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My blog has been fairly serious over the past few weeks.

My life has, too.

But I can’t be serious all the time and as my month long revision process winds down, I’ve been thinking of all the things I’ve given up in order to focus so totally on my manuscript.

Here are a few, in no particular order.

Watching TV. I don’t watch a lot of shows, but most of the ones I do watch have been on hiatus for the summer. And all had season premieres in the past week. I did not watch. I sat downstairs and typed away while my husband watched all of them, laughing so hard I could hear him through two closed doors.

(Exception – NCIS. I’m a girl with priorities. Plus, I write romantic suspense. I consider it “research” and watch guilt-free.)

Doing laundry. Not really much of a sacrifice. I’ll pay for it later, but for now . . .

Reading. This one is a sacrifice. I haven’t read any fiction in a month. That might be a record for me. The reason is simple self-preservation. As soon as I pick up Steven James’ The Bishop, I’m toast. It will be a planned “mommy outage” – nothing will get done. Possibly even less than is getting done now. When this revision is over, I’m going to curl up with that book and read it, probably within 48-hours. I’ll then spend the next several weeks jumping at the slightest sound in the middle of the night. But it will be worth it.

Knitting. I love to knit. It’s relaxing. Except for when you drop a stitch and have to spend several hours trying to salvage the week’s worth of work you’ve done. I realize it doesn’t sound all that appealing, but it is. At this point, I’d be happy to knit a dishcloth. But I won’t. I won’t. Not until I’m done.

Eating. Um. No. Not really. Which is a shame.

Tweeting. I haven’t gotten into Twitter yet, but I’ve been convinced I need to give it a go. But not yet.

Sleeping. In the past week, I’ve dreamed that James Scott Bell left a message on my Facebook wall telling me I hadn’t put enough tension in my plot. (No. We’ve never met.) Two nights later, as I struggled to come up with the perfect “climactic” scene, I dreamed one. It was horrible. And off-beat. And as my characters raced away from the scene of the carnage, there was none other than Steven James himself (who I have met), herding two small goats away from the flames. Side note: there are NO goats in my story.

When this is over, I’m thinking about sending my kids to my parents for the weekend. (They don’t know this . . . well, I guess they do now).

I’ll be sleeping late, tweeting in my pajamas, napping, reading The Bishop, watching all the shows stored on my DVR and knitting a dishcloth. Or maybe a baby sweater.

The laundry can wait.

I’m a girl with priorities.

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Several months ago, I wrote a piece about the importance of being prepared to put into practice whatever you blog about. Probably within twenty-four hours of your post.

It happened again.

I think I might be afraid of my own blog.

If you didn’t read last Friday’s post, you’ll need to or this won’t make much sense. Here’s the condensed version: September hasn’t gone according to my plan so I’m giving up on the plan and taking life a day a time and leaning on God’s perfect plan for my life.

Um, yeah.

I woke up at 5AM on Saturday morning, spent the next 4 hours in the ER and the next 3 days on the couch.

Several people who had read the blog on Friday commented on the irony. Believe me. As I was sitting in the ER, it occurred to me that maybe I should have waited one more day before telling the world (OK, the 30 or so people who read my blog) that I was confident that God’s storyline for my life was better than anything I could come up with.

‘Cause let me tell you, at 5AM on Saturday morning, I wasn’t buying it.

It hasn’t come up on Out of the Boat before now, but I am 16-weeks pregnant.

And when I woke up Saturday morning, I didn’t think I was pregnant anymore.

There’s nothing quite like that kind of terror to make you question whether or not God’s storyline is all that great. I can’t tell you what this post would be like, or how long it would have been before I managed to post anything, if Baby #3 wasn’t alive, kicking, growing and causing me tremendous heartburn and occasional nausea.

Needless to say, the events of the weekend have stopped me in my tracks.

I’ve been told to take it easy. No heavy lifting, no housework, nothing but the bare minimum – for the rest of the week.

Since I’ve been laying on the couch instead of hunched over my computer, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands to think about things.

I wouldn’t say I’ve learned my lesson, but goodness knows I’ve lived it.

When the waves got rough this weekend, I can’t say I stayed on top of the water.

But I can say that I was never alone and that when the waves threatened to drag me under, He was there.

So, once again, I’m here to tell you that I have no plan. I’m taking it a day at a time. I’m trying not to worry about the little life growing inside me. I’m not going to worry about contests I won’t be able to enter, or books that may take an extra few months to complete.

I’m trying not to fight the change in my plans.

Trying to look at the bright side.

And trying to live out what I believe.

Jeremiah 29:11-13 – For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans for welfare and not for evil,to give you a future and a hope.Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will hear you. You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart.(ESV)

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Proverbs 19:21 – Many are the plans in the mind of a man, but it is the purpose of the LORD that will stand. (ESV)

In Mid-August, as the school year got under way and life started to take on something that bore a resemblance to a routine, my little brain went to work.

In order to submit my novel to the Operation First Novel contest sponsored by the Christian Writers Guild, I needed to devote all my free time, and some of my already committed time, to my manuscript.

I’m one of those Type-A, overachiever types and there’s nothing quite like setting a goal to help me rise to the challenge.

But I’m also a wife and mother. I have responsibilities other than writing. And devoting a significant portion of time to my manuscript wasn’t something to undertake without serious consideration. Because, again, as the overachieving type, once I committed, I planned to see it through.

No matter what.

So, I prayed. When I felt like it was the right thing to do, I sent out an email to a handful of friends and family, asking them to pray.

And I went to work.

The next day (I am NOT making this up) my mother-in-law broke her leg. And came to live on my couch for the next two weeks.

This was not part of my plan. Obviously, this was not part of her plan either.

I love my mother-in-law. She’s a trooper. She didn’t complain. She was less whiny than some men I know (who will remain nameless) when they have a sinus infection. And, at one point, she was wheeling around in her wheelchair as she mopped my floors (can’t make that up either). She did her very best to be as helpful as possible, because, after all, she was in on the plan.

(She might not have been aware of the part of “my plan” that had included her taking my son for some quality “grandma & me” time every so often during the month of September. Which, as she can’t put any weight on her leg for at least a few more weeks, obviously won’t be happening.)

And this wasn’t the only thing that went “wrong”. I won’t bore you with the details but, trust me when I say several things went “wrong” within a fairly short period of time.

I hit a wall.

Why was this happening? I had prayed about this. Other people were praying. This was the right thing to do.

My sweet husband tried to settle me down with the astute observation that I could just give up on my plan. (He’s a bit of a master at reverse psychology). I let him know that despite the fact that I was, at that moment, reduced to a sobbing puddle of misery, I had no intention of bailing on the plan.

Remember, overachiever here.

I sent an email to a friend and told her that God would either have to stop the sun—hey, He’s done it before—or give me supernatural strength because there was NO WAY I would be able to finish this revision in time unless He did it.

You can already see where I’m going with this, can’t you.

The next Sunday in church, one of our pastors made the comment that sometimes God lets us run out of gas so when we get where we’re going, we have no choice but to give Him the glory.

Now, you might be expecting me to tell you I finished the revision in record time—but I’m not done. I still have 102 pages to revise/edit/rewrite.

But, here’s what God’s been teaching me.

My plan for September was to finish the revision and submit the manuscript to the contest.

God’s plan for September was for me to lean on Him. All day. Every day.

Sadly, I’m a slow learner.

My mother-in-law went home on Saturday.

Sometime on Sunday, I might have started thinking about “my plan” again. Might have even written down a little schedule that would prove that it’s possible for me to finish in time.

The school called at 10:30 on Monday morning. Once again, my plan went down the drain as I rushed to the school, then the pediatrician and then brought both my munchkins home for the day.

Very little writing goes on when both the munchkins are at home.

We’ve been in the pediatrician’s office (or at his house – it’s very handy when your pediatrician is also a friend and you have his cell number) three out of five days this week.

I’m giving up on my plan.

I know. I should have done this three weeks ago.

The new plan?

I don’t have one.

I’m taking it a day at a time. I’m staying up late to write after the house is quiet. I’m being faithful to write when I have time during the day.

Mostly, I’m trying to remember that God’s storyline is always better than anything I can come up with.

And that no matter what I plan, His purposes will stand.

Psalm 138:8 – The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands. (ESV)

I’m currently in the midst of an intense revision of my manuscript.

It is NOT fun.

I have to force myself to do it. 

I keep finding excuses to do everything else.

Maybe I should whip up a blog post? Great!

Clean the bathrooms? Absolutely! (Um, not really, but sometimes the idea is appealing).

Revise? Blech.

Why? Well, revisions require concentration. They are somewhat devoid of the creative release that comes from writing the first draft. (Don’t anyone yell at me. I didn’t say they were devoid of creativity – just the easy flow of the creative process when it’s all rushing out and you can’t type fast enough. There’s no “fast” typing in a revision.)

Plus, I’m a perfectionist, so the whole time I’m revising, I’m irked that I didn’t do it “right” the first time. Never mind that I know I didn’t know what I was doing the first time. Or that I know that no matter how  many times I look at this, I’ll always find something to tweak.

Regardless, I stay perpetually annoyed with myself. Which is no fun for anyone.

There’s no other way to put it.

Revisions are hard work.

One part of my revision process is to search out all the passive verbs in my manuscript and, in most cases, change them into active verbs.

I’ll give you an example (from the first paragraph of Chapter 11, in case you’re curious).

     His hands were shaking and his palms were sweaty.

(If grammar was a long time ago, or just not your thing, the passive verbs are “were shaking” and “were sweaty” – well, technically the passive verb is “were” and “shaking” and “sweaty” are adjectives, but you don’t really care, do you?)

This sentence will now read (probably, unless I change it again):

     Todd’s hand shook as he reached for a napkin to dry the sweat from his palms.

Now – honestly – did this change the sentence much?

No.

Would I have noticed the passive verbs until I took Angela Hunt’s class at Blue Ridge, or until Edie Melson pointed out how many (57!) I had in Chapter 7 alone?

No. Not a chance.

So, what’s the big deal? Who cares?

Well, apparently, publishers care. Editors care. Agents care.

Passive verbs are just one of the hallmarks of amateurish writing. And eliminating them is a big step in moving your writing from “this person has no idea what they’re doing” status to “there might be hope for this author” status.

But there is another reason.

A far more important reason.

Because I do not write for an agent, an editor or a publisher.

I write for an audience of One.

And even if no one outside my closest circle of friends ever reads a word of this manuscript, it needs to be my best.

My very best.

He deserves nothing less.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got approximately 1500 passive verbs to eliminate.

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I. Hate. Change.

Some weirdos people thrive on change.

I, however, am perfectly normal.

You can stop laughing.

OK. Now that you’ve got control of yourself, I’ll give you an example.

I recently changed from an mp3 player to an iTouch. This is a fabulous change.

But I’m still not used to it.

I’m trying to get all my music converted and my playlists onto my new toy. And despite the fact that I know I will love my iTouch (once I figure it all out), I’m wishing I could just snap my fingers and have everything on the iTouch the way it was on my old mp3 player.

Without having to change anything.

It doesn’t work that way.

It doesn’t work that way in the rest of my life either.

God asks me to change. Frequently.

Change opinions. Change dreams. Change direction.

While I don’t always see it this way, His changes are intended to lead me into something better. Something more. Something I wouldn’t have had without the change. And usually, something I’m going to love, once I figure it all out.

Thankfully, He rarely asks me to change instantaneously.

I’ve only recently come to realize this. But when I think back on the major changes in my life, I can see how God has allowed me to ease into them. They weren’t optional. But He did give me time to adjust to the new reality, time to figure out what my life would look like after the change. Before I had to dive into it.

I stumbled across a few verses in Psalms the other day. I’ve read them before but this time, they grabbed me.

And left me in awe.

Psalm 103: 13-14 – As a father shows compassion to his children, so the Lord shows compassion to those who fear him. For he knows our frame; he remembers that we are dust. (ESV)

He knows my frame. He knows how I was formed.

And He knows I hate change.

So while He loves me too much to leave me unchanged, He also loves me too much to torture me with changes I’m not prepared to accept.

Change may not be your issue, but I would guess that you have one (or two). There’s something you struggle with. And I know if you spend some time thinking about it, you’ll see how God treats you gently in that area. You’ll notice that He doesn’t let you use it as an excuse, but He doesn’t ride roughshod over your emotions and fears.

I can’t even get my mind around the idea that the God of the Universe takes the time to treat me with such compassion.

There are big things for Him to deal with in the world. Stars to keep burning. Entire galaxies to keep spinning. Not to mention the other several billion people on the planet who need Him.

But He has compassion on me.

I’m left humbled. Thankful. Amazed.

And you know what my favorite part of all of this is?

Even though these verses were written several thousand years ago, we know they are still true today.

Because our God never changes!

Miraculously enough, Edie continues to allow me to guest blog on her fabulous site.

So come visit me over at The Write Conversation for my review of The Power of Body Language.

Did the title of this post get your attention?

‘Cause it sure got mine!

So, what on earth would make me pick up a book entitled Demon: A Memoir?

I have serious issues with all things horror. In particular, horror that in anyway involves the satanic realm.

But this book was the She Reads bookclub recommendation for August. She Reads is a group I discovered on Facebook a few weeks ago and it’s a part of Proverbs 31 Ministries. I don’t claim to know much about Proverbs 31 ministries, but the little I do know leads me to believe that they wouldn’t recommend a book that was inappropriate.

However, I still wasn’t sold. I looked up the reviews. And they were impressive. People talked about how they couldn’t put it down. How they were moved by the book.

Moved? Really?

I debated for a few days and then took the plunge and ordered it (no, the library didn’t have it). It took several days to arrive, during which time I wondered if I’d lost my mind and wasted $10. Well, actually $28 because I needed to spend over $25 to get the free shipping so I ordered a few more books. (Please tell me I’m not the only one who does this!)

Anyway, I didn’t start reading it right away. I looked at it for a little while. Took it out of the box. Wondered, again, if it was worth reading or if I was getting ready to squander my precious reading time on something I wouldn’t enjoy or benefit from in any way.

As it turns out, all I wasted was a lot of mental energy worrying over nothing.

I read Demon: A Memoir in less than 24 hours. I would have finished in less than 12, but life did its thing. And I had to sleep a little.

After, oh, three pages or so, I couldn’t put it down.

Why? Well, I don’t want to give it all away. But Demon: A Memoir is actually a love story.

No. Not that kind of love story.

The very best love story of all time. The one we live in everyday.

I finished it last week and I’m still thinking about it. Thinking about re-reading it actually.

Tosca Lee’s writing was beautiful. I loved her descriptions of the fall of Lucifer, of creation, of the virgin birth and of the way God is involved in the details of our lives today. I even loved the way the book ended – and it wasn’t what I was expecting.

When I turned the final page, I felt compelled to pray for the main character, even though I know he isn’t real. Um . . . well . . . maybe that doesn’t happen to you. And it’s not often that it happens to me, but it did this time.

I also felt a renewed sense of awe and wonder that the Almighty God not only tolerates humanity, but He loves us, with a never-ending love. Loves us so much He sent His son to die for us. Loves us. Even though we so often throw that love back in His beautiful face.

That’s not the way I usually feel when I finish a book.

Which is the very reason I wanted to share Demon: A Memoir with you.

**********************
Because I know many of us are always on the lookout for a writer we’ve never had the pleasure of experiencing before, I’ve decided to post an occasional “review” of a book that I’ve read. If you enjoyed this and would like to see more, please let me know in the comments.

Side note: My “reviews” will not be critiques. We’ve already covered how I feel about criticism and as such, I do not feel in anyway inclined to go around critiquing writers who have actually managed to get their books published! If I write a post about a book, it will be because the story captured me and I want to share it with you.

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I don’t know the exact date.

I didn’t mark it on my calendar.

I probably should have.

It was a pretty big deal.

Oh. Who am I kidding? It was huge. To me anyway.

A year ago this week, I sat down at my computer and emailed my sister the first chapter of my book. I asked her to read it and tell me if she’d like to read more.

Then I spent the next day trying not to vomit. (I’m not kidding).

I was terrified. I’d spent the past six months writing a book. And no one except my number one fan, my husband Brian, knew anything about it.

But Jennifer liked it. She wanted to know if I’d written any more. It took another couple of emails and another couple of chapters before I admitted that I’d actually written the whole thing.

She loved it. And insisted I send it to my parents.

Now, I’m 36 years old. Not 12. But my parent’s opinion means a lot to me. To this day, disappointing them is one of my greatest fears.

So I sent them an email. I wish I still had it. I don’t remember what I said. Something along the lines of “Uh, so, I wrote a book. Hope you like it.”

They loved it.

Apparently, while the whole “writing thing” came as quite a shock to me, it didn’t surprise them in the slightest. I’m not sure if this is because they are my parents and as such, are naturally biased to believe I can do anything, or if they had seen some tendencies that I had been too busy living my life to notice.

Either way, they jumped on board and my fan club reached a grand total of four.

It was around this time that it occurred to me that maybe it would be a good idea to read up on writing. I was in for a rude awakening. Because I learned I had a good story, but an unpublishable one. Mistakes galore. All sorts of issues that branded me for the neophyte I was.

Of course, a lot can happen in a year.

I’m still green. Still unpublished. Still finding and fixing mistakes galore.

But I’ve learned so much this year. I’ve learned that writing first drafts is fun. Fixing them . . . eh . . . not so much fun as mind-numbing hard work mixed in with occasional moments of delight. I’ve learned that even though I tend to think of myself as a fiction writer, I actually enjoy writing devotions. I’ve learned that the road to publication is long and without guarantees so the best plan is to learn the craft, write the best you can and leave the timing up to God.

But most importantly, I’ve learned that I am a writer.

And no one is more surprised by that than me.

I’ve been writing a few devotions for my parent’s church website. This is the first one that hasn’t already appeared on this blog.

So, please hop over to Grace Community Fellowship and check it out!

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We recently spent quite a bit of time on the road and my husband, being a wise and loving mate, knew that the best place for me was in the far back seat of the van.
Horizontal. Asleep.

He claimed this was all in my best interest, but I suspect it was because he couldn’t bear the thought of the long drive ahead with me in the passenger seat, gasping and clutching the door, slamming on that imaginary brake pedal in the floorboard and providing him with a running commentary on the distance to the nearest 18-wheeler.

So I climbed into the backseat, propped up on three pillows, and watched the world go by at 60 70 80? miles per hour. I looked for shapes in the clouds. I took note of the way the blue of the sky and the green of the trees make for a very pleasing palate and congratulated myself on choosing it for our nursery eight years ago (yes, our first child is a girl but in case you haven’t figure this out yet, I don’t care for pink). I observed that the trucks speeding by in the opposite lanes passed us so quickly it was almost impossible to read the writing on the side. I tried not to ponder that for long. And after a little while, I fell asleep.

Amazingly enough, we arrived at our destination without any difficulty.

No accidents. No speeding tickets. No drama.

And it made me wonder.

Does God ever wish I would just shut up and climb in the backseat?

How much of my time and energy is spent slamming on my own spiritual brake pedal, clutching and grasping at the things I hold so dear, begging Him to slow down, asking Him if He’s paying attention, questioning His reasoning?

Would my journey be more pleasant if I let Him take me wherever He wants, whenever He wants, however fast or slow He wants, and let Him do it without whining about His methods?

Would our relationship be sweeter if I sat with Him, chatting with Him, enjoying His presence, learning more about Him, trusting Him to get me where He wants me to go, instead of nagging and whining and second-guessing?

I don’t think He wants me to disengage completely, crawl off into the backseat and just say “whatever, Lord” in a fit of pique.

I do think it is easy to say we trust.

But so much harder to get out of the driver’s seat and sit in the passenger seat without fear.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief. (Mark 9:24)

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