Made for More Archives - UnaPAULAgetically Texan

August 30, 2025August 30, 2025

Look into the eyes of a child. You can see God there. ~Amma

August started our next six weeks of travel (five different states for five different reasons, some via our Ford F150, some via plane, then a trip overseas to visit a friend), and we kicked it off by flying to Atlanta to celebrate the birth of our granddaughter, Naomi. Part of our job as grandparents was to keep older brother, Elias, occupied, which we did willingly. He’s a smart kid and fun to be around, and so far, he has accepted the new baby with enthusiasm.

I like to people-watch. Eavesdropping (or spying—what do you call it when you can’t hear but can watch?) often gives me ideas for things to write. Observing others is easy to do while traveling, and you get such a slice-of-life choice while in the airport. This trip was no different.

The first thing I noticed was a couple standing off to the side, out of the main flow of foot traffic rushing past. They faced each other, and he leaned in close, touching her face with a tender gesture. She stood stock still, gaze pointed over his shoulder. I wasn’t sure what they were doing, but the moment felt intimate, so I looked away.

As we passed them, I glanced over for a last peek. He held his hand in front of her face, and she leaned slightly forward, mouth pursed as if she were blowing the seeds off a dandelion. Realization struck.

He’d wiped an eyelash from her face, and she was now making a wish and blowing it off his fingertip.

So many thoughts flew through my mind. Triumph—I picked up enough clues to figure out what I witnessed. Curiosity—do people from other countries do the same ritual when an eyelash drops onto someone’s face? Tenderness—the couple had a history together. Their body language told a story.

Once we found our gate and settled in to wait for our trip to Georgia, we were confronted with the flurry of activity and personality that was Teagan, a three-year-old from Alabama who headed to Atlanta to participate in a beauty pageant. She’s been participating since she was six months old. Mom shared photos from her phone, and the hair and makeup extravaganza was just as bad (or good, depending on your point of view) as you might imagine.

Teagan first caught my eye because her mom had put her hair into an interesting braid, and I was trying to figure out how she’d done it. But after like ten seconds, Teagan inserted herself into our space and took over the show.

First, she looked me right in the eye and asked, in her lispy three-year-old voice, “Can I have a hug?”

Mentally, I sighed. Okay. This child is going to require my attention for the next thirty minutes, and I wasn’t really up for entertaining her. But how do you say no to a hug? So I said, “Sure!” and opened my arms wide. Then I fell in love. She chattered on about everything. I asked her if three-year-olds had to do a talent at their pageant. They do. Hers is usually dance (she takes ballet lessons). And sometimes she sings if she feels like it. Spontaneously, I wondered? So my husband, John, pulled up pictures of ballet dancers on his phone. “Can you do that?” he asked, showing her a dancer posed en pointe, arms held gracefully in the air. She placed a hand on his knee and leaned in close to peer at the photo.

“Mama! That’s you.”

Mom looked up from her phone and chuckled. “No, baby. That’s not me.” She looked at us with a self-deprecating shrug. “I used to dance. She’s seen pictures of me at home.”

Mom probably weighed a good eighty pounds more than the ballerina in the photo. But Teagan didn’t notice that. She saw a lovely, graceful dancer and thought she looked just like her mother.

That got me thinking, and I pondered it while John and Teagan moved on to pulling up photos of the moon (she likes space). What do I need to change about the way I see things to have the same attitude as Teagan? How can I notice only the very best in others? How can I see my neighbors the way God sees me, recognizing and encouraging the potential, the good, and forgiving all the rest? That attitude certainly won’t come easy, but I want to try.

“Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, the new creation has come: The old has gone, the new is here! All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation: that God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting people’s sins against them” 2 Corinthians 5: 17-19.

Later, after disembarking the plane and riding the tram across the airport, we heard Teagan’s mom call up to us. We had just stepped onto the escalator to ride up to the parking level, and they were passing by on their way to the elevator.

“Hey!” she called. We glanced over the edge as we rose. There stood Teagan, waving her hand madly, grinning from ear to ear. “She wanted to say goodbye.”

I smiled and waved back just as enthusiastically. “Bye, little friend! Good luck at your pageant.”

My friend Tracy Redman always encourages us when we travel—talk to a stranger and make a new friend. I’m glad I let Teagan into my life, even if only for a while.

I’ve decided to self-publish book number four instead of going the traditional route. Made for More is currently in the final stages of editing and will go through a round of beta readers. If you’re interested in getting an advance reader’s copy (ARC) of a Christian romance starring a rock star and a high school teacher (how does that even work? Read it to find out), and providing feedback, let me know. I’ve hired a book-cover designer. Now I wait. My plan is to have the book out by October this year.

My friend Cathy Rueter just had her debut novel come out. She writes Christian suspense, and this book, Murder May I?, was published by Elk Lake Publishing Inc. I have an author interview with her posted on my website. Check it out here … https://paulapeckham.com/lets-talk-about-books/ . Her book revolves around the fashion world. I love getting peeks into environments I know nothing about and learning something new. Her story gives just the right amount of hints to keep you guessing, but without giving everything away in Chapter Three. I really enjoyed Cathy’s story. I hope you will too. You can buy a copy on Amazon. https://a.co/d/cprapIj

I’m traveling to Washington State in September to teach a class on ProWritingAid at the Southwest Washington Writers Conference (one of the five different states in our fall travel). I purchased a lifetime access to the program but knew I wasn’t getting my money’s worth. There is SO much it can do. So I did some research and went through every tool PWA offers, making notes along the way. If the conference records the sessions, I’ll provide a link to the presentation on my website, in case you’re considering purchasing PWA for yourself. In my opinion, buying the program was money well spent, and I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone who writes.

While in Georgia, my daughter-in-law, Jonnique, recommended watching an eight-part Netflix series titled “The Trunk.” It’s Korean and uses subtitles. (Side note: this is our third Korean show, and they are VERY good at crying. Tears flood eyes, they drip dramatically over an eyelid and roll down a cheek – very realistic.) It really confused me for the first episode or two, but it totally sucked me in. I loved the male main character. We binged the show in four days. I didn’t LOVE the ending because it left me with several questions, but thankfully, there is a book by the same name, so I downloaded it to my phone, and I’ll read it on my way home to Texas tomorrow on the plane. The show gave me a good lesson on how to drip, drip, drip the clues into the story while building up to the grand reveal at the end.

June 16, 2025June 17, 2025

Lean on me when you’re not strong … giving comfort to those who grieve

My almost-83-year-old mother keeps me stocked with Netflix recommendations. She spends her time either reading, playing tennis (yes, she still plays), or watching TV. Add the fact that she has insomnia (as do I—thanks for sharing that gene with me, Mama), and she churns through a lot of television. The good thing for me is I get pre-reviewed entertainment suggestions, which I find helpful. When I look at ALL the options available on Netflix alone, the decision-making section of my brain goes on overload, and I end up watching reruns of the Great British Baking Show or Queer Eye.

The Great British Baking Show - one of my favorites!

So, thanks to Mama’s sacrifice of spending her time to vet shows for me, I recently watched Adolescence. (Short review at the end of this post – worth watching!) The show was emotional, and it affected me.

During the last scene of the final episode, I didn’t say anything, or even make a noise, but tears spilled down my cheeks as I watched. Then my dog, Buddy, stood from where he lay on his rug, walked over, and shoved his nose under my hand. Did he come over to comfort me? How did he know?

Comfort. Easy enough to provide. Can we offer comfort in the same way?

Thinking of this reminded me of an incident at the school where I taught. Every year, one hour would be my conference period. Most teachers took care of paperwork business during that time, including making copies of lessons in the copy room. Every year, we’d have different “copy room partners,” depending on how schedules were set up. One year, my copy buddy was Coach Peters (name changed). His son had graduated with a teaching degree the previous May, and Alex had been hired at our school to teach and coach baseball, to be Coach Peters’ assistant. The prospect of working alongside his son thrilled Coach. Then one day, they found the young man dead in his bed. I don’t remember now what the exact medical diagnosis was, but Coach Peters and his wife were blindsided.

Alex died over the summer, so a few months had gone by when I ran into Coach in the copy room. I asked him how he was doing. I didn’t specifically mention his son, but that’s what I meant. He poured his heart out to me, tears sliding down his face. Tears slid down mine as well. We were work colleagues, not friends. I hardly knew the man. But the thought of living through the death of my child made my heart hurt for him.

What floored me was when he said this: “I wanted to talk about Alex one day during our planning period. My department chair listened for a minute, then told me she thought I should get over it. Life goes on sort of thing.”

Her response shocked him. It shocked me. All he wanted was to remember his child, to share memories of him. The woman shut him down.

I don’t think she meant to be cruel. When people are faced with emotions, and we don’t know what to do to fix the problem, we avoid. And seeing tears from a grown person, particularly a man, puts others into an uncomfortable situation. But all Coach wanted was to talk, to be heard. My job was simple—listen. And cry a little with him. To care enough to ask how he was. We hugged afterward and went about our day. I don’t think I spoke to him one-on-one again that year. But in that moment, my attention gave him something that helped. By acknowledging his pain, I allowed him to grieve. Maybe that’s all he needed.

We’ll all probably find ourselves in a similar situation at least once in our lives. When that moment comes, do your best not to run away. Instead, be the sympathetic ear, offer a shoulder to cry on. In today’s emotionally fraught world, we need to take care of each other.

Christians are called on to comfort each other

Galatians 6:2 teaches this: Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.

Sometimes, we don’t have to solve anything. Just listen.

In my writing world, I have an update. My completed contemporary romance about an aging rock star, Made for More, is currently with an acquisitions editor at one of the large five Christian publishing houses. Receiving an offer from one of the Top Five without agent representation is a big leap, so I’m keeping my expectations realistic. She told me she’d have an update by July. If the answer is no, I’ll move forward with self-publishing the novel. If that is the case, my goal is to have the book out into the world by September. So stay tuned!

Quote from my upcoming book - Made for More. "Buckle up, Buttercup. You're in for the ride of your life." The ride of her life? Hopefully it wasn't heading straight off the side of a cliff.

I’m currently writing my first attempt at romantic suspense. I’m on chapter seven as we speak and having a lot of fun figuring this genre out. My working title is Fighting for Justice, but that will probably change. Titles come hard for me.

You can find all of my books on Amazon in print, eBook, or audiobook formats.

Here’s a link to the audiobook of Protected. https://paulapeckham.com/never-trust-anyone-who-has-not-brought-a-book-with-them-lemony-snicket/

I taught a class on formatting to the San Gabriel Writers League last week. My next step is to break down each small segment into individual videos and post them on YouTube. If you’re contemplating self-publishing and want to save some money by doing the formatting yourself, give the videos a try. Here is a link to the first one I’ve uploaded, which shows you how to change your margins to the size you want your book to be.

Subscribe to be notified when I upload the next videos. And, as always, if you run into problems doing your formatting, I’m an email away and would love to help.

Series review

Adolescence.

Described as a four-part crime drama, it shows the fallout after thirteen-year-old Jamie is arrested for murdering his classmate. The show probes mental health, masculinity, and the ease of online radicalization, particularly within the incel (involuntary celibate) culture. A string of violent acts committed by teenage boys against teenage girls in Great Britain inspired the series. Stephen Graham, who plays Jamie’s father, has the final scene of the show. His performance absolutely gutted me.

* Cautionary note: I doubt if everyone in Great Britain speaks this way, but many of the British shows I watch have some pretty serious language. They (at least in the movies) drop the F-bomb as casually as I say, “please pass the salt.” Be forewarned.

February 14, 2025February 14, 2025

This is why we can’t have nice things.

Twice now, I’ve been an American on vacation in a foreign country, and I’ve gotten tickled to the point of uncontrollable laughter … over something ridiculously uncouth.

Not repping my country well, to say the least.

Every country has its own customs. Many of the unfamiliar ways of those “fawr-uh-ners” turn out to be quite nice.

For example, in Japan, when you ride the subway or train, it’s quiet. If people have their phones out, they’re wearing headphones so as to not inflict their noise on their fellow travelers. If two people want to talk, they hold their heads close together and their voices are low.

I got so used to this unexpected pleasure that on one trip, when a man struggled to open a snack item wrapped in plastic, the extended crinkling sound filling the car as he fought with it irked me so badly, I had to restrain myself from leaping out of my seat and snatching it from his hands.

But one evening, riding the subway back to my friend Ronda’s house, I began a story, telling it in halting segments, layering on each humorous antic one at a time. Think of the famous Carol Burnett show skit where Tim Conway tells the story about the Siamese twin elephants.

It was the classic “don’t laugh in church” scenario, only it was “don’t laugh on the Japanese subway.”

I hadn’t intended to draw the story out that way, but when Ronda started snuffling, her laughter egged me on. The tale came out one bit at a time, until both of us were hee-hawing so hard, tears streamed down our faces. While telling the story, I spoke so low my husband, who stood holding on to a pole across the aisle from us, had no idea why we were cracking up, but we couldn’t contain the sound of our hilarity. Finally, Ronda gasped, “No more. No more.”

People shot dark looks our way, which only made things worse. We, quite obviously, were not Japanese. I wonder what they thought of us.

A second time happened in France. My husband and I accompanied five family members to St. Gervais for a winter trip to see Mont Blanc. One special event was a visit to a thermal spa called Les Thermes. The inside walls were painted black or charcoal, all dark and quiet, with small LED lights creating displays on tables and recessed lighting gleaming down from black ceilings.

Very mindful. Very demure.

Everyone there seemed to know exactly what to do and where to go next. We stumbled around like country bumpkins. After soaking in a warm communal bath, we moved to a heated, tiled, bleacher-type area where people reclined, silently soaking in the heat. After a few moments of that, we were like, “Hmm. What’s next?” So we followed some folks into the sauna area. The slippers piled up at the door gave us the hint we were to enter barefoot. They even provided a wooden rack to hold your glasses. Ooh, la, la. Every detail considered. Every solution provided.

We entered the sauna. I blinked, attempting to focus through the steam wafting in the air like our own personal cloud. A couple sat on one side, the woman lying with her head in her partner’s lap. Another man leaned against the wall opposite them. The three of us moved to the far wall to take a seat.

There was a perfect combination of conditions: steamy, hot air practically dripping with condensation; our wet skin; and soggy seats of our bathing suits, freshly drenched from our recent dip in the warm bath. Put them all together, and we each—one after the other, three in a row—created the perfect fart noise when we plopped onto the tiled bench lining the wall.

We gave each other wide-eyed looks and bit back our laughter. This wasn’t a laughing atmosphere. Shhh. Enjoy the relaxation.

The instructions said to sit in the steam for five minutes, then step outside of the room to use the showers to rinse. Step back in and repeat two more times.

Forewarned by experience about the farting phenomenon, we each tried different techniques when we resumed our seats. Lower yourself onto your right hip and roll your buttocks on the bench. Perch your tailbone on the very edge and slide back. Sit with your legs slightly wide to avoid creating the “bowl” shape formed by thighs and buttocks. We had varying levels of success. Giggles threatened.

Then a fourth member of our family joined us. Yanked the door open, letting in a swirl of cool(er) air, stumbled through the foggy air, then plopped straight down. BRAAAP.

Maybe if it’d happened to only one of us, we’d have been able to contain ourselves. But all four of us were caught by the noise. None of the French people seemed plagued by loutish behavior. One of us giggled, then two, then it was Katy, bar the door.

Y’all, the lady lying with her head in her partner’s lap got up, and they left. Not because they were done. No. They went into the other sauna. Right in front of us. Didn’t even try to hide it. We laughed even harder.

In Texas, people are friendly. We smile at each other in our stores, we do the one-finger salute when we pass each other on the road (pointer finger, just to be clear), and we chat with strangers while we wait in line. We touch when we talk. We hug when we leave. I feel like my life is spent in a happy, pleasant, humor-filled way.

Not so mindful. Not that demure. But fun.

I’m sorry we disturbed the couple in the sauna. I thought of them when we moved to the outside pools (which were heated, but uncovered in the outdoor, 32° weather). I could envision one of us running, leaping into the water doing a cannonball, yelling “Yeehaw!” (We didn’t do that, but the thought crossed my mind.) I’m sure they find humor in other places in their lives. But I enjoy laughing. And laughter comes easily to me.

Jesus told us in the book of John, “The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy; I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” I bet Jesus laughed a lot. I think he would’ve been fun to hang out with.

Look for ways to have fun, to enjoy each other, to relax with laughter.

That night in our AirBnB, we pulled out an original version of Trivial Pursuit we found on a shelf. I lifted the lid and wiggled it to get it off, and as it slid away, the perfect fart noise came out. BRAAP. We laughed all over again, so hard and so long that my sides ached. I swear it added five years to my life.

However you do it, spend your life with humor and fun. As my friend Greg Kata on TikTok says, “Find your joy.”

I finished my contemporary rockstar romance. Now I stand at a crossroads. Do I try to get an agent who will help me get into one of the largest “Big Five” publishing houses or do I go indie, and publish everything myself? Getting into the big houses requires an agent, which I don’t have. So I’m doing my version of Gideon’s fleece test in the Bible. I’ve picked three agents. Between now and April 12, I’ll see if any of the three are interested in representing me. If one offers to sign me, I’ll see how the traditional route goes. If none do, beginning April 13, I’m taking the steps to self-publish. I know how to format books and I’m very familiar with uploading to KDP. All I’ll need is a friend to give one last edit to the manuscript, and to find a book cover designer. So, I’m waiting on God to send me my sign. And I’m fine with whichever way he sends me. So stay tuned to see what happens with Made for More.

If you’ve decided to go the indie route, or perhaps you’re preparing a novella or short story as a lead magnet, you’ll need to know how to format your book. A friend recently asked me how to set up her margins to change her manuscript from the typical page size in Word to a smaller 6 x 9 for publishing. Here is a short video explaining how that works.