Becca Kinzer's Blog, page 2

Which Books Have Encouraged You?

November wasn’t easy. It started off with two deaths in the family, a nasty cold that turned out to be Covid, then approximately 480 hours of quarantine purgatory with my children.

But as the old adage goes, when life hands you lemons . . . well, set them aside with a confused smile and pick up a good book instead. Which is what I did several times this past month.

Starting with Riverbend Gap by Denise Hunter. 

Somehow, during the midst of fresh grief and feeling the crummiest I’ve felt in years, I still managed to experience one of the most peaceful Saturdays of my life because of this book. 

Was there anything particularly mind-blowing or life-changing about this book? No. Not at all. But you know how Hallmark cranks out a billion movies every Christmas season, and watching them feels a bit like consuming a billion store-bought cookies that all taste the same, but then every once in a great while you hit on a movie that stands out like your grandma’s homemade chocolate chip cookies that you’ve never been able to replicate? 

Well, that’s what reading this book (and not leaving the recliner while my cat napped on me for an entire Saturday afternoon and evening) felt like. My grandma’s homemade chocolate chip cookies. (And if none of that makes sense, I’m pretty sure I lost a few brain cells to Covid, so you’ll just have to trust it makes perfect sense to me and move on.)  

Next up, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone.

If your kids can’t attend their actual school, might as well take them to Hogwarts, right? Quarantine seemed like the perfect time to embark on this book series with my kids, and my nine-year-old daughter couldn’t agree more. “Yes! Now I’ll finally know what everybody’s talking about.” My seven-year-old son took a little longer to join the Potter bandwagon. He spent the first half of the book rolling across the floor, moaning “Why does every chapter have to be so long?” Thankfully his interest perked up once Harry made the Quidditch team. “Finally. A chapter that was good.” 

Then there’s A Walk In The Woods by Bill Bryson.

When we discovered, after completing a ten day stretch of keeping the kids quarantined, that we had to begin another ten day stretch of keeping the kids quarantined, I might have cried in my pancakes. But thankfully my mother-in-law had dropped off this book from the library a week earlier because she thought I could use a good laugh. Though I had doubts about how much a middle-aged man hiking the Appalachian Trail could make me laugh, I gave it a try. A few pages in I found myself smiling. A few pages more I heard myself chuckling. By chapter four I was tracking my husband down on a regular basis to say, “Listen to this . . .”

In addition to these books, I’ve spent time in 1920s Pittsburgh thanks to Rachel Scott McDaniel’s The Mobster’s Daughter. I’ve traveled to a wintery 1950s Oxford, England via Patti Callahan’s Once Upon A Wardrobe. I’ve hung out in a couple of Texas food trucks with Betsy St. Amant’s Tacos For Two. And I’ve explored another one of Jody Hedlund’s fabulous medieval worlds in Enamored. 

I’ve always viewed books as a way to escape from life. It wasn’t until recently I heard someone suggest a great story shouldn’t help you escape from life so much as it should help you navigate through life.

And you know what? It’s true. None of the books above helped me escape the sorrow of losing two people I love. But page by page, story by story, they did help encourage me another step forward through this beautiful, wonderful, heartbreaking, hopeful journey called life. Which is exactly what I pray my books do someday for others—especially since I’m nowhere close to mastering my grandma’s chocolate chip cookie recipe.

In Answer To Your Question

   

Several of you, and by several, I mean at least three of you, have asked similar questions regarding my publishing contract, my book, and my overall level of sanity. It’s been a while since I’ve posted a blog, so I figured I’d address some of those questions here. (Except for maybe the sanity bit.)

Have you written the book yet?

Yes. That’s why I have a contract.

I’ll admit, this question surprised me. Especially since so many of you (again, three) have asked it. But then I realized other than sharing some blog posts from time to time that ramble about a whole manner of topics—like maple syrup disease, my father’s love for his cat, and my inability to shake people’s hands normally—I’ve never shared much about the actual books I’m writing. 

So below is a brief(ish) recap for all of you (which I’m assuming is down to two at this point) who are interested in learning about those books. 

Around five years ago, I got hit with the overwhelming urge to write a novel. So, I did. And it was a complete disaster—a romantic suspense story set in Montana that read more like a romantic comedy despite the psychotic serial killer and crusty sheriff who appeared halfway into the story when I started watching Longmire and decided my story needed a psychotic serial killer and crusty sheriff. 

Like I said, complete disaster. 

But I loved it. 

I had a blast creating my own story and wanted to do it again. Only better. So I buckled down on studying the craft of writing. I read books about writing. Followed blogs about writing. Listened to podcasts about writing. Joined groups about writing. Most importantly, I kept writing.

My second story, a romantic comedy set in a small fictitious Illinois town about two young strangers sharing a house together under the same wrong impression that their housemate is elderly, turned out much better—except for one major hiccup. The story had zero suspense. Which is a problem when you think you want to write romantic suspense. And at the time, that’s exactly what I thought. 

So, I set the story aside and started working on the next book, determined to make it a romantic suspense. And for the first five pages, I succeeded. It was somewhere in the next two hundred plus pages that I lost control and ended up with another romantic suspense story that sounded a lot like a romantic comedy.

You’d think at that point I would have started to get a clue that maaaaaybe romantic suspense wasn’t my forte.

But no. I did not get a clue. 

I entered this story into a contest for unpublished writers under the romantic suspense category. And I won. See? It wasn’t my fault I kept thinking I should write romantic suspense. Six judges heartily agreed. Of course, those judges had only read the first five pages, so . . .

Still under the illusion I was meant to write romantic suspense, I entered this story into another contest, hoping to catch the eye of an agent or editor this time. And I did.

But not in the manner I thought I would.

You see, as much as I thought I wanted to be a romantic suspense writer, there was a part of me that simply adored that little romcom story I wrote about the young strangers swapping notes back and forth under the same roof, never realizing they kept bumping into each other around town. I’d go back and tinker with it from time to time, not sure what I’d eventually do with it, but unable to let it go either. 

It was this story that caught the attention of an editor in the contest. I’d entered it as almost an afterthought, figuring it was an inexpensive way to get some feedback on my writing. I never expected it to make it into the second round, let alone win the contest. 

It was this story that led me to my agent and then, a year and half later, my first publishing contract. It’s this story that will release (if the world doesn’t end before then) as my debut novel in early 2023.

Hopefully that answers some of the questions you (pretty sure we’re down to one person now) had about my books. Turns out I’m a romantic comedy writer. Who knew? (Everyone. Everyone knew, but me.)

Any other questions? Send them my way, and I’ll be glad to answer them in a future blog post.

One Nurse's Snapshot From Covid

I keep having the thought I should write something about Covid. I mean, I’m a critical care nurse. I’m a writer. Shouldn’t I write something about my experience at the bedside this past year during Covid?

But whenever I’ve had this thought, another voice in my head (it’s okay to have multiple voices in your head, right?) quickly answers with a resounding “No! Are you nuts? Nobody wants to read about Covid. You don’t want to read about Covid. Why on earth would you write about Covid? Besides, you know you can’t describe it all in a single blog post.”

Sometimes the hostile little voice in my head is right. Trying to describe my hospital experience this past year in one blog post would be like trying to describe my past sixteen years as a nurse in one sentence. I can’t.

There’s been too many good days, too many bad days. Days that overwhelmed, days that dragged, and everything in-between. It all blends together until I’m not even sure how to describe it anymore. It couldn’t have been all bad or else why would I have kept showing up? But it couldn’t have been all good or else why would I have kept threatening to not show up?

Nursing is a bit like parenting. You think you’ll remember every little thing, both the good and the bad, but unless you write every little thing down at the time, you start to forget until all you’re left with are snapshots. A few moments, a few stories, that stick with you. Unlike parenting though, the moments that tend to stick with you as a nurse are often the bad moments. 

But just as I don’t want the bad moments to be my only takeaway from a career in nursing (should I ever make it to retirement), I’m trying hard not to let the bad moments—and obviously there were plenty—serve as my only takeaway from Covid this past year. 

So while this snapshot by no means encompasses everything I witnessed working as a critical care nurse in the midst of a global pandemic, it is the moment that will likely stick with me the most whenever I think back on 2020.

It happened during the peak of our Covid numbers. Up until this point, another ICU had been the designated Covid ICU, and my unit would only get the occasional overflow Covid patient. But without enough ICU beds to accommodate the increasing numbers, our unit had to transition to a designated Covid ICU as well. 

The problem during this time was not only having patients as sick as it gets, but working with a staff stretched as thin as it gets. No matter how you attempted to split up the assignments, every nurse carried a much too heavy load. Which meant every nurse had to decide which corners to cut and which tasks to complete. 

During this particular shift, I was in charge. I knew we were withdrawing care on one of our patients, and I knew nobody from this patient’s family could be at the bedside because they all had Covid too. 

Here’s where I’d like to say someone—me, the patient’s nurse, the respiratory therapist, someone—remained in that patient’s room until the very end, holding that patient’s hand. But that wouldn’t be true. When you’re understaffed on a unit filled with critically ill patients that you’re still trying to keep alive, handholding is one of those corners you have to cut. 

Once the nurse and respiratory therapist removed the breathing tube from the patient, turned off all the medications, and saw that the patient wasn’t going to pass within the next few minutes, they left the room, needing to get back to their other patients.

Sometime later that morning, I heard the monitor at the nurses’ station start alarming, signaling that the patient’s heartrate had dropped to zero. Since the patient’s nurse was tied up elsewhere, I stepped into the room alone to listen with a stethoscope and confirm there was no longer a heartbeat. 

My immediate thought when I entered the room and closed the door behind me was . . . This feels weird. 

I figured it was just the weight of injustice I sensed. Knowing this patient had died alone. Knowing usually there is family at the bedside during moments like this, grieving. People who knew and loved the patient as a person, not just as a body. It didn’t feel right that I was the one in the room. It felt like one of those and all I got was this lousy t-shirt deals. Only for this patient, it would be something along the lines of I lived a meaningful life with family and friends and all I got was this lousy bedside nurse after I died.

I felt guilty, like I needed to apologize. But the longer I stayed in that room, unhooking the patient from the monitor and preparing the body to eventually go to the morgue, I couldn’t deny the sense of peace in the room. And I realized that was actually why it felt so weird.

I wasn’t used to the calm.

Outside the door, monitors continued to alarm, phones rang, IV pumps beeped, nurses rushed from one task to the other. But in here, there was quiet. The lights were off, but sunlight had filtered into the room, bringing with it a strange feeling of serenity. To be honest, I didn’t want to leave the dead body to go back to the chaos of the living. 

Every once in a while, you catch a tiny glimpse past the curtain that separates this life from the next. This was one of those moments. 

In the stillness, I was reminded that even in the heaviness of sorrow, there is peace. There is hope. There is light. I don’t know what type of faith that patient had, but I know the type of faith I have. And I believe if you cling to Jesus, the source of that peace, hope, and light, you never need fear of being alone, no matter the situation, even in death.

That’s not to say the experience didn’t weigh on our minds as nurses. A week or so later we brought it up when we had a few minutes together at the nurses’ station. “I felt bad for not staying in the room,” the nurse said.

“I know. That one’s been bothering me too.”

That was the extent of our heart-to-heart conversation, but sometimes that’s all you need to lift some of the weight and get back to work.

A lot of nurses are coming out of this initial Covid experience with snapshots that will stick with them. Moments that will bother them. Scenarios they’ll feel guilty over for not being able to do more at the time.

My only advice is to acknowledge the bad moments, hold tightly to the good. Then do what you can and get back to work.

Money, Socks, and Three-legged Donkeys

Navigating the world of marketing as an aspiring author often feels like navigating a foreign flea market as a bumbling tourist. It’s noisy, overwhelming, and I’m worried my attempts to purchase a cute scarf will somehow result in acquiring a three-legged donkey.  

So it was a great relief to discover Thomas Umstattd Jr.’s podcast, Novel Marketing, a few years ago. If you’re trying to learn the ropes of writing and marketing and haven’t started listening to this podcast, start. Then warn your family the phrase “Thomas Umstattd Jr. says. . .” will start coming out of your mouth on a regular basis. Why? Because he knows what he’s talking about. 

Which is why when Thomas Umstattd Jr. said every writer should work with a good editor, I listened. Especially since he wasn’t the only one saying it. Multi-award-winning author and former podcast cohost, James L. Rubart, said it too. Repeatedly. He compared not working with an editor to trying to read a ketchup label from inside the bottle. Or something like that. (It made a lot more sense when he said it.)

The point is, I knew hiring an editor was the smart thing to do. And yet. . .

Last year I wrote a novella. A novella I revised, edited, and revised several more times, then polished polished polished until it was ready. So ready I couldn’t help thinking maybe I didn’t need that editor after all.

I mean, it wasn’t like I was shooting for critical acclaim with this story. Neither was I aiming to hit any best seller list. No, my only objective was to write a cute story to give away to newsletter subscribers for free.

Did you catch the for free part?

Then maybe you can understand why, after working countless hours on a story that would never earn me a penny, I hesitated to add a chunk of hard-earned cash into hiring an editor. Especially one I doubted I needed.

But those two podcast voices kept yammering inside my head. Every story needs an editor. . . Your best marketing tool is your writing. . . Beware the ketchup bottle. . .

So I did it—mostly to quiet the voices in my head. I hired an editor. A good one, even though part of me believed I was wasting my money on a three-legged donkey. Other than fixing a few commas and adjusting the occasional word choice, what else was this editor going to do?

Well, turns out this editor was going to ask questions. Lots of questions.

Why did your character say this? What does that dialogue mean? Can you think of a better way to express this? Are you sure that could happen? Have you actually tried placing that many socks over a pair of high heels?

By the third round of revisions, part of me wanted to yell, “Look lady, I’m not paying you to ask questions. Just fix the commas.” But the other part me couldn’t deny the truth. She was asking good questions. Valid questions. Questions that deserved answers. 

Which meant digging a little deeper into the story. And digging a little deeper into myself as a writer. And digging a little deeper into my sock drawer to prove that placing several layers of fuzzy socks over a pair of high heels is absolutely possible.

By the end of the process, when all the questions had been answered, the final revisions made, the story completed, I realized three things. 

One—I never wanted to read my story again.

Two—I felt so much more confident about others reading my story.

Three—I’d survived a trip to the flea market to return home with a very cute scarf. And the good news? Not a single penny I spent had been wasted.

If you’d like to read the novella (and find out what the deal is with the socks), be sure to click the image above to sign up for my newsletter.

Four Paws and a Funeral

I asked my dad if I could write a blog post about him and his recently acquired cat. “Sure,” he said resignedly. “Go ahead and make fun of me.”

That was all the permission I needed. “Thanks, Dad!”

At the beginning of this year, my mom and dad got a cat. That might not seem like a big deal, but after years of listening to my dad talk about wanting a cat and listening to my mom say they were never getting a cat, it became a big deal when she relented and said he could get a cat. She actually encouraged him to get two cats. 2020 had obviously affected her in unexpected ways.

So yay! Dad can get some kittens. All is well. Right?

Sort of. My dad first had to spend countless nights tossing and turning, second-guessing whether they should get two kittens, would they know what to do with two kittens, how does one go about getting two kittens, and what to name the two kittens. 

“Fran and Fred? Does that sound like good names for two kittens? What about George and Martha? Or maybe Alex and Lizzy?”

My dad may very well have spent the rest of his life thinking about cats and never owning cats had my brother not been in town for the holidays. “I’m here to make things happen,” my brother declared. And he did. The day before he left town, he ensured that my parents had litter boxes, cat food, toys, and an appointment with the Animal Protective League. 

On Sunday, January 3rd, with everything in place, my parents drove to the APL intending to bring home two playful striped kittens they’d name Alex and Lizzy. What they brought home was one shy gray kitten named Serri.

“Are you going to change her name,” I asked. “It sounds a lot like Siri. Your phone might respond every time you call the cat’s name.”

“We actually kind of like it,” my dad said—before spending the rest of the day butchering the name and repeatedly asking us how to say his name again. 

To which we’d remind him the cat was a her and you pronounce her name like Merry. Except it’s Serri. “Are you sure you don’t want to change the name?”

“No, I really like that name. I think we’ll definitely keep it. Now how do you say it again?”

Whether my dad could pronounce the cat’s name or not didn’t matter. He was smitten. That first evening when Serri sat in his lap, my dad looked as proud as he had holding his first grandchild. So it really came as no surprise to anyone when a few days later he told us about the customized t-shirt he ordered that contained a drawing of an old man and a cat, and included both his and Serri’s names beneath it. 

My dad loved his cat. And she couldn’t have arrived at a better time. On the day my parents brought Serri home, we received the news one of my aunts had gone into the hospital. The next day we received the news she had passed away. 

This was obviously not how any of us had expected to start off the new year. That timid little four-month-old kitten suddenly became a much needed bright spot, even if she did spend most of her days hiding beneath one of the beds and her nights ripping holes in the shower curtain.  

With the shadow of my aunt’s death lingering over all of us, and the weight of her funeral approaching, I was glad my parents had found something to lift their spirits. “I just think the world of that cat,” my dad kept saying. “I’m so glad we got Sir—Sar—Ser—oh, whatever her name is.”

And though my mom may not have taken to serenading the cat with a Bobby Sherman song called “Julie, Do Ya Love Me” the way my dad had, exchanging Julie’s name for Serri, she had clearly grown fond of the cat as well. 

Which is why, the day before my aunt’s funeral, I figured they were overreacting.

“We can’t find Serri.”  

Earlier in the day, she had disappeared. This wasn’t unusual for her, so I wasn’t concerned. She’d come out eventually. But hours later, she still hadn’t come out. My parents were getting worried, and as more time passed, I started to worry too.

In the one week they’d had her, she’d never stayed hidden for this long. They’d always been able to find her. Where could she be? She had to be in their house somewhere, right? There’s no way she could have gotten out. Right? Right?

All day I kept waiting for a text to say that they’d found her. The little stinker was clinging to the top of the shower curtain. Something like that.

But a text message never came through.

Later that evening my oldest brother, who had flown in for the funeral and was staying at my parents’ house, came over to hang out with the kids and me. “Well?” I asked him as soon as he stepped through the front door. “Have they found her?”

He sighed and shook his head sadly. “We think she may be loose in the neighborhood.”

“What? No. How? That doesn’t make sense.”

My brother shrugged, explaining how they’d searched everywhere inside the house. Everywhere. She hadn’t touched her food. She hadn’t used the litter box. And when he walked the perimeter of the house, shaking a treat bag, he thought he heard a meow and caught sight of a cat dashing into the neighbor’s backyard.

“A gray cat?”

“I’m not sure. It was hard to tell. I didn’t see it again.”

But this terrible feeling in my gut told me it was her. The new love of my parents’ life. And I wanted to weep. 

When my husband got home from playing platform tennis, we told him the bad news. In his typical fashion, he told us we were worrying over nothing. “Remember, she’s a tiny cat. She probably just found a hole in the couch and has been tucked up inside it all day. How would she have gotten outside? That doesn’t make sense. Your parents don’t have holes in their walls.”

I knew it didn’t make sense. But lately, what did? Maybe she’d chiseled her way through one of the walls Shawshank Redemption style. I couldn’t explain how it had happened, I only knew that she was gone. “A cat owner knows when their cat isn’t around,” I told my husband. “My parents would know if she was there. They’d be able to sense her presence. She’s not there.”

My husband looked at me like I was delusional. But at least I wasn’t in denial. “She’s lost and tomorrow is going to be awful.” 

“She’s hiding in the couch and everything’s going to be fine,” he insisted. “That’s what I’m going to believe.”

Well, I didn’t share my husband’s confidence. And the thought of driving up to my aunt’s funeral the next day, not knowing what had happened to the cat, how she had gotten out, if she’d ever be found—all while knowing my dad would never allow himself to get another cat again because of this ordeal—made me depressed. Especially because this aunt held a particular distaste for cats. It almost felt sacrilegious to be worrying about a cat at all when we were in the midst of grieving for a woman who had meant so much to our family. 

Bottom line, we needed to find this cat. 

And the only way I knew how to find this cat was to hit my knees in prayer and beg God to please please bring this cat back from wherever she’d gone. “You know my parents, God. You love my parents. I mean, come on, this is Greg and Ann we’re talking about here. They literally just spent all evening at a Bible study. If anybody deserves to find their cat, it’s them. Plus, my dad bought that shirt. What’s he going to do when that shirt arrives in the mail and he has no cat to wear it for?”   

I finished my prayer and prepared to go to bed when I noticed a text message on my phone. It was from my brother. “The cat is found!”

That had to have been the quickest answer to prayer I’ve ever received. And I’m pretty sure it was because God had already heard way more about this one cat than He ever wanted to hear.   

Whatever the reason, I was euphoric. The cat had been found. Oh hallelujah! “Where was she?” 

“Dave called it,” my brother said. “She was in the couch.”

Now I was less euphoric. “You mean my husband was right?”

“Yep. There was a tiny slit in the back of the couch. Somehow she crawled up into it and was sitting on a little hidden ledge behind the cushions all this time. We kept hearing this strange scratching sound a little bit ago and there she was.”

So apparently my talk about cat owners being able to sense the presence of their beloved felines. . . yeah, complete hogwash. At one point, Serri had been less than a foot away from my dad’s head as he lay on the couch, lamenting the loss of his cat.

“Well,” I told my brother, “the important thing is she’s been found. Not that it will make tomorrow any easier, but—no, actually it will make tomorrow a little bit easier.” Because now we’d be able to focus on my aunt, a wonderful woman who would have been shaking her head and thinking we were crazy for allowing a cat to cause so much drama. 

And boy, would she have been right. 

The PO Box Around the Corner

Is there anything more romantic than a PO Box? Lots of things, actually. But for the sake of this blog post, we’re going to stick with the idea that PO Boxes are incredibly romantic. And fun. And essential. That’s right, I said essential. Especially if you’re a writer. 

Why? 

Good question. Here’s the answer.

Every writer today is encouraged to have a newsletter. And every newsletter is required to have a physical address attached to it. Something to do with anti-spam laws. Don’t worry about it. What you should be worrying about is whether you want to use your home address so every wacko who signs up for your newsletter can know where you live.

Honestly, when you first start off, it probably doesn’t matter too much since most of the wackos who sign up for your newsletter already know where you live. You’re likely related to 90% of them. 

But later, down the road, it might be a smart idea to get a PO Box and keep your home address private. At least that’s the official explanation for why I recently obtained a PO Box. 

The unofficial explanation? Years ago I watched The Shop Around the Corner, a movie in which the two main characters write anonymous letters to each other through use of PO Boxes, and ever since then I’ve wanted a PO Box of my own. You know, in case Jimmy Stewart decides to write me a letter. 

So a few weeks ago, full of excitement and anticipation, I set off for downtown Springfield with my application and appropriate forms of identification in hand, ready to claim my glorious PO Box. Were there closer PO boxes at more convenient locations? Yes. But they were also more expensive. And since I figured the likelihood of anybody sending letters to this PO Box (especially Jimmy Stewart) was next to nil, why not save a little money and reserve the one downtown.

Great decision, right? Right. Except for one little hiccup. 

I couldn’t find the blasted post office.

My directions led me to a parking lot downtown. A parking lot not intended for public use based on the parking permits hanging from each vehicle’s rearview mirror. The only entrance I could find to the large building next to the parking lot had a sign on the door reading Employees Only. 

This obviously was not the home of my beloved PO Box.

I circled the block. I circled the block again. My phone kept insisting this was the correct building. I kept insisting it wasn’t. The only doors I could find marked Public Entrance were locked. So I circled again. And again.

Tired of circling, I decided there was only one thing to do. And I didn’t want to do it. Going through doors marked Employees Only when I’m not an employee is not my idea of a good time. What if I got arrested? What if I got dirty looks? The kind that say, “Can’t you read, lady? Employees only!”

I hate dirty looks. And though I’ve never been arrested, I’m sure I’d hate that too. But what’s a girl to do when a PO Box is on the line? Give up? Never.

So with a deep breath, I opened the doors and stepped inside. And what’s the first thing I see? A security guard. 

“I’m not sure I’m in the right place,” I say, speaking as fast as I can before he has time to arrest me, “but I’m looking for the post office because I reserved a PO Box, and I hope it’s okay I parked in that parking lot.” I hold up my application paper to prove I’m not a criminal. 

He nods and stands. “You’re in the right place. There’s a post office in the basement. People rent PO Boxes here because it’s cheaper, but you probably would’ve been better off paying more for a better location.”

Considering how long it took me to find the place, I can’t argue. But at least I’m here now. My PO Box is only one floor away.

“Thing is,” the security guard continues, “you’re going to have to go through security every time you come down here.” 

I glance at the metal detector. I guess that’s a little bit of a nuisance, but it’s not as if I’m packing  heat. I think I can handle walking through a metal detector.

By this time another security guard rounds the corner. “What’s going on?”

“She reserved a PO Box. I was going to walk her downstairs.”

“I’ll do it,” the other security guard pipes up. I’m starting to get the feeling this is the most excitement these guards have seen all year. “But you should know this isn’t a great place to have a PO Box. You’re going to have to go through security every time you come down here.”

I’m curious now what all this security entails. A background check? A polygraph test?

He motions for me to follow him to the elevators. I point to the metal detector. “Don’t I need to go through this?”

“Nah.” The first guard waves a dismissive hand. “You’re with us. You’re fine.”

So that apparently is what security entails in this building. A very rigorous process indeed.

The second guard escorts me down to the basement, shaking his head woefully throughout the entire elevator ride about my decision to choose a PO Box at this location. “Yep, you would have been better off paying a little more for a different spot.”

I can’t argue with him. This whole endeavor has certainly taken much longer than I ever anticipated. But I’ve made it to this point. I’m not turning back now. Give me my stinking PO Box!

He leads me to a small room that is not like any post office I’ve encountered before. But there’s a counter with a window, and soon enough a man steps up to the other side of it, holding packages and envelopes and all sorts of post officey type things. Finally, things are looking hopeful. 

Until I see the pained expression on this man’s face when I show him my PO Box application paper. He sighs and stares at me like I’ve completely ruined his day. And I get the sneaking suspicion he’s about to ruin mine. Especially when he starts off by saying, “Look, lady—”

I think we all know any time a sentence starts with “Look, lady,” it usually doesn’t end well for the lady. 

“—online it’s confusing. They make it sound like this is a great place for a PO Box, but trust me, you don’t want a PO Box here. My hours are limited. This is an annoying place to get to. And worst of all. . .”

Don’t you dare even say it.

“. . . every time you come here, you’ll have to go through security.”

He said it. I have to clamp my lips together to keep from pointing out the fact that go through security means walk around a metal detector. I try to explain to him that I don’t expect to come down here very often. If ever. I really don’t mind having a PO Box at the dumbest location in the world.

But he won’t be swayed. I have to find a PO Box at a different location. Which I do end up doing. And I’m sure in the long run I’ll be glad. Especially since on my way out of the building, the last thing I hear is a woman asking the security guards how often people show up looking for the post office.

“Every day,” the guards tell her mournfully.

“But don’t they know they have to go through security?”

The Elusive Daisy Award

I’d like to think I’m above the need for human praise. That caring for people in their time of need and helping them transition out of the critical care unit is all the reward I need as a nurse. 

And while for the most part that’s true, every once in a while I catch myself thinking about a flower. A little white flower with a circle of yellow in the middle.

You know the one I’m talking about.

If you ever see a nurse wearing a daisy pin on their badge, it means that nurse has been nominated by someone—usually a patient or visitor— for providing extraordinary compassionate care. If you really want to know more about it, just google Daisy Award. I assure you, it’s a thing. 

And I assure you I see that little daisy pin everywhere. On seasoned nurses’ badges. On new nurses’ badges. On job shadowers’ badges. (Okay, maybe not on job shadowers’ badges, but you get the idea.) It’s everywhere. 

Everywhere but one place.

Becca Kinzer’s badge. 

That’s right. Sixteen years of blood, sweat, and tears, and not a single patient or visitor has ever deemed me worthy of a Daisy Award nomination. I know. It’s shocking. I can hardly believe it myself. 

Until I think of some of the patients I’ve taken care of throughout the past sixteen years. Like the patient who spit in my face and called me a string of unflattering names. I felt fairly certain he wasn’t going to pen any of my praises. 

Same for the patient who watched me set up a dialysis machine for the first time on my own. While I felt quite proud of myself, even offering a little Vanna White wave to the machine afterwards, he remained unimpressed. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he asked. The little daisy flower inside of me wilted.

Then there was the time I called a patient’s daughter on the phone, going over every little detail of her mom’s plan of care in an attempt to build a layer of trust. “You treat my mom like a piece of meat!” was how that phone call ended.

I didn’t hold my breath for a Daisy nomination then. And I certainly didn’t hold my breath when an angry visitor accused me of being “the most passive charge nurse” she’d ever met—which I assumed wasn’t a compliment. I was too passive to ask. All I know is I didn’t receive a Daisy Award nomination from that interaction either.

But what about the other patients? The nice ones. The quiet ones. The ones who don’t spit, pinch, or rage. Well? Hate to say it, but…

They don’t remember me. At all. Which is okay, because half the time I don’t remember them. When they come back to visit, we usually spend a lot of smiley, awkward moments at the nurses’ station trying to place each other. And failing.

I used to find this disheartening. Why aren’t I memorable? Why can’t I seem to connect with nice, quiet people? What am I doing here? Am I making an impact at all?

It took me a while to realize there was a whole other class of patients out there. Patients who are, quite frankly, odd. Some might even say weird. And these are my people. 

Unfortunately “my people” are not the type of people who fill out Daisy nominations. They’re the type of people who ask if you want to see a picture of their mother, then proceed to show you a slide show of their deceased mother lying in a casket, followed by several dozen blurry selfies, while you stand there thinking Why is this happening? And why can’t I seem to walk away?

They’re the type of patients who don’t say things like “Thanks for all your great care” when you transfer them out of the ICU. No, they’re the type of patients who point a finger at you and say, “Don’t ever lose the Sigourney Weaver do.”

They’re the type of patients who speak with Irish accents despite the fact they were born and raised in Illinois. They’re the type of patients who refer to you as their redheaded Irish friend despite the fact you are neither redheaded nor Irish.

They’re the type of patients who see a chocolate pudding on their food tray and go into a ten minute soliloquy that somehow links the chocolate pudding to definitive proof that “we as a society have learned nothing from the Vietnam War.”

And I love them.

I can’t help it. Yeah, half the time they drive me nuts, but the other half of the time I’m smiling and remembering why I continue to show up to a job that can often feel thankless. Because whether my badge contains a garden of daisies or remains a barren wasteland, there’s no denying this world contains a lot of weird people.

And who better to take care of them than a weirdo like me.

The Part Of The Writing Journey Nobody Warned Me About

Rugged terrain. Slippery slopes. Broken pathways. Avalanches. I’ve always heard a writer’s journey to traditional publication never runs smooth or flat. Expect challenges, they said. Expect to be discouraged, they said. 

Expect it to be like climbing a mountain.

Which is honestly what encouraged me to pursue the traditional publishing route in the first place. When you’ve lived in Illinois your entire life, the thought of scaling a mountain—even a metaphorical mountain—sounds appealing. 

So I started my writing journey ready to climb. I could practically hear the voice of the Mother Abbess from The Sound of Music serenading me each time I wrote. 

Sure, I knew I’d hit some tough spots. Some rocky paths. Some steep inclines. But as along as I kept putting one foot in front of the other and never stopped moving, all would be well. One day I’d reach the top of that publication mountain. Right?

Right.

Sort of.

Here’s the thing about the path to traditional publishing nobody warned me about.

Not all of the journey is spent on the mountain. Sometimes you go through seasons when you’re off the metaphorical mountain…and on a metaphorical treadmill…in your metaphorical basement. (And your metaphorical basement isn’t finished with a flat screen TV, just to be clear.)

This part of the writing journey is not all that fun. Traversing dangerous ravines? Belaying past treacherous icefalls? Sure. Sign me up. But slapping my feet day after day on a nonmoving piece of equipment next to a rackety washing machine on one side and a creepy spider-infested crawl space on the other?

In the wise words of Lucy Ricardo… Ewwwwww.

Let’s be real here. Nobody wants to step foot on an actual treadmill, let alone a metaphorical treadmill. It’s boring. No matter how hard you push yourself, the scenery never changes. How are you supposed to get anywhere without going anywhere?

Then I remembered what treadmills are all about. They weren’t invented to transport you to a better place. They were invented to transform you into a better person. A healthier person. A stronger person. 

We often focus as writers on the journey to publication, but we seldom remember that writing, like running, isn’t just about reaching a certain destination. It’s about changing who we are on the inside along the way.

This has been a tough season to be a writer. Shoot, it’s been a tough season to be anything. A parent. A nurse. A teacher. You name it. It’s tough when it feels like you’re running your heart out and not going anywhere. But not going anywhere is a far cry from not growing stronger. 

I’ve had to keep reminding myself every shift I show up to the hospital when it’s the last place I want to be, every day I make time for my kids when I have a dozen other goals I’d rather accomplish, every writing session I force myself into the chair instead of vegging out in front of the TV, my endurance is growing. My faith is building. I’m a better person than I was the day before.

And someday in the future, when I’m facing a challenging climb up a particularly steep section of my metaphorical mountain, I’ll be glad for all the conditioning I did on that terribly boring metaphorical treadmill in the basement this year.

Running, Writing, and Crazy Talk

Earlier this month one of my brothers came for a visit and said the craziest thing. “Let’s go for a run.” The fact he was looking at me when he said it made it even crazier. Me? Run? 

“I haven’t run in over eight years,” I quickly reminded him. “There’s no way I can keep up with you.”

“We’ll go slow. You’ll be fine,” he said.

“How can I be fine if I’m dead?”

“Tomorrow morning. Let’s do it.”

“If by do it, you mean relax and drink coffee, then sure, you’re on.”

“Come on. You used to run all the time.”

“Used to being the key phrase. Listen to me, I don’t run anymore. It’s not happening. No way, no how. Forget it.”

The next morning we set out for a run. (The problem with having older brothers is they can talk you into anything.) And I must say, the experience turned out to be every bit as painful as I imagined it would be. The park I could circle twice at a steady pace years ago, I barely staggered around once that morning. Which led me to the obvious conclusion. 

“I must have had an undiagnosed case of Covid earlier on,” I gasped. “It’s clearly affected my lung capacity. Probably my heart. Definitely my legs. It’s hopeless.”

My brother offered a different diagnosis. “You’ve lost all your mental fortitude as a runner.” But thankfully he offered some hope. “If you stuck with it, made sure to get out at least twice a week at the bare minimum and slowly built up, I bet you’d notice a difference within a few months.”

At first I balked. A few months? If I’m going to put myself through torture I want to notice a big difference now. Today. At the very least tomorrow. Who has the patience to stick out an endeavor that might require months before seeing results?

Then later I sat down for another round of revisions on the 80,000 word novel I’ve been working on since early last year and realized, oh wait. I do. If writing isn’t an endeavor of extreme patience and mental fortitude, I don’t know what is. Shoot. Maybe I do have what it takes to get back into running. 

So for the past few weeks, I’ve been lacing up my running shoes and slowly plodding over the pavement that circles the park. The doubts that plagued me when I first started writing plague me now as I run.

Why are you doing this? You don’t actually think this will last, do you? You know this is just a passing fad. Eventually you’re going to get tired of it and quit. Wouldn’t you rather relax and drink coffee? Think of all the Hallmark movies you could be watching right now. 

All valid points. And it’s been a temptation, both in writing and now running, to say, “You know what? You’re right. I’m probably not going to see this through to the finish. Eventually life will get in the way. Things will get busy. I’ll get distracted. And I’ll quit. Why bother continuing?”

But then, wouldn’t you know, at just the right moments my husband has said the craziest things. A few years ago, it was “You should buy a laptop computer.” Earlier this week, “You should buy some good running shoes.”

For those of you who don’t know my husband, he’s not the type of man to spend money willy-nilly. For him to make those sort of suggestions can only mean one thing. He believes I won’t quit. 

And for now, as long as I take it one day at a time, I believe he’s right.