Going There: Mansplaining and Real Men

I touched on this recently on Facebook, but because the horse isn't fully dead yet, here's a more thorough another beating: The term "mansplaining" exists for a very good reason.

No, not all men do it. That doesn't mean it's not a real occurrence, on a regular basis, for many women. I'd wager that nearly all women can point to a time when they've been mansplained.

Probably in the last week.

 It's not the same thing as "womensplained," an alternative I've had two men suggest lately to show how "mansplaining" is an insulting term them. (First off, if that were true, which it is not, welcome to the club. English has dozens of words to denigrate women and precious few to insult men with.)

A lot of women may have an insulting way of interacting with men; I'm not saying they don't. However it may be happening, it's different from mansplaining. The truth this, I don't have a heck of a lot of pity for men who are mansplaining all over the place and then whine that a woman might have spoken to them in a way they didn't like.

For anyone up in arms about the term, please go read Deborah Tannen's NY Times bestselling book about conversational styles, You Just Don't Understand. The book does not use the term "mansplaining" (the term didn't exist when the book came out), but it does go into the differences between how women and men speak—real differences backed by science.

The author is a sociolinguist with a specialty is in conversational styles across gender, nationalities, in the workplace, between various groups, and even wrote has a book about mother-daughter conversations. Tannen's work isn't all stuff about gender interactions.

The fact is that the way women and men speak, and the motivation behind their speech is different. And yes, it's on a continuum. For example, my speaking style is not nearly as "female" as that of many women I know, and I know some men whose speaking style leans toward the female side of the spectrum. But in general, the gender differences shed light on the phenomenon of mansplaining.

Go read the book. Seriously. But back to mansplaining itself.

No, not all men do it. 

My father and my brother are great examples. They both (spoiler alert) deeply respect and admire the women in their lives. My dad's a retired professor. He made a living teaching people. He could easily have been patronizing when I was a kid and, indeed, asking him dumb questions. But he never once made me feel that way, no matter what dumb thing I asked. Dad was a safe, respectful place. 

He also didn't jump in to answer an unspoken question, assuming I was inept, a very common way mansplaining shows up. 

My brother doesn't mansplain either. At times I get the sense that he's so proud of his wife that he thinks she's smarter than he is (which may or may not be true—they're both pretty dang smart and both have advanced degrees), but he never lets his wife's Ph.D. (and her knowledge in a field that isn't his specialty) get in the way of his masculinity.

Guess what? That makes him more of a man. 

In my experience, it's the insecure men who get up in arms about hearing women mention mansplaining. Insecure men are most definitely the ones who do not understand the concept. They don't believe women when they say it happens, and that it happens often. They're the ones who insist that the term is sexist.

Oh, and those also are the men who insist on explaining to women what mansplaining means. (They're mansplaining mansplaining. Let that sink in a bit.) I've seen this many, many times. 

Real Men, on the Other Hand

Real men respect women in word and deed, and that's counting times when no one is watching. Real character shows up in private moments, in small numbers. It's much easier to be gallant and inclusive and outwardly respectful in front of dozens or hundreds, when you can plan your words and then open your arms to receive public adulation. 

Which brings me back to my dad. He does what he believes in his core is the right thing to do, no matter who will or will not ever know about it. And I can guarantee that much of the good he's done is known by no one but him and Lord. He does it anyway. I know this because I've inadvertently learned of some of the things he's quietly done, things I shouldn't have found out about. 

For every one of those I discovered, how many others has he done that I don't know about? Hundreds of thousands, I have no doubt. 

Real men don't need to announce their awesomeness to the crowds. 

Real men don't need to demand that women stop using a term that precisely describes a regular frustration and source of pain. 

Real men don't want women to be in pain. 

Real men listen to women and intentionally change their behavior, if needed, to avoid causing women pain, especially those in their personal sphere. 

Real men stand up for women who are being put down, patronized, or demeaned. 

Real men hear terms like mansplaining, and instead of being offended, they listen and try to understand. 

Real men take a close look at their own behavior to see if they've been guilty of mansplaining, even unawares. 

Real men make a determination to do better, if needed. 

Real men defend those who need protection, and yes, that's often women. 

A Real Man with a Hat 

An awesome is example was a Facebook post from a couple of years ago, one the author surely thought was just a funny situation he'd share. To me it was so much more: Dan Wells* told a story of how his young son (maybe 11 at the time?) mansplained to his own mother something that the son was obviously wrong about. The story was hilarious. That's why Dan shared it. 

But I saw something much deeper in the account. Guess what, men? Dan gets mansplaining. 

He sees it. He understands it and why it's a bad thing.

Even better, I'm quite sure that his son will be taught by word and by example that you don't behave like that. 

His daughters are lucky to have a father who is so open to trying to understand other points of view, who has compassion for women. Who feels protective toward them. Who expects his daughters to do great things, just as much as he'd expect it from a son.

That story wasn't the only time I've seen that side of Dan (I could list several other examples), but it's fitting for this post because he himself used the term "mansplain" in the story. He gets it. 

 I should really give a shout out to his parents, because their other son, Robison Wells** (one of my dearest friends), is just as awesome in this regard. He's never mansplained to me or anyone around me.

Small things, people. They say so much.



Warning: The first person who tries to defend mansplaining, say it doesn't exist, or insist that women do it too (or anything like unto those things) gets their comment deleted and may be blocked. I do not have emotional room in my life right now for jerks.

*Dan is known for his trademark Indiana Jones-style hat. I've known him for years, but if he's not wearing it, I'll probably (and have) walked right past him, not realizing it. 

**The Wells brothers are both writers, and they're both excellent writers. Go buy their books by clicking their names above. You'll thank me later, so you're welcome.

The IF ONLY Trap

It's so easy for writers to compare themselves and their progress/careers/successes—or lack thereof—to others' and always be found wanting. While someone else seems to have everything peachy and perfect, and you don't, the reality is often quite different.

Case in point:

Recently, I was fortunate enough to be part of a planning lunch for a friend's launch party. A photo of those in attendance was posted online.

The next day, I met with two writer friends, and we discussed and planned some business things. We posted about some funny moments of the meeting.

Shortly after that, a fellow writer posted about how "everyone" is having so much fun with other writers and having success that they aren't having. I can only assume this person saw the posts, including some from me, about both the lunch and the meeting. From the outside, I'm sure both days looked like I was living the life.

Yeah, um, no. I could go on a long tangent about the many, many (MANY!) disappointments and road blocks I've run into in the 21 years I've been writing and submitting, but for now, a little perspective that's current:

Not 10 minutes after the lunch, I received some pretty devastating career news. The lunch, of course, was mentioned on social media. But I didn't mention the bad news publicly, or the fact that it overshadowed the fun of the lunch.

Then, during the planning meeting, sure, we had our moments of laughter, but they came largely after serious and frustrating discussions about what's NOT going right, how so much is out of our control, how many disappointments and failures we've run into and are still fighting to get through. The giggles were almost an effect of the stress and made up a small percentage of the whole.

YOU JUST DON'T KNOW.

Why don't I (and others) put all of the heartbreaks and disappointments out for the world to see? For many reasons (among them privacy), but in part because professionals know when to keep their mouth shut about those things. (Note how I'm not going into detail about those disappointments and hard times.)

Just because you aren't seeing the heartbreak and stress online doesn't mean it doesn't exist. In the same way you tidy your house before your friend comes to visit, professionals don't air their dirty laundry publicly. Sure, that means that what you see tends to be one sided, just like your friend probably thinks you maintain a tidier house than you really do.

I assure you, the hard stuff is still out there, it still happens, and it's brutal no matter where you are on the ladder. I don't know a single writer who has floated along unscathed—and I know a ton of writers, many far more successful than I am (New York Times bestsellers, USA Today bestsellers, and more). They all still have hard times in their careers, and I can assure you that career success doesn't mean that a fairy godmother has waved her magic wand to eliminate all challenges from a writer's personal life either.

We really need to stop envying others. Easier said than done—I've been guilty of it too, and far more often than I'd like to admit, because I know better.

Even so, I challenge writers, myself included, to deliberately go out of your way to find the joy in the PROCESS. Joy from writing doesn't—and can't—come from outside sources, even when we think it does.

How many of us have thought that we'd finally be happy if only X or Y were to happen? Wallow in those thoughts long enough, and you stop writing altogether, stop finding any kind of joy in the one thing that made you a writer to begin with.

You will have bought into the lie.

The truth: "IF ONLY" is a trap.

The real joy of writing comes from the time you spend brainstorming and researching and drafting and revising.

The joy comes when it's just you and the story—and sometimes when a beta reader can't put your work down.

Sometimes the joy comes when a beta reader finds a glaring problem, but you know exactly how to fix it.

Other times, it's when you've been over a piece so many times that you're sure it stinks, but when all is said and done, and you can step back objectively, you realize that hey, it's not so bad, and that you've grown as a writer.

If writing itself can't bring you some happiness, no accolades or bestseller status ever will. 

Don't get caught in the trap.

Get back to work.

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. 

TWO Super Secret Projects & a Cover Revealed!

Many friends and readers have known for some time that Luisa Perkins and I have been working on two super secret projects. We're ready to reveal what they are!

Here we are at the 2014 ANWA Conference in February.
Aren't we totes adorbs?
(As my teenagers would say.)

Luisa and I have a long-time love of the English language. Long-time readers of this blog know my love, as evidenced by my Word Nerd Wednesday series.

We're now teaming up, creating a podcast about all of the language issues that frustrate so many people: Grammar, Usage and Mechanics.

I capitalized those words on purpose, because they are where the name of our podcast comes from: Luisa and I are your GUM Shoes! (Get it? Grammar, Usage, Mechanics? GUM!) Go like the Facebook page at that link so you can stay up to date. The first episode will be posted on Tuesday, March 11, and we'll be sure to share the link to the website when it's live.

Here's the badge you'll look for on iTunes. (Look carefully at the words in the shoe. Isn't the logo awesome?!)

Each episode will be short: a bite-sized tip to help improve your speech and writing. If you have specific questions for us, leave a comment on the GUM Shoes Facebook page!



Our other project won't be live until late April, but we're in the final stages of getting it ready. Many people have asked about our accountability partnership, and we've even blogged about it before. But those posts didn't cover everything we've learned over the years of working together, and people had many more questions, too.

We pitched the idea of teaching a class at the annual Storymakers Writers Conference about accountability partnerships, and we are teaching it!

But not everyone can attend that, and even for those who will, a 50-minute workshop isn't enough to cover the subject entirely.

So here's the second big project: We'll soon have a book released about how to create an accountability partnership to meet your goals. Check out the cover:

Again, awesome, right?! (And no, we didn't plan for both the GUM logo and the cover to be red and black, but it works!)

We'll be sure to link over when it's live. Exciting stuff, people! I'm thrilled to finally share the news!

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.

On My Own—From the Archives

SO much has happened and is happening that I'm trying frantically to catch up, and that includes keeping my blog updated. I hope to return to Word Nerd Wednesday next week.

One thing happening is that my oldest daughter has been playing music from Les Miserables. She particularly enjoys playing "On My Own."

It's beautiful, but I admit that hearing it also makes me giggle. The experience described below is why. It originally appeared here on my blog in October 2007.

(This same daughter, if anyone in my area is interested, is beginning to teach piano lessons. She's a beautiful musician, and she's great with kids.)

On My Own, Or on YouTube

As I’ve mentioned before, I went to high school with a bunch of thespians. These are people who took acting and made it a lifestyle. Their favorite party games were acting games. (Ever played "In the Manner of the Adverb"?) Their favorite pastimes were viewing or participating in plays—or listening to Broadway soundtracks.

With their insane music ability, it was a snap to stand around a piano while one (take your pick; it could be any one of half a dozen of them) sight read music and the rest sang along in perfect harmony. (Except me. "Give Annette the melody" was their sympathetic mantra.) Their competitions weren’t of the football variety, but rather Region Drama.

Being part of this group was particularly interesting for me, as I lived in a tight shell of shyness. These people exploded that shell off my person—which was a good thing in many ways, if uncomfortable at times. It stretched me.

Because of them, I auditioned for and performed in three community youth theater productions. It was because of them I started taking voice lessons and tried out for (and sang in) the school choir. It was because of them I found my interest in ballroom dance (which, in turn, led to meeting my husband).

It was also because of them that I ended up playing the temptress/blackmailer Desaray Cahoon one wintry night.

Four of the gang were on a double date and decided to make a soap opera video. They spent much of the evening writing out the script. Then they called the rest of our group over to film the thing. (Essentially crashing their date, but hey—we were all buds, and it was fun.)

The script began with one of the love interests getting smacked on the head by a rival, sending her into a coma. I’m fuzzy on the rest of the story—it made more sense on paper than it did on tape—but there was also a mute girl cured by the pure love of her teacher, including a delightful montage between them after they discover their love. They frolicked in the snow in Em’s backyard.

And then there was the blackmailing scheme of which Desaray (moi) was a part.

But the scene that had us all in stitches was when Em—the one who loved the mute girl's teacher (so we had a triangle; he was in love with the mute instead of her . . . the whole thing was dreadfully soapy)—sang a tearful rendition of “On My Own” from Les Miserables.

To fully appreciate this, you have to understand Em. She’s a consummate actress. In high school she played about every leading role possible. She won the award as the best actor of her graduating class. She went on to get a BA and an MA in theater. So yeah, the girl could (and can) act.

[2012 update: She's gone on to appear in a film many of my readers have surely seen. In the Joseph Smith movie, she's Mary Fielding, Hyrum's wife.]

Em can be very intense in her performances, especially her dramatic ones. Which is what made her hysterical to watch when she would take humorous material and turn it serious.

To this day, I crack up whenever I think of her dramatic interpretation of the song, “Oklahoma.” I can still hear the emotion and intensity in her voice when she’d declare, “And the waving wheat can sure smell sweet.” She had us hyperventilating.

Take that passion, add a cup of melodrama, and throw “On My Own” at her.

During the taping, one of the pianists in the group (did I mention these friends were also ridiculously talented musically?) played the music while she sang the song with the passion no Eponine has ever expressed.

I don’t know how she kept a straight face; the rest of us were rolling on the floor trying not to laugh out loud and ruin the shot.

Afterward, we had a scream watching the soap opera—then we all declared it should be burned, because someone really could blackmail us with such embarrassing stuff.

To my knowledge, it never was destroyed. In fact, I’ve met people (friends of friends) who say they’ve seen it. Um . . . yikes?

So I’m a bit scared that some day it’ll make its way onto YouTube or something. (This was way before YouTube.)

Fast forward many years:

When I wrote the book that became Lost Without You, I dropped in an inside joke that only those friends would catch. Some of them reportedly snorted with laughter when they came to it.

It was when the voice teacher in the book is first introduced.

Her name is Desaray Cahoon.

Sherri Needs New Lungs

Next month marks 23 years since a landmark day in my family, a time that forever changed me.

My baby nephew received a liver transplant within days of his first birthday. In 1989, infant liver transplants were new. Something like two hospitals in the nation were doing them, and only a few hundred infant liver transplants had even been attempted. Omaha had one of those hospitals. A good number of infants didn't make it.

Michael almost didn't. I remember phone calls across the country to plan a funeral. Tears. My brother and his wife practically living at the hospital. Reports that Michael's bed looked like it was covered in plastic spaghetti because of all the tubes. It was one of the first times in my life I dropped to my knees and sobbed with a desperate prayer. He pulled through.

Then, at nineteen, having defied every odd, Michael was called to serve an LDS mission, and this spring, he graduates from Brigham Young University with a bachelor's degree and a teaching certificate. (He'll be an awesome teacher, by the way.)

Organ donation hit close to home again several years after Michael's transplant, when my cousin's son needed a new heart. He got the heart. It didn't last as long as Michael's liver has, but it did give him a few more years before he passed away shortly before his high school graduation.

When my son turned fifteen and got his driver's permit, he almost didn't check the box that would make him an organ donor. It was only then that I realized he didn't know all of his cousin's story. I cleared my throat to ward off emotion then simply said, "Check the box. I'll explain when we get home. You are going to be an organ donor."

Sherri

That same son was only weeks old when I met Sherri. We'd moved into her neighborhood, and I immediately liked her. She coughed a lot, but I was assured she wasn't contagious with anything (which put me at ease when my newborn son was near).

Later, my husband and I taught a Primary class filled with energetic 9-year-olds, including Josh, Sherri's son.

I learned that Sherri was born with Cystic Fibrosis, a disease I'd never heard of. She taught me about it. I learned how CF sufferers eventually die because their lungs get clogged and damaged with mucus. It's the mucus that made her cough. I found out that when she was born, the life expectancy of babies with CF had been about age 14. She wasn't supposed to have lived as long as she already had, let alone give birth and be around to see her son turn 9.

She's fought the odds, worked on keeping herself (and her lungs) as healthy as possible. That means regular hospitalizations, home treatments, medications, and so much more.

Sherri and I were good friends. We went to League of Utah Writers meetings together. We joined the same critique group. She moved. She kept fighting.

Josh is now in his twenties. He's a returned missionary and a college graduate. His mother wasn't supposed to live long enough to see any of that. She did.

But Sherri has now reached the point that her lungs are giving out. On her doctors' advice, she's on a transplant list

In short: Sherri needs new lungs. It's an extraordinarily difficult (and expensive!) decision.

Her family has a site devoted to Sherri's story, where people can donate what they can to help.

If you can donate even a few dollars, please do. Visit Lungs for Sherri, to learn more about CF, about Sherri, and to donate what you can.

My Current Writing Life

Thought I'd post a few pictures of what I've been up to lately.

In September, I went up to the League of Utah Writers Round-up conference. Due to mommy commitments, I wasn't able to stay the entire time (next year, I hope!). I did some one-on-one manuscript critiques for Precision Editing Group. At the hotel, Josi, Heather, Julie and I wrote, laughed, ate snacks at a bakery, and ultimately buckled down to go over mutual scenes from the Newport Ladies Book Club series to make sure they all match.

(We had to finish that over the phone Saturday night, since I was no longer at the hotel.)

Saturday morning before my critique sessions, I spent some time with my laptop. I literally kicked off my heels and typed away. Unbeknownst to me, Josi snapped a picture.

I believe this is the only photo in existence where I'm drafting something involving the military wives from Band of Sisters. Here, I'm working on the sequel (as yet unnamed). The book is about the re-entry time after the husbands come home.

Above: Me, hanging out with Marianne.

Later in September was the triple launch party for Josi, Sarah, and Mel. Because I'm smart like that, I didn't get picture of them, but here's one of some of us who were there:

Pictured: Mindy and Sheila from the LDS Women's Book Review

and novelists Becca Wilhite and Julie Wright, with me on the end.

Then on October 6th was a day my entire critique group has been waiting for: the release party for Robison Wells' Variant at The King's English bookstore.

First we gathered in a small room to hear Rob speak. It was super inspiring and totally awesome. Here I am right before Rob spoke, with critique group member Michele Paige Holmes.

(Image from Krista Lynne Jensen's blog.)

After Rob spoke, we had yummy refreshments and an insanely long line to get books signed, plus lots of friends and writers to chat with (I'd name drop, but I know I'll forget someone). I even got to meet Rob's parents, who are seriously cool people.

Here I am with Rob at his launch with my very own signed copy of VARIANT:

I actually have two signed copies, one for me, and one that I'll use as a giveaway sometime in the future.

Coming in about a month: I get to attend the Authors Incognito writing retreat. If I can keep up my drafting goals this month, I should be able to finish the BofS sequel at the retreat. Then it'll be time to get it hammered by critiques and alpha and beta readers, revision, and, soon after that, I hope, submission.

Of course, I have several other pots in the fire as well, but that's my biggest focus for now.

Also:

Something for local writers out there to be thinking about: in the first quarter of 2012, Precision Editing Group will be doing another live critique workshop like the one we did in August. Be sure to watch for the date announcement and registration information. It was a great experience last time, and you won't want to miss out.

Here's a picture of my workshop table from last summer. They were awesome, and we had a great time!

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.

WNW: The Appendix Podcast

Cheating, sort of, for Word Nerd Wednesday.

How about Writer Wednesday?

For the next few weeks, I get to be a guest on The Appendix podcast. The regular hosts are some great friends: Robison Wells, Sarah M. Eden, and Marion Jensen.

The first episode is up today, with fellow guests:

Howard Tayler

Josi Kilpack

Krista Jensen

Listen to us playing a bunch of goofy writer/storytelling games.

(I add cross-dressing to a bad romance story.)

Lots o' fun.

Listen to this week's episode HERE.

Happy Chocolate Day!

Today's is a mini post with just a couple of quick items:

1) Crash, one my of my favorite bloggers, whom I lub (as she would say), is going after a blogging gig. She needs our votes to get to the next stage. Vote for her HERE once a day.

2) Remember how I got to be part of the cool reenactment of the original Mormon Pioneer Trek via Twitter? SUCH a cool experience. The guys behind TwHistory are shooting to get $25,000 in funding to help create new reenactments, which are excellent educational tools. To get the funding, they have to be in the top 10 by Halloween. Today, they're #12. Please vote for them! (Again, you can vote once a day through the end of the month.)

3) In case you've missed my incessant shouting about it, TODAY is National Chocolate Day and my book launch party in Orem at The Chocolate Dessert Cafe.

The Daily Herald announced it HERE. (See me holding the cookbook and matching my kitchen . . . yes, the very kitchen every recipe was invented/tested/tweaked/enjoyed in.)

The deets:

• 212 South State, Orem
• 4:00-7:00 pm
• The first 5 people get a FREE copy of the Chocolate Never Faileth companion DVD
• Get a free caramel cupcake with each book purchase
• Eat free mint fudge samples
• Have me sign your book!
• (Oh, and you get to meet my brilliant, handsome, taller-than-mom son. He'll be my sample helper tonight.)

Happy National Chocolate Day!

The Absentee Blogger

Bad, blogger. It's been a whole week, and nothing from me!

Not for lack of trying or lack of inspiration. Just lack of time and stuff piling faster than I can get rid of it. (Much of it good stuff, like extra freelance work, but still.)

A couple of bits until I post again:

• Last Friday, I guest-posted at Christine Bryant's blog about the joys (and constant mistreatment) of being an English major.
• On a similar topic, in November, I get to speak to a class of freshman English majors at BYU. I took that very class (more years ago than I care to admit) and now get to be on the other side . . . published, just as I hoped. COOOOL!
• Today I posted over at Precision Editing Group's Writing on the Wall blog about the crazy timeline that is publishing.
• A couple of weeks ago I got to speak at the UVU Book Academy. The next day I had a book signing at BYU Bookstore, where I handed out fudge samples. One of my daughters was my sample helper. Catch photos of both at Krista Jensen's blog.
• Last weekend, I spoke at the AF Arts Council conference. Got to hang with one of my bestest friends ever, Josi Kilpack, meet John Brown, chat with writer buddies I've met through events like this (like The Damsel and Taffy), and met lots of other new writers.
• I have no book signings this week for the cookbook, but I have TWO next week at the Lehi/AF Costco. Watch my sidebar for details.
  
  Now, back into the fray! (Read: go vacuum, empty the dishwasher, and sort laundry. The glamorous life of a writer . . .)

In Honor of Chocolate and a Certain Cookbook

As we're only a few weeks out from the release Chocolate Never Faileth (squeee!) I decided to give a sneak peek into part of the book.

No, not into the recipes themselves (although maybe I'll post one or two in the next couple weeks, just for kicks).

I thought that showing some of the other elements of the book, the in-between stuff, would be fun. The book has lots of trivia, facts, and anecdotes I dug up, all centered on, of course, chocolate.

Below are four of many from the book. (Remember that you can now PRE-ORDER Chocolate Never Faileth through Deseret Book!)


True Story #1, about Lynn:
After being admitted at 18 weeks of pregnancy and spending over one hundred days in the hospital, Lynn broke the record for the longest stay at that hospital’s neonatal unit in hopes of saving the life of her unborn baby. Her daughter was finally born, nine weeks early—young but alive and with a good prognosis, weighing in at 3 lbs, 2 oz. Exhausted, Lynn returned home, craving a giant bag of peanut M&Ms. She ate the whole thing in a day . . . then picked up the empty bag and realized with a tad of horror that it had contained . . . 3 lbs, 2 oz. The exact weight of her baby.


Anecdote from Delyana:
A good piece of chocolate has about 200 calories. As I enjoy two servings per night, and a few more on weekends, I consume 3,500 calories of chocolate in a week, which equals one pound of weight per week. Therefore . . . In the last 3 ½ years, I have had a chocolate caloric intake of about 180 pounds. I weigh 165 pounds. Without chocolate, I would have wasted away to nothing about three months ago!

I owe my life to chocolate.


A Bit of Trivia:
A few years ago, Mars. Inc. stopped marketing the Mars Bar candy bar—but they didn’t stop making it. In its place, the company now sells the exact same bar with a new name. It’s now Snickers Almond. Did you realize it’s the exact same candy bar?

But in Europe and elsewhere, the same candy bar is sold as Mars Almond.

Confused yet? Let’s make it worse.

A candy bar marketed to Europeans and others outside the U.S. as the Mars Bar is called the Milky Way here in the U.S.

Wait. What?

And finally, a gem from my dear friend Luisa:

Elga called it a dessert when she gave me the little handwritten index card [with the recipe], but I know she must have been kidding, because, um, see, Elga, it doesn't have any chocolate in it.

IMPORTANT NOTE:

I get to be part of Ladies Night at Deseret Book's flagship store in Salt Lake City on Saturday, October 2! (Woohoo!)

I'll be there signing cookbooks . . . and giving out samples. Please come!

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.)