In a previous post, I shared the pregnancy scare I experienced when I was almost 29 weeks pregnant with my first son. As I finished the post, a quote came to mind. It certainly took on new meaning as I recalled my scare.  

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”  ~Elizabeth Stone~

So. True.

Example: I want people to be kind to my child. My now 21-month-old had his first experience on an airplane when he was six months of age. While steadily slobbering on his shirt (he did a lot of slobbering back in the day!), he excitedly interacted with the other passengers. Encouraged by all the attention, he smiled at and tried to get the attention of a man who stood with his back turned against him.

Though the scenario was kind of funny, my heart ached. The man wasn’t even trying to ignore my son, but I was ready to yank his (quite substantial) flesh around and make him coo at my son. Though the experience was a first for me, I still feel the same way when people don’t react to my son the way they should. (show some DELIGHT, people!)

As I thought about the quote and the airplane experience, I realized I felt similarly about my writing. In fact, the aforementioned quote—at least from my point of view—could easily be modified:

“Making the decision to share your writing is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”

Deciding to write is momentous. But deciding to share your writing? Oh, boy.

Now, I’m sure some writers have steel hearts that deflect criticism of their work. Not I. When other writers speak of their novel as “their baby,” I totally get it.

When my first novel is published (positive thinking!) I want people to be kind to it. I am hard on it enough—in fact, much harder than I am on my flesh-and-blood child. In a way, my writing is an even more undiluted extension of me than my literal offspring. And I am fiercely hard on myself, so why not on the words I birth?

The grand message I wish to give with this post? I don’t know…be nice (but honest) in your Amazon and Goodreads reviews? After all, a real person wrote the book you hold in your hand and put part of him- or herself in it.

Then again, many of us expose our hearts in ways that have nothing to do with children or writing. Are we kind to each other’s exposed hearts? Before we give each other reviews (and don’t we all do so subconsciously, whether we should or not?), are we generous in our judgment?

I’m not suggesting we become blind to each other’s faults. But maybe—just maybe—we can be less critical of each other. Maybe we can look for the good and not jump to the worst conclusions. Maybe we can see each other’s potential and encourage each other to reach it.

It’s good to be kind. Even to yourself.

Side note: For an excellent post on being kind to yourself, visit my friend Erica’s blog. 

My preggo belly this morning.

A few days ago, I entered my 29th week of being pregnant with our second boy: nothing remarkable happened.

Thank goodness. Almost two years ago, a few days before turning into a 29-week preggo for the first time, my husband and I had a scare. What started out a fun trip to Tahoe turned into a frenetic search for a local hospital after I discovered blood in the toilet.

That day will live on in infamy, as they say. The initial fear I felt at seeing and dealing with the blood pulsed me between worlds. But that fear soon faced competition. Later, the kind nurse at the Truckee hospital searched for the baby’s heartbeat, asking me if I had felt the baby move that morning.

Yes. I think so. Maybe? With everything that had happened, I couldn’t remember, couldn’t think. Why hadn’t I paid more attention to the star of the drama rather than the drama itself?

The seconds clawed by. On the outside, I was calm and composed. On the inside, I wondered: if the baby’s heart has stopped, will my own be able to keep beating?

When the nurse finally found the heartbeat, I burst into tears. Burst into tears. Had I ever truly burst into tears before, sudden like a popping water balloon? The phrase took on new meaning, no longer trite.

After several weeks of bed rest, something else burst: my bag of waters. This time I was (relatively) calm on both the inside and outside. Our first son, six weeks early, spent two weeks at the hospital. Much better than the two months he probably would have spent in the NICU had he been born at 29 weeks.

I really hope boy #2 stays in longer, but as I look back at that tense day in Tahoe, I feel deeply grateful.

I had a true human experience. Extreme low. Extreme high. All in the same day.

Though my thoughts certainly flew to the past (have I not been careful enough during my pregnancy?) and future (what if? WHAT IF?), I was very much here. Living in the now, present in the moment.

Though the experience felt surreal in some ways, it mostly felt real. Very real. Too real, at times.

The consequences, whatever they would be, mattered. A lot.

In the moment. Real. Vital.

How can I help my readers feel those things about my stories, about my characters? How do I help them feel that if my story stops, they doubt their hearts will go on? (in a good way).

I don’t know, exactly, but I’ll do my best. And in the mean time, I will try to cherish every true human experience that comes my way.

Ps. I am writing this early in the morning. I can’t wait for my son to wake up so I can hug him and tell him I love him. Being a mother is a true human experience.

My small family recently spent a few days in Florida on a business/vacation trip. One morning, during the vacation part of the visit, we arose early to go “shelling” on a nearby beach. While our 18-month-old played contentedly in the sand, my husband and I casually hunted for the large, ornate shells we hoped the ocean had spit out for us during the night.

Although we found a few large shells, most of them were broken. And the shells were perhaps not as impressive in size or as varied in shape as we had imagined. It didn’t matter much, though: our goal wasn’t to leave the beach with shells, but with memories and a more tight-knit family.

Because we weren’t really finding anything impressive, however, I started running my hands through the sand littering the water’s edge, fishing up the plentiful shells that pricked the soles of our feet as we strode through the water. Powerful waves, determined to grind the shells to fine sand, had already broken and smoothened many of them.

But almost in every handful of shells-slowly-being-pounded-into-sand, I discovered tiny but perfectly formed shells in interesting colors and shapes. Despite their size, I found these small shells, in their half-inch perfection, more fascinating than the large ones we had accumulated thus far.

The lesson is one I have to consciously and continually remind myself of.

As a writer, it’s so easy to become consumed with “finding the large shells.” Finishing—really finishing—your novel. Securing a literary agent and publisher. Hitting the bestseller list. It’s easy to overlook the small shells. Fixing a plot hole. Realizing you’re in “the zone.” Finding yourself smiling when your character says something unexpected.

Don’t we all chase and prize the big shells? The job promotion. The dream house. The perfect vacation? Those are good things, of course. But how often do we, consumed by the hunt for large shells, overlook those small shells of perfection? A spontaneous hug from your child. The sun kissing your face after a week of rain. A surprise visit from a friend.

Perhaps, in the end, those abundant “small shell” experiences will—once combined—be more valuable to us than the rarer “large shell” moments.

And when we do find the large shells and they are not as perfect as we imagined, perhaps we should try to enjoy them anyway.

Creche image from http://www.christmascreche.org/

Each year as the Christmas festivities come to an end, my husband and I vow to start celebrating Christmas earlier the following year. Inevitably, however, the first days of December manage to slip by, “un-Christmased.”  

Unfortunately, that’s also true this year. We have yet to “deck the halls with boughs of holly” (figuratively – I’m not sure where to even look for holly boughs…). But despite our failed efforts to start Christmas early, we have at least taken a first step to get in that special – and sometimes difficult-to-achieve – Christmas spirit: on Sunday, our little family attended the annual Christmas Creche exhibit in a church meetinghouse close by. I am happy to report that the elusive Christmas Spirit made a grand appearance at this feast for the eyes!

If you are currently in the Bay Area, visiting the exhibit – which boasts 500 nativities from 80 countries – is a must (but hurry: it ends tomorrow!) Though the exhibit centers around a single theme – the Nativity – the number of variations on that theme boggled my mind. A nativity made of legos (14,000 of them if I remember correctly) – why didn’t I think of that? And apparently baby Jesus is Asian! No, African! No, South American! (Though perhaps not historically accurate, I love that the peoples of the world are so eager to adopt Christ as one of their own!)

As I thought more about how much artistic diversity can sprout from a single (and pretty narrow) theme, I realized the same concept applies to writing. How many stories have been written on the theme love, for example? Gazillions? Yet we never seem to tire of reading about love. Perhaps this is because even though the stories explore the same theme, the diversity with which the authors approach the theme makes it stay fresh and current.

The creche exhibit helped me realize something else. If someone asked me which of the nativities at the exhibit was “the best,” it would have been impossible for me to answer. Never mind best – I couldn’t even pick a favorite! I liked them all, for different reasons. In fact, I don’t think anybody – no matter how creche-qualified – could possibly make a “true” judgement about which creche at the exhibit was “the best.” Sure, the porcelain creche from the Vatican was extraordinary. But the creche made of seed pods was extraordinary in a completely different way!

Message for me: I don’t have to be “the best writer” because really, is there even such a thing? Granted, “the best” is a very iffy concept, but I hope you get my meaning. As humans, we enjoy diversity. We appreciate different aspects of  different things (we like the characters in this book, we like the way we feel when we read that book). In most cases, it’s not helpful to compare our personal “creches” to others’ because, in most cases, they are not directly comparable! We should be more worried about “doing our best” than “being the best.”

Hm. Writing really does teach me about life, and life about writing. And for that (and for creches and what they depict), I am grateful.

When I grew up, Halloween didn’t exist. Not for me, anyway: I was born and raised in Sweden. The closest I came to trick-or-treating was dressing up as a witch and knocking down doors for money and candy during Easter.

Come to think of it, that sounds a lot like a six-months-early Halloween. Except, I actually offered Easter cards in exchange for the money and candy (should I feel cheated?)

What did exist in Sweden, and still does for that matter, is “Allahelgonadagen” (All Saints Day): a considerably quieter affair that entails visiting gravesites of passed-on loved ones. I don’t know if most Swedes take the time to do this anymore (or if they ever did). One thing I do know, however:

In the almost 12 years since I moved to the U.S., the “American” version of Halloween has skyrocketed in popularity in Sweden. And I’m certain it has elsewhere, too.

What’s the appeal?

Something fun to do? An excuse to dress up and/or throw a party? Certainly.

Candy? YES!!

Regardless of the reason for Halloween’s spreading appeal, I can’t help but think of the oddness of this holiday that essentially – despite costumes and candy – is rooted in one basic human emotion:

Fear.

Now, I’m not going to go all psychoanalytical or anthropological on you.

But I still find it interesting. Could it be that there’s a sliver of our biological make-up that thrives on fright?

I would think yes. And no. My one-year-old is the perfect example. On the one hand, there’s the thrill of being chased by mom and dad. (I’m gonna get you!!) On the other, anxiety spikes when the vacuum cleaner cuts a little too close for comfort…

Hm. Maybe what we humans are drawn to is controlled fear. I guess suspense is a good one-worder of what we seek at Halloween and even in day-to-day life.

So I ask myself: how does this concept apply in writing? What do you think (as a reader or a writer): isn’t an element of suspense necessary in any good story? Though some predictability is probably acceptable and even desired (who really wants perfect chaos?), not every detail and plot turn should be completely expected. Right?

Megan Follows’ fabulous portrayal of Anne in the Anne of Green Gables TV series guides us here. Picture Anne and Diana walking through the dark forest, sharing overheard ghost tales. Diana tells Anne she is scared. What does Anne respond?

“So am I. Deliciously scared.”

Yes! Deliciously scared! As writers, don’t we want our readers to be deliciously scared? Even if we don’t write in the horror or suspense genres, our stories certainly need tension and conflict. In some ways, one of our ultimate goals is to make the readers care about what happens to the characters in our story – to make them concerned about our characters’ fates, to make them “scared” on our characters’ behalf.

Note to self: make the reader deliciously scared.

So thank you, Halloween and Anne, for making a point about the scary dimensions in life.

And fiction.

You can find this particular door in Ribe, Denmark.

The thing about doors…sometimes you open one and it leads you somewhere entirely different than you imagined. Maybe the door is a castle-worthy door with wrought-iron details, but then the inside is just…disappointing. Like a foul-smelling locker room or a sterile doctor’s office.

Or maybe its the other way around: humble door, breath-stealing inside. Or maybe the door turns out to be a trick door, leading into solid brick or a slab of gray concrete. Or maybe the door is bolted or you don’t have the key to unlock it (or for the life of you, can’t pry the lock open). Or maybe pesky guards shoo you away, telling you no visitors are allowed or that opening hours have passed (sometimes, permanently). Or maybe what you find makes you run away screaming. Or maybe you’ve been standing in front of the wrong door all along.

But even if you are able to open the door and the inside matches the door’s promise, you don’t see the inside all at once. Maybe the door needs oiling and takes its sweet time to swing open. Maybe your eyes need time to adjust to dimness or brightness. Maybe you feel overwhelmed at the grandeur (or the lack thereof) and need time to digest. After a while, new details emerge. You can enter the room, explore nooks and crannies, see, feel, smell, listen (don’t start licking priceless artifacts, though…). Maybe you decide you don’t want to spend as much time on the inside as you thought. Maybe you’re more comfortable in, and more inspired by, a comfortable inside rather than a grandiose one: a snug nursery rather than a hollow grand hall.

Today it struck me how writing is a bit like opening a door. Writing this post makes me realize it’s *a lot* like opening a door. You draw the parallels. The promise of a shiny new idea that quickly falls on its face. The realization that the story world you’re working on is not where you (or your characters) want to be. The discovery of a quirky doorstop in a dull character’s apartment that makes you realize the character really should be your story’s hero (or villain).

Writing this post, however, also makes me realize the metaphor of the door is extremely well suited to life in general. A life door sometimes carries so much promise, looks so shiny and new, but once we open it, the inside severely underwhelm us or perhaps even proves dangerous to our souls. Or the other way around. Perhaps we overlook modest doors because they can’t possibly lead anywhere exciting. Or maybe the thought of opening any door paralyzes us (It will lead nowhere! I won’t find my way out again! What if I get lost? Eaten by monsters?) and we miss out on opportunities to grow, to help others, to love.

Doors and what hides behind them: frightening, thrilling, surprising, disappointing…Pretty much embodies writing and life, don’t you agree?

Plus, doors – kind of the same idea as book covers, no? Don’t judge a room by its door!

What are some of the doors in your writing and/or life? Any unexpected surprises after opening the doors? Ever run out screaming? Done the best with the mess you found inside, later realizing that the door, despite the mess, was the best one you could have taken?

Wall detail in Ribe, one of my favorite towns in Denmark.

Since my latest blog post, my little family and I have spent nearly a month in Europe. I am happy to report the airplane rides to and fro went surprisingly well, even with our recently-turned one-year-old. The time changes, however…let me tell you, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to induce a jet-lagged baby to go back to sleep in the middle of the night! (P.S. If this post is incoherent, you now know why…)

I can’t really complain about baby L’s middle-of-the-night-wakings though (not all the time anyway). In a previous blog post, I mentioned I get many writing-related ideas in the early hours because his sleep interruptions. This held true for me on our vacation as well. When baby L decided to wake up at 2:30am the second night in a row after our arrival, for example, an idea for an entire novel struck me. Talk about an upside to sleep deprivation! (I should also mention we got some interesting looks from a pack of youth as we strolled down the streets of Stockholm at three o’clock that very same morning. Yeah.)

While spending time in Sweden, Denmark, and Germany, ideas have flowed to me during the days as well as in the wee hours of the too-early morning. I love getting ideas! I feel invigorated and enlightened when I do. When I’m in an idea drought, life is a little less exciting for me (ok, much less exciting). That’s part of the reason I love traveling. When I go somewhere and see new things, the new impressions I get seem to make the ideas flow easier. This time, I went to Europe. Fortunately, a walk in the mountains can be just as fruitful (and much less costly). Even a stroll around the block has sparked new ideas within me.

Of course, ideas are (relatively) easy to come by. Idea sifting, development, and execution? Now that’s where the going gets tough. Nevertheless, I am so grateful when ideas come. It means the upstairs machinery is working, which can only be good when I actually sit down to idea sift, develop, and execute, right? I will be doing some idea development and execution today, by the way – wish me luck!

What I’m trying to say (in a round-about way):

If you want to be inspired and get new ideas (writing-related or not), I encourage you to go on an Inspiration Vacation. It’s nice when you’re able to visit an exotic destination, but a trip to a local park or neighboring town will probably be just as effective. Besides, I think we sometimes forget that we all live in places that are probably exotic to someone else. More power to the Inspiration Staycation!

Then again, I’m hoping for another Inspiration Vacation soon. I’m a sucker for castles and the one in the Magic Kingdom is just too crowded. =)

That’s right. I only allow my child to use swings located in the proximity of a castle.

It’s been a while since I wrote my latest blog post and I feel like much has happened since then. A few highlights: our little family drove down to San Diego for a mini-vacation, my youngest sister arrived from overseas (she’s playing the role of nanny while I play the role of writer!), and we celebrated Baby L’s first 4th of July (hence the patriotic picture to the left).

Oh, and my sister and I (plus baby!) spent a few days at girls’ camp up in the mountains. My assignment (calling) in the church I belong to is to help out with the young women’s (ages 12-17) program in our area, so that’s how I ended up camping. I decided to bring the baby, which turned out to be easier than I thought –  he LOVED the tent and slept really well next to me on the air mattress. The girls quickly fell under his spell. I tell you, there’s something in that boy’s eyes…

Apart from spending time at a local pool (can’t rough it all the time), watching the girls do some neat crafts, and walking around with Baby L in the BabyBjorn so he could get in a nap once in a while, we also had attended an AWESOME talent show. The girls were so inventive and, well, talented. And guess who contributed? That’s right, I did! Twice!

Well, the first time wasn’t really that successful, so I won’t delve into that (it included story-telling on the spot, something I’m not particularly good at). The second time, I read a poem I wrote about a month ago to cheer up a young lady who was having some medical issues (the young lady in question actually attended camp, too, now radiant and healthy!)

So, I’ve decided to take the leap and share with you a piece of my writing (well, something except blog writing…you know what I mean). My hope is that this humble piece offering (pun intended) will make your day just a little bit brighter. So, without further ado, here is the poem!

Ideas: oh how I love it when they come to me! (instead of me having to chase after themas if they were super speedy crawling babies…)

Except…well, imagine this:

It’s 2:04am. Baby wakes up. Go feed baby. Go back to bed. Await sleep. Baby doesn’t quite settle. Get up, help baby fall asleep. Slip back into bed, await sleep once more. And then…

*BAM!* Ideas attack me from all sides like killer birds, pecking, pecking, pecking.

Okay, it wasn’t that intense (or uncomfortable), but you get the picture. Here my mind is, reeling with ideas about my future writer website and blog posts, and I can’t stop the flow! Besides, it’s one of those nights – too hot with the cover, too cold without. Aargh!

Last time I checked the clock, it was 5:21am. Three hours of trying to fall back asleep, alternating between welcoming and batting away those pesky little idea birds.

I probably fell asleep around 5:30am or so. Naturally, baby awakes at 5:49am. Oh well…at least I had time to dream about a 4th of July celebration on the beach. Pretty sweet, right? I thought so too until I stepped too close to the water, got sucked down into the sharply downward-sloping sand (while holding baby, no less). Fortunately, however, after being slapped around by tornado-like waves the size of Texas, I realized I must be dreaming and pushed myself out of the dream. Then, I awoke from “being awake.” Is that how the movie Inception came to be, I wonder?

Don’t misunderstand me. I’m grateful for every idea I can get my hands on. But, to those new ideas contemplating a visit – please consider arriving between 9 to 5 – from 9am to 5pm, that is, not from 9pm to 5am!!