Okay, if you really-REALLY want to know . . . .

I've been tagged. First, here are the rules, which I shall soon defy:


1. Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves.
2. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.
3. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.
4. Don't forget to leave them a comment telling them they're tagged, and to read your blog.

Here's my list--and it's true. (I also added two extras because I was tagged twice.)

1. I was born two months early. Doctors expected me to die, but didn’t tell me, so here I am.
2. My parents are cousins by marriage. Am I my own cousin?
3. Speaking of cousins . . . I’m a distant cousin to Richard Petty. And no, I’ve never met him.
4. I’m legally blind without my contact lenses, which doesn’t do my sons any good; I can read their minds.
5. My husband can instantly calculate all the letters in any given sentence as you’re talking to him. Yes, I know that’s not about me, but I still find it fun.
6. More than ten percent of my total net worth (in household goods) is invested in books. Better than diamonds.
7. I was caught in a mudstorm after the Mt. St. Helen’s eruption in the spring of 1980. Thought the first splat was a bird-dropping. Wow . . . that was a big bird!8. While pregnant with my beloved sons, I was allergic to them. Hives lasted for five months. Did you really want to know this?
9. I’ve been within mere feet of nuclear weapons. Can’t say any more.
10. I dislike tag and never tag anyone. Camy Tang, Susan Marlowe, and all those who won’t get notes from me, I hope you’re glad. If not, please let me know and I’ll tag you anyway.

Blessings,

Kacy

Pat Janssen Hall’s up-to-date take on Frida Kahlo’s famous Self Portrait enchanted me instantly with its swirling mocha background, Frida’s beautifully elusive expression, her elegant neck, and the shock of that white “I am not obsessive!” tee-shirt.

“So what’s with this tee-shirt logo?” I asked, turning to Pat, who was leafing through one of her many albums of artwork.

“Oh, that,” Pat murmured, turning several more pages in her album before handing the collection to me. “Well . . . look what this reviewer wrote.”

I scanned the newspaper clipping, which featured several of Pat’s eye-catching designs augmented by the reviewer’s own highly enthusiastic opinion of Pat’s work, praising her “maniacally obsessive attention to detail.”

“He made me sound a bit crazy,” Pat grumbled. Then she chuckled, re-reading the glowing article. “I guess I am.”

Sounds familiar, I thought, shifting uncomfortably as I considered my own writing obsession. Why do rational people willingly pour out their souls for years, earning insecure livings, the ever-present threat of rejections and the rotten-raspberry peltings of critics? (Okay, I admit the critics have been very kind to me; I shouldn’t list them as a downside. But there’s always one, isn’t there?)

Life would be so much easier without these torments. Unless you’re filled with a God-granted passion that makes life unbearable without your art.

To reassure myself (and Pat) that our obsession is not TOO uncommon, I’ve gathered quotes from other writers of all genres and ages. Enjoy!


I KNEW I WAS OBSESSED WITH WRITING WHEN:

“When I wanted to get pulled over for speeding so I would have first-hand material for a scene I was working on. (I didn't get pulled over.)” Jenness Walker

“When I missed a meal.” Donita K. Paul

“When even my dreams weren't a safe place to hide! My writing muse follows wherever I go, asleep or awake, braindead or not.”
Delia Latham

"I first knew I was obsessed with writing when I first understood what a word was. Seriously! I can't remember a time in my life when I wanted to do anything other than write. Period. I believe writing is my calling and has been since before the foundation of the world. (Can anyone say "one-dimensional"?) Actually, that's not completely true. When I'm not writing, I'm reading, so doesn't that make me two-dimensional? Sigh. Probably not.” Kathi Macias


“I followed so many rabbit trails I constantly craved carrots.”
Sylvia Tucker, Ph.D.

“When I stopped suffering from ‘Writing Cramps’ and started suffering from ‘Lactic Acid build up associated with Acute Eric Mosher's Disorder.’” Eric Mosher

“When my home fire evacuation plan includes risking life and limb to save my laptop!” Jill Elizabeth Nelson

"I knew I was obsessed with writing when . . . . turned everything I read and heard into a story idea.” Gail Gaymer Martin


“I started having full blown arguments with my characters! In the
middle of the night no less!” Rachel Smith

“Hmm. That's a hard one because I was "obsessed" with my fantasy world long before I began writing. From the time I was about ten years old, I always had one story or another churning through my brain. Other than writing short stories in high school English classes, I didn't write until I was in my forties. I've been writing for twenty years now.” Louise M. Gouge


“. . . when I was riding out a terrific storm at sea on a 48 ft boat and fought my way from the bridge down into the cabin to discover if a thought I had would work in my WIP. Actually it did, and showed up in my first novel.” Polly Bolack

"I knew I was obsessed with writing when I cried over a positive pregnancy test--not because I was overcome with joy, but because I feared what a baby would do to my writing career. By the way, Nathan is now almost 5 and I thank God for upsetting my plans by sending him.” Jeanette Hanscome

“... I spent all my Christmas and birthday money on books about craft instead of clothes or a purse!” Leigh DeLozier :-)

“...I spent FIVE hours last night trying to get the layout just right on my writing blog. Ugh.” Angie Farnworth

“I stopped watching Robotech, Voltron, and other afternoon cartoons and started writing my own story episodes starring the brave loud Asian chick heroine who vanquished monsters with her mighty sword and cute shoes.” Camy Tang

Note: Pat Janssen-Hall's remake of a self-portrait by the famous Mexican painter Frida Kahlo is available as a signed and numbered giclee!

While the focus of my blog is—and will continue to be—crafting and reading fiction that illuminates the Word, from time to time I will feature books that have inspired me during my daily journey. One such book is Debbie Adebayo’s Becoming Marriage Material. Debbie Adebayo is the founder and radio voice of The Ministry of Singles Pleasing The Lord. Check out her site: http://www.singlespleasingthelord.com

Becoming Marriage Material asks readers to confront themselves honestly and to reform their lives from the inside out until they become a partner pleasing to the Lord and to that special future spouse. Debbie Adebayo also illustrates her chapters with revelations of her own heartbreaking mistakes that are painful and ultimately moving as she refines herself with a fierce determination to learn from her past.

Though I am definitely a married believer (we’re talking 26+ years here) I found Becoming Marriage Material to be an uplifting narrative that will surely inspire singles, from adolescence on up, to face their life-situations with hope.

While we're waiting for Pat's new masterpiece, I'm keeping busy with . . . (humor me now, and be amazed) . . . reading!
The latest addition to my book collection? Chocolate Beach, by Julie Carobini.

Chocolate. Beach. Two of my favorite earthly delights mentioned in one book title: Dear reader, how could I resist?

Bri Stone's blissful fourteen-year marriage to Mr. Incredibly Handsome Douglas has suddenly drifted into murky waters. Friends are dropping hints that Douglas is looking rather "too single" lately while zipping around Ventura in his new sports car. Bri longs to ignore her friends' concerns, but Douglas has been missing their dinner dates and keeping unusually long work hours at the law office. To further muddy the marital waters, Bri has found evidence that Douglas is shopping for a new home, without discussing the matter with her.

Is Douglas becoming bored with Bri's carefree ways and with their beach-kitsch-deco oceanside home? When Bri is unable to confront Douglas about the state of their marriage, due to schedule conflicts and illness, she decides to polish her casual image and her beloved house to regain her husband's interest.

As friends, relatives, and a new boss advise, patronize, and sympathize with her efforts, Bri frequently consoles herself by eating delectably described brownies on the beach—leaving this winter-bound reader happily soaking up the sunny descriptions, while being tempted to wake the family by baking brownies at midnight. Bri, where is the recipe?

Author Julie Carobini's characters are lovingly described and the well-paced plot balances humor, lessons in faith, and some gently explored sorrows, making Chocolate Beach a delightful read. Enjoy!

All is Calm, All is Bright

“I love this picture!” I told Pat, showing her a tiny 2-inch-square sketch from her own portfolio. “That sky is so peaceful; it might as well have a Christmas Star.”

“It could,” Pat agreed, eyeing the placid stargazing pooch. “Hmm. I’ve been looking for a Christmas card idea . . . this might work. But I think I’d need to add a few details.”

Knowing Pat and her love of details, I had a hunch that her sweet-dreaming pup wouldn’t remain alone for long. Artists, like writers, tend to add characters when they expand upon an idea. And if anyone can create characters, it’s Pat.

“What about a cat?” Pat demanded, when next we met near the Starbucks kiosk at work. “Do you like cats?”

Okay, I have to confess, my eye was following the cup in her hand. A Grande. Steaming hot. How could I ignore that?

“Um, yeah, sure,” I said, rendered ineloquent by visions of mocha lattes and chai dancing before my eyes. “Cats are fine.”

Weeks later, another Grande in hand, Pat explained that she wasn’t satisfied with the curtains. “They need to be bigger. And I’m thinking about mice. . . .”

Mice? Now, I’m no fan of real-life mice, but Pat’s mice were bound to be fun. “Sure!”

“I should have made her hair like yours,” Pat said, offering me the first print last week, pointing to the dog and cat’s human owner, who had joined them in the picture—complete with Pat’s sly commentary on owner/pet resemblances.

“She’s fine just the way she is,” I insisted, knowing that Pat's Far-Side style take on my image would probably prove all too accurate. "And that star is perfect."

Dear Readers, enjoy.

Love and blessings,

Kacy

The Art of Revision


When I first entered Pat’s studio, I immediately noticed that one piece of furniture—a large retro-style wooden wardrobe—was coated with nothing more than basic whitewash. To all minimalist-inclined furniture lovers, the white coating would certainly be ideal; the wardrobe’s lines and style would blend comfortably into any streamlined suburban home.

As settled and demure as the wardrobe appeared, I wasn’t fooled: in Pat’s studio, white paint simply meant that the wardrobe was not fulfilling its bright destiny.

“What are you going to do with it?” I asked, trying to imagine brilliant turquoise skies, sunflowers, and iridescent butterflies drifting across that blank surface.

“I don’t know,” Pat said, frowning at the wardrobe as if it had been defying her for some time. She grabbed two soft black art pencils and handed me one. “C’mon. You can help me think about it.”

To a writer, thinking means scribbling. But to an artist, thinking means sketching, and within thirty seconds, Pat had detailed a thought onto one of the panels. A grandfatherly face peered at me rather drowsily through a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles—on the verge of either telling a story or dozing off to sleep.

Delighted, I timidly mimicked Pat’s style, sketching a counterpart onto the opposite panel. A grandma appeared, equally placid, replete with beaded earrings, a small pursed mouth, and reading glasses sliding down her long nose. I complained about her curls, which had none of the depth and texture of Grandpa’s.

“Well then, just change them,” Pat urged, leading by example, smudging her fingers across Grandpa’s mouth, then his eye, “You can’t hurt the paint . . . see?”

Her casual revision brought an immediate tension to the picture that thrilled my storyteller’s mind. Grandpa now sported a shadowed upper lip and a dark shiner of an eye that strongly hinted at his not-too-placid past. I cast a suspicious glance at Grandma, wondering if she’d had anything to do with that shiner. She did look smug. Actually, the longer I studied Grandma, the more I feared that any further sketching or revising on my part would bring out her true nature. Villains have a way of threatening to take over an entire story, and I wasn’t about to unleash this gal in Pat’s cheery angel-decked studio, beads or no beads.

“You understand . . .” Pat hesitated, stepping back from the wardrobe, contemplating the elderly couple, “they aren’t going to stay this way.”

“Oh, I understand,” I replied, wondering if counseling could help the pair, never mind how many years they’d been married.

Pat chuckled. “I’ll probably change them into cats or dogs.”

Squinting at Grandpa and Grandma, I revised them yet again. Perky ears, facial fur, and a few more spots on Grandpa . . . . It might just work.

No counseling needed.

Blessings, Dear Reader!

Kacy

Sometimes, I’m like a cat . . .

Why has Pat Janssen Hall’s “CAT” picture so enticed me? Of all the marvelous pastels and sketches on Pat’s studio desk, I kept coming back to this mournful critter. Look at him. He’s so sleek and well-fed that I should hear him purring. But there’s nary a purr emanating from this sketch. Instead, I can almost hear him groaning.
Whining.
And Pat is such a sunny gal; why would she draw such a gloomy-Gus Cat?
“Why is he so unhappy?” I demanded, laying the picture in front of its creator.
Cheshire Pat smiled. “Look at his eyes.”
Obedient, I looked. And I saw . . . Fish.
Beautiful, cat-food-perfect fish.
Never mind that Cat has obviously just finished ten courses of Nine Lives.
He wants more.
Never satisfied.
I laughed and returned the picture to Pat. “How human of him!”
At the end of our visit, Pat generously allowed me to take home a portfolio of her drawings. Chief among these was Cat.
By now, this frustrated feline has all of my understanding, if not pity. Reflected in those dark fish-longing eyes, I see much of my author-self.
I ought to be satisfied with my work and enjoying the gift the Lord has given me. But too often, I want more.
I want my writing to be so perfect that editors rejoice. I want to scribble every story in every language and every genre—okay, almost every genre—in the known world. I want to write poems, epics, songs, and pen marvelous quips to make others laugh.
I want-want-want.
Very Cat of me.
Could it be the tuna I had for lunch?

Blessings, dear Reader,

Kacy


Pat's desk, 2006

As a writer, I love to create images with words. When readers send notes saying, "I could taste the food!" or "I felt like a fly on the wall, watching everything in your book!" then I'm grateful, knowing that I've managed to convey the image in my mind to readers.

Often, I've wished I could put those same images into an actual drawing, but my sketches and dabbings of paint rarely meet my expectations. How I envy and enjoy artists who can snatch paints or pencils and pour their thoughts onto paper, providing a genuine visual feast for onlookers.

You can imagine my delight when I learned that a precious friend, Pat Janssen Hall, is exactly that sort of artist. When you meet Pat, she glows. Her laughter echoes warmly, and her dark eyes sparkle with mischief and a pure joy of life.
Pat conveys this warmth and her own sense of whimsy through her art. And when I write "whimsy," I do mean whimsy!


How many artists use a couch as a canvas?

Moreover, this languid lady and her drowsing dog [forgive me, Pat, that the dog is caught in the glare!] are in a world of their own, floating on an island of lily pads and goldfish, surrounded by water bubbles and large, sparkling, hand-applied crystals.

There's a story here . . . . in a distant place Pat has created for dreams.

Some images don't need words.

Enjoy!

Blessings, Dear Reader,

Kacy