Sarahbeth Caplin's Blog, page 55

How I learned NOT to be an obnoxious author

Take in that title with a grain of salt, because it is me, after all ;)

With a few years of publishing experience under my belt, I’ve come to the conclusion that one hallmark of an immature author is the temptation to try and sell, sell sell all your books to anyone who knows how to read, regardless of their genre preference or whether they even know you. It’s hard work to convince strangers who’ve never heard your name to give your book a chance, but doing so can make you look like that attention-craving six-year-old no one thinks is cute, except her parents.

That’s why I’ve decided to drop that idea completely. I no longer use social media, or even this website, as a platform to sell books.

You may be thinking that’s crazy. How can I call myself an author and not care about selling books? I do, obviously. But my ‘technique’ has completely changed. Gone are the days when I’d peddle my book to strangers like a Jehovah’s Witness banging on your door with unsolicited pamphlets, often with the same results: a slammed door in my face (metaphorically speaking). It’s annoying and impersonal. You, the potential buyer, are reduced to just another number to brag about. My interaction with you would be just another canned sales pitch that dozens of others have heard before.

My new focus is building relationships. When I hibernate in my apartment to write with little distractions, I use Twitter or other blogs I follow to interact with people who share my interests: the very topics I write about. In fact, that is precisely how I found out about Rachel Held Evans, one of my new favorite Christian bloggers and author. Someone I know retweeted a link to one of her blog posts, and I’ve been a devoted customer ever since.

I’m much better at cultivating relationships than trying to sell anything. It takes time, but the payoff is always worth it, and it’s mutual. I’ve been frequenting the same independent coffee shop ever since I moved to Colorado two years ago, and most of the staff knows me by name now. They know I come there to write books, and most recently, I received a message on Goodreads from a patron who heard about me from one of the baristas. That was awesome.

This doesn’t mean every person who knows me there will buy my books, but that’s okay. As I said before, that’s no longer the point. I don’t believe in karma in the spiritual sense, but when it comes to friendships and networking, I do believe you get back what you give. I have learned the difference between seeing people as people instead of merely customers, and I think that makes for more genuine writing in the future.

“Look at meeee!” she said, oh so obnoxiously

Filed under: Self-Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Indie Author Life, self-publishing, Writing

Dear Angela, I quit retail because of jerks like you

Dear Angela,

I know it’s been about two years since you made this video about how angry you were that Bath & Body Works did not have the candles you asked for. However, a follow-up video showed up on my Facebook newsfeed this morning, which was linked to your original rant. So I watched it, to see what all the fuss was about.

And I was horrified.

But not for the reason you think.

You see, Angela, I’ve never worked at Bath & Body Works, but I worked in customer service through most of college, and at Yankee Candle during my first semester of grad school. Believe me, I too had my share of irate customers who came in for a specific item and, in your own words, “lost their shit” when we didn’t have it in stock.

You were particularly upset that no employees left to go to another store to pick up your candles, as you asked over the phone. You said “There was NO ONE else in the store,” so of course they could have left to get your candles.

But here’s the thing, Angela. You didn’t mention any other employees in your video: just “Manager Jen” and the first employee you spoke to at the register. The manager is usually not allowed to leave an employee by herself, should a customer like you come in with a complaint (at least that’s how it was at my store).

Could the employee herself have gone to get your candles, leaving the manager to run the store alone? Yes, but I’ll bet the behind-the-counter girl wasn’t lying about “being really busy,” because stores like B&BW are CONSTANTLY receiving new shipments. Those shipments must be logged with the inventory numbers, and then inspected to make sure nothing was damaged during shipping. Then the boxes need to be put away in the stock room.

Angela, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume you’ve never worked a retail job before: you may not have ANY IDEA of how long and tedious a process it is to log serial numbers and unpack new shipments. I’ve spent entire shifts doing just that.

So yes, Angela. That girl probably wasn’t lying about “being really busy.”

Back to what I suggested about you never working in retail before. You know why I think this? Because people in retail and customer service have to deal with customers like you ALL THE TIME – uppity, self-important, lose-my-shit-if-I-don’t-get-what-I-want-when-I-want-it types of people.

I won’t bore you with my horror stories of customers who tried to get me fired because I had to tell them we didn’t have the item they wanted, because I couldn’t take back a candle that was burned practically to the bottom (and that customer told me she “didn’t like it,” and wanted to be compensated. Umm sure). I’ve seen my manager, and others before her, handle things exactly as it seems Jen did: with an apology and a smile.

Even if what you really deserve is a punch in the face.

When you work in retail, you know not to treat people as you did poor Jen. Because you know better. Because you know that, hey, there are actually more important things in life than candles.

Now I’ll let you in on a little secret.

You ready?

It’ll rock your world:

I know at Yankee Candle, many of the “new scents” are very similar to previous ones, or – this is it! this is it! – they are the SAME EXACT SCENT as a previous candle, but with different-colored wax and a new label. I wouldn’t be surprised if B&BW did the same thing.

I know. Crazy, right?

If you had looked around a little longer, you may have found something very similar to what you were originally looking for. Or maybe something you might like even better.

You also could have ordered them online. Or accepted the coupons, because Jen probably didn’t have corporate approval to give you something free.

Or, you simply could have said “Oh well, thank you for trying. I really appreciate it,” and then left to go on with your life, and focus on things that actually matter.

Because of people like you, I hope I never have to work in customer service again.

Sincerely,

A former retail employee with zero faith in humanity

Filed under: Miscellaneous Tagged: Bath & Body Works, customer service, First World Problems, retail, Yankee Candle

What a late-night stop at a gas station taught me about rape culture

One Sunday night, a few months back.

“Are you sure it’s not too late to drive home?” Josh asked. “You can sleep on the couch if you want.”

By my standards, 10:30 pm wasn’t that late. But the drive was an hour long, and I needed to get up early the next morning for my internship. I kissed him goodbye and told him I’d be fine.

I’d had a cup of tea before I left. Not as much caffeine as coffee, but just enough to keep me alert while I drove. Thirty minutes into the drive I started to regret that decision, because I had to Go. There are times when it’s a nagging inconvenience, and you can put up with a little discomfort…and then there are times when you know you have to stop.

This was one of those times, but at around 11 at night, my options were limited. I pulled into the first place I saw with lights on: a gas station. No other cars were at the pumps or in the parking spaces. I could hear my mother’s voice in my head as I reluctantly unbuckled my seat belt: This is not a safe place for a woman to be alone. I knew this. I even made sure my keys were held in my fist like a knife, ready to gouge out the eyeballs of anyone who dared to mess with me.

The lone man at the counter greeted me when I walked in. “Evening, Miss.”

“Evening,” I mumbled back, despite thinking Of course the one person running the gas station at this hour is a man. “Uhh…where’s the bathroom?”

“Over that way,” he pointed. “But you’ll need this.” He set a key down on the counter. A key. So the bathroom door was locked from the outside. Just perfect.

I started mentally cursing myself for doing this, for having the bladder of a two-year-old in my twenties, while normal people could have held it long enough to get to a safer, non-questionable place to relieve themselves. But by then my stomach was starting to hurt from holding it in, and I really had no choice. I snatched the key and ran.

If this guy was That Kind of Guy I’ve been warned about in places like this, now would be a perfect time to assault me: we were alone. There were probably no security cameras. And, my pants were conveniently down at my ankles. My knees shook as I did what I had to do, and my uneasy fingers fumbled with the belt buckle as I tried to move quickly, lamenting the fact that we live in a world where this kind of fear is not a figment of the imaginatively paranoid: it is real. There is a sort of war taking place, living in a world where it is sadly uncommon to hear about the sort of men who take advantage of women traveling alone. Men who get off on intimidation and control.

Maybe the man at the counter has a wife or daughter, and understands this fear. But without any confirmation, he was a threat until proven otherwise. It’s not just about being fearful, although I wish it were: it’s about survival. And it hurt my heart to realize that if my fiancé was with me right then, I would have felt much safer, and if it were he who needed to stop somewhere to pee by himself, this sort of Danger Alert likely wouldn’t cross his mind at all.

The man wished me a good night when I dropped the key on the counter. Even held the door open for me as I left, watched me get into my car. As I quickly drove away, I couldn’t bring myself to count that experience as one that proves the world may have some decent people in it after all. Instead, I counted myself as lucky.

Filed under: Feminism, Rape Culture Tagged: Feminism, rape culture

Flawed theology and end-of-life decisions

“Maybe she’s just being punished because she never knew Jesus.”

“What if God had a plan for her life that will never happen because of her decision?”

“She’s missing out on the richness that can be experienced from suffering.”

These comments and others like it have appeared on my Facebook newsfeed regarding an article about a 29-year-old woman who is facing a terminal illness. Rather than wait for the inevitable suffering and decay from her prognosis, Brittany Maynard is electing to die on her own terms this November 1st.

A few years ago, I would have agreed with many of the above sentiments. I would have argued that ALL life, no matter how damaged or painful, is worth the struggle. I would have insisted that all suffering is character-forming. Sanctifying.

It’s not that I don’t still believe these things. But at that time I had yet to witness the agonizing death of a loved one from cancer. I had yet to experience The Struggle up way too close and far too personally.

I wonder how many people making those comments have personally dealt with the raw ugliness of cancer and its consequences. As much as I believe in the sanctity of life, I also believe in the validity of personal, educated choices. And Brittany’s choice to end her suffering on her own terms no longer strikes me as morally abhorrent.

But what about miracles? What about God’s plan?

This isn’t the first time I’ve encountered flawed theology about suffering. I find it unbelievable that some Christians would suggest the upright and faithful followers are immune; that God will always step in and prevent it.

Have we forgotten what God allowed to happen to Jesus? If God allowed his own son to be tortured and crucified, it’s pretty obvious that God has a very permissive attitude about physical pain and suffering. We can’t know the reasons. But we know it’s allowed to happen.

Furthermore, I highly doubt God’s plans for our lives can be easily impeded by our choices. If he is truly all-powerful and omnipotent, he already knew what Brittany was going to do since before she was even potty-trained.

How do we define ‘quality of life,’ anyway?

This answer varies, depending on the person. I’m certainly not suggesting that people with disabilities, depression, or other ailments should just kill themselves to be spared more pain. When there are options, there is hope. It’s not illogical by any means for a woman with Brittany’s condition to make this decision about ending her life. Unlike depression, cancer cannot always be managed. A fatal prognosis changes everything.

If you have never personally watched someone you love cripple day by day from a terminal disease, you have no right to judge this woman. I watched cancer kill my father slowly over the course of 13 years, and then rapidly over a period of 11 days this summer.

There were some precious moments we had together as a family at his bedside, but overall, there was nothing beautiful about my father’s death. There was pain, there were shouts and whimpers we couldn’t understand, there was tossing and turning, eyes rolling back into his head, the stench of rotting body parts, and overall, helplessness. I found myself feeling guilty as a daughter for wishing that death would hurry up and take him already — not because I wanted my father to die, but because I wanted his suffering to be over.

Suffering wasn’t supposed to be God’s plan. There was no suffering in Eden, there is no suffering in heaven. There can sometimes be a dignity in suffering that is beautiful and inspiring, but this is not universal in all cases of suffering.

These end-of-life decisions are never easy. There may be no ‘right’ answers. If this ever happens to you, by all means, pray…and then make a decision using the reasoning God gave you.

Trust that Brittany made her choice with good judgment and input from her doctors and those closest to her, with wisdom and maturity.

Pray for Brittany and wish her well. But do not judge what you would or would not do unless, God forbid, you find yourself in her shoes.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Brittany Maynard, cancer, Christian culture, Christianity, depression, Facebook, grief, hell

Hell and other stumbling blocks

I’ve written before about how my entry into evangelicalism was a mixed bag of awkwardness and excitement. At the same time, it was also wrought with frequent panic attacks and anxiety. Because part of the whole Christian package is the concept of afterlife: heaven for those who believe in Jesus, and hell for those who don’t.

Many people are surprised to hear this, but fear wasn’t a prime motivator for my conversion. The person of Jesus was. The idea of a tangible god in human form appealed to me, as someone who grew up with a notion of God as some faraway being off in the clouds who could never be seen.

Also integral to conversion was Christianity’s view of humanity, which I already believed through personal experiences. In the Christian worldview, human beings are born sinners. I never used the word “sinners” or even “sin” much, growing up, but I already didn’t believe people were born intrinsically “good.” Since the human race first came into existence, values and customs shifted with time, but one thing has remained consistent: human nature. An instinctual selfish drive.

This is what I mean when I say I believe in original sin: that the default setting of human beings is selfishness. Are we not all driven by a need for survival? The only way for an individual to advance is to constantly look out for Number One. I believe people are capable of acting good (some more than others), but that doesn’t automatically make us good. Ask five random people on the street how they define “good,” and you’ll realize there is no universal explanation for this word that so many people use flippantly.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t struggle with the notion of hell.

I struggle with the idea of eternal punishment for the finite crime of refusing to believe something without sufficient evidence. For many people, a book that uses itself to prove the existence of something is not sufficient evidence.

I struggle with the idea that, if hell is real and imminent for the majority of the world’s population, God didn’t make it more obvious. I struggle with the idea that God chose to give human beings the burden task of trying to convince people to convert when people cannot be convinced; they have to choose to believe on their own.

I struggle with the idea that God, being omnipotent and all-powerful, cannot simply do away with eternal torment altogether. He can do whatever he wants…right?

But no matter how much I struggle, I can’t walk away from faith. I can’t view the world without my “God glasses” because it blows my mind that this planet, and the universe in its deep, unknowable vastness, came into being by some random, cosmic accident.

I can’t walk away because the moments in my life when I experienced supernatural convictions cannot be discredited, or accurately explained any other way.

Bottom line? I can’t walk away from faith because I don’t want to. Because I realize that, in all my confusion, there is a man named Jesus who preached beautiful, revolutionary things: loving your enemies. Taking the high road of forgiveness. He preached things that go against human nature as we understand it.

Those are the things I pay attention to, and choose to focus on when everything else gets murky. Those are the things I focus on when I wonder why I still call myself a Christian in the first place.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, Christian culture, Christianity, Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter, hell

NA novel exploring rape culture: chapter 1

I don’t normally work this fast on a new book, but I’m under a self-imposed deadline to finish this one before pitching at a writing conference in Denver on November 15th: something I’ve never done before, so naturally I’m freaking out a little.

While keeping consistent with the themes of my first novel — feminism, rape culture, women’s issues in general — this is a very different book for me because it’s my first one that is distinctly New Adult.

Adelaide Scott is a 25-year-old magazine columnist for a a Cosmopolitan-style women’s magazine. Her new boyfriend, Jordan, is a photographer for a sports magazine, and is quite well-known and respected in his field. Until one of his ex girlfriends publicly accuses him of rape. Jordan swears he’s innocent, and Addie wants to believe him. So Jordan gives her a list of all his recent exes for Addie to ‘interview’ to prove he’s telling the truth. Addie will find out the truth…but it’s nothing like she expects.

This WIP still needs a title. Suggestions welcome!

Here’s a sample of chapter one:

Jordan and I are in that stage where we say “Text you later” rather than See you later. The marginal difference matters: it means we aren’t getting too invested too quickly.

Jordan, a photographer for Sports Unlimited, is the kind of man with perfectly-imperfect styled bedhead straight out of a hair-care ad, with just the right amount of swoop over his right eye to look intentional. The kind of man with a devil-may-care attitude about dating. The kind of man a writer for a magazine like Stunning! would have drinks with, and almost cost me my job by getting me to genuinely fall for him.

“Your column this month was amazing,” he whispers, as his teeth slightly graze my ear. An involuntary shiver weaves through my blood. I hook the bed sheet between my toes and yank it up, suddenly feeling cold.

“Glad you liked it,” I respond, though I almost wished he didn’t. Deep down, I wish he cared more about relationships as I secretly do. He wouldn’t be offended at the notion of being played–Hook Him and Book Him!–because he participates in the exact same game with women. What we have now–this informal sleepover ritual, alternating between his place and mine–is as close to serious as he’ll get. Any other woman would have been forgotten weeks ago. For some reason (I dare not ask which), I’m outlasting all of them.

I’m really not as stylishly bitchy as I have to be for the sake of the magazine: the Adelaide Scott I play for my dating column is a shrewder, coarser version of myself than I’d like to be, but my boss, Clare Allen, had a very specific persona in mind when she hired me. We share the same alma mater, and I double-majored in Journalism and Women’s Studies, so I think that’s what really worked in my favor when she interviewed me. My qualifications aside, the real Addie would have been way too soft for her.

“I love everything you write,” answers Jordan, propping himself up on his elbow, his gorgeous head supported on his hand. “Any ideas for the next one?”

“Umm.” I always dread this question. New ideas require more acting on my part, as I try to imagine what avid Stunning! fans want to read. I’ve become invested in Sex and the City for inspiration, but it’s always long in coming. Last month’s column was inspired by Carrie Bradshaw’s signature shoe collection: Do-Me Pumps and Other Ways to Get His Attention. It was my first column to go viral, securing my position and finally earning Clare’s hardened respect.

But as my feelings for Jordan deepen, my ideas for future pieces get soft. Last month I wanted to write a modern woman’s take on waiting for “The One” without actually waiting in the old-fashioned sense, but instead encouraged women to travel, go out with girl friends, and basically enjoy being their own boss. I could tell immediately that Clare hated it. It was only the second time I’d seen Clare’s botox-infused forehead crinkle with disappointment. The first time I saw that happen was when an intern forgot the Splenda packets for her coffee.

“No, not yet,” I finally tell Jordan. Not that I can’t just borrow concepts from my previous columns. The key to any women’s magazine, I’ve learned, is the art of regurgitating the same old content with different titles and different wording of previous articles. I would know: for “research” purposes, I immersed myself in subscriptions to all our competitors: Glamour, Cosmopolitan, etc. It’s safe to say that not one of them has published a single original concept within the last few years.

Like how many ways can you have sex that don’t require training for Cirque du Soleil? Pretty sure our earliest human ancestors had those figured out before the invention of print media.

Jordan stretches and sits up. “I’m sure you’ll think of something. But hey, I need to get going. I’ve got a photo shoot in an hour and traffic is going to be awful.”

It’s a nice change of pace to see him pick his clothes off my floor for once. True, his apartment is closer to our common work place–I work on the third floor, he works on the fifth–but maybe leaving his scent in my sheets will be fodder for my next piece. You never know.

Grabbing his jeans by the cuff, his wallet slides out of his pocket and onto the floor. A small snapshot shoots across the hardwood like a hockey puck. I lean to the edge of the bed to retrieve it for him, and notice the photo is of a tiny little girl, probably no only than two or three, with what looks like ice cream smeared on her face.

“Who’s this?” I ask lightly. Normally I’d be mortified at the thought of asking about the other women in my lover’s life (what better way to scream I’m clingy and insecure? Total violation of Stunning! policies) but I think it’s fair for me to know if the man I’m seeing is a father and never told me. As much as I like him, I can’t deal with any baby-mama drama.

Smiling, Jordan takes the photo from me. “Oh, Zoe? She’s my niece. I get to see her once a month, and I’m kind of taken with her.”

It’s embarrassing for me not to know that he has siblings. But it’s not like he knows anything too deep about my family history either. This whole no-strings-attached thing is so confusing, but after almost a month, I wonder if we’re starting to move beyond that.

“I’ll call you later, okay Addie?”

That’s a rhetorical question; Jordan’s signature sign-off. We kiss briefly after he tugs on his shirt. He then grabs his camera bag and lets himself out.

It’s a quarter till eight, according to the alarm clock on my nightstand. I guess I ought to get dressed too.

There’s not enough time to shower. I decide to swoop my wavy, brown hair into a low bun, and throw on a pencil skirt and blouse–sincerely hoping Jessa Felton, Fashion Features girl, was right about messy being the new sexy. I hate having to rush like this. Next time I won’t argue when Jordan suggests his place, though he didn’t exactly do that when he left…

I’m locking up my apartment when my phone rings. “Hello?” I answer, even though I already know who it is.

“Good morning,” answers a way-too-early-to-be-this-chipper voice. “May I please speak to Addie, Queen of Scotts?”

My best friend Kiersten Sharp. She has to make this signature pun on my name at least once a week. My family background is Scottish, though any connection to Mary, Queen of Scots has yet to be proven. “Morning to you too, Kier.”

“You on your way?” As an editor, Kiersten always arrives to work earlier than everyone else to look over drafts before the office gets crazy, when in reality, I think she likes to have first dibs on whatever pastry the intern brings in (fat free, of course). As my editor, I’m grateful for the perfect team we make, even if she’s a bit blunt for my taste (hence her aptly proper last name Sharp).

“Uh huh,” I mutter, shuffling along with my phone tucked under my ear as I adjust the bag that’s about to slip off my shoulder. “Once I get my Scribble Scrabble latte, I’ll be there in fifteen.”

“So you didn’t spend the night at JJ’s then?”

I love Kier, but I don’t know what annoys me more: that she always knows whose apartment I slept at based on where I get my morning coffee (Starbucks is definitely closer to Jordan’s), or that she calls him JJ. Sounds like the cutesy nickname of a preppy schoolgirl.

“Not like that’s any of your business, but no, I didn’t. He…” I glance around; making sure no one is within close enough hearing distance to judge me. “He slept at my place.”

Kier doesn’t even acknowledge the “It’s not your business” part. Because she’s Stunning! More than that, she’s Sharp! “Oh yeah? That’s a nice change of pace. How’d you swing that?”

“It wasn’t that difficult,” I say, strolling through Scribble Scrabble’s open door. “I pulled a Carrie.”

“Pulling a Carrie” is a synonym we made up for Standing Your Ground: Something every independent woman should do, per the examples set by the heroines of Sex and the City (Carrie Bradshaw, we reasoned, would undoubtedly be a reader of Stunning!).

“I’m sure you pulled it off well,” Kiersten responds coolly. I hate to be the kind of person who’s on her phone while ordering a drink, but it’s worth the risk of appearing rude to hear her confess, “I’m almost a little jealous.”

That is a big deal. No-nonsense bombshell Kiersten, never without bright red lipstick and the kind of thick blonde hair that seems to style itself, has no trouble attracting anyone.

“Why thank you. I like your humble side.” Drink in hand, I try to pick up the pace as I cross the street–no easy task while carrying a hot beverage and wearing heels. “I’m gonna lose you once I get on the subway, so I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?” I speak fast and hang up before I can hear her snort.

I’m the kind of person who needs to sit quietly with her coffee for a few minutes before I’m up for talking to anyone (Kiersten and Jordan being obvious exceptions). It’s still early enough where there are a few empty seats available on the train, so I seize the opportunity to rest my already aching feet for a bit. By now, my latte is almost lukewarm, but I don’t drink coffee for taste at this hour. It’s caffeinated; that’s all that matters.

I get five minutes of Addie Time before the doors open and a well-dressed man–late thirties? Early forties?–steps on. Still plenty of seats available, he decides to sit right next to me. I uncomfortably shift to make room, though it seems so unnecessary. Why can’t he sit in one of the other available seats?

“How are you today?” he asks gently.

“Fine,” I quip, taking a large gulp of latte. I don’t mean to be rude, but I also don’t want to give the impression that I’m open for conversation. Of course I had to finish the paperback I usually keep in my bag to help ward strangers off. I have yet to make a trip back to the library for a new one.

At a loss, I take out my phone and reread Jordan’s text messages.

The man doesn’t seem to take the hint. “You look really pretty,” he tells me, leaning in a bit too close for my comfort.

What the hell is his problem? I immediately understand that this is no longer about casual conversation between two strangers on their way to work. This is a man looking to get a rise out of me. Someone to avoid. Someone potentially dangerous if I don’t give him the kind of reaction he wants.

I once wrote a column about moments like this, actually. Well, more about the kind of shouts and hollers women get when wearing outfits like mine today, or more revealing ones. The title of it was, Is it Harassment? Or is it a Compliment?

The truth? I wanted to call it harassment. It was Kiersten–and ultimately, Clare, who has the final say in everything I write–who convinced me to rewrite it as some kind of affirmation of hotness. “I mean, think about it,” Kiersten remarked. “Would fugly, older women get those kinds of comments? No, they wouldn’t.”

Begrudgingly, I went with it. How could I not? I have rent and student loans to pay.

But in this situation, with no best friend of boss nearby, all I could do was stare at the man, dumbfounded. It’s the kind of expression I do best, so I’ve been told: casually bitchy with just a touch of Are you kidding me?

Truly stunning indeed. Mercifully, the train stopped where I needed to get off, and the Creepy Man did not follow me.

It’s a funny contradiction, this Stunning! paradigm I’m working to promote: independent women are ones who are never afraid to “Pull a Carrie” when a moment calls for it. Unless that moment involves a man giving them compliments, and then we accept them no matter what. Because what does it mean to be “stunning” without confirmation of sex appeal?

Oh well, it’s over now. Time to start my day.

Filed under: Feminism, Self-Publishing Tagged: Author Sarahbeth Caplin, Feminism, Indie Author Life, rape culture, self-publishing

What Christians get wrong about love

Throughout my participation in Campus Crusade for Christ, I heard this message countless times in sermons, bible studies, and prayer groups: There is no such thing as real love outside of Jesus.

I was new to Christianity then. It still had this shiny, new toy appeal to it. So I swallowed that line without thinking about it too critically. But this was also the time when Dad’s cancer began to return with increasing aggression, and started adding severe limitations to his life: he could no longer run, lift weights, or play golf – all activities that he loved.

I imagine this also put a great deal of strain on my parents’ marriage. At the same time, it also highlighted the strength of their commitment to each other. Imagine that: my non-Christian parents demonstrating gritty, at times intensely unflattering, but ultimately genuine, gut-wrenching real love.

“We promised ‘for better or for worse, in sickness and in health,’ and we meant it,” is what they told me.

You only had to spend a day, or maybe even an hour, in my house to see just how much they meant it.

In the final weeks of Dad’s life, Mom slept on a reclining chair at his bedside, despite her dire need for a hip replacement (which she postponed in order to continue caring for him). She decided to delay receiving her PhD by a couple months so she could be a full-time caregiver, even though she’d been studying furiously all summer. That deep, unwavering love enabled her to help empty his colostomy bag, change bandages, and wake up in the graveyard hours of the night to give him his pain medication.

You simply cannot look at that devotion and say it isn’t real because Jesus isn’t in the center of it. You just can’t. I think back to those semesters I was active in Cru and feel so ashamed by my sheep-like acceptance of that falsehood. I did not think to challenge the people who said those things. I did not ask them to show me where in the Bible it said that non-Christians don’t experience real love. I just smiled, nodded, and went on with life.

If it’s true that God is good – the creator of all good things – maybe it stands to reason that romantic love and satisfying marriages are included in that package. If all good things in this world are the mark of God’s handiwork, one need not be Christian or religious in any form to enjoy them.

When I think about my parents, I think of how they set a high bar for my own upcoming marriage (in T-minus 66 days, not that I’m counting or anything). I realize more than ever how fleeting feelings can be, and how dangerous and unrealistic it is to rely on a “spark” to sustain you every day.

There will certainly be no sparks or fireworks if I end up in my mom’s place someday, caring for Joshua in his last days of hospice care (God forbid). I will have to rely on far deeper things to get through each day: Commitment. Devotion. Fulfilling my promises, knowing my spouse would do the same for me.

For people to insist that kind of love is exclusive to people of a certain religion is offensive as it is untrue.

Filed under: Religion Tagged: Campus Crusade for Christ, cancer, Christian culture, Christianity, grief, marriage

Confessions of an Uncensored Childhood

In honor of Banned Books Week, I’d like to offer a few thoughts about what it was like growing up with parents who let me read (almost) anything I wanted (take them at face value).

I have what you may call “liberal parents,” politically and intellectually. This isn’t to say I was raised without limits, but when it came to literature, the doors were pretty wide open.

This factoid should surprise no one, but I was raised to be a reader. From fairy tales at bedtime to abridged children’s classics, it’s safe to say that literature is what shaped me. Not only was I encouraged to read, I was encouraged to ask questions. In the waiting room at the doctor’s office, for example, mom read me Little Bear. I vividly remember asking her, “How come Little Bear’s parents wore clothes, but he doesn’t?” Mom’s response: “I don’t know. Maybe his parents were just negligent. You should write your own version where he asks that question.” And you know what? I did. Among many other stories.

My brother, on the other hand, was more of a history and movie buff. He was watching war films like Saving Private Ryan at an age when many parents would still forbid PG-13 rated movies. I think for my parents, the historic content and possibility for education outweighed the rating (and in case you’re wondering, they didn’t allow either of us to watch whatever films we wanted. Movies weren’t automatically disallowed by their ratings alone, but rather why they earned those ratings. We weren’t allowed to watch mindless smut-fests like American Pie). This mindset continued to apply to my own reading material – some I picked on my own, like Grapes of Wrath, and others were required for English class, like All Quiet on the Western Front.

I should also mention that when you grow up Jewish, the Holocaust becomes an essential part of early education. And, by extension, history lessons about World War II in general. So questions about why Little Bear was allowed to run around naked, and the sexual content of Judy Blume books really didn’t seem like that big of a deal.

By not hiding the facts of the “real world” from us, my parents made it possible for my brother and I to be free to ask questions: why is there evil in the world? What do I do if my friends at school ask me if I want a cigarette? Why haven’t I gotten my period yet? What parent wouldn’t want their kids to be comfortable asking them these questions?

Because books related to these “hard topics” were available to me, I grew up finding solace in literature. I also began the hellish years of middle school with a realistic awareness that social life was about to get difficult, and sure enough it did: my dad was diagnosed with cancer for the first time. A classmate committed suicide. Insecurities about my body plagued me on an almost daily basis.

I sincerely believe that my access to ‘worldly’ literature prepared me for these things, rather than ruin my innocence. For that, I owe my parents nothing but gratitude. And when I read articles like these, where parents go to ridiculous lengths to purify their kids’ literature, I can’t help but feel sorry for those kids whenever they enter the ‘real world’ and discover it’s not as sanitized as mom made it seem. And, furthermore, will they have the right tools to defend their values if they have only read books that reinforced, rather than challenged what they were taught to believe?

What religious converts don’t always tell you

For Dorothy Gale, a literal whirlwind trip to a place called Oz was enough for her to appreciate the value of Kansas.

A less windy excursion into Christianity was enough for me to appreciate the things I took for granted in Judaism–mainly, the freedom to doubt and ask questions. Christianity isn’t anti-doubt and anti-questions, but Judaism, I’ve discovered, has a more accepting attitude to living with doubts and questions. There’s less pressure to have it all figured out, just in case you find someone holding a gun to your head (or threatening to burn you alive), pre­paring to make you martyr by asking what you believe.

You should only convert once in your lifetime, if you can help it. A person’s religion is more than a building to worship in–more than a social gathering, club, or community of like-minded people. Religion influences the way you vote, how you spend your money, how you devote your time, how you view your fellow man, the purpose of life altogether, and the most productive way to live it.

Religion, simply put, is a lifestyle. Ask any con­vert and I’m quite confident they will tell you: you lose a piece of yourself when you change religions, even if the identity you gain feels like a better fit. Changing religions is like sharing custody of children with your ex-spouse: the interaction may be stiff and uncomfortable, but there is still a bond that can never be severed because of what you shared.

Christians still like to encourage me that I can have it both ways: they tell me I’m a “completed Jew.” Such terminology shows how completely uninformed the evangelical culture is at large about Judaism: maybe Christianity should have been the fulfillment of the Jewish religion, but that’s not how the history plays out. It’s irrelevant to me that Jesus didn’t intend to create another religion when he started his ministry. Judaism and Christianity evolved in separate directions anyway, and that is the reality we must work with.

It’s not enough to convince a Jewish person that Jesus is the real Messiah: the doctrinal differences are so deep, having been developed hundreds of years before the Immaculate Conception. From the begin­ning, Judaism has viewed the origin of sin, the nature of good and evil, and the importance of the afterlife differently than its brother-from-another-mother, Christianity. Jewish and Christian biblical scholars still battle over how to correctly interpret the original Hebrew manuscripts.

As for me, the former rabbi wannabe, I’m still struggling to interpret the Sermon on the Mount, much less the correct implications of yom, meaning “day,” and whether it constitutes twenty-four literal hours in the creation story of Genesis, or if Isaiah 53 is prophetically referring to the suffering of Jesus or the suffering of Israel on its beaten path to statehood.

Theology–any theology–is messy, but combining two religions as one is even messier.

I don’t claim to be a scholar or an expert in any­thing. I’m only a pilgrim looking to marry my past to my present in a peaceful way so they don’t bicker; a sojourner searching for middle ground between two profoundly different—and profoundly similar—faiths without ending up so infuriated by the follow­ers of both that I toss them both out.

Excerpted from Confessions of a Prodigal Daughter

Keep calm and quit being your worst critic

Shortly after the revised edition of my memoir was published, I was holding the paperback in my hands, with that newfound sense of awe and accomplishment that comes with every book I publish. Flipping through the pages, I noticed what was written on the copyright page: This novel is a work of fiction…

Naturally, I was horrified. How many people had seen this?! It was such an embarrassing gaffe; such a stupid mistake, but luckily not difficult to fix. I did, however, have to go back to The Learned Owl Bookshop to replace the copy with the misprint. I copy-paste the copyright notice from my previous books (those are fiction), and change the title and year of publication. I probably made a mental note to go back and change the wording later, and just forgot. Obviously.

But a mistake like that caused a miniature anxiety attack that I’m sure many authors face: what if there are other mistakes in my book I don’t know about? What if there’s some major flaw that no one – not the editor, not any of my six beta readers – picked up on?

A better question: would I have these same fears if all my books were traditionally published?

I think I would. Not just because I have found typos and slight grammar goofs in traditionally published novels before – they are made by humans, after all – but because it’s still my work. I am harsher on myself than any 1-star review from a Goodreads troll. I will always ask myself, no matter how many positive reviews I get: Did I really give it my all? Did I wait long enough before publishing? Did I get enough opinions from readers who enjoy this genre? Did I…?

I know there’s no such thing as a universally pleasing book. There may not even be such a thing as a “perfect” book. But assuming every required task was checked off the list before publishing, there has to come a point when you rest in knowing that you gave it your best shot.

No, not everyone who reads your work will love it. Some might even hate it. But I firmly believe that if you invest your time, your emotions, and your heart in every book, the readers you are trying to reach will be able to tell. One misplaced comma that went overlooked by a hundred beta readers and five different editors/proofreaders will not ruin your entire book, or underscore all that hard work (it kind of pains me to say that, being a perfectionist with OCD, but how can I hold that standard for other people’s books and not my own?).

Of course, it’s much easier to type this out as a motivational blog post than to truly believe it. But as long as I continue giving my best effort, there’s nothing left to do except hold these paperbacks proudly, and not be afraid to admit Yeah, I made these.

This post is part of the Indie Author Life series.