My Speech as President

The awards gala honoring the best fiction published by LDS writers in 2014 was held on Saturday, May 16. As the program's outgoing president, I gave a speech prior to the presentation of the awards. I'll share some thoughts and feelings about my year as president another time.

For now, here's a photo of that night when I asked the finalists present to join me on the stage, which was an incredibly cool moment with so much talent in one place. And below that, the speech I gave next. Being the Whitney Awards president has truly been an honor, one I did my best to live up to.

2014 Whitney Awards Gala

May 16, 2015

I have literally spent the last year pondering what to say tonight. I have a file on my computer where I dumped quotes and ideas. It’s ridiculously long, but I promise that my remarks won’t be.

Many of you have been acquainted with the Whitney Awards for a long time, while some here tonight know little about the program, so I’ll begin with a little background.

In your program, you’ll see a section called “by the numbers.” I thought it might be interesting for attendees to get a feel for the scope of the awards. A book must receive 5 reader nominations to become an official nominee. For 2014, we had nearly 400 books receive at least one nomination. The total number of nominations is the official recorded number, but the real number is higher, as some books received more than five nominations.

About half of the nominated titles became official nominees, which sent them to the judging round. Each of the 8 award categories had 5 judges who read and ranked each book in their category on a Condorcet-style ballot. The result was 5 finalists in each category, for a total of 40 finalists. Essentially, a book had a shot of one in ten of becoming a finalist.

Once the finalists were announced in early February, the voting academy gets to read them and cast their ballot. The academy has about 400 members made up of writers, editors, reviewers, judges, and other industry professionals and experts.

The academy ballots were due on April 30, and tonight, the winners will be announced.

So that’s how they function in a very large nutshell. But I thought it might be good to share how the program came into being as well.

Fellow novelist Robison Wells was on a mission to continually raise the bar on literature written by Latter-day Saints. He began that journey by creating a database of reviews, making it as comprehensive as he could. But he soon realized that criticism, while important, isn’t enough by itself.

At what I believe was the 4th annual Storymakers conference, he had the realization that honoring the best among us would naturally raise the bar, and he set to creating an awards program to do just that.

I remember talking to him at the conference and getting excited about the idea of a purely Mormon literary award. I wasn’t on the first committee, but I did get to watch pretty close by as the program was created. Robison studied the Hugos and Nebulas and many other awards programs to come up with the best mix of input and voting, wanting to include the general readership and fans as well as professionals and industry peers.

He also wanted a name for the awards that would reflect the goals of the program and would also be uniquely Mormon. One night as I made dinner, he called to brainstorm ideas for a name, as nothing quite felt right yet—the Golden Plates award and such felt a bit too cheesy.

I suggested that we name the program after a literary figure from our Church history. The first name to come to mind was Eliza R. Snow. But, I pointed out, she was primarily a poet. Who else? We wanted someone who related to fiction.

I offhandedly said that well, there’s that one really cool talk by Orson F. Whitney all about literature and fiction. You know, the one about how we will one day have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. But did Elder Whitney write fiction?

(To be honest, I hadn’t actually read the talk, but I knew that one prophecy.)

Rob latched on to idea and never let go. Today, at the 8th Whitney Awards gala, I’m honored to be president. And it’s kind of neat that I helped name the program, even if people generally think that “Whitney” refers to a 1980s cheerleader. I’ve even been called “Whitney,” and once, a bank teller who apparently didn’t read closely called me “Wendy.”

Orson F. Whitney gave his famous talk a few weeks before his 33rd birthday and about 18 years before his call as an apostle. He gave the speech at a large youth conference, and it was published the following month. On this year’s program, we used a younger photo of him than we’ve often seen, taken closer to the age he was when he gave his famous speech.

When I suggested his name, I didn’t know that Elder Whitney was a writer himself, but he was. He wrote fiction, poetry, and nonfiction, including the biography of his grandfather, Heber C. Kimball. Our modern hymnal includes two of his songs, “The Wintry Day, Descending to Its Close,” and “Savior Redeemer of My Soul.”

His father set type for the Deseret News and worked with the paper for 21 years, so in some respects, the written word was likely always part of Orson’s family life and childhood.

Elder Whitney was a proponent for education, reading, and writing. In his famous talk, he said, “It suffices me to know … that this people are the friends, not the foes, of education; that they are seekers after wisdom, lovers of light and truth, universal Truth, which, like the waters of earth, or the sunbeams of heaven, has but one Source, let its earthly origin be what it may.”

Education is all well and good, and considering the period, he was way ahead of his time about it. But he also understood that the arts themselves are significant.

He declared that God’s people must progress; their destiny demands it. And he seemed to see that the progression would happen through the arts, saying that even as “the glory of God is intelligence,” so is “culture … the duty of man.”

Think about that. Culture is our duty. In context, it’s clear that by “culture,” he means the arts, in all their forms. Culture is our DUTY.

So much for those people who think that fiction is a waste of energy. Next time you run into someone at a book signing who is concerned for your eternal salvation, you can calmly assure them that oh, no, they’re quite mistaken—your soul is quite safe and by writing, you’re doing your eternal duty.

As fun as that would be to actually say to someone, the idea that writing can be our duty is profound. We believe that we are here on earth for a purpose, with special talents and missions.

Quoting Brother Whitney again: “It is by means of literature that much of this great work will have to be accomplished: a literature of power and purity, worthy of such a work. And a pure and powerful literature can only proceed from a pure and powerful people. Grapes are not gathered of thorns, nor figs of thistles.”

In other words, for many of us, writing is part of our mission and purpose, and God can use our words for good and for advancing His work.

And that doesn’t mean our stories must feature Mormon characters and story lines, although they may. It doesn’t mean that our stories must include sappy morals. It doesn’t mean they have to be so whitewashed to avoid offense that they’re stripped of voice and personality.

I will always remember what Dan Wells said when he accepted his Whitney Award for Best Novel by a New Author. Keep in mind that he won the award with a HORROR novel. And the sequel also won a Whitney. And so did the third book of the trilogy.

This is all paraphrasing, of course. He said that some people consider horror as a very “un-Mormon” genre. How could he consider himself a good Mormon if he wrote “bad” stuff? And now he was being honored by his peers for that very work.

But horror, he said, could arguably be the most Mormon of genres. Horror at its core is about good versus evil, and his series is especially so—a young man fighting his natural man, struggling to do the right thing when every impulse is to do the wrong one. When Nephi preached about the natural man, he might as well have been talking about John Cleaver.

Regardless of the genre or age group or market we’re writing for, the things we write matter. Our words have the potential to influence and change lives. There is power in words.

The scriptures strengthen that idea:

In the beginning was the WORD.

Alma counsels us to test our faith by planting a seed, and that seed is THE WORD.

Captain Moroni called his people to action and saved their lives through a few powerful words written on his coat and held up as a banner.

And in the New Testament, the armor of God is described with a list of DEFENSIVE items: the helmet of salvation, the breastplate of righteousness, the shield of faith, and so on.

Only ONE item is OFFENSIVE, which to me means that it can have an EFFECT. It’s the one item that isn’t reactionary but can take ACTION.

What is it? The sword is the word of God.

Of course we aren’t channeling the word the God onto our keyboards. But I believe that literature has a place in the plan and that God is willing and eager to help us with our writing.

Back in 1996, way before blogs and online newspapers and e-books, at a time when we had fewer things to choose in the art and entertainment we consume, Elder M. Russell Ballard said:

With so many choices for viewers and listeners, the artistic works of the Latter-day Saint … must be excellent to set them apart from the worldly and the mediocre. People deserve alternatives of quality, the kind that Latter-day Saints are capable of providing through the influence of the Holy Spirit.

And further:

If we are determined to live by Heavenly Father’s plan … we will use the inspiring opportunities around us to increase our talents.

Brother Whitney prophesied that we would have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own. Today, those two writers are taught in the classroom as classics, but in their lifetimes, they were the poplar genre writers. They were the Stephenie Meyers, the Orson Scott Cards, the Shannon Hales, the James Dashners, the David Farlands, the Brandon Sandersons of their day.

The prophecy continued, saying, “In God’s name and by his help we will build up a literature whose top shall touch heaven, though its foundations may now be low in the earth.”

So has the prophecy been fulfilled? Do we have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own?

Some may say yes. Others say no.

I don’t think we can know, not in our lifetimes. I have a suspicion that maybe we do have Miltons and Shakespeares—and more than two—but we can’t know who they are.

And we won’t know for another 400 years, when, from the other side, we’ll take a peek through the veil to see whose books are still being read, whose words are still influencing lives long after we’ve passed.

I’ll say one more thing, and then we’ll move on to the actual awards, which is why you’re here.

After the first gala, I wrote out my impressions on my blog. Here’s a snippet from that post:

Our table was dead center at the back of the room. As a result, I had a great view of the large crowd that had gathered for the awards. A lot of amazing people were inside those four walls. Some I’d go so far as to call legends.

As the evening wore on, I felt a surging sense of awe and privilege. That night represented the beginning of something very big. And I got to be a small part of it. I even got to be involved a tiny bit in its creation. I was sitting in the middle of a piece of history. The thought was overwhelming. I felt so honored to be in the company of those around me, to bear witness to the birth of something so much bigger than myself, something meaningful, something that I believe Orson F. Whitney himself smiled down upon.

I still believe that Orson F. Whitney is aware of the program bearing his name. And I believe that he’s pleased with the program and pleased to see the literature of his people continue to grow and expand in both quantity and, more importantly, in quality every year.

It may be a small thing to most people, but my belief that he’s looking down on all of this was reinforced when I learned that tonight’s gala falls on the 84th anniversary of Orson F. Whitney’s death.

Click here to see the list of winners. 

Tribute to Lu Ann

Yesterday I had the opportunity to attend and participate in my dear friend Lu Ann Staheli's funeral. Her husband, Mike, asked our writing group to put together some comments to be read during the services. The day before, group members emailed thoughts and memories, and I cobbled it all together. We all went up front to honor Lu Ann, and somehow, with my entire body quivering (likely my voice, too), I read what we'd put together. Here is what I read on behalf of the group.

Lu Ann signing books at the
LDStorymakers Writers Conference in 2011.

July of 1999, Lu Ann opened the directory of a writing organization, found my number, and invited me to be part of a brand new critique group. I was two weeks away from giving birth to my third child and three years into a calling in the Young Women presidency. Yet I was eager to join and asked if she could hold a spot until things were a tiny bit less crazy. January of 2000, I showed up to my first meeting with my heart pounding in my chest. I was incredibly intimidated by the talent sitting across the table.

A few months later, Michele joined us. Here’s how she put that experience: “I quickly discovered that my writing was not brilliant; it wasn’t even good, and I was nowhere near the skill level of the rest of the group. Lu Ann could have easily voted me off; I was not yet in a position to help her writing, and she already had classrooms of students to teach during the day. But she took me under her wing and helped me learn how to write well.”

Jeff recalls his first meeting, after his first book was published. Lu Ann looked at him, smiled, and said, “I read Cutting Edge. I liked it, but it could use some work.” He would be the first to say that she was right.

Heather and Rob rounded out the group until Sarah Eden moved to Utah County about five years ago, and we invited her to come to see if we would be a good fit for one another.

“Their credentials were intimidating,” Sarah says of that time. “I was absolutely certain that after a single night of my relative incompetence, they’d simply quit telling me where they were meeting. That first evening, I was impressed by the excerpt Lu Ann had brought and ravenously devoured the advice she gave the others, all the while scared out of my mind about what she’d think of my humble offering. Not three sentences into her response to my efforts, I knew I had found a treasure in LuAnn, and that my work would be the better as a result of her influence. She was encouraging without being coddling.”

And she truly didn’t coddle. No, Lu Ann didn’t mince words. Sometimes her comments stung, but we knew that they were always given with the intent to help our stories be the best they could be. In fact, her total honesty became something we learned to trust and look forward to. Such honesty is a rare gift, so we weren’t hurt or offended—how could we be, when she was genuinely trying to help, but even more importantly, because so much of the time, she was right?

She was always a teacher, always a mentor, forever looking for ways to help and lift. Sometimes that meant suggesting new ways to promote our books. Other times, she urged one of us to read a specific book because it was just what would help us with the manuscript we were working on. And she knew because she was a walking library catalog—she read constantly from every genre, so she knew more about books than anyone we’ve ever met.

She has given us feedback, encouragement, ideas, and someone to vent to. Someone to laugh with. She gave solid advice, such as when Heather debated whether to take on a certain project: “No,” Lu Ann told her. “You’re better off working on what you already have planned. Stick to your plan. You know it’s right.”

In addition to the hundreds of critique group sessions we’ve shared together, she took the time to read and edit numerous manuscripts for all of us, in addition to those of many other authors, students, and friends. She was never too busy to help. 

In fact, recently I sent a manuscript to the group for feedback. She was already very ill, so while we included her in our email exchanges, I never once expected Lu Ann to read the 90,000-word manuscript while battling cancer. Yet she replied to the email thread, saying rather apologetically that while she’d try to read my book, she couldn’t guarantee she’d get through the whole thing by the time I needed the feedback. That was about three weeks ago. Even in her last days, her concerns were about how much she could give.

Perhaps if she had been less giving, less generous with her time and talents, and more focused on her own career, she would have found both fame and fortune as a writer. Instead, her legacy is farther reaching.

Lu Ann had the talent and skills of a brilliant writer, but more than that, she had the heart of a teacher. She found joy in helping others, in sharing with them the magic of the written word, both in reading and writing. Her loss is also a great loss to the writing community as a whole.

As we have reminisced, variations of the same two things have come up again and again: First, that every book we’ve written since meeting her has been touched by her unique hand.

And second, that going forward, we will continue to hear her voice as we type away, calling us out on awkward word choices, weak character motivations, demanding better descriptions. Things we’ve heard before, like

“Where are we? You didn’t show us the setting.”

“Um, that’s not humanly possible.”

“You used the word very fifteen times on this page—I counted.”

“The girl just rolled her eyes for the fifth time this chapter.”

“Your main character has three arms in this scene.”

Or the classic comment we’ve all heard a thousand times that was all Lu Ann: “Sorry. I don’t buy it.”

We’ll miss not having our pages marked in red with her neat handwriting, no longer seeing her smiley faces and stars in the margins next to parts she thought were especially good. It’s hard to know that never again will we sit around her kitchen table and hear her laugh as we talk shop and brainstorm.

But from the other side, she will certainly continue to whisper in our ears as we write—scolding, cajoling, telling us that we can do better, calling us on it when we don’t. No doubt, she’s already at work, busily helping others, teaching and serving. Being the friend and woman we were all blessed to know. 

She challenged all of us to do better and be better because she sincerely believed we were capable of great things. None of us could have predicted the immense impact she has had on us.

Her support and selfless assistance made us better writers.

Her friendship made us better people.

Some members of our critique group in 2013.
L to R: Lu Ann Staheli, J. Scott Savage,
Sarah M. Eden, Annette Lyon, Michele Paige Holmes
Not pictured: Heather B. Moore and Robison Wells

***PLEASE NOTE***

Lu Ann's family is buried under medical bills from her treatment, even more so because her sweet husband hasn't worked since her diagnosis last summer, so he could be at her side. 

If you can help even a little, please do donate to the family HERE. 

Another way to help is to buy her books. You can find them on Lu Ann’s Amazon author page. 

Author Interview: Jenny Hess

This interview is different from others I've posted here. I hope you'll stick around and read the whole thing; it's that valuable.

A few years ago, I had the fortune of crossing paths with Jenny Hess and being able to read a draft of the manuscript that would become a published memoir about her young son's sudden death and the journey of grief that followed.

Every year, I read a lot of books and manuscripts, but few stay with me the way Jenny's book has. Years later, I still think of her, her son Russell, and their story, with regularity. 

Sometimes it's when I'm out for a run and I remember the time Jenny was out running early one morning shortly after Russell's death. (I won't tell you what happened, but trust me; you won't forget it either.) When I hear an ambulance siren, I think of the trip Russell took to the ER and what happened there.

But I also think of Jenny's story when I see someone in pain. Someone grieving. I remember it when I face my own struggles. And when I discover someone else who has gone through a sudden loss and the subsequent grief. I like to think that learning of Jenny and her journey through pain and loss has taught me how to be more compassionate with others (and with myself). It's a story of pain, but it's also one of hope, joy, and, eventually, healing.

It's a book everyone should read, whether or not you've experienced something similar. This mortality thing is rough; chances are, you still may undergo a sudden loss. Chances are even better that you know someone who already has or who will soon go through a traumatic time and who must grapple with the grief that follows.

Here's our interview about her remarkable book.

AL: How would you describe your book: memoir? How-to? Other? And why?

JH: I would definitely describe my book as a memoir and not a how-to. Grief is an intensely personal experience to a deeply individual loss. People are given a disservice and tend to bristle when told how to grieve. In His Hands is simply my experience with the grief of losing my son Russell, and I hope it gives a grieving reader the validation that these strong, profound, overwhelming emotions are normal and that they are not alone in their pain.


AL: What prompted you to write about your experiences surrounding your son’s death?

JH: I was having so many conflicting emotions—the deep, dark, ugly wretchedness of missing Russell along with the holy, sacred and beautiful new insights into the Atonement of Jesus Christ. I felt these needed to be chronicled before they were lost in the fog I was engulfed in. But really, I began writing because through an
honest misunderstanding I’d inadvertently led my two-year-old son to believe Jesus kidnapped his older brother. I think I’ve resolved the issue, but I kept thinking then, that, if as a teenager, Joey wondered why deep down he didn’t like Jesus, I would have it there for him in print—that it was my fault.


AL: What was the writing process like? How long did it take? Did you always plan to publish it?

JH: I was writing Russell’s biography when I knew I needed to write this book. In His Hands is a book that tells how the loss affected me and my family, previous life experiences I felt prepared me for the loss, and the heavy and holy experiences of grief I experienced later.

Some days I wrote feverishly, the words just pouring out. Other days I wrote timidly, tip-toeing through painful memories. Some days I couldn’t write—not for a lack of material, but because it was just too much to handle.

I was really just writing for me and for my immediate family. Especially for Joey, so he’d hopefully have a vibrant and faith-filled relationship with our Savior. It seemed to take forever to write, but I think it was mostly done within six months of starting it. I hadn’t intended to get it published, but some close friends
encouraged me to try.


AL: What makes your book on the topic of grief different? 

JH: This book is different than any other grief memoir I’ve read. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough in the LDS/Christian market, although I’ve noticed more being published lately. While they maintain a belief in God that’s uplifting and inspiring, most seem to be written years after the loss, and the grief experience has lacked
the rawness of new grief. This diminished the significant emotions that were overwhelming me and left me feeling alone and misunderstood.

In contrast, secular memoirs I’ve read tend to open up and share the vivid and intense pain of grief. This validated my bleeding emotions and helped me feel like I’m not crazy. But a common theme to these books is the question, “How could a kind, loving God allow this to happen?” and it breaks my heart and sometimes my spirit to read how their faith is not only questioned, but seemingly crushed and broken beyond repair.

I know how a kind, loving God could allow this to happen, but I still felt so despondent that I could barely function. In His Hands is a realistic, faith-promoting look into the abyss of grief with a loving Heavenly Father at my side.


AL: Who do you think would benefit from reading the book? 

JH: Surprisingly, I’ve received feedback from people of all backgrounds telling me they’ve benefited from reading this book. We’ve all experienced loss to some degree, whether they be through death of a loved one, debilitating health issues, abuse, divorce, or even the loss of not having the life you imagined you’d be living by now. While those losses differ, many of the emotions are the same.

People who haven’t experienced much loss have expressed they learned from reading about the inner turmoil of my grief and as a result, gained a better understanding and compassion for friends and family who had.


AL: What is the greatest/most important lesson you’ve learned as a result of  Russell’s death? 

JH: My testimony of Jesus Christ has deepened and strengthened through the death of my son. My love for Heavenly Father and my appreciation for His plan have grown in immeasurable ways. I’ve always known They love me, but now I’m starting to see how much.

I’ve learned through the kind acts of others how important it is to “mourn with those who mourn,” and how I may feel lonely at times, but I’m never really alone.


AL: What would be your advice to someone facing a big trial, whether it deals with the death of a loved one or something else? 

JH: In His Hands was written during my worst grief. I’m still grieving the loss of Russell, but I’m not experiencing the profound grief that you’ll read about in the book. I’m in a much better place now. Please remember that while time itself doesn’t heal, it takes away the sharpness of the pain. It’s easier to see answers to “Why?” and lessons learned after—sometimes years after—the experience.

Trying to understand these lessons before they’re apparent is frustrating and breeds doubt. Just hold on through this. It will get better.

We recently marked the six-year anniversary of Russell’s death. For the first few years, I was just surviving. Don’t overdo things in the beginning of a difficult trial—it’s harder to survive that way. Sometimes you just have to slow down and feel. It’s painful. Healing from a traumatic wound usually is.

Around year three, I was back in a regular routine. I was able to function in a seemingly normal way. To the naked eye I was a “regular” person, although I still felt broken. I still broke from time to time, but I found my inner strength was able to usually get me through challenging situations.

Around year five, I realized I still wasn’t happy. I could experience happy moments, but I wasn’t happy. I wasn’t always depressed, either, which was good. So I gave up trying to be happy. I just tried to enjoy and appreciate. I figured I wouldn’t reach the level of “happy” until I was with Russell again. Letting go of  the unattainable goal of happiness allowed me to enjoy moments even more.

One average day, about 5 1/2 years after Russell died, I realized that I was feeling more than happy moments. I was feeling happy. Just in my everyday life. I was even happy to be alive. It just sort of snuck up on me.

And while I fall back down into the hole occasionally (especially during the time of year of his death), I’m still happy. And I know I’ll eventually make my way back out.

Grief is a long process, and it’s different for everyone. Please don’t lose hope if you can’t make your way through as fast as you’d like. Just hold on. There are good days and better times ahead.

* * *

About the Author
Jenny Hess was born in Boston, Massachusetts. She is an avid quilter and loves the outdoors. After serving a mission in Denmark, Jenny graduated from California State University Long Beach, where she met her husband, Kirk. They have five kids—four living on earth and one living in Heaven. As a family, they love spending time together surfing, camping, hiking, biking, exploring, rock climbing, and canyoneering. Jenny's story can be found on Mormon.org, and a video vignette detailing how the scriptures helped heal her is currently being shown at the Los Angeles Temple Visitor's Center in California. Jenny is the Grief Group Facilitator for her stake and spends time helping grievers on their path. Visit her at jennyhess.wordpress.com.

Buy the book HERE.

An Unexpected Haven

This post is something I wrote as a guest blogger for my friend Lara's blog several years ago, and I thought I'd resurrect it here, as most of my readers haven't seen it. 

Rereading it was a great reminder that I want to be the kind of person for someone else that Mrs. Peterson was for me. (It also reminded me that you couldn't pay me to return to middle school.)

***

Originally posted at Overstuffed September 2011 

Entering junior high (or in my case, it was called “middle school”) is always a nasty experience, but I’d venture that mine was a bit rockier than most. My family had just returned from a three-year stint in Finland. Although I wouldn't give up my time in Finland for anything, those years were hard in their own way, especially the first one, where it was cool to beat up the American girl, I had to make friends, and (!) learn the language.

But there was one big plus: I spent all three years with the same teacher and with the same classmates, in the same classroom. I had no idea what a good thing that was until I lost it.

Back in the States, Mom took me to get registered for school. Now I’d have seven new classes with seven new teachers and likely few students I knew at all—a far cry from my last three years.

On our tour through the school, we happened past the library, and my mother recognized the assistant librarian, Mrs. Peterson. They chatted a bit, and then Mrs. Peterson said they still needed another TA. Was my schedule full, or would I like to be a library TA for one of my electives?

I thought that sure, it might be fun, and signed up. I didn’t give it a second thought, beyond thinking it would be an easy A.

School started, and every single day, I ached hour after hour. Even though the halls were packed, I’d never felt so alone. The school was fed by several elementary schools, but I recognized students everywhere I looked.

Only they didn’t recognize me. For all they knew, the person I’d been three years ago had vanished off the planet. But I knew so many them.

That girl right there? She’s Keisha and she plays violin. Once, we had some stupid fight. I didn’t remember what it was about, but I always felt bad about it.

The guy behind me in French was Kyle. In fourth grade he sat by me and was really smart. He used to bring Boy’s Life to school.

That kid over there? Chad. He had a crush on me one year and baked me a lopsided heart cake for Valentine’s. He even tried to kiss me, and that was the one time I was grateful for a big brother who beat up on me, because I shocked the guys by fighting for my “honor” and got away.

It went on and on. In science it was Emily, whom I recognized from kindergarten.

Sarah from third grade showed up in another class.

There was Mark from second grade, who tried switching places with his twin Jeff on April Fool’s Day. And the boy who ate paste and had his hair pulled in first grade by the teacher who was later fired for child abuse.

I saw Jeannie and Stacie and Kelly and Loralee and . . . it went on and on. And oh, my heart just broke. None of them saw me. They looked right through me, because I didn’t exist to them as someone they already knew.

They didn’t have the slightest clue who I was, and I couldn’t very well just grab them by the sleeve and say, “Hey, remember me from three (or more) years ago? Remember how we played at recess together in Mrs. Wallace’s class? Or, “Remember how I came to your house when we were in Mrs. Mixa’s class?” It’s not like they’d remember, even if I had the guts to say something—which I didn’t.

I’d just spent three years with the same group of students. When I made friends with the Finnish girls, I never had to step out of that comfort zone and do it again, let alone in so many classes and in a new culture (US culture felt foreign), and a new language (English did feel new again). Somehow, my mouth was paralyzed shut. I couldn’t make friends. I couldn’t speak.

But each day when my library TA hour arrived, I walked in, and the burden fell from my shoulders like a physical weight dropping to the ground. There were no students to interact with beyond those checking out a book. There was no one to judge me, no one for me to try to get along with, or to make friends with or to impress. Just shelves and shelves of my best friends: books.

Plus Mrs. Peterson. She became a dear friend that year.

My library jobs were easy. Checking out books to students wasn’t too scary. Checking in books even less so, as it required no social interaction. Shelving was quiet and non-threatening. I could do that with nothing but me and silence and my thoughts. If there was nothing urgent needing to be done, I sat at the front desk and read. Sometimes I brought along some knitting.

But quite often I found myself in the back room talking to Mrs. Peterson. She made me feel at ease; my paralyzed mouth could open around her and speak. I could be myself. She never once treated me like a dumb little kid. I was always an equal in her eyes. My opinion mattered. I was there. I was present. I was never invisible to her. Her face lit up when she saw me, and she waved good-bye each time my hour was up.

She was the bright spot in my days, the one thing that kept me going during that miserable year. I had someone and something to look forward to. Someone to talk to, one place where I could drop my worries at the door and be and matter.

By the second semester, thanks to Mrs. Peterson’s genuine friendship, I had the confidence to open my mouth just enough to make two friends, one of which—miracle of miracles—is still close to me today.

I doubt Mrs. Peterson has any idea of the enormous impact she had on me, even though I kept visiting her off and on over the years, even after I got into college.

That school building is no longer a middle school. It’s been remodeled to the point that it hardly resembles the old building. And I have no idea where Mrs. Peterson is now. But if I could find her again, I’d give her a big hug (and likely some chocolate), then let her know what a balm she was during a difficult transition for one girl in desperate need of a soft place to fall during a difficult year of adolescence.

And then I wonder if I’ve ever overlooked the chance to be someone else’s balm by doing something as simple seeing them and talking to them in a genuine and real way. Because when I boil down what Mrs. Peterson did for me, that’s what it was. She cared. She listened. She talked to me. She saw me.

I can do that, can’t I?

Have I? It’s something I should strive for, because I know firsthand what a powerful effect it can have on a person’s day—and on their lives.

Wix's Life Lessons for 8th Graders

As the school year winds down (and my oldest child graduates from high school!), I wanted to share a cool list made by my daughter and her classmates. For the past two years, they've been in a special advanced program for English and social studies (nicknamed "Acad," short for Academy), and this year they had the same teacher for both classes.

This teacher (nicknamed "Wix") combined the two subjects. For example, when he taught about the Civil Rights era, the class followed that unit by reading and discussing literature about race issues. He integrated both subjects seamlessly, and as a result, the students learned more in his class than any other in their lifetimes.

Wix taught my daughter how to be a critical thinker. Wix challenged her in ways few junior high kids ever are. He made her grow and stretch and do more than she thought she could.

Wix is retiring, so this is his last set of students ever. As a going-away gift, my daughter had her classmates share favorite Wix-isms, things he'd taught them. Even in a public school setting, he managed to teach them values.

My daughter typed up the Wix lessons and framed them as a parting gift from their class. Some are clearly inside jokes that I'll have to learn about sometime. Some are silly, funny, or painfully true ("I want to hug you, but I can't"). And still others are profound lessons.

Here's to another great year of school gone, a great summer ahead, and to taking the lessons we've learned with us. Thanks to Mr. Wix and so many other great teachers out there.

All We Need to Know We Learned from Wix

Forgive one another | To keep a cow from exploding, stab it | For whatever reasons . . . | Alcohol is the stuff to drink for those of you it hurts to think | Ask questions | Don’t wake up hibernating bats | I’m telling you straight up |The world isn’t black and white | There are two kinds of people in the world | There is no such thing as a stupid question | Knowledge is not the same thing as information | Pay one extra payment on your house yearly | Appreciate real beauty | Bugs are part of any healthy diet | Palm trees can be dangerous | All knowledge is equal | Read your scriptures | I love you | There is always more than one way to spell a word | Dingbat is a language | Not all chocolate is equal | Are you ready? | Everyone is a child of God; treat them that way | You cannot worry about the speck in your neighbor’s eye when you have a beam in your own | Honor your parents . . . even if they are Republicans | I want to hug you, but I can’t. | Always hug Noah | Everyone can win in the end | Reality is a misconception fostered by the imaginary need to feel important | Failure is good | Remember the Rondas in your life | What’s the point of education if I can’t force you to be miserable? | I’m not reading too fast; you’re listening too slow | The basis on which you judge others will be the basis on which you will be judged by God | Never talk to someone in English if they are listening in Dingbat | Love cannot be explained in words | Don’t judge head hunters | Beauty is in the eye of the beholder | You can always lie yourself through college | Sometimes education can get in the way of your learning | One day the girls will notice you |You don’t want your last memory to be Wix giving you mouth-to-mouth | Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana | Only follow the rules that don’t matter | That which is essential in life is invisible to the eye | The difference between intelligence and stupidity is that intelligence has its limits | Some people are harder to love than others, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t love them anyway | Step out of your bubble | We have reached a bizarre moment in life | Love your neighbor | Stand up for yourself | Being gifted is a gift, not a curse | Take risks | A lie gets halfway around the world before the truth gets a chance to put its pants on | I love you.

From Your 2012–2013 Wix Kids

We love and will miss you

Thanks, Valerie

Ten years ago, in the summer of 2001, I got yet another rejection from one of the two publishing houses I was bound and determined to break into (Covenant, the other being Deseret Book). This rejection had a lot of positives in it, and it included a request to revise and resubmit.

About two weeks later, I got an e-mail from an editor there who I knew personally. We'd crossed paths many times, at League of Utah Writers meetings, conferences, and so on. She was one of the most helpful and sweet people ever.

Her name was Valerie Holladay.

In her email, she said that she'd seen my work cross her desk over the years, and she knew I had the chops, but for whatever reason hadn't quite crossed the line into acceptance. Long-time readers of my blog will remember the story (HERE and HERE) about how Valerie invited me to lunch so we could discuss my writing and figure out how to fine-tune my work so it was more marketable.

I spent days frantically writing synopses of my novels so Valerie could read them in advance and give me feedback on the stories when we met for lunch. I remember the table we sat at when the light bulb went off over my head and I realized what ingredients my stories were missing. I remember talking to her in the parking lot, where she told me that if we could just get me in the door I'd "be an asset to the company."

She gave me permission to submit to her electronically, which wasn't the norm back then. But by the time that day came, I learned that she was leaving the company. At first I felt like the brass ring had been taken away from me; my advocate at Covenant was gone.

Sure, Valerie had left, but she'd taught me what I needed. That fall, I submitted what became Lost Without You, and by the one-year anniversary of our lunch, I had a novel on bookstore shelves with my name on it.

In the years since, we've corresponded here and there as friends and colleagues about topics ranging from cat training to typesetting. Most of my friends who are fellow Covenant authors came aboard after I did and never knew her.

In many ways, I owe a lot to Valerie for helping me and guiding me. She took me under her wing when I needed it the most.

I know I'm not unique in that respect. I've heard many other writers express gratitude for the friendship and help they received from Valerie.

Which is why the world lost something special on Sunday when Valerie passed away after a short bout of cancer. I didn't even know she was ill. When I heard, my heart ached.

I'm quite sure I'm not alone in saying that she will be missed.

Thanks for everything, Valerie.

Mixed Bag

Today I woke up to the tragic news about the devastating fire that destroyed the Provo Tabernacle.

If you know Provo at all, you know what a huge loss this is. For me personally, it's part of my childhood and teen years as well that went up in flames. We had stake conference there. I graduated from seminary there. Friends performed in concerts. Others competed in piano competitions.

So many memories.

And that's not even considering the historical loss. I hope they rebuild (if they don't, the center of Provo will have a massive hole in it, emotionally and visually), but even if they do, the original pioneer woodwork, the old organ, all of that . . . gone.

On a slightly happier note, sweet friend Sherry Ann Miller posted a review of Chocolate Never Faileth on her blog, Miller's Musings. She came up with holiday gift ideas for my recipes, things that never occurred to me.

Deirdra Coppel interviewed me on her blog the other day, A Story Book World. (I must say, she asked some fun questions.)

Also:

Book signing today

Fashion Place Seagull

11:00 - 12:30

Four Musketeers

I used to think I knew what friendship was.

When I was a kid, it meant playing house, roaming the neighborhood, doing bake sales, being invited to one another's parties (when my best friend didn't invite me to a Christmas party, saying she was told to invite other friends and having them then go caroling to my house? Yeah, it nearly killed that little nine-year-old in me).

As a high schooler, friendship was defined largely by who accepted me into their "group." For the most part, friends were who I hung out with on weekends. They're the ones I shared all the high school drama with (of which there was much . . .), the ones I always, always worried would nudge me out of the inner circle because they'd figure out that I wasn't cool enough and didn't belong.

During that time, I had an intense sense of loyalty and always supported my friends, whether it was in a performance, recital, birthday, or even for a competition in another city. (They were freakishly talented, so that was quite the commitment.) I gave and gave and gave. Then I got horribly confused when that kind of support was never reciprocated.

I remember a dress rehearsal on the school stage for a dance concert. A couple of "best friends" were at the school at the exact same time, and they knew I was about to go on stage. I'd learned enough by this point to not expect them to come to the concert itself, but I was hurt when they didn't bother to even peek in the door to at least see the dress rehearsal. They were already in the hall. All it would have taken was turning a handle on a door.

This kind of thing happened a lot. I'm a very slow learner.

Eventually, near the end of my senior year, there was some big seminary thing. I think there was a slide show of the year or some such, and in the background was the classic Mormon pop song that goes, "Be that friend, be that kind, that you hope you might find. And you'll always have a best friend, come what may."

Bologna, I thought.

It was the first time I'd admitted to myself that no matter how hard you work on being a good friend, you can't control someone else. You can't make them be friends back.

So I sat in the back of the room and bawled, knowing that the lyrics were a load of garbage. I was the best friend I could possibly be, but I'd been kicked around over the years. A lot.

Much of the time, I didn't know if I had a group I belonged to, let alone a best friend. (People who knew me then would be surprised to hear all this, I'm sure. I hid the angst well.)

I left the room not knowing what friendship really meant.

Things only got worse when I was the second of our group to get married. There's been a lot of finger-pointing since about the period immediately following my wedding, but the upshot is that, for whatever reason, I was clearly no longer part of that circle. There was a big disconnect between me and them until the others married and had kids. That's when we finally had common ground again (like potty training war stories).

I had one friend during this time who remained single. And she never stopped talking to me just because I had a ring on my left finger. I don't recall her ever acting weird after the wedding or after I became a mom. She never changed. She was my tender mercy (and was in high school more than once, and has been a few times since).

The next real friend connection I had was over a decade ago. I served in a Young Women presidency where I bonded to the other presidency members in a remarkable way. After our release, we stayed close. But when the president was moving away and I said good-bye, I walked home hyperventilating with wracking sobs. I knew that such a friendship was rare and priceless, and that as much as we cared about one another, we'd never have the same relationship once she left the state.

My critique group is made up of people I consider dear friends, including that rare occurrence, the male friend. I am lucky enough to have two of them, and they're both like awesome extra brothers.

For me, the definitions of friendship have continued to undergo many iterations over the years.

My current view includes all of this and more:

• A "true friend" might not be a buddy who has known you most of your life, even if you have Girls' Camp pictures and embarrassing stories you could blackmail the other with.
• Someone who is nice 95% of the time but manages to twist a knife say, annually, is not a friend.
• You can live in the same area for years but never truly be friends with neighbors, even if everyone is friendly and gets along. (Friendly does not equate friendship.)
• An acquaintance and a friend are not the same thing.
• You must earn the label of friend.
• If someone who uses that label is really a friend of convenience, she might stab you in the back or climb over you to get what she wants.
• Some actual friends are the kind and loving type. They are people I'd love to hang with, to talk to and otherwise have a great time with. But thanks to multiple burns of the past, I remain guarded even with most people in this category. Most of them, as truly wonderful as they are, will never see the deepest layers of who I am. I still (greatly!) appreciate the friendships we have, such as they are. What they see is most definitely real, (for that matter, I'm way too real for a lot of people, which has caused me no end of trouble and has likely lost me friends), but these connections will only ever go so far.
• I have a very difficult time making friends, especially in neighborhoods and wards. This is largely because I'm painfully shy but don't look like it. As a result, I've been called "stuck-up" many painful times. The reality is that I don't ever feel superior to someone; I almost always feel INFERIOR and unable to introduce myself or open up. (One reason why that YW presidency was so big for me.)
• The most surprising element of friendship of late: I can learn to love (and be loved in return) by women I've never met, thanks to blogging. (You know who you all are. You truly enrich my life.)

The point of all this (I swear, there is one):

I am more and more grateful for the three women I can call my truest friends. We've known one another a varying number of years (less then a decade in every case). We're separated geographically (we're all in the same state, but in some cases, hours away from one another). Each one has walked a different path with me, shared things unique to them and our friendships.

Yet the four of us as a group are close in a way that almost defies logic.

These women lift me. They encourage me. If I'm having an off day, they don't get offended. Instead, they come to see what they can do to help. They offer support and love and understanding. Often, as a group.

They're never more than a phone call or e-mail away. They provide listening ears. They give needed hugs. They make me smile and laugh. And because we're all in the same "weird" industry, they understand me, the way I think, and my feelings, in a way no one else can. Sometimes, just hanging out and laughing together is enough to lighten my load, because of who they are and what they represent:

True Friends.

Because the truth is, they know me (frighteningly well), and that means they're starkly aware of my plethora of large warts.

And they love me anyway.

Of late, I've found myself regularly saying prayers of gratitude for Josi, Julie, and Heather.

I love you guys. Thank you for who you are, what you represent, what you've been to me and continue to give me, and for what you put up with. I really don't know what I'd do without you.

(With Heather, Josi, and Julie, LDStorymakers Conference, April 2008.)

Personal Wagons

In recent years, I've had a particular lesson hammered home many times:

Life isn't perfect . . . for anyone. 

That's simply a fact, no matter what someone's life looks like from the outside. No human being will escape this life without their share of trials, unwelcome surprises, and burdens. 


But somehow, we either forget that, or we don't realize it, or, often, we simply don't believe it.
 
I've had people say to my face that I must have no clue what stress is like, that gee, I should be so grateful for having such an easy life . . . all because they see just a little piece of my existence from the outside.
 
While I might not have experienced their particular trial (one such commenter was divorced, and no, I've never been through that), I do have trials of my own. Everyone does. Just because I don't proclaim mine from the rooftop in neon lights doesn't mean they don't exist.
 
The same goes for other people. I continue to be stunned when I hear about long-time friends who have gone through this or that trial, really big things I never knew or suspected. But I shouldn't be surprised, because no one is immune to this thing called mortality, and most trials aren't obvious to the casual observer.


Instead, our private burdens are just that: private, personal and between us and the Lord.
 
About twelve years ago, when I had a 2-year-old and a baby, a neighbor apologized for not calling earlier about something, explaining she'd had a crazy, stressful day. I said, "Don't worry about it. I totally understand being stressed out."


Her reply: "No you don't. I have four kids. You have two."


In shock, I stood there with the phone to my ear with no clue how to respond. She had no right to assume anything about my life and its stresses, regardless of the number of children I had at the time. (So now that I have four children can I say I understand stress? Puhleese.) To this day, I can't think about her with warm fuzzies.


I had something similar happen recently, only it wasn't cruel like that other situation; it was simply an offhand remark from a friend who didn't know what she was talking about. I was with two friends, and they were commiserating about the problems their teenagers were wreaking on their families. One turned to me and said something like, "None of your kids are like this. Aren't you glad that the only thing you have to worry about is promoting your new book?" It was all I could do not to cry. As it was, my eyes stung, and I made some flippant remark before leaving.

Yes, I know I am very blessed. I know I have some things many others yearn for (among them: a publishing contract. Trust me, I don't take that for granted). But that knowledge doesn't mean, by any stretch of the imagination, that I don't have trials. Daily ones. HARD ones. I just don't broadcast them. I'm willing to wager that any blogger who appears to "have it all" . . . doesn't. NO ONE DOES.

Some days, I envy bloggers who can dump their problems freely into posts. I can't really do that, because this blog, while very much an honest part of who I am, is only a slice of me. That slice is the professional writer/editor, and sometimes the mom. This isn't a forum where I put my problems out for the world to see. But that doesn't mean they don't exist. I believe it's unfair for anyone to compare trials. 


"What I'm going through is so much harder than what she's dealing with. She has it so easy." You know what? You can't know that. Only God can know the burden each person pulls in their wagons. They may have dozens of trials you haven't ever considered.


And even if you happen to know what all their trials are (which is unlikely if not impossible), what is excruciatingly heavy for one person to bear might not be so hard for another, but that doesn't discount the suffering the first person is going through. Viktor Frankl, a Holocaust survivor, once compared suffering to a gaseous substance. He said that a gas will fill up any container it is placed into, regardless of size, and suffering is the same: no matter what type of suffering we're dealing with, the pain fills the person completely. 


This means that if one of my daughters has trouble with her school friends, it might rock her world just as much as something so-called "bigger" rocks mine. As her mother, a more mature adult, I can look at her problem and see it as trivial or small (it would be small if I were to magically be a fifth grader again with the maturity of a 36-year-old). But to her, it's not trivial. It is a heavy burden, and the pain fills her completely.

As I said, this idea has been on my mind a lot in recent years, so I suppose it shouldn't have been a surprise when it showed up in Band of Sisters. Several of the women in there assume things about one another and about their individual struggles, or supposedly the others' lack of problems. But the reader sees behind the curtain and knows that each and every woman in the story has a heavy load she must pull in her wagon, even though each burden is of a different stripe. 


In real life, we don't have the luxury of seeing behind one another's curtains, but perhaps we can be more compassionate and give one another the benefit of the doubt. As they say, if you assume that everyone you meet is going through a difficult time, you'll almost always be right.

You Can't Hear Me

People often assume that because I'm a writer, I must be great at getting across what I mean in conversation. That when I open my mouth, eloquence ushers forth like a fountain.

The reality is that most of the time, I feel like I have a short circuit between my brain and my mouth, and I struggle to find a way to get what I'm thinking past my brain, into words, and out of my mouth.

I recall one conversation I had with a good friend where my response came out absolutely wrong. I knew it the moment I said it. The words alone were enough for my brain to flash red warning lights, but her face also told me my answer was hurtful.

I didn't mean it the way it came out, but for the life of me, I couldn't come up with how I could have said it differently. I grasped at straws for several minutes.

After she left, I continued to ponder on the conversation. Two weeks later, I figured out what I should have said.

This is why I like writing things like novels: I can go back for weeks at a time to fix the manuscript until it says what I want it to. I can show a scene to my critique group. When something comes across in a way totally different than how I intended, they point it out, and I can change it before anyone else reads it.

I have a chance to fix my words.

In real life, I rarely have such opportunities, and the effect is that I often hurt people. The fact that I have strong opinions doesn't help matters, because I'll state them, and apparently, I'm not always smart enough to soften them in public or be aware or how they come out.

Sometimes I hurt people in verbal, face-to-face conversations, and other times it's in e-mail, where we don't have the benefit of intonations and body language to help figure out what the other means.

Several years ago, I was involved in such an e-mail "conversation." (Okay, it was an ugly argument in a public forum.) I said a lot of nasty things on my end, things I'm not proud about. I don't think either of us handled the situation all that well, but as we were popping off e-mails back and forth over several days, I wasn't taking time to really think through my words to see if what I meant and the tone I intended was coming across accurately.

Then I got another e-mail. I don't recall the exact words, but it said something along the lines of how I'm really good at making people feel small, and how I must know that and enjoy it.

I stared at the screen, feeling as if I'd been punched in the gut. I knew what it felt like to be made to feel small. But over the course of the argument, I hadn't meant to belittle anyone. Sure, I was trying to outwit my opponent. I was probably sarcastic and snarky and more.

But I hadn't realized I was hurting her, putting her down, making her feel as if I was stepping on her and wiping her off the bottom of my shoe.

In the darkness of the room, I wept, staring at the monitor for a long time. It was a harsh lesson, but one I needed to learn. I didn't want to be the person she'd described. I replied saying I was sorry and that I'd be stepping back from the forum for awhile.

It's been my great fortune that the other party has forgiven my stupidity and is now, literally, one of my best friends in the whole world. Today, I'm grateful she called me out on that.

I've tried hard since then to not belittle others in the same way. Unfortunately, every so often, I find out it's happened again . . . never intentionally on my part, but it seems to be almost like a reflex. I'm really good at smacking people down without realizing it.

Sometimes it's with situations I really have no control over. (I find out someone is intimidated by my knowledge of grammar. In that case, I shrug and move on, because there's nothing I can do about that.) Other times, it's something I said or wrote, or maybe a comment I made or something I said on a blog post. Maybe something else.

And I realize that I haven't quite learned the lesson. It always comes as a shock to me when someone calls me on the carpet, telling me I was mean or rude and need to apologize or that I was hurtful or whatever.

Then, confused and hurt, I mentally rewind what happened and view it from their lens. And I realize that yep, that could have been seen as rude or hurtful. I didn't mean it that way. If they saw into my heart and knew the entire story or history and why I said it that way and how I really think, they wouldn't have been hurt. They wouldn't have judged it that way. But I didn't say it right to begin with.

And they were hurt. Are hurt. I needed to be more sensitive in how I approached the topic. I hurt someone.

Over the years, I've thought about how we'll communicate in the next life. I've heard theories about how maybe we'll be able to get entire ideas across with our minds without having to resort to speaking words.

That idea is tantalizing to me. I already wish I could take entire thoughts, feelings, and histories from my head and insert them into others' minds with a swoop of my hand.

Now do you see what I see? Feel what I feel? Do you understand what I mean?

As much as I adore words, I hate them just as much. They limit me. They cause confusion and hurt and miscommunication. I think the urgency to make people hear my thoughts and understand what is in my mind is one reason (aside from the genetic component) that I talk fast. Words hold me back. I want to get the thought out of my head and into the other person's.

I pray that one of these days I'll be able to open my mouth, truly speak what's inside, and be understood.

To be able to type what's in my heart without fear that it'll be the wrong thing and that I'll be misjudged.

That someone will not be hurt by me. Again.

Because just when I get comfortable, thinking I've made it, that I've finally learned the lesson and know how to prevent it from happening, I do it again.

The cycle is repeated.

I'll keep trying, but I don't know how to overcome it, once and for all.