The Power of a Good Story: Guest Post by Jessica O’Neal

Today’s guest post comes to you by way of Jessica O’Neal.  A self-professed ‘lover of the written word’, Jess is in the process of finishing her first novel.  You can follow her progress on her blog here (as well as read some great book reviews and thoughts on life in general), and you can cheer her on via Twitter, here.

Today Jess is talking about the power of a good story – the way it draws us in, turning the black and white of the page into something vivid, tangible, magical.

Jessica O’Neal, everybody!

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The other night I was reading a book and as I became more immersed in the story I could feel my body physically responding to the emotions the story was drawing out of me. This is not an uncommon occurrence for me, but it got me thinking and I realized that there are not many people I know who would understand what I was going through. In my limited circle of family and friends there are very few who truly “get” what it is about books that creates such passion in me. Most of the people I know find that emotional connection through music, some find it in movies, but very few find it through books.

Whenever I try to explain exactly what it is a book does to me I am usually looked at as though I have grown a second head, which is admittedly better than the people who think they know exactly what I am talking about but as they expound upon it I realize they have no idea. For me, the power of a book (or movie or television show for that matter) is in the characters and the story they are telling, and it is one of the most powerful forces I have ever encountered. It goes so much deeper than simply feeling a generic sense of happiness or sadness that you forget about an hour later as you go about your daily life; it is something that is felt deep within you and lingers with you for days or weeks, and even after you have moved on to new things you can pause to think back on that story and instantly feel those same emotions awakened within you once more.

I often wonder what I would look like to someone observing me as I read. I am not someone who just gets into a comfortable position and reads with a blank expression. I laugh out loud, I smile, I scowl, I gasp, I cheer, I exclaim and talk back, I cry (sometimes to the point where I can no longer see the words on the page), I make hand gestures, and occasionally I find the action so intense I have to sit on my knees so that I can move in motion with my anxiety. My poor husband has gotten so used to this that he hardly notices my strange behavior anymore and no longer takes offense when he comes to tell me something and I hastily wave him away without even looking at him because I am in the midst of some crucial scene. While most people find all this external display from a book odd, they can at least somewhat understand what I am talking about since it is tangible, quantifiable. It is when I attempt to explain the things going on underneath, the things that are causing this strange display, that I lose people.

I have been sitting at my computer wracking my brain for adequate words to describe what happens inside of me and nothing I come up with seems to do it justice. Whenever I am reading a great story there is a veritable storm of emotion brewing on the inside of me that I don’t know how to explain. How do you explain the feeling created in your chest and gut when tragedy strikes? How do you explain the happiness that bubbles inside of you so strongly that it causes you to cry when you watch a character who has struggled for so long finally overcome? How do you explain the wrenching feeling of frustration that makes you want to pull your hair out or reach through the pages and shake the character for being so stupid? How do you explain that nothing more than words on a page can be so intense they cause your heart rate and breathing to grow more rapid? How do you explain the feeling of emptiness and pain that will not leave you because of the way things ended? Sure you can use the words and phrases authors use to help create those emotions in the first place, but unless you have experienced these things personally those words are not going to help explain it any more than they helped create it.

It can be very lonely sometimes having such intimate and important encounters – even if is through “just a book” – and not having very many people, if any, you can share it with. This is one of the many reasons I am so grateful for the online communities created through blogs, fansites, and social networking sites. These things have allowed me to find and connect with some of my kindred spirits. I may personally only know a few people who “get” it, but all I have to do is go online to find a host of friends who understand the power held within a good story.

RECIPE: Cathy’s Cream Cheese Sugar Cookies

My daughter showing off her crazy-awesome rolling-pin skills...

INGREDIENTS

1 1/2 C. Sugar

1 C. Butter, softened (I use salted)

8 oz. Cream Cheese, softened

1 Egg

1 tsp. Vanilla

1/2 tsp. Almond Extract

3 1/2 C. Flour

1 t. Baking Powder

My boys are expert cookie cutters...and dough eaters!

INSTRUCTIONS

In mixer (I use my cake-batter attachement), beat sugar, butter, and cream cheese until fluffy-ish.  Add egg, vanilla, and almond extract.  Beat until creamy.

In separate bowl, sift flour and baking powder together.

Little by little, add flour mix to cream cheese mixture.  Mix well until flour is fully incorporated.  Wrap dough in plastic wrap and chill for 2-3 hours.

On lightly floured surface, roll dough (about 1/2″ thickness).  Cut cookies and bake at 375 for 8-10 minutes.

Our first batch of the season, made to share on Thanksgiving!

I use a simple powdered sugar glaze as frosting for these – powdered sugar, water, and a little vanilla.  Add water little by little to the sugar until you get the consistency you want.  Liven up with food coloring and decorating goodies!

A Legacy of Christmas Spirit and Cream Cheese Sugar Cookies

Little Myndi at Christmastime. Check out the super-fly shag carpeting!

So many of my childhood memories of the Christmas season are wrapped up in little Christmas tree shaped bites of heaven.

My mom loved Christmastime.  Really loved it.  There wasn’t a corner of our house that wasn’t touched by her immense Christmas spirit, and there wasn’t a soul that knew her that didn’t gain a little joy from her infectious, child-like love of the holidays.

Sometimes I wonder what our Christmases would be like now if she were still around.  She’d spoil our kids rotten, that’s for sure.  Probably slip my oldest some hot spiced wine while I wasn’t looking – just a little, with a conspiratorial wink that would say, “Let’s keep it between us.”  She would have definitely passed on her mad skills with a razor blade – very useful when one needs to sneak a peek at what’s inside an expertly wrapped present.  Then, of course, she’d have to teach them to re-wrap said present in a way that hid the crime.  I know she would have patiently listened to long recitations of Christmas lists and done her darndest to make sure every item appeared under the tree.  Their stockings would have been stuffed so full that there would be a basket under each one overflowing with extra goodies she just couldn’t fit in there.

And she would have taught her grandkids how to make cream cheese sugar cookies.

Growing up, these were a holiday staple.  From Thanksgiving through New Years, we were never without her special, yummy, add-inches-to-your-waistline cookies.  Decorated in festive colors, with at least one red-hot candy on each.

Sadly, she’s not here to teach them stuff like that.  She’s not here to snuggle them and spoil them.  Most days I’m pretty okay with that.  It’s just a fact of life: we live, and we die.  None of us get to choose when, or how, or why.  It’s out of our control.  It sucks, but I get it.

My mom as a teenager.

This season has already been harder for me than the past ten.  I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s the pregnancy hormones.  Maybe it’s the fact that she died at 42 – a measly ten years older than I am now.  I look at my oldest child, who is nearly ten, and it’s suddenly glaringly real how quickly ten years can pass.  I’m going to be 42 in the blink of an eye.

But the holidays offer something special when I miss her – the chance to bring a little of her spirit back to life.  This year we have three Christmas trees shining brightly in our windows.  Lights strung outside.  Cloves and cinnamon simmering on the stove.  Christmas music playing constantly.  Loads of laughter and people in and out our front door, celebrating with us.  All of these things have her fingerprints on them.

And there are, of course, sugar cookies.  Cookies made by small, eager hands that never knew her, but are blessed by her just the same .

LEAVE A CAPTION SATURDAY

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“What do you mean, Santa’s not real?!”

Guest Post: Jennifer Oliver talks about Doubt

Today’s guest post is brought to you by Jennifer Oliver.  Jennifer describes herself as ‘a day-dreamer, a hopeless romantic, a business woman, a friend, a grandmother, and a wife; but mostly…a writer.’  She currently has four WIP’s in the making, and has become a blogging warrior!  Check out her site here, and go follow her on Twitter!

Today Jenn’s talking about doubt.  That evil little beast that gnaws at the back of our brains, making us second-guess ourselves to the point of paralyzation.

I give you Jennifer Oliver, dear friendlies!

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Something has been bothering me lately.  I’ve tried to deal with it and keep it from causing too much stress, but it crawls in my head somehow and nags at me from the darkened shadows of my mind.

Its called doubt.  And its evil!

It can start out as the tiniest speck, a piece of dust you think you can just blow off.  But unbeknownst to you, it has planted itself in a secluded spot in your brain and is silently growing.  Before you know it you have a whole head full of negativity bursting at the seems to tie you down and hold you back.  It’s a writer’s nightmare!

Even if you aren’t a writer you’ve still probably experienced it at some point in your life.  It can happen to anyone at anytime.  It’s not a rare occurrence, either.  For me, though, it is becoming more of a struggle to tame this demon of mine.

I try to fill myself with positive influences and mantras that strengthen my resolve and boost my motivation. This works for a time, the demon is quite.  But it always comes back.  Sometimes it reappears as a roaring beast eating away at my creativity, other times it is just a small voice whispering of skepticism and apprehension.  Either way, it is quite destructive.

But I refuse to give up this battle. I will not allow it to win and take away my dream of being a published author. I realize that this path I have chosen requires hard work and continual improvement of skill. It takes sacrifice and determination. All of which I am willing to do. It also takes thick skin and a fierce will. There will be harsh reviews that will bring down my spirits. There will be not so kind words that might even bring a tear or two. But I know that these things will only make me stronger. They will only push me to do better.

So why is the seed of doubt blooming in my thoughts and dreams?  I don’t think it has anything to do with the path I’ve chosen, but more about the daily obstacles I have to overcome to get there.  These are things we all must face, the day job, the finances, the needs of the family versus your wants, the random willingness of your muse to cooperate,  and finances – yes that one deserves a second mention!  Let me not forget that little demon voice whispering in the back of my mind “What if my writing sucks?” or “What if no one likes this?”  All of these things tend to make me wonder if I truly have the time or the “umph” in me to get to the finish line.

This is when I take a step back and I go back to basics.  First, I talk to my biggest supporter, my husband.  He always knows how to make me feel better, even if all he does is give me a huge hug and tell me he loves me.  Second, I look to my friends who never fail to offer a smile and a laugh.  Thirdly, I look to other writers and authors  for advice and inspiration.  Last, but probably most important, I write.  I don’t write for acknowledgement or advancement in my novel.  I don’t write to get accolades from others.  No, I write for me.  I write to express my feelings, to get it all out of my system.  I write to really see what the deep down root of the problem is and to find a way to solve it.  I write to make me feel better.  And it always works.

It does something else too.  It gives me a better sense of myself.  It reminds me that I am a writer and will always be a writer.  That is not something that will change, nor do I want it to.  It tells me that writing is in my soul, a part of who I am.  And knowing this, remembering this about myself, gives me the strength to get through all the daily challenges and all the frustrations.  It brings back my motivation and my excitement.  It tames the grisly beast of doubt and reinforces the desire to reach my dreams.  It allows me to tell myself with confidence, “I can do this. I will do this.”  Because I am a writer.

Things I Do To Mildly Irritate Thomas

I have the sweetest, most patient, steady husband in the world. Anybody who’s known T for five minutes knows he’s a kind, easy-to-talk-to guy. Anybody who’s known him for ten minutes knows he thinks Ron Burgandy is the definition of hilarious. Twenty minutes, and you know he’d gladly give you the shirt off his back if you need it.

He’s a keeper. But I wasn’t always convinced.

We had a rocky start. We met in college, at the first rehearsal for an auditioned choir. I was a freshman. He was a senior. I recognized him, because he’d actually come to my high school to sing with a traveling group the previous year. I thought he was cute. And he was a baritone. Who doesn’t love a deep, rumbling voice?

Our first conversation went something like this:

Him: Hi, I’m Thomas, President of Chorale.

Me: Hi, I’m-

Him: Turns away to talk to some pretty brunette with too much eye makeup and perfume that makes me want to gag.

It was at that moment that it became my life’s mission to mildly irritate him.

Somewhere between that first meeting (which he SWEARS he doesn’t remember) and the end of that school year, he’d decided he wanted to marry me. Somehow, between the end of that school year and the start of the next semester, he’d managed to get me on board with his cockamamie plan of permanent monogamy. No small feat; I’m a giant commitment-phobe.

Now, over twelve years later, he’s still my favorite and my best. We’ve had highs and lows, just like everybody else, but I can honestly say, through it all:

I love him. (Feel free to enter a sweet sigh of your own here. I just did.)

Here’s the thing, though: that love hasn’t changed my life’s mission. I’m still out to mildly irritate him. Examples:

*I have a giant wad of unnecessary things on my key ring. T lives in perpetual fear that my starter-majiggy-thing will be jacked up by the extra weight. We have an ongoing war. I leave my keys in the ignition; he takes them out and puts the significantly lighter, single spare in. It’s an ugly war, and I’m not sure who’s going to win.

*Sometimes I’ll buy single ply toilet paper for his bathroom. Just for funsies.

*I don’t wear socks. My feet get cold. I complain about my cold feet. He says, “Wear socks,” in this voice that I know means, You’re trying to mildly irritate me and it’s WORKING.

*I’ll press my über-cold, sock-less feet against him in bed to warm them up. “Wear socks,” he repeats, a little louder this time.

*I pretend to be inept when it comes to my iPhone. “Honey, can you update my phone?” “Hey, T, how do you make the camera zoom in?” He’s fully aware I’m pretending. But, sweet guy that he is, he helps me anyway.

*I organize the icons on my iPhone according to color. This drives him totally crazy when he’s trying to help me use the thing.

*I’ll leave Nickel Creek’s Lighthouse Tale blaring in my car when I know he’ll be the next to drive it. Chris Thile’s sweet tenor voice grates the hubster’s nerves like no other.

Clearly, I’m an evil genius. And I’m addicted to this game because I still get giddy when he cocks an eyebrow at me, telling me I’m towing the line of his patience. Besides, I know deep down, he thinks my hijinks are super-adorable. Right, T? Right?

Now it’s your turn to ‘fess up, dearest readers! Surely I’m not the only one out there who enjoys pestering their loved ones. I want to hear your stories (and maybe get some fresh ideas in the process!)

LEAVE A CAPTION SATURDAY

Rules: Look at the picture.  Leave your caption in the comments.  Best caption wins…nothing.  But, hey, it could be fun!

“Do you think they’ll know we just found it here like this?”  ”Nah, just pose.  It’ll look bad-ass on Facebook.”

Don’t Bleach and Iron Your Work: Guest Post by Alica McKenna Johnson

Today’s guest post was written by Alica McKenna Johnson, who ‘writes about snarky girls, kind boys, and the adults trying to keep them alive.’  You can check out Alica’s blog here, and say hello to her on Twitter here.

Today, Alica’s talking you writers out there who are stuck in a white-bread world.

The floor is yours, Alica!

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Don’t Bleach and Iron your work.

Tips for adding diversity to your writing.

*I cheat. My YA series which has many people from different cultural backgrounds as well as taking place in different countries. I have written it in 1st person. My MC is female who was raised without an ethnic culture of her own, but was exposed to many cultures and lifestyles growing up in group homes in San Francisco. I don’t have to know how the other characters cultural background influences their perspective- I only have to know what they show my MC. And yes they do show cultural differences, but this is not as in depth as other POV’s need to be.

*I read books written by people and about people from many different backgrounds. I also watch foreign and LGBT films. And yes a media portrayal of people from other countries isn’t necessarily a clear picture. Neither is my book. It’s a fantasy- a story of fiction, and the books and movies allow me to add little details that make my characters come through clearly. They also help me to break stereo types.

*Basic research. I read travel books- specifically children’s books as they give a greater sense of culture flavor. I also watch travel shows- Bizarre Foods and No Reservations being two of my favorites.

*I’ve take classes on writing about people from other cultural and ethnic backgrounds. Two of my favorites were How to Write Realistic Native American Characters and How to Write Realistic Gay Characters. I loved both of them and learned a lot! I learned what stereotypes are and what things are culturally true. I learned that like everyone else there is a huge range of personalities and backgrounds.

*I’m not afraid to offend people. I don’t go out of my way to offend people, however if I want my curvy blond to be panting for the sexy black waiter with the great round butt, then that’s what I’m going to do. That being said- I will do research and ask someone who is black to read my story and see what they think. Is every black person going to be happy? No- but I can’t make everyone happy anyway. There are white characters I don’t relate to at all. I ranted through the movie 30 Days of Night because I lived in Alaska and there were big technical errors- it happens. Tell your story, research, get advice, do your best, and write.

*Not everyone grew up in a cultural household. I’m mostly German; you wouldn’t have any idea of that by watching my life. I have a friend who is Zuni. Going into her house gives you no sense of her cultural background and she grew up on a reservation and still practices the Zuni religion. I have a friend whose family is Italian. At Thanksgiving they have turkey, stuffing, smoked octopus, pasta, and pumpkin pie. You get a sense of her culture because that is how her family lives.

Just because your character has brown skin doesn’t mean they identify or were raised in an ethnic and cultural environment. You don’t have to be perfect, you can stay within the things you know and are comfortable with. Maybe your Chinese character has a Buddhist alter in their home and hates egg rolls. Mix it up!

*We are all people. Under the bindis and jeans, bling and manicures, Chanel no 5 and sandalwood, we are all people. We want to feel safe and loved and special. We want a home, a family, and to be happy. What that looks likes differs from one person to another. A home in the burbs with two kids and a dog can be the dream of an interracial couple, a lesbian couple, yet might be a nightmare for an Indian couple.

No matter what your skin color or who catches your eye, lust, longing, love they all feel the same. Does the shape of a mouth change the passion and nervousness of a first kiss?

*It’s okay for them to have flaws. While stereotypes are wrong concerning everyone of a race, religion, or sexual orientation some come from a problem, issue, or quirk that is common within that community. There is an alcohol problem among Native Americans; they also have a higher risk of diabetes. Not all Native American have either of these issues, but they are a concern within the Native American Community. Don’t believe me, go to tribal websites and see what programs and services they offer, many have drug and alcohol programs and some have nutrition/diabetes programs. People have to deal with drugs, alcohol, abuse, and gangs- it doesn’t matter what color they are, who they have sex with, or how much money they make. Having a character dealing with these issues doesn’t mean you are stereotyping them.

We are all people with stories to tell. So tell them. Be brave and see your characters uniqueness. Don’t Bleach and Iron you’re books, no one wants to read that. Delve into your creativity, your heart, and your mind. Imagine what life is like for someone else- you do it all the time- unless some of you really are vampires and werewolves.

And for those of you creating whole new worlds- there is no excuse for not having more diversity in your characters. You don’t have to deal with social issues in a steampunk alternate universe with dragons- just let that go and have people living together peacefully (well except for the soul sucking demons).

For expanded versions of these tips, plus foreign film reviews to help you broaden your cultural knowledge come to my blog www.alicamckennajohnson.com

Milestones

Milestones.

When my boys were babies and toddlers, their milestones were pretty apparent. Sleeping through the night. First smile. First tooth. Rolling over, crawling, walking. Blatant and cherished reminders that our chubby, sticky little precious treasures were growing up.

The milestones continued. Learning the alphabet. Tying their own shoes. Learning the world is round, and the moon isn’t made of cheese.

Somewhere along the way, the milestones became less obvious. Goodnight kisses became fist-bumps. Matchbox cars got traded in for Nerf battle-axes. Old Navy commercials became a source of embarrassment because the pretty blonde girl makes my 9 year-old feel weird – in a way that makes him want to yank her ponytail and run away.

As my boys have grown, I’ve had to train myself to actively look for the milestones. Because as they’ve gotten older, their milestones aren’t as tangible as they used to be. There’s no more first locks of hair, no more first baby teeth, no more handprints from the first day of school. At 7 and 9 years old, the instances of tangible milestones are beginning to spread further and further apart.

So I keep an eagle-eye out for the hidden milestones, and tuck them away in my heart: Their awkward endeavors at humor. Attempts at bartering with me. The fact that they brush their teeth without being told. The way my second-born hunkers down at the dinner table, fighting like a man to overcome his issue with food textures. He hasn’t puked up his food in I don’t know how long. That’s a big milestone.

I’m with my kids 24-7. I very rarely find times when I’m not with them. That’s the nature of homeschooling, and for our family, it’s been a good thing. But since I’m with them non-stop, it’s so easy for me to sometimes want to tune them out. Forget to listen. Forget to look for milestones that are no longer blatant.

My daughter is three. There’s a noticeable difference between how I’ve tracked her progress, and how I’ve tracked her brothers’. But heck, I’m a different kind of parent than I was when they were her age. Much more relaxed. I have a better handle on what it is I’m doing as a momma. Part of me wants to feel guilty for how that sometimes translates – example: the pages of her baby book are mostly empty. Honestly, after moving a couple months ago, I’m not even sure where her baby book is.

And now we have a fourth kiddo on the way. It’s funny how my perspective has changed. I’ve become a baby minimalist. Give me some onesies, some diapers, a swaddling blanket, a nursing cover and I’m set. Will there be a baby book for this one?

…probably not.

When I look at the spectrum of ages in my sweet family, it forces me to realize a few things. I’ve got a lot going on. I’m not a perfect parent – not even close. There’s no way I’ll ever remember to write down every milestone. Some may even go completely unnoticed.

But when I catch them, I hold onto them tightly. Like tonight, when we played Pictionary with our 7 year old for the first time. Or when our 9 year-old said goodnight to us not with a kiss or a fist-bump, but by telling us to enjoy the beautiful full moon.

And then surprising us with a full moon of his own.

Heaven help us, the teenage years are coming. I can only imagine the kinds of milestones we’ll be facing then.

Quick Giggle: Granny vs. Impatient Driver

It doesn’t matter how many times I see this, it always cracks me up.

Go, granny, go!