The Gentle Life

I walk into Barnes and Noble and my eyes briefly scan the center tables loaded with colorful books. Some are hardbacks with embossed covers. Others are paper-bound and adorned with a bright foil seal that marks them as something special.

My chest tightens as it always does when I see the titles:

Fifty Shades of Grey

The Hunger Games

Harry Potter

A Game of Thrones

Whiskey Beach

Breadcrumbs

I hurry past all these books till I reach the aisles that embrace me like the old friends they truly are. Josh Groban's voice comes softly over the speakers that I happen to be standing directly beneath, and my nerves settle. Then the c.d. changes and Anne Hathaway dreams a dream while I flip through the books on the classics shelf or the titles in the youth section. Once in a while I venture into the christian romance aisles and realize over and again how much Beverly Lewis just isn't my thing, though I'm sure she's a wonderful writer. 

Then the questions start. "What the blazes am I doing trying to be a writer?"

I cast a quizzical eye toward the next aisle over and am assaulted by books on how to make your love-life "better", right alongside another obnoxious book adorned with a lady in a skimpy bikini.

"Oh Lord, what the heck am I doing?" I mutter. "That is what the world wants. Where do I fit in?"

I think of Fly Away Home, sitting in the inbox of an agent, hoping to be read. I think of the trouble I've had trying to find comparative titles for this witty, pretty little story. It's almost an impossible task because let's face it...there aren't many books like mine written these days.

Like mine. What are mine like?

I puzzle over the question and put The Story Girl back on the shelf, or close the covers of Persuasion. I am tempted to think my books had their heyday in the 1800's when people actually agreed with Jane Austen: 

"Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects as soon as I can, impatient to restore everyone not greatly at fault themselves to tolerable comfort."

See, as cheesy and outdated as it sounds, I write from my heart. I'm an optimist, and there just isn't dark fantasy or apocalyptic ideas to be found in my brain. I don't contemplate the end of the world so I don't write about the end of the world. I've had no experience with drugs and alcohol and murder so I don't write drugs, alcohol, or murder. I don't write writhing pain and lurid depression. I wouldn't want to. There's too much of it in real life for there to be any need for people to read whole novels circling around the idea. At least that's my opinion; the way my taste runs. 

But is there anyone who shares my desire for witty, cheerful, optimistic literature that deals with real life but in a way that doesn't leave you thinking you'd better build a bomb-shelter in your backyard just in case? I've read books that leave me scrambling frantically for pepper-spray, karate lessons, and antidepressant pills. Am I alone (and are my books alone) in our cheerful corner of the world's literary appetite? I shrug, mentally stick my tongue out at the writing books that preach "Death! Destruction! Depression!" and wander toward the check-out line with a YA novel under my arm. I'll try this one and see if it's any better than the last I read about a dreary, depressed eleven year-old.

Then I pass an end-cap with the Downton Abbey cookbook. Oh....Julian Fellowes is a bit more plucky than most others. I forgot about him. The rumbling wit of the Dowager Countess, and the boyish 'hail-fellow-well-met' cheer of Matthew Crawley. Sure, it's a TV show and he kills off every character you like, but it's not murderous or suicidal. One for the Cheerful score!

I'm feeling a little better when I pass another end-cap with Winnie-the-Pooh books loaded on top with their lovely bumble-bee-spangled covers. Oh, yes. Entirely different category than Downton, but these books have never gone out of popularity in their hundred-year reign. Score Two!

But the third endcap is what sends a satisfied smile to my face: down the next aisle I see a Mitford book. Jan Karon! I'd entirely forgotten about her. She's modern. She's successful....she's.....cheerful! And then my mind flings back to a conversation I had with a blogging friend related to my additional trouble of trying to peg what genre most of my books fall in. Though I eventually decided on pegging Fly Away Home as "historical romance", it could also fall under the oft-overlooked category of "gentle fiction", as defined by the all-knowing Wikipedia:

With charm and humor, these novels explore the everyday joys, frustrations, and sorrows of lives quietly led. They typically revolve around the activities of a small community of people, such as a small town, a church, or a gathering of friends. The realities of sex, violence, and other passions are downplayed and are never presented in a graphic manner. Although the genre was once largely dominated by British authors, American authors in the vein of Jan Karon are now extremely popular

And there you have it. Me and Jan Karon in a nutshell. Having that comparison, my smile sticks.

There is a place for me and my books.

There's a place for Mitford, and Cynthia and Father Tim.

There's a place for Penelope Wilcock's Hawk & Dove trilogy and other books of the kind that bring to mind firesides or sunny porches with a glass of ice-tea sweating close-by. My plan is simple: I only have to find a gentle agent who will confer with a gentle publisher who will then spread some goodwill to the gentle readers like you. It's only a matter of patience and perseverance, and ceaseless optimism. Maybe that is an optimistic point of view...but maybe, just maybe, the world needs a little cheering-up after all. 

Home from Europe!

Hello, fellow writers! I am home from Europe, changed in so many ways. I know everyone says that, and it annoys me to have to admit it, but if I am to be honest I must acknowledge that I am not quite the same person I was two weeks ago when I left America. My soul expanded, for one thing, and if you have not felt that tearing, joyful, painful feeling of a soul's expansion, I do feel sorry for you.

 I was true to my word and wrote in my travel journal religiously, recording anything and everything for future enjoyment. At the end of the two weeks I had 104 pages. So there. Here is proof from one of the four cameras that were constantly catching me filling the notebook:

Many places were inspiring to me, writing-wise, but I think perhaps the place that most caught me off-guard and will end up in a book was the cathedral, Maria Radna:

From the outside, it was grand and imposing. 

This basilica, built in 1520, was massive. I stepped through the immense wooden doors and the temperature dropped twenty degrees and my breath came in puffs, and I was dizzied with the splendor. It's hard to  get an idea of just how huge this place was. Put it this way: When I tipped my head back to look at the painting in the topmost dome, I tipped over because it made me too dizzy. Furthermore, the photo below is half-way down the length of pews in that gigantic sanctuary:

I was torn between complete admiration for this gorgeous place, and sadness that the glory of it is so passing, and the people who trust in the glamour will find themselves grasping wind. Behind the big alter-thing, there was a door. A DOOR! and then up in the ceiling were a series of random numbers and letters....my mind immediately began chucking and whirring like a Dutch-watch. Mark my words: Maria Radna will resurface in my literature someday. I promised.

Another event that inspired me to no end was the night we had dinner in a gipsie mansion. No lie. The pastor of the village-church we were visiting that night was friends with a gipsie man who had offered to open his home to us. It was....bonkers. We ate off of real silver and drank out of real gold, and stood under behemothian porcelain chandeliers that I expected to crash onto my head in a Xerxes-esque manner any moment.

(This is only about two-thirds of the house)

Our hosts were so generous and kind...and I laughed my head off when they closed the heavy oak doors of the dining room and a village pastor asked us to sing "I'll Fly Away" while he played the guitar. The incongruity of it all was so hilarious. But we did. We sang a Bluegrass hymn in the dining room of a legitimate gipsie-mansion, surrounded by a sea of rum-bottles. 

At the end, we took a group photo on the elaborate staircase. Again, these photos aren't quite giving credit to the enormity of the house. I was so blessed by the gipsies' hospitality, especially since they are Orthodox, and the Orthdox hardly ever even talk with the Baptists. Definitely a special night.

There were many other things that will end up in my books someday, I am sure. So many things that I will tell you in small doses. I am so glad I purposed to write in my travel-journal, and that I got so many pages. I won't forget, this way. Little impressions and memories that can't find a way to come out in words just yet. People I met and places I saw. Oh my goodness. I can now heartily recommend travel for giving one inspiration. Not just the fact of gathering experiences to incorporate in writing, but also the very fact of getting up and about. Gaining thoughts and impressions and emotions that might never show up directly in a book, but will forever color your heart. Yes, travel is a very good thing. 

Now the business at hand is to find where the dickens I left off with my writing. I had given myself a break of nearly two months as I focused on preparing for the trip, and I was stuck finding comp titles for Fly Away Home, and I was in between a dozen stories if I was one and....well, I won't fret my head. I'll just start writing because you know, and I know, that that is the only way to be a writer. :)

Off I Go

I don't suppose it's quite fair to drop off the face of the planet without a word of explanation.

I also hardly think it's fair-game to expect a girl who is leaving for Romania in two days to be able to have written much of note in the weeks leading up to her departure.

That is my alibis. Leaky as a sieve and it would hardly stand up in court, but I know you to be of a forgiving nature so I suppose you will let me slide this once. And notice I haven't only been neglecting this blog: none of my blogs have seen anything of me of late, and that is the best way I could find to handle the fact that life has had no time to include blogging or writing. I have done so little writing that it's embarrassing. Thus, the second reason I have left The Inkpen Authoress to shift for itself: I thought that there is nothing more idiotic than speaking when you have nothing to say. Since I haven't written lately, there is not much honesty or wisdom in pretending I have and hoping I can fool the lot of you. But you are writers and you can't be easily fooled.

I will become a world-traveler over the weekend. Sarah teases me about saying I am "going to Europe," but two stops in Paris, two in Budapest, and two weeks in Romania seem to me to constitute the expression. I may never make it back to Europe in my life (though let's hope I do) so it behooves me to make good what of it I expect to see while gone. I have high expectations. Of course I'm nervous. Of course I'm stressed. Of course I feel an awful lot like Bilbo leaving Bag End and wondering if perhaps home wasn't nicer than an adventure after all. But I know that God has lead me this far and He will lead me beyond, and so i am looking forward to my Continental Fling.

So what does a writer pack for her Gallivanting? I hoped you would ask.

This writer brings:

• Altoids (which thrill her because of No Mere Mortals) and Tic-Tacs (because the white ones smell just like a baby-doll she owned as a child) and Trident Original Gum (because its taste is associated with her brother who is a comfort and is not going on the trip)
• A leather travel journal and no less than 4 extra-fine-tip G2 pens
• A Severe Mercy by Sheldon Vanauken and The Hawk and The Dove Trilogy by Penelope Wilcock, and Winnie-The-Pooh. (her fellow-travelers will laugh at her, but she thinks it might come in handy one night when Home seems very far away)
• Clothes and clothes and clothes because she doesn't like to be seen out of fashion
• Her brand new sheep's leather Baccini hobo-tote which makes her feel positively European, and was a gift from the almost-sister-in-law's-sister
• A tape-measure because no one knows when someone will want one
• A Sharpie because again, someone will want one and she will be Mary Poppins and have it to their Astonishment and Surprise
• Lemon Luna-Bars because she doesn't want the trouble of trying to exchange money in the Parisian Airport to buy lunch during a one-hour layover in which she must switch airlines and find her new flight
• Celestial Seasonings herbal-tea sampler which includes Peppermint tea (for anyone's upset stomach), Sleepytime Tea (in case anyone has insomnia), Camomile tea (in case anyone is stressed and needs to take a relaxer), and some other obscure variety which will definitely come in handy.
• Striped neon stocks (which are a comfort since they are perfectly absurd)
• Toenails painted like slices of watermelon (which is a comfort for the former reason)
• Light, natural eyeshadow and mascara (because she won't be among people who wear much makeup but she still wants a face)
• Comfortable shoes (so she can climb those possible castle-ruins without blisters ruining her concentration)
• Sweaters (because who doesn't like a cute, cozy sweater?)
• Copious amounts of hairpins (because this writer has a lot of hair that always will blow in the wrong direction)
• Jeggings (because as much as she hates them,{and looks wretched in them} they were all Walmart had left of the leggings she was told to bring to wear under her skirts against the cold weather)
• Plum-colored Peacoat (because it's news, and it's chic, and it's something she has always wanted)

As a writer, what do you carry when you're on holiday? I would love to hear in the comments, and I will see you all in two week's time with lots to report from the Continent! :)

It reads the better which is our own

"A book reads the better, which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins." -Charles Lamb

(and incidentally one of my favorite book-love quotes)

        If a book is your own, certainly you are in the position of caretaker. Do you keep your books like well-kept children: always scrubbed and shining with covers unsmudged? Or do you take the Mrs. Arliss approach to your book-keeping and lay they haphazardly on the tabletops or forget about them on the porch till the afternoon gale has had a peep in the pages? Or do you take a somewhat middle road with a comfortable wear to your collection that still retains a semblance of pride in the fact that you have begun a personal library. Speaking for myself, I have swung from one side of the pendulum to the other. I have mentioned before that touch is a big thing for me, and I have always loved the crackle of a page that has got damp from some spillage and then dried again; perhaps with the ink a bit blurry and spoiled but still legible. The same question applies to writing in books...I have gone through stages in my life where I was a non-scribbler and then a pro-scribbler, underlining and scoring dozens of lines and pages that really didn't mean much of anything to me, just because I wanted my books and Bible to look well-used. Have you ever read anything more pathetic than that? I'm sure I haven't, but at ten or eleven, that was my mind-set.

       Once I realized the idiocy of such a habit, I ceased entirely. But over the last several years as I have started reading things that really mattered, and as the Lord has brought certain verses to me that I had never thought of in that certain way, I've become a scribbler-in again. Last year I was privileged to meet the book I have mentioned before: Sheldon Vanauken's A Severe Mercy. I cannot stress how much each of you needs to read this. I read some books and I like them, but then I read some books and the thoughts from those books stay with me through the day as the book sits on the shelf, and then through the weeks and months after I have finished and have put the book away. I wish I had written in A Severe Mercy when I first read it, underlining all the lines and passages that were precious to me. Instead when I thought I could rely on Goodreads to have all those quotes, I was in error. Goodreads has, apparently, heard little of Vanauken's killer book, and I was afloat in a sea of half-remembrances. That being said, yesterday I took out the battered, 80's copy of this book and dove back in with my ball-point pen in hand. So far it is just as amazing as I recalled and I have recklessly dived in, underscoring all the best lines and writing in the margins.

       Some people complain about finding books written in, but I think it is a beautiful thing. I like nothing better than to open an old book in a store and find not one but three or even four names written on the inside of the cover, the ink fading in varying degrees to show the age of each inscription. I like to turn my mind to vaguely imagining what those people were like, and if they enjoyed the book, and if it effected their lives or if it was a thing they never finished and all but forgot they had started.

      If I find notes written among the pages, I am often unsatisfied till I've read them all and "gotten to know" the person who had once held the same volume. After all, reading is a relatively private affair (at least it is for me) and some of my most tender, young, and wise thoughts come to me as I read. When I'm in the clutches of a good story--a really good story--there is no one in the world but myself and those characters...for once all the restraints of society and Other People are broken and my brain runs wild. If others are like me, isn't there a good chance that the notes pencilled on the edges of the page are heart-thoughts of the previous reader? I have read stories that claim such a thing. I once even read a story (I can't recall if it was fiction...probably) where a man found someone's misplaced book and started reading it, and fell in love with the woman who had written the notes in the margins because her handwriting and her notations showed such a deep and tender soul. Of course that is a sentimental story, and perhaps writing in my books is sentimental as well. But I say, if college students can score and underline their textbooks, shouldn't Lewis and Chesterton and Bronte and Austen and all the rest deserve an equal chance to be tattered and loved? I think so.

       But everyone in the world must have their opinion, and I suppose you will be aching to speak your own so here's your opportunity: What do you have to say on the subject of Scribbling Or Not? Leave a comment and let's continue the discussion; I'd love to hear your ideas.

If I wasn't a novelist....

Writers.

Sheesh.

We take ourselves so seriously.

Of course there is a certain measure of gravity we must keep in order to stay on track with schedules and plots and research and the actual writing that makes us what we are. But sometimes as broad as our imaginations are, our scope of reality can be rather small. So in this post I have compiled a list of things I would (will?) write if I wasn't an all-important novelist:

Funny Poetry:

Shel Silverstein and Lewis Carroll and Hilaire Belloc. Before I ever grew to like Sir Walter Scott or Tennyson, I scoured my poetry book for the bits that made me laugh. Truth is, I still like funny poetry best, and my own poetry is at its most natural and light-hearted when I'm just being a bit nutty.

Show-tune Lyrics:

I may not even wait to do this. I may sit down right after I'm done typing and write a song. My life as a musical would be hilarious. As much as I love Broadway, I haven't even tried to write my own Broadway tunes. I have a deep deep appreciation for the sheer brilliance of Cole Porter and Rodgers and Hammerstein's word-play, and to do that...wow. It'd be awesome. I can sing and carry a tune, but I'm no Laura Osnes But to write the words to the songs that make the shows what they are...I would probably take news that Fly Away Home will never be published if I could write a ditty for Collin Donnell or Ryan Steele to sing. *happy happy day!*

Radio Show Announcements:

Just for mischief's sake, I would put one unpronounceable word in each announcement and giggle behind the glass as the show-host tried to read his lines. :)

Warning Labels:

Because we've all laughed over warning-label faux pas, I think it would be lots of fun to write purposeful ones just to see if anyone even reads those things. I don't. What I can't figure out from the pictures on the back of the box, I Google. I am lame that way.

Napkin-Script and Otherwise:

If any of you have had the honor to eat at Chipoltes, you will know what I mean. Some places are brilliant (like Chipoltes) and some are not (like Wendy's). Chipoltes writes the wittiest, most hilarious messages on their napkins and cups and tortilla-chip bags. I have several times stashed napkins in my purse just to re-read and laugh over on the way home. Sarah has stashed them in her purse to put in her SMASHbook. (A thing they have yet to addict me to, funnily enough)

Taco-Bell Sauce Packets:

'Nuff said. 

Attach myself to Stephen Moffat till he let me help him write Sherlock:

Okay. So that's ambitious, but WOULDN'T THAT BE AWESOME?! 

Write Parodies of Famous Songs:

Fo' Free. Because Tim Hawkin's parodies, while a little hyper, are admittedly very very funny. :)

Chalkboard Artist at Coffee-House:

Maybe it's my recent fundraising efforts (i.e. turning my sunny farmhouse into a coffee-shop for one night), or because I blog about recipes now and again, but I have been having so much fun making "original drink" descriptions like The Branson: A passionate blend of dark roast coffee and Irish Cream.  

Theatre Critic:

Not that I know over-much about the whole critiquing process, but I could totally stand going to Broadway or a traveling show company and reviewing their shows for the newspaper. I honestly could.

Food Critic:

Anton Ego, anyone? No? Okay. But seriously. Between The Food Channel and Ratatouille and Foodie-Blogs, I have cultivated an extreme interest in gourmet cooking. I think it would be a rather nice, cushy job. (And no, I'm not about to go ape like the guy in Psych who killed for the restaurant-critic job. ;) I would love to write articles about different restaurants, cooking trends, and neat ingredients

Travel-Journalist:

Again, such a neat job. I know there would be inconvenience of jet-lag, strange food and climate and cultures, (not to mention 'where do they get the money'?) but that's also part of the fun, and just the idea of traveling all over the place gives me a severe case of wander-lust. Thankfully I may quell that rather soon by my trip to Romania! :)

^^ These are some of my ideas, and I am positive I could think of more. What jobs would you take if you weren't a novelist? ^^

Two Contest Opportunities (with awesome prizes)

I am sorry, I am sorry. But it's technically still Wednesday SO. I didn't get too far off my post schedule. Oh wait. It's Thursday. Where the BLAZES is my head?

In preparing to set up a makeshift Coffee Shop in my house, actually, to raise further funds for Romania. Thanks so much to each of you whom bought my custom stationery! And if you haven't bought any yet and would like to, I'm still taking orders. :) I know it's really short-notice, but I wanted to let you know about two contests that have awesome prizes!

First off is kind of a strange kind of contest to enter for writers like us, but then again, our craft might give us an edge when it comes to entering. Girls, the contest is for eShakti, a clothing company, and the writing prompt is What Do Women Want? You have 45 words or less to answer this question. Three winners will each receive a $150.00 gift card to eShakti! I thought, why not go for it? So I did. The only catch (and I wish I'd figured this out earlier) is that your entries have to be in by tomorrow, March 15th. But really, it's only 45 words so why not give it a go? You might end up with $150.00 worth of free clothes.

The SECOND contest is over at Go Teen Writers to celebrate the publication and release of Jill's and Stephanie's newest book, Go Teen Writers: How to Turn Your First Draft Into a Published Novel. The contest gives you an opportunity to pitch your story in 25 words or less to Jill and Stephanie!  The top three winners from this contest will each receive a copy of the new book for their winning entries! Same thing with the eShakti contest, however: you only have till 1 PM (Kansas City time) to enter the contest, so hurry!

I entered the Go Teen Writers contest with one of the scraps of stories that has been floating around my head these past few months, and that I hope might come out to be something pretty neat. It's a novel idea! (no pun intended, please) :) Anyway, sorry I didn't warn you guys sooner about these contests, but I hope those of you reading this post tonight or tomorrow will try your luck for either or both the prizes! The worst you can do is not make it to the top three. I mean, really. :)

Winners of the First Impressions Contest!

This morning I sat down at my laptop, brought up all the entries from my First Impressions contest, laughed, blushed, laughed and blushed some more, and tried to decide on only two winners. In the end, it came down, not to a question of how well the entries were written (for all the entries were well written), but simply for the unique twist the author of the pieces put on the them.

First off, the winner of the Non-Fiction Category is:

Josie Boyer!

This chick and myself are relatively "new friends", and now love each other to pieces, but the beginning of our acquaintance was inauspicious in the extreme. Not only had I not wrapped my head around what the blazes modest fashion was supposed to look like, but I find it hilarious to see how I came across to Josie at first! I received two entries into the non-fiction category, and they were both from people I love dearly dearly so it was a tough choice. But I chose Josie's because of the fact that, judging from our first year together, you would hardly have thought we were destined to be awesome friends.... :D I also chose it because in this piece Josie is Josie. She teases me, she's sarcastic, and she's spot-on. Enjoy.

Meeting Miss Rachel Heffington the romantic rose sniffer.

      If my memory serves me correctly, it was the month of October, in year of our Lord 2009. In the Cabin of the first most number. I was 16 years old, with a bit of a jaded and cynical outlook on life.

     I arrived customarily early in the day with the leadership. Hours ahead of the time most everyone else would arrive.  All present comrades deserting in the pursuance of their most beloved octagonal pit and game of bloody knuckles. I have never to this day liked Gaga, and could not be drawn in. I loitered about all by my lonesome waiting to find out which cabin to move my things into and sitting on a rock, staring off into space, kicking pebbles and large sprouted acorns in complete and utter boredom. Thus I sat, until the long awaited moment was upon me and they (the leadership) revealed the cabin to which I was assigned. I forthwith entered and assessed said cabin with a mischievous grin  and a glint in my eye at being the first one in there, and thusly having first pick. I selected the bunk of my choice with the very best lighting, (because bad lighting is a pet peeve of mine) and moved my junk in there! It was a bottom bunk, along side of the bunk in the very most back corner. Which would soon be Rachel's.

      The initial moment we met is regrettably cloudy... I believe it was in the same time frame that I was being questioned by curious people as to my thoughts behind the numerous safety pins displayed "creatively" on my blue jeans. I remember her standing there. A very sweet round face... innocent, dear and naive. Undamaged by the harshness of life, and by the way she talked...maybe a little ditsy? Taking me in through wide, searching, and somewhat squinty blue eyes and very round spectacles. She was wearing an ankle length purple (corduroy?) jumper and fall themed turtle neck. She explained with eloquent finesse to match my own, and a lop sided grin, that she had recently acquired the outfit as part of a new fall wardrobe. Listening intently as I endeavored to simultaneously entertain and explain that the reason for the safety pins... was simply because I had holes in my pants! Nervously calming my embarrassment and convincing everyone of my "cool as a cucumber confidence" as a smooth talking "creative type" Haaaa! It seems I was unsure if I liked her as I sized her up. She was a bit of a pansy.  But then... I was unsure if I liked anybody in that season of my life. I had not yet taken down the barricade that was around my heart.

      Every night I was subjected by the main body of my cabin to hear with contempt the conversations of these lame things...
•Scotsmen
•Fainting
•Flowers
•Brothers
•Sweethearts (the lack there of)
•Letter writing
•Scotsmen
•Musicals
•Dance cards
• Little woman
•Nancy Drew
•Tea Party's
•Musicals
•Tea cups
•Scotsman
•Baking pies
•musicals
•Scotsmen
•Sewing

       Massive annoyance... Massive!
       I wouldn't say at the time because all that sissy talk hurt my image as a tough chick... But it sparked my curiosity. My earlier question of "is she really a pansy?" Uh... Yep. That's for sure! Buuuuut... She was beginning to grow on me. You just can't dislike someone THAT endearing and genuine. Even if she wouldn't shut up about Scotsmen and musicals! But I didn't let her know that... I was as unfriendly I could get away with, holding her very much at bay while I analyzed her further from my very close perch. I envied her joyful and peaceful heart. And secretly admired her adeptness  at womanhood. She was like a healthy happy sunflower... While I was a angry little dandy lion. I did like her. Greatly wary though I was.

      At one point she handed me her note book and asked for my information... I had made a habit of being an impudent prankster and taking everything extremely literal. I returned to her a full sheet of paper with ALL of my information right down to eye color and hat size(and then some)! She just looked at me in shock and disbelief. :)

     I did not get to know her well and embrace our friendship until about two years later. So incredibly blessed am I to have her in my life!  Rachel Heffington: One of few who was among the earliest to win my trust. Instrumental in proving to me that there are friends worth having, loving, and dying for. She holds a lead role in my testimony.

      Meeting Rachel Heffington is one of the greatest gifts my Lord has given me. A most precious friendship. And it just keeps getting better with age!

    Four years later, now spiritually whole and restored by the blood and Mercy of Christ,
        Joyfully,
            Josie Boyer

Ah. I love ya', Joz. We are definitely an unlikely pair. :)

 Now for the winner of the Non-Fiction Category:

Katie Sebelko

What I loved about Katie's entry was the fact that she has never met me, and yet she pegged me, pretty much, down to the detail of my somewhat saucy replies in a conversation. I only hope I get to meet Katie in real life someday. :)

How I Met Rachel Heffington 

A Not-So Fictional Story in Three Parts 

By Katelyn Sabelko

Part I: The Empty Chair 

“March is fantastically cold, darling, don’t you think?”

“Fantastic,” I mumbled, “Is not at all how I’d begin to describe it.” 

“Oh, you’re a bore, Katie. A complete bore. There is much to said about March! The sun shines bright--like Mother’s jewel collection! Even you’ll have to admit to that.”

“I’ll admit to nothing.” 

Laughter filled my ears, lilting and free and full of indecorous snorts. I closed my eyes.

“Knock it off.”

“Um, pardon me?” 

I blinked. A waiter stared down at me through his smudged spectacles. 

“No! No, not you. Not you. It’s just... it’s just Eudora. You know.” I gestured to the chair beside me. The chair that was empty. “Yeah. Nevermind.” 

He set a mug of tea on my table and fled to the kitchen. 

“Thanks!” I called after him weakly. 

When they say writers are insane, they mean it. I can see them now, all covered in ink spots or riddled with carpal tunnel, chuckling softly. ‘Is it only now that she has come to realize this?’ That’s what they’re thinking. You know it is. The writers of the past, the future authors, the struggling-to-become-writers. They’re having a good ol’ laugh. 

And I took a sip of my tea.

“Katie!” A single word danced a thousand jigs into my melancholy thoughts. A single word, my name, uttered with all the warmth and joy of the sun itself. 

“Good heavens!” It couldn’t be her. But it was. “Good heavens! Rachel!”

Part II: The Chair is Empty No Longer 

“Rachel! Rachel Heffington!”

She beamed. “In the flesh!” 

“Rachel!”

She grinned. “We’ve established that.” 

“But... but... Rachel!” 

Now she bubbled into laughter. “Katie! Katie, Katie, Katie!” 

“You’re sitting in Eudora’s seat!”

“Oh, am I? I can move.” 

“No, no. I’ve had quite enough of her antics for one day. Quite enough.”

Rachel nodded. “I see.” And somehow I knew that she did.

With a smile that could melt even a Wisconsin winter, Rachel Heffington was sitting in Eudora’s chair, drinking tea. Rachel. Rachel Heffington. In the flesh.   

“I suppose you’re wondering how I came to be here,” she said. 

I was. 

“I’m here because you need me. I’m here because you’re not writing. I’m here because you’re sitting in a cafe, talking to an empty chair.” 

“Oh.” I could feel my cheeks burning. “You know about that?”

“Please,” she looked up at me over the top of her glasses. “Katie, you never blog. When you do you, you complain about not writing. This is hardly the way to run a writing blog, dear girl. Hardly.” 

I groaned, and slumped back into my chair. “I know.” 

“So, I have come to help you.” 

“You have?”

“Yes,” she chuckled, then cleared her throat. “Miss Katelyn Sabelko, I have come to help you out of your writing-slump.”

I sprang upright, “My fairy god...friend?” 

“You may call me whatever you wish, but we must get down to business. I don’t have much time.” 

I suppressed a cry of “... and defeat the huns!” and nodded soberly. 

She began right away. “How long have you been not-writing Lara’s Story?” 

“ARROW,” I breathed, “Arrow to the heart.”  

“Exactly: far too long. How long have you been only haltingly focused on Essie’s Adventures, your script?” 

I mumbled something that could have been “over six months” but let’s hope it wasn’t. 

“What about that Arthurian legend story you started? The one that betrayed your obsession for freckles?” 

“I gave up on that.”

Rachel took a sip of tea. When she spoke again, I believe she was trying to sound firm, but her adorable face quite reversed the effect. “Why aren’t you writing?”

A million excuses were on the tip of my tongue, and not a single one of them valid. “I don’t know.” 

“Are you afraid.”

I looked her squarely in the eyes. “Yes.”

“Dash your fears. You’ve absolutely nothing to be afraid of.”

She took another sip of tea, a rather long one. “Do you believe in your stories?”

I nodded.

“Believe in them more.”

I nodded again.

“Take the time to think, to plan. You know you can find time.” 

“We make time for the things most important to us,” I mused. “No matter how full our schedules, we make time.

Rachel smiled, her eyes small and bright. “Now you’re talking. However, merely conversing about dedication is one thing, applying it to your daily life is quite another.”

I groaned again. “Rachel, I’m doomed to be a failure.” 

She laughed gently, kindly. “No.” 

The March sun beamed through the window and settled on Rachel’s hair, brightening her entire countenance. She was radiant. She was confident. She was poised. She was kind. She was Rachel Heffington. 

Before I could stop myself, I demanded the secret to her success.

“That is why I’ve come, to tell you the secret.”

“Your secret?” 

“My secret, every aspiring writer’s secret, every published author’s secret.” 

She leaned forward, and I caught a glimmer of mischievous energy in her bright eyes. “Ready?”

She told me the secret. In unison we blinked, smiled, and filled the cafe with our laughter. 

Part III: Empty Again 

Rachel had gone. Eudora’s chair was empty once more. 

“Where will you go now?” I’d asked. 

“There are scores of struggling young writers that I’ve yet to visit this afternoon. And I’ve scheduled tea with Abigail Hartman and a long walk with Jenny Freitag. Mirriam Neal and I haven’t had an honest-to-goodness laugh in far too long...” She paused, “Or perhaps I’ll have a good chat with my characters in public.” 

I looked at her in surprise.

“Oh, Katie. We’re all mad here.” 

Her smile, her mischievous little eyes, lit up the room. Then she was gone. 

Now I stared at the chair, vacant as ever, and a smile pulled at the edges of my lips. Not a trace of morose emotion could I detect in my heart. Rachel had burst into the cafe on wisps of sunshine and left a warm glow in her wake. 

How in the world had she done that?

“Who cares how?” I whispered, running my fingers over the rim of my tea-mug. “She just did it. Why? Because she’s Rachel Heffington, that’s why.”

As I left the cafe, grinning from ear-to-ear, Rachel’s secret to writerly success rang through my mind: 

You must write. 

***

Both Katie and Josie will receive as their prizes a small, commissioned water-color painting from me! Girls, contact me about what you would like me to paint, and we can discuss the details.

Thanks to everyone who entered! Your entries were marvelous, and I enjoyed reading every one. :)