My dad was an optimist, but he knew lots of funny songs, and one of them was the epitome of negativity:

(sung to an ominous tune)

“Every silver lining lines a dark, dark cloud.

Remember, after sunshine comes the rain.

They say that after night, the day will sure be bright,

But remember that the dark will come again…”

We used to laugh at this, but it does reflect how we sometimes feel. When you’re going through a trial, it’s pretty hard to see any silver lining whatsoever. You’re in pain, whether physical or emotional, and it hurts! It’s also pretty hard to see God in any of this, either.

A fellow author I know lost her child to disease. A good friend of mine found her husband lying on their front lawn, dead of a heart attack as he went to fetch the morning paper. Another dear friend is today watching her elderly father die by inches in the hospital.

There are so many things in life you can’t do anything about. I’m sure the author would have gladly given her life for her child. If they had known about his condition, my friend and her husband would have sought medical help in time. And as for the third example, well, there just isn’t a whole lot anyone can do about old age.

About five years ago, my elderly father was dying, too. He had been such a warm and benevolent influence on my life; it was very painful to see him slip away, day by day. He stayed at our house his last few weeks, and all three of his children were able to come and be with him. I’m glad I had him here, but I won’t tell you it was an uplifting experience, because it wasn’t. It was painful to say goodbye.

A famous singer in the fifties lost her own mother and the inconsolable grief she suffered just about ruined her life and career. My author friend has gone in a different direction. She has devoted herself and much of her work to a ministry that serves grieving parents. She has taken the most significant loss in her life and used it to help others. My friend who lost her husband is continuing to work and spend her spare hours being a wonderful grandmother to her two granddaughters.

As for my friend who is losing her father the very week of Father’s Day, she is clinging to her faith and leaning on her family. I’m honored to be able to be a loving ear and prayer partner with her in this trial. What I experienced with my father is being put to positive use. I have gone through what she is going through. I know how it feels. We can talk about it.

Paul explains it well: “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.”  2 Corinthians 1:3-4

Horatio Spofford was a well-to-do attorney in Chicago in the mid 1800’s. He was a devoted husband and father. Shortly before the great Chicago fire, his young son died. The famous fire devoured much of his real estate fortune and when he sent his wife and four daughters on a much-needed vacation cruise to Europe, they all drowned when the ship sank. Though he was heart-broken, his faith was strong. He knew he’d seem them all again. While on a ship headed for Europe where he would make funeral arrangements, he wrote the words to a hymn that has ministered to broken hearts for over a century:

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like sea billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.

Once again, Paul puts it well: “But we do not want you to be ignorant, brothers, about those who have died, so that you may not grieve like other people who have no hope.” 1 Thess. 4:13 ISV

It isn’t so much what happens to us as how we use the experience. One person will become crushed and embittered by their experience; another, though crushed, will look Heavenward and trust.

Joseph (of the coat of many colors) was sold into slavery by his jealous brothers, who came very close to murdering him. He spent years in hardship and even prison, but his good character and faith brought him to a place where he was able to not only save Egypt from famine, but his own family, as well. Can you imagine how grateful his brothers were when he forgave them? He said to them: “And as for you, ye meant evil against me; but God meant it for good,” Gen 50:20 ASV

Whatever hardship or heartbreak you have today, look up, not down. Say to God, “Please use this for good as you did for Joseph.”

I know a young woman who, on her honeymoon, forbade her new husband from using Prell shampoo. Why? Because her father used it and the smell…well, it was just too weird.

When I was away at college and extremely homesick, I took up smoking, because the smell of cigarette smoke reminded me of home and soothed me.

To this day, the fragrance of green beans simmering in the kitchen takes me back to my grandmother’s house and her wonderful cooking.

My little brother and now my grandsons, have a slightly metallic smell to their after-play perspiration. It evokes a smile in me.

Though as humans, our sense of smell isn’t as acute as a dog’s, it’s still very powerful in bringing emotion forward. It can be a valuable asset in your fiction writing.

Think about the smells in your life and what they emotion they bring out:

The disinfectant smell of a hospital

The dead-ash smell after a house fire

Fresh blueberry muffins baking

The refreshing breeze from the ocean

Suntan lotion under a hot sun

The acrid atmosphere created by a home permanent

The sweet fragrance of a clean baby

The not-so-sweet odor of a not-so-clean baby

Even the words accompanying this sense vary in loads of meaning. “Odor” usually has a negative connotation, while the frequently-used “fragrance” usually means something pleasant.

What are your characters doing and how can fragrance deepen the reader’s empathic experience?

Are they at a barbecue? Describe the smell of cooking meat, beverages, smoke.

Are they at a funeral? Don’t forget the overly-strong smell of flowers.

Tied up in the trunk of a car? Remember to describe the smell of exhaust or sweat.

Of course, it is possible to over-use the sense of smell in your writing. (I won’t even give an example, because it would be ludicrous.) Use the sense of smell in moderation, as you should with all your descriptions.

Here are a few smell references from my novel Another Think Coming:

“Her perfume always had a kind of vanilla smell, like she bathed in Jello pudding or something.”

“A gust of chilly wind blew a strange, sour chemical smell my way.”

“I…turned the corner and came face-to-face with a mouthful of teeth. And hot breath, smelling of raw meat.”

 “I stroked the smooth polished walnut stock, breathed in the strong, clean smell of gun oil and remembered.”

Even the Bible makes frequent and dramatic mention of the sense of smell, from the pleasant references to fragrance in the Song of Solomon, to the stench of sin in Psalms and the other books.

Once the satraps, prefects, governors, and ministers of the king had gathered around, they saw that those men were physically1 unharmed by the fire.2 The hair of their heads was not singed, nor were their trousers damaged. Not even the smell of fire was to be found on them! Daniel 3:27  (Referring to Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego)

Awake, O north wind; come, O south wind! Blow on my garden so that its fragrant spices may send out their sweet smell. Song of Songs, 4:11

You can see how the different incidences of smells evoke different impressions. Go through what you’ve written lately and see if a smell won’t add some depth.

As for me, I’m going to go make some cinnamon rolls!

 

 

 

Okay, you need to write, but it’s difficult to get motivated. The i-pad calls, or Facebook or the movie you DVR-ed last night or maybe even the dishes that you didn’t do last night because you were finding movies to DVR. If you want to be a writer, there’s just one thing you must do. Guess what it is.

I’ve dealt with the many temptations that one might encounter in situations like these and I understand. Just sit down at your desk and let me show you some things I’ve learned to help with motivation:

1.      Read something you’ve already written—you’re a writer, so I assume you’ve written something--preferably something that people liked. Maybe something that was even published. If it’s been a while, you’ll probably realize that it’s pretty good, or even brilliant. Think about how you came to write it. Appreciate the talent it took. Now, write something else.

2.      Just write. I read somewhere about a technique where you just start typing—or writing, if you don’t type—words and sentences. Make a random statement. Expand on the statement. Explain it further. If it’s wrong, correct it. As a fiction writer, I find that if I start writing about a character I know, the character gradually seems to want to do something, and I can go with them into a story. That’s how I started Death Dangles a Participle. I had Lily call her friend Amelia and it seemed like the two ladies took it from there. They started bickering and providing background for the story I wanted to tell.

3.      Another technique is to wait. This is risky. You might wait so long, you will have forgotten what you wanted to write. Still, sometimes you’re so close to your work, a little time off could give you a fresh outlook. I find this helps when I’m in the middle and stuck for a solution to a mystery I have devised, but haven’t solved. (I know, I’m nuts to work like that, but it’s how I roll.)

4.      Take a bath or shower. No kidding, some of the very best ideas seem to come to me when I’m wet. (I will tolerate no untoward comments about this.) Agatha Christie thought up her incredibly ingenious plots while in the bathtub, eating apples.

5.      Take a notebook to a different place. A change of scene might give you some insight. Just be sure to jot down the key words so you won’t forget your brainstorm. I remember coming up with the trick ending for Murder in the Past Tense while sitting at a table at Chic-fil-A, watching my grandsons frolic on the playground.

6.      Talk with somebody about it. I like to run ideas past my husband and occasionally my daughters. Ideas take on a different spin when you speak them out loud. Some will sound lame, some amazing. Of course, you run the risk of receiving advice. Sometimes I’ll be given plot advice that I won’t take directly, but it springboards me into another story path that really works. Other times, they’ve been right on the money. My younger daughter gave me the plot twist for my unpublished Texas novel, Another Think Coming, and it really worked!

7.      Time yourself. One of my favorite motivating tools is the kitchen timer. “All I have to do is write for an hour,” I tell myself, and set the timer accordingly. Invariably when it goes off, I’ll keep on writing because I will have hit my stride and don’t want to stop.

8.      Read. I like to read articles online about writing. (Such as this one.) Some of them are nonsense, while others give me new ideas about how to approach writing. Read in your genre. Read in other genres. I like to look at biographies. Sometimes I get an idea that way. Read periodicals. I recommend writers check out the little state-by-state paragraphs featured in USA Today. There is at least one idea for a story in every issue—after all, there are fifty paragraphs!

9.      People write for a myriad different reasons: for fun, to make a point, as a kind of therapy, etc. Think about why you started putting words to paper. Maybe you’ve already fulfilled your goal. Or maybe you’re just getting started and you have a shelf full of books in your future.

In the theatre, it’s considered bad luck to wish anybody “good luck.” Using a perverse sort of logic, actors usually say to each other, “break a leg.” Writers can be just as superstitious as anybody, so “break a pencil!”

Over ten years ago, our daughter was getting married. It wasn’t a huge wedding on the order of the Kardashians, but we needed help getting organized, so I hired a local wedding planner. She seemed a little slap-dash, but she had a nice office in a nice part of town, and I assumed that she knew her business. I was wrong. Only a few weeks into the planning, she cashed the rather large check we had given her and apparently left town. We learned later from the police that she had done this kind of thing before, but it wasn’t a criminal matter, it was a civil one. We would have to sue to get our money back.

I confess to a kind of mania after that. I called her office number countless times and left progressively angrier messages on the voicemail. I drove past The Planner’s office to see if she was in so I could beard her in her den. I called the professional organization whose logo she had on her door and had her drummed out, in absentia. I even went to the coffee shop where she hung out and asked after her. Nobody had seen her. I would dream of confronting her in her office as she was planning the wedding of another poor victim and denounce her in front of them.

My husband didn’t want to pursue the issue, so we let it rest. Correction, he did. But I scratched that angry itch until it was raw and sore. I couldn’t think about the wretched situation without a significant hike in blood pressure.

The good news is that my daughter had a lovely wedding. We did most of the planning ourselves and it went off without a hitch. The next year, to the month, our other daughter was married, and it, too, went well, no thanks to that terrible woman. At least, that’s how I would have expressed it ten years ago, because I was still furious.

The Planner’s office had been vacated. She had apparently left town for good. She was beyond the reach of my ire. This was frustrating. When I told anything about what had happened, they almost always said, “You’re a mystery writer. Why not kill her off in one of your stories?” I thought about it, but something restrained me. I didn’t really want her dead; I wanted her to know how upset I was. I wanted my money back.  

Inevitably, the subject of forgiveness came up, in my conscience, if nowhere else. Our family has a generational habit of forgiveness. We try not to make a habit of grudges. Maybe it was delayed adolescence, but I was in open rebellion over this thing. I wanted to hate that woman. I wanted revenge. I wanted it so badly, my stomach hurt.

I prayed. I did. “What should I do about this, Lord?” My answer was clear, if not audible, “You know what to do: forgive.” “But how? I can’t seem to let it go.” “You must let it go.”

It was true, but what did forgiving The Planner look like?

I got part of my answer from a radio preacher: “When you forgive somebody, you express the same hopes for them that you do for yourself—health, protection, wisdom and so on.” The rest of the answer came in the way my parents dealt with people. Daddy would say, “They’re the way they are for a reason.” And my mother would say, “Maybe she’s struggling with something in her life.” They were big on cutting people a little slack.

I thought about The Planner: she was overweight, sloppily dressed, slap-dash in her attitude and, as I’d learned to my chagrin, irresponsible and dishonest. She probably didn’t have much money. (I could deduce that myself, from various clues.) She wasn’t very healthy. Her life couldn’t have been very happy, when you looked the way she behaved. None of her behavior was excusable, but perhaps—for me—it was forgivable.

It took time, but a kind of pity built up in my mind over her. The word, “pity,” I’d learned, had the same root as “piety,” so I looked on it as a God thing. Eventually--remember this was over ten years—I was able to wish for her what I wished for myself: peace of mind, safety, success, and many other good things.

I can honestly say that if I were to run into her today, I wouldn’t yell at her. (Believe me, that’s real progress!) It would be great if she asked my forgiveness. I would certainly grant it. But even if she didn’t, even if she rationalized, even if she was openly defiant, I believe I’d be able to smile kindly and let her go on her way, hoping in my heart that better things would come her way.

If that’s not a God thing, I don’t know what is.

“And when ye stand praying, forgive, if ye have ought against any: that your Father also which is in Heaven may forgive you your trespasses. But if ye do not forgive, neither will your Father which is in Heaven forgive your trespasses.”  Mark 11:25-26 KJV

"BUT ENOUGH ABOUT ME; WHAT DO YOU THINK OF ME?"

That old joke comes to mind when I think about one of an author’s many duties: writing a bio.

After all you’ve gone through, writing blurbs, synopses and query letters, it seems this should be just about the easiest item on your to-do list, but looks can be deceiving.

You’ll need several bios: short, super-short, long and super-long.

Start with the super-long and prune from there. The super-long is more or less a resume, not only listing where you’re from, but how you got there. Include education, work experience, writing experience, and knowledge of what you write about. Include any life-altering experiences that made you what you are today. Include awards. Be thorough. You may want to consult this if you are fortunate enough to be interviewed.

The long bio is a condensed version of the above. It’s what you’ll probably send your publisher.

The short bio is just that. Hit the high spots, no more than a couple of paragraphs. Answer the question: why would we want to read a book by you? This is the bio that will probably be featured on the back pages of your book.

And finally, there’s the super-short bio. Condense your life down into one or two sentences; easier said than done.

Bios are more important than you might think. They’re used in advertising, of course, and as ways of introducing yourself to people under all sorts of circumstances.

Be careful what you put in your bio.

Some authors like to call themselves “award-winning,” but this is a slippery term. I won an award in the ‘90’s from the Abilene, TX, Writer’s Guild for a Christmas poem, but I look on this as long-ago and irrelevant. Make sure you really have won something, at least, and preferably recently.

Unless your book is politically-oriented, don’t include your participation in groups with names like “Drill, Baby, Drill,” or “Stop Fracking Now.”

Family details are heart-warming for some genres, but not everybody wants to know about your kids or spouse, unless it’s relevant to your book. “Mary is the wife of Chicago mayor Fred Sneeze,” for a book about the history of that city. Or “Mary’s daughter, Cicily Sneeze, won the first gold medal in Women’s Boxing at the 2014 Olympics,” for a book about sports. I confess to mentioning my grandchildren in my bio, but it’s a cozy mystery, and seems appropriate.

Don’t give your street address. You might mention the area you live in, but for safety’s sake, keep it vague. Do give your commercial email address and website address (you have these, don’t you?) I live in North Carolina, and that’s enough info for anybody.

Remember the genre. If you’re writing a bio that will be at the end of a hard-boiled mystery, don’t mention that you like to crochet. If you’re the author of a biography of a Civil War general, by all means, do put down that you have an MA in history.

Don’t use in-jokes or expect people to understand your sense of humor. In an early bio, I wrote that our two daughters were “blessings to society.” I thought I was being cute. Nobody else did.

Don’t expect people to care about other personal things. I proudly mentioned in a bio introduction for a mystery conference that my husband was the inventor of the “One-Bolt,” but since nobody outside the waterworks industry knew what it was, the announcement fell rather flat. (It’s a system for joining water pipe.)

Generally, bios are written in third person, in the present tense, unless you are deceased.

If you’re still stumped about how to put together your own bio, take a look at the bios in the books on your own bookshelf. Observe the style, what’s included and whether it is interesting to you.

Let me give you a final illustration:

SUPER SHORT: “Ernest Hemingway is the author of ten novels and many short stories. He likes to hunt and fish. He makes his home in Florida. His website is www.sixtoedcat.com.”

Recently, one of my Facebook friends asked what particular books were important in the lives of her fellow writers. It got me to remembering how my addiction started…

My mother was a minister’s daughter who grew up during the Great Depression and her family could only afford to give her one birthday party in her childhood. Because of this, she made sure we, her three children, had sumptuous parties that she enjoyed as much as we did. The year I turned eight, she had planned a “Sugaring-Off Party,” which involved a hayride and making maple candy with hot sap and snow. All the arrangements were made when I came down with mumps. Undeterred, my parents threw the party anyway. I stayed at home with a babysitter and my gifts were collected and deposited at the house before the group left on their party adventures. I felt thoroughly sorry for myself as I opened my presents until I opened the present from my best friend, Lois. It was The Secret of the Old Clock, featuring Nancy Drew. It was love at first read. I forgot my sore throat and read every word before I fell asleep. I never realized that Nancy Drew books are gateway drugs and that I was beginning an addiction that would last my entire life.

It was at our marvelously-stocked school library that I discovered The Magician’s Nephew, another story of wonder and thrilling unlikeliness. I identified so much with the children carried to another world by magic rings, I fretted about them getting back. The author, the brilliant Christian apologist C.S. Lewis, was kind to his readers and rendered a happy ending, for which I was grateful. For a while, I was all about fantasy.

Another memory: My mother had worked hard to prepare a Labor Day picnic, baking brownies, preparing her famous Army potato salad (my favorite), arranging ham slices on a plate, bagging up rolls, and sending my dad for ice to put in the cooler where Coca Cola was kept chilled. She’d bought a colorful oilcloth table cover and plastic silverware for all. She had invited the Austins, the family from around the block, to join us. All was ready for joyous memory-making.

Normally, I would have been a big help and support. At age twelve, I was capable of eating three times the amount I can now, and even after all this time, the thought of her menu makes my mouth water. But that week, I had met Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester and they captured my complete attention. “In a minute,” I answered when she called. Grudgingly, I joined my brother and sister in the back seat of the car. Once we got to the state park, everybody piled out of the car, carrying something and chattering excitedly; everyone but me.

I regret to confess that I spent the major portion of that afternoon and early evening stretched out reading in the back seat of our family car. I even filled a plate and brought it back with me, where I ate in splendid solitary silence and read. I’d never come across anything so thrilling! Who was the mysterious creature who walked the nocturnal halls of Thornfield? Would Mr. Rochester ever realize that Jane was the woman for him?

The combination of mystery and romance was captivating. I felt as though I’d found a dark, intriguing new world, filled with mystery and romance.

But then, a few years later, I picked up a book in the Jr. High School library called Mrs. McGinty’s Dead. It was an older book, much thumbed, but from the first scene where Hercule Poirot contemplates the wonderful meal he has just consumed to the truly amazing intellectual gymnastics at the end, I was enthralled with anything written by Agatha Christie. It helped to have parents who encouraged the mystery addiction. There was a big variety drugstore downtown that carried Nancy Drews that were only a dollar apiece. And paperback Agatha Christies were even cheaper, 35 to 50 cents!

One other book has had the most major influence on my life. I was twenty-two before I actually started reading it in earnest, but once I did, it spoke to me over and over. Each time I read it now, I find new wisdom. Different translations reveal new interpretations. Right now, I am reading the New International Version, and learning something each day. I’ve only read it all the way through once and am on a second reading, about a third of the way through.

The hero dies in the middle of the story, but it has a truly happy ending.

Five stars.

Highly recommended.

                                                                                                  

I was seven when my baby sister was born, and was overjoyed. Here was a real-live doll for me to play with who actually could burp, wet a diaper and say “Mama.” What a treat it was to show this new little person the ropes. I taught her all the best children’s songs, read her my favorite books and together we came up with a cartoon character named Chubby Chick (two circles, a dot for an eye and straight lines for his legs) that we used for our notes to each other. She, for her part, became the president of my fan club and seemed to think everything I said was the ultimate wisdom, carved in stone.

When she was around four years old, my sister contracted a strange illness with a high fever. Her personality actually seemed to change from a sunny child to a cranky, snarling brat. We were terribly worried about her, especially when my parents had to call an ambulance to take her to the hospital. I vividly remember pressing my face against the window screen as I watched the ambulance pull away from the curb.

It was nighttime and the stars were out. I was eleven, and it was the first real, earnest prayer I remember praying, and I didn't pull any punches:

God, don’t you DARE take my baby sister away from me!

And somehow, I knew that He heard me, and didn't take offense.

It was touch and go, but eventually my little sister made a complete recovery. Later, I learned that the illness that sent her to the hospital was the dangerous condition now known as Reye’s Syndrome. For many years, none of us realized what a narrow escape she’d had. Except God.

Fast forward many years and my sister—all grown up and married with a law degree and a beautiful daughter--was hospitalized, battling cancer for a second time. The night before her surgery, I all at once remembered that long-ago night in the window. My prayer was more respectful this time, but nonetheless urgent:

Dearest Lord, please let us keep her! We need all her!

Once again, I felt assured that He had things under control. The doctors told her that they have no way of knowing what the prognosis would be, because they’d never seen a condition quite like it. They were not optimistic, but I was, because the Lord had again put an assurance in my heart that there would be no more cancer, ever again. And it has proved to be right. It’s been over ten years, and there has been no recurrence.

My sister has become a great prayer warrior and Bible teacher. She lives far away, but we speak on the telephone frequently and still laugh about Chubby Chick. I am profoundly grateful to God for giving me back my little sister and best friend. After all, fan club presidents are had to come by!

O Lord my God, I cried to you for help, and you have healed me. Psalm 30:2

“What’s the use?” said one of the students in my class on mysteries and mystery writing at the Cary Senior Center. “I go into a bookstore and look around, and there are about a million books all around me, and I think, what’s the use of my writing another one? Who will care? Who will want to read it?”

The man speaking had retired from a fascinating career and had many, many interesting experiences to relate, but he was experiencing what I daresay every writer feels at one time or another. Every artist, too.

“It’s all been done,” says the grandson of the famous artist Seurat to his muse, the ghost of  Seurat’s mistress, in the musical, Sundays in the Park with George. The young man has just experienced a huge career setback. “It’s been done before, time and time again,” he moans.

The ghost leans tenderly over the boy (who is her grandson) and says, “But not by you, my love; not by you.”

Which gets to the essence. Uniqueness is built into every person. If you are a parent with more than one child you may have noticed how different each child—from the same parents, living in the same home—is from the other. Each one of your offspring is unique.

And what each person produces is unique, too, if there isn’t a definite effort to imitate. There are several books out—best sellers—that list the rejection notes of people who went on to rise above the discouragement and excel. It would have been a shame if everyone agreed with the casting director’s comments on a young Fred Astaire: “Can't act... Can't sing... Balding... Can dance a little."

It’s a fact of life: there are always people who won’t “get it.” There were dozens—even hundreds--of thrillers written about the Russians vs. the Americans during the Cold War, but Tom Clancy found a way to tell the story again, underwater, in The Hunt for Red October. Nobody was interested in the story until the U.S. Naval Institute Press was willing to publish it as their first fictional work, ever. When President Reagan was spotted carrying the book, it became a long-lasting best seller, and later, a film. Madeleine L"Engle's classic YA science fiction novel, A Wrinkle in Time, was turned down 29 times. The fictional biography of van Gogh, Lust for Life by Irving Stone, was rejected 16 times, but finally found a publisher and went on to sell about 25 million copies. One of the comments? “A long, dull novel about an artist.’ (The website “Rotten Rejections” is full of such misguided non-wisdom.)

Writing can be hard. I want to tell fledgling writers that there will be days when “What’s the use?” will spring to your lips unbidden. There will be days when the material you are turning out looks like total drivel. Then, on another day, as you re-read, you’ll find yourself saying, “This is brilliant!” It’s a very common occurrence. What’s needed is perseverance. I remember a young woman asking me to read her thriller novel and comment. To tell you the truth, I thought the plot was great, but the actual writing was clumsy and hard to read. I gave her a tactful critique, and I’m glad I did, because now she’s doing very, very well as a published author. I can only assume she took some courses and learned the basics, because she had some great ideas in her

My mother used to say that discouragement is a tool of the devil, and I’ve learned from experience that she was right. It’s intended to squash any joy from all our efforts on planet Earth and make us feel insignificant. Nobody is insignificant in God’s plan.

If you are meant to be an author, and you’re willing to put in the time and effort, it will happen. Keep trying. Learn, work, ask questions. And remember Fred Astaire.

Dear Kids,

Your great-grandmother Edwards wouldn’t have liked me to use that term, kids, (“Kids are baby goats,” she’d say) but by the time you read this, you’ll be much older, and that word works these days for most people under, say, thirty.

Right now, the five of you are all seven and under, and this document would probably mean little to you. You guys don’t like talky things, like movies, even some Disney ones. As time goes by, though, I think you’ll appreciate words more and then this piece might mean something.

I wish you could know what your eager shout, “It’s Grandma!” or “Grandmother!” does for my heart. I want to shout back, “It’s my darling grandchild!” (Sometimes, I do!) I love hearing what you think, what you’ve learned and what you want to do. I love watching you play, using your imagination and your young intellect. You are each so beautiful, so perfect. I know this childlike wonder you have will fade some with the years, but know that each of you is here for a very important purpose. For instance, you’ve already made your grandfather and me young again.

There are so many things I’d like to communicate to you each in the relatively few years I have to know and love you. So many things I’ve learned. Sometimes I wish I’d known these things when I was your age, and that’s why I’m writing them down for you. Maybe you’ll take some of them to heart, and benefit from them. Some may seem obvious, but bear with me, please. (By the way, this is just a partial list. Watch for more in the future.)

Here goes:

Please and thank you are extremely valuable words. You all have already been taught to use them, but as you grow older, you may drop them. Don’t. You’d be amazed at how many doors these magic words will open for you.

I’m sorry, when used properly, is also a fine expression. Don’t make a habit of saying it all the time, but when you are truly wrong and you know it, use it. You will be the bigger person for it.

These days, the term gentleman and lady have come into much misuse. To me, a gentleman (or lady) is a person who conducts himself with dignity, kindness and discretion. Currently, even some criminals are referred to as gentlemen. This is a shame.

Treat people with respect, no matter what their station. There is no excuse for condescension towards anyone. People who think they need to flaunt their position or wealth lack character. A waiter or janitor can be as good a friend as a senator. You can never have too many friends.

Scrupulous honesty is important. (That’s not to say you have to blurt out everything that pops into your head—that’s indiscretion.) But if people can count on you to do what you say you’ll do, and mean what you say, that’s worth more than gold.

A fact I learned once I got out into the world of work is that some grownups aren’t always mature. They can be as petty and selfish as any bully on the playground. They can be manipulative and dishonest. Recognizing this can help you immensely. Avoid these people. Don’t deal with them. Don’t trust their promises. And don’t get into arguments with them. Simply fade out of their lives gently, without commitment.

Don’t try to impress your friends. It won’t work, anyway. Just be you. Everybody is the star of their own mental movie. Remember that when people don’t make the effort to understand and appreciate you, they aren’t necessarily evil. It’s just that most people are self-centered.

You know what’s right in most cases. Just do it. There are countless temptations that will come your way. Resist the ones you know to be wrong. Nobody should have to tell you this, but when they are sad or lonely or hurting, sometimes a person does foolish things that can resonate in their lives for years to come. Believe me, you will be glad if you don’t succumb.

Life isn’t fair. That’s not a popular idea right now, but it’s undeniably true. Some people are going to have lots more than you do. "You don’t always get what you want," the song says. Don’t let this frustrating fact ruin your life. There are many treasures out there to be discovered. They don’t have to be covered in gold or glory. They just need to be good and honorable. Another song says, "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and start all over again."

Obtain for yourself a working knowledge of the Bible. It’s a long book, but no longer than one of the Harry Potter books (which are so popular right now) and there are so many valuable nuggets of wisdom there. Get a list that enables you to read it through in a certain period of time—one year, two years. (I have a two-year Bible, and I’m on my second reading of it.) When I did read the Bible all the way through, I found a lot of puzzling things, I admit, but there were so many more wonderful things that really helped me.

Most important of all, allow Jesus to introduce Himself into your life. He says, “…I stand at the door and knock.” He’s willing to become friends, if you are. What does it look like to be a Christian? Essentially, it’s someone who recognizes that he/she will never make it to Heaven without accepting that he/she is a sinner and needs to acknowledge the sacrifice that Jesus made as the only way. Once you do this, that big black book with the gold edges will start to make a whole lot more sense.

And for that matter, so will life.

(I’ll end this letter now, but there may be more.)

I love you all more than I can ever express,

Grandma/Grandmother

“Tell me everything you know. I have five minutes.”

This about sums up my efforts at teaching a 4-week class on mystery writing at the Cary Senior Center recently. It was called “Whodunnit? Mysteries and Mystery Writers.”

At the first class, I gave my usual speech about how I came to write a mystery (I was so tired of bad ones, I decided to produce something I myself would enjoy). That was pretty good, as far as it went, but my voice gave out by the end of the hour and these nice people paid some money to hear me teach them something; they deserved better. I did suggest they try looking for writing ideas on the back page of the USA Today newspaper—you know, those little newsy paragraphs, one for each state?

By the second lesson, it was clear that they didn’t come just to be entertained; they came to learn and share. We were a small group, only seven, but each “student” was a gem. A couple of them were experienced writers, two were retired police officers, one a retired engineer. Two of them already belonged to mystery writing organizations and one lady took it upon herself to write a complete short story whose premise came from a USA Today paragraph. It was based on a news item about a pair of human eyeballs found on top of a trash can. Her story blew me away: it was concise, filled with emotion, slyly wicked—but not gross--and had a fantastic ending. Clearly, these folks didn’t really need me; they just needed to focus on what they enjoyed doing: writing.

I was able to answer questions about how to promote your work. I shared my tales of woe and also of success. (Mostly woe.) I told them things I wish I’d known when I started this writing journey. I counseled a little. Writing can be a lonely, discouraging business. Yes, there are zillions of books out there, but you never know when what you write may prove to be valuable or interesting to somebody.

What if your experiences aren’t all that dramatic? asked one student. I was happy to answer this one. The wonder of writing fiction is that you can take your area of expertise and add danger and drama to it! His character might be an investigator for the IRS, mine is a high school English teacher. Neither profession screams drama, yet a good story can be made of how they caught Al Capone—on tax evasion charges. A mundane charge, but the defendant was anything but ordinary. I like the way Hitchcock in his early movies (his later ones creep me out!) would take an ordinary person and put them in extraordinary circumstances.

[Here’s an example: Hitchcock’s Shadow of a Doubt is about an ordinary, loving family. The scenes of the children and the parents are right out of Our Town: warm, funny, nostalgic. Yet there’s a cancer on the family. It’s Mama’s younger brother, Charlie, who pops in and out from time to time and is always welcomed. When Charlie’s namesake, his niece Charlotte (also nicknamed Charlie), discovers that he is a wanted man, her life means nothing to her uncle, and we are on the edge of our seats wondering whether the girl will escape the clutches of pure evil. (Incidentally, the script was co-written by Thornton Wilder, who wrote Our Town, and it shows.)]

I knew some stuff from experience, and I was happy to share it with the class. But by the third class, it was more an exchange of ideas than a lecture from me. I did spend quite a while printing up handout material that might be helpful at a later date. We encouraged each other and suggested ideas for one another. I nagged the lady with the short story to send it to a mystery magazine. (She declined, she said, because she didn’t want her first published work to be about eyeballs!) We all became friends.

It’s been said that to teach is to learn. This was certainly proven true in my class. Whodunnit? Well, I did, and they did, too.