It's Only a Paper Moon

A charming old popular song says "It's only a paper moon hanging over a cardboard sky." That metaphor goes through my mind as I reflect on my experience at the LDStorymakers conference this past weekend. That's LDS story makers. I don't know why the cutesy way of writing it. Maybe that's what attracted some of the air kissing wannabes I saw there. Networking is one thing but I saw so much sucking up you'd have thought it was a lemon festival. Among about 450 people from Utah, Idaho, California, Arizona and Colorado, I knew three. I wanted to be a part of this group because I'm a writer, I'm LDS, I've been married 40 years, and so I write about being LDS and being married. That's what my writing teachers always taught me – write what you know. And I thought that's probably what motivated everybody else to be there.

However, I'm not a mainstream LDS writer, and perhaps that's why I felt alien. At meals and in conference lectures, people very often introduced themselves as writers of science fiction, mystery/suspense, fantasy, historical fiction, Young Adult (YA) fiction, or romance. I didn't hear another person introduce themselves as a writer of contemporary drama. In fact, I didn't even know that's what I wrote until I interviewed with an editor from an LDS publishing company who said that's what he'd call it. The best part about that is I have less competition and potential for a bigger place in my own genre.

All or most of these writers are aiming at commercial success on the national scene, not that there's anything wrong with that, but I have a different view of my purpose. I write LDS fiction for a general adult LDS audience because I have something to say to them. I particularly appreciated Anita Stansfield's discussion of her life as a writer, the sacrifices she's made, and coming from someone whose 47th book will soon be out, that was important. It was particularly pleasing to hear her refer to her talent as a gift. Obviously she has respect for it, and that respect has driven her career. I don't read everything she writes, but I was impressed with that attitude.

On the other hand, I heard nationally successful writers discuss only the need, or not, for an agent, and the circuitous twists on the road to success. No references to gifts or reverence for their talents. The contrast with Anita's attitude was stark. There was something a bit smug about them, something of the "nyah, nyah, I made it and you didn't" from a few of them. Presenters who give their spiel with a "Gol, how can you be so stupid as to not know this" tone were more than a little abrasive.

This whole idea of writing for a particular niche audience is new to me. When I was in college, one of my writing teachers said, "If what you write is good enough, your work will find an audience." Consequently, I had no answer for an editor I interviewed with several years ago who asked me who my audience was. I didn't understand the question. I write for people who read LDS fiction, particularly adults. In fact, a male friend of mine who has read my contemporary fiction particularly enjoyed it because it wasn't like most of the books out there that are loosely referred to as "women's fiction." I hate that designation. Men who read what women read are more likely to understand the women around them.

That same editor asked me why I write, and my answer – "I can't NOT write" – apparently wasn't good enough. My books were rejected by his company. But I have never stopped thinking about the question because some day I hope to come up with a satisfactory answer. I write because, like Anita Stansfield, I have a gift and not to use it would be a sin, regardless of market trends. I write because I have a story to share with my LDS people. I write because I can't edit what I say once I've said it. (That's why I can write brilliant dialog.) I write because I love the language. I write because it's thrilling to make both sides of my brain work together.

And so I go back to my own basic motivation: When LDS lives and marriages are falling apart all around us in an environment where values are slowly corroding, why are we writing about vampires and the housewife from Orem who's secretly a CIA agent and saves the world while still getting her visiting teaching done? I'm just sayin'.

Ultimately, the irony of art is that it IS only a paper moon hanging over a cardboard sky, but the story that takes place there tells vitals truths about life, exposes significant insights, and gives readers Aha! moments they might not get anywhere else. Artists create an artificial place populated with artificial people in order to reveal truth to real people in the real world. I love irony. That's good enough for me.

By the way, after reading the first five pages of my manuscript and and discussing it with me for ten minutes, the editor at Covenant asked me to submit the entire manuscript. That made up for everything else about the conference that didn't sit well with me. But now I'm chewing my fingernails for the next few weeks until I find out what the verdict is going to be. I hope they agree with me that this is a book whose time has come.

Another Oldie But Goodie (from 1996)

Tee Shirt Philosophy

It's amazing how our instant society can boil everything down to a few words or phrases easily proclaimed on our tee shirts. Attitudes – good, bad, indifferent – as expressed on shirts, can save a lot of conversation time when you meet new people. No one will misunderstand your self concept if you're wearing one that says 'All I ask is that you treat me no differently than you would the Queen,' OR 'There's nothing wrong with me that a little ice cream won't fix,' OR 'Plays well with others.' It would certainly make you stop and think if someone strolled toward you with a shirt reading 'The road to enlightenment is long and difficult… bring snacks and a magazine.'

You can immediately warn people of your life status by wearing such shirt inscriptions as 'I can handle any crisis – I have children,' OR 'I'm not having hot flashes, I'm having power surges,' OR 'First National Bank of Dad (sorry, closed).'

Middle aged or retired people, whose status may be changing, can come to terms with it by wearing the declaration 'If things get better with age, I'm approaching magnificent,' OR 'Looks too young to be retired.' Others might get right to the point with the hapless 'Over the hill? What Hill? Where? I didn't see any hill,' OR the defiant 'I'm not over the hill – I'm older than the dirt.'

Explanations about interests become immediately clear if a shirt says 'Built for comfort not for speed,' OR 'Can be bribed with cookies', OR 'So much chocolate, so little time.' You could never be confused about a person whose shirt says 'Beer is the reason I get up every afternoon.'

Even your marital status can be evident if your shirt says 'One good turn gets most of the blanket,' OR 'My wife says I never listen to her – at least that's what I think she said.'

Cat lovers can proudly declare 'You're nobody till you've been ignored by a cat,' OR in a more whimsical vein, sport a tee shirt with a cat dressed as Santa that says 'Buster patiently listened to what the mice wanted for Christmas and then he ate them.'

Sports fan(atic)s can make their propensities known with 'Sweat is nature's way of showing you that your muscles are crying,' OR 'Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly, I gotta golf.' If they're completely honest, they might go for 'I fish, therefore I lie,' OR 'Hunters will do anything for a buck,' or my personal favorite, 'Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day, but teach a man to fish and you get rid of him for the weekend.'

Personality shirts might help you know who to avoid, or who to make friends with. You'd think twice about the person wearing a shirt that says, 'If all the world's a stage I want better lighting.' When his shirt says 'A legend in my own mind,' it doesn't leave you with any questions about his ego. 'I get plenty of exercise jumping to conclusions, pushing my luck and dodging deadlines,' OR 'I have not yet begun to procrastinate' say more about a person than a resume' ever could.

In my housewifely role, I am amused by these slogans: 'If the world were fair, VCRs would program themselves, chocolate wouldn't be fattening, and men would have babies'; and 'Does vacuuming count as aerobic exercise?' I can also relate to 'I am woman, I am invincible, I am tired.' When I try to balance my checkbook or plan a budget, I sometimes think, 'Please Lord, let me prove to you that winning the lottery won't $poil me,' OR 'Money isn't everything – usually it isn't even enough,' OR 'When all else fails, manipulate the data.'

Life is easy when lived by a tee shirt philosophy – no responsibilities, no consequences, and none of the dimensions that make life and people interesting. Fortunately, a tee shirt is a cartoon, not a portrait, and that gives us permission not to take them too seriously.

Reflections

We visited Richfield recently for a day, the place where we lived for 33 years, and went to church with old friends. It was wonderful to renew acquaintances and to reflect on new friends who appreciate us for who we are. That reflection broadened and I thought about other things I love about my life.

• Being with extended family more often and being able to entertain them – It's so much fun to plan and give a dinner party! These are wonderful people we haven't been able to see very often in the last 33 years, and it's great to have them in our home.
• Having a pedicure - Since it's so hard to coordinate my bifocals with the bending of knees and the placement of a nail clipper, I'm grateful for people willing to clip my toenails. Of course, I love the leg massage that goes along with it.
• 12 other people in my family - That number will probably be growing, now that Jordan and Heather have decided to adopt, and I'm thrilled at the prospect of having a new baby to love.
• Getting into the creative zone - There's nothing to compare with the moment a new idea dawns. A thought attributed to Robert Louis Stevenson: "I hate to write, but I love to have written." I've found a marvelous critique group here who have helped me make real progress on writing projects.
• Living in Provo - I love our sweet new manageable home and especially love having people visit. We are in a quiet neighborhood ten minutes from everything and I look forward to being able to get out and walk as the weather improves. We've been to art shows, plays and concerts since we moved here, and movies. It's nice to be able to go out in public and not be shouted at by students who recognize us. At last we are anonymous.
• Flowers in the house - Since we've been here, and for a little while before we left Richfield, we started buying flowers more often, and it adds a dimension of civilization that I hadn't fully appreciated before. Something about having a bouquet of flowers on the table inspires me to keep the clutter cleared away.
• My wonderful husband - He took such good care of me last year when I was recovering from knee surgeries, and he's still in the habit. It's great to have the companionship, the stimulating conversations, the hearty laughs together. And the love.
• Feeling valued by people I respect.
• Seeing Mt. Timpanogos out the kitchen window every day.
• Hearing the train whistle in the distance.
• As spring emerges, discovering what's planted in the yard - Today some brave little daffodils along the back fence tried to hold their heads up as spring snow fell. Globe willows are greening up all over. And my spring allergies have arrived.
• Serendipity – discovering "omelette night" at the hospital cafeteria. We had a "girls night out" Tuesday and enjoyed the company as much as the food.
• Decorating our new home and exploring new styles, creating the comfort we want to live in.
• Tackling new projects and having time enough for everything.
• The prospect of filling our guest room with family and friends this summer – bring 'em on!
• The stimulation of reading and writing, the fun of sharing my experiences and talents with others.

This is not an exhaustive list, but it comes from a grateful heart, and it's a good place to begin. What do you love about your life?

Spring Fervor

Spring begins at sea level and moves upward about eleven miles a day, according to scientists who have studied the phenomenon. It is a transition time when the natural life cycle begins again, when I watch a bee exploring the throat of a daffodil and catch my breath in astonishment at how and why this happens, and who makes it happen. Spring brings a sense of freedom, a feeling of newness, an urge to be creative.

One morning in the spring I was sixteen years old, I sat in my room watching the mild sweet Oregon rain fall on the riot of irises outside my window, explored the Roget’s Thesaurus my parents had given me for my birthday that winter, and decided that I would be a writer. That decision has spared me from the ordinary and made the unconventional common.

My odyssey began in high school. Theater has been in my blood since the spring of my senior year when I auditioned for a part in The Diary of Anne Frank. Although I didn’t get the part, I was assigned to the costume crew, which took me backstage where, for the first time, I inhaled the instantly addictive and nearly palpable scent of creative energy, and I knew this had to be a part of my life.

As a college student, my best learning moments, some even life changing, came when I was involved in plays. I’ll never forget the only applause I ever received as an actress – in my acting class, playing Amanda in a scene from The Glass Menagerie. My interests remained back stage, however, as part of the decision-making that went into the preparation, and I left the acting to people who could memorize lines and control their stage fright.

In the spring of 1967 another rich memory was born. I was the assistant to the faculty member directing a premiere production of a play written by the campus poet in resident, my creative writing teacher from the English department. The author would come to rehearsals to watch the progress of his “offspring,” and consult with the director on production details. It was instructional to listen to these two intensely creative men. I became a sponge. Sometimes when they disagreed about some detail they would turn to me and say, “What do you think?” At first it seemed ludicrous that my opinion should count for anything; I was just happy to be there, absorbing the creative energy and facilitating the activities of all those other creative people involved in the production. Sometimes I had an opinion, and I was grateful for the chance to offer it. Ultimately the collaboration was thrilling.

This spring I’m reminded of fourteen years ago when one of my creations, a play, was brought to life on stage by a group of talented people who gave me the priceless gift of their time to do for me what I couldn’t do for myself. A poet once described birth as “Trailing clouds of glory do we come, from God who is our home.” But as I watched and participated in the development of talent by gifted people around me, I concluded that the clouds of glory we trail after us must be the talents we bring, probably a spiritual inheritance from Heavenly Parents. Somehow when talents are used and shared respectfully, with deference to the Giver of the Gift, there’s inevitably a feeling of renewed life, the return of spring.

Can We Wish It Here Faster?

It's still a few days away officially, but here are some haiku poems...

MOODS OF SPRING


I tripped and fell in
the pond last night because the
stars were beguiling.


Shall I wrap this warm
breeze, or would you prefer to
wear it home in style?


Shadows float as trees
yawn and nod with the wind. It’s
tired out tonight.


The sad newness of
spring brings wistful smiles of hope,
the soul’s camouflage.


This warm night and that
full moon remind me that spring
is for stargazing.

The Dog Ate My Homework - Really

One of my most anticipated advantages of living in Utah Valley was being able to get my stories out there, and since I write about being LDS, I was most looking forward to participating in the LDStorymakers conference which is being held in Provo in April. It's a two-day conference at the Marriott where successful LDS writers will share their experience. The prospect of going to this conference added to the "died and gone to heaven" feeling I've had since we moved here.

Since there is a contest associated with the Storymakers conference, I decided to go for it and enter my trilogy in the "first chapter" contest. Almost giddy, I registered for the conference and sent the entries electronically, following the rules as I remembered them. Alas. I was wrong. When the contest chair got around to distributing the entries to her judges, she emailed me with the startling information that I had A) left my name on the entries, and B) the entries were too long, over the limit of ten pages.

Yikes, says I.

I will insert here a little backstory. On the last Tuesday of February, Roger and I were asked to speak in church that Sunday. It was short notice, but we are new in the ward and expected the invitation would be coming, since others new in the ward have been speaking recently. I wrote my talk on Wednesday, and then while Roger was gone Thursday night to do his tutoring, I sat down to check email before tackling a rewrite of the talk. Imagine my heart-stopping horror when suddenly the computer screen went black. I could still hear audio, and see a shadow, but it was too dark to see the cursor. Friday morning we went out and bought a new computer (part of a planned future purchase now accelerated by desperation), asking if they could please print out my talk, which they did, and have the data transferred from the old computer to the new one before Sunday, which they also did.

In the meantime, I had revised my talk and was ready to revise and print Saturday when I discovered the printer wasn't hearing what the computer was telling it to do. A sweet kind man from our ward came over and did his best, but after an hour we decided I could email the document to him and he'd print it out and bring it to me. Which he did. At 10:30. On Saturday night. I have always depended on the kindness of computer geeks, and I always will, but this fellow didn't have Mac experience and apologized all over the place for it. (On Monday I talked to a Mac techie half an hour on the phone and got nowhere, so I went online to the HP website, downloaded some new drivers, and voila - printed material. Happy ending there.)

Back to the contest entries. Maybe since I was new to the contest, the chairman allowed me to A) take my name off the entries, and B) shorten them before re-submitting. So I did. Four times. She kept emailing me back as if I were deliberately causing her great grief and frustration by ignoring her instructions. Which I wasn't. It was that darned new word processing program that I didn't know how to use, which came with the hard drive on the new computer. It repeatedly DID NOT save the changes I made, and the unchanged document was transmitted four times.

Add now the complication that Elin and Randy came to look for a house. They are moving from Illinois back to Utah this summer and stayed here while they conducted their search for a few days. I thought the contest entry problem was solved, but on Tuesday, I kept sending as requested the documents without my name on them. That evening about 9, after I got back to the computer, there was a stern email from the contest chair that said the entries still had my name on them, and if we didn't solve this problem by 6 p.m. my entries would be disqualified. I emailed them once more without my name on them, explaining that I hadn't been at my computer all day to get her deadline, and that I had really been sending them as she requested but my new program was apparently sabotaging me.

That was the last time I heard from the contest chair. I hope she finally found some white-out, or a marker with which to blot out my name. Maybe not. I'm probably disqualified. She warned me. If I'm going to get my trilogy published, it won't be because the first chapters made a big splash in the LDStorymakers contest as I had hoped and dreamed.

I bought a Microsoft Office program the next day and now everything is just fine fine fine with my word processing capability. Changes stay changed. I will now sign up for the three lessons I'm entitled to as a new iMac owner and learn how to use the other features built into this new contraption.

My one consolation about the contest is that I have paid for a consultation with the acquisitions editor at an LDS publishing company who will be at the conference in April. I have pitched books to editors before, and perhaps I can present myself and my work in our best light without having to plead for mercy because the dog ate my homework.

Coming and Going

At the funeral for Roger's Uncle Ross a few weeks ago someone sang the old funeral favorite "Goin' Home," and did a fine job of it, but it made be think about the difference between going home and coming home. It depends on the point of view I suppose. Going is a journey, but coming is the arrival.

When we started looking for a home in Utah Valley, our realtor said, "I'll show you the houses and the Lord will put you where he wants you to be." In that sense, we have just come home. Our new house and the neighborhood in Provo is a little ordinary in terms of similar dwellings and yards, but a lot extraordinary in terms of people. These are deep-down decent people with generous hearts who strive to do good and be good. That's what I want to be when I grow up, so I like being a part of them.

But we like our ordinary house, and lack of stairs is just one of its compelling attractions. It's small enough for two people to take care of, and big enough to accommodate visitors. It was practically the definition of "move-in ready." We had to buy furniture to replace the old stuff that had outlived its usefulness, and we had to replace some 12-year-old carpet and a toilet. We will also replace one window treatment. But we didn't have to paint one wall. We didn't have to buy new drapes. We won't have to landscape anything. All the tchotchkes fit, and I've even found some new ones to keep the old ones company. My tiny art collection is on the walls, like old friends bringing happy memories. One of our Richfield friends said, when she visited us in Provo, "This is YOUR house. This is where you belong."

With not a little guilt, I admit that I already love this house more than I loved the house where I lived for 33 years in Richfield, where I raised my children and wrote my plays and books and got my first gray hair, where I celebrate anniversaries with my husband and greeted a new century. I loved all the shade trees around it, but not the stairs inside it. The house hasn't sold yet, but it will, to some energetic family whose children will add life to the neighborhood, and I won't feel sad. Moving on is what life is all about because there is only one place where we should feel truly at home, and that is with our heavenly parents.

Going and coming are always accompanied with a sigh. Whether we're leaving one place to journey to another, or arriving at a long-anticipated destination, there are tender mercies from above that we must acknowledge, as if we've just been given a little gift of approval, like a pat on the shoulder or a wink or a smile, to let us know we're in the right place at the right time ready for another task that will help us grow and stretch to become what we were meant to be. Going and coming make life rich and teach us to depart from and arrive at the temporary destinations on this serendipitous journey.