Finding grace in difficult places

Just over 4 years ago, a young man frantically slammed his brakes as his 1996 Camry accelerated out of control, reaching 90 mph. A moment later it crashed into another car killing a father and his two young children.

Desperately the man pleaded with authorities; he wasn’t drunk, he hadn’t been driving recklessly… he tried to stop.

But no one listened.

He begged the jury stating with conviction over and over again that he didn’t panic; he hadn’t mistaken the gas pedal, and he pressed the brake with all his strength.

But no one listened.

The young man was sentenced to 8 years in prison for criminal vehicular homicide, leaving his wife without a husband and his 4 young children without a father.

I remember this accident. I’m not sure why, but I recall wondering why no one believed him. He passed the Blood Alcohol Test and he seemed to be a decent person and a family man. But no one listened. I felt sympathy; what would I do if I professed something I believed to be true and no one believed me? There had to be more to this story, something the public wasn’t being told.

Even so, if my family was destroyed as quickly as this one, would I be able to see past the anger and grief to find truth and forgiveness?

I don’t know.

Just over a year later, Toyota recalled millions of cars for sudden acceleration.

Today, I woke early with my son. In the quiet of the house, I retrieved the morning paper and tossed it unceremoniously onto the kitchen table, then went about preparing breakfast. As I placed my son’s food down, my eyes caught the headline…”A Free Man”

It took another year, but the evidence is overwhelming… he tried to stop. But his attorneys failed him. They didn’t call an expert witness, didn’t uncover growing evidence on sudden acceleration, didn’t explain the lack of skid marks (anti-lock brakes), and declared, without consulting him, that he admitted negligence.

Yet it was the car that failed him, and the family who lost three loved ones.

I started to read and for a brief moment, I paused when the article said the victims’ families attended the hearing. My immediate reaction was: “Even now, they’re going to fight this?”

But I was quickly shamed.

They weren’t there to fight for his continued imprisonment… they were there because they believed him, they always had. And they wanted this young husband and father to be free. They’d found peace with the horrible tragedy, and wanted the world to be right… for every innocent victim, alive or dead.

I’m humbled.

I’m also filled with hope that in a world filled with such sad news, there is still beautiful grace. And it’s found in the most unexpected places.

Four years ago, three people lost their lives… this week, a young man found his again.

Tawn

LeapFrog for Adults...

I’m probably not the smartest person in the room, unless I’m alone and even then it’s questionable. And I hope I’m rarely the dumbest, though, if you handed me a calculator with anything other than the four basic math functions, I’m in serious trouble. But what I do have is a drive to gather just enough information to be dangerous. And… I’m a really good faker.

So, in my pursuit of being a ‘real’ author, I decided to get dangerous and subscribed to an online newsletter about publishing. I figured I might as well learn the ‘language’ in case I’m ever called upon to fake it. Some articles are interesting, some require in-depth industry knowledge, and some are downright dry. But the other day I saw one that made me pause (a feat considering this is generally not in my vocabulary). It was an article about the new “Enhanced eBook.”

Now, I admit I haven’t really embraced the eBook revelation… yet. Heck, I just got my first iPod a year-ago and I’m scared to even touch my friends’ iPhones. But eBooks? No, I don’t have anything against them; I mean they are fairly environmentally friendly. But I still find magic in turning a page, frantically searching previous chapters for a clue I missed and, to my husband’s dismay, sometimes skipping to the end. So a regular ol’ eBook seems rather ‘enhanced’ from what I’m used to.

Anyway, I had no idea what an “Enhanced eBook” was so I emailed a friend in the industry. She told me it’s basically a new gadget that provides additional things, like video clips and interactive applications.

Yeah, I guess it would be fun to watch author interviews and see pictures of the world they’re painting. And if a publishing company approached me saying they wanted to distribute Providence in “Enhanced eBook” form, I wouldn’t turn them away. In fact, I most likely would squeal with delight.

But is an “Enhanced eBook” just LeapFrog for adults? And isn’t my imagination the most interactive application I have?

Maybe I should be more open minded, and maybe someday I’ll regret posting this because I made a writing career in selling “Enhanced eBook” stories. But for now, I’m going to log off my computer, climb into bed, and snuggle up with my 10th Nancy Drew mystery of the summer… excited to turn every single page.

Tawn

Everyone has weird habits... right?

Everyone has weird habits… right?

Some habits are quirky, like all my food must be cut into bite sizes pieces before I start eating (and yes, this habit formed before I had children). Some habits are annoying, such as my husband’s insistence in hitting the snooze button 5 times before getting up. Some habits are boring, like the order in which someone puts on shoes. And some habits are out of a simple necessity to survive, such as giving my children snacks as bribes to just [fill in the blank].

Normally I don’t notice my habits, but today I went to the gym. I will now pause to give you a chance to stop laughing.

Okay… can I continue?

So today, I noticed my gym habits and decided to spend some time thinking about them. I’m not sure why I’m sharing them, but here I go…

I always do three things:

1. I go to the side of the gym opposite the pictures of all the impossibly beautiful and unattainable bodies lining the walls. Seriously, I feel fat enough already. I don’t need a constant reminder that there are people in this world who can run without having every part of their body jiggle. I mean, why can’t they show pictures of us more ‘insulated’ folks, wishfully dreaming as we sweat our tushies off just to get into the ‘average’ size pair of jeans!
2. I pick a treadmill near someone who’s actually jogging (but not the skinniest one there, cause that would just make me feel worse). I have to admit, I love the look on some of their faces as I start… walking that is. With the uber fit -you know, the ones who wear spandex shorts with sports bras and their little iPod armbands wrap around twice just to stay up - there’s often an immediate, involuntary judgment on their faces when they see someone like me. No, I’m generally not the least healthy person in the gym, but I definitely don’t fit into “their club.” So why do I do it, I guess it’s because I’m hoping some of their energy (or maybe just the feeling of guilt) rubs off and I actually push myself a little harder. And, odd as it sounds, it makes me feel more satisfied knowing at least one person is leaving the gym with a sense of accomplishment.
3. I always run the last five minutes… even if it’s at the same speed I was just walking. I do this for a number of reasons. First, let’s be honest, five minutes is the maximum I can do right now (well, I could probably do more if I really, really tried but it’s all about the baby steps… right?). Second, I’m already sweaty, so if I at least run the last part, maybe the person who just came up to the treadmills will actually think I ran the whole time (and that I must be incredibly motivated and have outstanding athletic ability). And lastly, I’m hoping to increase that number each week. The only way to do that is to start somewhere.

So there you go… a fascinating (well, maybe not fascinating), look into some of my odd gym habits. The others I won’t share, I don’t want you to think I’m any more strange than you already do!

Tawn

I dreamed of being an astronaut...

When I was young, I dreamed of becoming an astronaut. Yeah, so I was scared of flying (still am), I hated the dark (um, space is full of it), and you have to be really, really good at math (strike three). But none of this mattered. I wanted to be an astronaut. I mean seriously, what 5th grader wouldn’t want to eat freeze-dried ice cream, have floating pigtails, or run, well maybe float, around in an outfit that’s the equivalent to the Michelin Man! But alas, there’d be no space walking for me (the motion sickness bag industry is eternally disappointed). Somewhere along the way, my dreams changed. I can’t even tell you when.

But I never dreamed of becoming a writer.

Sure, I’ve always been relatively good at writing. Papers in school came easy and I currently spend my days crafting and editing brochures and other various forms of communications. But I never dreamed I would be a “writer.”

Until I had a story.

For me, this journey started in church. I know, I know these days that’s a miracle unto itself (don’t worry… I’ve made peace with the big guy upstairs). I was listening to the passage of the day when Kenley, Trigg and Bryn first flitted into my mind, and right back out.

I didn’t have a story.

A few minutes later, they came back. And this time, they stayed. I started to think about where they lived, what they looked like, and who they were. Soon, I was obsessed. My mind started racing so fast, I dove into my purse searching for anything to write on. Nothing, so I grabbed the first thing I saw, a donation envelope. I scribbled notes all over the back, flipped it, and covered the front. I carefully ripped open the glued seems and filled every space on the inside. And when I ran out of room, I grabbed the next one. As my husband watched, utterly confused, I quickly filled ten envelopes – and remained seated for the closing hymns.

I had a story.

On the way home, my husband asked what I was doing. I was too embarrassed to say. Instead I asked if I could “just have an hour to try something.” He said yes - it was a moment that changed my life forever. I quickly got into a comfortable pair of sweats, grabbed my laptop and started typing. Several hours later, I was staring wide-eyed at the first chapter of Providence.

I had a story!

And a new dream.

Tawn

My life in constant edit...

I’ve finished, at least I think I’ve finished… wait, I’m not finished.

I keep telling myself to be done, to stop modifying, to stop changing. But I can’t settle, I can’t find that place where I feel complete. I’m in constant editing mode.

But it’s not just Providence I’ve been editing.

• I have days where I just can’t decide what to wear – pants, a skirt, or a sweater.
• I blow dry my hair straight, then curl it, then pull it up into a clip.
• This week it’s low carb. Next week it’s low fat. The week after it’s Weight Watchers (by the way - I’m about 300,000 points in the hole).

I’d like to think of myself as a relatively happy, content person. I have a wonderful husband (who I certainly don’t tell him this enough). I have amazing children who are loving, full of laughter, and always find ways to make me smile. My family is supportive, my friends are fun, and my day job has small victories that keep me going.

So why can’t I stop editing… everything?

Is it because I’m too much of a perfectionist? Is it because I tend to hold myself to a different, more stringent standard? Is it because I want to be great? Or is it because I’m worried that if I stop editing, stop changing, stop moving, that I won’t be?

In my ‘day-job’ I work with incredibly creative, intelligent people. But sometimes we all hit that spot; the place where we can’t find the perfect idea, the perfect photo, the perfect word. I’m always ready to jump in, help them walk away, to simply stand back and breathe. And when they do that, it’s amazing how everything just snaps into place, an idea materializes, and a direction becomes clear.

Why can’t I do this?

Last week, I told my husband he could read the latest draft of Providence when I finished ‘this round of edits.’ However, I haven’t finished this round because when I reached the end of the novel, I started over again. When I reached the end of the section I wanted to ‘take another whack at,’ I started from the beginning. I’m in a constant editing mode.

So today I stopped.

I saved my latest draft, emailed it to my husband, and let go. Instead of working on my book after the kids went to bed, I booted the computer, opened a blank Word document and wrote this blog entry.

I may be a horrible blogger, but I feel better… and to think, I only edited this three times.

Tawn

Today was full of but(t)s…

Today was full of but(t)s… well, I guess really my whole is life is full of but(t)s.

From the ongoing cycle of pulling out seasonal clothes that don’t seem to fit as well as they did last season, to being the mother of a four year old who’s discovering the infinite humor associated with the body, as well as the power of words. But today was full of my own ‘buts’ and they had nothing to do with my jeans or son.

Sunday is my favorite day, my ‘to-do’ day. I pick up the house, I do the laundry, and my husband and I plan our week. I enjoy the feeling of Sunday, knowing my house is in order means I can start the week off right.

Since I’ve started writing the Madigan Trilogy, Sundays have the bonus of finding a few hours alone to write. ‘But’ today, it didn’t work. Not because I didn’t have time, not because my husband’s ‘to-do’ list over-powered mine, and not because my children weren’t their normal cheery, playful selves. It was because of another ‘but’, my ‘but’.

• “I’ll start writing in two minutes, ‘but’ I need to change the laundry.”
• “I need to revise that paragraph while the idea is fresh, ‘but’ I need to send that email first.”
• “Okay, one kid napping, the other at a birthday party. I have two hours to myself, let’s get this going.”

‘But’ it just didn’t happen.

As a writer, these are the moments I find incredibly frustrating. When you have every intention to focus on your work, ‘but’ nothing comes out. It isn’t clicking, your mojo is off, the flow of creativity is disrupted and just bumbling along. Granted, I’m sure the other distractions didn’t help, ‘but’ I really had some ideas that I couldn’t formulate. I really wanted to lose myself in my story, to find new ways to express my thoughts, and to smooth transitions. I really just wanted to write.

‘But’ it wasn’t working. Even though I know these characters and this story so well, and even though I knew what I wanted to accomplish, I couldn’t get myself going. My brain felt like a turtle, okay, more like a snail.

I probably should give myself a little latitude. ‘But’ on days like these, I feel guilty… and sad. Because I know Monday means that I return to ‘normal’ life. I get the kids to daycare, I work at my ‘day-job’, we squeeze in family time and a meal, and then I’m too exhausted to do anything else.

Sundays are my day to be a writer, and for right or wrong, on days like these, I feel as though I fail.

I guess sometimes we have to understand the ‘buts’ and realize we’re only human.

Maybe someday, I’ll take my own advice.

Tawn

Wow! My first blog ever...

I've read a few of blogs in the past. I’ve read my close friends and relative’s blogs. I've read the blogs from other mothers, politicians, and nutritional experts (though you'd never know it by what’s in my cupboards). I've even read about blogs. But I've never thought of having one myself.

Sure, I wrote a novel, well, actually I'm hoping to write at least three. I can whip out a long-winded email or in my 'day-job' a marketing brochure, training, or a news article in no time. But to sit down and actually write about my thoughts... now that's intimidating.

What could I possibly say? Better yet, what could I possibly say that someone else may care to read? Is the world of a thirty-something mom with two small children who works full-time while chasing a dream to be a writer really that interesting? Is blogging narcissism at its technological best? But then again, is it about the readers, or is it about myself?

So today I’m starting a blog. Why? For two reasons:

The first is because, as I look back on the ten months I've spent getting to know Kenley, Trigg, Bryn, and Caelen, I realize that I regret my failure to document this journey. Sure, I have 130,000+ words showing the results of my effort. But I've thrown away the first burst of ideas I scrambled to write on the back of church donation envelopes that January morning when the Madigans first came to life. I can't find half of the barely legible notes I scribbled on the back of clothing receipts dug out of my end table in the middle of the night (thank goodness for computers). I've forgotten many of those moments I struggled to get one more paragraph written as my son screams for another SpongeBob episode, my daughter is tugging at my pants to be picked up, and the oven is dinging to tell me dinner is practically on fire. And I’ve certainly drastically underutilized the two most important words, ‘thank you,’ to my husband and countless others who have supported me.

The second reason is because I want share this journey with others who may have a dream on-hold. Not because I have any real wisdom to share, but because I know I’m not alone. Others have dreams that have been set aside due to careers, family, or simply because taking the first step is more daunting that having the dream in the first place.

You're dream may be very different than mine, but is the journey itself? While mine is to be an author, the challenges I've overcome, and the hurdles that lay before me, aren't about writing a novel. They're about the limitations I've placed on myself, my fears, my insecurities, and my secret lack of confidence.

Some of the obstacles I face in the future are out of my control, but many of them are not. I hope that through this blog, I have an opportunity to share with you who I am, and in the process, learn more about myself.

Care to join me in this journey?

Tawn