YAY! I'm a Writer.

The following article was originally published on InScribe Writers Online.

What was that Eureka moment when I knew I was a writer?

   

Well, let’s start with this:  I don’t think I’ve ever actually exclaimed the word EUREKA! in my entire life. 

I have had some other moments, though. Like the day it suddenly
dawned on me that I hated cooking. What a shock and a relief. That was 
more of a whadaya know? kind of moment. I hate cooking. 
Well whadaya know?   

Or the day in my mid-thirties when I realized with devastation that I would 
never learn everything there was to know in the world. That was a What? Noooooo! kind of a moment.  

And then there was the Huh moment when it hit me that Cap’n Crunch was 
my favourite cereal.

My writing moments have been more of a gradual dawning. 

From my earliest childhood I made up stories. I’d make up stories in my 
head to put myself to sleep at night, or from the back seat of the family 
station wagon as we traveled across Canada every summer. 

I often scribbled away on any scrap of paper I could find. And I became a 
great letter writer from my adolescence on. I WAS a writer, only I didn’t 
know it. I didn’t know I could call myself a writer.

I took the Writing for Children & Teenagers course from the Institute of 
Children’s Literature while my own children were toddling around my 
knees. I wanted to see if someone else thought I might be a writer. 

They did think so. But I didn’t believe them. 

I thought my instructor was too nice and didn’t give enough critique. Her comments were always more positive than negative and I didn’t 
think that was helpful at all. 

I thought I had to be published and well known to call myself a writer. So, 
how would I know I was a writer unless I got published? But if I did send 
something to a publisher and didn’t get published how would I know 
whether it was because they couldn't use it or because I wasn’t really a 
writer? What a vicious convoluted circle.

When my daughters were school age I wrote little stories and vignettes 
for school newsletters and Sunday School papers. I even created an 
entire mid-week kids’ club curriculum for our church. And I still didn’t 
think I could call myself a writer. I didn’t know that having my writing 
in those little newsletters WAS “being published”.

I was afraid to send anything out into the world. But I kept writing. 
As cliché as it sounds, I couldn’t NOT write.

The gradual dawning started later, as I spent time with other writers. 
At conferences and writing groups I found out they were ordinary quirky 
people just like me. They were all at different stages in their writing 
journeys, they each had their own styles of writing and unique voices, 
and I was okay right where I was. As others shared their journeys I 
realized I could relate. 

Indeed, I WAS a writer. 

But I was still uncomfortable saying so out loud. I couldn’t call myself 
a writer.  

Then there was the Spring WordShop where the speaker shared that he 
was an intuitive writer. He never planned ahead of time what was going 
to happen, he just wrote and let the story happen on the fly. 
(Some people call this a pantser) In fact, one time one of his main 
characters got up and walked out right in the middle of the book 
and he had to rewrite the whole thing. 
I thought, “Hey, that’s the way I write! And it’s okay.” 

That was my AHA! moment, which lands somewhere on the spectrum 
between whadaya know and EUREKA! That’s when I knew I could 
call myself a writer.

Since then I have been published in a couple of children’s publications, 
an anthology, FellowScript (a Christian Writers Magazine), and my blog. 
Being able to call myself a writer has given me the courage to 
send out manuscripts whether they be rejected or not. 
It doesn’t matter. I’m still a writer.

It is dawning on me as I write this blog post that THIS may actually be 
my EUREKA! moment. Or as close to EUREKA! as someone like me gets. 

YAY! suits me better. 

Documenting my journey for this post has cemented in my mind that I am 
definitely a writer; that from the very beginning God gifted and called me 
to write, with my own unique voice. And that doing so brings Him joy. 

YAY!

photo credit: 
<a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/28402283@N07/3346906435">Light Bulb No. 1</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">(license)</a>

 Photo credit: What if I fall

tumblr_n8ijrcaVA81qaobbko1_500.jpg

Right Out the Window

Know your audience.

That’s what almost every writing coach or speaking mentor will tell you. If you want to get your message across with the biggest punch, you need to understand who will be receiving that message, and deliver it accordingly.

When Sweetie and Peaches were ages 5 and 3, I wanted them to grasp how important it was to wear seat belts the whole time they were riding in a car. This was back in the day when kids were out of infant car seats by the time they were 2. The next step was a booster seat, which was basically a raised platform to sit on where the child was held in place by the vehicle’s lap-belt/shoulder-strap combination. It was often uncomfortable.

So one day after I had buckled them into the back seat and before I had started the car, I told them a story that had been in the news that week. I thought it was relevant and timely.

I want to tell you about a little boy your age. He was riding in the back seat of his Mommy’s car. He wasn’t wearing his seat belt. Then, his Mommy couldn’t help it but, the car she was driving crashed and the little boy … he wasn’t wearing his seat belt and he flew right out the window.

Three-year-old Peaches was completely spellbound. Her eyes grew bigger when I mentioned the crash. At the end of the story, her little mouth opened in awe and her eyes grew as big as they could get. She turned to look at the window and then turned back to me.

In wonder she said, "He could fly?”

That’s when I knew my message had gone over her head and right out the window.

**********

For the Joy Set Before Him

The following phrase from the Bible has been going through my head this entire Passion Week:

… for the joy set before Him endured the cross …

The verse from Hebrews 12:2 goes like this: 

 fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Another version of that scripture says: 

He, for the joy [of obtaining the prize] that was set before Him, endured the cross, despising and ignoring the shame, and is now seated at the right hand of the throne of God.

I am no Bible scholar, so in my simple mind I have been wondering … what WAS that joy set before Him? What, besides the fact that He was God, would make anyone endure what He endured? What was the prize?

The verse ends with Jesus sitting down at the right hand of the throne of God. 

Could that be the joy He knew was coming? 

That after His gargantuan task of taking on Himself the sins of the world – past, present, and future; of dying on a cross and rising again ... after THAT little mission was complete, He would take His place as God of the universe? 

Maybe. But somehow I think it was more.

From the time Adam & Eve broke the intimate kinship between themselves and God, God had been making a way to restore that close relationship.  

Jesus was the way to accomplish that. 

Because of His sacrificial act, each human being from that time forward has been given the choice to accept His gift and become a friend of God. (James 2:23) 

Or not. 

What if THAT was the joy set before Him that day? 

What if He endured the spitting 

the whipping 

the nails 

the humiliation 

because He knew it would restore that intimate companionship? 

What if I was the prize? 

What if you were?

He is risen!

He is risen indeed.

   

http://www.biblestudytools.com/commentaries/gills-exposition-of-the-bible/hebrews-12-2.html

Secret Places in My Hat

It pains me to admit it here in this semi-public forum but … I am not as put together as I look. (It occurs to me that I may not even look all that put together, but that's a topic for another time)  

I have been known to occasionally let my imagination run a little wild, often in instances when complete calm and level-headedness is better required. 

I chock it all up to the fact that I’m a writer. I have been making up stories in my head since I was old enough to know I was making up stories in my head. My imagination is a wonderfully fantastical place and I’m quite entertaining to myself … usually.

Sometimes, however, it’s best not to let that imagination … OUT.  

It only confuses my family and friends.

And exhausts me.

Case in point #1: 

I drive Babe to her University classes. Because of an incident the day before, she has a possible concussion. I drop her off and decide to do some errands and get groceries while she attends class. Then on my way home, I will pick her up and take her to her job.

I arrive in the designated pick-up spot early. When she is done at 12:50 there will be just enough time to get her to her job by 1 o’clock.

I wait.

And wait.  

It’s not like her to be late for work.

I text her:  Everything ok?

No answer.

More minutes tick by. Maybe the prof went overtime.

OR

Maybe she is waiting for me at a different pick-up spot. 

That must be it.

I text: I’m at the little pick-up spot where I dropped you off.

Nothing.

It is now past 1 o’clock.

She would never be late for work.

Where could she be? Did class finish early and somebody else take her to work? 

Surely she would have texted me. But lately her phone has been crashing for no reason. Maybe she can’t text me.

OR

Maybe she can’t text me because she got dizzy and passed out! 

She passed out because of that concussion.

And had to be taken to hospital.

And nobody got ahold of me.

Why wouldn’t they let me know?

Wait!

How do I know she even showed up to class this morning? I dropped her off but I didn’t watch her go through the door like I did when she was 5.  I just assumed she was okay. 

That crazy concussion!

She got disoriented when I dropped her off and now she is out wandering somewhere and she doesn’t know where she is! 

And some lowlife took advantage of the situation and snatched her up and now we will never find her!

SHE’S A MISSING PERSON!!

I take a deep breath. 

Get it together, woman.

I park the car. Go to the administration office.

No answers. Because of privacy laws they can’t even tell me whether or not she is a student there.

I resist the urge to barrel down the halls like a mad gorilla, screaming her name. 

Agitated, I white-knuckle it home. Someone may have left a message on the landline.

No messages on the home phone.

But suddenly there is a text: I’m in class. I work at 2.  

Case in point #2:    

The Cowboy and I are on our cruise vacation. We are getting ready to leave our cabin for the day, for a shore excursion.

But I can’t find the cash.

I have checked the safe. Twice.

The contents of my bag have been dumped on the bed. Books and papers are scattered all over the desk.

I am going through closets and drawers, checking pockets of clothing we haven’t even worn yet.

The Cowboy is annoyingly calm. 

When did you last see it?

I had it with me yesterday when we came home from the beach.

I go through the papers on the desk again. 

I thought I put it right here …

Suddenly it hits me.

They are siphoning money off us!!

Siphoning mo … who is?

Them! The stewards who clean our room. Little by little they are taking money and they think we will never notice. 

What? Why would they do that?

I leave him to ponder answers to that question because I am remembering … my hat. The one Mr. Cowboy calls my "nerd hat".

Oh. Now I remember. It's in here.

I grab it off the hook on the wall and check.

Sure enough, there is the money tucked safely and serenely in that secret place in my hat.

The Cowboy looks absolutely astonished.

Are you kidding me? Only you would have a secret compartment in your hat!

He belly-laughs all the way off the ship.

************

This week the Cowboy & I attended a play based on a tragic story in Canadian history: the massacre of the Donnelly family by their neighbours and community.

Vigilantes.

As we leave the theatre I’m feeling vengeful. That poor family! 

I comment, 

It’s a shame those Donnelly’s didn’t know anything about poison. They could have snuck poison into all of their neighbours’ drinking water. Then all of THEM would have died and none of this would have happened.

I look up into the Cowboy’s horrified face, and see him mentally calculating the last time I offered him a glass of water.

Yeah ... sometimes my imagination is best kept in the secret places of my hat.

PHOTO CREDITS

Top Hat
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/30515687@N05/4359966258">Benjamin Harrison-Reid Portrait Top Hat, 1892</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://www.flickr.com/commons/usage/">(license)</a>


Watch
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/51942038@N04/7657917478">Fossil Nissan Watch Black Square Face</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">(license)</a>


Child entering school
photocredit: http://www.parentscanada.com/school/how-to-choose-the-right-school-for-your-child


Mad Gorilla
<a href="http://s293.photobucket.com/user/alyk11_2008/media/Mad-Gorilla.jpg.html" target="_blank"><img src="http://i293.photobucket.com/albums/mm46/alyk11_2008/Mad-Gorilla.jpg" border="0" alt=" photo Mad-Gorilla.jpg"/></a>
alyk11_2008's photo on Photobucket


Lego head
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/20436015@N00/3741330170">lego_head-embarassed</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nd/2.0/">(license)</a>


Cruise ship
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/71365354@N00/3363343283">St. George's-Grenada (4)</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">(license)</a>

Making a Home

Shortly after we moved to our new home from another province, I was called in to our new bank to attend to a document that hadn't been properly completed.

I arrived at the bank expecting that a signature had been missed. Instead, the bank teller informed me that the space to record my occupation had not been properly filled in.

"Oh," I said, looking down at the document and seeing that the blank had already been filled in with exactly what I was about to say.

"I'm a homemaker," I said.

The teller looked at me with confusion in her eyes.

"But what is your job?"

"I'm a homemaker. I work at home."

She decided to try a different tactic. Obviously, I wasn't understanding the question.

"But when you go to work what do you do?"

I could have launched into all the things I did as a homemaker. I considered it.

But in the split second it took for me to mine her eyes, I realized that this gap in our understanding - what a legitimate line of work entails - would never be bridged. Whether the belief was hers alone or something upheld by the banking institution itself, I really didn't want to know at the time. What I did know was that the vocation I had chosen to pursue for over 20 years was considered nothing, and being publicly dismissed.

Really?

Another person may have confronted the teller or written the bank a nasty letter. I'm more of a peacemaker on my toes, and a rebel when I've had time to think about it.

So, I said, "Just put down piano instructor."

Having taught piano for many years I figured this would be reasonable (even though I hadn't actually taught piano for over 10 years by then).

I watched conciliation settle on her face. She was happy. I was ... astounded, perplexed, irritated, even a little condemned, but not angry. That came later.

I have thought about this little scenario many times in the years since it happened, and pondered it considerably these past 2 weeks as I looked after our grandson. Caring for him brought back my years as a young mom attending to babies, running after toddlers, teaching at home, making trips to the school for plays and field days and helping in the classroom, and navigating the minefield of teenage daughters ...

And that's just the childcare part of homemaking.

My daughters are now grown and 2/3 on their own. I am able to spend more time writing but I still consider myself a homemaker.

Because, making a home is so much more than housekeeping or taking care of children. It is creating an atmosphere of joy and peace, love and comfort. A safe place to land in a chaotic world.

Making Home.

Something that couldn't be adequately explained to that bank teller.





paperwork:   
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/29080217@N05/3341419074">Detail from meeting</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">(license)</a>


pillow:    
photo credit: <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/76061588@N03/9904351356">home is where your wifi connects automatically Throw Pillow by Sara Eshak</a> via <a href="http://photopin.com">photopin</a> <a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0/">(license)</a>

Monday Morning in Miami

It says something about the Cowboy and me, I think, that after 32 years of marriage we can spend 14 days continuously together and still like each other at the end of it.

On the last morning of our cruise vacation I arrived out on the deck with my buffet breakfast in hand. The Cowboy was already seated at an umbrella'd table for 4. I started to set my plate down when he gestured to the seat on his other side.

"No, no," he said, "I saved this seat for you.  It's a nicer view."

So I enjoyed my breakfast facing the gorgeous view of downtown Miami Harbour in the early morning, while he looked out on the working side of a harbour - industrial buildings, cranes, and container ships.

Putting the other's interests ahead of your own, that's true love.  But, actually paying attention to what those interests might be in the first place ... that's captivating.

Looking into Sky

This post was first published on a writers' blog to which I contribute. We were asked to answer the question - Do you have a regular system for becoming recharged for your writing?  This was my answer.


I don’t have a "regular system" for becoming recharged for writing.  I think I need to get a regular system for writing before I get a regular system for becoming recharged for writing. 

But I do know what recharges me and sparks my creativity.  

We moved to the big city almost 8 years ago.  Before that we lived in the country.  All I had to do was look out any window to be recharged.  A short walk to the burning barrel refreshed me because I was outside, listening to the trees whisper and the horses run home.  Deep breaths came easy then.

More than anything, what refreshes me is the sky.  Wide blue sea or swollen clouds, heavy grey snow sky, wind whipped mare’s tails, or starry expanse, the ever changing sky is my inspiration.  Always.

In the country I could see the sky from any window in my house.  Then we moved to the city where I had to walk to the middle of my cul-de-sac to see the sky.  But one day, when we were in the midst of a 3-year-long family crisis and my writing had taken a back seat, I did that. 

I don’t know exactly how it happened but, as I stood there smack dab in the centre of the cul-de-sac, breathing deeply and looking up into the sky, inspiration came.  She just showed up, like a child approaching with a smile.  I welcomed her and she started to tell me her story, and then I went into the house and wrote down her story. Word for word - the first chapter of my novel.

The sky does that for me, and it never disappoints.