Category Archives: Family Matters

My Big, Fat Domesstic Weekend

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Martha Stuart I am not.

Yet every so often I’m infused with a strange surge of creative energy that’s part HGTV, part Molly Mormon—you know that perfect woman who makes every meal from scratch, knits all the socks for her family, and has a house of order? Usually these creative juices start flowing in conjunction with my husband going out of town. Which makes absolutely no sense at all, considering a couple of basic math formulas all mothers know.

2 Parents – 1 parent = 1 parent left to do all the homework, driving, feeding, and cleaning up after all offspring.

And

1 mom divided by 4 children (nearly 5 the way the one I’m carrying around is making his presence known latetly) = a cranky, frazzled, overworked, sleep-deprived woman.

In other words, a weekend when my husband is away is not the perfect time to take on a boatload of projects. Nevertheless, as I waved goodbye to my husband and his buddies Friday morning as they headed south for the St. George Marathon, the Molly in me kicked into high gear.

I was going to craft! I was going to sew! I was going to bake! I was going to organize!

I was insane.

First on the agenda was some festive decorating. My eight-year-old puts great stock in these things, so right away she and I headed for the garden to harvest the pumpkins and relocate them to the front porch (I use porch in the loosest of terms. In reality we have a stoop.) But alas, pumpkins were not all that was waiting for us in the garden. To my great dismay (and I mean dismay–never has a woman been more sorrowful upon entering her garden)there were easily over 100 red, ripe tomatoes waiting to be picked . . . and washed, skinned, chopped up, seasoned, simmered, and canned. UGH! Normally I love tomatoes, and I love the homemade marinara sauce I make each year, but I’ve been making it since August, and it’s October now. I am tired of tomatoes.

But I couldn’t just let them go to waste. Ditto for the green beans hanging off the vines. Nevermind that each time I open my freezer, baggies of frozen green beans drop on my toes. In this economy, waste not want not. Fortunately, my daughter is a good sport. She went after the green beans while I tackled the tomatoes.

And it was a bit of a tackle position, as our garden (the garden that is approximately 1/4 of our large backyard) has morphed into a jungle of sorts. If I wanted those tomatoes (maybe want isn’t really the right word) I was going to have to get down and dirty.

This I did, leaning over, bending, stretching as much as my pregnant body would let me. I have problems enough these days, just standing, as my hand-me-down maternity pants don’t like to stay up where they belong. But my problems multiplied when I leaned over, reaching across the tangle of tomato plants to get to the ripest fruit—inevitably in the middle of the bunch. Keeping my jeans up became the minor issue. Getting me back up became a serious problem. And to any neighbors who happened to be watching and having a laugh at my expense, may I remind you which neighbor—in the event of a food crisis—would be able to feed your family lassagna for approximately six months!

My daughter was no help. When I called to her, she sort of rolled her eyes (hanging around her teenage sister too much), and said, “just get up Mom.” Ha! Easy for her to say. When you’re forty-five pounds you can get anywhere.

In the end, “harvesting” took an additional hour, and I was a scratched up, muddy mess. With three full bags of tomatoes by the back door, My daughter and I set about decorating the front. She arranged the pumpkins, while I hung the wreath (newly-purchased, as the one from the last several years has vanished somewhere in the depths of our garage), arranged the cornstalks, and attempted to string the spider webs. In the past, our now-twelve-year-old daughter has been in charge of the webbage on the front of the house. And she’s done an admirable job of it. But now she’s moved on to to more important things like going to the mall and having sleepovers, so the sppoky stuff was left up to me. After twenty minutes, I had fuzzy, sticky gauze all over me (in addition to the garden dirt), and the house looked like it had been attacked by cotton balls. Apparently my web-stretching skills leave something to be desired.

About now I was more than ready to be done (and all the work of those darn tomatoes was still looming), but my eight-year-old had other ideas—like creating a graveyard in the front flowerbed. I tried pointing out to her that we already had a graveyard there with all the dead flowers (I gave up on watering sometime last month), but she was already jumping up and down, describing her ideas. These ideas involved large cardboard boxes and paint—two things she loves. And of course I couldn’t quash that kind of creativity. So I spent another forty minutes (again bending over) ripping out dead flowers in preparation for our spooky graveyard.

By now I was tired and cranky (you see the formula coming to pass already), so it was a good time to give the Martha in me a break. Unfortunately that “break” involved driving children all over the valley for an hour and a half. By the time I returned home, my mood had not improved.

With everyone temporarily out of the house, I decided to ignore the tomatoes a while longer and get working on my sister’s birthday present—an awesome jean quilt that I’ve been working on since she was about five (she’s turning 30). I’d decided this was the weekend to finish it, as her birthday is coming up quickly on the 10th. And I’d done much of the tedious stuff—cutting squares, sewing them together etc. All I had to do now, before quilting, was to snip all the seams every quarter inch, so the blanket would have that cool, “frayed” look. I settled in front of the TV with my scissors and a mountain of jean. Thirty minutes later, I had formed two blisters and had hand cramps. What the heck was I thinking to make a quilt like this?! Just because my sister is young and hip does not mean she needs fraying on her jean blanket. If only I’d sewn the seams on the inside like a normal blanket—a normal person.

But I was already 84 squares (and about that many years) into this project; it was too late to turn back now. I set the quilt top aside and took some time to read Junie B. Jones with my daughter.

Much later when everyone was in bed—or in their rooms at least—I turned on that evil HGTV channel and started yet another project (the quilt and tomatoes were just too depressing). This one seemed simple and quick. I was cutting out flannel burp cloths, so that tomorrow, during conference, I could crochet the edges. My neighbor had promised me this was easy and fun to do. I was a little skeptical, as my only memories of crocheting are when my grandmother’s attempts to teach me drove her to swearing and throwing things.

Good thing my neighbor has more patience. It only took her an hour and fifteen minutes Saturday morning to teach me the most basic of all crochet stitches (by then we’d both given up on the fancier ones her beautiful burp cloths, bibs, and baby blankets are edged with). Armed with my new skill, I crocheted my way through afternoon conference, covering approximately five inches in the two hours! Thus far, this was my biggest accomplishment of the weekend, and I was practically glowing.

With this renewed sense of homemakerism, I decided to get going on the marinara sauce, so that when my husand returned home, he would have the delicious home-cooked aroma to greet him. Again, my youngest stepped in to help and I let her, as cooking and peeling three bags worth of tomatoes (wet, muddy bags, as I’d left them out in the rain) is a big job. While she found great delight in popping the skins off (and popping several tomatoes all over the recently-mopped kitchen floor), I got busy blending and mixing. It only took us three and a half hours and we had an overflowing pot of marinara started. Somehow I summoned the energy to mop the floor, wash the jars, and make our traditional conference cinnamon rolls.

About this time my husband returned home. He was stiff and sore from running his 26.2earlier in the day (and then driving four hours home and sitting another two hours in Priesthood session) and was ready for a back, leg, and foot massage. I, on the other hand, had been on my feet most of the weekend and had bent, stretched and lifted much more than I should have. Everything from my little toe to my ankles and calves were retaining water, and I was beyond exhausted. But since my most of my domestic plans hadn’t worked out, I decided the least I could do was be a good wife. He got his massage. And I spent another hour that night on my last big project of the weekend, de-junking my fifteen-year-old’s room. With her out of town at the Shakespeare festival, it was just too good an opportunity to miss.

However, by the time I’d removed many garbage bags from her room, I definitely fit the formula. Exhausted, cranky, over-worked, frazzled, frustrated . . . you name it.

Sunday was peaceful. The cinnamon rolls were delicious, and I crocheted my way around 3/4 of the burp cloth. My girls worked on their samplers during conference; the marinara simmered and thickened all day.

But things were bad this morning when I woke up to the “after conference mess.” The sink was piled high with dishes, pillows and blankets were scatterd all over the family room. I was behind on laundry, as all my other projects had taken precedence over the weekend. There was plenty to be depressed about at 6:15 Monday morning. But the worst . . . my marinara. Having simmered over 24 hours, it was ready to be bottled. Easily I had another eight to ten quarts, except . . . the handles had fallen off my big pot. They lay on either side of the stove, red sauce oozing out the holes where they had been. I was mystified. A lot of things have broken around here lately—both cars, our computer, our printer, the vacuum etc. But my pot?! Whoever heard of a pot breaking? Not me, unless it involved a child attempting to cook macaroni and cheese without adding any liquid (then your pot breaks and you have a small fire).

I summoned my husband who concluded that the acidity of the tomatoes had somehow worn through the metal, causing the handles to fall off. He also concluded that the sauce was likely now tainted with metal and should, therefore, be thrown out. I about lost it at this point. THROWN OUT?! Three days of work down the drain? I wasn’t sure whether to scream or cry or crawl back in bed and throw the covers over my head. Instead I faced my messy house, the disaster on my stove, and carpool.

And so the results of my domestic weekend . . .
-Zero jars of marinara sauce, a very sticky stove, and a lifetime warranty pot in the garbage (guess it was a short lifetime)
-One frayed-edges jean quilt at about the same stage it was three days ago, two new blisters
-One burp cloth nearly finished (only another five inches), and three more cut out
-One teenager’ss room as messy as it was when she left (she brought home twice as much as she left with and dumped it all on the floor)
-Wet, globby, fallen over Halloween decor

But hey, it was still worth it. Last night I got a fantastic foot massage, and today, when my husband came home for lunch, he finally noticed the flower bed had been weeded. And even more good news—the contract for my latest book with Covenant arrived in the mail. It looks like they’ve changed the title, and it won’t be out until next summer, but any money I make I plan to use toward purchasing store-bought marinara and a nice birthday present for my sister.

Highlights of Summer

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So I haven’t exactly been a consistent blogger this summer. And I’m sure, if asked, my children would tell you that I’ve laid around like a slug the past few months. But, in spite of the lack of writing and activity this past season, it was a great one. And many, many times I thought of coming downstairs to our computer, logging on, and sharing some of those moments. It was usually about then that I started feeling sick again and—well, enough about that. Here instead, is the highlight reel from summer of 2008.

In May, a few days before Mother’s Day, I found out I might get the opportunity to be a mother again. I was euphoric and teary and scared all at once, especially remembering last Mother’s Day when I was still devastated from our latest loss and could barely drag myself to church. But mostly this May I was hopeful and grateful, for the children already sitting beside me and the possibility of a new life.

Also in May my mother came for a two week visit. Two whole weeks–I can’t remember the last time we’ve had that much time together (maybe like 20 years ago, just before I got married), and I was in heaven. She came during some of the worst of my sickness and took care of me. She mothered me. And it had been a very long time since I’d had someone do that too. We had great conversations. She sewed American Girl clothes with my youngest, saw my girls dance for the first time, and imparted wisdom (similar to that which I attempt to dispense) to my teenagers. I cried when we took her to the airport to go home. Unfortunately, neither of us live in the financial realm where frequent cross country trips are a possibility. She has a husband, eight dogs, and a teaching job. My family keeps me close to home. We don’t have the same cell phone carriers, so we even have to watch our minutes when we call. But for those two weeks in May, it was wonderful to have her here and so much a part of our lives.

In June we heard the miraculous sound of a heartbeat—other than mine—beating strong inside me. And on a day I thought for sure that heartbeat had ceased, I saw the first images of our baby, alive and well. Ultrasounds have certainly improved in the last eight years, and it was amazing—at only eleven weeks—to see that little face, hand pressed next to it, as if deep in contemplation. Probably our baby was thinking hard—something along the lines of . . .What have I done? Agreeing to come to this crazy family?!

July was the month of our much-anticipated family vacation to Aspen Grove. I found myself rejoicing that the ride was short, not only because of gas prices, but because of my constant state of “car sickness.” Though it took us only thirty minutes to get there, Aspen Grove truly was like being in another world—an absolutely fantastic one.

The first afternoon our two teenagers were whining about having to take time off work and away from friends to go to “some stupid camp.” By the end of day two, they were asking if we could do this vacation again next year. Everyone in our family from our youngest on up had a great week. We played together, made new friends, ate way more than we should have, and truly had the “time of our lives.” Some highlights of our week included watching our youngest daughter decked out in a “fro” wig perform YMCA the last night of camp, seeing our son dancing with his sisters (and actually having fun) at the family dance night, watching our oldest daughter make it up to the top of the rope course—a huge feat for her, watching our middle daughter try three times and then successfully make it to the top of the rock wall, taking a wheel-thrown pottery class with my husband (Ghost anyone? Yeah right! I had clay everywhere—including a chunk I found in my ear later that night), taking second place in the Aspen family follies, and many, many more things. Over the years our family has has taken some amazing vacations, but we all agreed Aspen Grove was the best. Yes, it was even worth going without AC in our Suburban one more summer.

August too was full of fun. Our teenagers took off for Texas and California, leaving me some time alone with our two youngest girls. Two dollar Tuesdays at Thanksgiving Point turned out to be a great date for the three of us, and I spent a delightful day in their company. There was no fighting all day, and much gratitude on their part. It was one of those rare, perfect days of motherhood, when everyone got along, acted as if they were the other’s best friend, and appreciated everything they were able to do. From playing in the sand at the dinosaur museum, to wandering the gardens together, to the wagon ride in the rain, it was a delightful day, one that made me so grateful for my girls.

August also gave us one more big reason to be grateful—this time for the little boy that will be joining our family in a few months. What relief and gratitude we felt, seeing his picture again, and learning he was well and healthy. It’s been nearly eighteen years since we’ve had a baby boy, and we couldn’t be more delighted. If all goes well, we’ll be having his baby blessing the same weekend our son gets his Eagle. As someone said to us, “what wonderful bookends.”

Dixon and I celebrated twenty years of wedded bliss in August as well. And I have to say it truly has been blissful (oh, except for that part involving teenagers). I’d always imagined we’d spend our 20th on a secluded beach somewhere in the South Pacific, but alas, I needed to stick close to home, being pregnant and all. So instead, we sent the kids away to Grandma’s and stayed home by ourselves. Can I say that I highly recommend this?! It was so much fun! On our anniversary night we went out to Ottavios and had a delicious dinner. We also kept with tradition and did sealings at the temple. How fortunate we are in the LDS faith to be able to hear our wedding vows again and kneel across the altar from each other—as we did on our wedding day—whenever we wish.

The following day we got to sleep in (divine) went to Kneaders for breakfast (yum! yum! yum!),ordered pizza (the good expensive kind with all the toppings—none of this cheese only stuff for the kids) for dinner, and ate it in our bedroom while watching an entire season of
The Office. Yes, I realize that watching this show likely wipes out some of the blessings we might have received from temple attendance, but all I can say is that sometimes you just have to laugh. And no one laughs harder than my husband does when watching this show.

All in all, I suppose it wasn’t quite the celebration I’d always imagined our 20th would be. But it was a good indication to me that things are every bit as wonderful as when we married so many years ago. We’re still best friends, the same things are still important to us, and we still have a great time just hanging out together.

I am so blessed.

Finally, one of the best things about this summer is that it’s just about over—and I’ve survived! We’re on the home stretch now, two trimesters down, one to go. And we’re entering my very favorite time of year.

Fall—with all of its colors, holidays, and writing time. And with that, back to my work-in-progress.

A Tale of Two Junes

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Over the last two blogless months, I’ve spent my time becoming intimately acquainted with the new floor my husband recently installed in our bathroom. Along with the floor, I’ve developed a love/hate relationship with the porcelain fixture that sits atop it. I love that it’s there to receive what my stomach decides to regurgitate; I hate that I haven’t dare strayed too far from it the past several weeks.

Our new floor is a nice, wide plank laminate that looks great next to the newly-installed beadboard and brushed nickel fixtures on the wall. However, I’ve found myself missing the twelve-years-old carpeting that previously covered the floor. Many times over the years we’ve lived in our home I have asked myself why on earth I chose carpeting for our master bath. The answer came to me this past month as I lay on our new floor—I was pregnant when we were building and moving into this house. Some part of my subconscious must have recognized that carpet would be much nicer to lay on when curled up in a ball of nauseated misery.

Fortunately our new bath mat from IKEA is a soft place to rest one’s head while contemplating whether it is worth it to get off the floor and attempt to do something (anything—start a load of desperately-needed laundry for my neglected family, fix a meal for my surviving-on-mac-n-cheese kids—oooh food. Bad thought. Nevermind. I’m not going anywhere). I’ve also had plenty of time to contemplate the past year or so of my life, and particularly what I was doing exactly one year ago.

Last June I was getting my feet wet with booksignings and just beginning to get the sense that people liked Counting Stars. The (great) experience was tempered somewhat by the unexpected, early-second trimester miscarriage I’d had in May, and while I was thrilled to finally be published, I was still pretty sad. For a long time both my husband and I had felt like one more child was meant to come to our home, and the loss went very deep.

Flash forward one year. I’d thought (planned, hoped, believed) that once published I would—like my brilliant friends Annette Lyon and Heather Moore—have a book come out with Covenant each year. The manuscript I turned in last November had some problems initially, but I felt confident I’d worked those out some time ago, and though I knew I’d missed getting a June release again, I still had a vague hope for later this year. But, things don’t always work out the way I think they should (a pattern repeated often throughout my life—I should get it by now :D). And here it is June, and still I wait to see if Beneath A Canopy of Stars will even be accepted. I’d be lying if I said this isn’t discouraging, depressing, and downright frustrating. But I’d also be lying if I said it was hugely important right now.

Something much more important has happened—a late in life miracle, if you will—and it looks like we are going to be blessed with that one more child in our family after all. Considering the medical trials and prognosis I’ve had over the past year, this really is a miracle. And so I’ll happily trade booksignings last June for lying on the bathroom floor this June. There’s a time and season for everything, and if I’ve learned one thing throughout my life it is that you can have it all—but not necessarily at the same time.

And maybe, just maybe if I work hard and am very fortunate, June of 2009 will see me juggling feeding our baby between visiting bookstores again.

Back in Seattle Again

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Nine years ago this past April, my husband and I took our first trip to Seattle. A couple of important things happened on that trip with regards to my writing. The first was that I discovered my “hobby” could actually develop into something serious if I had the time to devote to it. This is how that discovery came about.

Dixon: I’m off to my conference now, dear. See you later. I’ll come back for lunch if I can.

Me: (giving him lingering kiss by the door of our suite in downtown Seattle) I’ll miss you.

Door closes; Dixon leaves. Without bothering to get out of my pajamas, I settle in front of my laptop, excited to write the scene that’s been bouncing around in my head for so long.

Some time later . . .

Dixon: (entering room) Hi.

Me: (not bothering to look up from laptop) Hi.

Dixon: I, uh, thought we were going on a dinner cruise tonight.

Me: (still typing and still not looking up) Mm-hm. I can’t wait.

Dixon: You don’t have to. We’re supposed to leave in a few minutes.

Me: (head snapping up) What?!

Dixon: (observing my disheveled hair and pajamas) So what have you done today? I take it you didn’t go shopping or anything.

Me: (Scrambling to plug in my curling iron, get into my little black dress, and put on mascara all at the same time) No. I’ve been in Scotland in the 12th century all day. You see there’s really evil Englishman, and he set this castle on fire and murdered this Scottish Laird’s wife. So the Scottish guy had to get even, so he went down to England and set the English guy’s castle on fire, but he didn’t kill his wife, even though he could have. But the fire and trauma made her baby come early, and the little girl died. So now she wants revenge, so she goes to Scotland. Except she ends up falling in love with the guy who caused her all the grief, but she doesn’t realize who he is until it’s too late and—

Dixon: (looking at me with glazed eyes) I’m not so sure this climate is good for you.

Me: It’s great! I wrote eight thousand words today.

And so our trip went. While the other wives who’d accompanied their husbands to the conference were out and about shopping, sight seeing, and sitting by the pool, I was content to sit in our suite (which had a most inspiring view of the Space Needle) and write all day. Something had clicked inside, and I was finally in my element. I was amazed and overjoyed to discover I could write for eight hours at a time, and it seemed as if about eight minutes had passed. For the first time, I felt like a real writer.

At night Dixon and I explored Seattle, and I fell in love with it. For a lot of reasons it deserves its claim as one of the most romantic cities. Then, during one of Dixon’s free days, we rented a car and took a ferry ride out to the island of Bainbridge. During our drive around this enchanting, charming island, we passed a house with gorgeous landscaping, a white picket fence–the works. Sometime between seeing that house and the ferry ride back to Seattle, an idea formed in my mind, and by the time we drove our car off the ferry, I’d met Jane, Caroline, Jay, Peter, Mark and Madison from the story that would become Counting Stars. I could hardly wait to get back to our hotel and start writing it—except that I was in the middle of another story, and I knew I needed to finish it first.

Turns out it took me a very long time to finish my Scottish historical and get it to pass muster with the critique group I joined the following year. My “Seattle Story,” as I thought of it, had to percolate for quite some time. So when I finally sat down to write it, I was relying on memories several years old. Fortunately I had some Seattle connections, and was able to fill in the blanks as needed. It was a magical thing when Counting Stars was published last year.

A couple of weeks ago, Dixon and I had the opportunity to return to Seattle. I was excited to go and revisit the places I’d written about, but I was also nervous they’d be different than I’d remembered them, and somehow the magic would change. I needn’t have worried.

Shortly after arriving in the city, an eery sense of deja vu descended on me, starting when a Northwest Airlift helicopter flew overhead—heading toward Swedish Medical Center. Later, as we were riding the ferry, I watched as a young man with a ponytail braved the rain to stand out on the deck alone. When we were walking down mainstreet in Bainbridge, a brown haired young woman, who happened to be driving a Jeep, stopped to let us cross the street. I felt like raising my hand and calling, “Hi, Jane.”

The orange rolls in the bakery were delicious, the island even more beautiful than I remembered. And my only disappointment was not being able to find the house we’d seen on our first visit. But I did see another—a larger home, still with white picket fence and gorgeous landscaping, and a large wooden play structure in back. It wasn’t hard to imagine Jane, being the motivated character she was, disassembling the swingset at their rental and moving it to the cottage on Bainbridge. It was also easy to imagine that she and Peter would have added onto that cottage by now, as there are some changes coming in their family. Changes I hope to incorporate in the two stories I still hope to write about Caroline and Tara.

Visiting Seattle again was a wonderful treat, as time alone with my husband always is. It was also just the thing to get the imagination going, the ideas flowing. And with that . . . back to writing.

Michele’s Three Step Guide For Beating Writer’s Depression—or Lessons Learned From Green Gables

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Last week on the LDS Storymaker list, a very talented author asked others how they deal with the depression writers encounter—those times we feel everything we’ve ever written is garbage and we’d be better off flipping burgers at the local fast food joint. The slew of responses from many other talented authors showed clearly that a nerve had been hit. Self-doubt, depression, and times of downright misery are all part of the writing package. I’ve experienced them myself, and was in fact in the very throes of one last week while this email thread was going round. Instead of responding on the list I decided to blog about it—so those not yet published will know what they’re in for and know they aren’t alone!

Before I share my tried and true method for rising out of the writer’s depression mire, I want to explain that I know and understand real depression. My two oldest children have dealt with this (and consequently, so has our whole family) for several years. Clinical depression is a very real thing, and sometimes both medical and psychological help are needed to deal with this condition. And it is a very real condition. As I’ve explained to my children in the past, just as diabetics need to take insulin to keep their blood sugar levels in balance, some people need to take medication to keep their chemical levels in balance.

Fortunately, beating writer’s depression requires no medication—not even large doses of chocolate! Though many will disagree with me on this 😀

Step 1. Be Sad

Last week I received an email from my publisher explaining they still weren’t happy with my latest manuscript and wanted an additional rewrite, 80 pages cut etc. I was sad—really sad. And, as Anne Shirley (Green Gables, anyone?), I descended into the “depths of despair” in about two minutes. Writers, as a whole, are a pretty emotional lot, and I’m probably one of the worst. This is a real plus when you’re writing an emotionally packed scene; it’s a real negative when you’re dealing with rejection. As I reread this latest rejection, I sat at my computer and bawled—thinking positive, reaffirming things like, “I’m never going to get this book published. That’s it, I’m never writing again. I just wasted a year of my life for what?!” and, “it’s probably for the best. Now I can catch up on the ironing.”

In short, I was wallowing big time.

Some of my writer friends (Jeff) tell me I’m a pessimist, but really the opposite is true. I’ve experienced some pretty rough times in my life (and getting a rejection doesn’t even make the list), and with every trial I manage to bounce back fairly quick. But first I wallow. And when I’m there—as my husband has learned—let me be. The first step to feeling better is to feel bad. The Lord gave us tear ducts for a reason—use them.

Step 2. Get Mad

I can only cry for so long—an hour tops, usually, and then anger kicks in. My thoughts now turn to . . . “Do they not realize I put blood, sweat, and tears into that manuscript?!” While I’m sure Anne found it immensely satisfying to tell off Rachel Lynde and crack that slate over Gilbert Blythe’s head, I am a bit more practical in my anger. During my mad stage, I’ll often crank up the stereo and run on the treadmill, or scrub the top layer off our floors or attack some poor, unsuspecting bush in the yard. This time, I was fortunate in that I had a project I’d been putting off for some time. Our bathroom wallpaper needed to be removed and the walls painted. Scraping off wallpaper and scrubbing the walls clean proved a very effective release for my anger. Rolling on the fresh coat of paint while I thought through things (more logically now) soothed the last of my irrational state away, and a few hours later I had a sparkling new bathroom to show for it. Later that night as I brushed my teeth and admired our freshly-painted walls, I couldn’t help but feel a little better, as at least I’d accomplished something that day.

Step 3. Get to work

When I say work, I don’t mean cleaning or painting (those things become luxuries when you’re a writer), I’m talking about writing. If the project is at all salvageable, then get back to it and pour what blood, sweat and tears you have left into the thing. If it isn’t—if you’ve literally been rejected by every agent on the planet—then maybe it’s time to shelve it for a while and come back later when you can look at it more objectively. But until then, you’ve still got to work if you want to feel better. Since the time I last submitted something to my publisher (six weeks ago), I’ve worked on three different projects and finally settled into one. And while I really hope I can work something out on the manuscript giving me grief right now, if I can’t, I’m ready to forge ahead with the next project. Write something that makes you laugh. Or start something completely new. Put pen to paper and begin writing one of the stories that’s been nagging in the back of your mind for a while. You might be pleasantly surprised (as I was recently) at how quickly the idea blossoms when you start to write it.

Writers should never put all their eggs in one basket—or all their hopes into one manuscript. To do so is to really set yourself up for a fall. If you’re a writer, you have plenty of stories in you. Now is the time to get working and get another one going (if you haven’t already). Kind of like the game Parchesi, you need to get another man out and start moving him around the board.

Perhaps one of the reasons I love the Anne of Green Gables series so much, is that we see this same pattern in her life. She wallows. She gets good and angry. She gets back to work. After dealing with Gilbert’s blow about, “high falluting mumbo-jumbo,” and enduring the baking powder fiasco, Anne does not despair forever her dreams of writing. During a particularly lonely time, she gets back to work again and finally finds success.

Get back to work, and you will too.

Wart and the Whitneys

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A couple of weeks ago my daughter B (name withheld to protect the guilty) had the opportunity to go to the district science fair at the American Leadership Academy in Spanish Fork. This is the second year her project has made it to the district level, and she was pretty excited. I have to admit that, at first, I was not. The term science fair roughly translates to, “lots of work for Mom,” and district level means, “more work for Mom.” However, daughter B and partner did nearly everything themselves this year (aside from transportation and photography), and on the afternoon of the district fair, I packed them and the project into our suburban and headed south.

Once we were there, I had a good time, and the kids did too—repeatedly rehearsing their presentation, going to different Bill Nye-type science classes, watching a magic show, and eating pizza and hanging out with their friends. The event started at 4:00 and ended shortly before ten. I headed home around 7:00, when they went in for judging. Daughter B’s, partner’s dad took over from there. Hint to parents who may not yet have experienced, “the science fair”–Always have your child work with a partner. We’ve done this two years in a row, and it’s been a very good thing. Nothing like splitting the stress with another set of parents 🙂

When daughter B arrived home later that evening, I wasn’t sure if she was really my child or not. Normally she is easy-going and a source of great joy in our home, but the girl who walked through the door brought a storm cloud of out-of-control emotion with her. She marched up the steps, threw her belongings down and, with a scowl that stretched across her entire face, proceeded to unleash a tirade of anger and accusations, all directed toward an individual named Wart. When I finally got her calmed down, I discovered that Wart (name changed by my daughter) had won the only spot from their school to go on to the regional competition.

I was still baffled by my daughter’s odd behavior. After all, she hadn’t won last year, and it wasn’t a big deal. I reminded her of this.

“But Emily won last year, and she’s nice, so I was happy for her.”

“Wart isn’t nice?” I guessed.

“He’s horrid, Mom. And he cheated. He bought his mice for the project at Petco, and one of the rules was that you couldn’t buy animals at a pet store. Then he left them in the garage and they froze to death!”

“That’s too bad,” I said, silently wondering if Wart’s mom felt the same way. After all, what do you do with three science fair mice, after the fair is over? If it were me, I wouldn’t have been too excited about the prospect of three new pets. But still, my daughter had a point about animal cruelty.

“And that’s not all,” she continued. “He bribed the judges tonight. He bragged about it afterward.”

This accusation seemed a little over-the-top. “The judges were BYU students—probably a pretty honest bunch. I doubt they were bribed with a candy bar or anything else. Wart was probably just teasing. Boys your age do that a lot, you know.”

“I know,” she huffed as the first tear slid down her cheek. “But I really wanted to win a medal.”

Ahhhh . . . Now I got it. Daughter B, while easy-going, is also our most competitive child. Whatever she does, she likes to do it well, and she’ll keep at it until she does. The nine medals and two trophies in her room attest to this. She’s a bit of a perfectionist, something that has worried my husband and I on more than one occasion.

So I softened my words, put my arm around her, and comforted her as best I could. I reminded her what a great job she and her partner had done on their project. I told her it was an honor that she was one of a handful of kids who made it to the district level—two years in a row. I talked about the fun evening we’d shared together—free of her siblings—the things she’d learned doing the project, the fact that she was good at science. Her dad joined us, and we both told her how much we love her and how proud we are of all her accomplishments.

She went to bed a while later, somewhat mollified. And as I headed to bed myself, it struck me that the words of wisdom I’d just imparted to my daughter, were exactly how I felt about the upcoming Whitney awards. I also realized there were probably a few people I ought to express those feelings to.

For those reading this who may not know what I’m talking about, the Whitney Awards—named such for prominent LDS church member Orson F. Whitney—honor the best of LDS fiction. Counting Stars is a finalist this year in both the romance category and, best book by new author, category. That it’s there in either of those is pretty cool, and I sincerely thank all the people who nominated it. It was kind and thoughtful of you, and I truly appreciate such great fans.

However, after reading all those other books that Counting Stars is up against, I imagine the Whitney award results will, for me, be somewhat similar to the outcome of my daughter’s science fair. While I put my all into that story—laughed, cried, fell in love with the characters, pulled my hair out in frustration trying to make it all come together—it was just my best effort and not necessarily equal to someone else’s best. For example, Stephanie Meyer’s New York Times bestseller, Eclipse is also a finalist in the romance category. Whether you like what Mrs. Meyer writes or not (and I happen to like it quite a bit), if you’ve read her books, you will probably agree that she is a very good writer. If I’d been truly honest with my vote (LDStorymaker members each had one vote), I’d have chosen Eclipse for best romance of the year. But I’m not that noble 🙂 After realizing I’d missed my deadline for a June release and would not be getting another check until next February, I decided I would go ahead and vote for myself, on the off chance that it mattered. I’m certain Mrs. Meyer makes a tiny bit more than I do with her writing 🙂

But when all is said and done, and the night is over, I imagine that I will feel happy for whoever brings home the trophies. I’ve read and enjoyed the entries and am happy to say there are no “Warts,” only several well-deserving authors. I feel privileged to be listed among them, and I’m looking forward to an evening out with my husband and friends. Being a Whitney Award finalist is very much the icing on the cake to a dream come true. After spending seven years trying to get a book published, making it to “district level” the first time around is pretty amazing. But the real reward came months ago, when your emails and letters gave me what a writer dreams of the most—readers who love her story. I thank you for those letters, my trophy of words, that has become most precious and inspiring.