My Weekend With A Three Year Old: Roar Back

Little kids, man. They're crazy.

I spent this past weekend with some cousins, including little Catherine. Catherine is three and has vivacious curly blonde hair that matches her personality. Her big blue eyes exude spunk and sass. Every other word that comes out of her mouth is "why?"

I admire Catherine so much, and perhaps even envy her a bit. She is so filled with wonder at everything...she doesn't have to worry about the SAT or student loans. She's not concerned about her weight or how people react to her personality. She doesn't know how to be anything else...besides who she is. Besides who God made her to be. She hasn't been hurt by other people, she doesn't know really know how to do anything besides love unconditionally. She's so trusting, reaching her pudgy arms out to anyone who will take her.

Maturity is a beautiful gift. But how often do we willingly give up aspects of childishness that we should keep? 

Catherine kept calling the boys (there were about seven total, ranging from seven to sixteen) "hedgehogs". I'm still not really sure where that came from. The word guys has officially been replaced by hedgehogs in my vocabulary. Sorry, hedgehogs.

My sisters or I would be holding her and say "Hey, Catherine, what do you want to do?"

She'd lift her arms towards the sky, as if preparing for battle. Her ever-present grin would widen as she would shriek: "LET'S GO TICKLE HEDGEHOGS."

Lots of hedgehogs got tickled this weekend.

When they would try to tickle her back, she would scream, "BAD, BAD BEHAVIOR!"

Catherine also has figured out how to play her parents. It often occurred that she would ask Mommy for something, only to be told no. Then she would go find Daddy, who would absent-mindedly answer yes. 

The sass that this child has is unparalleled. She was giving her mom a hard time Sunday morning, so I attempted to help put her shoes on. While doing this, her mom wiped some powdered sugar off her face.

"HEY!" Catherine yelled. "DON'T DO THAT!"

"Your mommy is just trying to help make you pretty!" I explained.

"I was talking to Mommy not you." came the response. 

"I'm scared for what she'll be like in ten years..." my aunt shook her head.

Catherine sat on my lap during church that morning, which was so fun. She started out with my sister (also named Catherine), but at age thirteen, she weighs only like two pounds (not joking at all), and Catherine nearly broke Catherine's arms. Make sense?

Anyway, Catherine was super good for the most part. She sang along and stayed put. At one point, the church was completely silent, and she looked at me and whisper-yelled, "HOW OLD ARE YOU?" (I swear, she only has one volume.)

"Seventeen," I answered, holding back giggles. It wasn't even that funny, but her little voice and intense stare killed me.

"OH. WELL I'M FIVE AND I'M IN KINDERGARTEN AND PRESCHOOL." 

I could not get a grip. Again, it's not even that funny, but she's just such a stinker.

There was one point in the course of the weekend when my dad was talking to her parents and asked when they were going to come visit us. Catherine looked up from her watermelon and cocked her head thoughtfully, saying, "But my mommy and daddy would miss me too much."

One night, we were being really silly and I told her my name was Ed Boots. (Isn't that the most fantabulous name ever?! I have a step cousin on the other side of my family named Ed Boots and I'm eternally jealous of his name. My cousin and I want to write a whole series on him, even though we've met him like three times. And that was like...ten years ago. But still. That name, though.) After that, everyone became Ed Boots. 

"Nice to meet ya, Ed Boots, how ya doin', Ed Boots," she kept saying every three minutes out of the blue. It became a chant of sorts, accompanied by a little hip shimmy and head bob.

Catherine is also quite talented in the art of fake crying. We had a fake outburst at least every hour, which was cured with a good tickle. 

This weekend, I was wrapping up Sense and Sensibility (GREAT GREAT GREAT BOOK!). My uncle keeps their house literally below zero, so though it was over ninety degrees, I spent the weekend wrapped in a blanket and covered with pillows.

Saturday afternoon, I was reading when Catherine came over and demanded to bury me. Then, she issued a decree that I was "never, ever, ever, EVER allowed to move ever ever EVER again, Ed Boots". I obliged for a bit before peeking my head out. She was curled up on the other couch, holding my book up to her nose and occasionally page turning. It was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. 

With a mighty roar, I broke lose of the pillow dungeon. She shrieked and reconstructed it, giving the same orders. This repeated itself two or three more times, each occasion ending with her back on the couch, reading Sense and Sensibility.

Perhaps my most profound thought of the weekend occurred when the boys hedgehogs kept saying "RAWR" to get Catherine to scream. And scream she did. I've never met a child who loved screaming so much. Except maybe myself, I feel like I was a screamer. Anyway, my eardrums are still ringing.

Eventually, the strain on my poor ears was too much to handle, so I told her to counter their roar with an even louder one. It took her a few tries to get it, but eventually, she was roaring rather than screaming. 

She would inhale half of the breath in her room, so much that her lungs were probably bursting and let out a roar larger than herself.

So many people try to get us to scream. They roar at us, try to scare us...and, oftentimes, we do. To quote Catherine, "Why?" Because it's what's easy. It's what is socially acceptable. We would rather not fight, we would rather just nod and move on. We submit, cower, and scream.

But what if we roared back? Roaring doesn't mean being hateful, and it doesn't mean being rude. But what it does mean is standing up for ourselves and what we believe in.

Catherine challenges us to be ourselves. To love fully. To be ourselves. To be silly. To tickle hedgehogs. To be fearless. To bounce back. To roar back. 

Children are such a beautiful gift. They bring us joy, they bring clarity to our lives, and show us deeper truths. And they don't even try! So how do they do it?

Simply, by just being themselves. 

Let us never take them for granted. 

Getting Published, Not: Guest Post by Faith Hough

I am very honored to host the brilliant Faith Hough (check out her blog here). Faith is an incredible writer-mama and is the queen of multi-tasking. In addition to that, she's actually also my cousin =) Anyway, without further ado, may I present to you the genius of Faith Hough!!

When Anne Marie asked me to write a post on “Thoughts on Getting Published,” my first reaction was, “Well, I don’t know anything about getting published. I’m not published yet.” But the truth is I know a whole lot of stuff about not getting published--and how great it is.

Yes, you read that right. NOT getting published is the best thing that ever happened to my writing. Each of the hundred-some times it happened. Here’s why:

Maddie and Faith

When I finished my first book, I was rip-roaring excited to send it off to a publisher and see my hard work enshrined between two hardback covers. I decided to enter a contest for unpublished writers first, and a few months later I found out that my story was a finalist. I gleefully, glibly, and gullibly sent it off to an editor and started my daily mailbox check.

A year later....my first rejection. I was crushed. Much chocolate was consumed. I cried. My one-year-old first born rubbed my cheek in bewilderment. With my own bewilderment, I re-opened my manuscript, prepared to be wowed by my writing prowess and angry at the fools who turned it down.

Instead, I noticed a major grammar error on the first page. A few pages in, I saw a historical inaccuracy. After ten minutes or so of reading I realized I used the word “felt” far too often. The writing, instead of stunning me, looked amateurish and stilted. It was nowhere near the level of the new book I was working on.

Fortunately, most writers have this exact experience, and we all realize how much better we are for it. A few unfortunate young writers hit just the right spot in the market and are able to get their first books published far too early--because the publishing business is indeed a business and they’re there to make money. When I chuckle at the bad writing in published, highly successful (and oft-ridiculed) books, I now try to remember that, “There but for the grace of God go I...”

I do believe the grace of God has plenty to do with it. Certainly I’m not the only writer who has given in to falling to her knees and begging God to “Please please please please please let them publish my book!” like a three-year-old begging for candy. But just like I know that too many jelly beans would be bad for my toddler, God knows that success at the wrong time would be bad for me.

My more recent works (I’ve written five complete novel manuscripts altogether) are more polished and sophisticated than that first foray, but I’m still trying to be grateful every time one of them is turned down by an agent or editor. Sometimes God allows me to see the advantages of His timing. Sometimes I’m left in the dark. But as He’s never been wrong so far, I figure I owe it to Him to “be thankful in all circumstances.”

One of my literary heroes, Madeleine L’Engle, dealt with this same issue. Her agent submitted A Wrinkle in Time over a period of ten years, only to meet with rejection after rejection. A few nice editors told her how much they liked it but were afraid to publish it for various reasons. She was crushed. At one point she decided to give up writing and try working on making better pie crusts instead...until she was distracted from her despair by trying to figure out exactly how she could portray it in words. Finally, at the end of those ten years, a chance meeting brought her into contact with an editor from Farrar, Straus and Giroux. He loved it. He told her not to expect to make any money from such an odd story, but he decided to publish it nonetheless. It went on, of course, to win the Newbery Medal, sell over ten million copies, and become a lasting favorite of generations. In her book A Circle of Light, Madeleine acknowledges her debt to God for allowing all those rejections and for saying “no” to her prayers year after year. Clearly, His timing was perfect.

Of course all writers want to be published; if we’re bothering to write, which is no easy task, we want our words to reach as many people as possible. But I advise you not to worry. Make good art--and leave it in God’s hands. Take every rejection as an opportunity: to hone your skills, to study the great writers, to develop trust. To build up life experience which can only better your subsequent work.

And if you’re currently in the submission trenches, I do hear that you can order chocolate from Amazon via Subscribe and Save... Chocolate always helps. :)

A Reason Why I Write: The Beauty Of A Friend

Ah, I should get the worst blogger of the year award for how much I neglect this baby. *Sigh* Honestly, I think about it so much and all the magnificent posts I have planned, but, alas, these ideas never seem to leave my head.

But this one idea has been pounding inside my brain, begging to be exhaled onto a piece of paper.

I have had an insane start to the year. I brought the New Year in with my bestest friend and cousin, toasting to turning fourteen (her) and turning sixteen (me) and being grown up and evil schemes and writing books and starting high school (her) and only having two years left (me) and all sorts of nonsense. Then we preceeded to stay up until-- er, let's just leave it at very late (or, um, early), as my mother reads this blog.

Additionally, I was fortunate to be able to stand for life in Washington, D.C. this January with some of my favorite people in the world from local youth groups. I was blest to go to a Matt Maher concert, who I have postively adored since I was, like, six. He led Eucharistic Adoration (as Catholics, we honor the Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity of Jesus Christ present during this sacrament) one night and it was seriously one of the most beautiful things I've ever expirienced.

Another absolutely amazing event that took place was my aunt's wedding on February 1st. . .that was incredible. It was an added bonus that I was able to go home to Erie for the wedding! And that I got to hang out with my crazy cousin =)

Oh, and I've had close to fifteen snow days. Which has been incredible because I've accomplished a ton in regaurds to my WIP. But it's absolutely unheard of, from where I've come from. Even one snow day is absolutely unacceptable, though there is easily enough snow in Erie, Pennsylvannia to warrant it, thank you very much.

Fortunately (or unfortunately), though 2014 has been crazy so far, I have had plenty of time to think. And about fifty-percent of the time, when I'm thinking, I'm thinking about Erie. I'm thinking about things I've said and done, about people I've loved and people I've hated-- ahem, disliked. I've thought about things I've written and what made me write them. I've also been thinking about the reasons why I write, as I've been finding it harder and harder to just Sit Down And Write.

And then, through my rememberings and thinkings, BAM, it hit me. Figuratively, of course.

Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time (ahem, like sevenish years ago), there was a young, impressonable, aspiring writer. . .who still is that way. Anyhow, so I was friends with this other girl who I shared much in common with. Same beliefs, same school (or homeschool program, rather), same grade, and similar interests. Yes, she was a writer too. And our parents were basically best friends, so that's always helpful when two girls are knieveing to hang out.

We didn't see each other as much as we wanted to (maybe once, twice, three times a month), due to a variety of reasons, but everytime we hung out it was like the best day of my life. Not neccessarily when other girls were involved-- you know those friends that are just better one on one? That was us. But when we did hang out, just us, my entire body hurt from smiling and laughing my head off.

And of course, the best part of our friendship was the writing aspect. I can still see her in my mind, sitting on the queen-size bed in our old guest room as I explained to her the latest developement in my plot. I remember laying on her bedroom floor, pouring over her latest draft. She was the Best Writer Ever to me and I was always secretly jealous of how well she could string words together. And her plots were fantastic. After I read parts of her story, I would be in a daze for many hours to come.

My absolute favorite memory with her, though, is the day that I told her I liked to write. Maybe it wasn't that day that I told her, actually, but it was the first day that she had read anything I had every written. She was so impressed (probably much more then the piece deserved) and INSISTED that I read it to her family.

The second best part of going to her house (the first being her, of course) was her family. I don't remember ever being that included and welcomed and loved in a family that I wasn't even related to. I remember sitting at her kitchen table, just talking to her parents.

Anyway, so after dinner, her whole family gathered in their living room (there were at least four kids, at this point-- they now have six, just like us), and I read my story. Not the whole thing (the whole thing never actually ended up being written), it was just a chapter or two. But I finished and they clapped and hugged me and told me what a good writer I was and clapped and hugged some more.

If I live to publish a million books and am on every TV and radio talk show in the world, those events will never come close to that moment, in her dimly lit living room, with her family squished together on the couch, listening intently as I read about Beth Kingston, a 12-year-old who gets transported back to Camelot.

Unfortunately, life has come between me and my first real writing friend. We went to the same high school and ended up in different social circles and didn't talk very much. Life has a way of twisting people and friendships so that they are completely unrecognizable from when we first met, from when we first began. But I greatly regret letting such a valuable friendship slip away so easily.

So, this is a reason why I write. She is.

She was the first person (outside of my family) to tell me I could write. To be interested in where my story was going. To tell me to never give up, to never stop writing. She made me feel special, like I had so much potential. She encouraged me to push on, even on hard days. She told me not to let life get in the way of writing.

My eyes are full of tears as I type this. Some people are just so beautiful, you know? Those little moments spent with some people are what make a life a life, what make it all worthwhile. So I suppose this post is begging to be ended with one of the most common of sentiments: remember the little moments. Don't be lost in the past, but don't be so fixated on the future that you forget to look in the rear-veiw mirror once in a while.

And, though we often find ourselves moving on and being moved on from, let us remember the wise words of L.M. Montgomery, delievered from Anne Shirley: "True friends will always remain together in spirit."