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What Is In a Name?

Nicknames. They can make us feel special, well-known, loved. Or they can hurt and shame.

Personally, I enjoy having a nickname. My mother sometimes called me “P” – my daughter name. My children call me “Mama.” My grandma name is “Poo,” which comes from my high school nickname of Paula-Poo, given to me by my best friend, Sandy. Each name is special to me, and all have a different meaning.

Did you know God has many names? The most well-known are obvious: God, Father, Jesus, Holy Spirit, Jehovah, Yahweh. But there are others, and each has a particular meaning. Unless you’ve done some fairly stout bible study, you may not have stumbled across all of them.

El Shaddai—God Almighty or God All Sufficient. God first revealed this name to Abram in Genesis 17. He used that name to reveal to Abram He would provide all He promised. A strong name to stand for a strong promise.

Elohim—The Living God. This ancient name for God contains the idea of God’s creative power as well as his authority and sovereignty. Supreme. Absolute. Greatest. Another strong name.

El Roi—The God Who Sees Me. This name was spoken by Hagar in the wilderness when God sent his messenger to her. What a personal, affirming name. It encourages and comforts. We know we are never alone.

There are over 100 names for God in the Bible. But my absolute favorite is “I Am.”

It’s hard for me to verbalize why this name is so important to me. It exemplifies strength. It reassures me. I read this name and I know everything will be okay. Because God Is.

This name is powerful. Confident. Unchanging.

Implacable.

God uses it more than once. It is in one of my favorite verses. “Be still, and know that I Am God.”

In our world today, that implacability calms me. No matter what happens—in politics, with the virus, in our relationships—God Is. He is in control. I read this verse, and it settles me.

We’re going to be okay. We’re going to emerge on the other side. There is no power in hell that can stand before the Great I Am.

Jared Anderson and New Life Worship puts it far more poetically than I in their YouTube video.

Enjoy.

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Proverbs 27:19 “As in water face reflects face, so the heart of man reflects man.”

Thank you, God, for the lesson I seem to need once again. 

On a summer morning last year, I stopped at Starbucks before heading to the rehabilitation center to pick up my dad for an oral surgery appointment. As I walked toward the store, I crossed paths with a homeless woman. All the obvious clues were there. Mis-matched clothing, worn in layers. House slippers for shoes on her shuffling feet. Crazy hair. Quiet muttering, speaking only to herself.

Coffee waited for me inside, and I had an appointment to meet. I didn’t pause as I walked past her. The woman was youngish, between 30-40 years old. A frown creased her face, and her jaw clenched with a belligerent jut. 

She paid me no attention and arranged her collection of plastic bags on a table on the outdoor porch. 

Waiting in line for my coffee, I watched the reactions of the people inside. The barista kept glancing outside, worry in his eyes. Was he wishing she hadn’t set up camp at his store? She was dirty and didn’t present a welcoming presence to customers arriving for their morning pick-me-up. Two women seated inside at a small, round table eyed her avidly, whispering to each other as they laughed, shiny nails glittering on their fingertips, lipstick kisses on the lids of their coffees.

I should talk to her on my way back to my car. Homeless people feel invisible, ignored by the world bustling past them. I should take the few seconds required to ask her a question, say hello. Would she be argumentative if I spoke to her?

She looked angry. Many homeless suffer from mental illness, and can be combative. I glanced at my watch. I had time to stop for coffee. Did I have time to stop for her?

She walked off of the porch and around to the drive-thru. My eyes widened, and I stepped back so I could watch her progress. What was she doing now? What were the people waiting in line in their cars thinking, watching her approach? She startled me by climbing right into the landscaping. The leaves of Asian jasmine still dripped from their early morning spraying from the automatic sprinklers. The water droplets would soak her clothing. She exhibited classic crazy-person actions.

The crazy thing she did? She plucked trash from the bushes, then climbed back out and deposited it into a waste can. 

God, forgive me. 

The homeless woman cleaned the debris tossed aside by a careless person paying $5.00 for a cup of coffee.

I picked up my coffee and turned to leave. I passed the two smirking women, resenting their privilege, resenting their beauty, feeling disappointment burn inside. Disappointment at myself. Was I so different? Disappointment at them. It’s so easy to judge, especially from our oh-so-comfortable lives. I pushed the door open to head outside, calling a greeting to the woman as I did. I said it loudly enough for the ladies with the beautifully manicured nails to hear.

The woman outside looked up. She was someone’s daughter. Someone’s sister? Maybe someone’s mother. Our eyes met, and I smiled at her. 

The change was amazing. A wide grin creased her face, transforming her angry, belligerent look into beauty. I stopped, struck. 

“Have you had breakfast?” McDonalds was 20 yards away. 

Her smile broadened. “Oh, yes!” Her voice was sweet, childish, high-pitched. “I have bagels!” 

What a beautiful, grateful spirit. Shame flooded me.

I touched her on the arm as I passed, a fingertip on her sleeve. “Have a good day.”

“God bless you.” Her reply was fervent. 

She called down God’s blessing on me for speaking to her, for recognizing her as a fellow human being. For seeing her.

Jesus taught us to do this. He led by example, repeatedly. He spoke to the lame man waiting by the pool of Bethesda. He spoke to the Samaritan woman at the well. He spoke to the tax collector, to the leper, to the demon-possessed men in Gadarenes. 

Today I learned, again, that I want to live my life like Jesus. Help me, God, to see this world and Your people through Your eyes, not mine. Help me to always ask, “What would Jesus do?”

~~~

In my book, PROTECTED, one of the main characters — Manny — is horribly disfigured by a scar he got as a child when a fire burned him. He feels ignored and judged by the people he meets in his life. But God shows him he is worthy of love and brings someone to him. The question is whether or not the two people will trust God enough to let this relationship flourish.

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Things We Overhear: Reading on the Go

12-18-2020

I spent a few hours with some teenaged girls this week. I eavesdropped on their excited chatter as we headed home, me in the driver’s seat, them scattered behind me in the van. A surprise awaited them, and all their focus was on what to wear. Four of the five wanted to wear dresses. The lone jeans fan distressed herself over the possibility of being different. She really didn’t want to wear a dress, but couldn’t convince any of the others to join her on Team Jeans.

Finally, I couldn’t hold back. “Wear what you want! Be brave.” I pictured five sets of eyes glancing my way.

The momentary silence quickly dispersed, and they resumed their conversation as if I had not spoken. I shook my head. I’ve forgotten how difficult it is to be different, to stand out when you’re that age.

Occasionally, a brave soul appears, determined to be that mythical drummer following her own beat. A memory surfaced from my first few years of teaching at Burleson High School. Shelby definitely bucked the routine and normal. Here is a story from 2003,

A small sigh of relief escapes. It’s 4:05, and my day is about to be kid-free. I sit at my laptop to check email. Behind me, my class is noisy with chatter and laughter as the kids wind down. Anticipation of the 4:15 bell frees them from the strictures of the school day, and they’re getting loud. I don’t listen to anything in particular. It’s the background noise of my professional life. Without warning, a single phrase lifts itself from the general clutter of noise and shoots into my ear like an arrow.

“Did you sniff my head?”

Hmm. That sounded like Shelby. Staring at my computer screen, I mentally rewind that, sifting through my vocabulary to find a set of five words that sounds like “Did you sniff my head?” without actually being the five words “Did you sniff my head?” My cranial magnifying glass waves back and forth across my brain but comes up short. No files found. What did she say?

I swivel around in my chair and look. Sure enough, Shelby is perched in a desk near mine. She sits sideways in her chair with one knee pulled to her chest, held close by one curved arm, the other foot tucked underneath her. She looks to the right at Jordan, who sits behind her. I assume he is the recipient of the question.

Jordan slouches comfortably in his chair, his long feet propped heavily on the wire basket under Shelby’s seat, his hands lying relaxed on the top of his desk. He stares at Shelby with an uncomprehending look in his eyes. Matt sits one row over, watching this exchange. He has a tiny frown line between his eyes. I catch his eye when I turn, but I hide my smile.

I look at Shelby. “Did you just say, ‘Did you smell my head?’” I speak slowly, enunciating my words with care so there is no chance for mistake.

“Yes.” Her answer is cheerful. “I smell heads when I sit behind people. I just lean forward and sniff.” She demonstrates for us with the empty air of the unoccupied desk in front of her, her pert nose sniffing daintily. The three of us stare.

“I sniffed Matt’s head when he sat in front of me.” Her voice is bright, happy.

Matt’s eyes widen slightly in surprise. Would a person, I wonder, notice if someone behind him leaned forward and sniffed his head? Unless he had very sensitive hair follicles that would register that small tug of air, probably not. Matt wears his hair short and tidy. It’s not like there’s a lot of hair to disturb.

Jordan has still not said a word, but he is now looking at Shelby with interest.

“Well, I guess people’s heads smell pretty good.” I try to inject normalcy into this bizarre conversation. I picture the fruity concoctions of shampoo and conditioners in my shower. Bottles with names like Chamomile-Lemon and Ginger-Papaya. My efforts are shot down.

“Matt’s head didn’t.” Shelby doesn’t miss a beat. Matt’s eyes widen even further. I can practically see the thoughts racing through his mind.

My head doesn’t smell good? What does my head smell like?

Eww. What does Matt’s head smell like? A mental picture of sweaty fifth-graders comes to mind. Eww.

Still trying gamely to rescue the conversation and now Matt, I try once again to make this sound like a conversation I’ve had before.

“Well, Shelby, that sounds like…” I try to think of what sniffing people’s heads sounds like. Odd? Weird? Bizarre?

Animals pops out before I can stop it. “It sounds like what animals do.”

Arrgh! I give myself a mental slap to the forehead. That’s not the effect I was going for in my rescue. I picture the exuberant greeting my dogs give me when I come home, sniffing my legs and my shoes to discover where I’ve been that day and to find out what other dogs I’ve cheated on them with. Then my mind takes the animal sniffing picture one step further. Suddenly, I’m horrified that the three of them may be thinking the same thing that I am thinking, and I realize my efforts to save this conversation are falling wildly short.

Jordan, I notice through my consternation, has wisely still not said a word.

Thankfully, at that moment, the final bell rings.

Shelby stands with fluid grace. Her bright red canvas high-tops peek out from underneath the legs of her jeans. Her silky, long, navy blue scarf covered in white polka dots flows over her shoulder from where it’s wound loosely around her neck.

“’Bye, Mrs. Peckham!” She sails from the room with a cheery farewell.

Jordan, who has never taken his eyes from Shelby’s face throughout the entire conversation, also stands and heads out, shaking his head silently, smiling at the floor.

Matt leaves with a frown on his face. I wonder if he’ll figure out a way to sniff his head that night, to be sure about how it smells. I manage to wait for the room to empty before I laugh.

What, I wonder, do I miss hearing each day?

I’m sure God sends me messages every day, messages I don’t pick up. What a loss.

How can we ensure our lines of communication are open? How do we keep the line from being busy when He calls?

I think a good way to clear the obstructions is to start the day with prayer. Quiet time with God sets the tone for the day, reestablishes the connection. Plus, it puts us in a frame of mind to listen, to actively search for the messages He sends.

I don’t want to miss God’s call. I imagine my world would be a lot nicer and more satisfying if I receive what He has in store for me.

What about you? What messages does God have for you? Wouldn’t you love to know?

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Commas, the bane of my existence – nine rules to clean up your writing

This Is How to Correctly Use Commas in Your Writing | Grammarly

I am a member of a critique group. We meet once a week (thank you, Zoom, during this time of pandemic restrictions) where we take turns reading to the group and providing feedback for each other. We joke about our “comma jar,” where we contribute an imaginary dollar for every comma correction made during the feedback comments.

Why are commas so confusing? I tend to put them where I pause while reading. This is an intuitive decision, but unfortunately, it often leads me astray. Others in the group seem to avoid them altogether. Without the commas, their sentences flow onward with no rhythm or cadence. You’ve probably seen the joke: Let’s eat Grandma. Let’s eat, Grandma. Commas save lives! We really need to figure them out.

Let's Eat Grandma Poster by Danya Ata | Teachers Pay Teachers

In 1998, I took a Business Writing class in college, and we made a punctuation Bible. I’ve returned to that spiral notebook time and again (thank you, Dr. Culbert). Here is what he taught us about commas.

Commas precede coordinating conjunctions (and, or, but, for, nor) that join independent clauses.

Ben, Eric, and Mandy will attend the meeting today, but Charlotte won’t be there.

You need to clean your room to receive your allowance, but Zach can help you if you persuade him.

Commas follow long, introductory, adverbial phrases and clauses.

In the middle of their transaction, Marcus and Jim blew up.

Mentally preparing herself for the battle of wills ahead, Sandy made a list of all her reasons for denying Michelle’s request for a tattoo.

However, if the introductory phrase is shorter than four words, you can leave the comma out. (Personally, I tend to include the comma anyway. My fingers type it automatically.)

During the night he heard many noises.

Commas precede, follow, or surround appositives. (Appositives are noun phrases placed side by side so that one element identifies the other in a different way.)

I chained Lady, my adventurous dog, to a tree to keep her from digging under the fence.

During our next school holiday, Thanksgiving break, I’ll take a vacation.

Commas precede, follow, or surround inverted elements. (For when you’re channeling Yoda.)

Too, he loved her.

I, also, have been to the edge.

Commas surround non-restrictive modifiers. A non-restrictive modifier is a word or group of words modifying the subject of a sentence but not restricting it to a particular individual or group. A restrictive modifier restricts the subject to a particular individual or group. Commas surrounding a non-restrictive modifier indicate that we can take it from the sentence without changing the sentence’s essential significance. Therefore, commas must not surround a restrictive modifier. (I confess, I have to Google this one every time. I need lots of examples to cement the definitions.)

restrictive: Men who hate women should not marry. (We don’t use commas to surround “who hate women” because we cannot take it from the sentence without changing the meaning. Men should not marry gives us a completely different meaning than the original sentence.)

non-restrictive: The women, who rode in all three barrel races, love to date cowboys. (The commas surround the modifier because we can remove these words without changing the essential meaning of the sentence.)

restrictive: People who have addictive personalities shouldn’t try smoking. (“Who have addictive personalities” is essential to the sentence – no commas.)

non-restrictive: My brother, who trimmed trees Sunday, came by for dinner. (We can ignore the modifier without changing the meaning of the sentence.)

Commas separate elements in a series. (In a series of three or more elements, if a coordinating conjunction precedes the last element in the series, the comma preceding the conjunction is optional. Enter the Oxford comma argument, which is a post for another day.)

We hired laborers, skilled carpenters, and supervisors for the project. (Since we have included “and” in the series, we can drop the comma after carpenters. I, however, am in the Oxford comma camp, so I choose to keep it.)

We need to buy apples, bags of candy, shaving cream, and decorations.

Commas precede quotation marks.

He asked, “Will you marry me?”

I answered, “You can go if your room is clean.”

Commas surround simple interrupters.

I’ll see you tonight about, let’s see, 7:00 pm.

It was over, um, two years ago.

Use commas to separate adjectives of equal rank. (If we could place the word and between two adjectives without changing the meaning of the sentence, then the adjectives are considered equal. Here is an example:

She spoke in a thoughtful, precise manner. (The phrase with the conjunction included — “thoughtful and precise” — gives the sentence the same meaning, therefore, replace and with the comma.

She wore a cheap fur coat. (Including the and between “cheap and fur” doesn’t give the same meaning. No comma.)

Common mistakes:

Using a comma when a sentence has two clauses, but both have the same (implied) subject. If two or more verbs go with the same subject, you don’t need a comma because you don’t have multiple independent clauses.

We are visiting Washington and also plan a side trip to Baltimore. (The subject of both phrases is “we” — no comma necessary.

Commas always, always, always go inside the quotation mark.

“That’s simple,” the student said.

When including city and state names, use commas after both.

His journey took him from Fargo, North Dakota, to Burleson, Texas.

Commas aren’t needed after conjunctions that begin sentences.

But I was afraid to open the door.

Commas, commas, commas. I’ve accepted the reality that I’m gonna put a dollar in the comma jar at least once each meeting with my critique partners. It’s my goal to make it through an entire chapter reading with no corrections. One day!

How “Tip Jars” Can Tip the Balance for Podcast Creators — The Canadian Podcast Listener

What about you? What are your common mistakes? Share with us what you’ve learned through your writing journey.

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Happy Day!

11-10-2020

I recently learned an online magazine accepted a poem I wrote for publication in their inaugural edition.  Inspiration for the poem came from a tragic accident experienced by the family of a friend of mine at church. Her six-year-old daughter, Raven, suffered a head injury and was declared brain dead. The family donated her organs. It was terribly sad and seemed so senseless, but the family–and the grace with which they handled–it shared a strong testimony to all who followed the ordeal. The Bible tells us in Romans that God can work all things to the good of them who love him. We saw that verse lived out. Here is the poem. I hope you enjoy it.

The Garment of Sadness by Paula Peckham

Sadness is a heavy garment.

A well-made garment, with tightly-sewn seams.

We can forget—for a moment—that we wear it.

It would be easy to drown under that garment.

So easy.

But faith is persistent.

Insistent.

And it seeps through those tightly-sewn seams

One drip at a time.

Unceasing.

Relentless.

        Faith
      Faith
    Faith
  Faith
Faith is our lifeline.

We grab it like a drowning person grasps an offered hand.

Though the garment is heavy, and it weighs us down,

We grasp that lifeline, and struggle through the next breath.

We force the next step.

We search through the darkness for the tiny spark of life inside.

The spark that faith protects for us while

We grieve

And rave

And die inside.

When there is trust enough to let sadness go,

            H
        T
     I
  A
F
lifts it away and leaves peace in its place.

And we realize we can breathe again.

And smile.

Even laugh.

We leave the garment of sadness lying in a sodden heap

Heavy with its soaking from our tears and horrible sorrow.

And we crawl from underneath its crushing weight.

So we wait on the LORD for that day.

We wait.

We wait.

We wait.

And when that moment arrives,

We realize by its absence how heavy that garment had been.

We realize by its absence we are free without it.

And we soar.

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Pop

Late afternoon sun slips between the plastic slats of the blinds, painting parallel lines in the room. The stripes melt over the edge of the mattress and land on the floor, getting wider and wider as they go. I sit on the bed, watching my grandfather. They moved him to the “rehabilitation center” today (it’s not a nursing home, everyone insists) after spending time in the hospital. I know this is a turning point in our lives. He won’t go home again.

He sits in his wheelchair, facing me. I am his mirror image, sitting motionless, facing him. Sterile plastic crackled beneath me when I first sat down. My mind shies away from the ramifications of that sound.

This is my grandfather.

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He glances at me and cracks his familiar grin, cocking his head slightly to the right. The smile splits his face from side to side, revealing the gap between his two front teeth. He knows it’s me, but I sense from the quiet confusion in his eyes he doesn’t quite know where he is. He glances away, maybe ashamed to ask me, maybe embarrassed he doesn’t know.

This is my grandfather.

I sit, watching him be. The sun streams in golden from his window, also casting stripes across his face and body. Dust motes dance in the alternating pattern of light and the dimness of his room.

It’s quiet where we are, alone at the end of an L-shaped hall. We’re in the last room. The constant stream of day-to-day noises from the nurses and other residents seem far away from our golden cocoon. His room is a double occupancy, shaped like the wings of a butterfly with the shared bathroom in the position of thorax. The other butterfly wing, however, is empty. It is just the two of us.

I fight back tears as I watch him. His hand moves up slowly, and his fingers touch the side of his face. The tip of his index finger traces the curve of the shell of his ear. Each movement is slow, methodical, thoughtful. It’s as if a current has broken between the synapses in his brain controlling his movements and the actual muscle contractions that follow. I wonder briefly if they gave him a pill.

His ears make me smile through my tears. A memory surfaces. We took a picture of him from behind, while he was holding my infant son. We stood on the sidewalk in my mother’s front yard. The similar silhouettes of their two round, almost-bald heads with their ears sticking out slightly to the sides made us all laugh, and we told him to hold it while we found the camera. He was so tall, so strong, holding my baby. He was my grandfather. We laughed…

Pop lays his hand gently, slowly back in his lap. It joins its gnarled, age-mottled partner, both facing palm up with fingers curled inward, relaxed and defenseless. He glances at me again, and I quickly wipe my face and smile back at that grin I’ve known all my life.

This is my grandfather.

This is the man who sailed a boat on Lake Benbrook with my grandmother. This is the man who, during the summer I was twelve, spent hours touring me around on his motorcycle during the once-a-summer week I spent with them each year. My feet and my bottom were numb from the vibrations before we got home, but I can still see my skinny arms wrapped tightly around his sturdy back as he drove and drove. This is the man who whistles, because the joy inside has to come out somehow.

This is my grandfather. And he will never be the same.

I sit in this golden, quiet room, and I love him.

Finally, I reach out and wrap my fingers around his. “Pop, I have to go home. Someone will come tomorrow to see you.”

He looks at me, quiet, uncertain, but that grin cracks out again. He doesn’t answer and doesn’t try to talk me out of leaving him. I lean forward and press a kiss against his bristly face, feeling the tips of whiskers prickle against my lips. 

I am flooded with another memory.  He stands in his bathroom, feet braced wide apart, white undershirt tucked into his pants, belt unbuckled. Morning sun streams in through the frosted window pane to his right. He stretches his cheek tight with one hand while his other rubs his electric razor across the night’s growth of beard. 

I can’t remember ever feeling whiskers on his face before now. Love floods my chest so strongly that for a moment it is hard to breathe.

I walk down the hall, leaving my heart in the room. I press buttons to open doors. They’re simple buttons. They’re even labeled so people will know which to push. But they trap the residents behind the doors as surely as a prison gate. Buttons empowered by the dimness in their minds.

This is my grandfather.

I sit in the parking lot, unable to drive because of the tears flooding my eyes. I chant, like a mantra.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”

Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. 

Plans to prosper you and not to harm you.

I speak out loud, through the tears slipping down my face. “This is my grandfather, God. He has loved You all his life. Now, love him well.”

And I know He did, and He does, and He always will. Because there, in that golden room, was also my Father, and He is a God with a plan, a God who loves. 

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Two Ways to Tighten Your Writing

How many of us have heard these words?

“Don’t worry about making it flawless. Get words on the paper. You can come back and fix it later.”

This is helpful if you’re stuck, if you can’t think of the perfect way to say what’s on your mind. But it often leaves us a page bloated with extra words. And those words slow our readers down.

So, yes, go ahead and do a brain dump. Get everything on the page. But be prepared for some serious chopping when you return the next day wearing your editor’s hat.

There are two places you can tighten your writing. One is the use of dialogue tags. The other is by eliminating unnecessary, filler words.

What is a dialogue tag?

dialogue tags | Author, editor, caffeine-addict, wannabe ninja

This is how we attribute our conversation in our story. It’s the “she said” and “he asked” bits that follow the dialogue. Sometimes dialogue tags are necessary. If you have several people talking at once, your reader needs a tag to know who said what. But most of the time, our conversations are taking place between two people. If your writing is clear, your reader will understand which character is saying the words. If you add “he said” after each utterance, it bogs your reader down.

Instead, replace the dialogue tags with action beats. The action beat describes what your character does while he is speaking. The action beat adds flavor and depth to the scene, without slowing the reader with unnecessary words. Compare these examples.

Example 1:
“Hey, Manny,” called Jonathan, riding a few paces behind. “You think we will be home in two weeks? I’m ready for a bed and a pillow made of feathers instead of a saddle.”

“Hard to say,” replied Manny. He smiled to himself, knowing Jonathan was fretting about a girl.

Jonathan calls. Manny replies. But won’t your reader get that, without being told? Compare to this, where I replaced my dialogue tags with action beats.

“Hey, Manny.” Jonathan rode his horse a few paces behind. “How much longer ’til we’re home? Two weeks? I’m ready for a bed. And a pillow made of feathers. Not a saddle.”

“Hard to say.” Manny glanced over his shoulder. “It’s a bed you’re pining for? I’d be willing to bet money it’s something else. Like, I don’t know… a girl?”

“A girl?” A derisive snort accompanied Jonathan’s reply. “No, I’m just tired of eating your cooking.”

Let’s try another one. See what you think.

Example 2:

Jonathan narrowed his eyes at his friend then grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe she likes men who are earthy,” he said, waving his hand in front of himself as if he were showcasing a valuable treasure.

“Maybe she likes men who don’t smell,” Manny replied.

OK. Jonathan said. Manny replied. Totally unnecessary words. My readers know that from the context of the scene. What if I tighten the writing by removing the dialogue tags?

Jonathan narrowed his eyes at the insult. He grinned, waggling his eyebrows. “Maybe she likes men who are earthy.” He waved his hand in front of himself as if he were showcasing a valuable treasure.

“Maybe she likes men who don’t smell.” Manny’s voice was dry.

With Jonathan’s conversation, removing the dialogue tag tightened the writing. With Manny’s, using the action beat added some flavor to the scene. We hear his sarcasm, start understanding the camaraderie between the two friends.

What about the filler words?

Fillers are words we probably say a lot while we talk but don’t really need when we write. These are words like: just, very, really, a lot, kind of, a little, sort of, maybe. Why force your reader to slog through these words like wading through little puddles of quicksand?

welly-boots-stuck-in-the-mud

Listen to Grady talk to Abby. He has fillers in there.

“I guess I need to hunt,” Grady answered. “Why don’t I go while you and Sarah get some breakfast for the Littles? Maybe by the time everyone has eaten, I’ll be back. Don’t wait for me if you’re ready to pull out.”

If we eliminate the unnecessary words, we get this:

“I need to hunt. Why don’t I go while you and Sarah get breakfast for the Littles? By the time everyone eats, I should be back. Don’t wait for me if you’re ready to pull out.”

They make rules in writing so we can break them, right? And these are no exception. Your character’s “voice” may need those words. If the dialogue sounds more genuine using fillers, keep them. But don’t leave them in the rest of the novel. It’s just a little bit annoying to have to read through those little extras. Really.

What editing nightmare do you routinely create for yourself? Let’s compare. We can make a list of things to avoid.

Here is a link to a website with more discussion about filler words:  https://ivypanda.com/blog/filler-words/    

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Does God mind if we get mad at Him?

People believe different things about God.

Is God a kind, benevolent, grandfatherly figure who looks after us, extending a kind but firm, guiding hand? Or is God angry, mean, and vengeful, waiting to extract payment from humankind for their sins?

Where you stand on this depends on which religion you follow, and your raising. And believers in both camps find verses in the Bible to support their points of view.

Many people believe it is wrong—a sin—to doubt God or to be angry with Him. Others point to Jesus’ anger in the temple, and his questioning in the Garden of Gethsemane to show He felt these emotions. Therefore, we can, too.

Does God ever leave us alone? I’d love to discuss with you.

Abby, my principal character in PROTECTED, is angry with God. She doesn’t understand why she is in the situation she is in, and she finds it hard to trust God or to pray. She feels abandoned by God. She spends the rest of the story trying to resolve this within herself.

Here is how her story begins:

~~

Abigail Walker stood beside the fresh grave. Noonday sun beat down on the prairie. The wind blew in small, teasing bursts, cooling the sweat on her brow. Trees lined the creek where the kids gathered, the sunlight slipping between the tossing leaves in dappled golden flashes. A nearby mockingbird sang sweetly, running through its joyful repertoire in direct contrast to the grief swamping the girl. Five children formed a semi-circle behind her, clasping their hands together in prayer, some holding back tears. Abby dropped a limp handful of wildflowers onto the mound of loamy black soil. Her parents and her younger brother were dead. It stunned her. She could hardly breathe. She glanced down at the Bible in her hand.

Quoting scripture didn’t sit well with her at the moment. Were she and God even on the same side anymore? Grady, Frank, and Nathan stood across from her. The boys propped their tired arms on the shovels they’d used. With any luck, it was the last grave they would have to dig. No one else exhibited any symptoms. Perhaps the cholera had run its course.

Grady wiped his face, his shoulders drooping with weariness and sadness. “Well… I guess we need to make a plan.”

A surge of anger flooded Abby so fiercely, it left her trembling. Her heart pounded from the effort of holding back the torrent of words piling up behind her teeth. She clamped her jaw shut, afraid of what would spill out of her if she allowed a crack in the dam.

“Abby, what do you—”

She couldn’t face them, couldn’t solve another problem, couldn’t…. The girl tossed the book on the grave, turned on her heel, and walked away. One of the little girls behind her gasped. Another began crying softly, her sobs muffled against someone’s chest. She didn’t care.

~~

Whew. Abby is hurting and scared. She feels like God deserted her. I want to reach into the book and hug her, to assure her things will be okay.

Do you believe God distances Himself from us? Let’s discuss.

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“Do I KNOW you?!” Steve Martin

Watching the prostate exam clip from “Father of the Bride II” makes me laugh. Every. Single. Time. Watching pretty much anything with Steve Martin makes me laugh. But I digress.

What does Steve Martin have to do with a blog post about writing? It’s all about point of view (POV).

POV issues plague almost every new writer. We probably have never noticed POV because the books we read have been so skillfully done, we don’t pick up on it. What does POV even mean?

From literaryterms.net: Point of view (POV) is what the character or narrator telling the story can see (his or her perspective). The author chooses “who” is to tell the story by determining the point of view.  So how does it become an issue for new writers?

When we write with several POVs, our readers never get the chance to know our characters deeply. Putting the inner monologues of every character in our novel into the page creates what we call “head-hopping.” We get a quick glimpse into Character A, then the reader is yanked from her head and plopped down into Character B’s mind. Rinse and repeat. By the time our reader gets into Character G’s head, we have exposed them to the superficial knowledge of so many characters, they never get to know them. And that means our readers never learn to care about our characters.

And that’s not a good thing.

I learned a cool POV technique from Rachael, a member of my critique group. A speaker at a conference she attended taught them to imagine looking through a pair of binoculars. The speaker provided “binoculars” made of 3-inch long PVC pipes she glued together. She asked everyone to look through their binoculars. “If you can SEE it, you can WRITE it. If you can’t see it, neither can your character. “

That has helped me so many times. I’ve sat in front of my computer with my fists curled into tubes held up against my eyes, imagining what I can see.

If your main character (MC) is in front and the action is behind him, he can’t see it. You can’t write about it.

If your MC is blushing, she can’t see her own face. You can’t describe it as a color.

If your MC is with people in the scene, and the others have feelings, your MC won’t know them. You can’t write about them.

However, your MC can hear action. You can write about that.

Your MC can feel the heat of a blush creeping up her neck or turning her ears hot. You can write about that.

Your other characters can visibly show their feelings with gestures, sighs, or glances. You can write about that.

Sometimes I get so drawn into what I’m writing, I forget to be on the lookout for POV issues. Following is an example where my crit group busted me.

“Before his fist could connect with Orin’s face, pain exploded on the side of his head. The world went black. His body slumped bonelessly onto Orin’s chest.”

Manny, my MC, is in a fight with Orin. He gets conked on the head by Orin’s friend, which causes him to lose consciousness. I loved the visual of Manny collapsing onto Orin’s chest. One small problem—Manny is now unconscious. He can’t know what happens next. Simple fix—cut that sentence and add it to the next paragraph which is told from Orin’s POV.

“Before his fist could connect with Orin’s face, pain exploded on the side of his head. The world went black.

###

Orin grunted when Manny slumped bonelessly onto his chest. He shoved the limp body away with a curse.”

It isn’t always that easy to fix a POV issue. Sometimes we have to create an entirely new scene, or cut something we really liked. The extra effort is worth it, though. When we write in our MC’s deep POV, we allow our readers to get to know them. As the author, we invite our readers into their minds, their hearts, their worlds. We invite them care.

An editor recommended these two books to me. I found them both to be helpful.

Deep Point of View, by Marcy Kennedy, and Writing Deep Viewpoint, by Kathy Tyers

Good luck with your POV issues. If you have examples to share that could help other writers, post your before and after in the comments. Let’s continue to learn and grow together.

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The “inciting event!”

All wonderful stories have the same basic elements, and one is the “inciting event.” This is the plot twist where things must change for the character. Once it happens, there is no going back. In a romance novel, one inciting event is The Fight. The budding lovers experience a conflict that drives them apart. They spend the rest of the story finding their way back to love. Cue the hearts and music as we all sigh with pleasure and enjoy the happily-ever-after ending.

Readers identify with this inciting event because all of us who have been in love have endured one in real life. Mine started with a summer romance before my senior year of high school. I worked as a lifeguard, and the teen I believed to be my future love-of-my-life appeared at the pool one afternoon with his friends. He caught my eye, and I caught his. The next few months were romantic bliss as we learned about each other through conversations, hanging over a big yellow float in the pool, toes bumping into each other in the water underneath. The inciting event? My summer love crashed down around my feet as the beginning of school neared, and he confessed he had a girlfriend who went to my school. Anguish! Tears! Heartache! The next month was misery as I put the pieces of my poor broken heart together.

The “other woman” didn’t care for the fact her boyfriend spent the summer courting someone else, so she released him from his contract. As a free agent, he picked up where he left off with me. He had badly bruised my feelings, but my traitorous heart had no shame. When he came through the drive-thru at the small burger joint where I worked, a hard, excited thump in my chest told me I would eventually forgive him and take him back. And so began the dance of forgiveness and reunion.

We’ve all been there. Every love adventure has bumps. Including Abby and Manny’s. Here is an excerpt from PROTECTED, my novel. We pick up with the two lovers a few weeks after their own inciting event. They are feeling their way through the hurt feelings, but missing each other’s company. Jump into a Texas summer in 1855. I hope you enjoy it.

~

One day after lunch, Yaideli sent her to the barn for the mop. Her heart bumped high in her throat when she walked around the corner for water and stumbled upon Manny working. A deerskin stretched out on the ground before him. A small wooden bucket filled with liquid sat by the skin.

“What’re you doing?” Her nonchalant voice disguised her racing pulse.

“I’m tanning this hide for leather.” His normal ponytail caught his hair back, and the same strand that would never stay put blew across his face.

Abby longed to reach over and tuck it behind his ear. She stuck her hands into her pockets instead.

“Want to help?” His eyes challenged her.

The look he gave her said more than his words. She was tempted to walk away. He clearly had a hidden agenda. However, this was something else she needed to learn. They used leather for so many things on the farm. Rope, bindings, hinges, boots, clothes. She came closer.

“Sure.” She rose to the unspoken dare. “What do you want me to do?”

Manny gestured at the small bucket. “Mix this together. I was about to do it, but you can instead while I get this skin pegged to the ground.”

Abby peered into the bucket. A lump of pinkish-gray material sat in the water. She cut her eyes sideways at Manny. “What is this?” Her voice was guarded.

“It’s just animal fat. I’ll rub it into the skin to prevent it from drying and cracking. Mix it together with your fingers while I hammer these pegs in.”

Abby knelt and gingerly stuck her hands into the warm water. The lump of matter was gelatinous. It looked like the fatty strips on bacon. Sort of. She squished the material through her fingers, stirring and mashing it into smaller and smaller bits. An unpleasant odor wafted up. It didn’t smell like bacon.

“What is this?” Her nostrils flared, mouth pulling down in a grimace. The water turned a milky color.

“Brains.” His expressionless face matched his bland tone.

Abby flicked her hands away from her, casting the clinging bits from her fingers. “Ewww!” Disgust flashed across her face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Manny’s mouth pressed into a straight line. She felt him suppressing his laugh.

“Quit being such a baby, Abby-girl. What did you think it was?”

Abby’s hackles flared at the hated nickname, but she hid her annoyance. If he knew it bothered her, he would only say it more.

“I thought you were using bacon or something.”

“What difference does it make what it is? It’s still a body part from a dead animal, either way. Brains are greasy—lot of fat in them, as you’ve probably noticed.”

“Where did you get it?” Abby was reluctant to put her slippery hands back into the water.

“From the deer. Every animal has the right-sized brain to tan its skin. Keep mixing it. All the stringy parts need to break down. Are you afraid?” His voice mocked her hesitation.

Abby gritted her teeth and took a deep breath. Trying to keep her mouth from pulling down at the corners, she plunged her hands in the bucket and continued mashing and mixing the smelly concoction. Manny chuckled as he went back to pegging the hide.

Once Manny had the hide stretched out, he reached for the bucket. “That’s good enough. Now, help me splash it onto the skin and start rubbing it in.”

He cupped a large brown hand and scooped some of the watery mixture, splashing it into the center of the deer hide. Swallowing hard, Abby knelt at the opposite end and copied his motions. The grease collected in white globs between her fingers and underneath her nails. She breathed with her mouth closed. The smell was potent enough she could almost taste it. She didn’t want brain-infested air in her mouth.

Together, they knelt on the ground, splashing and rubbing the brain mixture. Abby replicated the movements Manny made as he rubbed. They worked silently, the sounds of the barnyard keeping them company. Chickens clucked just around the corner, punctuated now and then by a rooster crowing. The love songs of crickets pulsed rhythmically from the shadows. The wind rustled the leaves of a nearby cottonwood, sounding like a gentle rain falling.

I wish! Abby thought discontentedly. The heat. . .it never went away.

A buzzing sound caught her attention. She glanced up, then ducked her head away from a yellow jacket drawn by the smell of the brains.

“Shoo!” She leaned out of its way. It buzzed and bobbed over toward Manny, its long legs dangling ridiculously from its yellow-and-black-striped body.

Manny concentrated on spreading the brains to the edge of the skin and didn’t notice the insect until it flew near his face. With a muffled exclamation, he jerked backwards so suddenly he lost his balance and tipped over onto his bottom.

“Tarnation!” He scrambled up and took several steps back. Abby looked on, astonished.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of a yellow jacket!”

Manny avoided making eye contact. “I’m not afraid. I just—” Whatever he planned to say next was cut off abruptly as he danced a few quick steps to the left, avoiding the flying critter’s arbitrary flight plan.

Abby laughed delightedly. “You were saying?” She sat back on her heels, watching him with amusement.

Manny scowled. “I just don’t like them, O.K.?” He reached for the mop she carried from the barn, brandishing it like a baseball bat to swat the insect.

“Don’t make it mad!” She jumped to her feet and snatched the mop away. “Just ignore it. Maybe yellow jackets like the smell of brains.”

The insect alighted on an edge of the skin, and Manny positioned himself as far away from it as he could. She laughed again, enjoying the fact she had something to hold over him, something she could tease him with as unmercifully as he teased her with the stupid Abby-girl nickname. He shot her a dark look.

“Don’t worry.” Abby spoke in a sing-song voice. “I’ll protect you.”

They finished rubbing the mixture into the deerskin, all the while in the company of the lurking yellow jacket, picking its way delicately around the edges.

Finally, Manny stood. “I’m gonna roll the hide up so the oils can soak in for a day.” He eyed the yellow jacket with annoyance. “Don’t you have anywhere else to be?”

Abby gently shooed the insect off of the deerskin with a wave from her foot. It buzzed away, then landed again on the edge of the bucket. Long, segmented legs tiptoed over the edge, and the insect disappeared inside.

She cocked a challenging eyebrow at Manny, then helped him fold the skin on itself. He finished by folding it in fourths.

“I’ll set this in the barn until tomorrow.” He walked away without a backward glance.

Abby laughed again, not caring if he heard her, and went to wash the disgusting smell from her hands. She left the bucket where it sat, guarded by the yellow jacket. Let Manny figure out how to rid it of the unwanted guest.