To celebrate the New Year, I am going to buy a portrait-quality picture of Annie, place it in a gilt frame, and hang it above my bed.

I will do that first thing tomorrow.

Like the Little Orphan Optimist, I love tomorrow! It is the one thing most likely to get me through today.

I got up this morning with a notebook full of resolutions. Thus far, I have worked toward . . . let me count . . . none of them. I am going on a diet, of course, but since I didn't get the chocolate croissants baked before New Years there was nothing to do but bake them this morning. (And if you think I will ever have the resolve to walk away from a chocolate croissant, we've never met.) Thus, I will start the diet tomorrow. Likewise the exercise routine and the new organizational system and the 2013 budget and . . . Tomorrow is going to be very busy.

I have spent most of my life vowing to do better tomorrow. The fatal flaw in this is, of course, the annoying frequency with which "tomorrow" becomes "today." As in years past, unless there’s a Joshua around somewhere to keep the sun from setting Wednesday evening, I have no more hope of completing my new To Do list then than I do today. 

Fortunately, six days of every week come with a shiny-new tomorrow of their own! The seventh day, Saturday, is even better. While it lacks a viable "tomorrow" in which to cram menial chores, day following it is a day of rest, thus it comes with something even better – a Monday! That is two days away, making it a veritable utopia for procrastinators like me. Until, of course, it dawns.

So, do you wonder how I ever keep a New Year’s resolution and/or keep from sinking into despair? Easy! Anyone can do it! First, obtain a pair of Genuine Little Orphan Annie Rose-Colored Glasses. (Quick! Send 72 proofs of purchase from 1940s-era Ovaltine to an address that no longer exists and wait patiently. Very patiently.) If that doesn't work, hold out until mid-January or so -- just when you’ve finally realized that you haven’t yet worked on a single New Year’s resolution -- and you will be delighted to recall that Chinese New Year is just around the corner. Another new beginning!

Wait, there’s more to my madness!

Come the middle of March, when I haven’t met a goal from Chinese New Year, I rejoice. The calendar shows that my birthday is right around the corner. Now there’s the day to begin a new year of life! When I fail at that, Easter is still a week or three away, giving me an even better reason to resurrect a glorious new me from the gloom of the last three months. If an overdose of chocolate bunny ears causes me to slack off just a bit toward the end of April, no worries! Summer begins soon – what better time to sweep out the moldy old me and embrace a bright new persona? Of course, summer is usually pretty hectic, but kids go back to school in late August. Good deal! Every September without fail I buy a new planner and use it faithfully (for a week or so) to help chart my new course of resolution.

Admittedly, I take October through December off for the holidays. (The holidays begin on Columbus Day and extend through Halloween and beyond.) But even in those joyous times of frivolity, merry-making, and overindulgence, I look piously ahead to a fresh start in the New Year.

See?

In the interest of truth in blogging, I must allow that there is a downside. I have yet to lose weight, de-clutter my surroundings, or write the Great American Novel. (Or even the Mediocre American Novel.) Am I worried? Not at all. Not only is today only the first day of 2013, but it is the first day of the rest of my life! What am I doing sitting here at the computer? I have resolutions to keep, an eight-foot-long To Do list to check off, a glorious new me to sculpt from the ruins of the old model! (Please pray that I have enough raw material left for something useful if not decorative.) Today, right this minute in fact, I will begin the trek up that metaphorical mountain to vistas of unimaginable splendor!

And if I become beffuddled in the foothills and wander off course yet again? Well, there’s always tomorrow.

(Help!)

 

A Prayer for Christmas Eve

Robert Louis Stevenson wrote:

"Keep us, Lord, from losing the awe of that Holy Night when Christ was born. May our carols of praise never become tiresome and old. May the thrilling sounds of Christmas ever remind us of how much we owe to our Heavenly Father for his great gift of love on our behalf.

Oh God our Loving Father, help us rightly to remember the birth of Jesus...that we may share in the song of the angels, the gladness of the shepherds, and the worship of the wisemen. Close the door of hate and open the door of love all over the world. Deliver us from evil by the blessing that Christ brings, and teach us to be merry with clear hearts. May Christmas morning make us happy to be thy children and Christmas evening bring us to our beds with grateful thoughts, forgiving and forgiven for Jesus's sake. Amen."

Frog Blog Reunion

The most fun I ever had online was when I participated on Six LDS Writers and a Frog, a blog founded by Sariah Wilson and written by Jeffrey (J. Scott) Savage, Robison Wells, Stephanie Black, Julie Bellon & me. (These folks remain my favorite authors -- and people -- of all time.) This week Julie put together a reunion. Today was my turn. 

You can find the reunion on Julie's blog HERE.
The Frog Blog's archives are still HERE.

And here is my contribution:

Just for the record, I voted to hold this reunion next week. My thought was that it would make a nicer gift coming that much closer to Christmas, and . . . okay! Hold your comments! I’ll come clean. My actual reasoning was that if we “reunited” next week my day would fall on Friday, December 21 and, with any luck at all, the ancient Mayans would be right, the world would end, and nobody would ever know I missed yet another Friday! (Worst case scenario: the world wouldn’t end, but none of you could expect me to hear that news from my bunker deep beneath Mingus Mountain.) But, nooooo. Everybody else wanted to blog this week, so here we are pre-apocalypse.  I’m sorry.

 I sat down to write this yesterday. I had just teared up over Julie’s blog, so I started out echoing what everybody else said about how much we love, appreciate, and miss you guys. Well, you know me: six thousand words later I was sobbing outright and my elderly pit bull, picking up on the maudlin vibes, was pressed against my leg, howling harmony.

For the sake of us all, I walked away from the computer then to try again this morning. You’re welcome.

So, first I asked myself: Back in the days of Froggy yore, when I wasn’t being sloppily sentimental and/or preaching to the choir, what did I do? Honestly? Mostly I ditched. Every once in a while I ran a cheesy contest, but when I wasn’t doing any of those things, I liked to hang out with the Frog. This prompted me to wonder: Where is that little terd . . . er . . . toad, anyway? Shouldn’t he be here, too?

Alas, what came of all that is all this:   

‘Twas twelve days before Christmas when all thro’ the bog

Six Writers were blogging—but where was the Frog?
The notes were all posted, lest anyone care;
All hoped that our Frog friend soon would be there.

The readers were nestled all snug at their screens

While visions of frog legs danc’d thro’ their beans.
And Janice with her candy canes, and Jon and his dogs
Had just settled their brains to write their own blogs.

Then out in the weeds there arose such a clatter

I fell from my chair, wond’ring what was the matter.
Away to the pond edge I staggered, not fast,
Tripped into the cattails and fell with a splash.

The moon as reflected in newly-stirred muck

Lacked luster, thus seeing required some luck,
When what should appear to my dim, blurry eyes
But a miniature sleigh pulled by six dragonflies.

With a sprightly green driver so quick with the goad

I knew in an instant it must be our Toad!
More rapid than Rob-whines his coursers they came,
And he croaked as he called out to each one, by name:

“On, Julie! Go, Kerry! You, Robinson! Now, Steph!

“On, Sariah! On, J. Scott—or, wait—are you Jeff?
“To the edge of the bog! To the top of the weed!
“Now, dash it all ‘flies! Slow it down! I must read.” 

(And then there was this whirlwind of leaves and . . .

Some other stuff happening with eagles or buzzards
Or something . . . and the next thing I knew . . .)
As I drew back my head lest my staring eyes pop
To the bog Saint Amphibian came with a plop.

He was clad all in green from his head to his feet
But he wore a fake beard that was white as a sheet. 
I rubbed at my eyes, hoping it was the fog
That had me believing I saw Santa Frog.

His eyes—how they twinkled! His wide lips—how scary!

His feet were like rubber; his toes were webbed, very.
His looooooong, sticky tongue he shot out like a whip
And the moth it encircled was gone with a “Ziiiiiiip!”

The stump of a pen he held tight in his mitt,

It was full of red ink. Had the Frog come to ed-itt?  
He had a broad face, and great round white eyes
That could turn in his head and indeed hypnotize.

He was chubby and plump and looked like an elf

But I didn’t laugh. (I’m too elf-like myself.)
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I’ve delusions to dread.    

He spoke not a word. (But, hey, no surprise there!)

And read all the six blogs—which was rather rare—
Then, laying a finger aside of his nose . . .
(I looked away at this point so I wouldn’t even be

Tempted to rhyme whatever he might do next.)

He hopped to his sleigh, to his team gave a shout!
I stood there still wond’ring, “What’s that all about?”
But I heard him exclaim ‘ere he sped out of sight,

“Merry Christmas to all! Hope your New Year is bright!”

I hope that, too. And I really do miss you all!  Merry everything!

Let It Snow Globe!

Want to see the height of adorableness? (Okay, maybe not an actual word, but you can clearly see what I mean!)

Hil sent me a picture. I forwarded it with $10 to Vanessa Porritt at Vanessa Porritt Photography, picked the snow globe that reminded me most of my daughter, and voila! Christmas adorableness! 

You can see all the designs on her website HERE. Okay, so my link didn't work. (Sigh.) Check her out on Facebook! That's where I first saw the globes.

Thanks, Vanessa! I love it! Also you.

Blog Hop!

I was nine or ten when I got my first chain letter, but I remember it well. It started out with a story about a girl who'd received a version of the very letter I held in my hand, copied it carefully, passed it on to five friends, and then found a $20 bill that she got to spend on candy! However, the letter continued, her best friend broke the chain and was cut in half before her little sister’s eyes when she rode her bicycle directly into a buzz saw. (Okay, so maybe I don’t remember the story exactly, but that was the gist of it.) I copied the letter! I didn’t find $20, but I wasn’t cut in half either, so I figured it ended well enough, all things considered.

Welcome to week 25 of Blog Hop!

Before Twilight, Stephenie Meyers was just another unknown writer. And before Hunger Games, I had never heard of Suzanne Collins. It stands to reason that there are thousands of fantastic stories out there waiting to be discovered, some published and some still being written. This blog hop is like a big game of tag, and I was tagged by Debra Erfert. I jumped at the chance to give my little blog more readership and to give Deb’s Firestarters a shout out. You can read more about Debra Erfert and her book HERE. Her site is a great place to join the blog hop, already in progress. Check out the other authors. I was impressed by several of them!

This blog hop includes ten questions to help you learn more about an author’s current work in progress, so here’s a little info about my current project:

What is the title of your book?

My “book” is more like a leaflet since it’s a short short story, but it’s called For God So Loved the One.

Where did the idea come from for the book?

It’s a true account of a life-changing experience I had as a new Relief Society president. (A real Christmas miracle!) It’s also story I’ve long wanted to share, so I’m grateful Covenant gave me the chance this year.

What genre does your book fall under?

Creative nonfiction and inspiration. Creative because I changed peoples’ names and made up dates that I couldn’t clearly remember. Inspiration because the only part that matters – my conversion and that of a woman who became a dear friend – are absolutely true.

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

 Since I was young at the time it happened I’d cast . . . um . . . Amanda Seyfried. There is no resemblance whatsoever between us then or now, but she’s adorable.

What is the one-sentence synopsis of your book?

The title: God truly does love the one – every one.

Will your book be self-published or represented by an agency?

It was published by the best LDS publishers on the planet: Covenant Communications, Inc.

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

About an hour--and it was the only draft of my manuscript. But I’m sure my wonderful editor (shout out to Samantha!) spend much more time fixing it!

What other books/authors would you compare this story to within your genre?

It’s not dissimilar from a book I published last Christmas: Angels Bending Near the Earth. (I’m anxiously awaiting a miracle this Christmas. If it doesn’t happen, next year I’ve got nothing!)

What else about your book might pique the reader’s interest?

I love that I tend to sell them in sets of 5 – 25 because so many people read it then want to give copies as gifts. I also love that Covenant made them so they they fit into standard social envelopes and are inexpensive to mail. This makes them more economical than any Hallmark card on the market – and you can give friends and family a whole story in a Christmas card!

Upcoming is a list of authors who will be joining the hop for week 26. I hope you’ll visit their blogs next week and learn more about their books. Maybe one of them will become your new favorite author!

 

 

Still Musing about Thanksgiving . . .

Shared by a friend from India: "Americans are curious. You set aside a national holiday in which to be thankful for everything you have, but then spend at least part of it rushing around, looking to buy more."

Is anybody besides me old enough to remember when Thanksgiving was like the Sabbath? God was praised. Family was central. Food was wonderful, and something for which to be grateful -- and to share. (If we didn't have at least 15 people gathered around our ping pong table it was an off year.) Downtown Prescott was ghostly. The grocery stores were all closed. The two-theatre movie house was silent. (Yes, this was before silent movies!) Nobody thought anything of it because shopping never entered our minds.

I'm not sure the leaders we so often deride are the real problem here in the United States of Advertising. 

Did I Miss Thanksgiving?

Today is November 15. With Thanksgiving still a week away, I have not yet purchased a turkey, let alone defrosted, roasted, or eaten one. I have not made up every bed, fold out couch, air mattress, and camping cot on the property in anticipation of family coming over the river and through the woods. I have not yet sung We Gather Together in sacrament meeting. (It is one of my all-time favorite hymns; the ward music chairman picks it once a year, if I'm lucky.) I am wearing an orange shirt, living in a house bedecked with pumpkins and pilgrims and handcrafted folkart that reminds me to be grateful. And yet, I hold in my hand a Christmas card.

A. Christmas. Card. And, no, it is not from Walmart or Target or any of the other retailers who were peddling Christmas trees a couple of weeks before I thought to get out the scarecrows. It is from a woman I have known and loved for years and always considered sane. Until now. I noted (through tears) that she wrote the poem on it herself, and I have no doubt it will touch my heart in, say, ten days or so. This afternoon it was all I could do not to toss it in the grinder with the fresh cranberries.

I feel very much like the turkey in this popular cartoon. I love Christmas. I really do. I've published stories of my own Christmas miracles two years in a row now. Perhaps, after Thanksgiving, I'll tell you all about them.

Death of a Dear Froggie Friend

So . . . um . . . how awkward is this? What does one say after a mere 734 days of stone silence?

I actually found the old place again earlier this morning. It's taken me this long to hack my way through the overgrown briars to the dashboard. When I finally reached the control panel I found everything covered in cobwebs and had to wait for reinforcements to arrive with Raid. (True only in a metaphorical sense. In real life I almost never kill a spider. What would Charlotte think?)

Today is a sad day in the Bloggernacle, and particularly for me. It is the next-to-the-last day of Six LDS Writers and a Frog. I just hit "Post" on my final Friday Frog Blog. There is a whole lot of irony in how bereft I feel. For almost five years I worried about those things. I agonized over what to say--and what not to say. I never passed a Friday without feeling terribly inadequate in comparison with the stunning writers who went before: Sariah Wilson, Jeffrey (J. Scott) Savage, Robison (Rob) Wells, Stephanie Black--she of the THREE WHITNEYS IN A ROW--and ever faithful, ever amazing Julie Bellon. I often regretted the posts I put up and felt shamed over the many, many weeks I let other things get in the way of writing anything at all.

So. Today. You'd think I'd feel nothing but relief, but what I feel is sad. I assure myself it is lunacy to cry over the passing of a blog when there is so much real tragedy over which to despair. Alas, myself reminds me that the deepest hurts are always personal in nature, always painful, and always relieved--at least a little--when shared.

So, I invited a few people over and buzzed in to straighten up a few things in case anybody shows up. I recognize that after so much neglect, I am likely to be alone here for some time (forever?) and that's okay. (The echo is rather comforting in itself.)

If anybody does happen in, I do have caution tape stretched out over there in the corner. I know it is trendy for bloggers to ask people to follow them, but that's so not me! Sometimes I plod. Sometimes I rival the speed of light. Mostly I stumble through life. But irregardless of the rate of progress I fear that I mostly move in circles. You'd have to be crazy to follow somebody like that!

But do check out the links and feel free to follow some of those people! You'll like where they're headed, I promise.

Moroni Had a Mother

Moroni had a mother. Mormon had a mother. Despite the stripling warriors getting all the credit for a superior education, Helaman too had a mother.

I’ve thought a lot about these women over the past several years. I’ve tried to imagine how Moroni’s mother felt when he whipped out that Title of Liberty, prepared to take on Amalickiah—and all the hosts of hell, if need be. There was a time I would have guessed that her heart filled with righteous pride, but now I know better. Most likely, she smiled when Moroni came home on leave, but the minute he returned to the front lines she cried, Why you? There are men everywhere! Why don’t they go? Why can’t you till the earth, tend the flocks, preach the gospel . . . weave baskets . . . do anything but risk your heart and soul in battle?

I think it’s even harder to send a son off to war in this dispensation. After all, the Nephites knew their sons were fighting for their lives. As Americans and Latter-day Saints, we support our government and cherish our freedom, but we prefer to do it from a safe distance. “Good” little Mormon boys are not groomed for the military. Primary and Mutual are designed to prepare our kids for marriage, college, and missions—not boot camp. Think about it. Who hopes to be called on the kind of mission where they’ll carry a gun with their Book of Mormon? It is not surprising then that when a bright, active LDS kid from a good family turns nineteen and enters not the MTC but the USMC, nobody knows what to say. Nobody knows what to think. This, of course, includes the guy’s mother.

Even living in one of the most supportive wards in the Church doesn’t help as much as you’d think it would. While not a single week passes without a public prayer offered for the men and women in the military, it is done at the request of the bishop—who means it—and uttered by rote by people who mostly do not. My husband and I are often asked for an account of our sons’ well-being, but the people who ask often do so in low voices, as if it shames us to have sons in the service “instead” of serving the Lord. (The Lord Himself does not consider the two mutually exclusive.) Indisputably, a young person’s willingness to live or die for his country is not as admirable in our culture as it is curious. Unfortunately, the way some people react to it is even curious-er. Another of my favorite examples: since his enlistment, my youngest son has received a monthly ward letter that is always addressed Dear Elders (and Matt). That Matt is also an elder never occurred to its author; perhaps because his name badge was of the desert-camouflage variety.

This is not meant as criticism. I don’t know what to make of those boys of mine, either. The only thing that surprised me more than my youngest son’s determination to become a Marine was my eldest son’s enlistment in the Army after a two-year mission for the Church. I swear we used the same Family Home Evening manual and attended the same meetings as the rest of you. Curious and curious-er, say Alice and I. Sure, I’ve always believed that a well-trained, well-equipped, all-volunteer military must be maintained to ensure the rest of us continuing our lives, liberties, and pursuits of happiness, but I also assumed somebody else’s kids would take the job.

Even though it didn’t work out that way, I am here to report that it is all behind us now—as of this very morning, in fact. After half a decade of viewing life through an olive-drab looking-glass, we have returned to the somewhat less-surreal world of civilians. My youngest returned from Okinawa a few weeks ago, and my eldest left White Sands last night. They will both be home for Mother’s Day. They are alive. Healthy. Whole. As holy as they ever were—which is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself.

I can’t contain the gratitude that fills my heart, but I know that when I have my children all together for the first time in years, not every tear I shed will be for joy. I will never be able to forget other women who are not so blessed. As I celebrate Mothers Day, other mothers all over the country (world) will wait by the phone for their children to report in from life-missions foreign, domestic, religious, and military. Some military moms will not hear a loved one’s voice because their sons are too deep within Iraq, Afghanistan, or South America to reach a phone. These women are blessed, and they know it. (The phrase “no news is good news” was coined in time of war.) They recognize their good fortune because every one of them knows of a mother who will spend her special day at the bedside of a hurt or maimed child. Even these latter count themselves fortunate because what mother in our country does not know of another whose beloved never came home at all?

God bless us, every one.

Moroni was a man who did not delight in bloodshed but whose soul did joy in the freedom of his country. He pledged his life to the welfare of his people because his heart swelled with thanksgiving to God for the privileges and blessings bestowed upon them. No doubt his mother’s heart was also swollen with many emotions; surely she carried equal parts fear and longing side-by-side with hope and faith. Moroni was not young when he left the service, but I like to imagine that his mother reached an exceedingly old age. (If I were even half as talented as David or Heather, I would write a book to make it so, if only in fiction.) I truly hope she lived long enough to see her beloved son retire to his own house to spend the remainder of his days in peace.

My sons’ service was not as remarkable as Moroni’s, but the remainder of their days are hopefully much, much longer. (I expect more prayerful preparation, leadership, and service from them both.) In the meantime, they have dedicated a portion of their youth to serving their country while remaining true to their God. I appreciate and admire them for that. How well I remember the Family Home Evening we hung a brass “Return with Honor” sign on our front door and discussed its meaning. My sons did not go where I thought they would go, or do what I thought they would do, but I know beyond doubt they served well, magnified their priesthood, and righteously impacted countless lives. I know I am blessed beyond measure to see them return safely home . . . and with honor.

Not even Moroni’s mother would ask for anything more.

Interview with Janette Rallison

Janette Rallison is a very busy lady. She is also the most dedicated, giving, and all-around nice person you'll ever meet. I had only to sound just a little desperate (and more than a little pathetic) and she dropped everything to answer your questions. ALL of them. I hope you appreciate this even half as much as I do!

This then is the blog you hoped it would be!

What was Janette's path to publication in the national market?
I wrote a book that would work in the national market, sent it to an agent that some SCBWI folks suggested, and after about a year of waiting and anguish while it was shopped around, I had Tim Travaglini at Walker Books (He's now at Putnam) convinced that I could write well. Tim is brilliant.

If this book is turned into a movie, will Janette make sure it stays true to the book or will she let them tweak it?
My Fair Godmother was over 300 pages and the average movie script is a 100 pages, so it goes without saying that most books are tweaked for the movies. I hate to think of 200 pages being chopped/condensed and rewritten, but that's just the way it is.

Seriously, now, I read you biography on your website, and know that you've written several other books, mostly young adult novels. Have you any plans to write a novel aimed at us more ... mature persons?
You're in luck, mature persons reading this, I did write some LDS romances and a Sci-fi novel under the name Sierra St. James. And they're great books too.

If casting were completely up to you, who would be in the movie? Did you have a mental image of any of these people in mind as you created your characters?
I love the guys from Prince Caspian so I would probably cast Ben Barnes as Hunter and William Moseley as Tristan. Savannah and Jane would be a little harder because you would have to find actresses that looked like sisters.

Here is my question. When do you find time to write with 5 kids? I have 3 and it's tough to get in the mood to write when there is so much to do.
At first I wrote during nap time, then at favorite show time, then at preschool time. I even wrote long hand while nursing. I paid older kids to play with the younger kids so I could write. You don't get much written when you have little kids but if you can manage a page or two a day then you can have a book written in less than a year.

I'd be interested in knowing if she plans on writing anymore fantasy books and if she would ever do more writing about any other fairy tales or myths (like Greek and Roman Hera & Aphrodite, etc myths).Yes, I want to do more fantasy. And although I hadn't really planned on doing a sequel to My Fair Godmother, I left it open so I could, and it looks like the book is doing well enough that I might--so I'll need to come up with some more fairy tales to send people to.

Now, for the question: In Kerry's quote, Janette's discussion of the power of the wish shows an interesting perception of the strength and courage necessary to change. Do you feel any of that ambivalence as you head towards a movie after breaking into the national market?
No, actually I only feel like squealing like a teenage girl. The producer called me today and I was barely capable of coherent speech. I told him I was a big fan of Sky High so he is sending me an official Sky High backpack. How cool is that? I mean, even if the book never makes it to the theaters, I'll have a Sky High backpack. What was the question again? (You see how I go all incoherent while talking about the possibility of a movie.)

That said, Chrissy really is right about wishes. Sometimes they do swallow you whole. How many of us who sit down at our computers with the intent to write a book and then get it published and market it, feel like that wish has swallowed us whole?

If you can you tell how lovingly jealous we(well, me)are, will you tell us what wish you made that changed you/your writing so you could do all this?When I started out in my writing group all my friends were wishing that their books would get published. I decided not to wish for that because I thought: what if it happened but my book wasn't really any good? That would be worse. Everyone would know I was a horrible writer and wonder how I got published, and people would trash my book, and it would end up on sale for .99 in the bargain bin. (That happens, by the way, even to good books.)

So I decided to wish that I would become a good writer and I read writing books, took classes on writing, and went to conferences. That is always my advice to budding writers: Don't worry about getting published so much. Worry about learning the craft of writing, then publishing becomes easier.

Where did you learn so much about wishes?
High school where I spent a lot of time wishing I would get noticed by certain young men and other things that didn’t happen.

If Ms. Rallison could have three wishes of her own, what would they be?A self cleaning house would be right up there on the list. So would world peace, but I might put the self cleaning house before world peace (which shows you what kind of person I am.) I'd probably also wish to rule the world or something like that which would end up not making me happy at all. But think of the changes you could make if you ruled the world. I could, for example, dictate that spelling had to make sense from here on out. Goodbye silent p in pnemonia and in alphabet and all sorts of other places Ps don't belong like psychiatry.

Does Ms. Rallison give her story characters any of her own personal traits?
Always. Which is why they usually have a weakness for chocolate and are lousy drivers. They also tend to embarrass themselves.

My question: Does your bishop ask you to speak in sacrament more often after you were published and are you in your ward or stake YW presidency? Just kidding about the second part. None of my business.
Nope, perhaps they're worried what I'm going to say. (Although I do get asked to write camp skits and road shows. It turns out that's not an entirely bad thing. I got the idea for My Fair Godmother from a road show I wrote. Go fractured fairy tale theme! The original was called Beauty and the Priest. And right now I'm in Primary. I love it!

What use of metaphor in your recent release did you enjoy writing the most? And which use of metaphor do you think was used to the most dramatic impact?
In the fairy's report at the beginning of the novel I talk about predatory guys being sharks. It was fun to play a little bit with that image since I don't usually use a lot of literary symbolism in my books. My publisher wanted me to take out the whole report and I had to sort of fight them over it. I liked the report, and besides I was afraid that if the reader didn't get to see the situation from Jane's side first, everyone would hate Jane and Hunter and would be waiting for Savannah to take revenge. I didn't want the book to be about revenge.

How long did it take you to write this book? I remember from reading her blog a while ago that she was trying to write a book in two months, and I'm curious if this is the one.
Nope, that wasn't this one. This one probably took around six months.

In the past year, what is one of your favorite book signing experiences?
I did one in my old neighborhood and got to see all of my old friends. It was sort of like a funeral, only I didn't have to die for it.

Okay, my question: Having read quite a few of your books (and owning even more) where do come up with your ideas? And please keep them coming???!!!I get ideas from my teenagers and from my own mind that likes to wander far too much when I should be paying attention to things like driving the car.

I have a question! Is she going to write a sequel to her sci-fi novel Time Riders now that it is getting published by Desert Book soon? :)
I hope so. Echo is one of my all time favorite characters.

My question is: Does Janette plan on continuing in the YA market or will she consider writing adult fiction?Both! And I wish I had more time!

After many and deep thinking things in my brain, the only question that I came up with is, do you find writing a little everyday helps you be more creative?
Yes, and another side effect is that my house is a mess. Oh well.

Will you play a cameo part in the movie, like Stephenie Meyer did? If so, what would you like to play?
That would be so cool. If and when they start filming it, I'll have to beg the producer and see if they'll let me walk across the background or something.

What time of day are you more productive - morning? evening?
Anytime my family isn't around is what works best for me.

Do you write longhand, or are you computer oriented?
Mostly I write on the computer but if I'm out watching a soccer game or something I take a notebook and write long hand.

Can you write with life going on around you - or do you need quiet?

I need it quiet, definitely.

To read more about this very talented writer, visit her website and her blogsite!

Thanks, Janette!

My Fair(no Y) Godmother

There’s one thing I’ve wondered my whole life. It’s not the meaning of existence or why bad things happen to good people. I’ve wondered why Cinderella was able to leave behind a glass slipper. Does that make sense to you? Ella’s ball gown turned back into rags, her carriage once again became a pumpkin, and her horses shrank back into vermin—albeit mice pleased to find themselves in more upscale digs. Why then, when the clock struck midnight, didn’t her glass slippers disappear with the tiara and jewels?

Yeah. It’s really bothered me, too.

Thankfully, after years of anguished questioning, I read the simple (and simply brilliant) explanation in My Fair Godmother. (And if you think I’m just going to tell you, you’ve got another think coming. Read the book; that’s undoubtedly the best advice I’ll give you this year.)

I wrote too many book reports in school to enjoy revisiting it in my old age, so you’re out of luck there. But I will say that if a fairy godmother sparkled into my bedroom right now to offer me three wishes, I wouldn’t have to consider for a half-second. I’d use the first wish to beg to write even half as well as Janette Rallison. I might use the second to wish to someday be famous (or cool) enough to garner a nod like three writers we all know and love did in this one. (Nope. Not telling you that, either.)

On the other hand, if my godmother were anything like Chrysanthemum Everstar—a teenage godmother-in-training who has only paid enough attention in class to be a fair godmother (at best)—I might add a clarifying addendum. Or eight. Since Rallison’s heroine Savannah does not, she finds herself in the Middle Ages, cast in the roles of Cinderella, Snow White, and a remarkable damsel in her own right. To say more might constitute a book review, but since it’s also difficult to say less, I will add that I love this book! I love everything from the perfect dust jacket and the lovely lavender/pink binding to the fanciful typesetting. I love the enchanting romance, marvelous characters, and I deeply love and admire the best fairy tale writing by a mortal since Hans Christian Andersen. (Is that a Whitney category?)

But you know what I love most? (Aside from a reasonable explanation for Cindy’s glass slippers.) I love that Janette Rallison captures my imagination and makes me laugh out loud, but she also makes me think and feel. So many of the stories passing as the “best” books for youth, young adults, and the rest of us in the national market these days are . . . how do I put this nicely? . . . pointless. (Some are worse than pointless, but that can be the subject for another blog on another day.) Some of the books in our market are . . . preachy. (I’m having a little trouble being “nice” today, apparently.) My Fair Godmother is neither. Very subtly but surely, Rallison ensures that every reader leaves her stories wiser, better, and surely more cheerful. That, boys and girls, is the epitome of great writing.

For all these reasons and more I predict that Janette has a runaway best-seller on her hands. It’s already been optioned as a movie. (I can’t tell you how many times while I was reading I thought what a great movie it would make. Can I pick them, or what?) Our local Barnes & Noble couldn’t unpack the boxes fast enough to keep this book on the shelves. After my third unsuccessful trip to town, I turned to Amazon. Fortunately for you, in my enthusiasm I must have clicked that “one click” option one click too often. Since I have two copies, I can play fairy godmother myself and make somebody’s wish for a copy of this book come true.

Caveat: after observing Chrissy as closely as I have, I can’t make it easy. In Chrysanthemum’s words: Did you think wishes were like kittens, that all they were going to do was purr and cuddle with you? Those type of wishes have no power. The only wishes that will ever change you are the kind that may, at any moment, eat you whole. But in the end, they are the only wishes that matter. Now then . . .

Now then, to win my extra copy of My Fair Godmother, all you have to do is write in the comments trail one thing you wish you knew about Janette Rallison or her many works. I’ll choose my favorites and send them to Janette for a response next week. (This will effectively grant my third wish: to get a guest blog from the mega-famous and super-fantastic Janette Rallison.) After she answers your questions, Janette will draw a winner at random and we’ll announce it at the end of the blog.

Ready? Set? Wish!

Why I'm Not Afraid of Coyotes

I was asked recently to speak on personal and family preparedness. “Good deal!” I thought. After all, I’ve been prepared for the worst practically my whole life.

“And what is the worst?” you ask.

Coyotes!

When I was a little girl, growing up in the sparsely-populated Verde Valley, our closest neighbors were a pack of coyotes. They passed our house nightly on their way from their bedrooms on the bluff to their dining room down by the river. I sometimes saw them. I always heard them. I became absolutely convinced that one night they would jump in my window and eat me up. Don’t laugh. It was a legitimate concern. After all, I was young . . . plump . . . succulent . . . doomed!

Almost half a century later, I still remember how terrified I was of those coyotes, and how many hours of sleep I lost worrying over each night being my last. Perhaps that is why I remember my salvation so very clearly.

One night my grandfather came to visit. He sat on the side of my bed and said, “I hear you’re afraid of coyotes.”

“Yes!” I cried. “They’re going to jump in my window and eat me up!”

My grandfather nodded his understanding then got up and closed the window. (You’d think my college-educated parents might have thought of that.) Still, the glass was very thin, so I was only partly reassured. (Arizona coyotes are nothing if not tough, wiry, and determined.)

Seeing that I was still alarmed, Grandpa looked around my room until he found my shiny pink twirling baton. He put it in my hands and said, “Here, you can fight off a coyote off with this.”

I figured I probably could. I was a pretty awesome twirler for a five-year-old. “But,” I said, “what if there is more than one? What if there are threeteen?” (Math has never been my strongest subject.)

“We’ll leave the door open,” he said. “You yell for help and I’ll be here before you’ve finished clobbering the first one.”

I’ve slept soundly ever since.

I didn’t understand why this plan was all I would ever need to feel secure until I had joined the Church and been through the temple. The endowment teaches us to look for types and symbols in all things. I realize now that my grandfather taught me a simple, but eternal, plan to save myself from every coyote in life. Every single one.

You’ve probably already guessed that I no longer fear those mangy things with four legs. The scariest coyotes come around when you’ve faced long-term unemployment and are about to lose your house. A worse beast is the news that your youngest son volunteered for a special assignment in Iraq, one that he doesn’t expect to survive. Coyotes certainly arrive when a doctor tells you that he removed a twenty-pound tumor from your only daughter and the prognosis doesn’t look good; or when you’re diagnosed with a crippling, life-threatening disease for which there is no cure.

Because we live in a world that is subject to natural disaster, pestilence, and death, in a time of uncertainty and surely gathering darkness, and because we agreed to strive under a plan in which even evil men have free agency, the coyotes are more numerous and more numbing than any other time in history. Fortunately, my grandfather’s plan always works.

First, you close the window. This is the physical preparation that helps keep fear at bay. You put aside a little money when you can. You store life-sustaining food and water. You keep yourself as healthy and fit as you can against the day that maybe you can’t. You get as much education as you are able. You learn to make, make-over, make do, and – gasp! – do without. In other words, you practice sound principles of thrift and industry as best you can.

But sometimes it’s not enough to shut the window. Those rotten coyotes will sometimes break in, no matter how well prepared you think you are. That’s why the rest of the plan is the most important: you grasp that baton for all you’re worth and you yell for Somebody bigger and stronger and older and wiser and much more all-powerful to help you out.

You’ve known since Primary that the iron rod is the word of God. The baton, then, is the scriptures – and every word that proceeds forth as scripture in these latter days. My husband made a list of every counsel President Monson gave in the last General Conference. I put it up on my bulletin board and sent it to my kids because these words can save our lives – spiritually and physically.

There have been times when the scriptures have literally saved my life. The challenges, the despondency, the despair – the coyotes – were just that bad. I couldn’t cope. But I found in the scriptures that the Lord had a plan for me, even when I didn’t know what it was. Learn of me, listen to my words, walk in the meekness of my spirit and you shall have peace in me. Sometimes the only peace in our lives is found in the Savior.

Seeking the Lord is, of course, that call for help. Sometimes we wonder why He isn’t there, forgetting that we haven’t called. We think that surely He knows our perils and needs before we do ourselves, so where is He in our time of need?

He is bound as we are bound. Seek and ye shall find. Knock and it shall be opened unto you. Ask and ye shall receive. Seek. Knock. Ask. Our Father answers our prayers – always, always, always, always, always. But we can’t say, “Take it away!” and expect it to happen. (At least that doesn’t work for me.) We have to plead, “Please show me the way through!” and He will.

Oprah is a gajillionaire, Dr. Phil has his own show, and sometimes-shallow people are getting rich writing books of “secrets” because there isn’t a mortal in this world who doesn’t fear coyotes. Everybody looks constantly for some complicated magical formula that will keep them at bay. Even in the Church – where we absolutely know better – we tend to inwardly groan and roll our eyes when the counsel is always the same: organize yourselves, prepare every needful thing. Read the scriptures. Follow the prophet. Attend faithfully to your prayers for your flocks and fields and families. But, people, it simply isn’t any more complicated than that. There hasn’t been another plan since the beginning of time. We don’t need another plan because this one works. It’s the only thing that does.

In the last fifty years, coyotes have circled my house. They’ve yipped and howled in the distance, pooped in my flowerbeds, and scratched on my doors. Once or twice they’ve even broken a window and crashed into the room, but they have never yet eaten me up. They never will as long as I have an iron rod and an open door to my Savior.

Commiseration, Please

Like many families in America, my husband's extended clan embarked this week on a "Biggest Loser" competition. Ours, semi-affectionately dubbed "The Great Lard Off," began Sunday at midnight. I threw myself into the fray with delight, dedication and optimism. I could do it this time! I would do it! The first two days were a breeze. I exercised like Michael Phelps. (Except that I drank gallons of water rather than immersing myself in it.) I ate like Mary-Kate Olsen. I even picked up a few "good karma" points by begging/bullying my husband into joining us, and then a few more for setting up a private blog for the competition. (If you think I'm going to tell any of you how much I weigh, you're dreaming.)

I hit my first speed bump on the road to physical fitness yesterday. Possibly it was a pothole. At any rate, I went to Chili's for lunch with a group who drank Coke and root beer and ordered fried chicken, creamy Alfredo, steak fajitas smothered with sour cream, and -- get this -- babyback ribs, loaded mashed potatoes and french fries. On the same plate. (I practically swooned.) I drank plain water (not knowing the calorie-count of a lemon slice) and picked at the "Guilt-free Salmon Plate." It consisted of seared, mostly flavorless fish, unseasoned brocolli and carrots, and six or eight black beans. 480 calories, total. I'm not a restaurant critic, but I will warn you that when you've finished your meal you find yourself crunching down ice cubes while eyeing the napkin and wondering if paper is fat-free.

What I'm saying here, people, is that for the last three days I've eschewed temptation and consumed fewer calories than most people living in the ghettos of India.

So it was with a regretable lack of humility that I stepped on the scale this morning for the first time since Sunday. I told myself not to expect more than a pound, but I secretly hoped for two. Possibly five. At least. Words for the self-congratulatory (and yet deeply inspirational) blog I would post on my family's site ran through my head. So . . . are you ready? Contrary to all the laws of dieting (and decency) as I know them, I have gained three pounds!

So I came to you. I want commiseration. Consolation. I want cheesecake.

I'll settle for your stories. Inspire me. Make me feel worse. Just tell me I'm not alone.

Let Us All Press On Scattering Sunshine

Fan mail makes me cry.

For years, the tears have been of gratitude and disbelief. Somebody liked one of my books? Really? It has always been easier for me to endure bad reviews than it has been to believe the good ones. It’s no surprise, then, that I’ve kept every positive stroke I’ve ever received. Since the release of Counting Blessings, my mail has increased ten-fold and the tears have increased many times that. But now I mostly weep because so many of the letters break my heart.

In the last weeks alone I have heard from a young mother with incurable cancer, an elementary school teacher who thinks of suicide, an abused teenager, and an elderly woman who fears dying alone. That these women reach out to me—a stranger—is touching, humbling, and absolutely terrifying. By the end of their letters I love them like sisters, never mind that we have never met. Often I must kneel at my computer chair before I can respond. More than once I’ve fasted, pleading for words of comfort, desperate to offer sound counsel when my poor advice has been sought.

If my in-box is any indication, life is tough all over. I’ve struggled myself lately with a surgery and ongoing infection. The merest threat this week of further chemo left me weary, weepy . . . overwhelmed. Since the cancer was diagnosed I have been trying to press on for all I am worth, scattering sunshine like a veritable maniac. And yet all around me people suffer. Sometimes they die. There is a point to all this, I know, but it is too often hard to see through tear-filled eyes.

I went to bed last night weighed down by the stories of struggle and hardship and pain and anguish and hopelessness we all encounter on a daily basis. Despite the heat, I pulled the sheet over my head and decided I’d never get up again. Ever. (If I chose to live past morning, the pit bull could bring me food; she knows where we keep the Ritz crackers and bottled water and is not above helping herself in a pinch.) I’d had it. No more trying to bear another’s burdens. A pox on compassionate service. The heart-rending mail could go unanswered and somebody else could arrange the funerals. Wasn’t my shoulder blistered from wheel-pushing? Hadn’t anybody noticed that where He seemed to want me to go was mostly around in circles? Quite obviously, I murmured to the cat, whoever wrote that song with “all is well” in every refrain had been out in the sun too long. Without his hat. All is not well in Zion and I would have defied anybody to prove otherwise.

I am no Lehi--if this is not already apparent, it soon will be--but I did dream. Being a lifelong Scouter, I dreamt I was with a group of family, friends, Cub Scouts and strangers, about to embark on a very long hike. An incredible man stood to introduce the guides and present the route. Everybody loved him for his goodness and admired him because he knew the way better than anybody else anywhere—he’d forged the paths, in fact. He explained that there were three places one could stop to camp and he himself would meet us at each site. One more simple instruction followed. Unlike a recent day camp, the guidelines for this excursion were not long, nor complicated, nor rigorous. All the instruction there was was contained in just four words. Ever prepared, I pulled out a pencil, scribbled on a scrap of paper, and tucked the counsel next to my compass and official Cub Scout knife.

We were off and it was marvelous fun! The morning was sunny but cool, and the terrain was easily traversed. Sure, there were rocks to climb and streams to cross, but they only added to the adventure. Before we knew it we were at the first campsite. I fear I lack creativity, even in my dreams, because the spot was the place in the Dells where I recently took my Cubs fishing—right down to the bright blue sky, gorgeous red rock formations, and natural lake that would give temple reflecting pools a run for their money. It was tempting to set up camp there. A few people did. I couldn’t imagine anyplace nicer, really, but fingering the note in my pocket, I soon gathered up my Cubs and pressed on with almost everybody I knew.

It was afternoon now and the sunny day had turned hot. The ground was not as level and the path was not as smooth. Almost everybody stumbled. Grumbled. Groused. As skinned knees, twisted ankles, and painful sunburns became the norm, some of our group turned back to the lovely site we’d left behind. I didn’t blame them. Perhaps I even wanted to follow. But, hey, we were Scouts—and there was still the instruction to consider. I kept hiking, helping the boys as I could and often being helped myself.We made the next camp by evening—bruised, maybe even a little broken—but triumphant and happy to have arrived.

This mountain meadow had all the first site’s beauty a hundred times over. I was all for pitching a tent, making s’mores, and staying forever. I’d just rolled out my sleeping bag when the beloved man’s instructions fell from my pocket. I read the four words then looked around. Some of my loved ones had already started up the next path. Some were clearly staying put. A guide urged me to decide—stay, go—but commit one way or the other. Since the Cub motto is “Do your best” and the best was clearly yet to come, I rolled up my bag, grabbed the hand of the nearest Wolf, and ran to catch up.

It wasn’t fun anymore. For one thing, it was nightfall. The guides’ flashlights always worked, but mine only worked sometimes. Mostly I stumbled in the dark, banging into things. Painful things. More than once I lost my way and had to search for a guide’s pinprick of light in the distance. The path wasn’t hard now, it was impossible. (In college I hiked down the Grand Canyon. Unfortunately, since what goes down must come up, I also hiked the other way, ruing every awful step. This was deja vu.) I was tired, sore, sorry that I hadn’t stayed at the beautiful campsite farther down the mountain and . . . frightened. Mostly I was frightened. Even if I could keep putting one foot in front of the other, which was doubtful, there were terrifying drop-offs to my left. While there was a railing drilled into the mountainside to my right, my palm was so sweaty it kept slipping off. Worse, there were too many people looking to me when I couldn’t see the way myself. Worst, they were hurting and I didn’t have anything in my meager first aid kit that could help. Many, many people turned back now. I didn’t want to go back, but I couldn’t go forward.

I sat down.

It was then the instructions appeared in my hand. Under the starlight I re-read the four simple words: Endure to the end. Not: Enjoy the stroll, but be sure to quit before it gets tough. Not: Give it your best shot, that’s all anybody can expect from you. Not even: Keep going until you can’t stand it a moment longer. He’d said: Endure to the end. Since I wasn’t dead and I wasn’t at the highest campsite, this must not be the end. Even if I didn’t believe I could bear the journey a moment longer, let alone make it the whole way, apparently I could.

I got up.

If I were Lehi, I’d have made it to a tree-filled campsite, partaken of delicious fruit, and told you all about it. If I were Paul, I’d be able to assure you that “eye hath not seen nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man the things which God hath prepared for them that love him.” But the truth is, I didn’t dream the end. Another truth is that what I did dream was so vivid, and the feelings associated with it so intense, that it was victory enough to have been standing—shaking, exhausted, still terrified but standing—when I awoke.

I got out of bed this morning and rummaged around in the closet for shoulder pads and a canvas tote. A little later in the day I will take my bag outside to refill it with sunshine—all it can hold. Perhaps Brother Clayton was not as addled as I’d supposed. While all is certainly not right with the world, at least not all the time, God is yet in His heaven and all is well in the grand scheme of things. That the end is not yet is not a trial. It is a blessing . . . an opportunity . . . a sacred responsibility.Perhaps I can press on, after all. I will keep trying at least . . . if you will.

Note: This was first posted on Six LDS Writers & a Frog. You can click on the link to read the comments that followed.

Caught in the Headlights

Unlike many readers and reviewers, I wasn’t drawn to this book by the forward by Glenn Beck or the enthusiastic back-cover endorsements of a Utah author, legislator, and/or radio personality. In the first place, I am not as politically conservative as most people think I am—too much NPR, I fear—and I live in the wrong state to know much of anything about Barry Phillip’s other notable fans. I read the book because of the backliner:

We've all had those “deer in the headlights” moments when we realize we’ve been chasing the wrong things. Caught in the Headlights: Ten Lessons Learned the Hard Way is a frank, insightful look at ten key goals most of us think we want—only to discover our eyes are on the wrong prize. Barry K. Phillips not only entertains, but also examines common values, and enlightens us to the goals we should seek, and what to do differently now that we know better.

The ten “values” most of us seek? Happiness, self-esteem, pride, freedom, control, tolerance, forgiveness, success, the “big event,” and the perfect body. Alas, he is probably dead-on in his assessment of the human condition. (Or maybe he just has me pegged.) Most self-help authors and motivational speakers with Phillips’s keen insight and sharp moral compass are to be avoided at all costs. If they don’t lecture you to within an inch of your life, they will almost certainly drive you to antidepressants. Phillips not only holds the lectures—or at least disguises them very, very well—he is most likely to drive you to sudden fits of uncontrollable laughter. The good news? This very readable and highly enjoyble book will not only make you take a good hard look at your life and possibly resolve to change for the better, it will entertain you and put you in a better mood while you are at it.

In the interest of fairness, I ought to warn you that Barry Phillips is a bit of a show-off. (This is written tongue-in-cheek for those of you who have difficulty determining the inflection in my often murky writing-style.) Not only does he explore each value clearly and candidly, but he illustrates each point with an often-insightful cartoon. As if exposition and illustration weren’t enough for one man, at the end of each essay he tosses in an original poem to . . . I’m not really sure why he did that . . . probably just to prove that he could! This guy is so adept at artistic multi-tasking that it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he’s composed theme music to accompany each section. (Somebody let me know if a soundtrack becomes available.)

Caught in the Headlights is a short book at about a hundred pages, but don’t let the brevity alone draw you in. It’s a ploy. This is a book you will need to read at least twice—I have—and then put in an easily-accessible location so you can pick it up for reference again and again—I did. In a word, Mr. Phillips: Bravo! Oh, wait. Let's make it two words; I need to add another: Thanks!

· Paperback: 116 pages (including forward by Glenn Beck)
· Publisher: Cedar Fort (June 2, 2008)
· ISBN-10: 1599551675
· ISBN-13: 978-1599551678

Buy this book from Amazon HERE!

So Many Books -- Hopefully Enough Time

I’m so glad I’m alive! I thought I was the most well-read person I knew, but it turns out there are dozens of books I need to read here before moving on to the vast libraries in the post-here. (Sometimes referred to as the hereafter.) My blog today on Six LDS Writers and a Frog is a very long report on what I learned from my small and very informal survey. Since you can read it all there, I won’t repeat it here.

I will, however, post my list, but only because I practically promised. A few weeks ago I could have done it easily; now, I’m not so sure. After pondering fifty lists of more than four hundred works, I’m not as confident in my choices as I once was. In fact, I’m not sure at this point that I could choose one hundred best-books that I felt absolutely solid about.

Over on the Frog Blog Hilary commented: Ask me again in six months because my list will have changed by then. That’s so true for me, except that mine changes daily. Hourly. If I’m melancholy I’m apt to go with Steinbeck – or maybe Twain if I want to overcome rather than languish. If I’m soul-weary, a little Dickinson or Barrett-Browning will cure me, but if I face long days of solitude, for sure I’ll take Tolstoy or Hugo. (Maybe Dickens or Faulkner.) Now that I’ve listed masters, I must confess that I don’t always reach for classics first. I’ve gone a couple of months, maybe, without reaching for them at all. I am also hopelessly addicted to at least a dozen modern authors, many of them considered hacks by literary critics. In my opinion, everybody should read Star Girl. Also Jesus the Christ. But isn’t that rather like recommending aardvarks and artichokes? (In that they have very little in common besides pages and covers and periods and all.) I don’t know. I could ruminate on this topic forever except that I’ve already thought myself thoughtless.

My list for today, and possibly only today:

1) The LDS Standard Works. The Bible defined my life and the Book of Mormon refined it. If the Book of Mormon were the only book extant in the world there would still be poetry, drama, romance, insight and inspiration to spare.

2) Jesus the Christ by James Talmadge. This book has changed my life every time I’ve read it. (Like the scriptures and the temple, it is too profound to comprehend all at once.)

3) Standing for Something: 10 Neglected Virtues that will Heal Our Hearts and Homes by Gordon B. Hinckley. Like Virtues, this book could – should – change the world. President Hinckley talks about the Polar Star and this book is that star. I can’t write about it without tears coming to my eyes. I love it that much.

4) Great Expectations by Charles Dickens. It isn’t his best work, or even my favorite, but it provided my first literary “ah ha!” I’ve remembered, and cherished, that moment my whole life.

5) The Collected Works of Mark Twain. (Okay, so it’s not one book. I never said I wouldn’t cheat.) This man peered into the soul of humanity with a jaded yet infinitely compassion eye. Only Twain can rip my heart out and make me laugh while he does it.

6) A Midsummer-Night’s Dream (or Macbeth or Cymbeline or Othello or Hamlet or . . .) by William Shakespeare. I love the English language and nobody in the history of the world has used it more skillfully than the Bard.

7) Collected Poems of Emily Dickinson. I know she’s the poet many lit professors love to hate, and, yes, you can sing many of her verses to the tune of “The Yellow Rose of Texas,” but I found Emily in my girlhood and am stronger, wiser, and in every way better for it. No one can make the mundane as sublime as did Emily.

8) The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis. Absolutely chilling as well as amusing. I read it as a teenager and walked around for weeks terrified of the “voice” in my head. Clever, meaningful, revelatory, even. Every Christian should read this book. Every person, probably.

9) The Other Wise Man by Henry Van Dyke. An absolute gem. I read it and A Christmas Carol each December without fail. (But it’s not a Christmas book. Read it today.)

10) I simply cannot make myself list a tenth. By naming Faulkner I leave off Tolstoy—and his fables are classics most often quoted by latter-day prophets. If I list Ray Bradbury because I am simply mesmerized by Dandelion Wine, what of Viktor Frankl and Corrie ten Boom whose books affected me so deeply I could scarcely breathe? – volumes I’ve pressed upon each of my children. Okay, that decides it. Viktor Frankl’s Man’s Search for Meaning is my tenth choice.

Today. Maybe we’ll do this again in six months . . . or ten years.

The winner of this site’s drawing is . . . Lisa Anne! She may choose any book from my list or the compiled Top Ten on the Frog Blog and I'll see that Amazon ships her a paperback copy. (I'll need your address. Please e-mail me.)

My deepest gratitude to each of you for playing along in the comments trail and in the several e-mails I received. (And especially for playing so nicely and insightfully. Quadruple thanks to all of you who listed one of my books just to be nice.) If you’re interested in a list of the two hundred books recommended by my blog readers, let me know and I’ll type it up and send it out.

Congrats, Lisa Anne! But you are all winners in my book! (Stop by my house and I'll loan you a book.)

Room for Two

To quote author Abel Keogh: At some point we’re all going to face a devastating affliction and cope with loss. How we choose to react to the bad things that happen in our lives defines who we are. We can either learn from our experiences and become a better person, or dwell in bitterness and sorrow. I choose to make the best out of a bad situation.

This is the thesis of Room for Two, an autobiographical book by a man who faced the unimaginable—the violent suicide of his young, pregnant wife—and then turned his grief and guilt into a triumphant growth experience for himself, and a pattern for courage, faith-filled resolve, and ultimate forgiveness for his readers.

From the first chapter:

"Sweetie, I'm home." I tried to put as much kindness into my voice as possible. I didn't want to have another argument—at least not right away.

Silence.

"Sweetheart?"

A gunshot echoed from our bedroom, followed by the sound of a bullet casing skipping along a wall.

Everything slowed down.

From the backliner:

When a life is destroyed, when guilt says you played a role in its destruction, how do you face the days ahead? Twenty-six-year-old Abel Keogh chooses to ignore the promptings he receives concerning his wife's mental illness, and now he feels he is to blame for her choices. If only he had listened . . .

At some point in our lives, each of us face devastating afflictions and must eventually cope with loss. Regardless of how it happens, the outcome is still the same—we are left isolated, alone, wondering what we could have done differently, and where we can turn for peace.

This is Abel's story in his own words. His search for peace and the miracle that follows is proof that love and hope can endure, despite the struggles and tragedies that shape each of our lives.

From the “reviewer” (me):

I read Room for Two at the recommendation of Candace Salima, author of Refiner’s Fire, and a woman I deeply admire as a writer and a person. I opened the book while seated on a hard cement bench, squinting into the hot afternoon sun while my two little nieces played nearby in a park. Three hours later, the sun was setting, my nieces were exhausted, the lower portion of my body was numb (I don’t think I’d moved in all that time; I’m not sure I even breathed at first) and I was still reluctant to close the book.

I can’t honestly say I loved everything about Room for Two—how the guy likes to be kissed is frankly a little too much information—but I can say unequivocally that Abel Kough is not only a solid writer, he is probably one of the most courageous and candid men on the planet. In the pages of this memoir of the worst (and, ironically, possibly the most promising) year of his life, he almost doggedly puts himself out there for the reader to judge if she will. I won’t. If there are shortcomings in his character—or writing—I didn’t see them. Rather, I admire Abel Keogh for being a man who is enough in touch with himself that he is unafraid to ask, and is sometimes able to answer, the hardest questions any of us could conceive.

In the final chapters, Keogh shares how he found a meaning-full poem written by his wife. This tender mercy allows him to at last make peace with a horror he can never fully understand in mortality. Then, with a new love at his side, he stands at the grave of his wife and infant daughter on the first anniversary of the suicide. He writes:

I felt that I should be crying or saying something profound. But my mind was blank, my eyes dry.

This, to me, was profound—and deeply touching. At the close of the third chapter I could not imagine how this young man would ever find hope, let alone peace, love, and eventual joy. Over the course of 200 or so pages I found out. Her name is Julianna and she is as remarkable as he is. The woman he calls “Marathon Girl” in his blog is perhaps the real hero of his book—and his heart.

Having written that, I wonder if I should post a spoiler alert. If I don’t it is because to me Room for Two was not intended to be suspenseful. Rather it is a generous gift: a chronical of a journey few of us have taken, a remarkable and meaningful glimpse into the worst and best life can offer. I could not have read past the thirty-eighth page if I'd had any doubt it would end any way but as it did.

Obviously, this is not a breezy summer read, but it is a book that will grip you from the first page and stay with you long after you have closed the back cover. Published by Cedar Fort, it is available at Amazon and other national booksellers. You can learn more about the author, read the first chapter of the book, visit his blog, and find links to other reviews and interviews on his website: www.abelkeogh.com.

Room for Two
Trade Paperback: 224 pages
Publisher: Cedar Fort (August 2007)
ISBN-10: 1599550628
ISBN-13: 978-1599550626
Retail: $14.99

I Guess I Can Die Now

As I was reading e-mail this morning, AOL put up a list of Ten Books to Read Before You Die. I've read them all, so I guess I'm good to go.

Seriously, except for the Bible and possibly Lord of the Rings and To Kill a Mockingbird, I have issues with that list. Not that I don't like many of the books, I do. A few I even love. I just know for a fact that if I made a list of my own, it wouldn't have included any of their picks besides the scripture.

AOL's list:

the Bible (Well, good for AOL, but it was #10)
Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand (More impressive to me in college than today.)
To Kill a Mockingbird by Harper Lee (Would probably make my top 20.)
Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger (Brilliant man, but ick.)
DaVinci Code by Dan Brown (Oh, come on!)
Angels and Demons by Dan Brown (What were they thinking?)
The Stand by Stephen King (Yes, really. I liked this book, but again, really?)
Harry Potter by J. K. Rowling (Give me a break.)
Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien (Well . . . maybe.)

I read lists like this every day and wonder A) what the world is coming to and B) why I continue to subscribe to AOL. But it has made me think. If somebody asked me for a stack of ten books to read before they die, what would I give them?

What would you offer? Send me your list either in the comments section or by e-mail, if you prefer privacy as I know many of you do. I'll give you three whole weeks to think about it. On July 30 I'll post my list and draw a name from a box containing the lists of everybody who's responded. Winner gets their choice of one of the books from my list -- either from my own collection or new from Amazon, their choice. If books are mentioned multiple times, I'll tell you that, too.

I really do want to know what you think!

PS: You may count scripture as one book -- as if a quad -- and include non-fiction if you must.

Happy Fourth of July!

For my take on the 4th of July, please read my musings (rant?) over on Six LDS Writers and a Frog. You can find it HERE.

All my hopes and prayers for a glorious and safe celebration for you and yours!

Yep, Subliminal for Sure

The e-mail I’m sharing today arrived soon after Counting Blessings was released. It’s so clever and fun I’ve been meaning to get it up ever since I got it. In Counting Blessings I wrote:

As Latter-day Saints we are practically obsessed with anxiously engaging ourselves in good causes. Maybe it’s subliminal. Glancing through the hymnal last Sunday, I noted that as sisters in Zion, we who are called to serve are all enlisted to go marching, marching forward because the world has need of willing men to all press on scattering sunshine. We wonder if we have done any good in the world today, because we have been given much and want to do what is right, keep the commandments, press forward with the Saints, and put our shoulders to the wheel going where He wants us to go. However, as the morning breaks high on the mountain top, truth reflects upon our senses, and while we still believe that sweet is the work, we also realize that we have work enough to do ere the sun goes down. And thus we ask Thee ere we part, where can we turn for peace?

A very terrific woman named Shauna replied:

As a family who loves the hymns I have shared with my husband and children your paragraph where you were glancing through the hymnal and noted that as sisters in zion, we who are called to serve are all enlisted, etc. We loved it! As I was e-mailing it to my children who do not live with me I added this PS at the bottom of your paragraph, and thought you might like it also:

Remember A KEY WAS TURNED so ALL CREATURES OF OUR GOD AND KING could SING PRAISE TO HIM and use FAITH OUR OUR FATHERS to COUNT YOUR MANY BLESSINGS and COME UNTO HIM. So, DID YOU THINK TO PRAY, “I NEED THEE EVERY HOUR?” Don’t WANDER THROUGH THE STILL OF NIGHT IN A WORLD (OF) SORROW; IMPROVE THE SHINING MOMENTS IN OUR LOVELY DESERET.
HOLD TO THE ROD in that SWEET HOUR OF PRAYER. COME, SING TO THE LORD THE GLORIOUS GOSPEL LIGHT HAS SHONE. THE LORD BE WITH US ON THIS DAY OF JOY AND GLADNESS and remember, OUR SAVIOR’S LOVE will LEAD INTO LIFE ETERNAL. So, YE WHO ARE CALLED TO LABOR, stay TRUE TO THE FAITH for THERE IS AN HOUR OF PEACE AND REST and THERE IS BEAUTY ALL AROUND. OH, IT IS WONDERFUL!

It really is wonderful, isn’t it?

Note: This is used with Shauna’s permission. Don’t be afraid to write to me! I’ll never post anything you write without asking you first, I promise.