Mirror, Mirror on the Wall

I pinched at my hips, as I waited for the water to warm before getting in the shower. I studied my waist and turned to the side. Yesterday, my 8-year-old said I looked taller. I told her maybe I looked skinnier. The 15 pounds (yes fifteen. 1-5. You read that correctly) I gained after I broke my leg were slowly melting off, but not fast enough to my liking. I turned to the other side. The mirror at the gym doesn't give as good as an impression, I thought. I wondered which mirror was correct. The YMCA, where I looked short and stumpy or mine where I looked slender and smooth. Then suddenly I was hit with the answer. The only mirror that matter's is God's mirror. What does God see when he looks at me?

He sees stretch marks from birthing five babies. He sees breasts that have nurished these same children for their first year of life. He sees someone that worked so hard to over depression and anxiety. He sees a person who's feet are calloused because she runs using the body He gave her. He sees a body that has been injured than healed a thousand times. He sees infinite potential. He sees similar in all of us. To all of us He has given different talents and all He sees is how we use them.

I need to stop looking in the mirror and worrying about the extra inch I gained, that will come and go and multiply as I age. And start worrying about what He sees and strive to live up to it.

Parable of the Talents

The past few weeks have been a beast of emotions. I felt it was time to just put my book out there. Honestly, I have not tried very hard to publish the traditional way.  Almost all the books I read now are independent authors or from smaller publishers. I think the world is changing the way it does things.

I am publishing my book independently.

This is kind of scary.

Feels like Scream is chasing me

and there's a tree root in the way.

Hopeful Release in Mid AprilBut still...I have tried.  A few years ago, before a major rework of the material, I sent it out to many, many agents and did not get a single bite. I finished another book since then and started dozens more, testing my feel for different genres, but still Awakened: Legend of the Dagger wouldn't leave me. So now, five years after it's initial inception and countless drafts later, I have decided to release my baby.  It is precious to me. I love the characters as if they were real. In fact, sometimes I have conversations with them as I do the dishes. And Gavin, oh Gavin, he is swoon worthy.  He's my tattooed Gilbert Blythe who kills people.

Then there is that nagging feeling in the forefront of my mind that people won't like Gavin, that Eislen won't be as hardcore as I think she is, that the words will fall flat and people won't cry, or laugh, or scream, or feel anything at all.

I know not everybody is going to like my book.  I don't expect them to, but I want someone to. I want someone to feel stronger because they met Eislen. I want them to fight hard for what they want because of Gavin. I want them to want to be nicer because they met Toby and they don't want to be like him.

July Rain Song

In honor of the rain that falls...my favorite poem by Langston Hughes.

April Rain Song

Let the rain kiss you
Let the rain beat upon your head with silver liquid drops
Let the rain sing you a lullaby
The rain makes still pools on the sidewalk
The rain makes running pools in the gutter
The rain plays a little sleep song on our roof at night
And I love the rain. 

Langston Hughes

Now I just need a good book, a cup of soup, and maybe some hot chocolate.  I love the rain!

The Desire to Communicate

The other day I took my one year old daughter, Rosie, with me to run errands.  The black top steamed and the Texas air was thick with humidity.  Rosie cried and squirmed in my arms.

"Settle down, Rose Pose," I said, "We're almost ready to go home.  Just one more store and then we're through."


She yelled bloody murder.  


"Calm down," I said.


She scrunched her nose and frowned.  Then she blew-as if she was blowing out her birthday candle-onto my cheek.  Or as if I was blowing onto her hot bowl of oatmeal at breakfast.  ("Hot! Hot!" Blow.  Blow.  Is how it usually goes.)  Finally it dawned on me, poor little Rosie was hot.  

"Oh, you're hot?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Me, too, baby girl," I said and kissed her cheeks.  I reached into my purse and pulled out her sippy cup.

"Mmm," she said, kicking her chubby little feet and letting me know that water was just what she needed to cool down (and the ice cold air-conditioning in Target helped, too. I'm sure.)

Just like a baby struggling to tell me she is hot. I struggle to communicate through my stories.  Questions go through my mind as I rewrite, "What was I really trying to say here?"  and sometimes I just say, "Huh?!"  Especially when I find a half written paragraph to nowhere.  But each time I rewrite I get closer to what I really want to say.

From our first cries that say "LEAVE ME ALONE!" to our final words as we die, everybody desires to communicate.  Everybody wants to be understood.

I'm rewriting now, so don't talk to me.  Leave me alone.  I'm trying to communicate. :)

Rules of Living #30981

You're feeling a little put out, so you want to get a little snippy in an email--just to show 'em.  Put him in his place, so to speak.

Don't do it.  I repeat.  Don't do it!!!!  You will spend the night worrying and wondering how you were going to approach the correspondent.  You will lose precious hours of sleep and wake with large bags under your eyes.  You will have to apologize.  This means admitting you were wrong.  This is difficult, especially when you are never wrong, so don't have much practice in the area.

So don't do it!  Just be kind.  Always.

That's all I have to say on the subject.