Night Writing

By Deb Graham

I’m swamped.

I’m a mom, an involved grandmother, a wife, active in my Church, my community, and three writer’s groups (plus three more online). I’m an author and writer. I've published thirteen books, and I'm currently working on two novels while researching one more, plus contemplating another cookbook, and scouting out magazines to sell articles to. I'm also in the middle of converting all of my books to audio book format, a time consuming task.

I juggle the household management, the yardwork, and most of the planning in our family. I’m a friend, and I try to reach out to those I don’t know as well. I'm accused of being a good listener. I sew, I donate to good causes, I encourage where I can, and take up service projects right and left. I’m an avid reader, but frequent migraines don’t always allow that pleasure. I have health issues that cause constant aching, sap my energy, concern the doctors, and trigger a little voice in my head to chant “If you take on one more thing, you’ll go up in a puff of smoke.”  

Our society touts a word I don’t understand. Multi-tasking. Honestly, is there any other kind of tasking? What is the opposite of multi-tasking? Uni-tasking?  Is that even possible? Are there really people who don't apply face creme while brushing their teeth or reach for notecards when waiting for a train to pass?

I sleep poorly. I’m so tired I’ve taken up sleep-writing. That’s not by choice, mind you. I’ve kept paper and pen by my bed for decades, because I find that place between sleep and wakefulness is where Great Ideas spawn. I don’t want to stay awake to remember them, or risk forgetting by morning. 

The last few months, my tired subconscious seems to go on without me. I wake up most mornings to scraps of paper on the floor beside my bed, all scrawled in a half-asleep, written-in-the-dark script. I don’t recall writing them!

Some are ideas for a scene in my novel, or a dialogue between characters I hadn’t figured out yet. Last week I found a note telling how to disguise the poison in an upcoming scene, and you can bet I wasn’t thinking about an Iranian souk as I fell asleep.

Some list things I need to buy next time I go shopping. One was a half-decent sketch for a neckline on that blouse I’m planning to embellish in my spare moments; I’ve also discovered  a book cover design that’ll fit the size I’ve been mulling, perfectly. One reminded me to check on my friend who had a new baby. Others baffle me. 

“Don’t Forget To Paint The Milk.”

Wha-?

“Delete Seattle.”

 I can tell you, that’s not going to go over well.

"Don't fear the grapefruit." 

uh, okay. 

Anyway, as I was whining saying, I’m a busy person. So if anyone can suggest a way to utilize my limited time and energy, I’m listening!

Some time ago, I attended a workshop on Writing Efficiently. One comment stood out. I’ve heard my whole life, it seems, that A Writer Must Write Every Single  Day, No Matter What. I never knew why, beyond the obvious: what doesn’t get written remains...well, unwritten.

The presenter said, “You must Write Every Day, even if it’s just a few lines. This will keep your project in the forefront of your mind. While you are doing other things, your inner self and subconscious can work together to move the story along. While you’re stirring a pot, a plot point may pop into your mind, or you’ll find that knot in your dialogue untying as you drive. Give your brain the tools it needs to multi-task.”

There were days, whole strings of them, when I was simply too swamped to get near my computer, let alone “squander time” writing. I complained, “How long can I call myself a writer if I’m too busy to write?”

 No more! 

Writing is a priority, no matter what else the rest of the day throws at me. I found he was right; while I’m racing pell-mell through my other tasks, my mind does wander to my current writing project, rewording a phrase, fleshing out a character. And, based on evidence, this goes on in the night, too.

 But I still have no plans to paint the milk. 

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!  

Positive Thoughts Beget Positivity

Jeremiah 4:14: "...How long shall thy vain thoughts lodge within thee?"

by Susan Allred
 
When I was called into the Relief Society Presidency six months ago, I felt seriously under-qualified for the position.  I remember my first thought being, 'I'd better step it up, if I'm going to accept this calling.'

One of the things I've spent the last several months earnestly working on has been my thoughts.  To me, it's always been easy to do the right thing, basically because I don't want to get caught doing the wrong thing.  But my thoughts are something entirely different because no one holds me accountable for them.  Who is going to say anything if I secretly criticize the speaker in Sacrament, or conjure up fifteen ways to murder my toddler while he's in the middle of a world-class tantrum? Plus, as a writer, I spend an inordinate amount of time lost in my own thoughts.   

As I've earnestly endeavored to improve my thoughts, I've discovered something fascinating: Thoughts not muddled with negativity, create thoughts steeped with positivity and creativity! I get along with my husband better, I don't want to yell at my children as often, and I'm better prepared to handle whatever life throws at me. Plus, I spend less time brooding, and more time plotting out the next scene in my book, or entirely new stories. 

My deeds now reflect my thoughts. And I guess they always have. It's just that my thoughts are now productive, less depressed, and I'm able to hear the Spirit more often.  Do I have a long way to go? Heck yeah! But I've reached a point where I'm beginning to notice those changes, and so has my family. 

BELIEVE

by Cassie Shiels

Believe has become my life mantra. It's simple and easy and can be applied in everything that I do. My sweet husband gave me a pink rubber bracelet that says "believe" on it. It came with a cute card that basically said women are amazing and that he believes I can do anything.

At first I thought it was kinda sweet but then I started applying it. Anything meant suddenly that he believed that I could raise our four little kids, and then I had more faith in myself too. Anything meant he believed in me as a writer and that meant it was possible. I wanted to be a writer, a mom, and teach childbirth classes and I was sorta, halfway being successful at it all, but after I looked at the fact that my husband believed in me, I felt like I could really do it, too.

Being a good mom was and still is priority #1 and teaching childbirth always beat out writing because it helps pay for things Writing always took a back seat. But when it hit me that he believed in me and that I believed in myself, I dedicated more of my time to it and fit it in. Since then, I tried nanowrimo for the first time and I won! I wrote my first two children's books and my second YA.

I want those of you who are struggling to believe in yourself! Just believe, then dream, then write. It can happen. You can find a way to fit it all in.

There is another quote which is quickly becoming my favorite mantra after believe and it really works well, I think, along side of believing. It's "If you really want to do something you'll find a way. If you don't you'll find an excuse." I want to do this. I want to write. So no more excuses, I will find a way, I will believe in myself and I can be a good wife, mother, author and educator.

I wear my pink bracelet often, but especially on days I know are going to be stressful or hard because I want to remember to believe in myself. Its a nice reminder and now I look at that simple gift as a huge blessing. And whatever your situation is, whatever you are trying to balance in your life, know that you can too! Just start with I believe.