplified and leading in its questions that Mahrree often thought a sheep had a fair shot at passing it if only it could hold a quill to mark the ‘yes’ and ‘no’ boxes—was the purpose of education now.
~ Book 4, Falcon in the Barn

I bring all of this up because, once again, Common Core is in the news. As I write this (July 2014) a few states have abandoned it, reclaiming the right to educate their students according to the children’s needs (although state and even local school boards are still too big to be effectual). However, I live in a state notorious for spending very little per child (as if funding=educational excellence, another fallacy no one wants to address) and lately there’s been a spate of letters to the editors, and newspaper articles trying to defend it.

Just today I read one from a new school teacher eager for her first year of teaching, and enthralled with the idea of Common Core. She insisted all children surely can achieve at the same rates and levels, and I shook my head in sympathy. All of her naïve and optimistic enthusiasm would be drained by, I’m guessing, October.

However, I couldn’t help but notice, based on her letter, that she’d been very well indoctrinated by the educational department of her university, and I suspected that a variety of logical fallacies were likely employed to do so.

Mahrree realized some time ago that she was now the only teacher not enamored with the government’s control of education, likely because all of the teachers around her had gone through the Department of Instruction’s very thorough instruction, and were wholly converted to the notion that government knows best.
~Book 4, Falcon in the Barn

Does this come across as harsh?

Not any harsher than what I overheard a few weeks ago. I signed up my grade school children for some afternoon summer camps at the local elementary, and while waiting for them to finish their projects, I overheard one new teacher talking to another, slightly more seasoned. The new teacher said something like this:

“I’m really struggling to get some of these kids into the rubrics. I feel like I’m not representing them correctly. For example, last year I had a handful of kids easily complete tasks, earning them a score of ‘1.’ But then I had others that I had to cajole, bring back on task, then have them correct their work over and over until they finally got it right. [sigh of exasperation from the teacher] Yet on the matrices, they also earned a ‘1.’ But that’s just not fair, in my eyes. They shouldn’t receive that score because of how much work went behind it. [And in my mind I’m thinking, ‘Hey, sounds like they earned that grade more than those who achieved it easily.’ But wait—here comes the kicker:] So how do I force these kids into the right places on the district rubrics?”

Yes, that’s right; where do I shove them on the form? It was clear by his tone and gesturing that he really didn’t want to have to deal with children that didn’t easily complete the tasks, because they were skewing his rubrics, matrices, or whatevers.

But worse than that, his worry was not on meeting the needs of the students, but on meeting the needs of the school district administrators.

Stunned by the rather formulaic and cold manner in which the teachers proceeded to discuss the categorization of children, I didn’t say a word and pretended I didn’t overhear their conversation. (Besides, I’ve learned the hard way when to shut my mouth.) But that discussion hasn’t left my mind.

Why wasn’t the new teacher asking about why some of the kids struggled?
Why wasn’t he worried that many had to be cajoled, and brought back to task over and over?
Doesn’t that signal levels of boredom? Frustration? Is no one worried about that?
And since when did achieving something easily become the benchmark we embrace? There’s a great deal more learned in the struggle, in the revision, in overcoming an obstacle to finally get it right. We’re not celebrating that anymore? Apparently there’s no space on the form for, “Breakthrough Achievement: mastered the 3 times tables, after two long, difficult months. Celebrating all around.”
Oh, but there should be!

Over the years I’ve met several teachers who, having started their careers back in the early 1980s, have abandoned teaching before retirement age because, they told me, “It wasn’t fun anymore.” By that they meant, the joy was gone; they couldn’t read to their students (I remember listening to my teachers reading us novels up to an hour a day; yes, Little House on the Prairie), or develop crafty projects to reinforce lessons, or do messy but interesting science experiments. Greater demands from those furthest away from the actual children have siphoned off the elements of happiness—and learning CAN be a happy thing!—leaving these teachers depressed and worried for their students.

Most of these bright-eyed and optimistic teachers felt certain every student could be coerced into learning, but in a few years they, too, would slump into the same dreariness Mahrree witnessed in older teachers who knew the system didn’t work, but whose only power against it was to leave it. Maybe they, too, at some point remembered the time when parents directed learning, when students asked the questions, and when ideas were discussed, not forced.
~ Book 4, Falcon in the Barn

The worst part is, even after years and years of reforms, our educational system has NOT improved, and we are outpaced by dozens of countries. There are far too many studies to prove it. Google them, and join in the depression.

Then again, that was a generation ago now, and the only class Mahrree knew of that broke all of the lecture-regurgitation rules was her own group full of “special cases:” the students no one wanted because no one could handle them.

Occasionally Mahrree speculated that if she had additional “difficult” students to educate in her own way, that she just might have enough to foment a full rebellion.
~ Book 4, Falcon in the Barn

More and more I’m thinking, that’s not such a bad idea . . . In fact, it may eventually become the only option. And I’m making sure my kids are ready for it.

Idioms for idiots

July 8, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

Because hats don’t weave themselves. ~Sergeant Beneff (Book 3 “The Mansions of Idumea”)

In books 3 and 4 I have a character named Beneff who has an idiomatic problem with idioms. I wrote him, in part, as an homage to my father, who was intensely frustrated by American idioms: those phrases that everyone understands, even though they frequently make no sense.

Here’s a typical conversation my father would have with anyone who’d listen:
“Why do Americans say ‘Back and forth’? How can one go back without first going forth? It should be, ‘Forth and back’.”

Dad, a German immigrant, would sincerely ask this of everyone, looking for a logical answer, while I, as a child, would look for a convenient exit.

People would give my dad an uncomfortable smile that said, Have you taken an unusual medications today? before they’d shrug and say, “I . . . never thought of that before.”

After all, cows know how to smell the sunset. ~Beneff

However, almost always these innocent bystanders in our neighborhood/church/grocery store would later find my dad and say, “You know, you’re right! I’ve been thinking about it for days/weeks/months, and we say that wrong.”

But it’s still “back and forth” despite my dad’s aggressive reeducation programs.

My dear father, making the face he usually did when confused by something, usually English.

And it’s still “Head over heels in love,” too, despite my father’s protests to the contrary. “Your head is ALWAYS over your heels! It should be, ‘Heels over head in love.’ Who came up with these things?”

Because if the boot leaks, check with the bakers. ~Beneff

That’s the age-old question, isn’t it? Where idioms come from? I found it quite easy to generate a number of Beneff-idioms that almost make sense, all in one afternoon during a particularly dull church service. And sometimes I wonder if that isn’t where some of our stranger phrases came from: the mind of someone slightly overheated, trapped on a bench, wrestling with a bored toddler. But there’s no definitive answer as to why we’re stuck with phrases that, even if you think you understand the context, still are illogical.
(Fathom out “whole nine yards”; I dare you.)

Over the years I’ve realized my father—now in his 80s and suffering from Alzheimer’s—was right. He became quite fluent in English, so much so that it’s still his remembered language, and not German. Once when I was a child he pointed out a butterfly and said, “Someone in English got that wrong, too; it should be a ‘flutterby’.”

(However, considering that German word for butterfly is “Schmetterling,” which sounds like something you need to whack repeatedly with a baseball bat to keep it down, I don’t think German is all that superior to English.)

After all, when the birds fly, it’s time to count the bushes. ~Beneff

(My mom certainly didn’t think he looked “bad.”)

Dad’s frustration with English began when he first came to America in 1953 as an eager 22-year-old, hoping for a new life after WWII. He’d been practicing his English, and when he went through immigration in New York, he was relieved all of his papers were in order. The agent inspecting them handed them back to my dad, who promptly and properly thanked him, to which the man responded, “You bad!”

My dad was stunned to be labeled so quickly, and that the man was smiling at him when he declared my father bad. For days my dad was shaken by this, and even heard other Americans declaring “You bad.” Finally, he realized that it wasn’t “You bad,” but “You bet!”

And that confused him even more.

Soon Dad connected with a relative, and mentioned this strange phrase to him. His relative explained that “You bet” was a weird American way of saying “You’re welcome.”

“But I don’t understand; they want me to bet? Bet what? I’m not a betting man!”

My father’s first few weeks in America were a bit stressful, as you can imagine.

As the wind blows, so squirrels are to trees. ~Beneff

All kinds of phrases flummoxed him:

“Why is dropping a hat making you do something faster?”

“But cutting mustard is easy!”

“Rule of thumb . . . well, my thumb is exactly one inch wide.”

“Hold your horses . . . hey, I understand that.” (And he used it a lot.)

But he always blushed whenever he said, “I’m pooped!” because he was never quite too sure about that one.

Anyone learning a second language is appropriately bewildered by idioms, and as a college student trying to learn German, I went to my dad for help with some of his native tongue’s idioms. But we both gave up.

“Look, we say ‘bite the sour apple’ and you say ‘bite the bullet’,” my dad tried to explain. “How is that more logical?”

“But I don’t think they mean the same thing,” I countered.

“Sure they do! They both mean, ‘Later, you’ll have to go to the doctor.’”

Twenty-five years later I’m still wondering about that.

And then there’s my German mother who, for years, thought the phrase “You’re crazy,” was “You’re grazy.” One day she confided to me, “I don’t even know what the word ‘grazy’ means, and I can’t find it in the dictionary.”

After 50 years of marriage, my mom was more than happy give her business to local bakeries, or her children.

She’s also the woman who, frustrated after failing yet again to master a pie crust, yelled, “Who came up with that phrase, ‘Easy as pie’? That’s a stupid idiom, and an even stupider dessert . . . get me some chocolate!”

Because that’s not a pig clucking. ~Beneff

Just how murky does the water have to be?

June 22, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

“That is some nasty water!”

Those were the first words out of my mouth yesterday as my husband and I, celebrating our 26^th wedding anniversary, pushed the canoe out on to the water.

Scenic and slimy.

For years we’ve said we wanted to explore the extensive marshy regions in our valley, and finally we were doing it, setting out to see how many birds and critters we could find.
But we were startled at the condition of the water.

“Well,” my husband said, “it is a marsh. And I guess it’s supposed to smell like Shrek’s backyard.”
We soon learned how to paddle without splashing each other—we didn’t want that murky gunk on either of us—and enjoyed gliding past cranes, egrets, and the occasional pelican.

(He hasn’t really changed in 26 years. But I have. That’s why there’s no photo of me.)

Suddenly, we found our paddles sticking, because the filthy water hid the fact that just inches below us was thick mud that smelled like Shrek’s outhouse. Eventually we had to resort to pushing our paddles into the mud to get out of the shallow patches, a few hundred feet across.

Once, after our paddles were sucked nearly out of our hands by the deep mud, I entertained the notion of stepping out of the canoe to push us free, but couldn’t imagine getting any of that mess on me.

“Not quite as romantic as Venice,” my husband commented at one point as he tried to punt us out of particularly sticky area, overgrown with algae.

That’s when the carp started. Apparently the temperatures were right, and love was in the air. Did you know that carp try to spawn on top of the water? Well, we know that now. If we had a bucket, we could have scooped up the giant things, some at least 18 inches long, as hundreds of them further disturbed the shallow muddy water around us.

At the end of an entertaining and tiring hour (canoe seats are not known for their comfort) we headed back to the pier, grateful we never got wet. Even though the channel there was deeper—maybe four feet—that water still wasn’t anything I wanted on my body.

Nice reflection, but take a close look at that water.

Obviously, not everyone felt the same way did. We drifted upon a family—dad, mom, and a girl about 9 years old—floating on large tubes. The dad said to his daughter, “You ready?”
When she cheerfully announced she was, the dad tipped over her tube sending her straight into the muddy, stinky water full of immoral carp.

My husband and I shared the same look: Get that girl a bottle of Clorox!

The girl’s parents nodded to us, as if they were sure they were going to get the “Parent of the Year” award for finding a free swimming area for their daughter.

Interestingly, neither of her parents wanted to join her, even though she claimed the water was nice and warm (tons of bacteria, algae, and biology going crazy will do that to water), and eventually they helped her back onto her tube.

Now, it’s not like we’re opposed to swimming in nature, or think that swimming pools are the only safe way to go. We’ve shocked others by allowing our kids to wade in the rivers in Yellowstone National Park and the Pacific Ocean off the coast of Northern California. Lakes, reservoirs, slow moving rivers–even the mighty Mississippi–have all have bathed our babies, and always first their father. (I usually stand on the bank, with towels.)

Seriously, it was 72 degrees outside, Christmas Eve . . . and we were NOT going in?!

The best looks we ever got from strangers, however, was on Christmas Eve in Myrtle Beach, where our kids happily charged into the ocean and declared it warmer than the Yellowstone River. Several families were walking along the shore, but not a single person dared set a toe in. (And sent several disapproving looks at me, which I ignored.) My husband has a habit of diving into any water he can find, and dragging his children along as well, but on one condition: the water must be clear. If he can see the bottom, never mind the season or the temperature—we’re going in.

But not everything is worth submerging ourselves into, even if it looks inviting. For my semi-aquatic husband to say yesterday that he didn’t even want to touch the marshy water (“Next time, we’re heading up the canyon so I can ‘accidentally’ tip us over in a decent river.”) the situation is indeed serious.

After we paddled a sufficient distance away from the family that thought nothing of letting their daughter play in a dreary water world, my husband said to me, “Just how murky does the water have to be before they decide it’s too filthy to toss their child into?”

I’ve been thinking about that ever since, in many different ways. Everything, it seems, is growing murkier, and at some point we have to look at the churning around us and say, “We’re not getting into that.”

For example, the past year I’ve been more and more reluctant to use a family email we established 15 years ago. Back then, the service provided general news–helpful and innocuous. But over the years I’ve noticed it become more salacious, more liberal, and definitely more slanted. Every day there are articles promoting behavior that I teach my children to avoid, biased pieces mocking values I hold dear, and outright distortions of my beliefs and occasionally even my religion.

That water, which we used to freely swim in, is growing filthy.

But the question for me personally is, How murky does it have to get before I finally abandon it? Some days I feel like I’m jogging through Sodom and Gomorrah just to pick up my mail. The fact that the address is linked to so many subscriptions, family, and friends is why we’re hesitant to close it. I know that eventually I’m going to need to, but what will finally be the tipping point that makes me cry out, “Disinfectant for my eyes! Now!”

Already we’ve abandoned radio stations, types of music, certain kinds of video games, the vast majority of TV, movies of certain ratings, and books recommended to us because of the filthiness we didn’t want to wade through. And interestingly, we haven’t missed what we’ve left. We’ve found other places to swim, so to speak. There’s all kinds of marvelous options available to us, if we just make the decision to find them.

So, even as I write this, I realize I need to get out of the waters the moment I see them becoming polluted (and figure out how to transfer everything out of my old email address). But I’ll be the first to admit: sometimes we’re slow to remove ourselves from the slime–even though we know staying clean is a whole lot easier than scrubbing off the filth–maybe because we have a hard time believing that all around us is becoming toxic.

Or maybe it’s become muddy so slowly that we haven’t even noticed, because we’re distracted elsewhere.
For example, take the photo below; I was trying, with my cheap phone’s simple camera, to take a picture of the pelican in flight (that white triangle in the distance). But instead, I ended up with a clear picture of the water around me that reminds me of a cesspool.

Yeah, I still don’t know what to call this . . . this . . . stuff.

I think I need to be looking more closely, more frequently, at what’s surrounding my family and myself. And keep my feet in the canoe.

Flicking trolls

May 16, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

Earlier I wrote about being stunned that trolls were sending me hate emails about my books, and that I was in retreat. Here’s how I imagine those folks look:

(Ok, technically this is an orc from a game called 40k. And if you want to know the difference between a troll and an orc, I have a ten-year-old who will tell you more than you ever, ever wanted to know.)

However, it’s amazing how things can change in a few days. You see, I’ve had an epiphany. A few epiphanies, actually. (And I so enjoy writing that word, you’re going to see it a few more times.)

Let me back up a bit here; when I got trolled last week I was already feeling particularly vulnerable. A number of financial and family worries had sent my anxiety bubbling out my ears. The troll attack was the last straw, and I retreated.

For the next several days I fretted about many things, but I also prayed. I’m a firm believer in Heavenly help, and it came.

No, lightning didn’t strike my trolls (guess I didn’t have enough faith when I asked for that), but instead of destroying my irritants, God calmed my anxieties and gently gave me ideas of how to circumvent the detractors.

One of my first epiphanies occurred when I thought about authors whose works I don’t particularly care for. For example (and I’m taking cover right now), I didn’t like The Hunger Games. I fact, I didn’t finish reading it.

Now, let me say right now that I admire Suzanne Collins. I’ve read interviews with her, I’m happy for her success, and I think the message she’s sending through her writing is timely. She’s done wonderful things, and the way she ended her series is almost brutal but bravely honest. Life doesn’t always have a happy ending. Deal with it. That’s amazing writing.

I just find her books unreadable. Simply not my style.

However, I would never go on to Amazon and state my opinions in a review (and I’ve learned to not read reviews of my books on Amazon anymore, either), and I especially wouldn’t go to her website and rant to her personally about my opinion of her failings, because my opinion really doesn’t matter. The fact that she didn’t meet my narrow, individualized expectations is my problem, not hers . . .

Ah! Epiphany #1!

Why should she care about some middle-aged mom in the Rocky Mountains? She shouldn’t! Suzanne Collins—write what makes YOU happy, in a manner that brings YOU satisfaction. If I want to be part of that, then that’s my choice. Otherwise, I’m good just watching the movies (which I do enjoy, by the way).

And also by the way, I’m taking that little speech and applying it to myself. I write what I want to read.
If you want to read it as well, great!
If not, great!

I’ve also wanted to rewrite parts of Book 1, and I decided now was as good as time as any (and yes, I’m also working on Book 4). This week I started to make Forest tighter and cleaner, and I’m rearranged some of the earlier chapters. I headed into this with a critical eye, but after half an hour I found myself genuinely happy.
I like this story!
Scratch that—I LOVE this story!
So why I am letting ugly trolls take that joy away?

That led to my second epiphany which came during my English 1010 class. My students were giving their presentations on their research papers, and one student addressed cyberbullying. It was then that I felt a gentle flick against my mind, not a slap upside the head as God often does to get my attention. This time He was saying kindly, because of my vulnerable state, “Listen up, daughter.” Everything my student described about cyberbullying applied to my situation. When she got to the part of “How to deal with it,” I already knew.

Epiphany #2: Flick the trolls!

Read that carefully, because I did NOT intend to write something more graphic (although in a different font the “l” and “i” blend together in a fitting manner).

Here’s a different perspective of the earlier troll.

He’s not so big now, is he? In fact, I can easily flick him away (but I won’t, because this is one of the beloved “hideous plastic creatures” my husband and sons have painstakingly painted and stored away in boxes to play with once a year, and if anything happens to these critters, such as losing a glued-on arm, tears are shed).

(Males can be weird.)

So I’m taking the advice so many of you kindly sent. Friends and readers have written this past week commiserating with me and asking if I really wanted to remove my books from Amazon.

And you know what? I don’t.

No, they’re not perfect—nothing ever will be—but I am inching closer to excellence as I revise book 1. And if you don’t like it, fine. Put it down and go read something else. I have a copy of The Hunger Games I can give you. (But don’t touch my DVDs.)

And if you want to troll me, I’ve got new perspective on that as well. I’ll ignore you by flicking you away, and I’ll continue on happily, because I care less about you than you care about bullying me.

I’ve been blessed to find my inner Teddy Roosevelt who doesn’t care about the critics (trolls, bullies), and I’ve also found a glorious little button called “delete.”

It must be magical because just that easily, trolls are banished and joy returns.

Look at him . . . not knowing what to do next. Heh-heh-heh.

Quitting, in a way

May 12, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer 4 Comments

“It’s not the critic who counts; not the man who points . . . where the doer of deeds could have done them better . . .
“The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena . . . who errs, who comes short again and again—”

Well, I’m no Teddy Roosevelt, the man who said these marvelous words. (Although I’ve practiced that facial expression, and scared my toddler.)

I’m just a middle-aged mom who’s skin is far too thin.
So I’m quitting.
In a way.

I’m not a person who does well with attention; praise, criticism—it all makes me exceptionally uncomfortable.
Especially criticism.

Yes, I’m overly sensitive (I don’t think that’s a particularly bad thing) and yes, I take things personally. So when I receive criticism—personal jabs about my writing, my editing (yes, it’s very, very hard to edit oneself—I admit it) and my personal views—I kind of break down.

I’m a wimp. While I’ve received a lot of wonderful and encouraging feedback on my book series, the few harsh comments cut me to the core and drain away my joy. That they appear on my screen where my books came to be—and that those barbs are sent to me directly via my blog and email—feels like a double gut punch.

I love writing. Well, at least, I used to.

I never claimed to be an “author”; that title connotes a sense of accomplishment.
I’m merely a drafter and dabbler. I wrote the books I wanted to read, and I fully acknowledge that others may not like them. There are a lot of popular books I’ve haven’t liked over the years, but it never occurred to me to directly bash those writers; I just accepted that I have different tastes than the authors, and let them be. (Especially if I got their books for free.)

I’ve read blogs on about how to deal with negative feedback, and all of them say to ignore it (easier said than done) or to realize it’s a criticism of my work, not me. But that’s never made sense to me: what I write is me. A stinging gibe stings me personally, not just my work. We are one and the same. I wished the compliments I’ve received could overwhelm the negativity, but I’m just not that mature yet, I guess. (I’ve heard that people get braver after 50; I hope that’s true.)

I still love my books and my characters. They will continue on, but not on Amazon. Once my commitment with the Kindle program is over, I’m going to “de-publish” my books, probably in June. But I will still keep them available on my website, as free pdf downloads. I’ll rework books 1, 2, and 3, and I’ll finish book 4, as well as books 5, 6, 7, and 8, and release all of them here—quietly and safely—over the next few years.

Maybe someday I’ll find my bravery again and put my heart out there again on a stick for the fire squads. Maybe I’ll even find the funds for an editor, or even try to get my books published “for real.”

But not right now. Financial needs also require me to stop pretending that I can make any money as a writer, and find instead more practical ways to pay a few bills. I’ll continue drafting and revising on the side, and I’ll post here about future releases.

In the meantime, forgive me for not being as brave as Perrin, or as outspoken as Mahrree, or as daring as Teddy Roosevelt:

“ . . . there is no effort without error and shortcoming . . . and who at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails greatly.”

Who wants to fail?
And greatly?
And publicly?
I ain’t no Teddy Roosevelt, so I’m going to go into hiding now. (Thanks to despair.com for the fantastic illustrations. Click on the images to order these posters.)

Audiobook downloads, and thank you very much!

May 7, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

The first three chapters of The Forest at the Edge of the World are available here as audiobook mp3 downloads. I’ll keep trying to upload a chapter or two a week so you can hear my lovely Fran Drescher impersonations. (No, it’s not really that bad, but with my hay fever kicking in, the next few chapters just might be.)

I also want to thank all of you for your support during my past free download week. I was just this much shy (can you see my fingers pinching together?) of reaching 11,000 downloads, which was about 9,000 more than I was expecting. A great week, so thank you for helping to get the word out!

Mercy out, mercy in

April 29, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer 2 Comments

I was walking down the hall at the community college where I taught business writing to adults returning to college when I heard the words, “I will be merciful to those who show mercy.”

I stopped dead in my tracks, because it was evening and the halls were deserted.

Sometimes God likes to smack me upside the head.
“Well . . . thanks for that insight,” I said quietly to the hall as I continued on my way, perplexed.

Moments later one of my students came jogging around the corner, looking frazzled. During the day he drove a big truck—a giant dump truck in the nearby copper mine. When he had introduced himself to the class at the beginning of the semester, he said he’d spent the last ten years literally driving around in circles, and was ready for something new.

He’d been a good student, but now he stopped before me, breathless. “Mrs. Mercer! I know the paper is due tonight, but I didn’t get it done. Last night my little boy got really sick, so I spent the night with him in the ER because my wife’s pregnant and also sick, and I know I should have taken my work with me to finish . . .”

Somewhere during his panicked explanation, I quit listening, because all I could think of was “mercy.”

Take his school work to the ER and write while he held his sick toddler?

While he explained in graphic detail what ailed his son, I remembered the advice I’d been given when I was a TA in grad school: “Students will give you any kind of excuse to get out of turning in work on time. Don’t fall for it. Now’s the time to teach them that there’s only one definition of ‘on time,’ and anything less deserves to lose points. The real world doesn’t accept ‘late work.’ A real job would fire them for ‘late work.’ Teach them about the real world.”

What stupid advice, I thought.

Before Big Truck Driver could go on, I knew exactly what I had to say. “How’s your son?”

He stopped and stared at me. “Uhh, he was dehydrated and they had to do an IV which he didn’t enjoy, but he’s much better today.”

“And your wife?”

“Better too.”

“So how long do you need to finish your paper?”

“But it’s due tonight!” he reminded me, unnecessarily.

(Ok, maybe it would have cracked my driveway . . .)

“I’ll be grading those papers for days. Get it to me whenever you can.”

He grinned and turned it in to me by the next night. He even drove it over to my house on his way out of the copper mine. (This was before we were in the habit of emailing documents, and I’ll confess—I was disappointed he didn’t show up in his giant CAT.)

Shortly after that incident, others showed mercy to me, and over the dozen years or so since that evening at the community college, I’ve observed this principle I’ve learned to call “Mercy Out, Mercy In.”

Some call it karma, but I’ve discovered the mathematics of it are not a one-for-one relationship. For example, if I were to assign a numeral quality to the mercy I gave to my student, I’d give it a 2.

But when Big Truck Driver handed me his paper that night on my doorstep, the relief and gratitude he exuded was a factor of at least 50.

Something had miraculously multiplied, likes loaves and fishes.

I know, because I’ve felt that same unexplainable math in my life. Someone shows me a touch of mercy, but what I experienced at the receiving end was a much larger measure than what was given. I’ve been granted all sorts of things I like didn’t deserve: time, understanding, forgiveness, forgetfulness, and second chances. And third chances. And fourth chances.

Just recently I was on the end of “mercy in” again. No, I’m not about to give the details of some horrendous experience, because those “share all” blogs make me intensely uncomfortable. But something smaller will illustrate my point.

After spending over a month trying to understand the programs and equipment necessary for recording an audiobook, then recording my first chapter again, and again, and again, I submitted it to my mentoring group.

Rejected.

I confess I shed a few tears, which I rarely do. I had invested four weeks, over thirty hours, sold some personal items to afford the necessary equipment, and suffered through a learning curve that went so steep it toppled on top of me a few times.

I wanted to quit.
But I couldn’t quit.
I was so frustrated, but I so desperately wanted to get it right. The situation seemed hopeless and I felt utterly stupid. How could others succeed while I just couldn’t seem to figure it out?

It’s hard to come back from feeling completely stupid.

Then there was some “mercy in.” One of the reviewers sent me the short message: “But the reading was very good.”

Numerically, that probably cost her a value of 1, and maybe took her all of 15 seconds.

But I felt it a value of 100.

I dried my tears, licked my wounds, spent the next couple of hours experimenting, reconfiguring, rerecording (my fifth time on that same chapter), then submitted again . . .

Almost there.

I fixed a few more items . . .
Submitted yet again . . .

SUCCESS!

All because a mentor handed me a morsel of encouragement, a tiny tender mercy, and it was enough to get me where I needed to be.

I wondered later if that mercy meant so much to me because of what had happened the day before.

I currently teach a freshman composition class, and two of my students turned in their assignments that were . . . well, completely wrong. One unintentionally plagiarized while the other fell victim to what most college freshmen do: if you’re not sure how to complete the essay, write a book report. (The assignment was an annotated bibliography.)

I had a choice: I could fail them both, saving me from having to grade two more papers, or I could offer some “mercy out.”

The answer was easy. I wrote to each of them, “You’ve misunderstood the assignment, and as it is, you’d earn a failing grade. But I want you to learn this; you’ll need it for the rest of your college career. So how about you take another crack at it, and turn it back in to me in 48 hours? Here’s what you need to do . . .”

That response cost me all of five minutes, maybe a factor of 3, including the extra time I’ll need later to grade their late papers. Marginal. Minimal.

But my students were most grateful (after they were chagrined and panicked). The mercy I extended to them cost me so little, but they received so much more.

Interestingly, the day I finally got approval for my audiobook recording, someone else wrote on my thread where I had requested feedback. This man, who I’ll call Bill, wrote, “I admire your persistence. You have much more than I do. I just can’t seem to get this right either.”

I saw a study once that suggested people born before 1975 will always struggle with technology. Bill was born much earlier than I was, according to his profile picture, and I knew his frustration.

Once again I had a few ways to respond to this: I could have ignored him, or I could have said, “You’re right, Bill. It’s too hard. No one blames you for quitting,” because hey—he’s actually competition for those who may choose between listening to his book versus mine. Why encourage the competition?

But after I had just experienced so much “mercy in,” there was only one response.
I started a new thread, addressed to Bill.
“Don’t give up! Now that I’m so close, I can taste it, and it’s marvelous. You’re so close!”
That cost me maybe a 1.

The moderator of the site jumped in with, “She’s right, Bill. You are very close to success, and I have a friend that can help you.”

When Bill later wrote, “Thanks, all. I think I will give it another shot,” you could feel his hope growing, his frustration lifting, and his joy returning: all results of receiving mercy.

Ready to hit the “smite” button. While this is one of my all time favorite “Far Side” cartoons, I don’t ascribe to the gospel of Gary Larson.

And it cost me so little.

We live in a vindictive society, where three-strikes-you’re-out sounds quite generous compared to the ever increasing no-tolerance policies that leak into everything. That’s why it’s even more important for individuals to give—and receive—mercy. We can’t survive without it.

In other terms, we could consider this repentance and forgiveness, terms which I’ve discovered hold negative connotations in some people’s minds. “Repentance” often creates images of an angry Deity throwing punishments at sinners.

But years ago I heard a much better, and more accurate of repentance: a loving Father with His arm around His child and saying, “Yes, you failed. But you know, failure doesn’t have to be permanent. How about we let you take another crack at this? I’ll even show you what to do . . .”

I think Greg Olsen has a better handle on “mercy out, mercy in.”

I’ll be the first to confess that some days, giving mercy is much easier than others. And those “others” days? They can be brutal–no doubt. There seems to be no mercy left in the world, for anyone.

But over the years I’ve discovered that it doesn’t cost me that much–practically nothing at all–to show mercy: to be kinder, to encourage, to let slide a mistake, to forget a slight, to ignore an insult, to think the best of a person or situation, rather than imagining the worst.

And really, it’s easier. Vindictiveness breeds anger and revenge, and frankly those efforts are exhausting!

It’s simpler to smile, offer mercy, and go on. Then, when you least expect–but need it the most–mercy will come back at you, with more force than you could ever hope for.

Mercy out, mercy in.

Mahrree felt they had been granted so many miracles in such a short time that it seemed as if the tender mercies of the Creator were focused entirely on her family. It didn’t seem fair to be the recipients of so much.

They had suffered some too, but in the balancing of the Creator the miracles always outweighed the tragedies. ~The Mansions of Idumea

Book 3–The Mansions of Idumea–is here!

April 12, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

It’s alive!

(Love seeing those words from Amazon.)
Book 3: The Mansions of Idumea is available on Kindle ($2.99) AND in print ($14.95).

(So pleased with how this cover turned out. I didn’t realize I’d photographed the sun until I downloaded my pictures and this one blinded me on my computer screen.)

(I love that supporting column. And the angles. And the words.)

And yes–FREE KINDLE DOWNLOAD days are coming: April 28-30, and May 5-6. And even better–ALL THREE BOOKS will be available for free download those five days.

Tell your friends! Tell your enemies! Tell your neighbors! Tell complete strangers! Tell everyone!
(Oh dear; my earlier exclamation mark malady has returned. Just too excited. I need to calm down and go find my old bottles of valium now . . . so I can use them as mini-maracas and celebrate!)

Peregrines and Perrin Shin

April 10, 2014May 27, 2015trishmercer Leave a comment

I’ve always been fascinated by peregrine falcons, especially those that made a home for themselves on a high-rise in the middle of downtown Salt Lake City.

I was a teenager when they first arrived nearly 30 years ago, making a nest on an unlikely ledge overlooking the busiest traffic area. When their chicks first fledged, wildlife resources closed down the street to make sure the chicks didn’t end up as road kill. I was amazed and tickled that the preservation of these beautiful birds was important enough that traffic could be diverted for a while.

I love how she’s winking at me. I had no idea their eggs are PINK! (These photos are screen shots I took from the live cam.)

Since then, the building the falcons first nested on (Hotel Utah) has been remodeled (now the Joseph Smith Memorial Building), and during those construction years the peregrines made nests on a cliffside at a nearby quarry. But when the building was completed a few years later, the falcons returned! The LDS Church, who owns the building, has since put up a nesting box and allowed cameras to be installed (click here to watch them) to keep an eye on Salt Lake City’s most unlikely residents, whose main diet is, unsurprisingly, pigeons.

Love her little head cock at me. (Naturally, she can hear me through the computer screen saying, “Sweety! Look up here!”

I love the idea of survival in any circumstance, of adapting one’s expectations to what’s available, yet still being true to one’s self.

When I started this book series, and I’d drafted over one hundred pages, I still didn’t have a name for one of my main characters (his name was, if I remember correctly, 989). I took a step back and looked at the whole of the Forest at the Edge series. I realized what it was about: Making your life work, even when everything’s seemingly against you.

The peregrines wouldn’t leave my mind, and I eventually realized 989 needed to became Perrin Shin. (Couldn’t name him Perrin Grin[e], however, because–as I’ve written on my characters page–Captain Grin is the most ridiculous name ever. Can you just picture him as a superhero? Talk about nauseatingly cheesy.)

However, Perrin Shin still harks back to peregrines–the fastest animal in the world, the most adaptable bird of prey (found on every continent except the Antarctic) and a . . .

SOMETHING AMAZING JUST HAPPENED!

As I was writing this post, I kept checking back on the falcon cam. I heard the female squawking loudly, then I saw . . . a SECOND EGG! Yes, while I was writing this, she laid another incredible pink egg.

Less than three minutes’ old second egg! (Not to be confused with a three-minute egg.)

For a moment I felt badly for her that no one was there to witness this. Then I realized females are always alone in the wild laying eggs, and no one’s there cheering or patting her forehead with a damp washcloth.

And then I realized–I’m here, cheering! And likely so are many other falcon-enthusiasts, all over the state and country (world?) that happened to be watching.

And she has no idea that the little camera in her box is showing her hardest and greatest moments.

I think that’s why I love to write this series, why I’m obsessed with exploring the ups and downs and progress and set-backs of the Shins: I get to cheer for them, weep for them, and occasionally sit back astounded at what they overcome and how they persevere.

I’m hoping they will keep giving me hope, just as these amazing peregrines each year remind me life can happen just about anywhere.