18 Ways to Improve Your Writing Efficiency

We had our monthly ANWA meeting today. As usual, it was wonderful. A sister returned who hadn't attended in nearly a year, and we discussed our writing progress.

A common thread emerged during conversation: "I need be more productive when writing."

 So I decided to brainstorm ways we can become more efficient to increase our writing output.

1.  Turn off the Internet. Okay, this is a no-brainer.  For many reasons. For the purposes of writing a book, you should disconnect your Internet for at least seven years, just to be safe.  Imagine how many hours you can devote if you're not reading the news, talking to other writers, reading writing prompts, or connecting with family. The internet is evil. Eeeeeevilllll. 
2. Get rid of children. Speaking of family, your kids are impeding your productivity. Get rid of them. Dump them on your spouse, your older children, introduce them to the television, or confine them to the backyard. Parenting is highly overrated anyway. Leaving them to their own devices is the only way to prepare them for the cold, dark world around us anyway. As long as they are alive, and relatively well fed, then you're good. 
3. Get rid of spouses, friends, and anyone else who likes to talk. While you're at it, it might be best to sever all ties to your spouse, friends, relatives, and anyone else who sucks time away from writing. Consider removing the dog's vocal chords. There's nothing more annoying than catching up on Aunt Alice's latest fashion disaster when all you want to do is work on your current WIP.
4. Remove pets from your writing space. C'mon. Fluffy does NOT need to be on the keyboard.  She will be perfectly fine confined to the bathroom.  Better yet, send her out back with the kids. They'll take wonderful care of her. No, those scissors little Billy snagged are not intended to give Fluffy a haircut. And Sally is fast enough to stay out of his grasp. Her ponytails will be just fine. Honest. 
5. Read Books. We hear it all the time.  Read read read! In fact, I've heard 36-hour reading marathons work wonders on one's relationships, writing ability, and housekeeping skills.  If you're lucky, maybe you'll find an author with a 15 book series.  You might have to binge. Oh, the sacrifices you must make in the name of your craft!
6. Listen to podcasts, and read articles or blogs on productivity. This is much like a Netflix binge. Find a podcast or author you like and listen to every podcast produced since the beginning of time. If one podcast is good, then 7,894 is better, right?
7. Quit your full-time job. To be a serious writer, you must sacrifice for your craft.  All true artists make sacrifices. The greater the sacrifice, the more committed you are a a writer, right? So go ahead. Quit your job. Lose your house, eat less food, don't pay the bills.  In the end you'll have massive pools of experience to draw from for future stories.
8. Ignore your church callings. Heavenly Father will understand. He wants what makes us happy. And writing makes us happy. He won't mind if we take a small hiatus from our callings...or church for that matter.  As long as we're doing what makes us happy. 
9. Starve. Wait. Scratch that. Indulge.  Make sure rich, chocolate, caffeinated sodas, savory chips and goodies are always within reach while you're sitting at your computer.  Use those extra calories to maintain your energy and keep you from being distracted by annoying things like family dinners. If your cup doesn't runneth over, buy more soda. 
10. Don't clean your house or do yard work. Oh the hours you'll save if you leave the housework and domestic responsibilities to someone else!  Just put on a set of blinders, or better yet, situate your desk facing a corner. You'll never see the chaos around you. Or the rats and bugs. I'm pretty sure the health department can't enter unless you let them in. 
11. Holidays are highly overrated.  Holidays require a person to go to parties, socialize, make extra food, shop for presents, and spend time with (shudder) family.  Holidays are no bueno.  Avoid them at all costs. 
12. Limit your sleep to three hours per night or less. Utilize time originally spent doing nothing. Sleep is a perfect example.  You were accomplishing nothing during those hours anyway. Instead, rise several hours early. Or better yet, pull an all-nighter and hammer out a few thousand more words. 
13. Type until your fingers bleed. Breaks are for lazy, un-dedicated amateurs.  Carpel Tunnel? All in your head.  Need a break? That's why God created potty breaks. Fingers tired? Rest them while you're grabbing a handful of Cheetos. Then get back to work! Sit down at 5:00 a.m. and type until your fingers bleed.  
14. Never ever ever write by hand. Oh heavens. There's a reason why typewriters were created. Then replaced by word processors, which were replaced by computers. Who needs the tactile input pen and paper offers? Plus, you're killing trees.  Tons of them!  You don't want to be responsible for decimating an entire rain forest, do you?
15. Steal, if you must. Sometimes writer's block becomes unbearable. Or you get lazy. Whatever. In that case, plagiarism is okay.  But only if you don't get caught.  If you get caught. Well, then. You're on your own buddy!  Don't say I didn't warn you. Because if anyone asks, I totally threw a hissy fit telling everyone to never ever ever EVER steal someone's work. That'd be just wrong (wink wink).
16. Let the words flow like a waterfall. Trust your initial instincts.  the most ineffishent use of ur time iz editing ur first & subsequant drafts.  1000's ov people submit there NaNoWriMo 1stdrafts to publishers & lit. agents mere days after completing they're first draft.  Thousands of people can't be wrong, can they????????
17. Never ever ask for help. Forget about it. Nobody wants to help you.  They're only interested in your final draft. You are an island.  Suck it up and do this by yourself. 
18. Ignore me.  In fact, do the opposite of everything mentioned. Utilize the Internet for information and resources as needed. Take care of children, nurture family and relationships.  Fulfill your callings. Go to work. Take care of yourself and pets. Take breaks. Ask for help and edit like crazy. Learn along the way. Take your time, and go at your own pace.

Writing is most efficient when done in moderation, fully dependent upon your particular life, priorities, and lifestyle permits. Writing is an activity that can be a hobby, a profession, an obsession, or any variation in between.  The key is to make sure you don't burn out, and you don't ignore the other priorities in your life. The only requirement you have to be a writer is to write. Put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard. One word, or 500,000 words; it doesn't matter. Just write.  

Good luck!  Enjoy the journey, and be sure to take time for yourself along the way.  Everything else will come in it's own time. 

All the best, 

Susan 

Best Christmas Present Ever

Best Christmas Present Ever

Our family begins asking, “What would you like for Christmas this year?” in October. Several years ago, I wanted to head them off.

Our kids were all in their twenties; students, newlyweds, one with a young child, two pregnant, busy, all underemployed in various stages of poverty, but each with a giving heart. They’d want to give me a Christmas present; gift giving is a big part of the season’s fun. Telling them, “Don’t get anything for me” would hurt their feelings. Besides, I like gifts!

I don’t need more Stuff, and at this stage of life, if I see something I’d like to have, I buy it myself. What could they give me that I’d really treasure, not tuck away on a shelf? If I could come up with a wonderful, meaningful, inexpensive gift, I’d be happy; bonus points if it was a long-term idea.

I pondered for days. 

What do I value? I value my family, the Savior, travel, conversation, and the power of Story. We’d taught our young ones to tell stories since they were tiny; it's part of the fabric of our family. Stories bind us together and set us apart as people. You don’t see raccoons sitting around telling tales, do you?

That was my answer: I wanted stories! I pondered for days, and settled on these criteria: I wanted a story from each adult and literate grandchild (one, at that stage). I clearly said, “This is not a let-the-wife-handle-it-type gift.” The story was to be non-fiction, preferably a memory from their own life, it could include me, but didn’t have to, and it was to be long enough to properly to tell the story, whether that be eight pages or six lines.

In October, I sent out a mass email to all of our children and their spouses, detailing the gift I wanted. Just think, all they had to do was write a story! It’s the perfect gift---no cost, except their time, no stress or shopping, and it’d be something I would cherish. My heart smiled as I imagined reading stories for Christmas, my birthday, Mother’s Day, and onward.

I was excited to hear their responses. Instead, my email was utterly ignored. Over the weeks approaching Christmas, my broad hints were brushed aside with a sighed, “Oh, Mom, really.” My heart sunk, resigned to another lovely throw pillow or bowl.

On Christmas morning, tears flowed, but not from disappointment. While I thought my kids were ignoring me, they were conspiring. A daughter bought plastic sheet protectors. A daughter-in-law was tasked with designing a scrap-book-type cover for the optimistic-sized loose-leaf bind my son was ordered to purchase. All of them wrote a story, just for me!

The stories gave insight into family members. I learned why a daughter-in-law’s family values education so strongly, and I could feel her shock in finding her dad’s 8^th grade report card with a C+ on it, tucked in with his baseball award. Another daughter-in-law detailed the day of her engagement. I hadn’t known my son proposed to her on a cliff. As he knelt, he “accidentally” dropped the ring box into the valley a thousand feet below. As I read, I could imagine her scream echoing across the canyon, and her relief when he laughed and pulled the glittery ring from his pocket.  

My five-year-old granddaughter dictated her story, and drew a delightful, wobbly illustration of the stuffed felt chickens I had helped her sew the previous month. A son-in-law wrote of a camping trip on a sailboat in Alaska with his eleven siblings... and no running water. My daughter wrote of the things she had learned from me, her mother, and her hopes of being a good mother to her unborn child. Our son wrote of the joy he felt teaching the gospel and bolstering the sagging spirits of discouraged missionaries; in his mission, he was known as a “fixer.”

Another  son detailed memories of a family trip in which we played in the snow on a mountain, acquired sunburns in the high desert, sledded, swam, hiked through a canyon, toured an orchard and sampled new apple varieties under development, rode a ferry, visited a museum, splashed in  a waterfall, enjoyed an old-fashioned soda fountain, toured a hydroelectric dam, crossed a steel-mesh bridge on foot through an old-growth forest, climbed on a vintage train, played on a massive new playground, toured a candy factory (with samples), drove through desert, mountains, farms, forests, meadows, across rivers and valleys and canyons...all in two days. I sighed, remembering our many family vacations, most of which were just that packed. “As long as we’re nearby, we may as well see as much as we can” was an unspoken motto.

I wiped tears, I laughed, I choked up as I read each story aloud. My heartfelt response encouraged my kids: at last, they had a gift idea Mom loved! Every Christmas, birthday, and Mother’s Day since then, I’ve received a set of new stories. That optimistic-sized binder is stuffed now, as stories multiply and grandchildren grow old enough to add their own stories. On sad days, I take comfort in reading over my fat collection of stories. This truly is the best gift I could ask for.

Christmas is coming! If you love stories as much as I do, feel free to take my idea. 

When Is It Time?

by Terri Wagner

I have been blessed with the best dogs ever! Each one has brought a joy and delight to me that is truly indescribable. And I take pleasure in knowing through the gospel I will be reunited with the animals that gave such joy to me. I sincerely hope I can communicate better with them because some times I just don't know.

I'm facing an "I just don't know" moment right now.

Several years ago, I had lost my Golden Belle. She died far too young to me although she was 10. A friend called up and said I hate to ask you this but would you consider taking my children's yellow lab? She's less than two and my ex is divorcing wife two and will have to move into an apartment. My kids want Kota to go to a good home.

What could I say?! So the ex brought this beautiful golden looking lab to my office one afternoon. She seemed sad like she knew something was up. And he seemed heartbroken, that did not gell with what I had been told about his actions toward and in truth there some funny ways that took her years to work through. One was as a simple as she was terrified to come through a slightly ajar door. It literally took me years and it still makes me smile when she bangs on through the door these days.

She sat in the back of my car so sorrowfully. Once I got her home, she and my then-half husky half lab danced around each other in silence, then accepted the new situation.

Cassie left me too early too and it was just Kota for a while until another friend had another lab mix in need of a home. This lab Daisy and Kota are the same age. They adore each other. But Kota has arthritis very badly whereas Daisy is just noticeably less fast than before.

For some time I have been sneaking Daisy out of the house for walks since Kota really cannot any more. But last night she just seem to beg me to take her. So I modified the walk to the back field and let her take her time and rest a lot. It wasn't even a football field worth of a walk. But later on she paid the price for her walk, and I had to give her a stronger pain pill.

So when do you look into those trusting loving eyes and say to yourself it's time. If she could talk would she tell me? Dad wants me to do it this time. I am going to see how she is today, but I am afraid she is more ready than I am ready to let her go over the rainbow bridge

The Writer's Support System

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

According to a friend of mine, every writer does better at her endeavors if she has people who play four key roles in her life. These roles are Mentor, Cheerleader, Critiquer, and Motivator. Let's take a brief look at these roles:

Mentor - this person gives the writer tools so she can do a better job at writing.

Cheerleader - this person buoys up the writer, telling her she can do it.

Critiquer - this person's role is to keep the writer sharp and examining her work for errors. The Critiquer also gives suggestions for improvement.

Motivator - this person gets the writer past hurdles that come along, such as writer's block, keeping the writer moving and motivated. May be the best at being a sounding board or brainstorming partner.

Sometimes a person may act in more than one role, but usually four people shake out into the roles.

What do you think? Do you agree that these roles are essential to your writing success? Who fills these roles for you? Do you fill one or more of these roles in some other author's life?

This post was first shared with readers on July 29, 2007

Overcoming Fear

by Kari Diane Pike

When I submitted my post two weeks ago, I had no way of knowing that in a few short hours eleven police officers, on duty during a peaceful protest, would be gunned down in the street. I never imagined that something like that would happen in this country in this day and age. Oh, how my heart aches for those officers and their families and friends. And for our country.

The Savior's words in Luke 2,1 where He tells of the signs that will precede His Second Coming, come to my mind:

And there shall be signs in the sun, and in the moon, and in the stars; and upon the earth distress of nations, with perplexity; the sea and the waves roaring; Men's hearts failing them for fear, and for looking after those things which are coming on the earth: for the powers of heaven shall be shaken. (Luke 21:25-26)

One of the primary emotions, fear can create an uncomfortable sense of vulnerability. That discomfort often leads to anger. Anger triggers a surge of energy and creates a sense of control and power. People often see anger as the quickest and easiest way to regain control.

Part of the law of thermodynamics is the law of entropy which states that "a system will always move from a state of order toward a state of disorder." Everything falls down unless one makes the effort to keep it together. It takes work to keep a house clean, a garden weed-free, or a relationship healthy. Anger comes naturally, but since natural law tends toward entropy, when we give in to anger, we find ourselves on a slippery slope, moving from bad to worse. We have to overcome the "natural man/woman" and remember who we are and why we are here.

Elder Russell M. Nelson expressed his thoughts on this topic far better than I ever could.

I know that I am a daughter of a loving Heavenly Father who designed me to be a creator. It's part of my divine heritage. When I find myself in a difficult or uncomfortable situation, instead of letting myself give in to anger, I can look for the lesson to be learned and create joy from the experience. I can't always control the things that happen around or to me, but I can choose how I react to the situation. There have been times when I've felt wholly inadequate to face the task. It's a really scary world. But when I remember what the Savior did for me, I am reminded that even the smallest effort on my part is enough. He will make up for what I lack. Because He loves me. And because He loves me, I can show that love to others. 

Life is magnificent. 

Hugs~

I came across this article by Pres. Gordon B. Hinckley after writing this post. I find it very applicable to our needs today:https://www.lds.org/ensign/1991/06/of-you-it-is-required-to-forgive?lang=eng

A Scene from Ride to Raton

by Marsha Ward @Marsha Ward

Some writers plan out everything they will ever write. Not me. My brain doesn't work that way.

When I finished my first novel, The Man from Shenandoah, I thought I had written the only full-length novel I would ever write. I thought that was it for these people, and any further long-form fiction, as well.

But evidently I had more to tell. I left James Owen sorely wounded in heart and mind, and he demanded that I give him a chance to work through his pain.

Accordingly, I wrote Ride to Raton (It probably should have been called Ride to Raton Pass, but I liked the sound of the three words, and totally forgot the fact that there is a town in New Mexico named Raton). I thought this novel would finish up my account of the Owen family from Virginia.

Boy, was I wrong! The two books have grown to five, with offshoots and spinoffs going in all directions, and more to come.

This never-before-posted scene from Ride to Raton occurs after James is shot in Pueblo, Colorado Territory, by a disgruntled former Union soldier. Randolph Hilbrands, a friend of James's father, has taken him into his home to recuperate.
~~~

“Mister James, Mister James, wake up, please? You must be hungry.”

Surprised to hear his name, James rolled over, grinning at the soothing touch of the water on his naked body, and swam upward from exploring the bottom of the pond behind the flour mill on a creek feeding the Shenandoah River. He tried to shrug off the hand that gently touched his right shoulder, but the movement brought such a flood of pain to his side that he moaned before he could catch himself.

“Please, Mister James. Ma said I wasn’t to come back to the kitchen without feeding you. If you don’t wake up soon, your food’ll be stone cold.”

He thrust his head and shoulders above the water, opened one eye, then immediately shut it against the sunlight that streamed through an open window between muslin drapes and hit his face. His body felt bloated, invaded by aches and twitches. And although he was still naked, he seemed to be lying half covered by a sheet and quilt on a bed inside a room, instead of treading water in the millpond.

Someone besides himself was in the room. “Six little beans!” he grunted, trying to shade his eyes with his left hand, remembering that a girl’s voice had addressed him. “It’s brighter than noon day in here. Can you shut them curtains?”

A young girl put the tray of food on the washstand and ran to the window to pull the drapes together. She returned to stand beside the bed, and James blinked his eyes as she drew near.

The girl was about fifteen, he judged, slender and blonde. She wore a white bib apron with a full skirt over a light weight gingham gown patterned with sprigs of lilacs on a white background. Her wavy hair hung below her shoulders, tied back with a white ribbon. The girl smiled, tentatively, and one dimple appeared in her cheek.

“Who’re you?” he asked, wondering how he came to be between the sheets. The last thing he remembered, he had been lying atop the coverlet, enduring the sting of a thousand hornets as Amanda Hilbrands’ needle pierced the flesh of his side. Now he looked around. The tub was gone from the room, and the towel had disappeared from around his hips. James blinked twice, and reached down to draw the sheet over his chest, grateful that the quilt masked his nakedness from the girl.

“I’m Sylvia. My pa runs the hotel. Don’t you recall he brought you here?”

James shut his eyes for a moment, less to remember his arrival than to recall where he had heard the girl’s voice before. He gave his head a shake, then opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” he sighed, a long drawn out sound, and fingered the bandage around his chest. “Your ma put this thread into me a couple of hours ago.”

“That was two days back!” the girl exclaimed. “You’ve been asleep since then.”

“Six little beans! Did I take a fever?” James got himself onto his elbows, and the girl bent forward to put a pillow behind his back so he could sit partway up. As the sheet slipped and gathered in creases about his waist, the girl’s hair brushed his shoulder.

The blonde hair—he could see it on another head, arranged in tumbling ringlets behind a face twisted with fury. A voice—with the same timbre as this girl’s voice—batted at his ears: “You never came around, Carl Owen. Cecil was here. I have a right to marry a man I can trust!”

James shuddered.

“No.” A frown furrowed Sylvia’s forehead. “I reckon you’re just wore out. You been through a lot of woe since you came to Pueblo City.” She turned away to bring the food tray, then sat gingerly on the edge of the bed with the tray on her lap. “This is a good room, though. Pa let Ida use it for her wedding night.”

A wrenching pain invaded James’s gut. Ida Hilbrands had breathed this air, her body had lain on this bed. The body that should have quieted Carl’s lusts was given to an English dandy—on this bed, beneath this quilt. James swallowed. His throat closed on cotton.

The girl touched his wrist. James’s arm twitched under the cool fingers.

“Are you all right, Mister James?”

He cleared his throat. “You sound like your…older sister.”

“You mean Mary?” The girl’s face brightened. “How is her little baby doing? We all want to see her.” Sylvia picked up a spoon and a bowl and stirred the contents.

James again eased the sheet up to cover his chest. “The little gal’s growing, but no, I wasn’t speaking of Mary.” The sheet bunched in his lap again, and James jerked it upward and pinned it underneath his arm.

“Oh. You mean—”

“Ida! I mean Ida.” His voice rasped in his throat as he said the name.

The girl looked puzzled. “Are you angry with Ida?”

James felt his face settling into ridges as he scowled. Angry? The word was wrong. Wrong and far too weak. I hate her. I despise her wide blue eyes and her lying, cheating heart. He cleared his throat again. “I have reason.” His breath left his lungs in a lengthy shudder.

Sylvia looked at him for a moment, puzzlement crinkling the skin around her eyes. Then she picked up a spoon.

“Here, have a taste of porridge. Ma made it fresh for you today.” Sylvia held the spoon to James’s lips, and he accepted the morsel. “What did Ida do to you? I thought it was Carl she threw over.”

For a moment, he could only chew, then swallow. He sensed no taste, no savor. Before he had a chance to speak, Sylvia put another spoonful of mush into his mouth. He swallowed that down, then, as Sylvia brought up another bite, James shook his head.

They’ll know sooner or later. Pa will come in for supplies, or Ma will send a note to Mrs. H. by a passing stranger. He turned his head to look at the doorway. Will I be gone, first? Or will Danny O’Brien shoot me in the back? He looked at the girl and squeezed his hands into fists. The pain forced his mouth open.

“You didn’t hear, I reckon. Carl got over being mad at Ida. He wed Ellen Bates about a week past.”

“Oh, Mister James! She was pledged to you!” Sylvia dropped the spoon into the bowl, and it clanked against the side.

Instantly, he repented of his burst of words. “Forget I said that. Just forget it!”

“I’m sorry.” Sylvia held her hands tightly together in front of her mouth.

James snorted. “It’s done and over.”

“How could that happen?” The girl moved the tray from her lap to the bed and leaned forward.

Bitterness rose in James’s throat, and he turned his head to swallow it down.

Sylvia bounced once on the bed. “Ida caused it. She sure is mean.”

James shuddered anew, slumping against the pillow. “Go away,” he said.

“What?”

“Take your gruel and leave me be. I’m weary.”

“But you didn’t finish.”

“Tell your Ma I fell asleep again. It won’t be a lie. Look. I’m nodding off now.” James shut his eyes.

He heard her get to her feet and pick up the tray. “I reckon I tired you out, talking so much.”

“It’s not you. I’m wore out, like you said.” James twitched the quilt higher on his chest. Suddenly he bolted upright, winced, then lay down again. “You’d better get your papa, girl. I got to put myself deeper in his debt.”
~~~

I'm participating in the Payson Book Festival this Saturday. Come up to the cool pines of Payson, Arizona and bring your kids to this family-friendly event. It's FREE! Except for food and snacks, and of course, a multitude of books to purchase from nearly 100 authors, in every genre and for every age group, fiction and non fiction alike.

It will be at Gila Community College, 210 N Mud Springs Road(north off Highway 260, opposite the Ranger Station) from 9 a.m. until 4 p.m. Come and go, or stick around for talks, kids classes, and music.

My novels will be in the Bookstore, and I'll be in the courtyard at Table 14. See you there!

July 9, 1976

  by Deb Graham

July 9, 1976.

As I quietly, joyfully, acknowledge an eternity-sized anniversary, one that changed the course of generations to follow, the math is inescapable.

I’m Old.

I was baptized at the age of eighteen, nineteen days after I first met the full-time missionaries, on July 9, 1976; I had to wait because America was caught up in the Bicentennial celebration. I know you’re too polite to do the math, so let me help you: that was forty years ago. 

FORTY. Four Whole Decades.  

I try to deny it with every product in my bathroom cabinet, but it’s true: that skittish 18 year old is far in the rearview mirror.

Looking back over that 40 year long trail, was it worth the cost? I had  decided to be baptized into a Church where I knew no one, had no connections, and knew little about, beyond knowing it was what a God I didn’t know existed the previous month wanted me to do.

Who did that teen become?

In the last forty years, I’ve attended university, married a good man, designed a house to raise our family in, reared three kids and grieved the four others who were born too soon to keep. Along the way, I found my voice and built my confidence a brick at a time by serving in many Church callings and community positions.

 I’ve learned big things over the four decades: how to pray, how the Holy Ghost speaks to me, and I’ve made covenants with a God I count as both father and friend. I’ve come to trust my Savior, those around me, and mySelf. I’ve learned my voice and opinion is every bit as valuable as the next person’s. Sometimes, I’ve been an answer to prayer, and a few times, I even noticed it.  

My first bishop had an annoying habit of greeting ward members with “Welcome to sacrament meeting. You’re our second speaker today.” Because of him, I learned how to confidently speak in public, even if my stomach felt like it had a herd of frogs in it – and to always have a talk in mind, at least a rough topic. (Want to hear about sponges?).

 I quaked at first, but I learned to teach and, eventually, to improvise a memorable lesson on the fly. I know what’s required in organizing a ward dinner; I can plan a ward social in ten minutes flat.

As a shy teen who had no LDS friends, I leaned on stronger women in the ward, learning to serve by watching their example, the example they didn’t suspect they were setting. From those glorious, ordinary women, I learned to be a strong woman myself. I learned that God values his daughters as much as his sons, and to take my place because there isn’t room in the Last Days for wimpy women.

By participating in the Church, I learned to reach out to new people, to work those with whom I’d never associate with under other circumstances. I learned that relationships matter most.

I learned that every soul on earth has something to teach me; the fourteen year old mother, the 88 year old artist, the sleep deprived  woman  finishing her  PhD while homeschooling her seven children.  I’ve learned that I’m of worth, too.

Of course, it hasn’t been easy; learning never is.  I’ve suffered breathtaking losses, mopped many mascara-cheek-streaks, and repeatedly stumbled over bumbling humans. I've often been one of the bumbling humans.

Through all four decades, I’ve stayed active and involved and enthused about the Church for one reason: It’s real, all of it. The Church is literally God’s kingdom on earth, restored and complete, and I’m thrilled to be a part of it. Sure, I’ve been tempted to step aside, take a breather, "go inactive" for a few years. But knowing what I know, believing what I believe, I’d have to come back, and how embarrassing would that be?

My patriarchal blessing was received four months after my baptism, so long ago the envelope has a 12 cent stamp on it.  It promises I would be a strong influence for good in the lives of women. As an innocent teen forty years ago, that sentence was baffling. At this end of the continuum, I catch glimpses of its fulfillment.

Looking back, I’m awed by the courage of the 18-year-old girl who squared her then-slim shoulders, set her hand to the plow, and didn’t look back. Getting Old isn't so bad. 

 July 9 is a date I silently mark each year. Even though I’m Old, today’s a great day to start my new role as one of Marsha’s Friends on this blog. Thanks for the welcome!  

Standing Against Plagiarism

By Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

Almost two years ago, a fellow author, Rachel Ann Nunes, learned that someone had gotten a hold of one of her sweet novels, altered the text to make it an erotic book, slapped her "name" on it, and published it to Amazon.

This is called plagiarism, if you're unfamiliar with this sort of intellectual property (IP) theft. Rachel decided to take a stand. With the help of several friends and a good attorney, she found the identity of the "alleged thief" and has taken her to court.

You cannot begin to imagine how costly this process is. It is not supported by any governmental entity as a criminal matter. It's all on Rachel. She had to sue the "alleged perpetrator" in Federal Court on her own. The case still has not been seen in open court. Rachel is embroiled in all the stuff that goes on before a matter comes to trial: discovery, depositions, and a host of other things.

The cost to Rachel has been much more than the monetary expenses of bringing the "alleged thief" to justice. She has endured harassment, loss of writing time and with that, loss of writing income, nightmares, anxiety, loss of time with family members, heartache, and did I mention that she is the sole breadwinner in her family? Her husband quit his job just before all this hit the fan, to work on a project he and Rachel held dear to their hearts.

Many people in the writing community have rallied to assist Rachel. One of the chief ways they have helped is to donate items or services of value that can be purchased on her Go Fund Me fundraising site.

I previously donated Naming Rights to characters in my novel, The Zion Trail. Now I've made a new offer for the right to name characters in my romantic post-Civil War work-in-progress (WIP), Mended by Moonlight.

I'm happy to report that four out of the five character's names have been snapped up by purchasers. But there's one more available!

For only $12 (or more, if you see fit), you can purchase the right to name a married 30-year-old wounded Northern soldier (who dies) in my WIP. Don't lose out on this opportunity! It's the final name I'll put up for this work.

This is the last chance for you to see your name, or immortalize an ancestor, in this book. Don't worry. I don't use your characteristics or physical attributes in any way (if I even know you), except by some bizarre coincidence.

To help my friend Rachel in her fight against intellectual property theft, go here, scroll down almost to the bottom to where the "Select a Reward Level" offerings appear, and in the next-to-last row, click on the "Name Character" icon with the $12 price.

Thank you!

Writing mom

I Know that a lot of us are mothers and writers.  And sometimes it's rather hard balancing both.  I know since I had my new baby last month it is made it very hard for me to write. How do they do it I often wonder?  These great writers who I look up to who are also mothers. I know I'm still trying to figure it out. There are a couple things I've recently learned.
I may not always be able to sit at my desk and write for an hour or two in the evening if I want to  but I can write at my kitchen counter while the macaroni and cheese boils.  I can nurse my baby to sleep and very carefully pull my work in progress over and try to get a page or two.  And if I choose to do some editing while my children are running around and playing I might also end up traceing their hands on my paper, or give them a corner of my page to color on. And it's okay if it's like that for now. As mothers we have to find a way to make it work. To find the balance. I know I am still figuring it out and through trial and error I expect to figure it out.
Then I also have to keep in mind that as they grow older things will change. Later on I might be able to sit at my desk and write for an hour or two and that will be awesome! But I might miss drying little hands on my Works in progress.  I might be able to being evening writer right now, but when they become teenagers I might have to change that to the morning. Who knows! All I know is that if we want to be writers and mothers we will figure it out.

One Plus One Equals Three (or More)

By Kari Diane Pike

A couple of weeks ago our oldest son shared a conversation he had with one of his professors. Kenny has a Bachelor and Masters degree in philosophy, and a Juris Doctorate.  He recently returned to school to obtain a doctorate in philosophy. This semester he is taking nine credits and since he is married and the father of four children he teaches four college classes (12 credits) and works twenty hours per week as a research associate. This particular professor, while reviewing our son's schedule and work load, proclaimed that it was not possible for Kenny to accomplish all of those things. It simply couldn't be done. What made him think he could do all that?

Kenny's professor is not alone in this line of thinking. Another son of ours walked away from a six-figure scholarship to a university in Dallas, Texas when he read in their "terms and conditions" that if he got married before he graduated he would be removed from the program because a married student couldn't possibly keep up with the work load.

I don't remember Kenny's response to his professor. What I do remember is what he wanted to say, but couldn't without offending. Kenny knows he can accomplish his work because he has a loving and supportive spouse. While this single (unmarried) professor goes to work every day and returns home to cook, clean, do laundry, etc., Kenny and Aprilynne share their duties and responsibilities. Kenny can focus on school and work to support his family while Aprilynne takes care of things at home. This arrangement works the same way for Aprilynne. When she has work deadlines, Kenny is right there to care for the children and the home. They are team, and as such, they work together to accomplish their goals - far more than they could do if they lived alone.

A few days later, a friend told me about an experience he had while serving a mission in Nauvoo. He attended a demonstration of working draft horses. The handler gave some facts about the size of the horses and the amount of weight they could pull and under what conditions. He explained that one draft horse could pull about ten times their weight for a very short distance or about one tenth their weight for about eight hours, if the ground was level. He asked the audience how much they thought a pair of those fine animals could pull. Almost everyone agreed that two horses would pull twice the weight as one. The handler then demonstrated how a pair of working draft horses can pull not just double, but three and sometimes even four times the weight that a single horse can pull. He told the audience that the horses that had been raised and trained together could pull the most weight.

I've been thinking a great deal about how this concept of unity applies to my life and my relationship with the Savior.   The Family: A Proclamation to the World states:

By divine design, fathers are to preside over their families in love and righteousness and are responsible to provide the necessities of life and protection for their families. Mothers are primarily responsible for the nurture of their children. In these sacred responsibilities, fathers and mothers are obligated to help one another as equal partners. 

If my spouse and I are unified in purpose and action (living gospel centered lives) we can face challenges and grow together in love and understanding. This unity applies to all the relationships we have with other people - at home, at work, at church, and in our communities. What we create together can be far greater than the sum of what we can do on our own. As we fully rely on the Savior and His redeeming Atonement, there is nothing we can't accomplish.

Life is magnificent!

Family Roots in Ireland

by Kari Diane Pike

In honor of St. Patrick's Day (and the birthday of our first grandchild - Happy birthday Melissa - who turned 16 today - which makes me feel old) I decided to go on a treasure hunt of the family history kind. I remembered coming across some Irish roots a few months ago and decided to go digging for them (which is why I am posting this late in the afternoon because the more I dug, the more excited I became, which lead to more digging, and... yah. I found gold!). 

Since almost all of my ancestors came to North America between 1590 and 1700, I knew I would have to dig kind of deep. Lucky me. I hit pay dirt in less than a minute. Thank you FamilySearch.org! 

The first gem I found was Ferdinand MacVeagh (b. 1625) and his wife Leticia Richardson (b. abt.1631). One website described him as "a prominent physician who flourished in County Monaghan in the central portion of Ireland." His great-great grandmother Christina Kerns MacVeagh, was born about 1540 in Camagh, Queens, Ireland.  Over time, the spelling of the name changed to McVey.

Then I found Moses Williamson, Sr., born in Ireland in 1723 to Scottish parents. My quick search indicates that the family lived near Derry, Ireland. Moses appears to have been about ten years old when he came to America with his parents. He served in the Revolutionary War and was a private in the French and Indian War. 

All along the way, I met other ancestors from Ireland, Scotland, Wales, England, Hungary, Germany, France and Italy. Some sailed across the pond to flee religious persecution. Others sought land and opportunity - the hoped for pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, so to speak. I suspect one or two came to avoid prison or worse. Although one ancestor, George Jacobs ended up on the end of a noose anyway, as the first man hung in the Salem Witch Trials. Whatever their reasons, I am grateful for courageous ancestors who helped build this nation where I am free to enjoy those "'unalienable rights' which the Declaration says has been given to all human beings by their Creator, and for which governments are created to protect."

Where do your people come from? If you don't know, it's really easy to create an account on FamilySearch.org. Warning: It's addicting!

Life is magnificent!

hugs~

Do You Want to Be a Writer?

by Marsha Ward @MarshaWard

I came across a great blog by Indie Author sensation Hugh Howey a couple of days ago. In it, he gives the secrets to success as a writer, which a lot of people won't follow because, yeah, they're hard.

Here's how he starts out:

Sitting in your underwear, hearing voices, talking to people who are not there, mumbling to yourself, Googling how to dispose of bodies and the firing rate of an uzi submachine gun. Assuming this sounds like the ideal life for you—and you don’t want to be certifiably crazy but only a little crazy—then the life of the professional writer is what you’re after. And I’m going to tell you how to make it happen.

Then he gives "the #1 secret to success and a career of working in your underwear: You have to work harder than anyone else. Period."

I'll list a few of his bullet points, but you'll have to go over and read the complete article to get the full flavor of the meal. And yes, he says a couple of words I don't use, but nowhere near as many as Chuck Wendig does. They both give great advice.

• Make a long-term plan.
• Reading.
• Practice. 
• Daydream.
• Learn to fail.

And those are just the first five points. If you want to be a writer, go read these and the other five, with their explanations of how to implement them.

Then get to work!

The Source of All Truth

by Kari Diane Pike

How do phone solicitors know that exact moment when I finally get a second to step in the shower, or on an even more productive day, stick my hands in the bread dough to knead it? Sometimes it's kind of creepy.

That observation has nothing to do with what I wanted to write about today. It's just a thought that has been wandering around in the back of my mind. 

I have a nephew getting married next week and I thought I would pull out a letter I wrote awhile back - giving advice on how to progress in one's eternal marriage relationship. That essay sat on a bookshelf and gathered dust for months until I had this crazy thought about getting organized. I figured I should file it away so I wouldn't lose it. Now I have no idea where I put it. I did find some hidden Christmas candy though...from 2013 (Where's an emoji when you need one?). 

Thinking of emoji's gets me thinking about social media and  marriage and families and wondering how different my parenting might be if I were just starting my family right now. Home computers didn't exist when I gave birth to my first child. [Wow. That makes me sound really old!] If I wanted information, I had to go to the library and research through all kinds of books. Or ask a professional. Or my mom. Mom's are so wise. Oh. And pray and study my scriptures. 

Elder Ballard made me smile during a recent broadcast "An Evening With a General Authority." He said, "James 1:5 doesn't say 'If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of Google.'" 

The Internet and social media can bring us instant information about pretty much everything. A couple of weeks ago, my dad wanted to know what the menu was like at a restaurant we wanted to try. I picked up my phone and said, "Ok Google...menu for Outback." In about half a second, Google gave me a link to the menu. Dad's jaw dropped and he shook his head in wonder. Now he points at my phone and says, "I need you to use that fancy thing and find Scottrade for me." (By the way, did you know that the average cell phone today has more technology in it than those rooms full of computers that put the first man on the moon?)

As helpful as the Internet can be, there are drawbacks. Most of us are wise enough to know that we can't believe something just because it's published in the paper or on the Internet. Along with the good, there is a lot of just plain bad advice and misinformation (or worse) out there. Technology has become so sophisticated that anybody can be deceived. 

I am grateful for the scriptures and the words from latter-day prophets that can help me navigate this information jungle. I am also grateful for the power of prayer and guidance from the Holy Spirit. The gift of personal revelation has given me more strength and enlightened my mind far beyond anything I could ever get from electronic devices. I've had to rely on the Lord to send His Spirit to know the needs of my children and to understand how to strengthen my marriage. Google didn't know when my little boy sat on his bike in the middle of the railroad tracks and needed my help. But the Lord did and through the Holy Ghost let me know that my child was in danger. Google didn't send a text alert to my friend and tell her I needed to know Heavenly Father cared about me and that the way she could help was to show up at my door before eight in the morning with a loaf of homemade bread and freezer jam. The Spirit did that.

Please don't misunderstand me. I'm not anti-technology. Just the opposite. I love having the ability to video chat with all of our children and grandchildren, all at the same time even. I have dozens of friends with whom I would probably lose contact if it wasn't for Facebook. While I do miss the joy of finding handwritten letters in my mail box, I adore getting email - especially when it's from our missionary son. And then there's those amazing evenings I can spend online with a general authority and be reminded, "If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God." And I remember the source of all truth.

Life is magnificent!

hugs~

A Lesson In Friendship From Job

by Kari Diane Pike

I have so many words to say. I have no idea how to say them. At least that's what I have been telling myself.

Instead of giving up, I did the next best thing. I read. News articles, fiction, inspirational pieces, and my scriptures. Of course, having the opportunity to teach early morning seminary gives me great incentive to study and read and pray and study some more. When I prepare to teach seminary, I pray and pray to know what it is the students need to hear. I don't want to waste the efforts they make to get up extra early in the morning to study the gospel. They experience so much pressure to get good grades, excel in sports or music or other extra curricular activities, and maybe even work part time after school and on weekends. 

One student told me that her biggest challenge comes from feeling that her friends expect her to be perfect. Our topic of discussion that morning came from the Book of Job. Job had friends who misjudged him and I used to focus on how horrible it must have been for Job to have his friends rail on him and tell him that losing all of his material possessions and all of his children, and then suffering horrendous, painful physical ailments came about because he sinned. Who needs friends like that? 

This time, however, I came away with a different perspective. Have you ever shared a concern or problem with a friend or spouse and ended up even more frustrated or even angry because that person had all kinds of advice and ways to solve the problem but not really, because of their limited perspective of the situation? Or what about the times you just need to vent about something that can't be fixed...like the weather?

Job's friends had a limited perspective. They came from a culture that taught that bad things happened to bad people. Losing your crops or your family came about because you sinned and the only way to stop the punishment was to confess. But Job knew better. Job knew that bad things happen to good people and sometimes the wicked prosper. The limited vision of Job's friends caused them to bring him further heartache. What I love about this story is that once the Lord spoke to Eliphaz and pointed out the mistakes he and his friends made, they repented and offered sacrifice as the Lord directed. 

Job's friends sought his forgiveness. Job did what the Lord told him to do. He prayed for his friends.  

And "the Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before" (Job 42:10). Afterwards, everyone - family and friends - met in Job's house and comforted him. (side note: I used to wonder why Job got twice as many oxen, camels, etc. but only ten more children to replace the ten he lost. Until someone pointed out that Job didn't lose those first ten children. They were born in the covenant. They were his forever. They were not lost, they were just on the other side of the veil. Job was given ten more children to add to the first and therefore twice as many.)

Far too often I am guilty of the same actions as Job's friends in the beginning of the story. I hear about a problem and I want to fix it. I don't want my friends to be in pain. I think I have good intentions. But sometimes what I say hurts them even more. Then I am scared to say anything to anyone. 

On the flip side, when I have a problem and a friend offers advice, I am occasionally guilty of assuming that person's motivations without taking the time to understand and I let my feelings get hurt. Occasionally, that leads to anger and frustration. I don't think I am alone in this challenge, because I've noticed a growing trend. Sarah Udal put a name to it during our last ANWA chapter meeting. She referred to it as "one-down-man-ship." I see it happening all over social media, talk shows, and even Relief Society meetings. Instead of sharing experiences where we try to "one up" and tell about bigger and better accomplishments (which is its own problem), we get in a rapid downward spiral of  who has the biggest time commitments, the most serious health ailments, or the naughtiest children. 

President Dieter F. Uchtdorf said it best: "STOP IT!"

I think I am going to make myself a little "STOP IT" sign for my desk so that I can remember to: Stop comparing. Stop judging. Stop beating myself up. Stop being afraid to share my words and ideas. Be the best me that I know how to be. Focus on the positive. Be grateful. Be charitable - to others and to myself. Trust in the Lord and His redeeming Atonement. Be happy. Actually, be enthusiastic - because life is magnificent.

hugs~

I'm just the aunt

by Terri Wagner

Being a biological aunt or an honorary one is eye opening. Parents (and friends that have been parents) are always fussing at me because the only rule at my house is get along to have fun. I will not tolerate anything less. I think it came from my own childhood. We all (hopefully) have that relative that just loves us unconditionally. I was lucky enough to have more than one. Anything...I mean anything...I wanted my grandmother tried to get for me. When she died way too soon from cancer all five of her grandchldren believed we were her favorite. She was that good at making us all feel that special. I treasured every moment. In the midst of a terrible situation, she came to my rescue when I needed it the most. I will never forget how she made me feel. When she died, her spirit touched mine and said goodbye I love you. And at times I am reminded she still loves me from across the veil. But she was not the only one who cared that way.

In a different but completely unconditional way, I had an aunt who accepted me as I was not one word about what I needed to be, should be, was going to be, just as I was, at whatever stage in life I was. She was so good at it, I went to her many times for questions I was not comfortable asking my parents. Not once did she ever act shocked or disappointed or judgmental about my question. It is hard to believe she was an alcoholic of the worst sort. It changed her badly and deeply and her children have a different memory of her.

When the unthinkable happened, and I ended up not having children, I found myself "just the aunt." And because my family was fractured, we all lived in different places, with different lives, and were not especially close. That has changed I am thrilled to say. My first foray into aunthood was when my BFF had her first child followed by 8 others. I adored her children and was allowed to be their "aunt." I discovered something about myself, she allowed to happen naturally. I was a pushover in the pattern of my grandmother and aunt. Love them unconditionally, answer whatever questions they had without editorializing, and plan fun. Sometimes it was as simple and inexpensive as throwing rocks in a pond, sometimes as grand as trips to Busch Gardens. As I grew older, and had friends with children, I had many more opportunities to be aunt.

Then my sister moved in with her two boys. What a delight. My life went from 30s single to step in parent overnight, and I loved it. It helped that my friends embraced my nephews as well. Now I could lavish all that love on my "own" set of nephews. We had fun. We had unconditional love. And yes we had major spoiling. Then came a chance to do so with my brother's children, and now his grandchildren. I don't try to be grandma, or mom, just the aunt you want to hang out with.

However, there is great criticism from certain sources who must not be named. At first those criticisms hurt and made me question my approach to aunthood. I mean after all it's a big hard world out there, was I really helping them? In the end I decided, I was the "just the aunt." And everyone needed what I had, that relative that just loves you as you are where you are. I don't try to force myself on the family, I back off when dad or mom are in parent vortex mode, I work hard at just being a sideline go-to person.

Recently I came under fire again, and the person I least expected to stick up for me, did. I was told she advised my critic that's who she is, that's her philosophy on being an aunt, and really who are we to say it's unhealthy to give children too much love and acceptance? She does not have them long enough to really spoil them. My kids grew up under her spoiling and both of them still remember it (and still get it) now. I was wrong, let her love them her way.

Writing with Another Person Part 3? 4? 5:

by Terri Wagner

I am not sure when I last wrote about working with another writer. I think I was more positive about the idea than I am today. What changed? Not sure! However, when I finish a scene and shot it along to this other person, I get a lot of negative feedback. So have I suddenly become a bad writer? Or what I suspect is that my writing is distracted. I know what I want to do with a scene, but while I see the vision and think I am writing it properly, my partner says a reader will get lost. And she's a reader who would know what I was writing and why we needed the scene. It is becoming a problem. She feels she is doing all the writing, and I feel like I'm getting picked on.

I have written 3 scenes, all rejected. It involved a date to set up what happens later. First date she said was too much like a first date. Technically it was a first date, not really a date, between friends. So I did a Mormon type "steamy" scene, lol, and she said too much. Will make the relationship flounder as a simply physical relationship. So I did another one. Kind of Mormony, cute, fun, and she said we already used an arcade setting. Making me nuts. And that's not all. One day she thinks the steamy scene might serve the ultimate goal better, then chides me for writing it, then again rejects it.

She's not doing this because she's crazy but because she wants it all to make sense, flow right, and assist us to the ultimate goal which is sorta romance. Maybe that's the issue. I do not really like writing fiction, and romance in particular. So I am back to trying to figure out what I am doing wrong.

There are a lot of difficult life situations going on for both of us. So it would be easy to say well she's blah blah blah and I'm blah blah blah and leave it there. But that is not going to get the book written. Is she being unreasonable? Am I? Is it simply my vision is different from hers? And if so then how do we marry our visions? Writing with a partner means checking your vision at the door. It means rethinking what your writing. If it does not make sense to her who knows the plot, how will it mean anything to a beta reader? So what do I do about the next thing I wrote she is now questioning everything on? Stay tuned for more writing with a partner.

Rainy Day Blessings

by Kari Diane Pike

I love rainy days. Rainy days slow my world down and give me time to think. I spent my elementary school years in northwestern Montana where we would get rain twenty one days out of thirty in the month of June. I have no idea why I remember that statistic. I do remember whining about the rain back then and asking, "Isn't it ever going to stop raining? Are we ever going to have a day without rain?" It's funny how, after moving to Phoenix as a teenager, it didn't take long before I started asking, "Isn't it ever going to rain?" Go figure.

We've had a long dry spell in Arizona. Flatlanders and Rim people alike would like to see this year's predicted El Nino (how do you add that ~ over the n again?) replenish our depleted reservoirs. I may have flinched before I headed out into the rain at six a.m. today, but you won't find me complaining about three days in a row of glorious, precious, wet stuff falling from the sky. What a blessing! Besides, what better excuse to cozy up in a quilt with a hot cup of herbal tea or hot cocoa and a good book? I might find time to get the rest of my overdue holiday thank you notes written; or even (ahem) the Christmas, errrrr...New Year's...ummm..Valentine's letters out. Because rain makes me think a lot about friends. 

Friends. Mortal angels who act as God's hands and bless my life. Sometimes it comes in the form of a smiley face in my text messages, a phone call to share a happy song, a loaf of fresh bread, a bouquet of flowers, or a hug. And always, always, in the very moment I most need that little bit of extra strength. Friends teach me how to listen more, pay closer attention, and about unconditional love. Thank you for being my friends.

Of course, my very best friend is my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Pondering on friends and goals for 2016, I think my number one goal is to become more Christlike and be a better friend. Thank you Rainy Day for giving me time to think. 

Life is magnificent! 

A Picture of Christmas

by Kari Diane Pike

Delicate sugar cookies covered in mounds of icing and piled with red and green sprinkles (How does a five-year-old figure out how to get it all stay on there?).

Chewy ginger molasses cookies drizzled with white chocolate.

Hand-dipped chocolates--strawberry cream, peppermint, butter rum, vanilla and chocolate covered cherries--nestled in white paper cups.

Lights glowing on a tree covered with thirty-something years worth of macaroni wreaths, hand print reindeer,  clothes pin ballerinas, and  collections of angels and nativities. 

The house is filled with the scent of cinnamon, oranges, and ginger. Even better, the sound of children's voices once again echoes throughout the house as all of our children and grandchildren come and go, filling the days with family activities.  I love seeing how our married children work with their spouses to blend family traditions and create their own. I also appreciate how they always manage to set aside time to fulfill my yearly desire to go caroling. I know it's not easy to drag all the little ones around, in and out of the car, over and over. 

Today we will make our yearly trek to the Phoenix Zoo and gather in the evening to eat more yummy food and share the story of the Savior's birth. I love watching the faces of our grandchildren as they discover the wonders of the earth He created just for them. A couple of weeks ago we had a video chat and talked a bit about the symbolism found in the traditions and decorations at Christmas time. Candy canes, wreaths, red and green decorations, bells, bows, gifts, angels, and even jolly old Saint Nick himself. 

The moment I saw this picture, my heart melted. My cousin gave me permission to share this photo of her children with you. The first thing I noticed was the look of wonder and joy on Adi's face. I couldn't stop thinking about Heavenly Father giving me the the gift of His Firstborn Son. 

Maybe these pictures speak to me because I know of some of the struggles that took place before they were taken. That's not my story to tell. What I can say is this: I know that God lives. I know that He sent His Son, a newborn babe, to live and love and die and live again just for me! Because of this wondrous gift, I know that no matter what happens, everything is going to turn out alright. Trials come and go, like sunrises and sunsets. And wrapped inside every challenge is a glorious gift--because He loves me.

This coming year, how am I going to show my love for Him? 

Respecting other Artists

By Cassie Shiels

As writers we are creative people and there are various forms of creative people, the song writers, the crafters, the poets, the painters, the drawers, sculptors… etc. There are so many of us who are artists.  Usually we understand "our own kind" as it were, but sometimes just because it isn't our particular talent we don't quite understand others talents all the way.

Well I have suddenly gotten a new perspective and a growing respect and new understanding for Illustrators. I get the writers process from the initial ideas, through the many, many edits, to a product we think is finished, to more edits etc. But I never quite understood how long of a process it was for illustrators.

I recently published a new Children's book where I took on the hat of both author and illustrator. WHAT? Yeah I know. Craziness! But I knew I wanted this story to be published and I knew it needed pictures and I knew I had zero in the budget to higher and illustrator. So I went for it. And wow what a insight it was for me. It made me think that every Children's Author should try to illustrate at least one book so that they can see what I did.

The process of creating the pictures, tweaking them, the process of drawing them, coloring them, and converting them into a document to be published. It was a lot of work and it took double the time I expected. SO I am here to say hats off to Illustrators. I now get it a little better. I get why their prices are what they are. I can see how much work it is, and how the pictures can really help or hinder a story depending on what they are.

I am in no way saying I am any sort of a great artist, so I can only imagine those illustrators taking triple the time I did especially if they are painting the pictures. WOW.

I have chatted with some Illustration friends in the past and talked prices for various projects and I admit to hearing their number and my eyes bulging. I get it now friends, I get it. And they are worth it. They like us writers do so much for so little. And those who don't write don't know the countless hours we put into creating a book. The same I am sure goes for anyone who is a creative person who works on creative projects.  I may not understand all artists, but for right now I have to say to illustrators, I so respect you!

You Don't Get Rainbows Without a Few Storm Clouds

by Kari Diane Pike

How should I begin? Back story? The  "everything turned out okay" spoiler? Or somewhere in the middle? Okay...so I already gave you the spoiler. I am alive and well. More importantly, I've had a few corners chipped off and polished - dramatically changing the lens through which I look at life.

Back up to late October -the day before my husband and I were scheduled to leave for our first trip as "empty-nesters." A doctor noticed my blood pressure was too high. When it continued to be high the next morning, I picked up a blood pressure prescription on our way out of town. And so it began.

Something didn't feel right. I didn't feel right. At first I thought it was just stress. My heart kept skipping beats and I had an uncomfortable tightness in my chest that came and went. Sometimes I would wake up in the night with a sharp pinching sensation in my chest. The Monday I started to pass out driving north on the freeway convinced me something was terribly wrong. I tried calling my cardiologist. I spoke to his triage nurse. She switched me over to scheduling. I got an answering machine. I left a message. They never returned my call.

The skipped heart beats and fluttering increased throughout the week. The pressure in my chest became more constant. I had several more fainting spells. By Friday afternoon, the pain in my chest had spread through to my back and down my left arm. My fingers started to tingle. I called (or my husband called) the triage hot line on our insurance card. She urged me to call 911. I didn't want that much attention. The hospital was close, so my husband drove me to the emergency room. A full cardiac workup showed everything to be normal, except for some minor pulmonary edema - hence the pinching sensation. When they suggested I follow up with my cardiologist and my primary care doctor, I questioned their reasoning. Didn't they just prove that everything was normal? I even asked if they thought I should talk to a PhD instead of an MD. At least I made them smile. One of the ER nurses called me at home the next day to check on me and to persuade me to make sure and get in to see my physicians. I asked her if she had any magic words that would get me in the door on such short notice. She laughed. And said no, but I should try anyway.

Fast forward through the next couple of weeks. The cardiologist's PA ordered a nuclear stress test. I talked my PCP into taking me off the new medication since that seemed to be the starting point. She went with that...and put me on a new blood pressure medication. I took it. It made me want to crawl out of my skin. She said I would get used to it. At least all the other negative reactions disappeared.

In the mean time, our BYU kids were coming home for the Thanksgiving holiday and we had planned an incredible schedule for the weekend with a family dinner, ordaining our youngest son with the Melchizedek priesthood (have I mentioned that Levi has his mission call and will be serving in the Moscow Russia mission?), taking two of our children through the temple for the first time and baptizing a grandson. 

Wednesday, my mom called and said that Dad was acting strange. He had fallen and hit his head a couple of days earlier. He said his head hurt whenever he tried to lie down, and he slept a lot. He fretted about a list of things he wanted Mom to do if he didn't wake up in the morning and even went off by himself to purchase Mom's birthday present (her birthday is in July) just in case he wasn't around by then. She took him to the emergency room where they found a couple of brain bleeds. Worrying about Dad made my morning discovery of a leaky kitchen faucet and flooded cabinet pretty trivial.

I woke up about 4:30 a.m Thanksgiving day gasping for air. I felt better sitting up, but I could feel my throat continue to swell. I prayed and felt impressed to take some Benedryl. I didn't want to ruin the day for everyone by spending another day in the ER. The Benedryl helped, but I still couldn't breathe lying down, so I had Doug take me to urgent care before everyone woke up. Drug allergies stink. On the upside, large doses of steroids gave me energy to spare. 

We had a lovely Thanksgiving dinner and the ordination took place that evening. Mom called after she drove back home - and discovered she had been burglarized. The patio doors had been kicked in. The police said Mom must have scared them off when she activated the garage door opener. They snatched her brand new laptop (a beautiful red one - only a few weeks old), and damaged a couple of cabinets, but left other valuables. It could have been much worse. 

Friday and Saturday flew by as we focused on family and the temple and the baptism. One friend, upon hearing about all the drama, said "surely there's a rainbow around the corner, right?" Her comment startled me because, despite all the challenges, I was so focused on how blessed I felt to watch my children making good choices and succeed in their lives that what I saw was a few storm clouds trying to obscure my view of a glorious rainbow. After giving it more thought, I realized that without the storm clouds, I wouldn't have been able to see the rainbows. 

There's another part to this story. You see, earlier in the year I had to give up something very precious to me. And my heart was breaking. I'd spent months trying to solve problems with my vocal chords that make speaking or singing difficult. Singing a simple hymn can be painful and exhausting. Singing has always been a huge part of my life - and I had waited years to have the time to sing in a vocal ensemble with my brother Paul. Singing was huge part of my identity! I offered heartfelt prayers begging to be healed. I shed a lot of tears. Those other challenges created opportunities to serve my family and shifted my focus outward. 

My stewardship as a seminary teacher (yet another blessing I had perceived as a challenge) has also played a huge role in shaping my perspective. I love how Heavenly Father gives me answers - even humorous ones - through scripture study. For example, after a particularly difficult day, I read Numbers 11 while prepping for a seminary lesson. Moses was feeling pretty burdened by those whiny children of Israel (because who wouldn't feel overwhelmed with somewhere around a million people demanding to be fed). He took his problems to the Lord  and said something to the effect of, 

Have I conceived all these people?...whence should I have flesh to give unto all the people?...I am not able to bear all this people alone...And if thou deal thus with me, kill me, I pray thee, out of hand, if I have found favour in thy sight.... Numbers 11: 12-15

Can't you just picture this? How many times have I said, "Okay, Lord, just kill me now, instead of by degrees, because [insert challenge here] is really hard!" That is how my thinking went when faced with the idea of not being able to sing anymore. But my thinking has changed. I've changed. I've gained a greater testimony of prayer and of the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I've learned that when I focus on the light of Christ, it shines through storm clouds and reveals breathtaking rainbows. The polishing that I receive during those storms helps me reflect that light so that I can share it with others and help serve them in their time of need.

The children of Israel failed to recognize and remember the great blessings the Lord gave them. That's another part I learned. Remember. It's one thing to recognize blessings. That's important. True gratitude involves remembering - remembering who I am, why I am here and who the Lord is and what He has done for me. I am grateful for answered prayers - even when those answers come in unexpected ways.

I pray that I will always remember the blessings the Lord has heaped upon me. He always nourishes me and strengthens me and helps me accomplish everything He asks me to do and become who He created me to be. Jesus Christ is my light. He prepared the way before me and He will lead me back home to my Father in Heaven.

Life is magnificent.