my secret

Today's writing challenge was to write down something that I aspire to; that dream, that passion, that "I want to be this but I'm scared to say it out loud" kind of desire which, if it did indeed describe me, would allow me to die happy.

Jeff challenged us with this- Here’s what I want you to do: Write down in some place secret, “I am a ____.” Do it and do it now. We’ll come to it later. For now, pull it out every day and read it. Yes, this is hokey, and yes, I want you to do it, anyway.

So I did.

And I'm not going to tell you what I wrote, but I am going to take it out every day and read it, just as he suggested.

I will tell you one thing I already am that I thought might help me in this writing life; something that could potentially carry a lot of clout and breeze me through a lot of doors.

I am a Michener.

Michener was my maiden name, and while my father is not James A., James A. was my father's history teacher at a private high school in Pennsylvania back in the late 1930's.  And.....my brother happens to be named James.  Without the A. (it's gotten him places.)  My mother didn't believe in middle names so when I got married, Michener slid nicely into that middle spot squarely between Elizabeth and Coulton.

When I started to write, I sniffed a whiff of importance and just in case it had any inkling of helping me get anywhere in this world,  I used my whole, entire, middle-and-all name.  Because I could.

Didn't make a darn bit of difference.  Didn't raise one eyebrow.  Didn't get one reaction.

Oh well.  At least I tried.

Each writer has to stand on their own.  No one's merits can count as yours; each individual's work is theirs and theirs only.  As it should be.  It's all good, really.

But I'm glad I gave it a shot.  Because you just never know what's in a name.  And when I pen "North Pacific", you can be sure I'm going to use my middle name right on the front cover.

a clarification



Picture courtesy of www.lepoidevinmerge.com

As I was writing my post yesterday, I sensed that I was giving off an aura. A not-so-great aura. An aura which implied that you are only a writer if you get paid for it.

Today I'm here to fix that, because nothing could be further from the truth.

And I am sorry if I gave you, dear reader, that impression.

Money does not a writer make.

You are a writer if you do one thing.  Write.

I have been writing for a long time and recently ventured out to see if I could make a little money doing it because let's face it, who can't use a little extra income.  That's what yesterday's post was about - the success of a venture that went as I had hoped (and as I sensed God was leading me).  It happened to involve writing.

But I would have called myself a writer even if I never saw a cent.  And I would still write even if one day that company's powers-that-be said, "We cannot pay you; can you still write for us?" 

Of course I can. Because I love to write.

And that, my friends, makes me and any one of us a writer.

Our challenge today has been to ruminate on that fact, and indeed I have been.  I've slow-cooked that title all day and it's starting to feel more comfortable, a bit better fitting, almost comfy couch-like.  Which is better than the "I can't possibly call myself THAT" sort of thing.

The more you say it, the more you'll believe it.

The more you believe it, the more you'll say it.

Fear not.  Believe in yourself.  Then go forth and write.

hear ye, hear ye

Our challenge for Day 1 came boldly to us this morning - Declare you’re a writer.

It was followed by these sentiments "Do it with pride and boldness. Write about it, tweet it about, record a video if you want. The more outrageous it is, the more likely you are to believe. This is what we’re trying to do here: convince ourselves that we have the right to pick up the pen."

Why is that so hard for us to do?

We seem to have the hardest time believing in ourselves.

As I desperately tried to find someone today to proclaim my writership to, I was coming up short.  I was ready to shout it from the rooftops and fly a plane across the beach with "I AM A WRITER- EAT AT JOE'S" waving proudly behind me in order to get someone to notice me.  But no one did.

Until I got the mail.

Mixed in that pile of catalogs and bills and unwanted correspondence, there was one sacred envelope.

My first paycheck - ever - for writing something.

How ironic that it came to me on Day 1 of this writing challenge.

So, while I may not have told anyone verbally today that I am a writer, I received something that verified my path and said to me "Yes, you are."

And that was the best news I heard all day.

tomorrow, tomorrow, I love ya, tomorrow....

Today I decided to make that commitment to write something, anything, every day.  The best practice for writing is to...write. 

Just hours later I received an invite to participate in a daily writing challenge starting tomorrow that will help develop great writing habits, push our pencils further than they've gone before, and get our creative juices flowing (even if it kills us). 

 It is the brainchild of Jeff Goins (who is, himself, a great writer).

If you write, ever thought of writing, or would just like to dip your pen in some ink and try out the craft, I invite you to join me as I partner with over 300 others who will rise to the challenge of weekday assignments meant to hone our skills and make us better than we were before.

And yes, that is possible.

Love is more than...

When I was little I wasn't allowed to sit on the shingled roof of our storage shed. Since the shed was built into the side of a hill, it was very easy to walk from one part of the lawn, take a step up and be on the roof.  And while it didn't go very high, sitting atop of it made us kids feel like kings and queens of the land, surveying our kingdom.

Which would make us disobedient royalty because it was against the rules.

One summer afternoon, something got the best of me.  I can't remember quite what that something was, but it made me go I went on the roof.  I had probably forgotten the rule and was just caught up in being a kid and having a good time and sitting somewhere high.  It was great.

Until I was climbing down and broke a shingle.

And the memory of that ruling came to me in an instant.

I stood there, broken roof piece in hand, and knew I'd done it.

Verdict -  so guilty.

I found my mom in the kitchen and told her my story.  She listened, and then looked at me and said, "You'll have to wait until your father gets home and tell him."  Rats. This wasn't going according to plan. She wasn't going to get me out of it.  (On the other hand, I have no idea why my mother said this because my father was about the gentlest creature around. This was the one and only time my mother ever used that line on me. And on that day it worked just fine. Shiver me timbers.)

I still remember that afternoon, sitting on the top step outside the front door waiting for him to pull in the driveway after work. I remember holding that piece of asphalt roofing material in my hand, knowing it was enough evidence to send me to bed without dinner at least, and perhaps eradicate all my summer plans at most.

So, so guilty.

The car pulled in.  Dad came up the steps.  I'm sure I immediately blubbered in my preteen way something about I broke a shingle because I was on the roof and I wasn't supposed to be and I didn't listen and oh I'm so sorry and......

My father paused for a moment.  Then he patted my head as he walked by, and I'll never forget what he said.

"Love is more than a broken shingle."

I'm almost positive he was smiling.  Even he knew when he was being corny.  And even he knew when his daughter had been punished enough just by waiting for hours to be able to tell him her error and say she was sorry.

As I finally let out a breath I'd been holding in for quite some time, I felt that relief of being forgiven, of the man in charge saying "no big deal", and of not getting what I deserved.

That's grace.

You may be sitting with brokenness today, holding wrongdoings in hand to show your Father.  You may not be sure just how He'll receive you, because you've done what He asked you specifically not to do.

We've all been there, done those things.

And while He may not actually pat your head and give you a wry one-liner, He will always, always exude grace and forgive you and fill you with peace when you come to Him and lay your sins and sorrows at His feet.

So get up off the top step and go to Him because you can. 

This time, He's the one waiting for you.

not your mama's jewelry

I am happy to have the chance to review a beautiful jewelry set from (in)courage, called Redeemed - I Am His.  There are two lovely pieces to this - a charm bracelet and a pendant necklace.

What a beautiful gift for yourself or someone in your life!  These can be purchased through Dayspring's website.

When I think of jewelry, I often think of my mom.  She was never found without her dangly earrings; no outfit would have been complete without that accessory for her!  She always looked fantastic, and, as with most moms, I thought she could solve every problem and heal every wound that came along in my life.

I can't say that she ever let me down even once in that area- she truly was a super woman.

For those moms in our lives who encourage us to be our best and are always cheering us on - we thank you!

(This set is a part of (in)courage's May Inspired Deals . Dayspring sent this to me free of charge and the opinions stated herein are my own.)

Missing Mom

Twelve years ago today, my mom left this earth to go live with her Savior in heaven. 

 It was hard to say goodbye.

It still is.

But what remains are happy, joyful, loving memories.  It was all good, always.

When I recall how I felt about her - how my world so often wonderfully revolved around her and how she was my best friend and my true north - sometimes I get scared because now I'm a mom and I'm wondering if my three children feel the same way about me.

Wow.  It's quite the position to be The Mother.

May I do as well as she did.  It would be an honor.

Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

I love you.