Rather, I should say the theory of being an innovator is surprisingly simple. It’s actually making it happen that’s the hard part.

But should that stop us from trying? Absolutely not. We should be constant innovators of our lives. We should evaluate who we are and what we’re becoming, and find ways to innovate ourselves and our circumstances.

You don’t have to be stuck in that job you don’t like. Look at it from a different angle. Change it into something amazing. You don’t have to live with that addiction. Look at it from a different angle. Change it into something amazing. You don’t have to be miserable, or pathetic, or friendless, or trapped in a situation you feel helpless to change. Look at it from a different angle. Change it into something amazing.

Your life and what you make of it are determined by your choices and by the scope of your dreams. How far are you willing to stretch? How much are you willing to bend? If you have a dream and don’t know how to reach it, be an innovator! If you have a passion and want to pursue it, be an innovator! If you feel like God has greater things meant for you, what are you waiting for? Get off your lazy bum and be an innovator!

The alternative is to be an imitator…someone who can never stop copying others or their own past mistakes. If you’re an imitator you’ll always have that dead-end job, always have that addiction, always be miserable or pathetic or friendless, always trapped in a helpless situation, never reaching your dreams or fulling your passions.

You’ll never be what God wants you to be. And one day you’ll wake up old, depressed…too late for anything meaningful, wondering where your life went wrong.

Be an innovator. Not an imitator.

-k

(This concludes the test of Keven the Motivational Speaker. We now return you to your regular drollery.)

Although capable of surprising speed when food is involved, I took a while to climb the stairs to the Granny Flat here at The Cheesecake Thickens. Yes, the food is good, but the view hasn’t turned out to be quite what anyone expected. The adoring crowds chanting our names and throwing little pickles are noticeably absent. Taller buildings with penthouse apartments block good chunks of sky and excite a certain sense of restlessness. We may sip tea and nibble cheesecake, but it’s in between marketing pushes and all-night writing sessions and wrestling with bloated expectations.

My decision to climb these stairs was a long, hard process. It’s far easier to graze for fallen strawberries and chocolate on the ground than go hunting out the table top, but – as much as I might wish otherwise – I don’t think life is meant to be easy. I think we’re supposed to struggle.

I will rest here in the flat for a little while, but not forever, I hope. I suspect if I move enough furniture or wall coverings or bookcases, I’ll find a door hiding a set of stairs leading inward and upward. Naturally, I’ll be forced to climb them in search of bigger strawberries and better-quality chocolate.

Until then, have a seat, have a cup of tea and keep your hands off my plate or you’ll find out just how hard I can snap. Turtles don’t share food.

Except for tomatoes. Take as many of those as you like.

But it’s true; the romanticism in our relationship is a much quieter thing now than it once was. We share a sparkle in the eye over a weird joke only we would think is funny. We stand back to back with our figurative swords drawn to fend off those factors that would threaten our family and its sanity. I’m hard to rile up as it is, so I will admit my feelings have quieted from the fluttering heart of infatuation to the subdued confidence in the long haul.

When I look around, though, I see so many situations where people never get to the quiet confidence stage, and I have to wonder why that is. There are many reasons of course, but some other discussions around my circles of influence pointed to one I want to reflect on.

Let me give you a little lead in to my point. Earlier this week, Cliff Graham posted an article on his blog about how “Mommy Porn” (romance novels) gets a pass in society, while “Daddy Porn,” (magazines and movies) does not. He made some excellent points I won’t reiterate here, but I do recommend you drop by his article.

The proliferation of trashy romance points to a major factor in the breakdown of marriage, I believe. American society is addicted to romance. We are narcissists in every way. If what we’re watching, reading, talking about, and listening to doesn’t launch us to a hyper-emotional state, it’s not interesting. And since women, from a sexual standpoint are typically more focused on the psychological aspects of arousal, it’s no wonder the romance novel gets such a tight hold on so many. Just like the photographic image ensnares the male psyche, the feeling of hyper-romance and unprecedented gratification worms its way through the entirety of the romance reader and imprisons her. Normal life just doesn’t stack up anymore.

And since pop culture tells us “If it doesn’t feel good, chuck it,” out to the curb goes marriage after marriage. With so little distinction between church and secular culture anymore, it’s no wonder the divorce rate is essentially equal within both.

And so I agree with Cliff that we need to analyze the romance industry and call it what it is: a threat to real-life commitment. I’m not even sure “sweet” romance is a great idea. After all, if a woman continually feeds on clean, smut free romance, isn’t she still going to an outside relationship to perpetuate the addiction to infatuation? It may be a fictitious relationship, but it’s still an addiction to the substantiated chemical effects of infatuation.

I’m not even asserting she should be going to her husband to stir up those feelings. What I am saying is that we, as mature, married adults, need to allow our emotions to “grow up,” and to appreciate the glowing coals of a marriage well-tended, rather than constantly clamor for the towering flames of a blaze just set. What is immature is fragile, and we as advocates of marriage have a responsibility to nark out anything that perpetuates immaturity.

So tell me what you think…is there such thing as “harmless romance?” Is there a distinction between written word and printed picture? I invite civil debate.

(And FYI–I wanted to post a second picture in this article, but I couldn’t in good faith post a cover of pretty much any romance novel that made my point. No use fanning the fire you’re complaining about, you know?)

Let me state this now before I go forward, I did not get involved directly in this dispute. I watched, helpless from the sidelines.

There are many reasons for that. First, I cause enough disputes all on my own, no need to be involved in one I didn’t start. Second, a lot of people I love and respect were hurt by it. I don’t like to see people I love and respect getting hurt. If I would have jumped in, there may have been blood.

Since I didn’t jump in, I’ve been able to keep most bias at arms length to ponder the points made.  What I have decided is that the whole thing was handled poorly by many on both sides. That can be expected when you pit a bunch of writers (moody by design) against each other. But it is sad because these are brothers and sisters in Christ. I will not name names or point fingers. If this post pisses you off, maybe think about why it does.

I’m going to address some of the debate topics below. Then I will give you my overall opinion.

Christian Writers Are Sub-Par

My problem with statements or insinuations like this is the broad-brushstroke method of insult. I can think of not one occasion in which a broad-brushstroke was applied that was accurate or reasonable. I have found every time I remember a person use one, it is out of ignorance, spite or jealousy.  For the people that did so, I am going to give them the benefit of doubt that they were ignorant.

Different Model Publication Rules/CBA

These words are not a quote but more the spirit of what was implied. It is not a new one. Many times I have heard writers bemoan the formula of much Christian fiction…male sinner and alter-call in which he prays the prayer. Also the idea that CBA publishers are stuck in a time-warp. This is true, but what the cranky writers must realize is publishers want to publish what sells best. If that means the largest portion of CBA books each year are romance novels, then you can’t be mad at the publishers for wanting to make a profit in their business. It is no different for the ABA…no matter what anyone tells you. Just because they believe in God that doesn’t mean they throw business logic out the window to appease a bunch of bitter writers. It doesn’t seem fair if you are the bitter writer, but life isn’t fair. Suck it up and move on.

Fringe Writers Abandon the CBA

I am a fringe writer. I write fantasy with a Christian worldview. Some Christians do not see my work as a legitimate contribution to the CBA because it doesn’t match the formula I mentioned above. I should be in the camp with those calling for us to abandon the CBA, but I’m not. Want to know why? Because I do not let the words and actions of other people dictate my calling. Anyone that does may want to reexamine why they write Christian fiction in the first place. For me, it is not about self-gratification but God’s glorification. Yes, I would love to make a living writing. It would be a blessing, but I know that of that happens it will not be because anything I did and every thing to do with what God did.

Conclusion

As I look over the events that occurred, I see a few things that need to be addressed further…beyond the topics that started the firestorm. If you decide you want to debate, do not try stacking the deck in your favor by eliminating the opposition. A true debate offers two sides. That can’t happen if you delete the comments of those that oppose you. It would be a lecture and you can’t get mad when people pull up stakes and leave or tell everyone they know what you did. Yes, I know people are mean and maybe not always fair. That should make no difference. It actually could help you win a debate if you too haven’t called names or made it a personal issue. Also, if you start a fight, own the responsibility of your actions and the consequences of the pain you doled out.

Own it or shut it, my friends!

Peace, love and God’s will.

Did you really think I wouldn’t use this image again?

“I think I’m done with writing.” I typed those words a couple of days ago. They are not a quote from a work in progress. Not something one of my characters said. They are the words I said to a friend of mine–right before I sat down and had a good, long cry.

I’ve been going through the editors’ comments on my WIP, Seeking Unseen, the sequel to Finding Angel. No, they’re not mean comments. Nor are they off the mark. But as I read them I began to wonder if they were worth addressing. Whether the manuscript was worth the work. Whether writing in general is worth the work.

Because it IS work.

I started off writing because I wanted my name on a novel spine. I wasn’t sure I had it in me. But writing turned out to be not only something I seemed to actually be good at, I truly enjoyed it. The words just poured out. I knew I needed to learn about craft, but that turned out to be fun, too. I love learning, and I loved seeing that knowledge improve my writing. Win-win.

As time has gone on, though, I think I have begun to burn out. My reaction was not the newbie knee-jerk of, “How dare you insult my baby!” My skin is definitely thicker than that. I immediately saw truth in the comments, and also began looking for ways to fix things. Some areas are easier than others. But it all requires time and focus–and *that* part is what caused the tears.

I homeschool my kids. You’d think I’d relish in some time focusing on something other than them. But the fact is, they are growing up fast. And each time I say, “Hang on, Mommy’s working,” a pang of guilt shoots through me. Each time I see a pile of dishes next to the sink, or see the floor tile peppered with footprints, or see the couch piled with unfolded laundry, I wonder if I should be spending my time writing.

Maybe it was just  dream to get *one* book out, and all this extra wasn’t what God meant for me?

Maybe I was supposed to have the idea now but not follow through till my kids grow up?

Maybe writing was just a stepping stone and I’m missing what I should be doing next? Editing? Cover art?

Maybe…

The maybes could go on forever.

I sent the email to my friend, had my cry, then went to bed. I woke the next day feeling better, but still with the same doubts. I skipped my writers meeting that morning. But I was committed to working on an art(ish) project for my church, so I went to do that. I spent five hours at church arranging the display.

It felt awesome to let go of thoughts of writing. It felt awesome to focus on something creative in a wholly different way. And when I got home, I realized I’ve simply been exhausted. But the project had rejuvenated me.

Yesterday I spent several hours on the phone between talking to both of my editors (Robynn, Diane, I love you!). We’ve got the issues mostly worked out. I’ve asked my publisher for an extension, so Seeking Unseen won’t be published in August as expected. She agreed, because she is awesome like that. And because she doesn’t just value her authors’ books, she values her authors. (Grace, I love you!)

So, it looks like you won’t get to visit Angel again until at least September or October. But you will get to visit her again. No more weeping over it for me!

Right said shed….

The only problem is that pesky thing of me not being very good. Oh, I have enthusiasm by the cement-mixing bucket load. It’s just that many times I don’t have a clue what I’m doing. I blame my absentee dad and long-suffering older brother for this. I blame my dad because he wasn’t there to show me how to lay a level cement base. As for my older brother, he had no-one to guide him either. His method of tackling a big project is to stand around looking at it with one hand in his pocket and a beer clutched to his chest. The only two things I ever helped him with were useless in the passing-on-knowledge-to-the-young-brave category. One involved me standing on my tip-toes for an hour, holding a fibreglass car port roof over my head while sweat trickled down my arms. The other amounted to fetching the wrong tools while he tried to squeeze a two litre engine into a Volkswagen minivan. The latter was quite educational in that I did learn a whole dictionary of cuss-words. I also realised that a career as a mechanic was probably not for me.

So, two winters ago, when I attempted to build a cement base for a new metal shed and then tried to erect said shed upon said base over four freezing days and nights that will be forever etched into my memory, I really wished somebody had been there to show me how or, at least, stand there with a beer in one hand while giving me some pointers.

For starters, the ground was cold, which made digging the trench to hold the cement much like an Alcatraz jail break. I probably should have waited till the summer. I didn’t know the ground would be affected by the weather because, while it was cold, it was not cold in the Siberian sense. I persevered and after a day of back-breaking work, had a pit to hold the base. The sand and cement were delivered early next morning and so I set about transporting it through to the back of my garden. A proper mixer would have been nice but it was too late for that. I had to mix it all using a big bucket and spade. By the end of the second day, the ache in my back had developed aches of its own, but the base was poured. All I had to do now was wait for it to dry.

In the meantime, I unpacked the metal shed, all the while keeping one eye on the weather. I laid the panels out on the ground and read through the instructions (this much I had learned by myself after a particularly ugly incident involving a flat-pack wardrobe and a hammer). I joined  those panels together that I could and lay them out, making sure to weigh them down in case the wind picked up. As I sorted through the materials, I could only marvel at my own foolhardiness. The thing was huge. According to the instructions, the base would be eight foot by twelve. Once erected, I would have to stand on my toes to touch the highest part of the roof. I had never seen so many screws before. Still, the weather was holding and the base was down and level. At least, it looked level. I had gone to a lot of trouble to get the thing to slope slightly towards the front. This stops the water collecting, which would stop the metal from rusting. Well, that’s the theory.

The next morning I was up bright and early. We don’t get many bright mornings in Europe in December, but I was keen to get started. I followed the instructions to the letter, joining the panels and the struts using the billion screws supplied with the kit. I was in my element, doing something I thoroughly enjoy. And I was making good progress. I had one day left before we were due to travel, and I was sure I would have it finished.

It was midnight when I finally slid the metal doors closed and looped the padlock through the handle.  I stood back to admire my handiwork. The project was done. The panels were all in place and the screws double-checked. It was only a garden shed but, to me, it was a magnificent edifice. It was my Great Pyramid. It was my Great Wall of China. It was my Taj Mahal. Okay, so it was a little bit twisted because the top and bottom ends of the base were not exactly level. And there were a worrying number of screws left over (they supplied extra). And the front corner bolt that kept the shed secured to the cement did not feel as solid as I would have liked. But that did not matter. The door closed and it held all our garden stuff. Standing hunched over like a Gollum with a slipped disc, a tear of thankfulness came to my eye. My dad and brother would’ve been so proud.

A particularly impressive shed.

We left the next day. I was tired and sore but also contented. I could see the top of the gleaming new shed as we drove up the road and round the corner. Two weeks later, as we came home and I turned the same corner, I did not notice that the top of the shed was no longer visible. We went into the garden, only to find that the whole thing was lying in a twisted heap in the corner. I was stunned and heartbroken. According to our gleeful neighbour, severe gale-force winds had struck a couple of days after our departure. She had witnessed the shed take to the air and flip over. She had also seen a roof panel tear loose and disappear over the hedge. With a heavy heart, I salvaged what I could and threw the rest away. My Taj Mahal was now nothing more than a skip-load of crumpled metal.

I checked the news reports for that windy week. Pictures showed bits of buildings strewn all over the sea front. According to another neighbour, the streets had been littered with fence panels and suppliers were struggling to meet demand.

Our roof panel was never found. At first I was concerned that it might have caused damage in its bid for freedom, but I never heard anything. No doubt it landed in one of our neighbour’s gardens, but it was never found so I guess I’ll never know what happened to it. When my imagination gets the better of me, I like to think that it is still up there, carried aloft on the jet stream. And whenever I read a report of a UFO sighting, I wonder if it isn’t perhaps the roof panel from my shed.

I was told, prior to beginning the modern series, that Doctors 9 and 10 were a better reflection of the classic series and that 11 strayed too far in “reimaging” the Doctor Who franchise. It has no respect for the old stuff, one person told me. And fans of the old series prefer the 9th and 10th Doctors, whereas new fans prefer the 11th.

Well, I’m a fan of the old stuff. And I prefer the 11th Doctor. I disagree with those previous statements, and here’s why.

Let’s take a brief look at the old stuff. Doctor Who was always cutting edge sci-fi. They built a level of creativity in the writing that had not been seen before, and was mostly unmatched during its air time. This wasn’t some “future” thing like Star Trek. It was real people going on extraordinary adventures through time and space. It was about the adventure…the journey…the experiences. And audiences lived vicariously through the Companions.

And the Doctor was our guide.

Now with the 9th and 10th Doctors I’m not saying this wasn’t the case. In fact, it was quite obvious that the writers were trying to capture the look and feel of the old stuff, just modernized. But this doesn’t get us to the essence of the show. By trying to emulate the old stuff, it failed to be cutting edge sci-fi. Sure the writing was creative, but not cutting edge. And near the end of the 10th Doctor’s tenure the writing became sloppy and predictable. The weight of the show was no longer carried by the adventure and journey, but by the shoulders of a talented, and increasingly weary, actor.

For the first time in the history of Doctor Who, the writers felt the need to flesh out the background stories of the Companions. This pushed me even further away. Suddenly I wasn’t allowed to live vicariously because the Companions claimed that right. All I could do was watch. I couldn’t be absorbed anymore.

This all changes with the 11th Doctor. Suddenly the presentation is cutting edge again. They’re taking risks with writing and plot development, a reflection of the spirit of the classic series. The Companions are strong (Finally! A strong male Companion!), but we don’t know every detail about their lives. Their backgrounds are ambiguous enough that suddenly the audience has the window open again to step in and live vicariously. And the show is about the adventure again, and not an exhibition of one man’s acting strength.

For these reasons I say the 11th Doctor is a better reflection of the Classic series. The 9th and 10th Doctors were like a truly great and professional attempt to reproduce a Broadway play from twenty years ago. But the 11th Doctor is like a full-fledged Broadway revival of that play.

No doubt most of you will disagree with me. Go ahead. Let me have it. I’m ready.

-k

One truth the deaths that seem to surround me of late have made quite clear, however, is how we are all just one freak incident away from our lives being turned upside-down. A single burst blood vessel in the wrong place could make me a young widow (or my husband a widower) with small children to rear. One moment of lost attention while driving could plunge families into loss they never planned for. One madman’s sense of justice could wreak literal mayhem on people who had absolutely nothing to do with his pain. One genetic abnormality could cut short a life that had barely begun, leaving an empty bassinet and broken hearts in its wake.

Sudden death has a way of making us appreciate how little control we have over life’s variables. It’s like we all exist in the most complex, multi-tracked domino train that could ever be built. One unseen nudge in a place we don’t even know about could set the chain in motion and bring the world as we know it tumbling down around us.

One of the tragedies that has touched us closest to home has had a quiet but visible effect on my middle child. Every time people are talking about this particular loss, he clutches me, and his dark eyes get big but distant. Whether he knows he’s thinking it or not, something in his little eight-year-old soul says in the back of his mind: what if this happened to me? He’s the child who already mourns most keenly his sense of “loss” that I’ve gone back to work full time, and seeing his schoolmates in a situation where mom is never coming home again seems to be speaking in a loud voice within him.

What words can I say that will be both comforting and true? I cannot say, “I will never leave you, my precious child.” I have no control over that. I cannot say, “It’s better that your friend’s mommy is gone.” Better for mommy, yes, in the eternal sense, but certainly not better for a young child who needs to figure out how to carry on. I cannot say his life would be unchanged if for some reason I vanished from it.

But what I do know is that we have each other now. And that’s all I know we have. It is why the events of the past weeks have admonished me that each opportunity to love, to correct, to connect, to impart must not be squandered. I must view every word I share with those around me as potentially the last they will ever hear from me—when the day comes that I have spoken my last, I do not want to cringe as I remember. I want to have done my best to strengthen each person whose life I touched, like the right fuel makes a fire burn brighter for those who gather around it.

So here’s to the memory of those we have lost. May we honor them by living our lives a little more intentionally, a little more gracefully, and more appreciatively of every fleeting moment we’re given.

Think for a moment about the years that went by, the months, the days, the hours, the minutes, and the heartbeats. The victories, the defeats, the kisses, the babies, the fights and the lives that are joined so perfectly, their hearts synchronize every night when they rest beside each other. Her staring at the ceiling until the voices and pictures in her mind settle and she can only feel his steady breath tickling her ear. He with his arm and leg wrapped around her… stating to the imaginary foes that they will have to kill him before they can place so much as a finger on her.

That is my life, and that of my husband’s, stripped down the barest of information.  Isn’t it lovely?

Have you ever wondered what it takes to stay married? Not only stay, but thrive and become closer with your spouse? You have the conventional answers thrown at you…Respect…Love…Communication. They are good ones, but I say there is something just as important that is far too often overlooked, and I say it is high-time we recognize it. Celebrate it. Embrace it even.

I will now tell you the secret to my marriage. Ready?

We find delight in each others flaws and differences.

What?

No. Really. It is true. I promise. I cannot say this will work for you. But I do know that it is the reason I can lay down each night and sigh as I snuggle in close to my husband.  I will give you a comparison of my and my husband’s differences in a few things and you tell me if it has the power to bond our relationship. <wink-wink>

Thinking

Quinton- He can think about nothing at all. He can zone to a quiet place of oblivion and once there, the walls could fall down around him and he’d be none the wiser. This has been proven thoroughly through 20 years of parenting. Not sure how he can watch a show with 5 kids screaming at the top of their lungs, dogs barking, and phone ringing, but it is an art form I wish I had sometimes.

Me- My mind never shuts down completely.  There have been times I woke myself in the middle of the night calling off chore lists and bath schedules. When I worked, I used to take orders in my sleep. Quinton has actually sat in bed listening to me ramble on and on numerous times. Sometimes even placing orders. Now that I write, I have woken to myself speaking dialogue and telling back story. Perhaps I should place a recorder next to my bed and see if any of it makes sense.

Farting

***Warning*** This section is completely infantile and if you are easily offended by natural things and a sense of humor that ranks in the range of high school boys ( and most men if they are man enough to admit it), stop reading now and go elsewhere. 

Quinton- I’ve never met a person that has as much gas as my husband. I know this seems like an odd thing to bring up when speaking on a lasting marriage but it is down-right funny. He takes great pride in his God-given ability. Being that we have three sons, this has been a big hit and there has been great focus put on leaving stink to fall upon the unsuspecting. They are giddy any time the four of them ride in a car for any amount of time. Quinton loves the idea of the locking button that controls all of the windows. Yes, they are all two.

I have learned to breathe through my mouth at most times.

Me- I only pass fairy dust. No one living will say otherwise. Not one person at Walmart has evidence of me walking through the isles and something about the place making my stomach spit out toxic waste in plumes that have a faint green tinge. No. That cannot be proven and is hearsay. I do not take pleasure in making my children gag and disperse as if a porta-potty exploded. Not me. I have never eaten grapes on purpose as payback to my husband for farting on me nearly every night for the last 21 years. Pfft! I have no idea why he is crying in his sleep and it is so cold, he really needs to be ALL the way under the covers. I am very concerned about his health, after all.

Bowel Movements

Quinton- Maybe it is a man thing, I’m not sure, but a trend of bathroom surprises has sprung up in the last few years around my house.  Much like above, the men of my house (my husband leading the charge) can at least once a day each (they are fed well) be found chuckling around the corner of the bathroom. Of course, the door has been shut tight and the light is off. The idea is to hold the laughter until the other person opens the door and steps in. If operation poo-poo-surprise is a success, they will push the other into the bathroom and hold the door shut. This makes it where the person has to walk in and flush to escape the torture. Then, of course, they have to see the surprise left, or that is the idea going through the idiot’s…umm… male’s head that is holding the door and trying not to hyperventilate from laughing so hard.

Me- I would never participate in such a childish event. I don’t even use the bathroom but to see if my hair is sticking up too much to be considered acceptable. Nope. Not me.

Can’t you, dear reader, see that we have built our relationship on something that will never fade and probably increase in frequency and hilarity as the years pass by? Well, until we lose all control of ourselves, but by then we will have lost a good portion of our mental capacity as well and will think it is perfectly normal that I am wearing a moo-moo and Depends and he has a catheter bag hanging from his overall’s front pouch.

Happy Anniversary, Love. Can’t wait to count your wrinkles and check you for skin-spots. I promise I will use the grinder on the very lowest setting when I remove the corns from your feet and whittle down the talons you now still call toenails.

xxooxx Momma

Peace, love and God’s will.

At Disney’s Hollywood Studios, there is a ride called “The Tower of Terror” based on the show Twilight Zone. Wikipedia says, “The attraction takes place in the fictional Hollywood Tower Hotel (itself inspired by the Hollywood Tower, named a historic landmark by the US Department of the Interior). The story of the hotel, adapted from elements of the television series, includes the hotel being struck by lightning on October 31, 1939, mysteriously transporting an elevator cart full of passengers to the Twilight Zone and causing an entire wing of the building to disappear.”

The ride takes you up into the building, where you experience different scenes, and then you end up in the “elevator” when the lightning strikes, and the elevator plummets. This all involves being in a lot of darkness, then suddenly a set of doors in front of you opens and you immediately plunge–going faster than you would if you were actually falling, btw.

My husband and I rode this ride not long after it first opened. There was oddly no one in line that day (trust me, that’s really unusual even now that’s it’s been there for ages) and Jeff and I got to go twice in a row.

The first time was terrifying because I had no idea what to expect. But it was also thrilling and fun, so when I got to the bottom and Jeff asked if I wanted a second ride, I was like, “Oh, yeah!!!”

Then we rode the second time. I was already familiar with what was coming, but this time I was able to take in things I hadn’t noticed before. I also could anticipate when the drop was about to occur, and I guess I tensed. I really should have enjoyed the second time more–knowing I’d survived that first drop and felt the awesomeness of the ride…

But instead, as that elevator plunged, so did my stomach.

And when I got off the ride, I had to immediately find a place to sit down. My legs were shaking, I felt dizzy, and I had to fight to not hurl all over the walkway.

That, my friends, is how I am feeling now with the second book. I have survived the first. This one should be, if not easier, at least a more relaxed and confident ride. But I also know all about the “drops” and I am hesitant to plunge again. Yes, I’m proud of myself for doing it again, but my stomach is in knots, my legs are weak, and I am fighting to keep it together.

The big difference is, after that second Tower of Terror ride, I never rode again. To this day, you can’t get me on there, even though Jeff still loves the ride,  my son adores it, and someday my daughter may, too. I will be “that” mom, standing to the side, eating a big ole roasted turkey leg or something, while my family all rides together. I simply can’t do it.

BUT I will NOT let the same thing happen with my writing.

Still, the questions are there:  What if the people who loved Finding Angel hate Seeking Unseen? What if I chose to play up the stuff everyone was meh about in Finding Angel, while ignoring the stuff everyone wanted more of?

I know my audience is small at this point, and I worry that it always will be. There have been times, I admit, when I wondered if I even needed to bother writing the second book. What if not enough people read the first one to justify a second?

But those people who did read and love Finding Angel mean so much to me!! I simply can’t let them down. Unlike my family who will have to go on Tower of  Terror without me, the second ride in my writing journey can only be taken by me. I have to do it again, no matter how terrified I am.