Perhaps you’ve noticed some changes taking place at HL Gibson, Author. Just in case you haven’t, I’d like to take this opportunity to point them out. Under Edible Fiction, I’ve started grouping the food posts from my novel, The Secrets of Dr. John Welles, in a sub file and started a new one for the novel I’ll be querying next, The Tedescos. There’s also a new sub file under Research Road for The Tedescos as I prepare to share information I used while writing. The Artist’s Corner is a new section on my blog where I published posts about some amazingly creative people. I’m sure you’ll enjoy reading about them if you haven’t already.
I’m sharing this to say that I hope the updated and/or newly grouped posts don’t blow up your e-mail inboxes. I only move a few at a time, and so far, per my husband, he hasn’t received notification regarding these changes. If by chance you do receive notification of an updated post due to a new tag, please forgive me. I must admit that I’m still learning the art of blogging, and when I launched my blog almost four years ago, I honestly did not foresee the need to reorganize it in this way. On the upside, I hope you’ll enjoy revisiting some older posts.
Thank you for your patience and please excuse the dust!
Greetings, Dear Followers:
I need to check in with you because it may look as if I’ve abandoned my blog, and (perish the thought) you as well. Nothing could be farther from the truth! The reality of the matter is that I’m working intensely on my novel, and since I want to produce great work, I’ve pulled back from blogging for a short time. Fear not!
While I’ve been writing, I’m also conducting a fair amount of research and taking notes on everything all of which will eventually turn into brilliant blog posts. This will keep you informed and entertained about my novel while I’m busy querying it.
So, stay with me because I know you’ll enjoy what’s to come. And as always, thank you for your continued support.
It seemed rather timely, and hopefully not too cliché, with Thanksgiving approaching this week to write a post in regards to the holiday. I know many families have the tradition of stating what they are thankful for prior to eating dinner. It’s a beautiful tradition and one that I applaud. And while it’s true that we need reminders throughout the year to be thankful for what we have, allow me to remind you to also give thanks to people. With that being said, I’m addressing this post to those who will receive the thanks.
I’m thinking about the ER nurse working a twelve-hour shift, the police officer running toward the sound of gunshots, the college student making a decaf sugar free double soy no whip extra foam caramel macchiato, the librarian shopping for a program on her own time, the teacher grading papers on his lunch hour, the stay-at-home mother juggling laundry, dinner, and her kids’ extracurricular activities, the power company worker who restores the electricity in the middle of a snow storm, the soldier Skyping his wife and kids. With the exception of the stay-at-home mom, all these people work in positions for which they get paid. But this post is not a debate on stay-at-home moms versus moms who work outside the home.
What unifies these people, and many others like them, isn’t whether or not they make money or how much they make. In their own way, each one is a worthy worker. Look closer and you’ll see what makes every one of these people the same is that they are in positions to serve others. It’s a simple lesson to learn, and some come to it faster than others, but the greatest thing anyone will ever do is serve another person.
In today’s society where entitlement reigns supreme, it’s easy to become jaded to the point that one is tempted to set aside his or her integrity and believe that he or she isn’t earning enough money to make what they do worthwhile. To those who are serving in whatever capacity, whether great or small, I give my wholehearted thanks. I ask that you remember why you started serving in the first place, to understand that your job may be thankless but will never be purposeless, to do the right thing even when no one is looking, to not measure your ability to serve successfully by the amount of a paycheck, to rest confident in the reward that is a job well done, and to keep serving when all others have given up.
Examine the act of service a little deeper, and you’ll find a concept that is rapidly disappearing from our society: sacrifice. To give something up willingly for the sake of others is the true definition of service. In fact, I don’t believe you can serve another without a measure of sacrifice involved. So stay strong. It’s hard, I know, but you are being seen for what you do. True, you may never know, but your selfless service will not go unrewarded.
God Bless and Happy Thanksgiving.
I am making a transition in my writing life. The reason for this is the complete derailment I experienced in the earlier part of this year. I know that isn’t much of an explanation, but this short version is free of negativity and the temptation to succumb to it. I could go on and on telling you what went wrong and how I allowed it to happen, but I do not want to contaminate anyone’s thought process with my own difficulties. We’re writers; we’ll manufacture plenty of woes on our own without someone spoon feeding suggestions to us.
The good news for me is that my writing passion is starting to return. The stories are creeping back into my head like deer tentatively stepping from the security of the forest into the wide-open unknown of the meadow. It was my own fault they were driven away in the first place, and I must and am taking responsibility for this.
For a short time I did nothing positive toward my writing life. The only connection I maintained to writing was reading. I hid out in books, believing what I did was helpful, but I was living in denial. One piece of writing advice that actually saved me was to do something different altogether. I was struggling anyhow, so why force something that wasn’t coming to me naturally? Instead, I walked.
My husband and I began hiking familiar trails close to home. I welcomed the exercise and fresh air like old friends. We kept at it, and now we look forward to seeking new places to walk. I took pictures with my cellphone during our hikes, playing at the most amateur form of photography. The simple act of creativity spurred my mind. I began to mentally describe what I saw and fashioned one or two-line stories.
My efforts probably don’t sound very constructive to the writing life except for the simple fact that they placed my focus squarely back on writing. I felt like an adult who had successfully recaptured the magical thrill of Christmas morning. All the superfluous baggage that people will try to tell you (or you’ll convince yourself of) is part of the writing life simply disappeared.
Again, I’m avoiding detailing exactly what those bad things were for me so that my followers won’t latch on to them. I’m also cautious in supplying instruction on how to overcome them because too many times we grasp a particular piece of advice as a hard and fast solution to our problems. When it doesn’t work, we become more despondent and depressed than we were at the beginning. In short, you must proceed fearlessly on your own to discover and apply what works for you. Fellow writers can cheer you from the sidelines, but they cannot prop you up nor do the work for you.
With a deep sigh of relief and contentment, I am single-mindedly focused on writing. The scales have fallen away from my eyes, the chains from my hands, and I am free to write.
“Can’t we run the dishwasher?” she asks.
“No—that thing makes too much heat, and it’s already eighty-five degrees in here,” her father replies. Disgust tinges the edge of his words, and he shakes his head at her like she’s an imbecile for even asking.
The girl’s brother and two younger siblings, a girl and a boy, wear the smiling faces of obedient, compliant children. They dash away amidst the tension their older sister has created. Their smiles have more to do with not having to wash dishes in the August heat.
And so the girl suffers alone as her family seeks shade in the darkened family room and cool beneath the ceiling fan. She’s up to her elbows in hot, sudsy water, thinking about how her father never used to speak to her in that tone when he spoke to her as a child. He developed the manner in the sixth year of his second marriage when his new wife had their first child, the little girl. It worsened when the boy was born, as if her father was obligated to speak to her this way.
She’s not paying attention, and her hands slip off a plate. It lands on the two inches of counter space between her and the sink, bouncing twice, before it shatters into a million shards. All she can think is that she didn’t know a plate could bounce.
“I’ll replace it,” the girl says, sensing her father’s wife behind her. No doubt the woman had come to criticize the girl’s work, but a more fortuitous situation presented itself.
“Don’t worry about it,” the woman says. There is no inflection in her voice, no understanding in her eyes. “It was ugly and mismatched anyhow. The last one from your grandmother’s set.”
It is not the last one, but it might as well be. There’s a saucer under a dying jade plant in the family room, chipped and stained from soil leaching out the hole in the terracotta pot. The girl will pay for the broken plate with money earned from her job as a lunch counter girl at the golf course because it’s the right thing to do.
Later, when the sun dips behind the pines in the backyard, the girl sits in a lawn chair and drinks iced tea. Her bare feet brush over the fuzzy, silver leaves of lamb’s ear she planted around the air conditioner compressor last year. She thinks to herself that she cannot remember a time when there wasn’t lamb’s ear in her life. Even at the apartment complex where she lived with her mother and brother. And she thinks that it is stupid to have whole-house air conditioning and not use it.
There was an old couple who lived on the first floor of the complex who kept lamb’s ear in planters on the concrete porch. She would slip down to visit them while her mother slept off her third-shift weariness. Her brother sat in his playpen in front of the TV turned to Sesame Street. The old man and woman knew the girl never had enough to eat, but they were also poor. They fed her ice cream floats made with Pepsi and sent her home with bouquets of lamb’s ear. Her mother spanked her when her brother ate one and got sick. Then her mother got sick, and finally her dad came to visit. She remembers him calling his new wife from the green phone hanging on the kitchen wall. His finger absently picked at the peeling, flowered wallpaper.
“Honey, the kids are going to come stay with us for a while.”
With one sentence her life changed forever. She and her brother had a new home and a new mommy who never let them forget that she sacrificed her career in banking to raise them. Then came the two new siblings who the girl tried to watch over when she wasn’t being shooed away by her father’s wife. She didn’t want her new sister and brother to eat lamb’s ear. They are old enough to know better now.
She remembers when each of those babies came home from the hospital. Everything smelled new then, like baby powder and plastic toys. Plenty of pictures exist of these events, pictures with the girl’s profile or arm just barely captured in the frame. That’s when she realized her position was oldest girl, not oldest daughter. Her brother is nowhere to be seen. In fact, except for school pictures, there are very few of the girl and her brother since the arrival of their new siblings.
The sky turns dusky, then the shade of a bruise, and when the bats swoop from the trees, the girl goes in. Her family already retired upstairs for the night without calling to her. She is old enough to get herself to bed. First, she must do a load of laundry that includes her bras and pantyhose. Her father’s wife made her wait until laundry for the rest of the family was done because no one else needed to wash their items on delicate. The girl doesn’t want her things ruined; she has to buy them herself. No matter. It is cool in the basement, and she can doze on the day bed while watching reruns of ‘80s sitcoms on the black and white TV her father keeps on his workbench.
The girl falls asleep to the rhythm of the washer and dreams about the Gibson Girls in the wallpaper behind her father’s bar. She sees herself in the bust-enhancing gowns with her hair piled elegantly on her head and a bouquet of lamb’s ear in her hand. Many suitors try to tempt her with ice cream floats, but the girl knows she is not free to accept, and so she runs away, Cinderella-style, to a waiting sinkful of dirty dishes.