Why My Brother Should Be Dead

Most of you know that for the past 10 days, I've been in the "residency" portion of my MFA degree. While in workshop one day, one of the exercises we had to do was to free-write a story that began with the line: "This is a true story." So I wanted to share this one with you guys (and it is, in fact, a true story!)

This is a true story. We were living in this old brick house with creaking wooden floors in Hialeah. My mom was showing the house to a couple that was interested in buying it. When she came to my brothers’ room, she noticed that the window was open and two little hands, white-knuckled, were gripping the bottom of the window frame. She, of course, screamed and rushed to the window to find my blonde-haired brother beaming up at her, his body dangling on the outside of the red brick house. 

This should not have surprised her. Just before our house went up for sale, we had a permanent fixture at the bottom of our staircase: a queen-sized mattress. The sole purpose of this mattress was to catch my brother whenever he went flying off of the banister of our expansive wooden staircase. The antique chandelier that overlooked the first floor had several crystals and light bulbs missing from the times that Daniel jumped off of the staircase with an umbrella, perhaps in an attempt to fly like Mary Poppins or maybe he simply wanted to see if he could swing off of the chandelier. 

Prior to the mattress, my parents had tried putting up one of those child safety gates at the bottom of the staircase to prevent access. When that didn’t work, they put a net on the outside of the staircase to try to keep him from going through the slots in the banister. A week after the safety gate and the net were in place, my mother found Daniel laying unconscious on the first floor of our house, his blue gray eyes staring up at her. She, of course, screamed and rushed to his side, but after approximately 30 seconds, he jumped up with a grin on his face and ran back to the staircase. After this incident, she scrapped the safety gate and the net and put a mattress down as a last effort to try to keep him alive. This sort of thing became the norm in our house. 

When we moved to our new house in Broward, my parents bought us a large trampoline with a bright orange safety net around it. My dad would pull the trampoline over to the large oak tree in our yard and Daniel would climb to the highest limb, balancing precariously as the branch swayed beneath him. He would then jump from the tree onto the waiting trampoline, which bounced him almost as high as the safety net that surrounded the trampoline. Safety nets were not particularly effective in our household. 

Daniel on the slopes of Steamboat Springs, CO

 

One time, on vacation in my grandfather’s condo in the Keys, a concerned neighbor pounded on our door to tell us that Daniel was skateboarding off of the top of the two-story parking garage. My mom, of course, ran out of the condo — not to stop my brother, but to record him.

The first question that my professor asked when I finished reading the piece was, "Is your brother still alive??" I'm very happy to say that Daniel is, in fact, still alive. And I hope he stays that way for a very long time.

What Does "Lights Out" Mean for Me?

All morning, I’ve been struggling with this question: what’s the literary equivalent of an athlete playing “lights out”? (For those who don’t know what “lights out” means, please Google ‘Kawhi Leonard, Heat v. Spurs game 3’.)

As some of you might know, I penned (or, rather, typed) the final pages of the first draft of my novel this last week (hurrah!) Probably for the rest of my life, I’ll be editing and rewriting said novel. Or at least, that’s how it feels.

But, the fact that I have a first draft gets me thinking about the next stage of this beautiful and horrific process. In order to get published by a traditional publisher (that’s the dream), I’ll need to find an agent. Apparently, that’s the hard part. So this summer is going to be spent going to workshops and conferences, networking with people and doing my “lights out” best to find an agent and get published.

This weekend, I’ll be at the Southeastern Writer’s Workshop in St. Simon Island, GA. It’s a small setting, which will hopefully be great for me to meet people and network.

The following week, I’ll be in the June Residency for my Masters of Fine Arts program at the University of Tampa. It’s a 10-day intensive program where we’re basically eating, drinking and regurgitating all things book-related.

In early August, I’ll be going to the Writer’s Digest Conference in NYC and will be participating in a “Pitch Slam”, which is like speed-dating for writers and agents. They put you in a room with 50 agents and you have 90 seconds to pitch your book to any agent in the room. The agent will then have 90 seconds to respond to you, and potentially request a manuscript from you, and then you move on to the next agent. It’s a great opportunity to meet agents, get feedback, and maybe, hopefully, prayerfully, God-willing….find an agent. It’s a long shot (please see this article), but a girl can hope, right?


To play "lights out" means to leave everything on the court, to hold nothing back, and to do your absolute best. So, here's what I've decided to do this summer in order to be the "lights out" writer/connector/networker that I want to be:

1. I can't be afraid to take risks

I read an article recently that encouraged writers to take risks every day. With this in mind, I'm choosing to "leave everything on the court" with my writing, every single day. I am fighting to stay true to myself as a writer and to be vulnerable in every aspect of my writing. I know I won't ever fulfill this perfectly, but I sure am trying.

2. I can’t be afraid to talk to people and ask questions

According to an article I read this week from Fast Company, 70% of people claim that they’re shy. So, that means that pretty much everyone around me is also afraid to talk to people. So at these conferences, hopefully it’ll be a relief when I speak up (regardless of how awkwardly I do it)!

Also, if you’ve ever taught a class before and had a Q&A session afterward, you know how terrifying it is to stand up there and wait for someone, anyone (pretty please) to raise their hand and ask a question. Any question. Doesn’t matter if you don’t even know the answer or if it wasn’t even related to what you were talking about. So I’m making it my goal to craft a question for the speaker/lecturer for every single class that I attend this summer.

3. I HAVE to talk about my book

So, a few years ago I decided that I was going to learn Russian. I took a class at UF and LOVED it. And, I was actually quite good. However, I refused to speak to native speakers in Russian simply because I was embarrassed and afraid. Needless to say, I didn’t grow that much as a Russian speaker.

In some ways, I can feel similarly with my book. It’s vulnerable to talk about something that is so dear to me, and I’m so afraid of someone scoffing or mocking me or simply thinking not-so-good thoughts about me, that I don’t talk about it.

I’m grateful for my wonderful husband, who ALWAYS brings up my book to people and practically forces me to tell others about it. But now I need to be able to do that on my own. Confidently. With poise. And clarity.

We’ll see how it goes.

4. No matter what, I have to keep hoping, praying and persevering

Let’s say I get through this summer, and the stars did not align, and I didn’t find an agent (which, again, is very likely), I am resolving now that I will not give up. Please remind me of this fact later on.

As I continue in my journey, your prayers and supplications are requested and much needed. Thank you in advance! :)





How about you? Have you set any goals for yourself for this summer? Feel free to share in the comments :)

4 Reasons Why I'm Obsessed with The Fault in Our Stars

(And Why You Should Be Too)

I’m sure you’ve all heard about the book-turned-movie phenomenon The Fault in Our Stars. I read the book a few weeks ago and saw the movie on opening night with my sister-in-law, Amanda. I’m not normally a “fangirl”, but I gotta tell you guys, I’m obsessed. And here’s why:

1. John Green

The only reason I even picked up this book is because I saw a YouTube video of John Green when he was on his way to TIME Magazine’s dinner to honor the “Top 100 Most Influential People” (of which he was named one of them). In the video, Green is downright hilarious (almost without meaning to be) while also portraying a humility that I don’t think is contrived. He is witty, fast-talking and the kind of person you want to be friends with. As soon as I saw this video, I knew I needed to read TFIOS.

2. It’s a book about teenagers who are dying and yet, somehow, it’s hilarious

I’m not really sure how Green pulled that off, but I was very literally laughing the entire first half of the book (and then, alternately, crying the second half…but we’ll get to that). The witty yet raw inner-workings of Hazel Grace Lancaster connected me to the character almost immediately.

Perhaps the funniest (and yet somehow poignant) scene is when Hazel is discussing her support group that her parents force her to go to. Here’s an excerpt:

To be fair to Patrick (the moderator of the group), he let us talk about dying, too. But most of them weren’t dying. Most would live into adulthood, as Patrick had.

(Which meant there was quite a lot of competitiveness about it, with everybody wanting to beat not only cancer itself, but also the other people in the room. Like, I realize this is irrational, but when they tell you that you have, say, a 20 percent chance of living five years, the math kicks in and you figure that’s one in five…so you look around and think, as any healthy person would: I gotta outlast four of these bastards.)

The fact that Hazel/Green is voicing this almost-absurd idea (emphasis on almost) that it’s a “competition” to outlast the other cancer kids is simultaneously heartbreaking and also, at the chance of sounding callous, pretty funny. And that’s how Green approaches the whole thing: he tells the truth, doesn’t sugar coat it and adds in a healthy dose of wit and humor so that you don’t just curl up into a ball and cry your eyes out the whole time.

3. It’s real

Like I said before, Green doesn’t sugar coat anything. He’s straight-forward and raw, which is refreshing. This isn’t a feel-good book about overcoming obstacles or miraculous hearings. This is a book about two teenagers with life-ending diseases who fall in love — it’s not sentimental, it’s not overly romantic, and (spoiler alert) it doesn’t have this spectacular happily-ever-after ending. But the authenticity of it all draws you in and wins you over.

This book also connected me to a world that I have not been in before and gave me a small vision of what it would be like to live with cancer. After Green’s honest examination of Hazel’s life and love, I feel like I’m able to empathize a little more with people who have life-ending diseases. And any book that can open up your world and broaden your horizons is a good one.

The fact that it’s all so real also connects you to the characters, which makes it so incredibly heart-rending as the story proceeds. You feel their struggle, their small triumphs, their grief and their hope. This isn’t an “extraordinary” story, nothing supernatural happens, there are no epic gunfights and no one changes the world. And yet, somehow it is still extraordinary, supernatural and even epic.

4. John Green

He’s brilliant.

In one of his videos, Green remarks about the first screening of TFIOS and how during the last 15 minutes, he got to sit in the back of the theatre. He said:

So, dear friends, if you are going to watch the movie or read the book, bring tissues.

That’s all.

Have you read TFIOS yet or watched the movie? What did you think?


Other articles you might enjoy:

Even After Death: Wedding Day Recollections 

Why I Don't Want You to Read My Book

3 Reasons Why Disney's "Frozen" Resonates with Us

Does the End Justify the Means?

I just reached the 60,000 word mark on my book (61,975 to be exact)!! I’m currently writing the ending of my book and there are a few things that I’ve been thinking about a lot and would love for you to weigh in on them.

The first is the definition of freedom. I’ve been contemplating what “freedom” means to different people (in a political sense). For one political group, freedom/liberty might mean the ability to do whatever you want within a set of moral principles. For another group, this same freedom might mean the eradication of ownership. Another group might think that freedom is the lack of government.

What does freedom mean to you? Is anarchy somehow synonymous with freedom? Or should freedom have some sort of boundaries (or is that oxymoronic?!)?

The second is this: does the end justify the means? In some of my research I stumbled across this quote from Leon Trotsky:

“The end may justify the means as long as there is something that justifies the end.” - Their Morals and Ours

But this got me thinking…is there ever a good reason to kill? Do soldiers have the “right” to kill because that is their job or because someone poses a threat? If your family is in danger, and you kill someone to defend them, does the end (your family’s safety) justify the means (you killing someone)?

I’m forming my own opinions about these things but am interested in what other people think about these issues. Feel free to share in the comments.

Even After Death: Wedding Day Recollections

AKA: All the Things That Went Wrong... And the One Thing That Was Right

The day was actually kind of a blur.

I had a terrible migraine and no amount of medicine from my mom or well-wishes from my bridesmaids would make it go away. The weather was true to Florida: hot and humid, with the obligatory thunder storm in the afternoon. I waited in the back room of the church, surrounded by bright colors and bubble-lettered proverbs, a hand-held fan pointed at me. Naturally, my hair got wrapped around the blades of the fan and had to be cut only moments before my traverse down the aisle. Someone brought me a tropical drink from the reception punch bowl, which had, in a freak wedding mishap, turned green, instead of the tropical-yellow it was supposed to be.

My wonderful friends cutting my hair before I went down the aisle

Eventually, it was time to go down the aisle — at which point I went down too early, and walked far too quickly to be justified as a "wedding march", to a butchered song by a string quintet I couldn't hear anyway. Apparently, according to my dad, I was hyperventilating, but I have no such recollection.

I do recall, however, that the moment I saw him, my migraine went away.

We stood facing each other, holding hands. We ignored the words spoken to us (a fact that is quite evident as I watch our wedding video — our mouths are moving in constant chatter, not with our minister, but with each other). My stomach growled and my feet hurt as I told him that a distant mutual friend got engaged that morning (an occurrence that I just had to share with him at that moment when we were pledging our lives to each other). My worst fear and greatest delight came true: his vows were "better" than mine, if you can say such a thing. He refused, quite elegantly, to utter the requisite phrase, "till death do us part", not as some do nowadays to avoid an indissoluble situation, but because this lifetime would never be enough for him, a sentiment that adorns the ring that he gave me on that day: even after death.

Even after death. A phrase envisaged by a devoted twenty-year-old and a prayer prayed for over a decade now.

Even after death. A precarious wish surrendered time and again to our Creator. I find myself telling Him that I wouldn't be so afraid of the afterlife if I could face it with him.

But I digress.

The remainder of the day can be recalled, not by the truest of memories, but by piecing together regurgitated facts and recorded moments. Three cakes were cut, a bouquet was tossed, dances were danced and toasts were made. I changed out of my dress in the bathroom of the banquet hall — my grandmother's Oscar de la Renta earrings (my "something borrowed") were permanently borrowed by one of our wedding guests. I have my suspicions as to who that light-fingered guest might be, but I'm not a Mr. Holmes and I have never recovered those pearl earrings. My getaway dress was yellow, and had been tailored within an inch of my breath. Surrounded by our well-wishers with sparkling wands, we raced to our car — my grandfather’s Mercedes Benz that we often joked looked like the Bat Mobile (except that his cars are perpetually white. When my family's also-white cars adjoin with his for dinner, it looks like an achromatic car convention).

And then, we were alone.

We had been alone before, of course, but never like this. Not with the express intention of not being seen by anyone we knew for more than a few hours. I'd like to say that once those doors closed and we were off, I was confident and self-assured, but I wasn't.

He assuaged my fears and insecurities in a way that only he could. And he's been doing the same ever since.

Oftentimes, in the beginning of our marriage, I would ask him: “Do you love me?" And he would say, “Of course. I married you," in a matter-of-fact, how-could-you-even-doubt, kind of way. And maybe it's not enough to remind someone that you married them — so much happens after the wedding. And, to some people, being married and being in love can be mutually exclusive events. But to him, that is irrelevant. There is no alternative for him, or for me.

Our wedding day was not perfect, and our marriage is a reflection of that: imperfectly perfect. Over the course of our thirteen-year relationship, this man has become, and always will be, my best friend. Not in the cliche way that preteen girls proclaim when they have BFF bracelets that are broken or forgotten mere weeks later. Or in the sadly reminiscent way that a parent talks about their college roommate. No, Tyler is my best friend in the sense that I want to do anything and everything with him —  and with him alone — as long as there is breath in my body and life in my heart, and, if our Maker would grant us our request, even after death.

To Curse or Not to Curse?

Yesterday, I read an article written by a pastor in South Carolina who wrote a novel in which he included foul language (as he stated, “PG-13 language”). He was defending/supporting his position as to why he used that kind of language in his book. And it got me thinking…to curse or not to curse?

Stephen King says, “You must tell the truth if your dialogue is to have...resonance and realism. If you substitute [profanity] because you’re thinking about the Legion of Decency, you are breaking the unspoken contract that exists between writer and reader — your promise to express the truth of how people act and talk through the medium of a made-up story.” (On Writing, p. 186)

I would say that a decent amount of writers feel this way — that if you’re using profanity, you’re telling the truth, because real people curse.

The main argument of the aforementioned pastor for using profanity, was that his character was a “fallen” character, which means that he would, realistically, use vulgar language.

After some thought, and a good phone conversation with my parents, here are some reasons why I have chosen to not use profanity in my book:

1. My writing is an extension of who I am.

These words that I write are part of me — I think about them, I mull over them, I go back and forth between synonyms, etc. So every word that is placed in my book is intentional. That would mean that I would have to be thinking about these words in order for me to write them. I don’t feel good about profanity being in my head, and I don’t feel good about those words being in my book — which is, essentially, an extension of myself.

As I was considering this topic, this passage in Ephesians 5 came to mind: 

"Follow God’s example, therefore, as dearly loved children and walk in the way of love, just as Christ loved us and gave himself up for us as a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
 
But among you there must not be even a hint of sexual immorality, or of any kind of impurity, or of greed, because these are improper for God’s holy people. Nor should there be obscenity, foolish talk or coarse joking, which are out of place, but rather thanksgiving."

My hope and prayer is that I can align myself with these principles and that people can see God through my writing, as I hope that they see God through my everyday life.

2. I wouldn’t want to speak curse words in a public reading

Pretty much every writer does public readings of his or her book(s). If I would ever have the privilege of doing a public reading of my own work, I can’t imagine saying foul words in front of my audience. Call me prude, call me whatever you want — but I wouldn’t feel comfortable. I can’t “own” those words.

3. I have a responsibility to my audience

Maybe I’m getting a little ahead of myself here, but for the sake of the argument, I will continue. Every writing advice-giver will tell you that you CANNOT write a book solely for your audience — you will not be able to stay true to yourself. However, I do want to take my audience into account with certain aspects of my writing.

For example, my friend and mentor, LauriAnne Conkling, has said to me on multiple occasions that it’s refreshing when she is able to find a book that isn’t “raunchy” yet is still romantic. I want to be able to provide that for her, not because I feel forced or pressured, but because I want to read those types of books as well!

Toni Morrison has said:

“If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.”

This is the kind of writer I want to be, not just for myself but for other people who desire this same type of writer: one who is honest, yet doesn’t need to use vulgar language. One who is willing to discuss hard things, to get her hands dirty — but not like that.

Besides, if you’re going to put down my book because it doesn’t have any vulgar language in it, well... I’m not sure I want you reading my book, anyway. Ultimately, my real, true audience is God. And I want to write a book that he would be proud of.

What do you think about this? How do you feel about the use of profanity in writing (or in other art forms)? Are there writers that you read who do not include profanity in their writing?

Note: There are a few notable women writers of recent YA novels that have stuck to their guns and not included profanity in their books. I respect and admire these women: Veronica Roth, writer of Divergent, Suzanne Collins who wrote The Hunger Games and Stephenie Meyer, of Twilight fame.

Other articles you might enjoy:

Why I Don't Want You to Read My Book 

Keep on Dreaming (Even if it Breaks Your Heart)

Why I Never Got an Easter Basket

How It Feels to Kill Someone

And Other Crazy Things You Might Google if You're Writing a Book 

 

The other day, I was writing a scene where one of my main characters just killed someone (defending his family) and I was trying to write about what he felt after realizing that he had taken another person's life (for an excerpt of this scene, click here).

Here's the thing: I've never killed anyone before, so how can I write about how it feels to kill someone? So what did I do? I looked around and made sure no one at Starbucks was staring at me...and then I Googled "How it feels to kill someone". It was informative and helpful in my writing, but also kind of...weird. Aside from being afraid I might end up on some FBI's list of people to watch, it was just strange to type that phrase into my search engine. But it got me thinking about what kinds of strange things we search for on the Internet! I compiled a short list of bizarre or funny things I've had to look up in this writing process:

-How to stab someone (which turned into: Using a knife to defend yourself)
- Parts of a rocking chair

- Code names for spies
-What happens if wheat is not harvested on time

- Replacement for 'no skin off my back'
-How to make dynamite

- The psychology of death

- Songs that make you feel sad

- Letters/telegrams from war

- Spit up rag babies (I couldn't think of what a burp cloth was called!)

- How to throw a knife

- Horse-drawn combine

- Tomato season

- How to start a fire

- Funny Southern sayings

- Parts of a knife

- Other names for 'dad'

- How long will it take an adult to learn to read
-Military sleep deprivation
-Railroads Alabama 1940

I'm sure there will be much more outlandish Googling in my future... What's the strangest thing that you've ever looked up online? Feel free to share in the comments.

P.S. - for one of the more interesting articles I found on "How it feels to kill someone", click here.

Book Update:

I have officially exceeded the 50,000 word mark! :) The month of June will be a big month for me, I have a workshop that I'm attending in Georgia and I entered my manuscript into a novel-writing contest at that workshop. So, if you think of it, you can say a prayer for me about that one :) I also have a 10-day seminar/workshop for my Masters program at the end of June, which I'm really looking forward to. My mentor for this semester will be Kevin Moffett! As always, I appreciate so much your prayers and support.

<--- 3 Things I Learned                                                                   How It Feels to Kill --->
        From My Mother                                                                    Someone: An Excerpt