Sarah Martin Byrd's Blog, page 8

Back to the Stone Age

I do believe that the world is going to “H” in a hand basket. What in the dickens is going on in our schools, cursive writing not included in North Carolina Public Schools curriculum? When I heard this the other day I was shocked. Texting, Twitting and the keyboard are taking over the creative part of our minds. Not to mention making us lazy.

 

To me learning the art of cursive writing is as much a part of growing up as loosing your baby teeth. I have to think what it would be like if I couldn’t write in cursive. And, if I can’t write in cursive or “long hand” as us old school folks call it, then I can’t read it. I think back to the days when my husband was in college, he would occasionally write me a letter. I have to admit it was sort of mixed up. Part would be printed, other parts written in cursive. I tend to do that too. Studies show that most people do the same. But what if I had never been taught cursive, I wouldn’t have been able to read all those mushy things he was saying to me. Mushy, yea right!

 

These days a love letter would consist of lettering something like this: I have a “BCO” on “U”. I “L” it when you “S” at me. “LYSM”

Translated into real words the above says:

“I have a big crush on you. I love it when you smile at me. Love you so much.”

Which one has more meaning to it? Or, better yet which one can you even translate?

 

Really people, who would know what those abbreviations mean? When I googled texting abbreviations, I found that there are thousands just like I used in the above paragraph. I wouldn’t be surprised if our schools are not teaching these abbreviations instead of cursive writing. In one news article a teacher said, “We can’t teach everything, something had to go.” And that something was cursive writing.

 

Thankfully there is a bill in legislation right now called, “The Back to Basics Bill.” Obviously someone has figured out that to stop teaching cursive writing would mean a huge communication gap between generations. Why, The Declaration of Independence was written and signed in long hand. That means children of today would not be able to read it. It would be like it was written in a foreign language to them. Children of this generation would not be able to read old letters that grandparents wrote, and grandparents certainly can’t read notes that their grandchildren write them. When a person writes, “LOL” does it mean, lots of love, or laughing out loud? This shorthand is insane!

 

Studies have shown that typing doesn’t help the brain develop as much as writing in long hand. When typing the fingers make repetitive movements rather than connect shapes. To me writing in cursive has always had a beauty to it. I would say that it is a form of art. No two people write the same way. We are taught a like, but since every person is unique to himself or herself the flow of letters and words when put on paper has a style of their own.

 

In some schools teachers are forming cursive writing clubs, just like “FFA”, Future Farmers of America or the Beta club. For the few students who are interested they meet after school and learn to write in long hand. A poll was taken a while back, 3900 young people were asked if learning to write in cursive was important to them, this was their answer: “NO! OMG, 4get cursive, it’s dead!

 

No my children, I think not. Long hand is very much alive. I looked back at a few notes I’ve received in the past few months. All the hand written messages was written in long hand. I hope we not only keep teaching our children to write in cursive but that we also teach them that taking the time to write out what is in their heart means so much more. Really, would you rather see a note or letter signed, “AML?” Or, “All My Love?”

 

These shortcuts are robbing our children of the basics. Will they even know how to spell complete words? We might as well go back to the Stone Age and start grunting at each other.

 

1Corinthians 1:10

Now I beseech you, brethren, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that ye all speak the same thing, and that there be no divisions among you; but that ye be perfectly joined together in the same mind and in the same judgment.

The Changing of Seasons

Spring is officially here. Or, that’s what the calendar says anyway. I’m afraid Mother Nature has a mind of her own though. I woke to sleet pelting the tin roof over my head Sunday morning after spending our first night of the season at our camper on New River. And the forecast for Independence, Virginia for the next three days is highs in the thirties, lows in the twenty’s, with snow.

 

There are many things in life we can change. Our hair color, our clothes, we can lose weight, move to a new neighborhood or state, maybe even change jobs or purchase a new house. But, there is one thing for sure, we cannot control the weather and change it to fit our needs or mood.

 

I love living in North Carolina because of the different seasons… and the mountains… and the beaches. Winters are usually mild, summers not too hot, and spring and fall are perfect. Our lives are certainly like the changing of seasons. One day we’re youngsters riding our bikes and skipping rocks, and then we become teenagers and young adults and must take on responsibilities. Time forces us to grow up.

 

Then one-day fall has arrived and our days are full of children, grandchildren, mortgages, minivans, and work. Where did spring and summer go? Are they still there hiding behind the gray hair, and wrinkles? Yes! The changing of seasons brings forth new spouts and green leaves, and then they mature, turn all different of shades of yellow, orange, and bright red. For a season they show off their brilliance.

 

Then before the wind shakes them free of their struggles, they start changing color, they become faded and lose the moisture that once kept them supple. One day a mere spout, the next a mature plant, then a fading rose until one day it droops, dropping to the ground and the cycle starts all over again.

 

This story is not meant to be depressing. What a beautiful thing life is. So perfectly planned. We are born, we grow up, we experience life, we live, we become aged, we live some more, then one day we are stepping over the river Jordan and will never again have to worry about our aches and pains, our worries and challenges. Never another day of darkness, forever we will live in the Light. We will be renewed, with sprouts and new shoots of green. What a wonderful thought to think that one day after our earthly journey is complete we will burst forth into eternal springtime and live forever.

 

Wishing everyone a blessed Easter.

 

Ecclesiastes 3:1-2

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted…

 

 

FYI: I want to thank Sherry for letting me know that Emma Laura Gentry Hurt and William V. Hurt are not buried on the hill below my house but in the cemetery at Grassy Creek Methodist Church.

 

Who Lieth Beneath the Sod (Part 2)

Last weeks blog has stirred something up in me that is kin to a burning desire to find those who have vanished into the days, weeks, and years since their passing. I want to clip down the over grown foliage, mend the broken markers and fence out the cows. I have only begun my journey.

 

Thank you to all who sent me messages and especially to my friend Janie who emailed me some interesting links. I have barely skimmed the surface of those lives that are six feet under the sod on the hillside below my house.

 

In a survey taken on February 23, 2008, surveyor, Joe Hicks documents facts concerning what I have learned is called, “The Gentry Cemetery.” He does indeed say that Cassie, or Cassy as is carved into her stone was born 2/13/1832. She was the daughter of Matilda and Wiley. (See below.) Then she did indeed marry a man called Levi D. Burcham on 3/25/1856. Then only a few short months later she died on 11/3/1856. Mr. Hicks as I, speculate that she probably died during childbirth.

 

Mr. Hicks findings go on to say that there is also a marker with the name of Rebecca Gentry, birth 1874, death October 187?. He states that this marker is very difficult to read. His findings show the girl named Rebecca could have only been a child, less than six years old. Did she fall prey to whooping cough, polio, or pneumonia? We will probably never know the cause of her death.

 

The surveyor also lists Wiley Gentry, born 3/10/1805, death 5/27/1878, and another partially legible marker bears the last name Gentry, born 1805, died 1878. Strange that Wiley and this unknown Gentry man were born and died in the same year. Mr. Hicks states in his findings: “Cattle have not been kind to the markers and most of them are broken or pushed over and laying on the ground.” Here is the link to Mr. Hick’s findings if anyone is interested: http://www.facebook.com/l/DAQEjwhJeAQFvTUZMlyD25YEKWetPzmrpsqoImMb6bcIoeA/cemeterycensus.com/nc/surr/cem364.htm.

 

Mr. Hicks says there was another marker with the name Carla Spence; born 6/3/1810, date of death unknown in “The Gentry Cemetery.” In my search of the cemetery I found no such marker. What could have happened to it? In 2008 it was there, but in 2013 it is gone. Could Carla have been the innocent orphaned slave girl who no one seems to know what happened to? And, why would someone remove her marker? Yes, me thinks there is much more to her story. Don’t worry, I’ll keep “digging.”

 

Matilda, born March 1805, wife of Wiley Gentry was the daughter of Reuben and Cassa (Buttery) Sparks. She died August 18, 1878, in Surry County, North Carolina. Her husband Wiley was the son of Jonathan and Sally (Fender) Gentry. Wiley and Matilda were the parents of eleven children. You can find their names and stats at this website:

Go to section 1.2.5.1.3.10 http://www.facebook.com/l/hAQHRCgCEAQFpzV53SHZ9F9qp3myP921mo1cAfTL1SKKjUg/www.sparksfamilyassn.org/pages/059-A.html

 

My research has found that the Gentry legacy started with Reuben and Cassa (Buttery) Sparks and descended to my neighbor’s husband, Harold Hurt. Harold’s mother, Emma Laura Gentry was born April 27, 1885. She married William V. Hurt on August 20, 1914. They lived at Edwards Crossroads, North Carolina, where they reared four children. Clyde Fowler Hurt, born October 5, 1915. William Ovid Hurt, born October 27, 1917. Orena Grace Hurt, born May 31, 1920. Harold Worth Hurt, born March 21, 1924.

Whether Harold’s parents, Emma and William are buried in “The Gentry Family Cemetery” still remains a mystery for there are no stones bearing their names in the plots below my house.

My next quest is to go to the old cemetery below the house I grew up in on Preacher Field Road, Wilkes County. Old tales say it is the burial ground of Native Americans. I have yet to prove that. But regardless of rumor, many a night as a young imaginative child I’d look out my bedroom window down at the old head stones and my mind saw Indian’s dancing in the moonlight, their blazing torches bobbing up and down and back and forth. I’ll keep you posted on my findings.

 

As the weather warms I hope to “excavate” more information on some of these old cemetery sites. I’m also looking into the rules and regulations on their up-keep. For all who can decipher legal mumbo-gumbo here is the website for North Carolina Laws and Statutes Regarding Cemeteries and Neglected Cemeteries.

http://cemeterycensus.com/law/nc-law.htm

 

I have always said we need to be writing our stories down. If our lives are not documented then they’re lost. Sure, our name might be engraved on a stone somewhere, but will anyone really know who we were? Will anyone even care?

 

 

Who Lieth Beneath the Sod?

“O youth, thou hast removed one grief only to add another grief; but now, O my friend, where is she; and where is the mausoleum wherein lieth the wounded slave?”

The Book of The Thousand Nights And A Night

 

On a hillside within sight of my house, hidden from view by thorny orange bushes, briars and two drooping Cedar trees is the resting place of sixteen souls. Or, so I’ve been told. My discovery should not have come as a big surprise. All my life I’d heard talk of a graveyard nearby. For some reason I thought it was behind a neighbor’s house, but recently I was set straight and told that it is in fact just a quarter mile down the road across from the neighbors house.

 

Taking advantage of one of the first warm days of the year my granddaughter and I set out on an adventure. We strolled down the road, camera around my neck in search of the long ago remains of once breathing souls. Our first obstacle was an electric fence. I spit on it and it didn’t sizzle so we were in luck. Under the fence we skedaddle. Straight way I spy a fresh clump of cow manure. I start praying there’s not a bull in our midst. I wasn’t really that scared for myself but Emma, my granddaughter would have been terrified if a raging bull started barreling toward us. For me it wouldn’t have been the first time I’d been run out of a pasture by a bull.

 

Keeping a keen eye out for cow flesh we proceeded to climb the hill. We wove our way through broom straw, briars and poop. Our destination was the two aged Cedar trees. My neighbor had assured me that was where her husband’s parents were buried. She also made mention of a young orphan girl who may have been a slave also resting in peace upon the hill.

 

The vague story of the young sixteen-year-old girl has always been a haunting mystery to me. Who was this girl and what could have happened to her? No one can seem to tell me. I have to wonder if the mere girl is resting in peace or if her spirit is seeking solace. If only someone could remember her story. I need to call in the “Without a Trace” team and try to “dig up” the answers to this two hundred year old question?

 

Before I contact the investigators I thought I’d throw the information out to you and see if I get any feedback. Here’s what Emma and I found where the Cedar trees hover over what’s left of a dozen or more souls. Five or six monuments are still standing. Another half dozen or so lie broken on the ground. Only two have words etched on them. Another two only have initials engraved in them. Then another is so weathered by the elements of time that I could only make out a date, 1874.

 

On one of the legible stones it reads: Cassy Gentry, born February 1832. Married a man with the last name of Burcham in March of 1856, then she died in November of that same year. She was only twenty-four years old. Who was she and what happened to her? Did she die during childbirth? Will we ever know?

 

The other legible stone reads: Matilda, wife of Willy Gentry, born 1805, died 1828. Matilda was only twenty-three! What could have happened to these two very young women who lie on a hillside under the sod? Both so young…both so gone…both so forgotten. And what about the sixteen-year-old orphaned slave girl? No one took the time to even etch her name. The memory of her may be lost for eternity, but thoughts of a young maiden running barefoot through the meadow racing to sink her feet in the cool water of Grassy Creek trickle through my mind.

 

My neighbor, the only person who may know the truth sits behind a locked door in an Alzheimer’s unit. Sure she can remember small fragments of the ones buried on the hill, but after finding the plots I have to wonder if she really remembers, because there are no stones with her husband’s last name there. Did she mean her husband’s grandparents who may have been Matilda and Willy Gentry?

 

If anyone knows anything about these plots on Brookfall Dairy Road, in Elkin, North Carolina and the ones who lie beneath the thistles and snares, I’d really appreciate any information you might be able to share. And, are there any laws about keeping a cemetery sacred? I suppose there are worse things than having your grave pooped on by a cow. But, somehow it just doesn’t seem right.

 

When I saw the grown-over burial ground and ran my fingers across the stones I had an overwhelming need to know who these people were, to bring their memories to life. How very sad to be gone from sight, and mind with not even a piece of stone left with your name on it.

A Writer’s Norm

After safely dropping off my third novel, “The River Keeper” to my editor a couple of weeks ago I’m experiencing an entirely different lifestyle than I’ve been used to as of late. Since last October I have been revising and critiquing my new work. The first draft grew from 87,000 words to 101,000. The characters have become more colorful and complete. I can now actually see the lines in their faces and smell their surroundings. So while I wait for “The River Keeper” to return what shall I do with myself?

 

First thing was to clean off the desktop of my computer. It took me a few hours and some cold, steel willpower but when I emptied the trash I had disposed of over 1500 items. To permanently delete anything is very hard for me since I’m somewhat of a hoarder, but I did it. Wonder when I’ll realize I’ve thrown something away that I need?

 

Now that my days are not filled with my lead character, Callie Mae McCauley’s thoughts I can do some volunteer work and cook my poor, hard working husband a decent meal. I’m reading more too, and doing research concerning possible ways to publish my children’s picture book this year. I would also love to start writing some inspirational articles to submit to Christian Magazines.  And a short story project is on the horizon. I’m trying very hard to be where God wants me to be too, i.e.… helping friends and visiting with family more.

 

I’ve found that as a writer I can very easily get lost in my own little world. I tend to want to shut out anything that will take me away from my work. I don’t want to answer the phone and I have to fight the urge to hide in the closet with my laptop when someone knocks on the door. A writer is often looked upon as a sorry, good for nothing person who sits at home all day and watches soap operas and sleeps till noon.

 

If only the world knew the clutter in a writer’s brain.  It’s almost impossible to stop thinking. Sometimes at night I find myself counting to take my mind off the days events and shut off the voices in my head. I think counting is normal since people have been counting sheep to induce sleep for hundreds of years, don’t you?

 

Normal. That is a loaded word if I’ve ever written one. What in the world is normal? For me it’s letting my imagination soar. To create stories and settings and give characters names, and scars of their faces, and long straight hair. It’s putting down on paper the sights and sounds of places I want my readers to go. My normal is not your normal and your normal is not mine. Thank goodness God created us all with different personalities, looks and abilities.

 

Wouldn’t the world be blasé if we were all really normal? Webster’s Dictionary says normal is conforming to type or natural law. Well I suppose I’m like a possum eating cat food, like the possum, I tend to conform to my own way. I look at things a bit different than most. When I see the sunlight filtering in the window and watch the dust particles float through the air I don’t have the urge to clean. I have the desire to describe how the warmth of the light feels when it touches my skin and how the magical dust is dancing on the wings of fairies.

 

Louisa May Alcott said it perfectly: “Far away in the sunshine are my highest inspirations. I may not reach them, but I can look up and see the beauty, believe in them and try to follow where they lead.”

 

As a writer I may never achieve the glory of hitting the New York Times best sellers list, but that won’t stop me from reaching for it. And in the meantime I’ll continue to write down my stories, count sheep and never, ever, become normal.

 

 

Silk Purse, or Sow’s Ear?

While watching American Idol the other night I appreciated the advice of the judges. They told the singers to sing from their heart. And, if they didn’t they were just giving a performance. I knew exactly what the judges were saying. I could tell when one of those singers was really feeling what they were crooning. Even if they didn’t have the best vocal range, watching and listening to them was so much more pleasing when they believed the words they were singing.

 

As writers we would do well to take the advice of the American Idol judges. Write from the heart. I’ve tried putting on paper what I think someone else wants to hear, but the words are all phony and meaningless. More than once after friends have read my work they have told me, “You are all in your books. I can just hear you saying the stuff that you write.” Halleluiah! Of course I want my writing to reflect who I am. I could never be an author of supernatural horror, or fifty shades of smut. There may be a lot of smut in me, but some things are just meant to be kept to one’s self.

 

A couple of weeks ago a lady called me and asked if I would be interested in mentoring a young lady. The girl wants to write and illustrate a children’s picture book for her senior project. I was told that the young student is an artist and isn’t worried about the pictures but she needs help crafting the story. That young lady and I have spoken on the phone a few times but we have yet to meet. The main thing I want to instill in this young author is to be herself and write what she knows. That doesn’t mean she can’t use imagination because it is “her” imagination. Write what’s in you and people will take notice because it comes from your heart. I can’t wait to work with this young person and watch her grow.

 

Wouldn’t the world be so much better if everyone would just be their self and not try to make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear? God made each of us from our own unique mold. Some are meant to be writers, others singers and some are crafted to be the best darn cook in the world. I’ve heard people say many times, “I wish things were the way they were when I was growing up.” Those were perhaps simpler days, slower paced, a time when neighbors were not too busy to venture over to the other one’s porch and sit for a spell.

 

These days most of us think we have to work from daylight to dark, and even on the weekends so we can afford a big, fancy house, a couple of nice vehicles, and a condo at the beach. Do any of these things really make us happy? No. They only complicate our lives. The more we possess, the more headaches we have. Listen to your heart, or conscious or that little person who sits on your shoulder. If we really open our ears I’ll bet we hear: “Whatever you do, let it come from the heart. Don’t be afraid to be yourself. Sometimes little is much.”

 

One of my nieces thanked me the other day for just being me. What a wonderful compliment that was. When I am long gone from this world I hope I’m remembered for being just plain, ole’ simple me. A wife, mama and grandma who loves to write stories and inspire people to live a happier, Spirit filled life.

 

 

1 Peter 3:3-4 ESV

Do not let your adorning be external—the braiding of hair and the putting on of gold jewelry, or the clothing you wear— but let your adorning be the hidden person of the heart with the imperishable beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which in God’s sight is very precious.

The Mysteries of Life

Once upon a time on a cold winter’s night in a land not so far away two ladies were engaged in separate battles. One a beautiful princess lay dying of a terrible disease. She knew she would not see the light of morning. The princess longed to find comfort and give in to the pleas of the death angel. He was beckoning her to let go and come with him. But how could she? To do so would mean leaving her teenage daughter, son, mother, father, sisters and brothers. The princess did not know how to say goodbye.

 

Meanwhile in a castle not far away an older queen sits in her chamber. She is alone. No one understands her. Can’t someone see inside and know that all she wants is to be loved. But no one comes to sit by her side. No one cares. Her children live far, far away, her siblings have abandoned her and the king is always busy with kingly duties. As the aged queen ponders her days she realizes none needs her. She thinks the world will be a better place without her. No one will even know she is gone. The stately lady opens the bottle of poison and drinks the lot of it.

 

One lady waging a desperate battle for her life while the other destroys hers. Yes, this story has the notions of a fairy tale, but sadly it’s true. One of my best friends sisters passed away a few days ago. Lisa was barely in her prime. The rigors of fighting a cancer that would not go away took its toil and she finally let go and grasped the death angel by the hand. She had fought the good fight. Her battle was won. The other lady, the queen she is a family member who on the same night Lisa was dueling with the death angel, the queen willingly decides to end hers.

 

Why could the older queen not give her life to the princess who fought so hard to keep hers? How can one person so easily throw away their mornings, evenings and nights? Neither of these ladies lived a fairy tale life. But the one who could not stay with us was the braver of the two. Why? Because even though her body was racked with pain she had a will to live. She did not want to selfishly shed herself of her struggles and worries. She was willing to live in pain rather than die in peace.

 

The elderly queen who drank the poison did not perish. She was spared. For what reason she does not know. She was given a second chance at life. Is there justice in that? Shouldn’t the one who wanted life so desperately live and the one who did not die?

 

That is the question many of us ask in situations such as these. One day we will know the truths of this old world and understand the mysteries and mazes. We will see our entire block of life and we will rest assured that God has always been in control. Even when situations seem unfair. My friend lost her baby sister that night, but the queen was granted another sunrise.

 

The End

 

Ephesians 3:9

And to make all men see what is the fellowship of the mystery, which from the beginning of the world hath been hid in God, who created all things by Jesus Christ: 

“Audio Blog: The Christian Author’s Show”

Today’s blog is going to be very short and to the point. Instead of reading my words I want you to listen to them. All day today, Monday, February 11, 2013 I will be featured on “The Christian Author’s Show.” Today, will be the only day you can hear the interview between Don McCauley and myself.

 

It was certainly an honor and privilege to be featured on this nationally known show. There are 446 million pages in the Google index for ‘author radio’ and “The Author’s Show” is currently #1 in that index.

 

The interview is less than fifteen minutes long. Tune in and I’ll tell you all about my new novel, “The Color of My Heart” and what led me to write it.

 

It’s simple. Follow this link to the middle of the screen and click on, “The Color of My Heart.” You may have to scroll down to find it. Hope you enjoy. http://www.TheChristianAuthorsShow.com

 

Branding Statement

I celebrated my 54th birthday this past Saturday. I’m hoping more inner wisdom will come with the added year. At least then I’ll have something better to show for living twelve more months than additional gray hair and a rounder middle.

 

This year I hope to pick and choose the most important things and discard the petty stuff I don’t enjoy doing. What’s really important in life? To me many things: My faith, family, writing, watching my only granddaughter grow up, friends, a clean house, a happy husband, a loving daughter to whom I am very proud, staying warm, watching it snow, camping on the New River, good books to read, fishing for Bass, walks in the woods, loving on my cats, picking wildflowers and writing. Oh, I already said writing, didn’t I?

 

For almost six years I’ve been a full-time stay-at-home novelist.  No one knows the hours that go into creating a meaningful tale. Whether it’s a short story for children or a 100,000–word novel for adults. Last week I was interviewed for an Internet show that spotlights authors. The interviewer sent me twelve questions that he would be asking me on the show and gave me a couple of weeks to prepare.

 

As I was reading through the list of twelve I started stressing out. One of the questions was what is my Branding Statement? I don’t even know what a branding statement is. But the kind interviewer led me to a taped segment that he had created especially for people like me who don’t know what their Branding Statement is either. After listening to his information I came up with a Branding Statement for Sarah Martin Byrd, “Life Changing Books With Grit From The Heart.” What do you guys think? If you’ve read my work let me know if you believe my new Branding Statement fits.

 

Some of the other questions were as simple as, “Tell us about your book.” Who could do this better than me, the lady who wrote it? Well, I’m here to tell you probably anyone could have. I was all over the place. I was supposed to answer the question in one minute and after three and a half I was still blubbering and not finished.

 

Other questions were: “Who did you write this book for?” “Is there a central message in the book?” “What led you to write “The Color of My Heart?” and,” How can you share the themes of this book with children?”

 

Those five questions plus seven more were harder to answer than any pop quiz I ever experienced in all my years of schooling. Why? I really can’t explain. I simply write what is on my heart. Does there have to be a central message? Can’t the story just be for entertainment? And, do I have to pinpoint a certain group that I wrote this book for? My answer was everyone. The interviewer quickly corrected me and said, “If you say everyone, that means no one.” What the heck does that mean? What if that interviewer asked God who He wrote the Bible for? Do you think he’d tell The Lord that His Word can’t be for everyone, I think not!

 

Long story short, the pressure of all the, do’s, and don’ts in life can suck the magic out of our imagination. I can talk face to face about my books for hours and not even stutter once, but when put on the spot with these questions I froze up like an over worked air conditioner on a steamy day.

 

The interviewer also asked if I have a specific writing style. Am I supposed to? My writing style is Sarah’s. Not Nicholas Sparks or Mary Higgins Clarks. It’s mine and there’s no way to describe it without boxing myself in. I enjoy writing inspirational stories, women’s fiction, young adult, and children’s stories. To be successful do I have to choose?

 

After taping that interview last week I was a nervous wreck. It wasn’t fun. So I have made a vow to never, ever do another phone interview. It’s just not me. So my first official decision since turning 54 is: Stop doing things that are not pleasurable! That of course excludes housework, laundry and grocery shopping. Maybe a bit more wisdom has come my way with the ticking of time.

 

This verse might just be God’s Branding Statement:

HEBREWS 4:12 NKJ

For the word of God is living and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the division of soul and spirit, and of joints and marrow, and is a discerner of the thoughts and intents of the heart.

First Time Is Not Always a Charm

Recently I had several fellow writers call and ask me for advice. Yes me! One of the questions asked was, “Do you think having an editor is that important?” My answer, “Well it might not be for you, but it certainly is for me.”

 

I’ll never forget the feeling I got when I flipped through my first novel after my editor finished the initial edit. My heart started racing. Dry palms grew sweaty and I had a massive hot flash. What are all these red marks? Is she crazy? How can this manuscript have so many mistakes, I used spell check. And, what does “add a beat” mean? I can assure you the first draft of each of my novels were not charms.

 

Editing is not only correcting spelling, grammar, and punctuation. It’s looking for plot holes and believability. A good editor will read your work and offer advice that sometimes comes in the form of criticism. But honesty is what you need to improve your story. Since my first novel I have learned that “adding a beat” makes the story flow so much better. My editor is forever telling me to describe what the character is feeling don’t just say it, show it. It is better to scratch than to itch! Make your reader feel like they are in the characters own skin.

 

I am almost finished with the first re-write of novel number four, The River Keeper. During the revisions this novel has grown from 87,050 words to 97,535. I have about sixty more pages to go so The River Keeper will probably be around 100,000 words when finished. An editor pushes you to dig deeper into your imagination, to expand on your characters personalities, the way they look, and the story setting.

 

A good editor is not cheap, but I truly believe that if I had submitted my novels without being professionally edited they may have never been published. One of the main points in a publisher’s submission guidelines is: Make sure you have polished your work to perfection. Some publishers even say that if they find mistakes in the query they will throw your work in the trash.

 

Even if you are an English major and know when to use an apostrophe and when not to you still need someone to edit your work. And, that person has to be truthful and not afraid to offer constructive criticism. Don’t expect your mama to be honest with you. You know?

 

A writer must wear a variety of hats. She has to be creative, dream up characters that her readers love to hate or hate to love. There has to be a great story in her head and she must have the ability to put feelings down on paper. Then she has to be willing to listen to her editor. I’m not saying a writer should make every single change the editor suggests. We have to follow our own instincts but, at the same time willing to take advice.

 

For me the re-write is the best part of creating a novel. When I’m writing that first draft I’m fiercely trying to get the story down on paper. When I go back through the pages I have time to read between the lines and hear the voices of my characters a bit more clearly. Most of the time they have so much more to say than I originally thought.

 

Every writer thinks they have written the best book ever, or at least one worthy of mention in Oprah’s Book Club. But if your work is thrown out into the world without shedding a few drops of sweat, then it probably isn’t the quality it needs to be.

 

Whether you self-publish or find a traditional publisher you have to polish and shine your work until it glitters. No, the first draft may not be a charm, but that’s not to say the second, third or fourth won’t be. Thanks Jo for being such a wonderful, hard-nosed editor.

 

Proverbs 12:14

A man will be satisfied with good by the fruit of his words, and the deeds of a man’s hands will return to him.