Joy

Joy

Call me crazy, brave, or stupid, but I am trying the impossible, to describe a spiritual experience with wholly inadequate carnal words. Why would I try such a thing?

1-Because this is an LDS forum and if I can’t express here, where can I go?

2-Because I want to share light and happiness when so much of what we read and hear today is dark and sad.

3-And I also want to give God credit for allowing us small moments of feeling what I hope will be ubiquitous in our future lives.

Have you had times when you experienced Joy? This December I tasted Joy on three separate occasions and it has caused me to spend time pondering this highly desirable condition.

The only way I can think to share my sensation of Joy with you is to begin with a description of the setting in which I experienced it and to show pictures of when I was feeling it. Lame, I know, but I’m struggling here. Because of length, I’ll share only two of the situations.

The first time caught me very off guard. My husband and I were going to celebrate our anniversary for a couple of days in Salt Lake City. We decided to visit an elderly widow we know on our way out of town. We gave her our simple gift and sat down in her music room to visit a bit. Before long she asked if we would like to hear her play her favorite piano piece, Clair de Lune, (which she wants played at her funeral).

She played it surprisingly well for a woman of 82. As her hands danced across the keys warm emotion poured into me. Tears tricked down my cheeks as I acknowledged the genuine love I felt for this good woman. We hugged her tight and said goodbye. As I walked down her walkway to our car, I felt as though I couldn’t contain the happiness inside me. It was Joy, pure Joy that I was feeling. There was not a particle of the self involved.

I was basking in an altered state of exquisite bliss. Because my body is not accustomed to it, I was reduced to emotion. I cried tears of happiness and was happy to learn than my husband and I were sharing in the same experience. We drove away relishing in the sensations and spoke of what we were feeling for several minutes. Although it didn’t last long in terms of time, it had been so real, so impressionable, that we reflected on it again and again over the next several days.

In spite of the fun and indulgent things we did over the next few days to celebrate our anniversary, nothing compared to the joy we experienced visiting our friend. Honestly, all our activities seemed almost a desperate attempt to achieve happiness and pleasure that simply paled in comparison to the joy we had tasted at Gail’s house.

The next occasion we tasted Joy was the following Wednesday when all our children and their spouses (excepting the one who lives in Mumbai) came to the Provo City Center Temple to participate in proxy sealings for family names. During the session the sensation of joy started in me like the steady drip of an I.V.

I scanned the faces of my family members. Each person looked happy and content. So much goodness was in that room. I peered deep into one of my daughter’s eyes and we communicated without words, just as God was communicating His Joy without words to me.

We must have all been feeling it because no one wanted to leave the temple or each other after the session was over. We sat in the Celestial Room, lingered outside the temple, took pictures, until the tug of worldly affairs pulled us apart.

Joy is greater than a positive emotion, because it doesn’t originate from within us. I’m convinced Joy is a gift bestowed on us from God. I never know when it’s coming nor is there an exact formula to ensure it. It surely is a gift of grace.

Joy is more like an experience or temporary state of being. It is unearthly. It’s like a heavenly commodity that occasionally breaks through our atmosphere and quickly burns up as it rushes down upon us, allowing us to feel only fleeting particles of its most exquisite sensation.

The Joy I have sampled plants deep hope in my heart for a future life beyond the sadness and tears of this one. What a gift to have tasted it. It is more real than the earth under my feet. 

When I Decided to Stop Writing

I Will Make You Fishers of Men

  “So the core landscape of history has been sketched by the pen and brush and words of those who invoke a divine creator’s involvement in our lives and who count on the ligatures of religion to bind up our wounds and help us hold things together.” 
-Elder Holland, "Bond by Loving Ties," Education Week 2016

I woke up two Saturdays ago and for the first time in eight years, I told myself I didn’t have to keep writing. I didn’t have to keep doing this to myself.  The life-crippling anxiety over publication schedules and being good enough or having smart or clever enough ideas, the online marketing, the need to produce something worth reading and then edit it and edit it again, all that, I didn’t have to do.

I read some middle grade and high school entries for Reflections a few weeks ago. Holding their raw words in my hands, it was as if I juggled pieces of aspirations, wishes, and hopes. I didn’t want to put a ranked number on that. How could I tell the girl who so openly shared her experiences with sexual abuse, a drug-addicted mother, and cutting, all before age thirteen, that because she didn’t have as good a grasp on language arts as the other kids in her category, her story wasn’t going to make it beyond the library where I sat reading it?

Maybe that experience was a step to where I was Saturday morning, remembering writing as the gift that saved me, wishing to go back to that time when I wrote, not because I needed to share things inside myself, but because I needed to meet myself. When did I decide I had to share, and why, after so many years, had I never looked back? Why had I kept putting myself, my flaws, my failures, out there for everyone to see? Why had I decided this was something I had to do? 

I turned writing over inside me, and really imagined life without it. I wanted to ask God if maybe it was time to give it up. Was this what I needed to free myself from what I saw as a trigger for failure in other areas of my life? 

On Sunday, I read Elder Holland's talk, The First Great Commandment from October, 2012 about the Twelve Apostles after Jesus Christ’s death, resurrection and ascension. I read about them giving up and going back fishing, and how the Savior found them and called them to the work a second time. 

As I read, I realized I couldn’t give up writing, not if I truly loved my Savior. I sort of knew that all along. I just needed to be reminded.

Writing is and has always been, a way God uses me to reach other people and help them. We all have strengths, ways our talents can help others. As safe and reassuring as it sounded to retreat to that place where I could be alone with my writing again, it was too much like the man who buried his talent, too much like the Apostles going back to fishing.

With God it’s never about just one soul. We are all interconnected. God gives us gifts. Sometimes the ability to write, or draw, or sing. Sometimes He gives us experiences that teach us love, joy, hurt, pain, or empathy. We experience, create, grow, and then He sends us out to help each other.

The words those teenagers wrote have changed me, even if no one else ever reads them. Like the thirteen-year-old girl who's story I can't forget, I cannot reach everyone with my words. Sometimes my stories stop with one or two readers. Jesus Christ alone knows how to reach everyone, and He sends the right people out to bring someone to Him. Where I cannot not reach with my stories, someone else can reach with theirs.

God is not up there keeping track of my forgotten comas and misspellings. He’s not even recording a list of the plot holes or character issues I didn’t fix the way a better author might. He teaches me a step at a time. From the beginning, He’s been using all I can give him, and turning it to good in miraculous ways. Even if what I give is imperfect, His grace gets me to the places He wants me to go.

This is why I haven’t considered stopping before. I know what I have isn’t perfect. I know it’s limited and childish, and I still have so much to learn.

But it’s His.

My gift is His. I will do everything I can to do something good with it. I will walk through the hard stuff, the “tear it apart and write it again” stuff, the “oops, I can’t believe I missed that detail” stuff. I will keep learning, keep walking, and I won’t be afraid of the future I can’t see yet.

I’ll do it so someday, the door that will open to me will reveal a thirteen-year-old girl who doesn’t think she can make it one more day on her own. My written words will be the words that God plants in her heart. She will reach out and I will, in my flawed, limited, author-like way, put her hand in His.

I’ve been blessed by His love. I’ve been changed by Him. I won’t look back. I won’t quit. I will do it for her. I will do it for Him. It’s no longer enough to do it for me.

Natale Syrup: The Schmaltz-free Spirit of the Season

I sat down with a catalogue for Seagull Book today exclusively because an ad for friend's new book was in there. I found it and smiled.  Then I perused the rest of the booklet and found one tale after another that was precious and faith-restoring and had a cutesy reference to mistletoe.

I read one synopsis out loud, my voice crackling over the sugar and my roommate told me I could stop sounding sappy.  I told her I would once it stopped being so sappy.  I found some gems of faith-based storytelling that didn't sound like an Upworthy headline.

I'm not chucking out all sap, but I'd like to address three themes that will make telling a holiday tale more bread and butter than cake and frosting.  As a cynical Bostonian, I feel equipped.

My favorite stories depict the following:

1). You aren't blamed. .
2).  You aren't forgotten.
3).  You aren't faceless.

1.  I remember watching A Christmas Carol and being moved by a scene in Scrooge's past where he unexpectedly is fetched home for the holiday.  He had felt abandoned for infractions or indifference and instead, his family let him know that they could not go through the holiday motions without including him.

Christmas is a time for tearing down fences and building bridges.   Explore ways that you have learned or taught that.

2.  This is actually a Thanksgiving reference.  In The Lame Squirrel's Thanksgiving, a chipmunk remembers a crippled friend who couldn't gather food on his own.  She loads a basket and along the way, others impart of their substance or help pull the basket.  When they reach the squirrel's home, he's gnawing on a rotten chestnut while weeping.  The last line doesn't preach the spirit of generosity. It just says that he ate and ate and ate his thanksgiving dinner.  Underneath is a sketch of him weeping for joy.

I'll admit that I cry every year when I read the story.  I recently injured my back and felt very much the squirrel when friends turned up with a week of prepared food.

This is perhaps the easiest theme to master.  Remember the good and bad of realizing that you or someone else nearly went overlooked.

3. Finally, The Polar Express.  The protagonist receives the first gift of Christmas, a bell from santa's sleigh.  When he searches his pocket later, he finds only a hole, but Santa remembers him and his desire and leaves the bell under the tree.

The best gifts are ones that show how close you pay attention to a heart's desires.  Turn your thoughts to that.

Can your Romance Stand Alone?

A Tribute to the Clean, Proper and Sweet.
and compelling, gritty, tense, angst ridden, smart and fun.

As a historical romance writer of clean fiction, I get asked every so often, "Is there a market for clean romance?"

When I tell them, most exuberantly YES! Many adults nod their heads gratefully. "Great! Let me know when your first book is available."

But sometimes a well meaning friend will ask, "Who's your market? Teenagers? Middle Schoolers?"

So I thought I would explain why I write clean romance, why the market, especially among adults, is growing, and why it proves to be better, more compelling literature than its steamier erotic sister.

1. Often, it is just plain better writing. Steamy scenes can be a crutch. Sex sells to its audience, but remember it has a specific audience, not an all-encompassing one. The temptation to go from one such scene to the next with only a weak plot in between is too much to resist for some writers. AND take note, even if the scene or plot naturally calls for such a scene, even if it has a purpose and is character driven and important to the story, the sex immediately ruins the story, because the story can morph into a plot about the sex.

Where the story used to flow in a happy progression, characters interacting in subtle and hinty ways, rising toward a climax unrelated to any physical act; instead, the story fires up all the receptors at once, climaxes in a different way, and then completes, stops, and leaves us hungry for more: but not in a hooky, story-thirst kind of way, more in an unhealthy, outside the story, physical kind of way.

Just like the gentle touch on your hand, fingers lacing together sends thrills of expectation up and down your arm; once you kiss, the hand holding is nice, but you hunger for the kiss. Also in a romance, once you include a sex scene, everything else dulls because it cannot measure up, and the story escalates from one hot moment to the next. The story, the romantic arc, the plot points, are not powerful or compelling enough to keep up.

2. Where the sex might ruin a story, the suggestion of it, the anticipation , the desire and yearning for it can make a story, lead a story and romantic arc for a hundred pages or more without anyone tiring. The thirst is far more compelling than the satisfaction. A hint of more, even a clear understanding of white-hot madness going on behind a door that remains closed to you, leaves far more to the imagination than a detailed, play by play of the action. Anticipation and yearning, aren't those the things that turn pages? Don't we write hooks and cliff hangers for a reason? Unrealized sexual desire is the ultimate hook of all time.

But what if you as a reader thirst for a whole book and there is never any fulfillment? This is where clean romance sings.

3. THE SECRET: Emotional fulfillment is far more satisfying than physical fulfillment. And if you can accomplish true emotional fulfillment, where hero and heroine come together in a way you never thought possible, in a perfect blend of a whole, completing each other in just the right ways, the audience leaves feeling far more rewarded than if they had tangled up in someone's sheets for a scene or two. And here is where steamy romances often fall short. So much physical fulfillment is reached that the other aspects of the relationship can feel neglected or superficial. Again, better story, better writing if you leave all that out. And I submit that unless you are reading erotica, as a reader, you really are reading more for emotional fulfillment than for physical.

4. Personal reason number four. I think art should stay away from interpreting our most sacred expression of love. The holy moments shared in complete intimacy are better in real life when untainted by interference from the imaginations of others.

5. As a historical writer, is your philandering time-period appropriate? It pains me to read Regency romances with open groping and closet make-outs, and sex between nobles. None of that is time period appropriate. The heroes and heroines not only do not act in a manner appropriate for the time, but they don't think like a hero would in that day. Attention authors: most married couples did not even share the same bedroom--Intimacy was not discussed, not referenced, not public in any way. If handled any differently in the next Regency you pick up, the character's ideas and passions are obviously modern and historically inaccurate.  And that grates the historian in me. Note: My books have some really really fun kissing, but it's secret, or accidental, or married, or shocking or otherwise appropriate for the time.

And, the key, the clincher:

Ask yourself, can your romance stand alone? Is your story good enough that your audience would read it with or without any steamy scenes at all?

So, yes, there is a market for clean romance. The market is large and consistent and reliable, and it is growing. The authors are well known and established, many bestsellers with bids for movies. Just one Goodreads group has over twenty thousand clean romance books listed in it. And the market is larger and farther reaching than the inspirational lines of books that you would expect, larger than the Christian publishers. For example, Harlequin has a line of clean romance.

AND there is a growing adult audience that actively seeks  nice, fun, compelling romance with no sex. Pay attention to the past success of Clean Flicks and now Vid Angel. Media in all forms is neglecting a paying, large audience of adults who would prefer a cleaned up version of excellent entertainment. Also in literature, at the time of my writing this list, Amazon has a category called, "Clean and Wholesome Romance" with 5,894 books currently listed. A quick scroll through the first page of the list showed many five star options with reviews in the hundreds. Multiple best sellers are available with publishers who are actively seeking clean and proper romance.

As readers, we can seek them out, praise authors in our reviews and pay attention to the excellent stories that are told without crutch or gratuitous device. I hope we will, because it will only further draw attention to a growing, marketable and lucrative sub-genre.

How to write stress-free during the Christmas season

The wreaths I made for my office

by Jewel Allen

It was the perfect set-up for that illness that inevitably strikes overachievers before Christmas.  Long days at the computer, late nights already at holiday parties, and a punishing self-imposed deadline. Last night, I came down with a cold and cough. Fortunately, the only thing on my to-do list this morning was delivering rolls (which my husband sweetly bought for me already last night) for a funeral. After sneaking the rolls over in my jammies to the Relief Society president, I went back to bed. It felt good to sleep in. I then spent most of the morning decorating the house for Christmas. By the time two o’clock rolled around, I was ready to tackle edits on my manuscript. I also felt so much better. My fortunately quick recovery inspired me to think of some ways writers can write stress-free through the holidays.

1.Be realistic. It is good to set goals and still keep working on your manuscript so that you don’t lose your momentum. But maybe scaling back on your page or word count is necessary so that you can still check it off your list that day.

2.Spend a morning doing Christmas things. I had the materials to make two small wreaths and hankered to hang them on my double French office doors. I felt kind of guilty that instead of writing, I was channeling Martha Stewart. But I am so glad I did it. That pine scent...mmm. Plus every time I enter my office and sit at my desk, I see this wreath and I am just filled with sensory happiness.

3.Play Christmas music. I know, it’s distracting to write to music with lyrics. Especially Christmas music if you aren't writing something Christmas-y. But Christmas music can also lift your mood. I played music all day today, and it was lovely. It almost made me want to write a Christmas scene into my historical novel just so I can capture the warm and fuzzies of the holiday season. But then, I thought, no more research. Maybe I will just have to write a Christmas novella sometime.

4.Take a break. Give yourself permission to sleep in. Sleep is good. I wasn’t doing NaNoWriMo this year, so I had the luxury of not writing over the Thanksgiving weekend (which technically speaking is the start of the Christmas season). I slept in. Just did things I felt like. It was heavenly as a flannel blanket fresh out of the dryer. When I was ready to tackle my manuscript on Monday, I was raring to go.

5.Go outside. Soak in some sun and fresh air to avoid the dreaded winter blues. Bundle up and take a brisk walk. Make a snowman. Shovel the driveway. You’ll feel better afterwards, I promise.

6.Enjoy your family. My daughter is coming home for Christmas. I am soooo looking forward to it. My writing output will probably go to pot. But that’s okay. Time with family is always worth it. If you still want to write, communicate your goals with your family and make sure you are able to spend some time with them still.

7.Attend parties. Writers are guilty of being hermit-like when it comes to parties. Attend parties and talk to people. Consider the conversations as book research. It is also great for networking. You never know who you might meet. If nothing else, you’ll get to sample all sorts of yummy food.

8.Simplify. On the flipside, don’t feel like you have to attend every single social event, bake a gazillion cookies, or participate in all sorts of charity groups. Pick a few or none and call it good. Everyone else is in slow-down mode. Give yourself permission to scale back, too.

9.Write a gratitude list. I don’t know about you, but last week, the winter blues hit me bad. I felt like all my troubles came down like a bad snowstorm and I couldn’t dig myself out. The antidote: a Family Home Evening spent writing down things we were grateful for. Really, when you look at it, things aren’t as bad as you think. There is so much to be grateful for.

10.Indulge in color and laughter and happiness. We can make Christmas how we want it to be. Christmas can be a chore, or it can be a blessing, depending on how we look at it. Decide now to allow the good things to rise to the top. And that includes our writing.

What a blessing it is to be a writer in this day and age. Years and years ago, someone decided to write the greatest story ever told – the birth of Jesus Christ. So write on, friends, and have a wonderful and blessed Christmas! See you after the holidays!

Jewel Allen is an author and ghostwriter. She has two books out, the paranormal mystery Ghost Moon Night and a political memoir, Soapbox. Visit her at www.jewelallen.com.

Filling the Empty Space Inside Me

A month after my miscarriage, I lifted my head and peeked out at the world around me. I wrote a blog and admitted I’d been sucked into a strange, dark place. After writing it down, I decided to return to life. Maybe I thought: now that it’s out there, I can move on, heal. Written words are often little echoes of the things I feel inside me, the things I can’t understand until I see them written out before me.

I might as well still be eleven when it comes to needing to see my words. Only now I use this laptop instead of pencil and paper. Blogging helped me, writing helped. Returning to life was freedom, hope. I tapped out words and more words, filling in the gaps left in the LDS teen novel I’m working on, ready to face a future of possibilities.

And then I miscarried again.

The day it happened, I tried to pretend it wasn’t. I didn’t want to go back. I’d been there. It was dark. Empty. Lonely. And so many things I didn’t understand at all.

People wanted to fix me. Maybe this will help, or that. My friend tired this. But I wanted to let it all go. I wanted to live like another child wasn’t tightly wound around my happiness. I wanted to be strong.

I poured myself into my book. I stayed up all night. I was going to finish it. I wouldn’t let another miscarriage put me more behind. I would move on, and it would be easier this time.

It was only after a week of this—when the pulse of my story world faded under the tender touch of the Holy Spirit on the sound of primary songs—that I found out I was not okay.

I’d been filling up my book with words, but I was still empty. So, so empty.

The answers were around me, little whispers left by my Heavenly Father that I’d yet to explore beyond the muted sound of His Spirit’s voice. He’d been speaking, but I’d been writing, writing, writing.

Four days after miscarrying, I took my nine-year-old son to walk the Provo Temple grounds. The Spirit bubbled out on his words, “I’m so happy, Mom. Why am I so happy?”

His joy was beautiful to me, but I found myself wishing that the flowerbeds we passed hadn’t been emptied already. They were also beautiful just weeks before. Now nothing but dark earth remained. We circled to the fountains at the front of the temple and sat watching the sunset, a large, empty flowerbed directly before us.

My thoughts converged. I’m empty too. Will something like flowers eventually grow in the spaces that have been dug out of me? What could I learn by seeing myself as empty as those beds? Was it simple hope in something coming someday? A distant Spring I’d been prepared for?

A memory of snow came, of walking up to the Provo Temple in the dark of last winter and seeing that very flowerbed in front of me filled, not with flowers, or bushes, but with a Nativity.

This was the place where they put the Christ Child at Christmas.

The bed was empty for Him.

The truth of that thought stayed with me. I held it tucked inside, a soft burning light that didn’t lose or gain anything for weeks. Since then, I’ve waded through the ups and downs of emotions, and more than anything, waves of unhealthy anxiety and anger. I’ve been drowning in unreasonable guilt and worry.

At our ward Halloween party, I found myself confiding in friend. I wished at once that I hadn’t said anything, but her love for me wasn’t uncomfortable or awkward. She didn’t try to fix me. She listened. She shared her personal experience without making me feel judged. Her love, somehow, freed me again.

I went home and every time my anxiety tried to horrify me with the thought of, “What were you thinking telling her!” I replaced that thought with a prayer. “Father, thank you so much for Sister Tolman.”

And the light inside me grew warmer.

I read conference talks, went to the temple, sat in my living room pondering, and returned to a pen and paper to write out my thoughts. I studied how to put the Savior at the center of my life. I stood in the warmth of an autumn darkness as my children played with flashlights in the backyard, and I laughed freely for the first time in a month. My burden lifted. I told Him I was ready for Him to take it. I needed Him to take it.

I breathed.

And I kept writing.

I’m empty. No child grows within me. The spaces inside me have been hallowed out by loss and then rubbed raw. I’m broken a little, and oddly enough, the title of the book I’ve been writing so obsessively is Break. But when things are broken, that is when the Savior finds His space.

These places inside me are empty for Him.

I know Him a little better now. I believe Him a little deeper. I love Him a little stronger.

My healing is in Him. Not so empty, not so lost. I am not alone. My night has been full of angels and flickering lights of hope. Darkness can be warm and beautiful too. It was, after all, night when the angels appeared to the shepherds. And under a starry sky, the wise men searched until they found their Savior.

Developing that thick writer's skin

by Jewel Allen

The other day, I told my husband I was worried about whether or not I should have posted a brief but interesting conversation I had with the Utah governor about my recently published political memoir Soapbox.

His response went something like this: “You just wrote this revealing memoir, and you’re worried about that?”

He was right, of course. I laughed, shrugged off my worry, and left it up.

Non-fiction writers are an interesting bunch. Revealing what we think and feel in our stories is about as natural as breathing, but our psyches can’t handle the prospect of rejection, real or imagined. This goes for fiction writers, too, but it’s especially tough for non-fiction writers. Criticism of a true story, our true story, hits too close to home.

So we say that we want to write our story, but we find excuses not to, because it’s too scary to put ourselves out there.

What if I told you that you not only can share your story, but that you must, for your well-being? Because the longer you hold on to that inside you, the harder it will be to remember the truth. The harder it will be to move on to other projects. I promise, it gets easier, the more you do it.

But I will not lie, it does take a thick skin to put an essay out there, let alone a memoir.

A thick writer’s skin develops over time. Mine came about as a journalist/essayist over a period of twenty years. I've mined my life liberally for material. I wrote about the time I saw my brother after his military academy boot camp, his body gaunt and eyes hollowed from him not being allowed to eat enough food; then another time when, at 16, I almost married a 30-year-old guy from Idaho, had my mom not been my roommate and intervened; and yet another, as a 30-something stay-at-home-mom, when I auditioned for and became the lead singer for a garage rock band which I eventually had to walk away from.

What if you don’t have the luxury of a long-term publishing experience? Here are some ways you as a writer can develop that thick skin.

1.Be honest in your writing. Oddly enough, the more honest you are, the sounder you’ll sleep at night. Even if people criticize the content of your story, you can say with confidence, “That is my story and I’m sticking to it.”

2.Practice, practice, practice. Start in small doses. Write an essay about a happy subject. Then write  about a painful one you’d just as soon forget. Develop a theme in your writing projects, and pretty soon, you will have the makings of a book. Not only that, but you’ll also get the hang of revealing more of yourself each time.

3.Own your story. For good or ill, so long as you are honest, stand by it. Raise your head up high. Swagger down the proverbial Main Street like a gunslinger and don’t lose sleep over it. Any outcries will only make detractors look foolish.

4.A note of caution, however: If in doubt, consult a lawyer. It’s good to be honest, but some people might decide to sue you for defamation.

5.Imagine the worst possible reaction to your story and decide it won’t be as bad as you think. Your family could disown you. You could get fired from your job. You could make your mother cry. The butcher down the street could ogle you with a glint in his eye because now he knows your secret.

Most likely, what will really happen is this: your mother, bless her heart, will not have time to read your memoir, not with her packed schedule of bridge on Tuesdays, canasta on Thursdays, and the Friday hairdresser appointment. As long as you aren’t slandering your family, they will most likely want to have a selfie taken with their published author-child.

6.Establish your credibility by sharing your writing publicly. Start a blog and update it frequently. Write your family a travelogue about your vacation. Guest blog. Write essays or opinion guest columns for a newspaper. After you write essays and have them published, your readers will trust you. Even your family will get used to them being the subject of your pieces.

7.Remember that some of the most powerful writing out there stemmed from a writer’s honest exploration of events that happened in their life. How much richer our lives are because Anne Frank wrote her diary, Frank McCourt regaled us with anecdotes from his Irish childhood, and Elizabeth Smart shared her inspiring story of resilience. You, too, can enrich other people’s lives.

8.Pray for courage. Sometimes, we can't do it all on our own. We are just the conduit to an important message that someone else needs to hear.

You have a story worth sharing. Trust in yourself and set it free.

Jewel Allen is an award-winning journalist, author and ghostwriter. She is the author of a young adult paranormal mystery, Ghost Moon Night, and a political memoir, Soapbox: How I landed & lost a columnist gig, fought a prison, and got elected. Visit her at www.jewelallen.com.

Mother's Memoir

Mother’s Memoir

I suspect many of you will relate when I share with you my astonishment at the power attending me as I write my mother’s story. I feel as though I’m in a whirlwind of miracles which are reshaping me. My motives are transforming. My heart is softening. A new tenderness and compassion for my mother has possession of my heart.

I am confident God is pleased and supportive when we undertake to strengthen family ties, even if by accident. I never intended to write my mother’s story. It was my story I wanted to write. But upon learning that a million words need to flow from our pens before our writing is worthy of publication, I put my memoir on hold and took up a ‘less meaningful’ endeavor, one which might contribute to the backstory of my own.

It was then the winds began to swirl. Photos, family films, and journals my family thought were lost to decades of Air Force travel and neglect mysteriously found their way to my doorstep.

Just last week, my husband was doing a book signing in Hawaii and a woman approached him, “Remember me? I was in your class in Colorado over two decades ago. I’m on a mission here in Hawaii. Your wife’s parents got married in France and were stationed there with my parents. Here, I copied a film my dad took of your wife’s parents picnicking.”

Dozens of insights, impressions, and spiritual encounters have sprinkled my journey. There isn’t the space to articulate the whole of my experience over the last several months so I attempted encapsulation in a poem.

FAIR WARNING: I avow no knowledge of technical poetic construction. I admit only to honest emotional expression.

She Gave It All Up for Me 

I wanted to write my memoir

An outlet for grief and pain

But learned, ‘a million words be penned

Before it could get gain'

“My story won’t be writing junk,

Another one I’ll find”

And so I began my mother’s tale

Naive of the treasures entwined

The Lord began His mighty work

Enlisting family there

To open minds and soften hearts

A grander view to share

Phone calls, interviews, memories combed

Trust grew and hearts were won

Truth emerged, the shock sublime,

“I’m not the cheated one”

My pain but draught before her own

How could I have been so blind?

The person I accused for years

Indeed was the one most kind

My softened heart allowed the thought

That perhaps before we came

We previewed the conditions here

And she chose all the blame

She mended the fence that others broke

That we could all be free

To have the joys she went without

She gave it all up for me

Politics of Fear and a Culture of Heroes

 (As a side note, this is a post from my personal blog,  originally published this summer.)

Imagine my hesitation when I realized I was gearing up to write a political post. Me. A thirty-year-old woman in a tiny rental house with no credentials to my name. My job is stay-at-home-mom. I write books as a hobby. I teach 3 and 4-year-old kids every other Sunday and walk the same trail most mornings in a never ending loop.
I've never traveled outside of the US.
I've only been on a plane once.
I haven't even finished my degree yet. There's no reason to listen to me.
But.
None of that invalidates me. I may be small in the way of worldly sizing, but maybe, just maybe, that's what this post is going to be about. Size.

The heroes in our culture all started out small.
Luke Skywalker fought against the entire Empire with nothing on his side but a few rebels, an old spaceship, a smuggler, and a wookie.
Frodo set out to save Middle Earth with a group of nine that slowly dwindled down to two.
Harry Potter ultimately walked out to meet Lord Voldemort all alone.

We revere the courage of our heroes, admire their faith in the idea that good will prevail, and cheer them when they get back up after falling and keep going.
Is this only a thing of stories?

Maybe.

But the founding fathers were small in numbers when they wrote The Declaration of Independence.
Rosa Parks was just one woman on a bus.
And Miep Gies along with a few others who hid Anne Franks and her family weren't safe from the German government when they decided to do it anyway.

Every time I look, in stories everywhere, God is saving people, healing nations and making change in small ways with small numbers and small people. What a wonderful thing to be small!

When Israel was freed from Egypt, God sent one man with a staff.
When Haman conspired to have all the Jews killed, God sent a single woman before the king.
When our Heavenly Father wanted to save all His children, He sent a baby in a manger.

Do you believe in God's power? Do you believe in good? Do you really, really believe?
Do I?

One thing our heroes often have in common is courage in the face of fear. They do the right thing despite being afraid. If this is the common thread among our heroes, isn't it strange that I'm seeing the opposite preached in so many places?  There are voices telling me that being small and out numbered are a good enough reasons to abandon truth, honesty, kindness, humanity, and my own integrity.

Since when did the founding fathers add to the constitution "The President of the United States is first and foremost to serve their party and all who vote are really voting for a party not the man or woman?" My loyalty isn't to the party. Why can't my loyalty be to America? And the principles of compromise, logical discussion, and courage that our forefathers exemplified?

I grew up on heroes.
My teachers, my parents, my friends, maybe even you, fed me stories of one hero pitted against thousands.
But when the time comes to stand up.
When it's time to be that hero.
I'm told by some to fall in line.
Comply with the best chance numbers.
Act on fear.

No.
I won't do it.
I don't care if who I do vote for ends up losing. I don't care if the dreaded "other" party takes over as a result. I'm not going to fail prey to fear.

Why?

Because I want to look in my children's eyes and tell them I didn't back down when things got murky, confusing and hard. I want them to know I stood for kindness, compassion, honesty, and accountability.

I never want them ask me why I voted for someone I didn't believe in or feel good about and have to say it was because I was afraid, outnumbered, or that I simply gave up and joined the crowd.

I'm raising my children on heroes.
And I'm not going to be the person that lets them down.

"For God hath not given us the spirit of fear, but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind." (2 Timothy 1:7)

Do you remember singing this song?

"We will not retreat, though our numbers may be few 

when compared with the opposite host in view; 

But an unseen pow'r will aid me and you 

in the glorious cause of truth. 

Fear not though the enemy deride; 

courage, for the Lord is on our side. 

We will heed not what the wicked may say, 

but the Lord alone we will obey." 

(Let Us All Press On, Hymns, 243)

Do you believe that? I do!

No matter who you or I vote for, I hope you don't pick out of fear. Pick because you felt in your heart that it was the best choice. Do it with hope in a better tomorrow. Do it with gratitude for the founding fathers and for America.

And then. No matter who wins, no matter how dark things get, keep being the sort of hero that you want your children to admire. Still be kind. Still seek for truth before believing a rumor. Think and wait before passing judgment. Still stand for love, kindness, and humanity.

Think of this as our time to rise, our time to be heroes, to face our own incredible odds. Think of God and refuse to be guided by fear. To Him, numbers don't matter. Ever. Ask any bible hero; Daniel, Deborah, David. Ask the Nephites form the Book of Mormon. Ask Alma, Ammon, and Moroni.

And then go and be the your own sort of Luke, Frodo, or Harry. Because it's the right thing to do. Not because you'll always win, but because you are the sort of hero that believes in good and reaching for something better. Do it because you know that God will prevail in the end and that is the side you must know in your heart that you are on. Always.

My Soapbox Journey

The cover of my memoir. Cover design by Steven Novak.
Click on the image to find out what it's about.

Tonight, I uploaded a PDF of my political memoir, Soapbox, onto Createspace so I could order a proof, in time for a book launch at the end of October.

Wow, it feels great to be able to type those words.

I know there’s more work involved, like proofing the book, then ordering copies, and actually selling the books. But for now, I’m going to bask in a glow of gladness and share with you a little bit of a back story as to how this book came about.

<< <> >>

At the start of 2014, I was a chubby middle-aged woman who was coasting through life fairly contentedly. I had a great family (still do), we'd just finished building a house on our dream horse property in Grantsville, Utah, and I was enjoying some local success as a columnist and a memoir ghostwriter. Neighbors button-holed me at the grocery store to compliment me on my latest column. Happy clients referred me to their friends.

But I wanted more.

For one, I wanted more energy. Writing all day at a desk made me tired, as ironic as that sounds. It made sense -- a sedentary lifestyle is actually harder on the body, which can atrophy if not used.

I also felt an increased moral obligation to do more for our community. In my biweekly columns, I identified problems and suggested solutions, but didn't do the actual work. In the end, a column was just an opinion. I hid behind journalism because it was easier. As an intellectual exercise, I weighed the pros and cons of an issue.

Four things happened that shook me out of my complacency. First, I started a Facebook page to scrutinize the relocation of a medical waste incineration company with known violations from another county to ours. Second, because of that Facebook page, I was asked to take a leave of absence from my column and feature writing (I have since resigned). Third, I started working out at a Crossfit gym. Fourth, I joined a monthly Mastermind group, where we share goals and encourage each other.

I will talk about the first two in my book but rarely mention the last two. Thing is, they are still inextricably linked to the success that I would later experience (to know the details, read the book). As I grew tougher physically (shedding fifteen pounds and taking up running), I felt like I could take on anything. As I grew tougher mentally, setting and achieving goals became second nature.

Fortunately, since I am a writer (and obsessive Facebook poster), I chronicled that roller-coaster saga of the past two years of my life, nearly daily. I never really planned to turn the experience into a book, not until close to election day last year. My thought was, a book like this could have helped me, and hopefully could help other aspiring citizen activists and candidates.  It is also my contribution to Utah's political history -- an intimate look at a rough and tumble prison relocation process that still plays on to this day.

In sifting through my posts from the past two years, I relived eye-opening, aggravating, exhilarating and inspiring experiences. At the end of it all, I am all the more convinced that citizens can and must effect change, and that a community can accomplish great things.

<< <> >>

Soapbox only took me roughly two years from start to published. I wish I could say that of my other published book. My young adult paranormal novel, Ghost Moon Night, took me at least a decade to write. I have other novels that have taken as long, and are still in various stages of completion.

I think the biggest difference is, I am a memoirist at heart. Though I love novels, because I can write about romance and danger in exotic lands, I love writing personal essays even more. I can start out with an image, a scene, an emotion, and follow it through to a surprising end. I say surprising because I honestly never know where a sentence will lead me. Oftentimes, only when I write an essay can I make sense of an experience.

It also helped that I Facebooked my way through nearly all of my experience in the book. Which meant that everything was not only written already, in a breezy attempt to be interesting (who wants to be boring on Facebook, right?), I could only write episodes in short doses at the end of a busy day, and I had a public filter to begin with (if someone had a beef with something I said, I already got drubbed once and either edited out the offending text or not). I still had to rewrite portions, and start some from scratch, but it was easier than writing a novel.

The other reason I’ve written this book faster is shelf life. I wanted to write the book while events are still somewhat fresh in people’s minds. That is the beauty of self-publishing. I can get it out now.

A few days ago, as I finished up edits on my memoir, I was suddenly seized with a paralyzing attack of self-doubt. I wanted to walk back everything I’d done to this point. How dare I think that I had written something others would want to read?

Then a fellow nonfiction author on Facebook, Desirae Ogden, encouraged me by saying, “Keep going. Trust in God. Everyone has a story to share and everyone has specific people that God needs them to help. Your story will help people. I have no doubt about that and I don’t even know what it’s about.”

That last sentence made me chuckle. Her wonderful advice pulled me out of that fearful paralysis.

I’ve had a few people read the manuscript, yet many of the key players in the story haven’t. I’ve tried to be fair and kind, but you never know how people will take your version of the truth. So here I am, about ready to put it out into the world. And I’ll be honest, I’m scared. For the most part, it’s a good kind of scared.

It’s the kind of scared where you push back the curtain and look out and you can’t see the audience for the klieg lights in your eyes. You go to the middle of the stage anyway and, heart pumping, you perform like you’d been billed on the program. Pouring all your heart and soul in the only honest way you know. When you’re done, you open your eyes and applause comes.

Maybe it’s just polite, maybe it’s thunderous, but it doesn’t matter, you did what you set out to do, and you’re so happy you cry.

Jewel Allen is an award-winning journalist, author and ghostwriter. Her political memoir, Soapbox, will go on sale at the end of October 2016. Visit her at www.JewelAllen.com.

You Had to Be There...As Me

One of my favorite things to do is to share family or friend memories for comparison.  Part of this has to do with filling in missing gaps and part is to see how differently we interpret things.

When taking a course in college that dealt with Personal Non-fiction, my professor encouraged us to talk about what we didn't know about an experience.  This could be something as simple as "Mom picked me up forty-five minutes late and never told me why."  I once used it for the month between when I left my marriage and when I saw my now-ex-husband again by accident; I knew that in that time, he moved us to a new apartment and worked part-time as a substitute teacher, but had little else to go on.

This is especially fun when done with families.  For example, I can tell you vividly about the time that I broke my arm.  We had a summer lemonade stand and brought all supplies up in a stroller that my younger brother used.  When bored, I rolled back and forth in that (I was eight and much smaller than I currently am).  I lost control of the stroller and fell into a ditch, breaking my right arm very close to the growth plate.  I got a cast that couldn't be graffittied and came home with instructions to not get it wet, which meant I was going to miss some of the fun on our upcoming vacation.  When I got to my bedroom, I found that my sisters/co-vendors had found a birds' nest in the grounds and placed it on my nightstand.  I still have that nest, 27 years later.  I would love to know the story behind where they found it and whose idea it was to go looking for a present for me.

Based on other experiences, I'm guessing it was my younger sister.  I once got my head stuck in the neck of her sweatshirt and cracked my head on the edge of her dresser while pulling it off.  When Mom had made me lie down, my sister put every single one of her stuffed animals on the bed in case I needed to hug one.  I later brought her a rubber ball when she was stung by hornets.

On the other hand, my older sister is an artist and an organizer.  I can absolutely see her spotting the nest and giving my younger sister a leg up to reach it for her.  She would have also been the one to make sure it didn't have anything gross stuck to it.

My other preferred memory-sharing is with friends.  This is why, when people ask me about my trips, I try to have a travel companion around for the conversation.

Example in the spirit of Halloween:  I went to Dublin in 2012.  A writer friend who is paranormally sensitive had just gotten a refund for a sizable amount of money and as soon as I said that, if I had a traveling companion, I'd buy these plane tickets to Ireland, she jumped on board.  Of course, because I'm obsessed with thrillers and ghost stories and read her books primarily because they're about a girl solving murders with the involvement of the dead, we went on a Ghost Bus Tour.

Now, we are both agreed that we were bratty Americans.  We're both snarky people who like a bit of mischief.  So we sat in the front of the bus and corrected the guide's Romanian when he said that Dracula is a word meaning "devil."  When he said that Dracula is the second-best-selling book and asked what the first was, I batted my eyelashes and squeaked, "TWILIGHT!"  

He took us to St. Kevin's churchyard in Dublin late at night.  The guide told us all about the fire in the monastery where people had been celebrating Mass against English law.  He talked about paranormal experiences around the altar and naturally, people flooded that area so they could get a shiver.  We took pictures and he claimed no one ever saw orbs in pictures of the area.  (My friend proved him wrong immediately.)

Well, after getting a good ramble in, we headed towards the bus for the next stop.  I personally had not felt anything near the altar, but was unnerved by the fact that I felt as though someone were watching me from the far corner of the graveyard.  On our way back, before I had shared anything about this, my friend stopped, pointed at the corner and said "He's right there."  I kept walking immediately.

I didn't know until later that she had taken a picture before following me.  I just left as soon as someone else corroborated the unnerving experience.  Recently, she showed me the picture she took before leaving the graveyard, which she had lightened to the point where I could see all of the shapes.  There are gravestones and trees and walls.  But just near the tree is a shadowed figure in a place where no one had been standing.

One final example on a less dark note:  One of my best traveling companions is my roommate.  So far, we've been to Italy, Turkey, Greece, Spain, Portugal and Morocco as well as a few of the United States.  One of my favorite examples of this memory-sharing is from our first day in Istanbul.  To give some context, she is someone who LOVES having a set schedule and to-do list.  I enjoy knowing where we're going and when and when we have to go back, but I love the space in-between.  One city earlier, she had hit all of the sites she wanted to see in Izmir and headed straight for the bus stop.  I pointed out that the bus wouldn't be there for another twenty minutes.  She shrugged and said if I wanted to explore, I should be back there in 15 minutes.  I headed off in an arbitrary direction and immediately found a shoe store.  This is very typical of me and I bought a pair of Turkish slippers.  I also came back in 15 minutes.  When I suggested that I go to the Kulturpark, she agreed to meet me back at our cruise ship.  I had fun at the museum of antiquities even if she wasn't there.

In Istanbul, she laughed at me for my hobby of taking pictures of the familiar in the middle of the unfamiliar.  In this case, it was a Starbucks next to a Turkish cell phone store near the port.  After going to two mosques, she said she was ready to go back to the ship for dinner.  I said our dinner reservations weren't for another two hours and she again gave me permission to wander off.

That afternoon, I had noticed a lot of alleyways and staircases that led to unknown areas of the city.  I decided to hobble up one of these cobbled alleyways and look for adventure.  Most of what I found was a shopping district where they charged normal prices instead of tripling it for tourists.  It also had Turkish delight shops with a great variety of flavors.

When I got back to level ground, I found a text had come in on my phone.  Apparently, we weren't allowed to go back into the port by the way we'd left.  After asking for directions, she had found the re-entry point...across the street from my Starbucks.

This is a perfect example of how not knowing the whole story doesn't necessarily mean that I missed out on anything.  I know that it was thanks to my hobby that she didn't get lost on her way back to the ship and it was because of that Starbucks that neither did I.