Just Wait

I can't believe it's been two years since I've posted. Well, yes I can. A lot has happened since then, sadly not much of it has been writing. I've battled multiple surgeries (me:4, husband:1, daughter:2) and chronic illness, among other things. The toll on my writing groove was high. I say "was" because I'm climbing out of it and will have my groove back in full swing. It feels great. Super great. But it's been a very long time.

I was able to do a few things while in battle. I taught at Storymakers and was asked back again this year. I wrote my first historical romance when I was invited to contribute to this lovely anthology:

Isn't it beautiful? My story is Christmas at Canterwood. All the stories are a treasure.

I truly enjoyed writing this story and have been asked to write another Regency due this summer. More research!

I rewrote and finished a contemporary romance I had shelved (Hold On Forever), and just submitted it to my publisher two weeks ago. I'll learn within a couple of months if they like it or not. Guys, this was HUGE. I honestly questioned whether or not I had it in me anymore. I guess I do. Watch for more news on that.

AND my friend, Suzanne Gale, urged me with all the urging of an accountability partner bestie who thinks she knows what's best for me (and she usually does) to apply for the Writing Excuses Writing Retreat CRUISE scholarship. Putting the packet together alone was good for me. I almost didn't do it. So much bad was happening in life, on top of the physical pain. Nonetheless, Suzy persisted. Writing the personal essay was healing. Gathering the letters of recommendation from friends was assuring. Choosing my writing samples was hard, but it forced me to take a look at words I'd written and remember that I'd done this before, this writing thing, and I was pretty good at it.

If you follow me on IG (kristalynnej), you know the basic, miraculous, I'm-still-in-shock outcome of that application. Here are the mini-story graphics I made to share it.

Hello?! I'm going on a WRITING CRUISE. I'll be saying that a lot between now and September.

I also thought I'd post my Personal Essay here. I'm a little scared to do that, because, hey, it's personal, heh. But it's also my writing. And apparently it's good writing. And this is my writing blog.
So here. With love.

I drowned once. At least, I should have. I was almost three years old and remember it like looking through dimpled glass. Or maybe water.

Our apartment complex had a swimming pool. In Renton, Washington where it rained and rained, we had a swimming pool. The sun did come out, though, and the pool filled with tenants, noisy, joyful. My mom found an open lounge chair and settled herself with a towel and a magazine. I had a cup.

I don’t know if the cup was mine or if I’d found it lying somewhere and had claimed it, but I crouched at the edge of the pool, surrounded by splashing and shouts and laughter, and gripped it with both hands, dipped it in the water, poured it out, dipped it again. Watching water fill and pour in the sunlight.

At the deep end.

A boy came, not much older than I was, ripped the cup from my hands and pushed me in.

I remember the small gasp of air and surprise I took before hitting tepid water and slipping beneath. I remember not struggling. Surely someone saw me. Surely my mom, or the legs kicking around me attached to people, surely someone saw. The boy would tell someone.

But I floated midway between top and bottom, looking. Hoping. Sinking in muted sound and blue.

Fear blossomed—a feeling, a knowledge that being invisible here meant danger, and no one saw me.

A kick. A panic.

Wait, I heard. Just wait.

My eyes were drawn to the shallow end across the pool. A splash of bubbles exploded beneath the surface and emerging from them, a woman with long, dark hair trailing behind her like a mermaid swimming toward me.

I recognized her. She lived on my floor. Her waist-long brown hair was always worn down and shiny, and she smiled at me whenever she saw me in the hall as I hid behind my mom’s legs.

She swam straight for me. Between half-submerged bodies and surface-swimmers across the length of the pool. Straight for me.

Wait. Just wait.

As she neared, I reached my arms out to her. She reached back, folding her own around my body and pushing me up, up, out of the water and to the ledge where hands grabbed me and pulled me and placed me with my mom who squeezed and squeezed and squeezed me.

I don’t remember coughing or choking or crying. Just blinking water from my eyes. The story is I fell asleep within minutes.

I’m asking myself why I’ve shared this memory as part of my essay. It came to mind when you asked, “What makes you unique?” I’ve had other brushes with death. But this memory—this is my first memory. Of life.

Over the past five years my family and I have been hit by wave after wave, breakers of trial pushing us under, and as we swim up, reach the surface, think we can grab a breath, another crashing blow hits and under we go again. And through all of this, I nearly lost my writing. I could not escape physical pain far enough into my imagination, could not write romance when pummeled by pornography and infidelity, could not face making up conflict when so much already filled my reality, could not write happy endings when I wasn’t sure they existed. Injury. Illness. Addiction. Loss. Death. I would stare at my laptop screen. After four published novels, three published novellas, and five more unpublished novels in nine years, my passion was drowning in fear. My words.

Wait, I kept hearing. Just wait.

And one morning only a few weeks ago I woke up, ideas like bubbles rising around me in water. Words came like arms around me, pushing me up and I don’t know what will happen and I still fear the next wave, and I’m still in pain, but my words are coming.

And in considering this memory and what it means to me, and what it means to this essay and this entry and the writing still inside me, maybe it is this:

We are not meant to be invisible here.

Pain, Writing, and Fun Stuff Like That

Dear readers and friends, 

In the craziness that is my life, I've been pretty neglectful of this blog. I think about it and my following here (thank YOU) a lot, and I think about what I could share, but the fact is, my author hat has had to hang on its peg (I really don't have a peg for my hats; it's a metaphor) these last several months. I may or may not have a new book coming out next year, and the idea of that makes me pretty sad and frustrated. But things here at home are demanding and some things have to give.

I'm not referring so much to our new little boy and the adoption, though that is a huge, incredible portion of my life right now. He does take nice long naps most days and I have lots of helpers after school. Will is transitioning really well and thought it's a ton of work, it's worth it. I've raised four of my bio toddlers into nice, somewhat functional grown-up toddlers. I've got this.

No, I'm referring to the demands, the selfish, relentless tyranny of physical pain (dramatic, huh?). Some of you know I fight chronic back pain and have done so for most of my life since a car going 65 mph slammed into my car while it was stopped. I was 22 years old. I missed death by feet. Since then I've ridden a roller coaster of rising and ebbing pain, I've had years of different treatments (please don't suggest any, really, I've had them all), and various diagnosis, and because of the instability in my lower back, have suffered through several disc issues, including bulging, rupture, and now a protrusion in a precarious position. In summary, it hurts.

As I recently told my editor, it's hard to focus on romance when you feel like you're being ripped in half.

And now, after so many years of hearing, "We want to save surgery as a last resort," it's time for a last resort. I meet with the neurosurgeon next week. I'm frightened, but also fine. I don't hope to be cured, but a little relief would be nice. Just enough so I can start writing again. So I can lose myself in a story and a struggle and a happy ending. 

Yes, I've heard lots and lots of back surgery stories, horrific to miraculous. I know. A few weeks ago I made the comparison of what to expect in the outcome of back surgery to playing roulette. I'll be peeking through my fingers and praying. Feel free to join me.

I do have 30,000 words into a new romance. But I already know I have to rewrite it. When I'm in pain my writing dives into a darker place and that's not what I had in mind for this story. I had to let my wonderful editor know I couldn't make my deadline. I'll still be working on the story. I like it and I think it needs a place outside of my head. I'd also like to be working on my fantasy stories. I can dive a little darker in those, and escape a little further. But until I get this newer injury taken care of, it's a struggle to even focus on my own world. That's a pretty important place, too.

I hope you'll stick with me as I crash through this particular hurdle with my usual tenacity and grace. I'd like so much to share my stories. I'd like so much to try to put a little more hope and triumph into the world.

Thank you,

Krista

There Must Needs Be...

“Never give in, never give in, never; never; never; never – in nothing, great or small, large or petty – never give in except to convictions of honor and good sense.” -Winston Churchill

My mind has been on a lot of things lately, kaleidoscopic. My usual focus has been difficult to find. I know the reasons why and my scattered thoughts are completely founded.
Husband's new job.
New book.
The next book.
Upcoming travel.
New pup.
Older kids.
Younger kids.
Husband's church calling.
My church calling.
Volleyball.
Pain.
Opposition.

It is this last one that has had the most impact on me lately. As a matter of fact, never have I felt opposition so acutely aside the blessings.
But never have my husband or I been on the cusp of having some kind of influence on so many people. I don't say this to boast or put ourselves forward. It is simply truth. Somewhat scary truth. My husband has served as Bishop of our ward for 2.5 years, and has now been hired to serve as Principal of our city's high school. Be assured, whether appreciated or not, his influence will be felt. (I, for one, appreciate his influence... and his uncanny knack for musical trivia.) He was hired by a unanimous, across the board, resounding vote. The support of the community has been heartening as we wonder how this new venture will affect our family. We are excited. We are anxious. We are careful.
And I would be surprised if any new author did not wonder what kind of effect their book will have on its audience. There in the romance, the arc, the setting and twists; woven in like a thin ribbon through a thick braid of hair, is my testimony. I did not set out to do it, but there it is. It cannot be helped. I am, therefore I write. Or something like that. It will be out there for numbers to see.
Opposition presents itself in many forms, many degrees of subtlety, or not. Things come that might discourage, make us forget we are grateful, prevent us from enjoying the fruits of our labors. Things happen that would distract us from moving forward, fulfilling our purpose, or discovering our gifts. Some things leave us standing with our jaws hanging open. Sometimes outrageous, unbelievable, this would be funny if it wasn't really happening kind of things.
I was given a t-shirt. It says, "Careful, or you'll end up in my novel." Man, I am SO tempted.

As my kaleidoscope turns, I remember a few things.

1. The light behind the confusion of shapes and color is one that will always be there; it is one I will always follow.
2. We are not given anything we cannot overcome, but we do not (and should not) have to overcome it alone.
3. We cannot let an aggressive mosquito or two, or a sudden downpour, ruin the entire picnic. It is too beautiful a day, and there are too many other wonders of this life that matter more.

What do you look to, to overcome discouragement in your writing, or otherwise?