by April | Jun 26, 2010 | Encouragement, Writing
Writers are a bit like actors. Let me qualify that by saying I never wanted to be an actor. Being in front of people like that isn’t something I yearn for. However, I was a TV addict as a child. I don’t think we needed a TV guide because I always knew what was on at any given moment–even re-runs. If an episode caught my imagination, I would replay it in my memory, change the ending, or extend it out. I guess I wrote fan-fiction in my head as a kid–but I had no idea that’s what it was!
My kids don’t know what re-runs are, really. They don’t know that if we missed a show in our youth, my husband and I had to hope they’d run it again in summer and we’d live in anticipation of catching it later. VCR’s were futuristic and expensive, so we didn’t have one. Today, if we miss a show, we can catch it on the internet. I find it ironic that now I have the capability to watch EVERYTHING that is on, I really don’t want to. Nor do I have the time.
I digress. Back to my original statement—writers are a bit like actors. First we imagine a character, and get to know them by writing their backgrounds (family, friends, childhood experiences) to learn how they would act in certain situations. Then we pull them on, step into their lives and move about, seeing how they feel, what they think, what they want from life. It’s been said, although I can’t remember by whom, that in order to understand someone you have to walk a mile in his or her shoes. (I could Google this quote, but that would sidetrack us).
I learn a lot from my characters. Being a writer of faith, I often learn about God. Verses I haven’t thought of for years come to mind. Situations that my characters are going through might draw them closer to God and that gives me new insight into Him as well. They grow and I grow. Oftentimes my character will say something truly enlightening that I’ve never thought of before in that context, or maybe not at all. Those are the wonder moments.
Right now I’m learning about walking by faith. This happens at many stages in people’s lives, not just one. I’ve been here countless times, and I will be again. It’s about growing in my walk with the Lord, and I hope I never stop doing that. I put one foot in front of the other and keep going, praying God will guide my steps. I’m expanding a book I hope will pass muster and earn an interview with a publisher this summer. I don’t know if all this effort will get me there, but I’m learning a lot—and anytime that happens, it’s not a waste. All I know is that there is a possibility before me, and if I give it all I’ve got and pray, then I’ve done my part.
One of my favorite passages from the Bible is a large section on faith. Rather than copying the whole section, I encourage you to read it yourself. It’s starts off like this:
Hebrews 11
Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see. To read the rest of the chapter, please click HERE
by April | May 26, 2010 | Short Stories, Uncategorized, Writing
Alexia refused gifts and thought family events were like emergency-room visits, painful and preventable. As another guest strolled by and squeezed her arthritic hand in greeting, she envisioned herself out in the garden of her old home, the aroma of jasmine wafting about her on the warm spring day. Instead, she sat in the over-sanitized dining hall of an assisted living home, barraged by well meaning, but quite annoying friends and family.
She turned ninety-five today. The day marked an anniversary of another kind as well, it was three years ago today they moved her into this place. She’d wanted to die in her own home, but her family thought otherwise. They wanted her to die amongst the care of strangers, those paid to pretend they wanted her there.
With a sigh, she leaned back and put the most recent unwanted gift on the table nearest her. Her family, she supposed, meant well in their own way. She glanced out the window onto a concrete courtyard framed by aging, brown arborvitae and dying irises.
“Grandma?” A voice boomed near her head and she started in her chair. “Sorry there, Grandma. There’s a visitor here for you.”
She stared at the balding attendant dressed in yellow scrubs with a puppy-dog print stretching over his expansive stomach.
“I never gave you permission to call me Grandma or anything else, for that matter.” She gave him her best scowl, a look that would have brought him to his knees in her younger days as an English teacher.
“She’s a feisty one.” He spoke to a young woman—well she looked young to Alexia, but everyone did. Alexia noted that she was quite attractive as she watched her pull up a metal folding chair.
“I didn’t know it was your birthday.” Her confession came in hushed tones as she looked around the room at the balloons and guests milling about, speaking overly loud to the other aged attendees.
“Then what in the world are you doing here?” Alexia looked at the woman again, and couldn’t place her. That was nothing new today. Relatives came out of the woodwork for this birthday. Many of them told her where they lived and what their financial status was, making her wonder if they were putting in a last-ditch effort to be added to her substantial will.
“Well, I wanted to see you. My mother told me so much about you, that when I moved to the area, I thought I should stop in and say hi.”
“Who is your mother?”
“Lilly Sampson.”
The name floated through her memory until it found purchase. “Lilly. How is she? She was my best student!”
“She’s passed away. But she spoke of you so often, I felt I knew you.”
Dear Lilly, gone. She’d written so many wonderful articles and even a few books over the years. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”
“It was recent. Cancer.”
“It’s taken many of my friends and family.”
“Mine too.”
“So, what do you do?”
“I write. Novels. I’m not published yet, but I’m working on it every day.”
“Good. Don’t give up. If it’s your gift, then that’s what you should do. I’d love to read your work. Although, these days, with my old eyes, you’d probably have to read it to me.” Alexia knew in this busy day and age, young people had too few moments to stop in and visit, let alone read to an old woman.
“Would you really? That’d mean so much to me. Mom said you were the best editor she ever had.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She reached over and took the young woman’s hand in hers.
“I’m sorry I don’t have a present with me.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Alexia glanced at the growing stack of gifts and felt relief. What would an old woman sharing a two hundred square foot room do with all those things anyway? Most would probably be knickknacks soon knocked off her solitary bookcase by the inept staff and swept into the dustbin. She looked at her new friend as she moved to leave.
“Will you be back soon? With your novel?” She watched the woman’s eyes sparkle.
“Yes. How about tomorrow?”
“Perfect.”
She leaned down and gave Alexia a kiss on her cheek. It was the most sincere thing she’d received all day.
“You haven’t told me your name.”
“Alex. Mom named me after you.” Unshed tears filled her eyes as she waved goodbye and left.
What a lovely gift.
Copyright by April McGowan 2010
by April | Mar 3, 2010 | Encouragement, Writing
I recently attended the Oregon Christian Writer’s winter conference and Robin Jones Gunn was our guest speaker. Let me say first, if you write for God, attending a conference where 200 of you all have the same goal–our Father’s Glory–is an amazing and uplifting experience. It’s been such a hard year, I’ve been having trouble, frankly, getting my head wrapped around starting another book. Not that I haven’t been writing, I have–the blog, editing my books as I try to get them published , a few short stories here and there–but that ONE idea for the next novel escaped me. I’ve had this character in my head for a while, but whenever I put her down on paper–either she acted wrong, or the situation wasn’t quite right, so I’d scratch it out and let myself get distracted. And we’ve had plenty to distract us. Ms. Gunn mentioned opposition in her talk. She was mainly focusing on editors or publishers, or critics–but as soon as she asked, “What is your opposition?” I knew what ours was–ILLNESS. We’ve been through such a period of illness, it’s baffling some days. Right then, I knew what had been getting in my way.
Now, this is not to say we haven’t prayed for healing–oh we have. Or prayed that God would protect our family–we’re all over that. Or wondered if we needed to get our acts straight, was God trying to get our attention? Or tried any number of ways to look at this situation that might trip a switch that would rescue us from all of this. We kept our eyes on the Father–but we were sinking. If there were tick boxes listing “good things to do when you want your prayers answered” they would have all been checked.
Sometimes I think, in our American Christian culture, we subconsciously think if we say the right prayer, or act just so, or do just the right thing then God will answer that one prayer of ours (ours being healing). I’m about to say something you might not want to hear. Sometimes he heals miraculously, or through doctors. Sometimes we’re just sick because we’re sick. And sometimes there is a spiritual battle you are in the midst of–and might not even know it– and all you have to do is hold on. That last one, I think, was us. We were beginning to feel like the Whack-o-Mole. Step out for the Lord, put your head out that hole and get whacked. Really makes you not want to put your head up–and that feeling is key.
So, back to RJG’s talk. Her talk was about forging ahead despite our circumstances–that God has a job for us all to do, and we have to go about doing that job. She said if there’s something getting in the way of that job, that’s the enemy. Now, I’ve known that before too, but I hadn’t really seen our opposition for what it was–call me silly, or blind, but we were so busy trying to keep our heads up and pray, we didn’t have the energy to look at much else. I really don’t ever remember being so emotionally and spiritually exhausted before in my life. I went to her right after the talk, she was book signing, and I shared what our opposition was. And she said two words I will never forget, they still bring tears to my eyes, she said, “Never fear.”
Now, you can know something intellectually–I’ve read a lot of verses on not fearing–but something in the way she said it struck my heart, and I took such great comfort and courage at those words. I went home and shared my notes with my husband, and I said, “I really need to set aside time to write more faithfully.” He agreed. And as of today, I’ve got most of the outline for my next book completed, my main character is fleshed out, and she’s even doing what she’s supposed to do (for now). Everyone has to find their sweet spot–mine is from 10pm to 2am. I’m not saying I’m not tired–sooo am. BUT, I’m back in the saddle, and intent on not letting the opposition win.
Sometimes all you can do is keep your head up and wait on the Lord. If that is where you are at, then I encourage you to please just keep going. There might be NOTHING that makes sense about where you are, or why things are so hard, but take heart–you are not alone, Jesus is with you.
Mathew 14:27 But Jesus immediately said to them: “Take courage! It is I. Don’t be afraid.”
Psalm 27: 1-3 The Lord is my light and my salvation–whom shall I fear? the Lord is the stronghold of my life–of whom shall I be afraid? When evil men advance against me to devour my flesh, when my enemies and my foes attack me, they will stumble and fall. though an army besiege me, my heart will not fear; though war break out against me, even then will I be confident.
Psalm 46: 1-3, 7 God is our refuge and strength, an ever present help in trouble. therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. 7 The Lord Almighty is with us; the God of Jacob is our fortress.
by April | Dec 19, 2009 | Short Stories, Writing
Black Out by April McGowan
‘Singleness is a state of mind’ the sign read. Well, not only was Tracy single, she was also an orphan. Could you call yourself an orphan if your parents died after you were eighteen? It didn’t matter. No matter how old you were when your parents died, you still felt like one.
In any case, she was alone on all counts and facing the day she’d dreaded most in her life. The doctor said the news wasn’t good. Wasn’t that just like a doctor? It’s not good, but we won’t tell you how bad it’s going to be until you come in for an appointment. Then you had to wait six weeks to for an appointment and pay exorbitant fees to be finally let in on the news. What was that about?
The overhead lights flickered as the subway plowed along in the underground tunnel. Tracy re-read the singles ad. Flanking its left, an advertisement for Disneyland beckoned happy families to live out their perfect fantasy vacation. On its right was an abuse hotline number. And down below, a poster for depression, complete with check-off list. Someone had checked them all off in shaky black scrawl. They’d probably left their abusive relationship and were now single, not loving it, and unable to partake of the fantasy Disney getaway.
An itchy feeling built inside to take her pen out and check off all the boxes too. Nothing like self-help on the subway.
Closing her eyes, she blocked out the signs and concentrated on the slight knock and rock of the speeding train. The sound of a couple arguing over in-laws, the rustle of gum wrappers and crinkle of newsprint filtered through her thoughts. She kept her eyes closed, playing the familiar game she’d begun as a child. Picking out sounds and smells, concentrating on the little details around her, she memorized her surroundings.
The aroma of twenty different colognes and perfumes blended together with summer sweat, and her previous seating companion’s forgotten, half-eaten burrito. Scuffling feet on metal floor tiles, whispers, and coughs mixed with the collage she built in her mind. Then, the hollow sound of her own breathing filled her ears. Darkness closed in, fear niggled and her eyes snapped open.
Take it all in; don’t forget a bit of it. The voice in her memory was as real as if her mother was sitting next to her reminding her to appreciate all she experienced every day.
The man across from her caressed his lover’s fingers, their glances locking as she whispered to him. His smile, her shining eyes, spoke volumes. To her left, an elderly man slid nearer his wife and spoke in gravely tones too deep to decipher. She leaned closer, reached in her purse, and handed him a cough drop. He squeezed her hand in thanks.
On her right, a man in a dark blue suit clutched his briefcase as he mechanically mumbled a sales pitch he would give moments from now.
A teenage boy sat next to him, dressed in the latest fashion of loose-fitting designer jeans and logo-laden, baggy t-shirt. He tore tiny sheets of paper out of a small notebook, crumpled them into miniature projectiles and launched them expertly into the isle, bouncing them off the leg of the elderly man. The old couple shot him annoyed looks, but his only response was a sarcastic grin. His harried and oblivious mother shuffled through the multiple purchases stacked around their feet in oversized glossy sacks, verbally taking stock of the savings she made on each one.
The ride continued, shifting and jerking down the track. The seams in the walls of the tunnels, dimly illuminated at times, rushed by at a dizzying speed. Inside the lights flickered, retuned, and went out. Blackness enveloped them like a fist.
Tracy held her breath, blinked rapidly, and gripped the seat as fear coursed through her like an electrical shock. Was this it?
But then complaining voices rose in exclamation and dismay. People around her cursed, packages dropped, feet shifted. The train skated on, unstopping, unaware of the panic building in its cars. Red emergency lights buzzed to life, casting a dim, dusty red glow over the throng. A voice crackled over the loud speaker as way of apology for the inconvenience.
She relaxed, and her breathing returned to normal. As her hands met in her lap, she rubbed the tension from her shaky fingers. A second announcement thanked them for their patience, but it was premature. All around her were sounds of protest.
“You’d think a city this size could afford better maintenance.”
“This happened last month, on this same route. They should have fixed it by now.”
“I can’t read my paper in this light.”
“Where did my purse go?”
“Riding around in the dark, it’s just not safe these days.”
Then the mother saw the projectiles illuminated on the floor, glowing pink with guilt; she saw her son’s hands full of tiny wads, and more of the same gathering in the isle. She smacked his hands and the miniature bombs flew into the air like New Year’s confetti.
“You’ll lose your computer for a week for that.” She pushed her hair back and pulled her sacks in closer, wedging them between the two.
Darkness edged in, threatened, and stole their contentment. The dark brought fear. She knew the fear—better than the rest. A scream built in her chest. She wanted to shout at them, to tell them this was only temporary, that they’d all see again. Before the admonition could escape, the lights returned.
Everyone in the car winced under the brightness. They appeared unharmed, but now a strange uneasiness swirled about them. The lovers still held hands, but out of comfort—not passion. The old woman laced her arm through her husband’s, her aged fingers clenched around his forearm. The boy sat scowling at them, mourning his lost missiles, as if the old couple had caused all of his trouble. The businessman still held his briefcase tight against his chest, but his mumbling ceased.
Their train pulled into the stop and the car emptied. They had entered the car singly, contented, some even happy. But they exited as an angry mass, their joy stolen by the dark, complaints and curses lacing their lips.
Tracy, last off, pulled her purse close and walked after them—a disgruntled mob made one in their bitterness. Up the stairs, out into the bright sunlight, they dispersed before her. The horns of autos, the shouts of food vendors, and the rush of people along the city streets all seemed to flow in slow motion. Every detail captured in her mind, as if in a snapshot. She would never see any of those people again, but they and their reactions were glued into her scrapbook memory.
Her mother had known the darkness personally. Blind from a genetic illness at the age of fourteen, she would often reminisce about the things she missed seeing, but also about the beauty all around that so many took for granted.
Tracy reached the tall office building and entered. Inside, a vast, polished marble floor stretched before her. She spied the elevator bays on the right and headed towards them, her tennis shoes squeaking with each step. After calling the car, she waited only a moment for it to arrive. Entering alone, she reached to push the button for the tenth floor.
Her fingers lingered on the smooth, golden-lit circle, then trailed over to the cool Braille bumps near it. She closed her eyes and tried to memorize the pattern. The elevator stopped to let on more passengers, and she pulled her hand away as if caught doing something wrong. She backed into the corner, allowing the others to choose their destination. When hers arrived, the computerized voice sang out her floor number, and she excused herself, squeezing between them.
A tall, blue directory met her as she left the elevator. Listed on it were different medical offices, all edged in the same bumpy pattern. She closed her eyes, reached out and traced her doctor’s name over and over. Satisfied she knew it, she turned and walked down the long hall. Wood edges lined the way, with breaks for guides. Each door had a raised printed name.
She reached the office, entered and greeted the receptionist. As she sat down, she picked up a magazine and noticed a variety of Braille booklets neatly stacked by each chair. She had never noticed them before. Maybe she hadn’t wanted to notice. An involuntary shiver raced over her as she remembered her experience on the subway.
Really, she was blessed. She’d had so much more time to prepare than her mother had.
“The doctor will see you now.”
Funny choice of words.
“Thank you.”
Copyright by April McGowan 2010
Writers are a bit like actors. Let me qualify that by saying I never wanted to be an actor. Being in front of people like that isn’t something I yearn for. However, I was a TV addict as a child. I don’t think we needed a TV guide because I always knew what was on at any given moment–even re-runs. If an episode caught my imagination, I would replay it in my memory, change the ending, or extend it out. I guess I wrote fan-fiction in my head as a kid–but I had no idea that’s what it was!
