Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The joy of inside jokes
Recently a few friends and I have been harassing another friend, Matt, about his "Facebook negligence," specifically the fact that Matt last updated his status nearly one year ago. So we took a vote to decide whether or not to "defriend" Matt as a sign of solidarity. It was, of course, all tongue-in-cheek.
The decision over whether to "defriend" him came down to a single tie-breaking vote. The man who cast the deciding vote chose to announce his decision via YouTube this morning in the tradition of LeBron James.
You certainly won't find it as funny as we did, but it might be worth a chuckle or two. (As for me, I laughed so hard my face hurt and my tear ducts ran dry.)
The decision over whether to "defriend" him came down to a single tie-breaking vote. The man who cast the deciding vote chose to announce his decision via YouTube this morning in the tradition of LeBron James.
You certainly won't find it as funny as we did, but it might be worth a chuckle or two. (As for me, I laughed so hard my face hurt and my tear ducts ran dry.)
Friday, July 30, 2010
Wright Words: The Power of Praise
I was in the third grade when I first realized I wanted to be a writer when I grew up.
My teacher, the lovely and kind Mrs. Sampson, took time on a Friday afternoon to teach us the format for writing a skit and we were assigned the simple task of drafting a one-page conversation between two characters. Character name on left, dialogue on right, easy enough.
By the time the bell sent us scrambling to the buses, mine was five pages long. I handed it to Mrs. Sampson and stood on the toes on my dirty Converse tennis shoes, elbows resting on the edge of her desk, eyes locked on her face and tuned in for any reaction.
The play, no longer just a skit, was titled Molly and Polly. It was a gripping, thrilling adventure starring two leather-jacket-motorcycle-riding bunny rabbits whose mission was to cruise the countryside and solve crime.
When Mrs. Sampson finished, she looked up at me with her wise eyes and said sweetly, "Jason, this is really good. You should do more of this."
To say a light bulb popped on in my head would be too understated. It was more like a mushroom cloud, but without the long nuclear winter.
I went home that afternoon, barricaded myself in my room, and channeled Shakespeare all weekend long. I pumped out one Molly and Polly adventure after another, appearing downstairs only long enough for a quick trip to church and refills on Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies and milk.
When Monday morning arrived, I staggered out of my bedroom in a robe with three days of an imagined third-grade beard and smelling an awful lot like my socks. Later, still glassy-eyed, I strolled Mrs. Sampson's classroom and with a giant heave plopped a stack of plays of her desk. "Here you go!" I said. "Will you read these?"
"What's this?"
"It's a whole series of Molly and Polly plays. You told me to do more of this."
She looked at me so kindly, with so much love in her eyes, and said, "Oh, Dear. I didn't mean so soon."
And that was the beginning. I submitted my first manuscript for publication in 1982. I was 11. A few weeks later I received a postcard from Random House thanking me and saying my manuscript had been received and was under consideration.
Under consideration!
I walked with serious swagger around middle school for a month telling people I had a manuscript under consideration at Random House. Girls were impressed, boys jealous, and teachers unbelievably patient. Each adult wished me well and told me that no matter what, they believed in me.
I still have that postcard today. It is a cherished memory of a dream-filled childhood.
What I don't have is a rejection letter. I don't recall ever receiving one. Perhaps I did and blocked it out in the shadows of ambition. Maybe, but I prefer to think I never got one because it's still under consideration.
Under consideration!
Five years later my father died. I coped by wearing his old London Fog overcoat and writing poetry. Bad poetry. Poetry so lousy it literally pains me to read it today. But while none of it was very good, all of it was instrumental in helping me feel whole again.
After a poetry unit in Mr. Seaman's eleventh grade English class, I handed another thick stack of work to my teacher and asked if he'd read them. A week later he handed them back in a manila folder.
"What did you think?" I asked.
"Some of them are quite good, Jason, you should really consider publishing these someday."
"Really?"
"Sure. I believe in you. You should believe in you, too."
I raced home after school and announced, "Mother, my English teacher says I should publish a book of my poetry."
Getting Mom's support was the easy part, but getting a publishing deal for a volume of bad poetry proved impossible. Thankfully it didn't take long to convince my mother/agent/editor the only path to publication was doing it ourselves.
So during the summer of 1988 I laid out the book, took moody black and white photos to accompany the lousy poetry, found a local printer, and together we made history.
I'll never forget calling the local newspaper and TV station and in a well-rehearsed New York accent saying, "Hey guess what, there's a kid in town, I think he's 17, anyway he's got a book of poetry coming out, can you believe it? He's just a kid! You might want to do a story."
24-hours later I was on the 6:00 PM news and on the front page of my local paper. By the end of the week I'd supplied copies of my writing debut, Sitting on the Dock, to all the local book and gift shops.
All because a third-grade teacher on a random Friday afternoon said, "You should do more of this."
The journey since has been anything but a straight line to success. There have been failures, some of them colossal. There have been successes, all of them gratifying and humbling. But no matter what, at every step along the way, there has been someone to say: "You can do this, you have potential, keep trying, I have faith in you, I believe in you, you should do more of this, it's fine to make mistakes because I'll be there to help you do it better next time."
And they were.
I've often wondered where I'd be without Mrs. Sampson, Mr. Seaman, my parents, siblings and countless other teachers and mentors who praised when I needed praise, corrected when I needed correction, and guided when I needed it most.
Too many of these positive influences have drifted out of my life, across the country, across the universe or across the divide from this life and what awaits. Today I'm left with memories of their faith and with a charge to believe in others as much as they believed in me.
So you know that thing you're good at? That thing you love? That thing that makes you feel alive and productive and valuable and divine?
You should do more of it.
My teacher, the lovely and kind Mrs. Sampson, took time on a Friday afternoon to teach us the format for writing a skit and we were assigned the simple task of drafting a one-page conversation between two characters. Character name on left, dialogue on right, easy enough.
By the time the bell sent us scrambling to the buses, mine was five pages long. I handed it to Mrs. Sampson and stood on the toes on my dirty Converse tennis shoes, elbows resting on the edge of her desk, eyes locked on her face and tuned in for any reaction.
The play, no longer just a skit, was titled Molly and Polly. It was a gripping, thrilling adventure starring two leather-jacket-motorcycle-riding bunny rabbits whose mission was to cruise the countryside and solve crime.
When Mrs. Sampson finished, she looked up at me with her wise eyes and said sweetly, "Jason, this is really good. You should do more of this."
To say a light bulb popped on in my head would be too understated. It was more like a mushroom cloud, but without the long nuclear winter.
I went home that afternoon, barricaded myself in my room, and channeled Shakespeare all weekend long. I pumped out one Molly and Polly adventure after another, appearing downstairs only long enough for a quick trip to church and refills on Little Debbie Oatmeal Cream Pies and milk.
When Monday morning arrived, I staggered out of my bedroom in a robe with three days of an imagined third-grade beard and smelling an awful lot like my socks. Later, still glassy-eyed, I strolled Mrs. Sampson's classroom and with a giant heave plopped a stack of plays of her desk. "Here you go!" I said. "Will you read these?"
"What's this?"
"It's a whole series of Molly and Polly plays. You told me to do more of this."
She looked at me so kindly, with so much love in her eyes, and said, "Oh, Dear. I didn't mean so soon."
And that was the beginning. I submitted my first manuscript for publication in 1982. I was 11. A few weeks later I received a postcard from Random House thanking me and saying my manuscript had been received and was under consideration.
Under consideration!
I walked with serious swagger around middle school for a month telling people I had a manuscript under consideration at Random House. Girls were impressed, boys jealous, and teachers unbelievably patient. Each adult wished me well and told me that no matter what, they believed in me.
I still have that postcard today. It is a cherished memory of a dream-filled childhood.
What I don't have is a rejection letter. I don't recall ever receiving one. Perhaps I did and blocked it out in the shadows of ambition. Maybe, but I prefer to think I never got one because it's still under consideration.
Under consideration!
Five years later my father died. I coped by wearing his old London Fog overcoat and writing poetry. Bad poetry. Poetry so lousy it literally pains me to read it today. But while none of it was very good, all of it was instrumental in helping me feel whole again.
After a poetry unit in Mr. Seaman's eleventh grade English class, I handed another thick stack of work to my teacher and asked if he'd read them. A week later he handed them back in a manila folder.
"What did you think?" I asked.
"Some of them are quite good, Jason, you should really consider publishing these someday."
"Really?"
"Sure. I believe in you. You should believe in you, too."
I raced home after school and announced, "Mother, my English teacher says I should publish a book of my poetry."
Getting Mom's support was the easy part, but getting a publishing deal for a volume of bad poetry proved impossible. Thankfully it didn't take long to convince my mother/agent/editor the only path to publication was doing it ourselves.
So during the summer of 1988 I laid out the book, took moody black and white photos to accompany the lousy poetry, found a local printer, and together we made history.
I'll never forget calling the local newspaper and TV station and in a well-rehearsed New York accent saying, "Hey guess what, there's a kid in town, I think he's 17, anyway he's got a book of poetry coming out, can you believe it? He's just a kid! You might want to do a story."
24-hours later I was on the 6:00 PM news and on the front page of my local paper. By the end of the week I'd supplied copies of my writing debut, Sitting on the Dock, to all the local book and gift shops.
All because a third-grade teacher on a random Friday afternoon said, "You should do more of this."
The journey since has been anything but a straight line to success. There have been failures, some of them colossal. There have been successes, all of them gratifying and humbling. But no matter what, at every step along the way, there has been someone to say: "You can do this, you have potential, keep trying, I have faith in you, I believe in you, you should do more of this, it's fine to make mistakes because I'll be there to help you do it better next time."
And they were.
I've often wondered where I'd be without Mrs. Sampson, Mr. Seaman, my parents, siblings and countless other teachers and mentors who praised when I needed praise, corrected when I needed correction, and guided when I needed it most.
Too many of these positive influences have drifted out of my life, across the country, across the universe or across the divide from this life and what awaits. Today I'm left with memories of their faith and with a charge to believe in others as much as they believed in me.
So you know that thing you're good at? That thing you love? That thing that makes you feel alive and productive and valuable and divine?
You should do more of it.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Win an ARC of The Seventeen Second Miracle
There are a few key moments in the publication of a book that are exciting milestones for an author. One of those is the day the advance copies land on your doorstep. It's not the final book as it will later appear in stores around the country, but it's pretty darn close. These advance reader copies or ARC's are meant to plant seeds, encourage a nice blurb or two, and generally build buzz.
A few days ago a box arrived on doorstep containing a small stash of ARC's of my fall title, The Seventeen Second Miracle. It's a thrill to see the cover and know we're that much closer to the release on September 28th.
So, want to win the first signed copy?
In the comments section below, tell me why you deserve a free book. Be creative, funny, whatever! There is only one rule, your entry must be exactly 17 words long. Please also include your name and city/state.
Winner will be announced Monday July 26th. Good luck!
Monday, July 5, 2010
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
The Seventeen Second Miracle has a cover!
Too often the designers don't get credit for their awesome work. Would you consider leaving a note for the fantastic team at Penguin/Berkley who designed the cover for The Seventeen Second Miracle?
And by the way, the book will be on shelves September 28th!
Monday, June 14, 2010
Wright Words: I miss my dad, and that's OK
It started as a journal entry, became something I read aloud at an event in Winchester, VA, and now has become my latest syndicated column. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Wright Words: I miss my dad, and that's OK
My father died when I was 16 after a second bruising round with cancer.
He'd beaten it once four years earlier, only to watch it come back in a different place.
He died on a Friday night in a big hospital bed with me and two of my siblings racing to get there on time. We didn't.
There is a debate as old as time about which is more difficult and which is preferred: To lose a loved one suddenly, in instantaneous ways like car accidents, plane crashes, or in some other suddenly-your-life-is-very-different sort of moment. Sadly you don't have a chance to say goodbye or I'm sorry or I'll see you soon.
Or is it easier in the long-steps way, where you watch your loved one slowly fade from this life to the next, often in pain, sometimes great pain, sometimes straddling the veil? Yes, sometimes it's a painful goodbye. But it is, if nothing else, a chance to say goodbye.
I've had that debate myself, and I never come to any conclusion about which is easier, which hurts less.
I only decide in my mind that I had a little bit of both. I knew because he'd had cancer four years earlier that it could return. But on the other hand, on the night he died in the hospital waiting for another scheduled surgery, it felt like he'd been taken in an instant, a tragedy unforeseen, unpredicted. And certainly I was unprepared; I never saw it coming.
Maybe more than anything I've just decided that what happened, happened. I can't change it, and that's OK.
It wouldn't change the fact that I still miss my dad, even now, 20 years later. Or that I would still miss him a little bit every single day. It also wouldn't change the fact that at every baby birth, every soccer game, every graduation ceremony, I still close my eyes and wish that he were next to me. And, well, that's OK.
My father wasn't a perfect man. He was a terrible golfer, terrible. Seriously, I think there are still courses where his photo is up in the clubhouse. Not for having the course record, but because if he walks in someone is supposed to call security immediately.
No, he wasn't perfect. He raised his voice from time to time; he liked to burp the alphabet; he punished me when I felt like I didn't deserve to be punished. There was advice he gave that I probably didn't need, and other advice that I did need that he didn't share. Perhaps he didn't think I was ready for it.
So he wasn't a perfect man. So what? For me, he was the perfect dad, and there's nothing I wish he'd done any differently expect perhaps linger a little longer on this side. But he didn't. He went when he was called, of course he did, and that's OK.
Some people choose to remember their loved ones who've left this earth through this lens of perfection, where their flaws and faults are edged away, polished by time and scrapbooks, like the rough corners of a block of wood on a sander's belt. You just hold it there long enough, close your eyes, and wait, maybe move it slightly with gentle pressure, and the rough edges will go away. Then what's remembered is that smooth, perfect edge, the edge of a dearly departed loved one's life.
I've chosen to remember my dad differently. I do remember the times that I became frustrated. The times he was impatient when we worked on my science fair projects or as he taught me to drive. And, of course, the times he banged his thumb, his knee, or his elbow and used words that made my mom shout "Willaaaard!" from across the house.
I remember him imperfectly because it gives me hope. I don't have to be the perfect dad to my kids. I just have to be the perfect dad for them.
I smile when I think of the spot of ground that is my father's final resting place. It is like most others, a marker on the surface of the earth that says, "Here they are, here's their name, here are the dates that matter, the day they punched in and the day they punched out."
Sometimes some of us spend time at that place. Mourning, remembering, talking, leaving flowers, notes or pebbles.
When my dad died I didn't go for quite some time, not until a friend finally convinced me it was time and offered to go along. I remember vividly how we kicked snow off markers until we found my dad's.
Honestly? I wished I'd gone a lot sooner and I've beaten myself up plenty about it through the years. But I didn't. And, finally, that's OK.
Sometimes people visit the cemetery often. Every day, every week, once a month, or once a year on the anniversary of their death, or their birth, or on the anniversary of their anniversary. And sometimes I have looked at those people and thought, "Oh, it's too much, too often, too unhealthy, they should move on."
But who are we to judge? If sitting on a patch of grass next to a marker on the ground or a granite tombstone six feet above the memories of a loved one brings them comfort and peace, then isn't that OK?
Some never go back. There are members of my family who haven't been to my dad's grave for years, despite living much closer that I do. They remember him in other ways and they say they know he isn't really there anyway. Instead he's doing some sort of important work on the other side and that is how they find peace and comfort. And what could be more OK than that?
So yes, I do miss my dad. And more than anything in the years since my dad said goodbye, I've learned that there is no right way or wrong way to grieve, there is only your way, and there is my way.
It's been more than 22 years since my father died. Twenty-two Christmases. 22 birthdays. 22 Father's Days. And, of course, countless rounds of bad golf never played.
But after 22 years, I'm no longer afraid to admit that I still miss my dad. And, well, that's OK.
Wright Words: I miss my dad, and that's OK
My father died when I was 16 after a second bruising round with cancer.
He'd beaten it once four years earlier, only to watch it come back in a different place.
He died on a Friday night in a big hospital bed with me and two of my siblings racing to get there on time. We didn't.
There is a debate as old as time about which is more difficult and which is preferred: To lose a loved one suddenly, in instantaneous ways like car accidents, plane crashes, or in some other suddenly-your-life-is-very-different sort of moment. Sadly you don't have a chance to say goodbye or I'm sorry or I'll see you soon.
Or is it easier in the long-steps way, where you watch your loved one slowly fade from this life to the next, often in pain, sometimes great pain, sometimes straddling the veil? Yes, sometimes it's a painful goodbye. But it is, if nothing else, a chance to say goodbye.
I've had that debate myself, and I never come to any conclusion about which is easier, which hurts less.
I only decide in my mind that I had a little bit of both. I knew because he'd had cancer four years earlier that it could return. But on the other hand, on the night he died in the hospital waiting for another scheduled surgery, it felt like he'd been taken in an instant, a tragedy unforeseen, unpredicted. And certainly I was unprepared; I never saw it coming.
Maybe more than anything I've just decided that what happened, happened. I can't change it, and that's OK.
It wouldn't change the fact that I still miss my dad, even now, 20 years later. Or that I would still miss him a little bit every single day. It also wouldn't change the fact that at every baby birth, every soccer game, every graduation ceremony, I still close my eyes and wish that he were next to me. And, well, that's OK.
My father wasn't a perfect man. He was a terrible golfer, terrible. Seriously, I think there are still courses where his photo is up in the clubhouse. Not for having the course record, but because if he walks in someone is supposed to call security immediately.
No, he wasn't perfect. He raised his voice from time to time; he liked to burp the alphabet; he punished me when I felt like I didn't deserve to be punished. There was advice he gave that I probably didn't need, and other advice that I did need that he didn't share. Perhaps he didn't think I was ready for it.
So he wasn't a perfect man. So what? For me, he was the perfect dad, and there's nothing I wish he'd done any differently expect perhaps linger a little longer on this side. But he didn't. He went when he was called, of course he did, and that's OK.
Some people choose to remember their loved ones who've left this earth through this lens of perfection, where their flaws and faults are edged away, polished by time and scrapbooks, like the rough corners of a block of wood on a sander's belt. You just hold it there long enough, close your eyes, and wait, maybe move it slightly with gentle pressure, and the rough edges will go away. Then what's remembered is that smooth, perfect edge, the edge of a dearly departed loved one's life.
I've chosen to remember my dad differently. I do remember the times that I became frustrated. The times he was impatient when we worked on my science fair projects or as he taught me to drive. And, of course, the times he banged his thumb, his knee, or his elbow and used words that made my mom shout "Willaaaard!" from across the house.
I remember him imperfectly because it gives me hope. I don't have to be the perfect dad to my kids. I just have to be the perfect dad for them.
I smile when I think of the spot of ground that is my father's final resting place. It is like most others, a marker on the surface of the earth that says, "Here they are, here's their name, here are the dates that matter, the day they punched in and the day they punched out."
Sometimes some of us spend time at that place. Mourning, remembering, talking, leaving flowers, notes or pebbles.
When my dad died I didn't go for quite some time, not until a friend finally convinced me it was time and offered to go along. I remember vividly how we kicked snow off markers until we found my dad's.
Honestly? I wished I'd gone a lot sooner and I've beaten myself up plenty about it through the years. But I didn't. And, finally, that's OK.
Sometimes people visit the cemetery often. Every day, every week, once a month, or once a year on the anniversary of their death, or their birth, or on the anniversary of their anniversary. And sometimes I have looked at those people and thought, "Oh, it's too much, too often, too unhealthy, they should move on."
But who are we to judge? If sitting on a patch of grass next to a marker on the ground or a granite tombstone six feet above the memories of a loved one brings them comfort and peace, then isn't that OK?
Some never go back. There are members of my family who haven't been to my dad's grave for years, despite living much closer that I do. They remember him in other ways and they say they know he isn't really there anyway. Instead he's doing some sort of important work on the other side and that is how they find peace and comfort. And what could be more OK than that?
So yes, I do miss my dad. And more than anything in the years since my dad said goodbye, I've learned that there is no right way or wrong way to grieve, there is only your way, and there is my way.
It's been more than 22 years since my father died. Twenty-two Christmases. 22 birthdays. 22 Father's Days. And, of course, countless rounds of bad golf never played.
But after 22 years, I'm no longer afraid to admit that I still miss my dad. And, well, that's OK.
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Announcing the winner of my Editor-for-a-Day contest
Perhaps the most exciting contest I've ever held came to an end at 11:59 PM last night.
Who will be my first ever Editor-for-a-Day? Congratulations to... (drum roll, please)
Chris Dalton!
Chris built a healthy lead in the early weeks and held on for dear life as Cheryl Salzman closed quickly, trimming a lead of over 500 visits to less than 50 in just a week. Congrats Cheryl on closing strong and making Chris sweat his hard-fought victory.
As my exclusive Editor-for-a-Day, Chris will read my latest manuscript, The Seventeen Second Miracle, provide input and edits, and see his name in the acknowledgments.
Thank you to the hundreds of entrants who made this one of the most successful contests I've ever run, and congratulations to our top 25 finishers:
1. Chris Dalton (1,576 visits)
2. Cheryl Salzman (1,529 visits)
3. Stephanie Shirts Robinson
4. Patty Byrd
5. Lisa Kuper
6. Liz Frederick
7. Nancy Greenhouse
8. Sherry Booher Derby
9. Melissa Glad
10. Tabitha Andree
11. Jody Ayres
12. Lisa Sullivan
13. Jana Oomrigar
14. Sarah Van Dam
15. Liz Shoop
16. Christal Burnett
17. Dana Harold
18. Helena Reidhead
19. Paula Bryant
20. Sharen Clarke
21. Molly Edwards
22. Aimee Baldwin
23. Linda Evans
24. Tina Rinker
25. Larene Garlock
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
"Editor-for-a-Day" Contest Leader Board
With eleven days to go in my Editor-for-a-Day contest, I thought it was time to reveal our Top Eleven on the leaderboard out of hundreds of entries.
Here are your leaders as of 10:00 AM, EST today:
1. Chris Dalton
2. Cheryl Salzman
3. Patty Byrd
4. Lisa Kuper
5. Nancy Greenhouse
6. Stephanie Shirts Robinson
7. Sherry Booher Derby
8. Liz Frederick
9. Melissa Glad
10. Jody Ayres
11. Kathie Marshall
It's not too late! Keep those visits to your pages coming!
Here are your leaders as of 10:00 AM, EST today:
1. Chris Dalton
2. Cheryl Salzman
3. Patty Byrd
4. Lisa Kuper
5. Nancy Greenhouse
6. Stephanie Shirts Robinson
7. Sherry Booher Derby
8. Liz Frederick
9. Melissa Glad
10. Jody Ayres
11. Kathie Marshall
It's not too late! Keep those visits to your pages coming!
Friday, May 14, 2010
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Angels Among Us: Not yet
A short and poignant note from another reader who believes the veil is thin.
Angels Among Us: He clearly whispered, "not yet"
Tony J.
When my Grandpa came home from the hospital for the last 4 days of his life in 2003, he spent the entire time in a hospital bed in his bedroom. The last day or two, he didn't even talk. The night he died, I just assumed it would be his last, so I sat in his bedroom with him for several hours. At the time, I was the only other person in the room, but at one point he raised his hands in the air and clearly whispered "Not Yet". He died a couple hours later.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Angels Among Us: Dad came to get mom
Another sweet story from a reader who agrees that there are certainly angels among us:
Angels Among Us: Dad came to get mom
Claudia C.
I had experiences with both my Father's passing and my Mother's. Dad came to get Mom. She had thrown up on her way back from the bathroom and then collapsed on the floor. The cute young girl who was taking care of her said that a nice looking dark headed man came into her room and said he was a family member came to get Lou. She told him she needed to clean her up and would be just a little while. He went out the door, but no one ever saw him again, and no one had signed the sign in log at the front door, as a visitor for her. The family all knows that it was Dad coming to take her with him. This has helped me to know that there is life beyond this one and that we will not be alone when our time comes.
Monday, April 26, 2010
A truly FAB book club shout-out
I don't normally do book club shout-outs, but not all book clubs are quite like this one!
It was a thrill today to chat by speaker phone with the FAB (Friends and Books) Book Club in University Place, Washington. I'd met two of the members at a signing last fall, and despite my efforts to scare them off, they contacted me anyway.
Today we discussed The Wednesday Letters and the club's ten gorgeous gals asked some really wonderful questions.
So thanks, ladies, for a swell time! Hope the salad was good ;-)
It was a thrill today to chat by speaker phone with the FAB (Friends and Books) Book Club in University Place, Washington. I'd met two of the members at a signing last fall, and despite my efforts to scare them off, they contacted me anyway.
Today we discussed The Wednesday Letters and the club's ten gorgeous gals asked some really wonderful questions.
So thanks, ladies, for a swell time! Hope the salad was good ;-)
Friday, April 16, 2010
Wright Words: I am a Mormon
I am guilty of waiting. For much of my career I have shyly waited for people to ask my religion, waited for the subject to come up, waited to share what I hold most precious.
Because I enjoy weaving spiritual themes into my signings or during more formal speaking engagements, often someone will approach and ask what church I attend. I love the conversations that follow. Frankly, there isn’t much I'd rather talk about than the faith that in many ways defines me.
I am a Christian. I am an imperfect follower of a perfect Savior. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Or, if you prefer the nickname sometimes used to describe members of the Church, I am a Mormon.
If you've read any of my novels, you know that I do not write books specifically about my religion. I write stories that contain the flavor of faith, but do not promote one religion over another. I write about broad themes important to all of us, no matter what church we call home.
I write about Christmas, forgiveness, redemption, family, marriage, charity, miracles, and life-after-death. Admittedly, I've learned and grown more from writing my own books than anyone ever will from reading them.
When I began my career as an author I was involved in frequent discussions about how prominent I should make my religion. Should we mention Brigham Young University in my bio? Should I reference my two-year mission to Brazil? Should we advertise that one of my two publishers is Salt Lake-based, home to Church headquarters and a high concentration of Mormons?
How shameful.
Five years and seven books later, I am ashamed those debates ever took place, and I accept that the blame rests on my shoulders alone. I am embarrassed that for years I simply wanted to be a New York Times bestselling author who you may or may not find out later just happens to be a Mormon. How shallow that I allowed the small percentage of consumers who won't buy a novel by a Mormon to dictate how I was introduced to readers.
Recently I stumbled across a blog that inferred a number of Mormon authors, including me, had been deceitful. The blogger complained that he never would have bought our books had he known we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He even expressed pride at having uncovered the secret through a series of online searches and a complicated game of connect-the-dots. A modern-day Sherlock Holmes, no doubt.
This blogger's theory was that books like mine by Mormon authors, especially in the genre of inspirational fiction, are just thinly veiled attempts to spread our faith. He's half-right, at least in my case. I do hope my books spread my faith that God lives, that He loves us, and that the challenges we face everyday are universal and the occasionally painful lessons absolutely necessary to our growth.
But I also hope they are good ole fashioned page-turners that entertain and beg a second reading. If a reader wants to find inspiration and faith, that's wonderful. If a reader wants nothing more than to sit in a comfortable chair and escape life for a few hours, I'm just as thrilled.
In either case, in the future this well-meaning though misguided blogger won't have to don a black deerstalker hat to uncover my religion. I've added my faith to my website biography and press kits.
I wonder if this blogger or anyone else who won’t buy a work of Christian fiction by a Mormon knows just how much I appreciate his or her own religion. I have dear friends from all corners of religious faith and two of the most trusted people in my day-to-day career are Catholic and Jewish. One is my editor, the other my agent. I trust them both. I love them both.
I wonder if this blogger or anyone else who won’t buy a work of Christian fiction by a Mormon knows how many churches have invited me to speak in their chapels, sanctuaries, etc. Just this month alone I will speak in two Methodist churches and at Trinity Ecumenical Parish, a combined congregation of Episcopalians, Lutherans and Presbyterians. Next month I’ll speak to the Knights of Columbus and in years' past I've spoken to Baptists, Catholics and many more. I cherish those experiences more than any other.
Naturally it is important to know that I am not just a Mormon. I am proud to be a brother, husband, father-of-four, volunteer, neighbor, and friend. I am also a son of a loving Heavenly Father and the son of earthly parents who raised me to embrace my faith and to love the Lord and follow His example.
Perhaps I owe this blogger a thank you for jarring me from my quiet complaisance and for reminding me just how proud I am of my heritage, my faith, and the Church I love so dearly.
So, if you're reading this column and thinking, "I had no idea he was a Mormon," I sincerely apologize.
If you're reading this column and want to know more about what I believe, ask me. I’d love to tell you.
Finally, next time you're in a bookstore and you see a book with my name on the cover, it's buyer beware from this day forward: I am a Mormon.
Because I enjoy weaving spiritual themes into my signings or during more formal speaking engagements, often someone will approach and ask what church I attend. I love the conversations that follow. Frankly, there isn’t much I'd rather talk about than the faith that in many ways defines me.
I am a Christian. I am an imperfect follower of a perfect Savior. I am a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Or, if you prefer the nickname sometimes used to describe members of the Church, I am a Mormon.
If you've read any of my novels, you know that I do not write books specifically about my religion. I write stories that contain the flavor of faith, but do not promote one religion over another. I write about broad themes important to all of us, no matter what church we call home.
I write about Christmas, forgiveness, redemption, family, marriage, charity, miracles, and life-after-death. Admittedly, I've learned and grown more from writing my own books than anyone ever will from reading them.
When I began my career as an author I was involved in frequent discussions about how prominent I should make my religion. Should we mention Brigham Young University in my bio? Should I reference my two-year mission to Brazil? Should we advertise that one of my two publishers is Salt Lake-based, home to Church headquarters and a high concentration of Mormons?
How shameful.
Five years and seven books later, I am ashamed those debates ever took place, and I accept that the blame rests on my shoulders alone. I am embarrassed that for years I simply wanted to be a New York Times bestselling author who you may or may not find out later just happens to be a Mormon. How shallow that I allowed the small percentage of consumers who won't buy a novel by a Mormon to dictate how I was introduced to readers.
Recently I stumbled across a blog that inferred a number of Mormon authors, including me, had been deceitful. The blogger complained that he never would have bought our books had he known we were members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. He even expressed pride at having uncovered the secret through a series of online searches and a complicated game of connect-the-dots. A modern-day Sherlock Holmes, no doubt.
This blogger's theory was that books like mine by Mormon authors, especially in the genre of inspirational fiction, are just thinly veiled attempts to spread our faith. He's half-right, at least in my case. I do hope my books spread my faith that God lives, that He loves us, and that the challenges we face everyday are universal and the occasionally painful lessons absolutely necessary to our growth.
But I also hope they are good ole fashioned page-turners that entertain and beg a second reading. If a reader wants to find inspiration and faith, that's wonderful. If a reader wants nothing more than to sit in a comfortable chair and escape life for a few hours, I'm just as thrilled.
In either case, in the future this well-meaning though misguided blogger won't have to don a black deerstalker hat to uncover my religion. I've added my faith to my website biography and press kits.
I wonder if this blogger or anyone else who won’t buy a work of Christian fiction by a Mormon knows just how much I appreciate his or her own religion. I have dear friends from all corners of religious faith and two of the most trusted people in my day-to-day career are Catholic and Jewish. One is my editor, the other my agent. I trust them both. I love them both.
I wonder if this blogger or anyone else who won’t buy a work of Christian fiction by a Mormon knows how many churches have invited me to speak in their chapels, sanctuaries, etc. Just this month alone I will speak in two Methodist churches and at Trinity Ecumenical Parish, a combined congregation of Episcopalians, Lutherans and Presbyterians. Next month I’ll speak to the Knights of Columbus and in years' past I've spoken to Baptists, Catholics and many more. I cherish those experiences more than any other.
Naturally it is important to know that I am not just a Mormon. I am proud to be a brother, husband, father-of-four, volunteer, neighbor, and friend. I am also a son of a loving Heavenly Father and the son of earthly parents who raised me to embrace my faith and to love the Lord and follow His example.
Perhaps I owe this blogger a thank you for jarring me from my quiet complaisance and for reminding me just how proud I am of my heritage, my faith, and the Church I love so dearly.
So, if you're reading this column and thinking, "I had no idea he was a Mormon," I sincerely apologize.
If you're reading this column and want to know more about what I believe, ask me. I’d love to tell you.
Finally, next time you're in a bookstore and you see a book with my name on the cover, it's buyer beware from this day forward: I am a Mormon.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Meeting the Harveys
This post begins the telling of one of the neatest stories in our lives. For those of you who have read The Cross Gardner, you will recall where they discuss an apple called the Ginger Gold and the story of how it came to be. For those who haven't had a chance to read the book, this will mean much more to you when you do. But in the meantime, here is one of the references from The Cross Gardener:
EXCERPT:
Back at the end of March the Barnes and Noble in Charlottesville, VA held a discussion and book signing for The Cross Gardner.
Among those in attendance were three very lovely and special ladies: Ginger, Gayle and Debbie Harvey.
Now let me tell you a little bit about these amazing ladies. Ginger Harvey is a beautiful woman inside and out. She is married to the late Clyde Harvey and has two equally beautiful daughters, Gayle and Debbie.
The Harveys owned an orchard in Central Virginia for many years. During their time in the apple world they experienced something not many ever do. They nearly lost the entire orchard to the floods brought on by Hurricane Camille.
There was much tragedy in their little valley, but as they began the recovery process they found a young tree that was not familiar to them. It turns out the tragedy of the floods had brought them a special "Gift from God," as Ginger likes to say. The Harvey family was blessed with a one-of-a-kind tree produced entirely by God and Mother Nature. It yielded a beautiful, tasty apple which later became known as the Ginger Gold.
After meeting the Harveys at the book signing we were eager to spend some time with them. Just last week Gayle and Ginger made the drive up to the Valley to see the orchard that inspired the story.
Meet Tracy, the talented orchardist who shared his knowledge with Jason.
After saying goodbye and sending them on their way, Jason and I kept saying to each other, "How cool is it to meet someone who has an apple named after her growing right now on trees all around the world?"
We feel so honored to know them and we look forward to a long and fruitful (LOL) friendship.
EXCERPT:
We chatted on the way about the history of apples in Virginia and how I ended up an orchardist. He was interested in the decision making Scott and I went through after Father’s death. Curious how often I saw my brother. Interested in Tim and whether I thought he might have ended up on the orchard someday.
The Cross Gardener had a way of making everything I said interesting. In his presence my stories and ideas were important. A rare talent, I thought.
“Here we are.” I pulled into the driveway and stopped just shy of the fence.
“Great fence,” he said. “I love picket fences. You build it yourself?”
“With my wife, yes.”
“Wonderful.”
We got out of the truck and I led him down the closest row of apple trees. “There isn’t much to see by way of fruit, obviously, because the harvest is over.”
He reached down and picked up a rotting apple. “Why are there some on the ground?”
“If it’s a mature apple, which that one is, it probably fell during harvest. That happens a lot. Or it could have just fallen from an apple bin. That happens, too.”
“How long can it sit on the ground before it starts to rot?”
“Not long in Valley heat, that’s for sure.”
“And you don’t go by and pick them up?” He placed the apple back on the grass.
“Not usually. They can bruise if they fall. And no one wants a bruised apple.” We walked to another row.
“Are all these trees the same?”
“No, we try to alternate rows. A lot of orchards do. That first
row was Red Delicious. These are Ginger Golds.”
“Ginger Golds. So those aren’t red, one assumes?”
“One assumes correct.” I smiled. Standing there and looking at his curious eyes, almost childlike, I realized that I hadn’t told anyone about my favorite type of apple, or why it was my favorite, in a very long time.
“Ginger Golds are special.” I looked to the end of the long row of appleless trees. “They’re also the first we harvest. These were picked before Emma Jane, my wife, died.”
“I see why they’re your favorite then.”
“It’s not just that, they’ve always been my favorite apple. The Ginger Gold is a result of Hurricane Camille back in the sixties. Nineteen sixty-nine to be exact. The hurricane about washed away the orchard of a man named Clyde Harvey. Almost nothing left but devastation. Some time later when they were saving what trees they could, they came across a tree Mr. Harvey hadn’t ever seen before. It produced a yellow fruit instead of the red on the other trees around it. Eventually they planted more of them and he named it for his wife, Ginger.”
“Thus, the Ginger Gold,” the Cross Gardener said.
“That’s right.”
“What a miracle that something so sweet, something that brings joy to many, came from something as tragic as a hurricane. That’s lovely. One of the sweetest things I’ve heard.”
Back at the end of March the Barnes and Noble in Charlottesville, VA held a discussion and book signing for The Cross Gardner.
Among those in attendance were three very lovely and special ladies: Ginger, Gayle and Debbie Harvey.
Now let me tell you a little bit about these amazing ladies. Ginger Harvey is a beautiful woman inside and out. She is married to the late Clyde Harvey and has two equally beautiful daughters, Gayle and Debbie.
The Harveys owned an orchard in Central Virginia for many years. During their time in the apple world they experienced something not many ever do. They nearly lost the entire orchard to the floods brought on by Hurricane Camille.
There was much tragedy in their little valley, but as they began the recovery process they found a young tree that was not familiar to them. It turns out the tragedy of the floods had brought them a special "Gift from God," as Ginger likes to say. The Harvey family was blessed with a one-of-a-kind tree produced entirely by God and Mother Nature. It yielded a beautiful, tasty apple which later became known as the Ginger Gold.
After meeting the Harveys at the book signing we were eager to spend some time with them. Just last week Gayle and Ginger made the drive up to the Valley to see the orchard that inspired the story.
Meet Tracy, the talented orchardist who shared his knowledge with Jason.
After saying goodbye and sending them on their way, Jason and I kept saying to each other, "How cool is it to meet someone who has an apple named after her growing right now on trees all around the world?"
We feel so honored to know them and we look forward to a long and fruitful (LOL) friendship.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Library Journal Reviews TCG
Thanks, LJR!
###
Library Journal Reviews
April 15, 2010
SECTION: REVIEWS; Christian Fiction; Pg. 70
LENGTH: 134 words
HEADLINE: The Cross Gardener
BYLINE: Nanci Milone Hill
BODY: Wright, Jason F. The Cross Gardener. Berkley: Penguin Group (USA) . 2010. c.304p. ISBN 978-0-425-23328-3 . $22.95. CF
John Bevan and his young daughter, Lou Lou, try to heal after a tragic accident takes the life of his wife and unborn child. Struggling to understand God's purpose, John erects a small cross on the side of the road where his wife died. One day, he meets a man painting his wife's cross, and the "cross gardener" eventually helps John see that his wife would have wanted him to live his life and enjoy every moment with his surviving child. VERDICT: This latest book by best-selling author Wright (The Wednesday Letters; The Christmas Sweater with Glenn Beck) is sure to be devoured by his large fan base as well as by new readers who enjoy wiping their eyes while reading a great story.
LOAD-DATE: April 6, 2010
###
Library Journal Reviews
April 15, 2010
SECTION: REVIEWS; Christian Fiction; Pg. 70
LENGTH: 134 words
HEADLINE: The Cross Gardener
BYLINE: Nanci Milone Hill
BODY: Wright, Jason F. The Cross Gardener. Berkley: Penguin Group (USA) . 2010. c.304p. ISBN 978-0-425-23328-3 . $22.95. CF
John Bevan and his young daughter, Lou Lou, try to heal after a tragic accident takes the life of his wife and unborn child. Struggling to understand God's purpose, John erects a small cross on the side of the road where his wife died. One day, he meets a man painting his wife's cross, and the "cross gardener" eventually helps John see that his wife would have wanted him to live his life and enjoy every moment with his surviving child. VERDICT: This latest book by best-selling author Wright (The Wednesday Letters; The Christmas Sweater with Glenn Beck) is sure to be devoured by his large fan base as well as by new readers who enjoy wiping their eyes while reading a great story.
LOAD-DATE: April 6, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
Angels Among Us: The Fall
Another wonderful story from a reader. Thanks for sharing, Bri!
Angels Among Us: The Fall
Bri C.
In 2004 my husband and I were in our first home. Chris began clearing the side lot of our home which was covered in trees. One of those trees was right beside an electric pole. As he climbed his 22 ft ladder high above the previous stumps that were left of the adjacent trees he secured a winch to a tree limb while he prepared to saw (using a chainsaw) away the limb. Later he would say that he felt the Spirit prompt him not to use the winch. He sawed anyways and the limb snapped lodging in his forehead and throwing him to the ground where he landed on a stump. He was unconscious and couldn't see.
When he awoke he was very disoriented. He said he felt someone simply carry him the 75 ft where he landed to the front door. He said that he felt an overwhelming sense of comfort and warmth. The physical proof of this event was the lack of blood. That 75 ft from the door to the spot where he landed was completely free of any blood. There was blood on the front door all over the carpet and in the foyer. But no stains on our paved driveway or the dried dirt under the trees. We have speculated it is a ministering angel. Surely it was something divine.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Wright Words: Failure is an option
Failure. Look it up in Merriam-Webster's and you'll see more than just my name and mediocre mug. You'll also find my thumbprint, Social Security number and shoe size. I challenge you to find anyone who's failed at more endeavors, large and small, than yours truly.
Did I work at Mr. Donut in high school? Yes. Was I fired for playing basketball in the kitchen with a coconut crumb donut wrapped in scotch tape? Yes.
Months later I took a job at a popular ice cream parlor across the street from the University of Virginia campus in Charlottesville, Virginia. Weeks later I gave a generous discount to an attractive coed buying a single scoop of Moose Tracks. Then just hours later I surrendered my apron and was shown the door. Turns out the cute pre-med student was the shop's owner.
Before graduating from high school, I also worked as a tuxedo-wearing doorman, as the Easter Bunny at the local mall in a giant fuzzy costume that smelled like tobacco and gin, and as a telemarketer selling tickets to a blind circus for children. To this day I have no idea what that actually meant, I just read the script. And, evidently, not so well.
What did these early failures teach me? Only that I hadn't failed enough yet. So over the years these jobs followed: Commercial actor, nightshift at a grocery store, model for a clothing catalogue, pizza delivery guy, construction, singing telegrams with my wife and our St. Bernard, Portuguese teacher, nightshift security guard at a telephone factory, nightshift security guard at Thomas Jefferson's Monticello, sales for a time-management seminar company, computer consulting, door-to-door t-shirt sales, co-owner of a company that made paper placemats for restaurants, nightshift cleaning bathroom at BYU, weekend janitor of a dental college, and night watch at a home for troubled teens.
But wait, there's more! I also was the co-founder of one of the web's first sporting goods stores, director of sales for an e-commerce software company, co-founder of an Internet design company, co-owner of two video stores, owner of a cell phone store, candidate for U.S. Congress, founder of a public policy think-tank, founder of a popular political blog, ghost writer to members of Congress, and, finally, a fulltime novelist.
Wedged into that resume meatloaf is also a fulltime mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to Belo Horizonte, Brazil. With the exception of marrying my wife, it remains the single most important decision I've ever made and brings me more satisfaction than any bestseller list.
Each of those career stops, even those that were odd and brief, taught me something about myself. I learned how to be a better employee and a better teammate. I learned what failure tasted like and how to take risks. But I also learned what risks not to take, and how to recognize the taste of success. Perhaps most importantly, I learned how to be a better me.
Admittedly, even my current and hopefully final career has had its share of failures. Some books connect with readers, some don't, and all I can do is to continue telling stories and hope I succeed more often than not, getting better each time.
So yes, I've had dozens of jobs, some ending wonderfully, some ending with failure, but each taught me to identify a new weakness and massage it into a strength.
If I hadn't failed, I never would have written Christmas Jars.
If I hadn't failed, I wouldn't be a New York Times Bestselling author.
If I hadn't failed, I wouldn't now live in one of the world's most beautiful places, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.
If I hadn't failed, I wouldn't be happy and at professional peace for the first time.
Please don't let the world convince you that failure isn't an option. Quite simply, nothing is too big to fail. Not even the guy in the Easter bunny costume.
Did I work at Mr. Donut in high school? Yes. Was I fired for playing basketball in the kitchen with a coconut crumb donut wrapped in scotch tape? Yes.
Months later I took a job at a popular ice cream parlor across the street from the University of Virginia campus in Charlottesville, Virginia. Weeks later I gave a generous discount to an attractive coed buying a single scoop of Moose Tracks. Then just hours later I surrendered my apron and was shown the door. Turns out the cute pre-med student was the shop's owner.
Before graduating from high school, I also worked as a tuxedo-wearing doorman, as the Easter Bunny at the local mall in a giant fuzzy costume that smelled like tobacco and gin, and as a telemarketer selling tickets to a blind circus for children. To this day I have no idea what that actually meant, I just read the script. And, evidently, not so well.
What did these early failures teach me? Only that I hadn't failed enough yet. So over the years these jobs followed: Commercial actor, nightshift at a grocery store, model for a clothing catalogue, pizza delivery guy, construction, singing telegrams with my wife and our St. Bernard, Portuguese teacher, nightshift security guard at a telephone factory, nightshift security guard at Thomas Jefferson's Monticello, sales for a time-management seminar company, computer consulting, door-to-door t-shirt sales, co-owner of a company that made paper placemats for restaurants, nightshift cleaning bathroom at BYU, weekend janitor of a dental college, and night watch at a home for troubled teens.
But wait, there's more! I also was the co-founder of one of the web's first sporting goods stores, director of sales for an e-commerce software company, co-founder of an Internet design company, co-owner of two video stores, owner of a cell phone store, candidate for U.S. Congress, founder of a public policy think-tank, founder of a popular political blog, ghost writer to members of Congress, and, finally, a fulltime novelist.
Wedged into that resume meatloaf is also a fulltime mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints to Belo Horizonte, Brazil. With the exception of marrying my wife, it remains the single most important decision I've ever made and brings me more satisfaction than any bestseller list.
Each of those career stops, even those that were odd and brief, taught me something about myself. I learned how to be a better employee and a better teammate. I learned what failure tasted like and how to take risks. But I also learned what risks not to take, and how to recognize the taste of success. Perhaps most importantly, I learned how to be a better me.
Admittedly, even my current and hopefully final career has had its share of failures. Some books connect with readers, some don't, and all I can do is to continue telling stories and hope I succeed more often than not, getting better each time.
So yes, I've had dozens of jobs, some ending wonderfully, some ending with failure, but each taught me to identify a new weakness and massage it into a strength.
If I hadn't failed, I never would have written Christmas Jars.
If I hadn't failed, I wouldn't be a New York Times Bestselling author.
If I hadn't failed, I wouldn't now live in one of the world's most beautiful places, the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia.
If I hadn't failed, I wouldn't be happy and at professional peace for the first time.
Please don't let the world convince you that failure isn't an option. Quite simply, nothing is too big to fail. Not even the guy in the Easter bunny costume.
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