Oh. My. Shoes.

If you've been following this blog very long, you know that I don't often gush about materialistic things.  Frankly, there aren't that many things that knock my socks off.

Until I met these shoes.

Oh, my.  Lately I've had this urge to purge, so I've been cleaning out drawers and closets, etc.  I decided that at my age, I no longer had to suffer the aches and pains of too-tall heels, so from now on, all my shoes were going to be sensible heels of 2.5 inches or less.  So I tossed out several pairs, then went looking for sensible shoes to fill some of the gaping vacancies.

On zulily.com, one of my favorite flash discount shopping sites, I saw a pair of shoes that looked great. Ordered them, and found them when I got home yesterday.

Wow.  Even the box took my breath away.  It wasn't a typical shoe box, with a lid that lifts off.  Oh, no, it was styled more like a drawer covered in delicate floral paper, complete with cord handles. The "drawer" slid out, and inside the delicate tissue paper I found the most glorious shoes.  So lovely, so unique, and so comfortable.  Even the bottom of the shoe was patterned with a lovely floral design in COLOR.

I looked at the label: Poetic Licence, London (notice the British spelling).  And then I went online in a search for more of these shoes.  You'll find them all over the place, in everything from flats to too-tall heels (for this woman, anyway), but all of them are bright, unique, colorful, and dazzling.  I am in love.  Don't pay retail--you can find sites that discount them dramatically.  :-)

So here I am, gushing over shoes.  (I ordered three more pairs).   And for these shoes, I might even venture to wear a three-inch heel.   (But not those you see in the purple picture!)  :-)

~~Angie 

Travel back in time via historical Penny Postcards

What our beach looked like years ago. Today, those trees have been replaced by condos!

Go to this site and click on your state, then your county.  Then scroll down to your city, or just admire all the views of how your county looked in years gone by.  Amazing and beautiful!

A tip of the hat to Tanzel Rousey for leading me to this site. :-)

~~Angie 

HOPE. INSPIRE. DREAM.

The other day I was getting dressed in a hotel and a glimmer caught my eye. I looked in the mirror and saw the necklace that I wear almost all the time. It's silver, so it hasn't tarnished, and from its simple silver chain hang three silver tear-shaped pendants. These tiny pendants are engraved (in writing so small only I can see it) with one simple word each: Hope. Inspire. Dream.

Hope--even in the midst of heartbreak, we can place our certain hope in the Lord. As bleak as the world may seem, though the future may appear daunting or formidable, we have the precious assurance that our hopes will be realized and our sorrow will last for a season, not for eternity. Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but when the desire comes, it is a tree of life.  Hope. A beautiful word.

Inspire. God-breathed. We are inspired and we can inspire others. We breathe the breath of God into our bodies, hearts, and minds, and then we breathe it out into the bodies, hearts, and minds of others. Inspire. A humbling word.

And finally, dream.  I've always been wary of dreaming for things that may not be part of God's ordained plan for this life, but some dreams are clearly God-inspired. And then there are the dreams that are not synonymous with "goal," but the visions we see on our closed eyelids as we sleep. I dream in color and vivid detail, and usually wake with a story on my lips, ready to entertain or bewilder my patient husband.
Sometimes, I think, we achieve not because we dream not.  Dream. A challenging word.

Hope. Inspire. Dream. I am happy to wear those words around my neck every day.  I ordered this necklace from a catalog years ago, and I don't think I've ever seen it since.

But I'm glad I found it when I did.

~~Angie

This is precious--toddler thinks magazine is an iPad. :-)

This reminds me of that funny scene in Star Trek IV where Scotty goes up to a desktop computer (in our time) and talks to it, expecting it to respond . . .

Ah, babies and technology. Even my five-month old granddaughter seemed to know what to do with my iPhone the other day . . .

~~Angie

The Yeti has gone Mainstream

According to a recent article in the Wall Street Journal, Bigfoot is now being taken seriously, more or less, in Siberia, where he is known as the Yeti.  They are having a conference, and it's being by attended by an American woman who says she's regularly feeding a family of Bigfeet. Er, Bigfoots.  Whatever.

The often-spotted, never-verified creature even has a biological classification: Homonid, the study of the science of Hominology.

And I'd feature a photo, but, well, there aren't any of the actual creature.  :-)  And  I can see broken branches and twisted tree limbs in almost any part of the country.

Have you ever encountered any strange creatures in the woods?  Do tell!

~~Angie 

Chinese Toddler Hit Twice and Ignored

Yue Yue, the little girl who died. 

You've probably heard about the Chinese toddler who was hit TWICE by passing trucks and then ignored by several passers-by as she lay broken in the street.  I've just watched the video, and it's heart-breaking.

I'll admit that pictures of Asian babies do something to me because MY children were Asian babies. I can't see that little two-year old Chinese girl without thinking of my own daughter.  But the resulting display of heartlessness has left China questioning its social values, which it certainly should.

In this country, how many people are inflamed or incensed by stories of abused dogs and cats, yet they say nothing when a child is ignored on the street?  Have we become so inured to the sight of human suffering that we block it out?  Or are we just as guilty as the Chinese, who, like us, are so caught up in the demands of daily life that we don't see the shut-ins, the lonely neighbors, the frightened teenagers, the sullen children who are in need of help?

I've been convicted by the story of this little girl.  Would I have stopped on that day, or would I have assumed that someone else was already running to help?  Would I have worried about lawsuits and liability, or would I think of Jesus' story of the good Samaritan?

Lord, open our eyes today to the hurting people around us.  Jar us awake, if need be, and help us to see this world through your eyes.

~~Angie 

Did you catch the birth announcement?

Yesterday, experts tell us, the world's seven billionth baby was born.  Happy birthday, little one.  Welcome to a world that has never been this crowded with problems or potential.

I loved the perspective on our planet's growing population in the Wall Street Journal.   The author of an op ed piece, William McGurn, states that human beings are "minds, not mouths" and my mind immediately went to the abortion vs. life debate.  How many times do we see unborn babies as potential problems when they are more likely to be potential blessings?  Adoptive parents wait with open arms for these "problem" unborns, and even when the child remains with his or her biological family, parents often find that these children bring their own special gifts to the family.

Methinks this seven billion population total is God's way of pouring out his love on more people than ever before . . . offering yet another opportunity to fill our eternal and infinite home with infinite possibilities.

Happy birthday, baby.  May you find your Creator and rejoice in your heritage.

~~Angie 

Blue Ridge Glory

I'm up here near Asheville, North Carolina, and the fall colors are gorgeous.  I really miss them, living in Florida, and this trip was a blessing.  Just look at this photo, snapped on my walk from the dining room to the lodge where we're all staying.  Brilliant golds, vibrant reds, still-gorgeous greens . . . it's lovely.

What is fall like where you are?

~~Angie

The Map or "Waxing Thoughtful at the Airport"

 

My mirrors at home are kind,

But photos do not lie. And in them I see

A face unknown to me, though I have lived its contours and ridges,

I have stamped its surface with a roadmap of passions and wounds.

Recently someone said that I have much in common with Annette Benning—

The same hair, same coloring, the same age. The same apparent aversion to

Map-erasing surgeries and nerve numbing agents.

I cannot speak for Annette, but in photos I see fine marks sketched by myriad smiles,

Grooves carved by innumerable words and dining occasions.  I fancy I can trace

The salty tracks of watery gallons, a rivulet-smoothed plane running from north to south.

Other marks are deep crevasses carved by grief: of desire denied, fissures of frustration, clear tracks of unyielding sorrow.

But a loving hand has smoothed those cracks, filled them in not with man-made substitutes, but with peace and understanding.

Yet a trace remains. A print intended to remind me, I think, of the pain and the Panacea. 

So I look at human portraits and reflect upon the creator’s loving hand. A road for each of us, a path preplanned.

I will not envy when I study fresh-faced youths who have barely begun to live. And for those who would deny their existence with stitched and stretched skin and false fills, I feel a measure of pity.

For a face is a road map, a wordless book that speaks every language.

A mirror of a soul. 

~~Angie

A season in baseball . . .

This year I became a baseball fan.  And one of my deepest regrets is that I didn't become a fan while my daddy was living.  I think we would have enjoyed talking about our teams.

The boys in blue. 

As a writer, I know the key to making any sports story come alive is to focus on a PERSON.  And that's why I became a baseball fan.  Because my youth pastor hubby knows a young man who has been moving around in the majors, and this year he happened to get picked up by our home team.

So suddenly we KNEW somebody on the team, and what's more, we like him.   (And I'm not going to give you his name because . . . well, because it feels wrong.)  So we began to devoutly follow the Rays, and I think I watched more baseball games than even my husband did.  I watched during the day, I watched at night.  I even got an iPad program that allowed me to "watch" when I was traveling.

Loved this kid's enthusiasm. 

And I asked my hubby so many questions I think I drove him crazy:  Why doesn't it count as a hit if the batter hits the ball?  Why do Little League teams and soccer teams shake their opponents' hands after a game and professional teams don't?  How can a runner get to first base if he never even hits the ball, but just sends it rolling around?  And why is it fair for a pitcher to intentionally walk a hitter? Shouldn't he get a chance to hit the darn thing?

The Trop was rockin'. 

And through it all I learned a lot more about baseball than I ever thought I'd know.  And all of it, of course, is grist for the writer's mill, though the idea of writing a baseball book seems pretty far out for me.

This guy--in a manta ray suit--yelled, "Put me on Facebook; I don't care!" To which I replied, "Obviously." 

Anyway, if you didn't see the game that put us in the playoffs--Rays versus Yankees, who dominated 7-0 throughout the first seven innings--you missed a miracle.  We got into the playoffs and had high hopes--after all, miracles can happen more than once--but our dreams came to an end yesterday. But hubby and I were in the stadium, sitting right beneath the huge video screen, and saw it all come down to a final inning, a final out.


And as I watched the Rays players manfully consoling each other in the dugout, I realized that these demigods of the athletic world will now feel like chess pieces being moved around.  Managers trade players; they move people; they shift players for reasons that have to do more with skill and salary than with team loyalty. So some of the young men who formed this Rays team may never play together again--at least not wearing the same team jersey.

So this ending is bittersweet.  I assume the Rays will field a team next year, and so will the other MLB franchises, but I've come to know and appreciate each face under those caps and helmets.  So thanks, guys, for a great year and a terrific learning experience.  Hope to see you again in the Spring.

~~Angie 

Lake Michigan--beautiful!

I spent last week teaching at the Maranatha Christian Writers' Conference in Muskegon, Mi.  The facility was located practically on the shores of Lake Michigan, so every morning I walked down to the lake and then wended my way back through the woods.

See the beautiful doe I met?  She was closer than it would appear. 

It's so beautiful.  I wish I'd brought my "good" camera, but made do with my iPhone camera.  Just look at some of these sights.

Maranatha is a lovely conference, with great people and a lovely location.  Not to mention the fall-ish weather.  Loved every minute of it.

~~Angie

Epiphany

I've been up at the Maranatha Christian Writers' Conference all week, on the shores of Lake Michigan in Muskegon. Beautiful place! I've even felt a chill in the air.

Know what I've noticed over the years? Some writers want to be unusual people. They talk about how strange they are, as if strangeness is a quality to be cultivated. Well, I've got news for you--I have about a hundred close writer friends, and they're not strange at all. You could have dinner with any one of them in a public place and no one would stare at you. On the other hand, when I took my daughter to art school, I stared at everyone in attendance. You want to know unconventional, get thee to an artists' colony.

Maybe, you say, I don't notice that my novelist friends are strange because I'm strange. But I still beg to differ. Every been to a dentists' convention? Hung out with circus folk? Gone "backstage" at a dog show? If you've done any of the above, you'll realize that everyone is strange in their own way. And when like minds congregate, the difference tends to show.

Yet when writers cultivate their unconventionality, I think we make writing seem altogether too mystical, as if mere mortals can't possibly aspire to it. Blarney and poppycock. Anyone with the gift of sitting still can learn to write. They may not be artistic about it, but if they can speak and think, they can write. Written communication is not rocket science.

One of my favorite writing books is Dare To Be a Great Writer by Leonard Bishop. I've had this book for years and never tire of flipping through the assorted entries. But one entry, I think, was written entirely tongue in cheek. Bishop says that once you have become a best-selling author, you need to develop a persona; you need to cultivate the writer's mystique:

"No longer have casual conversations. Conduct orations. Not with passive platitudinous ponderosities, but with dynamics and charm. Use the body language of a shadow-boxing pugilist. Develop cunning facial expressions. Grimace as though pained with profundity. Wink, pout, sigh, crack your knuckles in contemplation. Use a repertoire of snappy jokes employed by any popular dentist. Be direct, outspoken, bold. Do not become subtle or ethereal with implication. Audiences are not talented at grasping existentialist innuendo. Rehearse being extemporaneous. "

I respond to the above with a ROFLOL. And while I'll admit that my ten presentations at schools in the past week contained a LOT of body language, acting, and humor (two girls from one school dubbed me the 'drama queen'), most of that was just to make sure my audience remained awake and interested.

Yes, writing requires a lot of hard work. Writing a good novel takes hard work and endless hours. Writing an artistic novel takes even more time. Writing an artistic novel that doesn't put people to sleep requires even more effort. Few folks commit to that level of sacrifice.

But there are surgeons who strive for that level of excellence in their field . . . and teachers who aim for excellence in order to influence young lives. And broadcasters and mothers and fathers and architects and pastors and dog groomers, all of whom have committed their lives and their careers to excellence for the glory of God.

Does that make them strange? In a sea of mediocrity, perhaps. In the light of eternity, they're not strange at all. They're the called, the committed, the good stewards. The ones who will hear "Well done, good and faithful servant."

I aspire to be one of them, but I don't think that makes me strange. Just . . . called.

Angie

Myers-Briggs and Now This?

It had to happen. They now have "types" for bloggers.
I have to admit that I use "types" all the time. Myers-Briggs is my favorite tool for creating characters and it's also helped me understand my spouse, my friends, and my independent, hard-headed self.
But the following is for fun. Click on the link and see what "blogging type" you are!

P.S. Thanks to Cindy Swanson, where I found this gem!

Your Blogging Type is Logical and Principled

You like to voice your well thought out opinions on your blog. And if someone doesn't what you write, you really don't care! Serious and blunt, sometimes people take your blog the wrong way. But you're a true and loyal friend to those who truly get you.

What's Your Blogging Personality?

Flannery O'Connor--wow!

I've been reading Flannery O'Connor's Mystery and Manners like a devotional--one chapter a day, with time to savor and think about each page. Today's essay, "The Nature and Aim of Fiction" ought to be required reading for anyone who would write novels. With a wry sense of humor, O'Connor speaks plain truth and challenges at the same time.

This is priceless, and one of those "plain truth" comments:

"But there is a widespread curiosity about writers and how they work, and when a writer talks on this subject, there are always misconceptions and mental rubble for him to clear away before he can even begin to see what he wants to talk about. I am not, of course, as innocent as I look. I know well enough that very few people who are supposedly interested in writing are interested in writing well. They are interested in publishing something, and if possible in 'making a killing.' They are interested in beng a writer, not in writing. They are interested in seeing their names at the top of something printed, it matters not what. And they seem to feel that this can be accomplished by learning certain things about working habits and about markets and about what subjects are currently acceptable."

Oh, if you could see what I've seen--the rapt attention beginning writers pay to editors who dare to talk about trends and "the market" and what's currently selling. Who cares? By the time a book is written and published, today's trend is yesterday's news. And if you're writing to the market, you're not even beginning to write from your passion. You're not listening to the voice of God, the voice of Truth, but the voice of consumerism.

 I love this essay!

Rediscovering the Known Country

I've been reading G.K. Chesterton's book ORTHODOXY, and he cracks me up. Philip Yancy's foreword is priceless, but he doesn't steal the show from Chesterton.

I love how in chapter one he says he set out searching for truth and was like a man who lands upon an island, thinks that it's some exotic place, and finds out that it is in fact Mother England. Says Chesterton: "If this book is a joke it is a joke bagainst me. I am the man who with the utmost daring discovered what had been discovered before. If there is an element of farce in what follows, the farce is at my own expense; for this book explains how I fanciesd I was the first to set foot in Brighton and then found I was the last. It recounts my elephantine adventures in pursuit of the obvious . . ."

That's how I often feel about my own life as a Christian and a writer. The Lord brings me through some lesson--and I usually think it's definitely uppergraduate stuff--and then I find that I'm setting foot in the Land of Knowledge with youngsters who learned my new lesson a long time ago. Or never needed to learn it in the first place. :-)

I can't wait to become a little better acquainted with Mr. Chesterton. They say he won over his debate opponents not by blasting at them, but by laughing at himself. I think you can see a little of his humor in this passage:

"It may be that somebody will be entertained by the account of his happy fiasco. It might amuse a friend or an enemy to read how I gradually learnt from the truth of some stray legend or from the falsehood of some dominant philosophy, things that I might have learnt from my catechism--if I had ever learnt it. There may or may not be some entertainment in reading how I found at last in an anarchist club or a Babylonian temple what I might have found in the nearest parish church."

And that's one of the joys of writing the kinds of books I write. I tell a story in which characters have their eyes opened--and some of my readers will be already acquainted with the new vision, but others won't be. One group will be nostalgic, perhaps, the other fascinated. And those who don't or can't see the truth--well, they could be bored or offended, I suppose. Each to his own reaction. My job is not to react, it is to write.

Off to attempt it for another day.

If You Want to Write a Book. . .

From my soapbox:

If you are trying to become published, stop looking for short cuts. Do not ask a published friend to introduce you to an editor, do not print your manuscript on pink paper, and do not send it to your favorite author in an e-mail. Simply write an irresistible story. Keep working at it until you find an editor who agrees.

Face the possibility that you may be called to write for your children, your grandchildren, your church newsletter, and other local venues. That is a ministry in itself, and a worthy one. Do not disparage any of these avenues, but do your best at them. Anyone who writes is a writer. Never forget that.

There are many people who really don’t want to be writers, they want to be published. If you think being published will make all your dreams come true, think again. Life will go on pretty much the way it did before. People who know you well will be, for the most part, singularly unimpressed. They will view your work as a nice little hobby, or think it is only being carried in local bookstores. People who view you with stars in their eyes will do so largely out of ignorance—either they don’t know you or they don’t know what being a writer is really like. When they get to know you as an ordinary person, or when they learn how hard writing can be, those stars will vanish.

Life as a published author is not an endless junket of book signings. It’s a seemingly endless round of sitting at a desk, staring at a computer, and hoping against hope that the words rolling from the ends of your fingertips can carry the spark of life and a glimmer of truth to the reader you HOPE will pick up the book. It’s living by feast and famine, walking in faith that your finances will be provided and your creative well replenished.

Once you are published, doors do not always open easily, fans do not routinely flock, people unrelated to your mother usually do not stand in line to praise your work. Getting your foot in the door is hard; keeping it there can be even harder. The work you did to get published will have to be improved upon. You will have to grow, to sweat, to strain, to keep improving. Most of the “overnight successes” you read about have been quietly laboring for years.

You will receive fan letters from people who say your book is the best thing they have ever read. Do not believe them; they say that to everyone. You will also receive letters from people who say you’re the worst writer alive and could not possibly be a Christian. Do not believe them, either. You will also receive occasional letters from people who gently point out areas where you may have erred—those letters you may take to heart, for they may be God’s way of correcting you.

If your book does not do as well as you have hoped, you will be tempted to become critical and envious of others’ success, to complain about your editors, your marketing department, your reviewers and bookstores. You will find that life is a never-ending struggle to walk in obedience to the Lord who called you to follow him. You will have to avoid being distracted by marketing plans and promotional gimmicks and best-seller lists. You will have to cast your dreams of million dollar sales on the altar and realize that if God calls you to write books that sell ten thousand, that is better than selling a zillion copies of a book not written in obedience. At some point, you will have to decide--are you writing for the praise of men or the glory of God?

Writing is a job like anything else, neither higher nor lower than the calling of the Christian dentist, minister, teacher, or day care worker. We have to see ourselves as ministers to an unseen audience many months away, and trust that the Lord will place books in the proper hands. We have to struggle against pride when a book does well; we have to struggle against discouragement when a book does not.

We have to be kind enough to rejoice when a brother or sister succeeds; we have to resist the inner editor and critic who would (incorrectly) assure us our work is better. We have to guard against the self-censor who urges us to write to the market instead of writing the story God places on our hearts; yet we must not be such a slave to stories of our own egotistic imagination that we place them outside the realm of the average reader. Most of all, we have to be walking in Truth enough to know what springs from Self, and what from Spirit.

We must work to keep the unity in the bond of love, for other writers are our co-laborers, whether they write in our genre or not, whether they sell alongside us or not. We must banish the word “competition” from our tongues, for we are pulling the same yoke, straining for the same purpose: to honor God with our livelihood. We must not allow others to put us on a pedestal, for writing is like anything else—if God calls us to do it, we are to do it wholeheartedly, as unto the Lord. When glory or praise is given, it belongs to Him, for creativity springs from the Creator. (And if we are honest, we will admit that we are constantly torn between wanting to believe we are special and knowing we are completely human.)

We must recognize that each of us is unique, with different voices, styles, and callings. My job is not to write like my brother or sister, my job is to write the truths God places upon my heart.

Being a writer is a unique joy, for none of life’s experiences are ever wasted. But this means that the people around you may grow wary, and some of the things you write, if they are honest, may hurt. If you write from a place of honesty, you will bare parts of yourself you would never display before a neighbor, yet you do it, hoping your revelation will spare some other person some pain.

Writing is hard. Some days I can’t imagine why any sane person would ever want to do this. Other days, I know I’m the most blessed woman alive.

It all boils down to this: the creature finds joy doing the thing he or she was created to do. Birds put forth effort to fly, salmon expend energy swimming upstream, and writing requires hard work.

I suppose it’s that simple.

This dog has been drinking smart juice . . .

Beats anything I've ever seen.  What makes this little beagle so much smarter than his buddies?  Who knows, but he's amazing.

Will you take this woman?

I'm not sure where this came from; my mom sent it to me. But I actually gasped when I saw it. Oy! 

So no matter what happened during your wedding (I cried all the way through mine), I hope it wasn't this bad. 

~~Angie

Update

Blogging today at The Lovin' Oven. 

Tuesday night, doing a webinar on "The Plot Skeleton."  Contact the Christian Writers' Guild for more information.

See you over at the Oven!

~~Angie

I Started a New Blog. I Need to have my head examined.

Because I've been baking, I decided to set my next novel in a bakery.

Because I decided to set my next novel in a bakery,
I decided I need to learn more about baking.

Because I decided I need to learn more about baking,
I came up with a plan to teach my self . . . and share it with others.  Shared misery, you know.

Because I came up with the plan . . . I want you to join me at The Lovin' Oven.  Please.  I can't be the only one this crazy.

~~Angie