Editing

I've been told by writers that you're never supposed to edit while you write. By the time the book's done, it's supposed to be in a very rough form (hence the term "rough draft"). That will not be the case with mine, as I have long formed the habit of editing while I write. Not to say, of course, that it won't need a bit of polishing here and there. But when I've written that last word (probably months from now at this rate!), it'll be ready to send on.

For example, this week I began at the very beginning and have been reading my way through, editing as I go. In December, I'd asked a handful of my friends to read the book (as it is so far) and play the critic. One such friend mentioned a couple areas where she thought my newly widowed character was acting a bit too flirty with another man. I didn't at first see it. But as I re-read that passage this week, I could totally see what she was referring to. Those sentences have either been completely removed or have been edited.

Next, I added a completely new scene where I'd always thought one lacked. I'd alluded to some horrible past event, yet never written it. For some reason, I just could never get it "right" before. This week, I was finally able to come up with a few paragraphs that are exactly what was needed.

Back to editing. When I write a sentence, passage, or chapter, I often have in my head the way it's supposed to go. Sometimes, however, that doesn't quite translate well onto the computer. Coming back to the book after I've had a break, re-reading it with fresh eyes, helps me to see glaring mistakes, passages that don't flow well, or even spelling and grammar mistakes (yes, I do make them!).

I'm quite sure that when it's finished and has been submitted for consideration, there will be things the editors want to change, if they are even interested in it to begin with. I've never heard of a case where this wasn't so. And especially for a first novel.

Until that glorious day when the last word is written and the book is ready for submission, I will undoubtedly reread it countless more times.

Editing as I go.

Confirmations

It was almost two years ago that God first brought my attention to the human trafficking issue. I'd heard about it, sure. Who hasn't? But certainly not in the detail to which it was first presented to me. I walked away from that two day seminar absolutely fired up to action! I wanted to tackle the issue head on. Then, as I've often related, passion cooled. Life commenced. A little over a year later, we visited a church near our mission headquarters, intent upon speaking to the mission's committee about supporting our ministry. God had other plans; little did I expect what was to come. There was a special speaker that morning, from a ministry to children of prostitutes in an Asian country. Women who are being exploited. In one morning, God reminded me of the issue He'd brought to my attention over a year prior. This time, I recognized the calling for what it was and acted upon it. I contacted the head of the anti-human trafficking department within our organization. Seven months later, I attended the 6-week training course at our headquarter campus (see earlier blog entries from that time period, if interested).

There have been little things over the many months that have served to confirm for me that this is exactly what God has for my ministry. I may not know exactly what it will look like, what exactly I'll do. But I do know one thing. He is preparing me for something big. I can feel it deep within my soul. I cannot share all the details, but this week after an email from our directors, I received yet another confirmation from God that this is indeed His path for me. Every step forward I make is a step He has ordained. It is humbling in the extreme.

I can certainly relate to Moses. Who am I, Lord, that You would choose me for this ministry? Without even knowing what will come, I know I am utterly unprepared. This unknown--this realization of something big on the horizon--is both exhilarating and terrifying at the same time. I know I can't do it on my on strength. But where I am weak, He is strong. And in my weakness, His strength shines through all the greater.

I would love your continued prayers for all of those who are actively in this fight. Whether we are on the prevention side (like I will be), the intervention side, or the restoration side, we all desperately need your prayers. 27 million people are currently enslaved. That's a HUGE number. And it seems like such an impossibility. But I believe our God is the God of impossibilities. I would also love your continued prayers as God reveals to me what His plans are for me and for our field of service.

You Write What You Read

We've all heard the expression, "you are what you eat". I personally don't believe there's any credence to this. I do, however, fervently believe that what we read affects us profoundly.

Just this past summer, I stumbled upon a story I wrote in the sixth grade. Rereading it gave me perhaps one of the biggest laughs I've enjoyed in a very long time. Oh, the writing. Oh, the grammar. Oh, the spelling! (Yes, the self-professed "grammar nazi" wasn't always thus. And proof that even the worst grammar offenders can, indeed, change.) But it also reminded me of another story from sixth grade that, unfortunately, wasn't saved. My teacher at that time, Miss Kelley, a former nun, was the original grammar nazi. She always required us to ask to be excused by saying "may I" instead of "can I". One day in class, for example, a boy, bless him, needed to use the bathroom. However, he forgot the magic words, asking instead, "Can I use the bathroom?" Her response was a raised eyebrow and the words, "I certainly hope so", without granting permission. He tried again, once more forgetting the words. By that point, it was urgent, and the "potty dance" had commenced. The rest of us were trying to feed him the necessary words in frantic whispers, but he was too panicked to comprehend what we were saying. He looked at her one more time and bolted from the room. Anyway, this paragon of grammatical perfection posted several assorted illustrations on the classroom bulletin board, and asked us to write a story using at least one of the pictures. I came up with a fantasy story that used every single one. My antagonist was a dragon named "Smog". Sound familiar? If you're an avid Tolkien reader, it certainly should. I'll mention here that, at this point in my life, "The Hobbit" was my absolute favorite book, and I'd read it many, many times. After working very hard on this story for several weeks, I was shocked to discover she'd awarded my hard work with an A+. Let me say, Miss Kelley never gave students an A+ on anything! She believed that there was always room for improvement. Yet, she gave me one nonetheless. I regret deeply that I didn't save this story. I'm sure it would also hand me a big laugh, like the one that was kept. But the fact that she saw something in my sixth-grade writing worthy of such a high honor is very humbling to me. To date, it is by far my highest writing achievement.

Several years later, as a non-Christian teenager, I read a bunch of fluffy, sexy, romance novels (exactly the kind I can no longer read). While I've never in my life had an interest in writing sex scenes, the romantic fluff inspired me to write numerous short stories about teenage romance. I'm honestly quite thankful none of those were saved.

Even today, as I've read back through the parts of my novel that have been finished, I can detect traces of other various books in the writing. Bits of novels by Jane Austen, Karen Kingsbury, Jan Karon, and Francine Rivers, to name a few. I may not have gone many places in my life, seen many things, or met many people. But I've done all of that in the pages of books I've read. The descriptions of places have impacted me. Characters I've met in beloved books have become cherished friends.

All of these things have changed the way I perceive the world, as strange as it sounds. And they've certainly changed the way I write.

Beautiful Word Pictures in Isaiah 61

For one of my classes, we have to choose a few verses each week to read. We read them in Spanish, give a brief explanation of what they mean, and then explain why they are important to us. This week, I decided to look at the first three verses of Isaiah 61, the chosen verses that represent Hope61.

I can't tell you how many times I've read over these verses with out really reading them. Until tonight. Picture after picture kept leaping off of the page and striking me in the heart. Beautiful word pictures that demonstrate what God can do for the broken. The unlovely. The unloved. I understand like never before why these verses are were chosen to represent what we do. I want to share these word pictures with you as well.

Isaiah 61:1-3

"The spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor."

God called me to serve Him as a missionary when I was 21 years old. Not many years later, He called me to go to Mexico and tell the people there about Him. Recently, I believe He's added yet another calling. I am to tell those who have been exploited or used by others about their value and worth in Him. About how they can have a new life in Christ.

"He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,"

This was the first of the word pictures to strike me, and it literally gave me chills. Imagine a beautiful vase. Now, imagine how that vase looks after it's been dropped. It's shattered. Pieces perhaps missing. No longer beautiful, right? With glue, it can sometimes be made new again. Not the same as it was before. But more beautiful. Especially when you put a light inside of it and see the light emanating from the cracks and chips of the vase. Beautiful. God's Word alone can heal a broken heart. With the good news of the Gospel message, we can "bind up the brokenhearted". Heal their wounds. Heal their very hearts.

"to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners,"

Freedom to those enslaved. Praise Jesus! But the only way they are going to have release from the darkness of their internal prisons is to become renewed. To accept Jesus as Savior and allow Him to renew them from the inside out.

"to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor and the day of vengeance of our God,"

This is a reminder to me that God is in control. Terrible, evil things happen every second of the day. But He has not abandoned us. He is a just God who hates evil even more than I do. Who hates injustice even more than I do. As Gary Haugen stated in his book "The Good News About Injustice", justice is not just a "cause" with God. It is His very character. His very Being. He will see that those who perpetrate these evil deeds are brought to justice. They will have to stand before Him and confess their deeds just like the rest of us.

"to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion--"

The only comfort for those who have been broken, used, abused, etc. is Jesus.

"to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair."

This is a beautiful picture to me. Imagine someone in the ugliest rags. Filthy. Hair matted. Stinky. Now imagine they've been cleaned. Arrayed in fresh, lovely garments. Instead of matted, stinky, ashen hair, they wear a crown. The life of someone who has been exploited is not pretty. They've gone through terrible things we can never even imagine. They bear scars we will never see. But through the redeeming grace of God, these lives can be transformed. Turned into something beautiful!

"They will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the Lord for the display of his splendor."

This one is the most powerful picture to me of all. My husband tells me that of all the domestic woods (not counting the exotics), oak is one of the most prized among woodworkers for its sturdiness, value, and beauty. Oak trees withstand at times great tempests. As do the exploited. A soul reborn, renewed through Christ Jesus is as the sturdy oak. Unmovable. Possessing great beauty and value to its Carpenter. These transformed lives become a living testament to what the saving grace of Jesus can do in a person's life.

They are living, walking, breathing displays of His splendor.

Not Letting Go

Over the weekend, I came to the difficult decision to put my story away for awhile. To allow myself time to refresh mentally and physically after the last grueling six months.

I was at peace about this. Felt it to be right.

There's just one problem.

My characters won't let me go. They're never far from my mind. I keep thinking of various plot lines and how they might be concluded.

This is completely unexpected. Usually, when I finally make a decision I feel good about, my mind clears. Quite the opposite has happened.

Imagine you've remembered some items you need to get at the grocery store. Now imagine it's very late at night and you're just drifting off to sleep. Or, at least trying to sleep. But you can't, can you? Not until you get up and finally write down those remembered items for your list.

That's what this is like.

So here I am, alone in a quiet house, the rest of the family at the park.

And I'm about to do the one thing I said I wouldn't.

I'm going to write.

A Hard Decision

For the last year, it has been my goal to finish my novel by December 31 of this year. Today, I accepted the reality that I'm just not going to reach this goal.

I struggled to write today--have been struggling to write--just because of this goal. Why? Why work so hard on something that is just not coming together the way it needs to? A writer's first novel should be something she enjoys. Not something she dreads.

As a perfectionist, I want this to be the very best effort I can make. And what I've been coming up with is certainly not that.

I think I underestimated just how mentally draining language school and learning to adapt to life in a new culture would be. I'm exhausted! Physically and mentally.

So, I've made the difficult decision to put it away until at least after Christmas. Then, maybe, once I've had some rest and taken time to really enjoy this first Christmas away with my family, I'll get it back out and work on it. Hopefully, fresh ideas will come to my refreshed mind.

If not, I'll not stress.

Right now, my only goal for this novel is to finish it and begin the publication process within 2013. I know it will be an up-hill battle, and I'm fully willing to publish it myself if the two companies I've found are not interested.

But I want to enjoy the process. No matter how long it takes.

The Reunion - Prologue and Chapter 1

Many of you have asked me what my novel-in-progress is about. The following is the prologue and first chapter, exactly as it appears in the story. Hope you enjoy it!

The Reunion

Prologue

June - Present Year
    The minivan crept along the cemetery road past rows and rows of tombstones, coming to a stop in front of one underneath an ancient weeping willow tree. A young woman emerged from the vehicle and reached back inside for a bag and the box of plants sitting on the passenger seat. She shut the door with her leg and carefully made her way over to the tombstone. Next to it was a bench, and onto this she set her armful of plants. Then, she reached into the bag for her gardening tools.
    She knelt in front of the tombstone, digging holes and then planting each of the various bunches of flowers in the loamy soil. Satisfied with her work, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and settled back in the lush grass.
    With a sigh, she thought again about today’s date: June 2. Had it already been a year? It didn’t seem possible. This was the first time she’d been to his grave in months. She’d last visited eight weeks after the funeral. At first, she was in no shape to even leave the house, sicker than she’d ever been in her life. Then, once she’d started feeling better, their little town of Cancun, Colorado experienced the full brunt of a brutal mountain winter. She just couldn’t risk an accident on the mountainous road between her house and the cemetery--not when she was the only parent they had left. And then in recent months, she’d been busier than she’d ever thought possible. No matter how busy things were at home, or how much seeing his beloved name in stone with those two dates below it hurt, she knew nothing would keep her from being here today with him. On the very worst kind of anniversary.

Andrew Emmitt Darcy 
Safe in the arms of Jesus 

    She ran her fingers lovingly over the name, melancholy once again at the gruesome thought of his life cut so violently short. He’d only been thirty. So young. It still didn’t make sense to her. But did losing a loved one this way ever make sense? She wasn’t the first, and would certainly not be the last to experience this kind of horror. However, there was no comfort in knowing that.
    She listened to the wind whispering its words of comfort through the leaves on the trees, closing her mind to the memories of that dreadful night. Not yet.  She was not ready--there were other things to think of first. Using her sleeve to wipe the tears from her eyes, she brushed her hands off and reached once more for the bag. From inside, she carefully pulled out a small box made of marble.  Lifting the lid, she extracted each item one by one. A picture drawn by her four-year-old son of his interpretation of Daddy singing with the angels in Heaven. A small plastic bag containing several wispy locks of hair taken from her two-year-old son’s first haircut. Another plastic bag containing several pictures. These she removed from the bag and held up, explaining each one.
    “Here’s Emmitt at his fourth birthday party with the toy train set our parents chipped in and bought him. And here’s Will taking his first steps.”  She flipped through the pictures one by one, each memory more bittersweet than the last. She would always treasure these special moments with her sons--Andrew’s sons. They were pieces of him she would have with her forever. They both even boasted more of his features and appearance than hers. Yet, she wished once again that it could’ve been different. That he could’ve been in the pictures, sharing these precious memories with her.
    There were several pictures that had been separated from the others when she’d first removed them from the bag. These she now took in her hands. 
    “When I was here last, I told you that I suspected I might be pregnant.  Turns out that I was. Andrew, I’d like to introduce you to your little daughter, Andrea,” she said, and held up a picture of a tiny infant wrapped in a pink blanket. “I named her after both of us--Andrea Joy.”  One by one, she held up several pictures of their daughter taken at various stages in her short four months of life. “She was conceived that morning....that morning we were together for the very last time. She was my very last gift from you, my love.” A daughter. When Will was born, they’d talked about trying once more for a little girl. While he loved his sons, Andrew had always wanted a daughter. One who would be “Daddy’s little girl”. And of course, she had dreamed of having someone to dress up and show off. Now, they finally had a daughter. A daughter her husband would never hold close to his heart. A daughter without a father to walk her down the aisle when she married.
    It was still incomprehensible to her.
    She returned the pictures to the bag, gently lay them in the box with the other mementos, and then placed the box behind the flowers up against the tombstone. She’d leave them here for him. Even though she knew he wasn’t actually here, it comforted her somehow to know that the box was there.
    She leaned back against the tree, drew her knees up into her chest, and closed her eyes. Even closed, the words on the tombstone were clear enough that they seemed embedded in her very mind. Against her will, the memories of that day flooded back to her. Some of the memories were achingly tender, precious.  But others, like those from that horrible night... 
    The night of the reunion---the night Andrew was killed.


Chapter 1

June, 1 Year Ago

    Emma Darcy awoke to the smell of coffee percolating in the kitchen down the hallway from the bedroom she shared with her husband, Andrew.  There wasn’t anything quite like that first scent of her favorite caffeinated beverage first thing in the morning.  And thanks to Andrew’s Mother’s Day present last month, each morning the coffee pot was timed to wake her up with a fresh brew promptly at six-thirty.  She rolled onto her side and glanced at her husband, only to realize he was already awake and watching her.  She knew that look--he had something in mind.
    “‘Mornin’, babe,” he purred, leaning in for what he intended to be a lingering kiss.
    She grinned at him before covering her mouth with her hand.  “Morning breath, Andrew. Can I please brush first? Can you please brush first?”
    Laughing, he pulled her into his arms and began nuzzling her neck.  “Doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you.” He proceeded to trail kisses along her ear and neck, then started inching lower.
    Emma giggled, placing a restraining hand on his bare chest. “Andrew!  I’m serious! Can’t we at least have a mint or something?”
    He reached over to the bedside table and found a roll of mints left there for such occasions. After unwrapping two of them, he popped one into his mouth and the other one into hers, wiggling his blond eyebrows at her suggestively. “There, is that better? You know the munchkins will be up soon, so we don’t have a lot of time here.”
    “Romantic, honey. Real romantic.”
    He framed her face with his hands. Brushed his lips across hers in a sweet kiss. “Can I help it if I’m madly, passionately, in love with--and can’t get enough of--my wife?” he asked, tenderly caressing her lips with his thumb before kissing them again. “You are so beautiful. What did I ever do to deserve you?”
    She favored him with a watery smile. “Andrew,” she half whispered, half sighed. “I love you.”
_____________________________________________________________________________

    Two hours later, Emma finished drying her hair, then slipped her feet into a pair of flip-flops.  Andrew was finishing up in the shower and then they’d decided to take the boys out for breakfast this morning. It was up to her to make sure they were dressed and ready to go.
    She snuck to the room next to theirs and carefully opened the door.  Amazingly, the boys were still asleep. It was practically unheard of for them to sleep so late. Thinking back to the last two hours she’d spent with her husband, she was extremely thankful for their stolen time together. 
    Emma crept to one-year-old William Andrew’s crib and gently peeled back his light blanket. Will was laying on his stomach, knees pulled up and his little bottom stuck up in the air. His blond, curly hair--so much like his Daddy’s--was plastered to his head and the back of his neck in tight corkscrews.  Thumb stuck firmly in his mouth, with plump, cherubic baby cheeks, he was absolutely adorable.  In the toddler bed across from the crib was three-year-old Emmitt Michael. The little boy was another little miniature of his father, except that his hair was not curly and stuck out in large tufts from the top of his head.
    She turned slightly when she heard her husband enter the room, smiling when he slipped his arms around her from behind, drawing her firmly against his broad chest.
    They stood there together, watching their sleeping sons for a few minutes. Then, he turned her in his arms and lowered his mouth to hers for a tender kiss. “They take my breath away---just like their mother,” he whispered, caressing her cheek with the back of his hand.
    Emma melted into his arms. “I love you, Andrew.”
    “I love you more, Em,” he whispered back, kissing her nose. “Shall we wake up the little princes?”
    Forty-five minutes later, the family was settled at the corner booth in their favorite Mom & Pop restaurant, waiting for their orders to arrive. Andrew and Emma enjoyed a leisurely conversation while the boys colored on paper place mats. After breakfast, they took the boys to a park near their house that had a playground geared more toward smaller children like theirs. They took turns pushing Will in a baby swing and chasing Emmitt between the swings and the slides. The family’s delightful morning together was concluded with chocolate ice cream cones from Dairy Queen before it was time to head back home. The boys were exhausted after their busy morning and needed a nap.
    While Andrew made sure the boys were asleep, Emma headed back to their room and pulled out the new black dress she’d purchased for tonight’s reunion.  It was hard to imagine that it had already been ten years since high school graduation! Where had the time gone? She stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and held the dress up to her body, trying to imagine how it would look once she’d completed her hair and makeup.
    Andrew stopped in the doorway of their room and leaned on the jam, his muscular arms crossed in front of him. He caught Emma’s eye in the mirror and a slow, seductive smile spread across his handsome face. “I confess I can’t wait to see my hot wife in her sexy new dress.”
    She rolled her eyes at him and tossed the dress onto the bed. “I’d hardly call it that, Andrew.”
    He sidled up to her and grasped her slim waist.  “Consider what I normally see you wearing, babe. T-shirts and jeans. Trust me, it is sexy.”
    Emma favored him with a sly grin and cupped the back of his head, pulling him toward her for a kiss. As often happened between them, the kiss quickly intensified.
    Reluctantly, he broke the kiss and distanced himself from temptation. After a quick glance at his watch, he groaned. “As much as I’d love to crawl into that bed with you and show you just how sexy I think you are, it’s time for me to go. I’m gonna be late if I stay much longer.”
    Emma sat on the bed, watching him pull together materials for both of his classes. “I can’t wait until you’re finished with your Master’s, honey.”
    “I know, Em, me too. You bringing my suit tonight?”
    “If you like. The black one?”
    Andrew nodded.
    She rose and wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug. “I’ll see you later tonight.”
    “Count on it,” he whispered, resting his forehead briefly against hers before giving her a last lingering kiss. “I doubt I’ll be able to concentrate in class, I’ll be too busy thinking about going home with the hottest girl at the reunion.”
    Emma laughed and blew him a kiss.
    After watching Andrew’s Durango pull out of the garage, she checked on the boys one more time and then headed back to her room to rest awhile.  She knew her husband would find something to do to keep them both up late tonight and she’d need every minute of rest she could get now.
________________________________________________________________________________

    Dr. Justin Bennet slid several coins into the vending machine and pressed the button for some water. Twisting the cap off, he brought the bottle to his full lips and guzzled almost half of its contents.
    “Thirsty, eh, Bennet?” came a thick Southern drawl from slightly behind him.
    He turned and grinned at the sweaty man who’d spoken. “You ought to know, Williams, considering I beat your sorry self at tennis just now.”
    The other gentleman laughed heartily. “That’s a good one. Keep on tellin’ yourself that if it makes you feel any better,” he quipped as they made their way toward the gym’s locker room. “And what does Cancun’s Bachelor of the Year have planned for tonight?”
    Justin rolled his eyes and groaned. Not that again. He could not understand how in the world he’d even been nominated for that title, let alone actually winning it. Surely there were men on the list more befitting the title than him.
    “As a matter of fact, I’m going to a high school reunion.”
    Williams’ face mirrored his displeasure. “Sure you can’t get out of it? There’s a great party tonight at the Chief of Staff’s mountain cabin.”
    Those kinds of parties held about as much thrill for Justin as that blasted Bachelor of the Year title. His idea of fun was not spending an evening watching colleagues from the hospital get plastered. Social drinking held no appeal. Not anymore. What was enjoyable about becoming so inebriated you couldn’t remember what you’d done the night before? Not to mention the physical after-effects of being drunk. He’d left all of that behind him years ago, thanks be to God. “Thanks, but no thanks. You know I’m not into that.”
    His friend punched his arm and chuckled. “And that’s why you won the title, my friend. A respectable, successful surgeon who’s a gentleman to boot. You truly are an enigma to the people of this town. Have fun at your reunion,” he called as the two headed to separate parts of the locker room.
    “I fully intend to,” Justin whispered softly.
    After all, she would be there.