The Magic Formula

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Authors, Community, Honesty, Living Well, Truth, Writing

Sharing some thoughts on writing, and life.

So I’m asked this a lot. Mostly in author interviews, occasionally in an email from an aspiring author who just wants a break, wants her words to be seen, heard. “What’s the magic formula?”

I’d tell you if I knew. Honest.

So this is the part I could send you to several sites on how to write well. I could give you the names of my favorite go-to books that would walk you through the process and teach you how to plot the breakout novel or draw a snowflake or fix your sagging middle. I could recommend writer coaches and conferences and critique groups. But first I’d ask you this.

How much do you want it? 

Most writers I know can’t not write. It’s hard-wired into them. Like breathing. So sure, if that’s you and your dream is to eventually get published, you probably know all the things I’d tell you already. And you probably know the truth.

There is no magic formula. 

If there is, I certainly haven’t heard of it. Writing is hard. Writing well is harder. And good books, well-written books, are not published overnight. Do what works for you. For me it was a combination of all of the above, and a lot of hard work. Still is. For every book I finish, I second guess myself and wonder if I did it right. Wonder if readers are going to like it or if it’s going to bomb. I’m pretty sure you won’t find a published author out there who doesn’t share those same thoughts, at least once in a while. Self-doubt is one nasty dude. And there’s no magic formula to get rid of it either. I wish.

Which brings me around to what I really want to say. (The part about life).

Come May, I will have written and released six books, eight if you count the two I re-released after new edits. That’s a lot of books I guess. Not as many as some. But for me. It’s a lot. A lot of writing, re-writing, editing and reading. A lot of creativity and fear and freaking out mixed up with a whole lot of fun. And as I sit staring at the screen, attempting to start something new, (really start, there are a few words written) . . . I’m stalled out, and I had to ask myself why. What is it that’s holding me back? Why can’t I just plunge in and write into the wee hours and hey presto, lovely agent, here’s another book, tell me what you think . . .

Why? Because.

There is no magic formula.

And life. It comes and goes in a flash and I don’t want to miss any of it. And.

I’m.

Tired.

There. I said it.

I’m a chick in that not so fun stage of life, you know, where the mood and the body temps run hot and cold and I’m liable to snap your head off for no good reason then hug you hard and burst into tears all at the same time. I’m truly a joy to be around.  And I’m feeling a little bone weary, emotionally drained and all out of energy some days. Much of last year was tough. It took a lot from us. And this year? Who knows what this year holds. So yeah, I’m tired. And I need a break. I haven’t wanted to admit that because it feels like giving up. And I don’t give up. Eight books. Heck no, I don’t give up. So here’s the thing.

Truth. 

That’s it. If you’re still after that magic formula, this is the closest thing to it. Really. It’s all you need to get you where you want to go. Be honest with yourself, not just in your writing, but in your soul care, and the rest will fall into place. It’s the only thing I do know for sure. Be honest.

Something I’ve said from the beginning of my writing career is this – when it’s not fun anymore, stop. Not quit. Stop. Take a breath. Take a break. And wait. Wait for the joy to return. And the world will not end if you do. (I tacked that on there mostly for me).

So that’s where I am. This season. It may be short. It may be long. But it’s what I need. To rest and focus on the good things. To have some fun. Spend time with friends and family. Maybe do a little more traveling. I’ll be launching my brand new website next month, so that’s exciting! I also want to spend more time intentionally connecting with my readers, establishing that community through real relationship. I don’t know if the blog is the place to do that or not. It may be one of many, I’m testing the waters here.  If you’re reading this, I’d love for you to leave a comment so I know you’re out there.

I’ll be hanging out on Facebook, on my Author Page and Reader’s Group, so come find me there. And maybe I will start blogging again more frequently. Who knows. I’ve stepped back a bit here because I didn’t really know what to write for a while.

Will I be writing? Working on the next book? Well. You probably already know the answer to that.

Of course we’re counting down to the release of Where Hope Begins, May 22nd. And I need to be all in for that. Because this book . . . well, this book is probably one of the reasons I’m so tired right now. 🙂 It took. A. Lot. But I believe it was worth it. I know it was worth it. And I cannot wait to share it with you.

We’re definitely going to have some conversations, interesting and heartfelt and all the feels conversations. And I’m figuring out the best place to do that. Where we’ll all be most comfy. So hang in there with me?

Thanks for listening, letting me share and being a part of my community. And if you’re out there feeling a little like me today, know you’re not alone. I’d love to hear from you.

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Life and Death and The Glorious In Between

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Faith, Family, Grace, Life, Living Well, Truth

I am a habitual reader of the Obits.

When you live on a small island, it becomes a habit. Not just for old people. We all do it.

Today I mourned the passing of a brave lady who lost her cancer battle yesterday. She and her husband were part of my parents circle of friends when I was younger. Evenings when they would all come over were filled with laughter, often raucous, that lasted well into the wee hours. They knew how to have fun, that lot. And I grew up with that thought embedded somewhere deep inside. What is life without laughter?

 

My family knows how to laugh. We share a rather strange form of humor that sometimes puts us just a little north of normal, but we like it there. That’s where all the fun happens. You can be sure, when we’re all together, there will be laughter.

When somebody dies, I reflect on my own mortality. I can’t help it, really. I am that way. And this week it struck me a little harder. When you get that call from the doctor that indicates all is not well in your world, you start thinking about things like that. Things like illness and death and dying. But it’s a given, isn’t it? Just as we are born, we shall die. And we do not know the day or the year or the hour of that moment. Just that it will come. And I’m okay with that. But I don’t want it to be any time soon. I’m praying for whatever’s going on with me to turn out to be nothing serious at all. Something manageable. Fixable. I still have lots of living to do.

Lots of loving to do. And a whole lot more laughing ahead of me…

But it isn’t my decision to make. Just as our friend now gone from this earth far too soon could not control her illness. We can’t, you see. Control things. We want to, though. We want to be the puppet masters of our own performance. To pull all the right strings at just the right time and make something magical happen. It is perhaps a stretch for some to believe that somebody else is already doing that for us.

And so I think on life and ponder things.

Like Grace.

Love. 

Faith. 

And hope…

We are not expected to be perfect. God knows I’m not. But he loves me anyway. My friends and family know my imperfections inside and out. Yet here I am. Here we are.

Loving and laughing and simply being.

Enjoying the glorious in-between.

Come what may.

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. —- Oscar Wilde. 

Books and Ducks and Copper Pots

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Faith, History, Life, Living Well, Love, Patience, Stories

When I was young, I laughed at the notion of antiques. Old stuff. Who in the world would want that? I wanted everything new. For me to be the first to use it. For us to make our own history.

But I hadn’t lived enough. Hadn’t traveled enough. Hadn’t cried enough.

I didn’t know.

Silver sits on the shelf and shines. Rarely used now, but we collect it because it’s worth something or so we’re told. I imagine the silver spread over long tables in elegant dining rooms where dinner conversations speak of plays and politics and playgrounds like Monaco or Cannes.

But the copper pots…they simmer over servants fires, feed the farmer with thick broth, fill the row houses with the warmth of  hot liquid courage on a cold night when darkness threatens danger. They tell the stories.

The true stories.

Would that we could hear them.

Old books sing their own songs too. Where have they traveled over the many years of their existence? I imagine heads bowed over words, reading by flickering lamplight, wrestling to stay awake until the last page is turned or the lamp goes out. How many oceans have they crossed? How many hands have they passed through? How many souls delighted with the tales they tell?

Would that we could know.

But the pots…

I imagine the mother and daughter cleaning. Cleaning the copper and dusting the books. Dust is removed easily enough. But the copper tarnishes. Stains. Loses it’s sparkle over time. You’ve got to put some effort in to see the shine.

“It’s just moving dirt around. I’ll never get it clean.” She is young, complaining. Would rather be outside. Black dirt streaks the pot she polishes. And the mother smiles.

She smiles because she knows. She has seen. She has heard.

She has lived.

Quietly she takes the cloth and rubs a little harder. Eventually the dirt dissolves and a soft glow turns to gleaming hope. And the girl smiles too.

The mother lays down the cloth and places a gentle finger beneath the girl’s chin. “All things can be made new with a little hard work and perseverance.” Perhaps the mother learned that from her own kin. Perhaps she learned it for herself, the hard way. But she knows it true and teaches the lesson.

And so the copper pots…shining, singing, sail through time and land somehow at my feet. Amidst my ducks and books and other well-lived treasures I have learned to cherish.

And today I clean the copper.

Today I move the dirt around, slowly. Knowing that eventually, if I keep trying, I will see the shine.

We move through time too quickly, I think, as I wonder what stories these ancient items might tell. Aren’t we always in such a hurry to get the day done, to move on to the next great adventure? We forget to sit and savor. To study the bumps and dents and scars and scratches and remember where they came from.

We want to wake up shiny and new and ready to face the world and maybe take it down in one fell swoop. But wait. Don’t move too fast.

Don’t miss the story.

You’ll have to tell it one day.

One day a little hand may slip into yours and you’ll look down at luminous eyes that haven’t seen, precious ears that haven’t heard and a tiny heart with lots of growing room, and they will ask you to tell them your story.

Make it a good one.

Full of grace and hope and truth, faith-filled yet all at once wretched, because you too have been covered in dirt and grime.

But if we live it well, our story, we will know the ending. We will know by then, we have been cleaned, carefully, with such great love. Brought back to almost new, perhaps a little better than, under a tender touch, by the one who waits…waits for however long it takes, until you start to shine.