Great Resource for Writers

As a writer, I know I constantly have questions about the writing life. Everything from how to find an agent to how many words is appropriate for a Y/A novel. For anyone who’s asked those questions, I thought I’d pass along a resource that has been a wealth of information, contests, and more for the writer. Whether you’re just beginning to write or a published author, check out www.guidetoliteraryagents.com/blog.

Be sure and check out the website before tomorrow – 11/3/10. That’s the last day to enter their “Dear Lucky Agent” contest, which will award 3 winners with a chance to have 10 pages of a completed Y/A novel reviewed by an agent. Hurry!

Happy writing!

Fear

When I was a child, my siblings, cousins and I loved to tell ghost stories. As the sun set on our outdoor activities, we would gather in the corner bedroom of my grandparents’ house to try and out scare one another. We’d huddle in the dark room and spin tales designed to delight the group, even as we collectively trembled.

One summer night, we were tucked away, telling stories by flashlight. As the speaker unfurled the gory details of their story, we heard a strange sound. The room grew silent, but the sound didn’t repeat. This scenario repeated several times as the speaker returned to their story until one frightened member of the group saw knuckles tapping against the bedroom window. As the first scream erupted, the group of us leapt from the bed and began pulling, pounding and tugging on the bedroom door. It wasn’t locked, but in our fear, we couldn’t get out of the room. Finally, not wanting to create the possibility of emotionally scarring us, a chuckling parent released us from our room of terror.

Although hardly on the same scale as my anecdote, I see similar blind terror flowing freely in our country. I’m speaking, of course, of Islamaphobia, which is running rampant on social media sites, in print publications, and in the images brought to us by the nightly news. Emotionally-charged protests of Muslim mosques, the most prominent one dubbed as the “Ground Zero Mosque,” are being reported from coast to coast. Nationwide, angry and frustrated individuals are renouncing the rights of Islamic groups to establish houses of worship.

When I first heard about the “Ground Zero Mosque,” I too was angry. Like most Americans, I can tell you exactly what I was doing when I received news of the terrorist attacks on the twin towers. I remember staring in disbelief at the news reels, and crying at the sight of people jumping out of windows. I wondered how anyone could consider building a mosque on what has become hallowed ground.

But, as a writer, the impulse to dig deeper took over and I pushed feelings aside to consider some facts, most of which seem to have gotten lost amidst the political rhetoric and fear mongering. Consider the following, for example:

1.      The proposed construction is for a community/cultural center – the equivalent of the Christian-based YMCA. While it will house a small interfaith prayer center, the primary plans are to include a 500-seat auditorium for cultural events, recreational facilities, and activities commonly offered at the YMCA and cultural centers.

2.      The community center proposed is not even visible from Ground Zero, which is two blocks away. Also, although I’ve not been there, it is my understanding that there are much more offensive things in the immediate vicinity of Ground Zero. A house of worship, for many, would be a serious upgrade.

3.      Currently, the site, which is privately owned property, houses a mosque. In fact, it’s one of three mosques in the area.

4.      The current imam established the mosque last October and has proposed the community center as a means of building an interfaith bridge in the community. His wife even serves as an official advisor to the National September 11 Memorial and Museum. Both have made great efforts to bring healing and peace to the community to counteract the events and impact of 9/11.

As I move beyond these facts, I find that the voice of reason further asserts itself – especially in regards to the individuals who actually executed the plans for 9/11. Those 19 Islamic extremists have come to represent the Muslim religion and all of its followers. From pulpits and podiums around the country, many non-Muslim religious and political leaders are asserting that mosques are nothing more than a clever disguise for terrorist training grounds within our borders. Some, like a Florida church, are planning events such as a Qur’an burning on 9/11. Am I the only person who cringes at stories like this, considering similar historical events, such as the Nazi regime?

Using the same logic, wouldn’t pedophile priests represent the entire Catholic religion. Or shouldn’t Christian churches be accused of breeding terrorists such as abortion clinic bombers? And what about Timothy McVeigh? Remember him? Prior to 9/11, he successfully executed the most deadly terrorist act on our soil in Oklahoma City. As I recall, he stated that love of his church and country prompted his actions. Was his church to blame for his patriotism?

Several other things struck me as I read articles from a variety of publications on both sides of the controversy. While I can understand the distaste for a mosque so close to the site of such painful memories, it does not explain the rampant protests of sites across the country. California, Tennessee, Connecticut, and other states have reported similar protests of proposed Islamic houses of worship.

What saddens me most about this is that these protests are against law abiding, taxpaying, American citizens whose children were born in our hospitals and attend American schools.  In fact, a growing number of American Muslims are requesting law enforcement protection in order to attend their mosque. Isn’t fear of harm and religious persecution why our forefathers braved the journey across the ocean to come to the Americas? Isn’t freedom from such actions what this country is built upon?

It certainly is. But more and more, our country is starting to resemble the very countries at which we shake our heads in pity. While we understandably bristle at the supposition by Islamic extremists that America is evil, we demonize an entire religion for the actions of a few. We criticize countries that declare a national religion and prohibit the establishment of other religions, then try to deny that freedom for a religion that frightens us because we don’t understand it or have sufficient knowledge of its beliefs. Born from that fear is an unwillingness to know the people who reflect what’s good about Islam.

Once again, we are at a crossroads in this country. We can leap blindly in any direction that seems to promise safety. Or, we can pause to identify and effectively deal with the real monsters. Ultimately, the choice we make as a nation will determine if we truly treasure the values of our constitution, or if it’s become an obsolete weapon that we deploy only when it directly benefits those of whom we’re not afraid.

Stretch Armstrong

You remember him. You know you do. Well, you do if you were older than the age of 10 in 1976.

Stretch Armstrong was this grossly misshapen lump of rubber, gel-filled flesh. Okay, he was supposed to represent some hunky, blond-headed muscleman attired in swimming or wrestling trunks. But, to me, he was stumpy with flesh completely void of anything that would define him as chiseled and muscular. In fact, the only thing about Stretch that was well-defined was his hard plastic head.

But, Stretch had an amazing talent. Kids could twist, pull, flatten, and, well, stretch everything from the neck down on the action figure. You could literally pull his arms and legs to such lengths as to tie his extremities in knots. And then, like some kind of weird character in a B horror film, his arms and legs would, without anyone’s assistance, untie themselves and eventually resume their original “shape.” The toy’s claim to fame was that no amount of torture and violence could result in the puncture or detachment of any part of his body.

My brother had a Stretch Armstrong. We never defeated his impenetrable exterior – and believe me we tried, stopping just short of cutting him open with scissors.

I’ve found myself thinking of Stretch lately. Over the last year, the universe has applied more twists, turns, and knots on our family than one could ever imagine. From the loss of four loved ones, beginning with my Dad, to job losses, new jobs, major life decisions, health crises, and more – we’ve weathered them all. Each of us in our own unique ways. We are each striving to release the knots of life without allowing life’s events to puncture our tough exterior. It hasn’t been easy on any of us – most especially my mother – but we continue to adjust towards some semblance of normalcy.

I’ve gratefully recognized lately, though, that unlike Stretch Armstrong, some of the stretches and knots the universe has tossed my way have left me in better shape. Professionally, I’m stretching in directions that I knew I was capable of but lacked the support for in previous environments. The toxicity that filled my veins before has seeped away, creating a flow of positive energy and experiences. New friends, as well as stronger, long term relationships have been forged amidst the chaos. And the impact, much of which is still to be revealed, already finds me facing tomorrow with more hope.

I’ve recently begun a journey of building my own Vision Board – a map, if you will, of the directions in which I want to stretch. Upon completion, it will hold images of a future that include fulfilling many, if not all of my dreams. Because, as painful as the last year was, one truth rings true – life is too short not to pursue your dreams.

A character in one of my favorite dramas, “Survivors,” recently summed up the whole living experience.  She had just survived an apocalyptic-sized destruction of more than 90% of the world’s population by a deadly, flu-like virus. Her world had more knots and twists than a groom’s stomach on his wedding day. As she faced the few survivors, all previously unknown to her, she said, “Living is more than breathing.”

After the last year, I realize that when I take my final breaths, I want to do so knowing that I have stretched myself to the limits. It’ll mean more knots for me, I’m sure. But I’m okay with that, because in the end I will have done more than just breathe.

I will have lived.

Finding My Puzzle

For those who know me well, it’s known that I get a great deal of pleasure from piecing together intricately designed jigsaw puzzles. The more pieces the better. I find the activity to be highly meditative in nature and I’m left with a great sense of accomplishment upon completion. I’ve even turned some of them into artwork for our walls by gluing, framing and hanging them.

So, although not original, it comes as no surprise that I would view my own life as a huge puzzle. I’m certainly not breaking any new ground by viewing my life as such. Over the last few months, I’ve watched a unique phenomenon occur in my life’s puzzle.

Some months ago I had this nagging thought occur that the piece of the larger picture that is me was no longer fitting well. Once nestled into my “place” with a snug fit, I suddenly found myself trying to force the fit. I turned this way and that. Occasionally there would be minimal success – one part of me still fit securely while the rest of me poked out in odd directions. So I’d turn again, and again, and again.

Before long, my spinning and flipping took on a harried feel as anxiety began to build. This was the only spot in the puzzle left open. How could I no longer fit? I looked to the other subjects of the puzzle, some of whom were comforting and encouraging. Other subjects saw my puzzle piece as an irritant, something to be disposed of quickly. Others were unaware that the puzzle was coming unglued.

I begged the puzzle builder for an explanation, but couldn’t hear his reply amidst my anxious spinning.

Then, about three weeks ago, while in a meeting, it suddenly became clear to me why my puzzle piece no longer fit. I sat back and took a broad view of the puzzle only to discover the puzzle around me was completely different. Somewhere along the way, the big picture changed to one I no longer recognized. I could have spun myself into an early grave and still would never have fit into that puzzle. Initially, I blamed myself thinking I had failed as a piece of that puzzle.

But after the initial shock and anxiety, a meditative calm settled over me. The puzzle builder wouldn’t just set me adrift. My puzzle had changed before and I had survived.

I don’t have any answers as to what the big picture is right now. I don’t know if my new puzzle is bigger or smaller than the last. But I do know that I have a place that is uniquely designed for me. And, more than likely, I’ll have to shift to many other puzzles before I drop into my final puzzle.

So, for now, I’ve stopped the anxious spinning and am waiting quietly for guidance. The puzzle that is me is far from finished – but it will be intricately beautiful when it’s complete. Maybe even worthy of framing.

Time to Say Goodbye

Throughout my life, I’ve had momentary flashes, visions if you will, of the future. My earliest recollections of “psychic flashes” occurred when I was a kid growing up in the country. We lived in a ranch-style house on a winding, country road with relatively little traffic. Our house sat in the middle of two acres that provided a large front and back yard uncluttered by trees. Our mailbox was located across the street from the end of our gravel driveway, which began midway into the backyard, ran past the house and down a slight incline along the edge of of the front yard. It was a proverbial “hike” to the mailbox.

I could always tell when there was something in the mailbox for me. As I exited the back door, my heart rate would pick up and my breathing would quicken with excitement. I’ve always had a fascination with getting mail – a fetish that has grown more compelling with the advent of e-mail, facebook and all my other electronic connections with the world. So, by the time I had passed the house and reached the top of the hill that declined toward the street, I found myself fighting the urge to run to the mailbox. Often it would be nothing more than junk mail, but I still sensed the message.

Through the years, I’ve received many “messages.” Although they were not necessarily messages I wanted to hear, I’ve had an uncanny ability to sense them. On Tuesday, June 16 at approximately 8:25 p.m., I received a message that I chose to ignore.

I was sitting on my front porch steps watching twilight enshroud our street. I was restless. I was anxious about things at work. Unhappy with some of the unexpected twists and turns of my career. On a whim, I decided to use the remaining evening light to cut the grass and blow off some tension.

About 2/3 of the way through completing my work, I had one of those “messages.” I saw my husband standing in the front door trying to flag me down to take a phone call. I waved him off. He became more insistent, urging me to come to the phone. So real were these images that I turned toward the house, breaking the spell. The doorway was empty, the vinyl siding awash in the pinks and reds of sunset. I completed the mowing a few minutes later, but found no solace in the silence that fell as I let go of the handle. Something was wrong.

The remainder of the evening was uneventful and I turned in at my normal bedtime. As I usually do, I read to quieten my mind and prepare for sleep. I forced myself to ignore that familiar rapid pulse and quickened breath so often associated with my “messages.” When I did drift off, it was to a sleep deeper than any I can recall in recent months. So deep, in fact, that I did not hear the phone ringing a little after 4 a.m. But the caller was persistent, dialing my number again even before the silence of the previous ring could settle over our sleeping house. Eventually the ring became so insistent I was forced to rise from my slumber and stumble to the phone.

“Lisa, honey, it’s your cousin Kim. Steve just called me and your Dad has been taken to the hospital. I don’t know any other information, but they’ve been trying to reach you. Steve is on his way.”

Six messages awaited me on the answering machine. Two of the calls were from my siblings, but the first four were my mother begging me to pick up the phone. I could hear the fear in her voice – but there was more. Something in the background that said this wasn’t going to end like all the other calls to the hospital.

My father was gone before I reached the hospital – before any of us reached the hospital.

As we begin to learn to live without Dad, my mind drifts to that Tuesday night. If I had allowed the vision to roll forward, would there have been time to say goodbye?

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Writer’s Block

I can hear them. Their voices drone in the background. It is comforting, much as it was to hear my parents voices through the adjoining bedroom wall of my childhood home.

I can’t hear what they are saying, though. These characters I’ve created on paper are continuing their story without me. It feels odd not to be privy to their thoughts, discussions and actions. I miss them terribly. I long to hear Charlene’s sarcastic quips. I wonder if Megan still picks at her chemise as she speaks of her beloved Tommy?

Every once in a while I can hear the whistle at Barnes Linen Service bellowing in the early morning air. Mr. Barnes counts heads as girls tromp up the stairs to begin their long work day. An occasional air raid siren wails through these walls better know as Writer’s Block.

Oh, dear Megan, I know you are suffering so. I knew Tommy was a scoundrel, but I couldn’t warn you. And Charlene – the keeper of deep, dark secrets - I know you long to tell all. My heart aches to be with you, to tell your stories. I know it seems like a lifetime has passed since I left you both mired in your misery and sadness.

But, I am here. Your voices get stronger every day through this wall. Once only muffled rumblings, I can once again hear the tears in Megan’s voice and see Charlene rolling her eyes at the mention of Tommy.

I promise, the wall will be down soon.