Friday, November 26, 2010
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Wright Words: The holiday gratitude challenge
As a child there was only one thing I dreaded about Thanksgiving. It wasn't the juicy turkey, sumptuous stuffing, mashed potatoes, Waldorf salad, pies, more pies, and if I was well behaved, even more pies. No, nothing on the menu was dread-worthy.
What caused me heartburn wasn't anything that happened during the meal; it was something that happened right before the meal. I knew odds were high that my father would be the one to bless the food and give proper thanks.
I heard my father pray countless times growing up: over meals, in the car, at bedtime, at church, as Jack Nicklaus stood over a putt to win the Masters in 1986. But it was over Thanksgiving dinner that my father took the responsibility of saying grace to rare-air level. The prayer lasted so long that by the time we finally ate, most families were already enjoying their late-night turkey sandwiches. There was one year when Dad's Thanksgiving prayer went so long we went straight from the table to the Christmas tree to open gifts.
It was during those prayers that I learned to listen with my eyes closed. Or were they, Mother? Like a trapped prisoner looking through jailhouse bars, I peered through my thick eyelashes to make sure one of my siblings hadn't grabbed the hot roll over which I'd already shouted "dibs!"
Many years later, it's my turn to be the dad, and I've decided to launch my own approach. Throughout the holidays, at dinner every night until New Year's, we all say one thing we're thankful for.
There are only two rules to our Holiday Gratitude Challenge. You cannot repeat anything someone at the table has already said, and you cannot repeat any item from a previous day.
We started a few nights ago. It has been an interesting exercise to think of things we're grateful for that might not be so obvious.
I challenge you to take the Holiday Gratitude Challenge. If you do, you'll find low-hanging fruit in the first few days. After all, who isn't grateful for their family, their country, the scriptures, etc.? It's what comes next that really opens your eyes to the personalities of your children and, perhaps, to Mom and Dad.
I discovered that my wife is grateful for Steven Sasson, the mind and the man behind the first digital camera. That's probably not something that would've come up in the typical Thanksgiving Day prayer. But she feels genuine gratitude that someone brought cameras, digital and original, into the world and into our home.
She's right; just try thinking of life today without the camera.
As for me, my family learned that I am grateful for innovative genius Hans Riegel, creator of the gummy bear. No explanation required.
My oldest daughter is grateful for Steve Jobs and his ubiquitous iPod. Again, no explanation required.
Her younger sister is grateful for the art of origami. She's quite talented, and, if we let her, she'd build her own paper house in the backyard and move in immediately.
My 7-year-old son is grateful for his collection of little things. Little cars, little pins, little rocks, little treats he sneaks into his little pockets.
My youngest son, age 3, is grateful for Mr. Walt Disney and for the parents who brought him into the world. If Mickey Mouse had a Mouse Mom and a Mouse Dad, my little guy would be grateful for them, too.
What other things are we grateful for that don't automatically come to mind?
I am grateful for airplanes. Imagine a world where every time you needed to get from Va. to LA you had to hop in the car. Imagine the meetings you would miss, the family reunions never planned and the funerals with too few in the pews.
I am grateful for Gregory Orr, a poet and professor at the University of Virginia who inspired me to do what I do. He turned tragedy — having accidentally shot and killed his brother when he was young — into art by writing a series of stunning poems and later a gripping, gorgeous memoir. I am grateful for him and for his courage in sharing his story with the world.
I am also thankful for cell phones, hot water heaters, garage door openers, men and women in uniform, and Taco Bell.
I hope you and your family will take the Holiday Gratitude Challenge. You might be surprised at what things you rely on and how grateful you are for them.
Reminiscing on my own list reminds me that while my late-father's never-ending Thanksgiving Day prayers sure made my stomach growl, I'm enormously grateful for them, too. I wonder if wherever he is right now, he's still blessing last year's Thanksgiving Dinner.
I hope so.
What caused me heartburn wasn't anything that happened during the meal; it was something that happened right before the meal. I knew odds were high that my father would be the one to bless the food and give proper thanks.
I heard my father pray countless times growing up: over meals, in the car, at bedtime, at church, as Jack Nicklaus stood over a putt to win the Masters in 1986. But it was over Thanksgiving dinner that my father took the responsibility of saying grace to rare-air level. The prayer lasted so long that by the time we finally ate, most families were already enjoying their late-night turkey sandwiches. There was one year when Dad's Thanksgiving prayer went so long we went straight from the table to the Christmas tree to open gifts.
It was during those prayers that I learned to listen with my eyes closed. Or were they, Mother? Like a trapped prisoner looking through jailhouse bars, I peered through my thick eyelashes to make sure one of my siblings hadn't grabbed the hot roll over which I'd already shouted "dibs!"
Many years later, it's my turn to be the dad, and I've decided to launch my own approach. Throughout the holidays, at dinner every night until New Year's, we all say one thing we're thankful for.
There are only two rules to our Holiday Gratitude Challenge. You cannot repeat anything someone at the table has already said, and you cannot repeat any item from a previous day.
We started a few nights ago. It has been an interesting exercise to think of things we're grateful for that might not be so obvious.
I challenge you to take the Holiday Gratitude Challenge. If you do, you'll find low-hanging fruit in the first few days. After all, who isn't grateful for their family, their country, the scriptures, etc.? It's what comes next that really opens your eyes to the personalities of your children and, perhaps, to Mom and Dad.
I discovered that my wife is grateful for Steven Sasson, the mind and the man behind the first digital camera. That's probably not something that would've come up in the typical Thanksgiving Day prayer. But she feels genuine gratitude that someone brought cameras, digital and original, into the world and into our home.
She's right; just try thinking of life today without the camera.
As for me, my family learned that I am grateful for innovative genius Hans Riegel, creator of the gummy bear. No explanation required.
My oldest daughter is grateful for Steve Jobs and his ubiquitous iPod. Again, no explanation required.
Her younger sister is grateful for the art of origami. She's quite talented, and, if we let her, she'd build her own paper house in the backyard and move in immediately.
My 7-year-old son is grateful for his collection of little things. Little cars, little pins, little rocks, little treats he sneaks into his little pockets.
My youngest son, age 3, is grateful for Mr. Walt Disney and for the parents who brought him into the world. If Mickey Mouse had a Mouse Mom and a Mouse Dad, my little guy would be grateful for them, too.
What other things are we grateful for that don't automatically come to mind?
I am grateful for airplanes. Imagine a world where every time you needed to get from Va. to LA you had to hop in the car. Imagine the meetings you would miss, the family reunions never planned and the funerals with too few in the pews.
I am grateful for Gregory Orr, a poet and professor at the University of Virginia who inspired me to do what I do. He turned tragedy — having accidentally shot and killed his brother when he was young — into art by writing a series of stunning poems and later a gripping, gorgeous memoir. I am grateful for him and for his courage in sharing his story with the world.
I am also thankful for cell phones, hot water heaters, garage door openers, men and women in uniform, and Taco Bell.
I hope you and your family will take the Holiday Gratitude Challenge. You might be surprised at what things you rely on and how grateful you are for them.
Reminiscing on my own list reminds me that while my late-father's never-ending Thanksgiving Day prayers sure made my stomach growl, I'm enormously grateful for them, too. I wonder if wherever he is right now, he's still blessing last year's Thanksgiving Dinner.
I hope so.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Wright Words: The day my daughter slayed a dragon
People around me must be wondering why I'm getting misty-eyed so often these days. Blaming it on allergies or seeing "Secretariat" might be easier, but the truth tells me it's all about the upcoming birthday of my 11-year-old baby girl.
Twelve is a big birthday in the Wright House because it means baby-sitting gigs, pierced ears if she finds the courage, and a transition at church from the runny noses of Primary to the big, bold world of the Young Women organization.
All of it has her nervous about what awaits. It would have a me a bit anxious, too, except for my favorite memory from her first 11 years: The day she proved she could slay a dragon.
It was a Sunday like most others at our chapel in Oakton, Va. Good messages, lots of warm fellowship. But the speakers? They were unforgettable. Particularly a petite, beautiful young lady standing a hair under 4 feet tall. She was 7 years old.
As is custom in Primaries around the world held each week in more than 100 languages and in buildings of all shapes and sizes, precious children from age 3-11 take turns delivering short talks on basic gospel principles. These angels speak on faith, prayer, temples and families. The words are few, the messages pure.
My own angel was to speak on Heavenly Father's plan. It was not the first time she'd been assigned, but previous attempts were rather unsuccessful, sometimes in very dramatic fashion. If she'd been old enough for her own reality show, it would have been a hit.
There were the fake tummy aches, creatively imagined bug bites, and blank stares from the primary pulpit followed by sobs and a superglue grip on Mom or Dad. The misery always eased outside the room on a welcoming couch in the foyer. Each failure was heartbreaking for all who witnessed it.
When yet another assignment was issued by our Primary secretary — a kind woman with the patience of Job — the pretty, pink half-page flier with her handwritten topic was met with the requisite refusals and crocodile tears.
Speaking in church had become her dragon.
With much coaxing, and by coaxing I mean bribing, and by bribing I mean multiple trips to 7-Eleven, I convinced her to sit her on my lap mid-week, and together we drafted a three-sentence masterpiece. We printed two copies on our trusty Inkjet, one for her flower-embroidered, cloth scripture bag and one for her mother to carry as a backup — just in case.
In our pajamas we practiced the talk every night before bed. Each rehearsal ended with wild applause, hugs and tickles, and five familiar words: "You can slay this dragon!"
Sunday arrived and the drive to church featured yet another pep talk and promises of an extra Rice Krispies Treat after dinner. Though we'd seen this dragon win before, we were cautiously optimistic this was the day it fell.
Primary began on time and without incident. Gorgeous in her favorite dress, my trooper sat terrified in the chair draped with a yellow felt banner marked "TALK." To each side sat other children in the less frightening chairs marked "SCRIPTURE" and "PRAYER."
I stood in the back cradling my 1-year-old son. My older daughter, the one who'd already taken this dragon out and taught it never to return, sat in the first row with her arms folded, eyes fixed on her best friend and partner-in-crime. The increasingly fidgety children sang an opening song, followed by a rousing rendition of "You Had a Birthday, Shout Hurray!" aimed at two little blushing boys.
Cue my daughter. Cue the dragon.
My wife took her pale-faced daughter's hand and led her to the green-carpeted stool behind the pulpit. She stepped up, unfolded her 40-word talk, and looked out at the mass of curious kids and their teachers.
Before she'd scanned even half the room, she'd turned and buried her head in her mother's neck. Her gut-wrenching cries were picked up clearly by the nearby black gooseneck microphone.
My heart ached. I said a simple, short prayer and knew my other daughter was silently doing the same. I had impure thoughts about that nasty dragon lurking over her shoulder.
My angel, as we all are every day, was faced with an opportunity to bend to fear and wait for another day, or raise her head and cast all doubts and indecision out into the air around her, never to return.
The next 60 seconds are permanently archived in my mind like your favorite scene in your favorite movie. It is a unique, colorful memory like few others in my entire life.
This angel, this blessed child of God, swallowed hard, fixed her eyes squarely on the talk she'd long-ago memorized and delivered the best talk I've ever heard.
"Heavenly Father made a plan to live with him again. Sometimes we make good choices, sometimes we make bad choices. I know if we make good choices we can live with him again. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."
And down went the dragon! My eyes filled then and my eyes fill now reliving those sweet seconds.
After the closing prayer, my little hero ran to meet me in the back of the room. One by one teachers and classmates came to congratulate and hug the suddenly victorious public speaker. I cried, she cried, her mother beamed, and I made a note to call Toastmasters.
That night over a hot, gooey batch of Rice Krispies Treats eaten straight from the bowl, I realized that it is not life's major events that teach and build us up. It is the less ballyhooed, unexpected moments that shape our soul and can seal our future.
We read in Matthew, Chapter 18: "... Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven."
I can only hope to be so brave, so pure. I can only pray to be so worthy of his kingdom.
In a singular moment this tiny warrior stood up to the dragon she feared, trusted her Father in Heaven, and learned that she had the the power to slay it and never fear again.
So can the rest of us.
Twelve is a big birthday in the Wright House because it means baby-sitting gigs, pierced ears if she finds the courage, and a transition at church from the runny noses of Primary to the big, bold world of the Young Women organization.
All of it has her nervous about what awaits. It would have a me a bit anxious, too, except for my favorite memory from her first 11 years: The day she proved she could slay a dragon.
It was a Sunday like most others at our chapel in Oakton, Va. Good messages, lots of warm fellowship. But the speakers? They were unforgettable. Particularly a petite, beautiful young lady standing a hair under 4 feet tall. She was 7 years old.
As is custom in Primaries around the world held each week in more than 100 languages and in buildings of all shapes and sizes, precious children from age 3-11 take turns delivering short talks on basic gospel principles. These angels speak on faith, prayer, temples and families. The words are few, the messages pure.
My own angel was to speak on Heavenly Father's plan. It was not the first time she'd been assigned, but previous attempts were rather unsuccessful, sometimes in very dramatic fashion. If she'd been old enough for her own reality show, it would have been a hit.
There were the fake tummy aches, creatively imagined bug bites, and blank stares from the primary pulpit followed by sobs and a superglue grip on Mom or Dad. The misery always eased outside the room on a welcoming couch in the foyer. Each failure was heartbreaking for all who witnessed it.
When yet another assignment was issued by our Primary secretary — a kind woman with the patience of Job — the pretty, pink half-page flier with her handwritten topic was met with the requisite refusals and crocodile tears.
Speaking in church had become her dragon.
With much coaxing, and by coaxing I mean bribing, and by bribing I mean multiple trips to 7-Eleven, I convinced her to sit her on my lap mid-week, and together we drafted a three-sentence masterpiece. We printed two copies on our trusty Inkjet, one for her flower-embroidered, cloth scripture bag and one for her mother to carry as a backup — just in case.
In our pajamas we practiced the talk every night before bed. Each rehearsal ended with wild applause, hugs and tickles, and five familiar words: "You can slay this dragon!"
Sunday arrived and the drive to church featured yet another pep talk and promises of an extra Rice Krispies Treat after dinner. Though we'd seen this dragon win before, we were cautiously optimistic this was the day it fell.
Primary began on time and without incident. Gorgeous in her favorite dress, my trooper sat terrified in the chair draped with a yellow felt banner marked "TALK." To each side sat other children in the less frightening chairs marked "SCRIPTURE" and "PRAYER."
I stood in the back cradling my 1-year-old son. My older daughter, the one who'd already taken this dragon out and taught it never to return, sat in the first row with her arms folded, eyes fixed on her best friend and partner-in-crime. The increasingly fidgety children sang an opening song, followed by a rousing rendition of "You Had a Birthday, Shout Hurray!" aimed at two little blushing boys.
Cue my daughter. Cue the dragon.
My wife took her pale-faced daughter's hand and led her to the green-carpeted stool behind the pulpit. She stepped up, unfolded her 40-word talk, and looked out at the mass of curious kids and their teachers.
Before she'd scanned even half the room, she'd turned and buried her head in her mother's neck. Her gut-wrenching cries were picked up clearly by the nearby black gooseneck microphone.
My heart ached. I said a simple, short prayer and knew my other daughter was silently doing the same. I had impure thoughts about that nasty dragon lurking over her shoulder.
My angel, as we all are every day, was faced with an opportunity to bend to fear and wait for another day, or raise her head and cast all doubts and indecision out into the air around her, never to return.
The next 60 seconds are permanently archived in my mind like your favorite scene in your favorite movie. It is a unique, colorful memory like few others in my entire life.
This angel, this blessed child of God, swallowed hard, fixed her eyes squarely on the talk she'd long-ago memorized and delivered the best talk I've ever heard.
"Heavenly Father made a plan to live with him again. Sometimes we make good choices, sometimes we make bad choices. I know if we make good choices we can live with him again. In the name of Jesus Christ, Amen."
And down went the dragon! My eyes filled then and my eyes fill now reliving those sweet seconds.
After the closing prayer, my little hero ran to meet me in the back of the room. One by one teachers and classmates came to congratulate and hug the suddenly victorious public speaker. I cried, she cried, her mother beamed, and I made a note to call Toastmasters.
That night over a hot, gooey batch of Rice Krispies Treats eaten straight from the bowl, I realized that it is not life's major events that teach and build us up. It is the less ballyhooed, unexpected moments that shape our soul and can seal our future.
We read in Matthew, Chapter 18: "... Except ye be converted, and become as little children, ye shall not enter into the kingdom of heaven."
I can only hope to be so brave, so pure. I can only pray to be so worthy of his kingdom.
In a singular moment this tiny warrior stood up to the dragon she feared, trusted her Father in Heaven, and learned that she had the the power to slay it and never fear again.
So can the rest of us.
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Wright Words: Failing to follow my own advice
Hello! I begin with an apology for being such a cruddy blogger of late. I wish I could blame it on the new book, travel, my family, polio, etc. But the truth is I've just been a lousy blogger. Here's to being better!
Over the next few days I'll be catching up on posting my Wright Words columns. They appear weekly in the Deseret News, on Facebook, and soon (hopefully) in a syndicated column.
Here's my most recent. It's the most personal column yet. Hope you enjoy.
Wright Words: Failing to follow my own advice
A regretful experience this week has my emotions bleeding into nearly every waking thought. By the end of this column, I'm hopeful the deep regret will begin to bloom into resolution.
Weekly readers of Wright Words know that my most recent novel, "The Seventeen Second Miracle," is about the small things we do for one another every day that make a difference. It's not the great, dramatic sacrifices of time and talent that define us. It's those precious seconds or minutes when, without making excuses or checking our calendar, we perform a mini-miracle for someone.
I wish this column were about one of those miraculous experiences. Instead, it's about the regret and pain of an opportunity missed.
A few days ago I had a classic opportunity to perform a Seventeen Second Miracle. It was precisely the kind of miracle espoused in the book with my name on the cover. It was just the kind of thing my late-father, who inspired the book, would have done. In fact, as I sit at my desk, I can close my eyes and see him doing exactly what I didn't.
On the evening of Nov. 2, a local store hosted a book signing for me. The owners are dear friends; they are people I admire for their love of life, family and God.
Nov. 2 was also Election Day across the United States, and there is no day more exciting for a political junkie like me. The book signing was scheduled to end around the time polls on the East Coast closed, and I was anxious to get home to watch the results pour in.
Then the storeowner's phone rang.
The caller, a gentleman who was a friend of the owners and lived nearby, asked if I would consider stopping by his home after the event to meet his wife, Audrey. She'd long wanted to meet me but couldn't attend. Would I be willing to make that happen? She was a big fan, he insisted, and had read all my novels.
Audrey had a lot of time to read, it turns out. Battling breast cancer does that to a person.
I looked at the clock, realized I was already running late leaving the event and asked if I could come by another time. The storeowner handed me the phone, and I arranged to visit her three days later.
The entire ride home I told my wife how bad I felt about not taking a few minutes to visit her, about being selfish with my time and over my desire to watch votes tallied on television. Not badly enough to turn the car around, mind you, just enough to give voice to the thoughts.
I stayed up until 1:00 a.m. eating snacks, drinking my favorite soda and watching a dozen cable news talking heads slowly announce results from Virginia to Alaska.
Two days later my friend called to say Audrey had been taken to the hospital, and our meeting in her living room would need to be rescheduled.
This morning I found out Audrey would never see her living room again.
There aren't words in this language or any other to describe the remorse I feel at having passed up an opportunity to sit and chat with this woman. Not because it would have been some great honor for her, but because it would have been a great honor for me.
It was a miracle moment so custom made, an opportunity so ideally presented. It was what I'd spent months writing about and promoting in churches and schools across the country. It was the no-brainer opportunity of a lifetime to perform a small act of service without hesitating.
Except that I did hesitate.
And the opportunity was missed.
Later today I will send flowers and a note.
Later tonight I will sit on the edge of my bed and wonder.
Later this week I will attend Audrey's viewing, pay my respects and apologize to her husband.
But for now, I hope this moment teaches me that pain can be a blessing if we allow it to change us for good. Regret can be useful, but only if it lingers for a moment, not a lifetime.
My hope for today and for many days to come is that I will be able to turn a deep regret into a resolution, a resolution to never pass those moments by again. It will be my simple way of honoring a woman I never got to meet.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a book to read.
Over the next few days I'll be catching up on posting my Wright Words columns. They appear weekly in the Deseret News, on Facebook, and soon (hopefully) in a syndicated column.
Here's my most recent. It's the most personal column yet. Hope you enjoy.
Wright Words: Failing to follow my own advice
A regretful experience this week has my emotions bleeding into nearly every waking thought. By the end of this column, I'm hopeful the deep regret will begin to bloom into resolution.
Weekly readers of Wright Words know that my most recent novel, "The Seventeen Second Miracle," is about the small things we do for one another every day that make a difference. It's not the great, dramatic sacrifices of time and talent that define us. It's those precious seconds or minutes when, without making excuses or checking our calendar, we perform a mini-miracle for someone.
I wish this column were about one of those miraculous experiences. Instead, it's about the regret and pain of an opportunity missed.
A few days ago I had a classic opportunity to perform a Seventeen Second Miracle. It was precisely the kind of miracle espoused in the book with my name on the cover. It was just the kind of thing my late-father, who inspired the book, would have done. In fact, as I sit at my desk, I can close my eyes and see him doing exactly what I didn't.
On the evening of Nov. 2, a local store hosted a book signing for me. The owners are dear friends; they are people I admire for their love of life, family and God.
Nov. 2 was also Election Day across the United States, and there is no day more exciting for a political junkie like me. The book signing was scheduled to end around the time polls on the East Coast closed, and I was anxious to get home to watch the results pour in.
Then the storeowner's phone rang.
The caller, a gentleman who was a friend of the owners and lived nearby, asked if I would consider stopping by his home after the event to meet his wife, Audrey. She'd long wanted to meet me but couldn't attend. Would I be willing to make that happen? She was a big fan, he insisted, and had read all my novels.
Audrey had a lot of time to read, it turns out. Battling breast cancer does that to a person.
I looked at the clock, realized I was already running late leaving the event and asked if I could come by another time. The storeowner handed me the phone, and I arranged to visit her three days later.
The entire ride home I told my wife how bad I felt about not taking a few minutes to visit her, about being selfish with my time and over my desire to watch votes tallied on television. Not badly enough to turn the car around, mind you, just enough to give voice to the thoughts.
I stayed up until 1:00 a.m. eating snacks, drinking my favorite soda and watching a dozen cable news talking heads slowly announce results from Virginia to Alaska.
Two days later my friend called to say Audrey had been taken to the hospital, and our meeting in her living room would need to be rescheduled.
This morning I found out Audrey would never see her living room again.
There aren't words in this language or any other to describe the remorse I feel at having passed up an opportunity to sit and chat with this woman. Not because it would have been some great honor for her, but because it would have been a great honor for me.
It was a miracle moment so custom made, an opportunity so ideally presented. It was what I'd spent months writing about and promoting in churches and schools across the country. It was the no-brainer opportunity of a lifetime to perform a small act of service without hesitating.
Except that I did hesitate.
And the opportunity was missed.
Later today I will send flowers and a note.
Later tonight I will sit on the edge of my bed and wonder.
Later this week I will attend Audrey's viewing, pay my respects and apologize to her husband.
But for now, I hope this moment teaches me that pain can be a blessing if we allow it to change us for good. Regret can be useful, but only if it lingers for a moment, not a lifetime.
My hope for today and for many days to come is that I will be able to turn a deep regret into a resolution, a resolution to never pass those moments by again. It will be my simple way of honoring a woman I never got to meet.
Now, if you will excuse me, I have a book to read.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Some e-mails are meant to be shared
Some e-mails are just too good to keep all to myself. This one will have me smiling for weeks. Hope you enjoy it, too. Her enthusiasm is infectious!
I bet you receive countless stories about Christmas Jars or Wednesday Letters, even about Cross Gardeners. My note to you is different, I hope.
My husband and I love adventure and often find it with our three children in tow. My dearest love had our 2009 summer vacation planned, that meant we were hittin' the road and I needed a good read.
Off to my Wal-Mart I went, and what did I find... The Wednesday Letters! I looked it over, liked what I read and bounced off to buy it. Well, in my mind I bounced off, I forget I'm in my mid-30s sometimes.
Back on June 25, 2009 my husband and I, with our three children, hopped in the truck and headed north out of Georgia. My darling husband had the miles mapped out and reservations set. Our first stop would be Natural Bridge, VA. We love nature and natural formations and a stop at a natural bridge was a must. Somehow we made it up to VA in lightning speed, or perhaps it was simply because I was absorbed with my latest read.
That first night we stayed in Harrisonburg, VA. As I read my novel I became aware, quite quickly, that I was IN my book. It was the oddest feeling. I shared so much with my husband about the novel and the correlation between it and where we were. Little did I know, it would be even more intense for me.
June 26th we woke up ready to take on our next planned attraction. We headed out of Harrisonburg, and with eager anticipation we went on our way to Luray Caverns. As my husband navigated his way I slipped back into my novel, The Wednesday Letters.
Not before long I looked up and found us at an intersection in a cute little town. My husband was unsure of which way to go, and since we are so cliche, he didn't ask for directions or look at a map and I pointed us in whatever direction my woman's intuition led me. We took a left and headed on our way to what we thought was the way to Luray Caverns.
With my book in my lap I saw a sign, OH MY GOODNESS, we were in New Market! Seeing that alone got me revved up and I gave my husband quite the earful with more stories of Malcolm and his trials.
We drove along and then I saw a sign for Mount Jackson. I was close to jumping out of my skin. At that point I could care less about Luray Caverns or anything else going on around me.
We continued to head north and I took in the beautiful vista all around me, I was in the Shenandoah Valley and I was so happy.
I had my book clutched to my chest as we rolled into Edinburgh. I knew in my heart that we were going the wrong way, away from the caverns, but I also knew the name of the town that just lied to the north. I didn't need a map and the feeling I had inside me was indescribable.
I headed into a gas station and asked for directions to the caverns, after hopping back in the truck and telling my husband we had to turn around, I also told him about the story that unfolded right to the north of where we were.
The next town to the north was Woodstock, a town I knew in my head, where I knew about the inn, the residents and the scenery.
As we drove back south, away from Woodstock I felt a peace, because I knew I had already been there, even if just in my mind.
Can we say irony? How is it that just days before my trip through the Shenandoah Valley I pick up a book that is set in that very place? How is it that without even meaning to, we got lost right in the very same area where the book is set?
It's a feeling and experience I will never fully find the words to explain but I think it's one of the most amazing ironies I've ever experienced.
Thank you Mr. Wright, for giving me a reading experience like no other!
Michelle Lynch
Loganville, Georgia
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
Wright Words: No, I can’t introduce you to Glenn Beck
Every single week someone writes, calls, texts, or flies an airplane banner over my home asking if I can facilitate an introduction to Glenn Beck.
The requests are typically based on the fact that Jason Wright is a Mormon, Glenn Beck is a Mormon, and I’ve been on his show. Naturally we must be BFF’s, right?
Usually people wanting my access to Glenn have a new book coming out, a just-finished manuscript in search of a publisher, or maybe a line of cotton aprons with conservative slogans plastered on the front with a Bedazzeler.
Other times they just want to say they’ve shaken his hand or talked to him on the phone. One ‘friend’ even wanted me to invite Glenn to a surprise birthday party in Dallas. And by ‘friend’ I mean we met on Facebook when he threw a Sheep at me.
These requests come from all corners of the country. A woman in Virginia asked me to tell Glenn she prefers him in his blue sweater and to wear it more often. A man from Oregon suggested Glenn put a ‘cussin jar’ on the set to encourage him to keep his language under control.
One request came all the way from Australia. After catching me on Glenn’s program, a woman e-mailed this gem: ‘Please tell Mr. Beck someone from the Outback thinks he’s an idiot.’ No Mate, I didn’t pass that one along, but I think of you every time I eat a Bloomin’ Onion.
It’s not that I’m annoyed by these requests; I just don’t understand them. Somehow these well-meaning folks assume Glenn and I play golf every Friday and have cart races on the 18th fairway. It’s simply not true.
What is true is that Glenn is a friend. We met in 2005 when Christmas Jars was still a speck on the national radar and nowhere near a New York Times bestseller. Before the book was even in stores, my publisher sent Glenn an advance readers’ copy (ARC) with a note requesting he give it a look and consider endorsing or discussing it on the air. But that’s hardly unusual. Like most publishers, they send ARC’s to all sorts of media personalities from Beck to Lauer and from Regis to Ellen. That first year, we were so desperate we probably sent one to Handy Manny.
Weeks passed without word from anyone and we assumed the book was lost somewhere in the giant pile Glenn and his counterparts receive each month.
Then the phone rang. A week before Christmas a cousin called and suggested I turn on my radio because Glenn was discussing my book. No, he wasn’t just discussing it, he was reading from it. He read nearly the entire first chapter and gushed about it with enthusiasm even the ShamWow guy would envy.
The next day I called his radio show, introduced myself, and Glenn graciously endorsed the book once again on the air. He told his listeners that the previous Friday someone from his radio staff had begged him to take home a book for the weekend and make progress on the stack of ARC’s awaiting his attention. He gave the tower of books a quick scan and pulled out the thinnest, having faith it was something he could actually finish by Monday morning. There’s no other way to put it: That good fortune changed my life.
A year later he invited me to join him on his television show to share some of the true Christmas Jars miracles I’d heard since the book’s release.
Another year later he read and endorsed The Wednesday Letters, again inviting me on television and radio. Then came Recovering Charles, which Glenn again praised and promoted with me at his side.
In 2008, Glenn asked me to co-write The Christmas Sweater and I was fortunate to spend time on the phone and in-person hearing his personal story and his vision for sharing it with the world. It remains a highlight of my writing career.
Last year Glenn made time in a very busy season to again discuss the Christmas Jars movement on his radio and TV programs. I spent the day in his offices, soaking up the energy and capturing as many memories as I could. At one point during a one-on-one discussion in his office, I actually became emotional discussing a personal trial. He hugged me and offered words of encouragement. It was a tender moment I hold dear.
Since first meeting Glenn, he’s become a national phenomenon. There was a time I could get him on the phone, but that’s become a near impossible task for all but his closest associates. There were many days he replied to my e-mails, now he must receive more e-mails everyday than I receive in a year.
Even his staff, the most loyal bunch I’ve ever encountered, is much harder to communicate with. But such are the challenges and realities of being the #3 most popular radio show in the country, a TV mega star, and a publishing machine. As his star has grown, the protective layers around him have understandably multiplied and thickened.
Obviously I understand the desire to connect to Glenn Beck. I owe him a great deal and I readily acknowledge I wouldn’t be where I am today without him. Love him or hate him, his clout in the publishing marketplace is colossal. When Glenn mentions, endorses or interviews an author, he moves books like no one but Oprah, the original kingmaker.
I were as successful and visible as Glenn, would I want my friends constantly using our friendship as an entre for everyone who needs my time or name on the back of their book? Would I resent the fact that being friends with Jason means he’ll bombard me with every next-big-thing that hits his in-box? I’ll never know, but I can certainly imagine.
No, I can’t introduce you to Glenn Beck. But I like you and I’m glad we’re friends/acquaintances/neighbors/complete strangers. What I can do is invite you to watch his show, listen to his radio program, read his books, and enjoy everything his growing empire has to offer.
If you have a book, CD or other creation to promote and it’s something in Glenn’s wheelhouse, Google his address at Fox News in New York and send it to him. Trust me, it’s worth a shot.
Finally, I promise that if Glenn and I ever race those golf carts, I’ll tell him you prefer the blue sweater.
The requests are typically based on the fact that Jason Wright is a Mormon, Glenn Beck is a Mormon, and I’ve been on his show. Naturally we must be BFF’s, right?
Usually people wanting my access to Glenn have a new book coming out, a just-finished manuscript in search of a publisher, or maybe a line of cotton aprons with conservative slogans plastered on the front with a Bedazzeler.
Other times they just want to say they’ve shaken his hand or talked to him on the phone. One ‘friend’ even wanted me to invite Glenn to a surprise birthday party in Dallas. And by ‘friend’ I mean we met on Facebook when he threw a Sheep at me.
These requests come from all corners of the country. A woman in Virginia asked me to tell Glenn she prefers him in his blue sweater and to wear it more often. A man from Oregon suggested Glenn put a ‘cussin jar’ on the set to encourage him to keep his language under control.
One request came all the way from Australia. After catching me on Glenn’s program, a woman e-mailed this gem: ‘Please tell Mr. Beck someone from the Outback thinks he’s an idiot.’ No Mate, I didn’t pass that one along, but I think of you every time I eat a Bloomin’ Onion.
It’s not that I’m annoyed by these requests; I just don’t understand them. Somehow these well-meaning folks assume Glenn and I play golf every Friday and have cart races on the 18th fairway. It’s simply not true.
What is true is that Glenn is a friend. We met in 2005 when Christmas Jars was still a speck on the national radar and nowhere near a New York Times bestseller. Before the book was even in stores, my publisher sent Glenn an advance readers’ copy (ARC) with a note requesting he give it a look and consider endorsing or discussing it on the air. But that’s hardly unusual. Like most publishers, they send ARC’s to all sorts of media personalities from Beck to Lauer and from Regis to Ellen. That first year, we were so desperate we probably sent one to Handy Manny.
Weeks passed without word from anyone and we assumed the book was lost somewhere in the giant pile Glenn and his counterparts receive each month.
Then the phone rang. A week before Christmas a cousin called and suggested I turn on my radio because Glenn was discussing my book. No, he wasn’t just discussing it, he was reading from it. He read nearly the entire first chapter and gushed about it with enthusiasm even the ShamWow guy would envy.
The next day I called his radio show, introduced myself, and Glenn graciously endorsed the book once again on the air. He told his listeners that the previous Friday someone from his radio staff had begged him to take home a book for the weekend and make progress on the stack of ARC’s awaiting his attention. He gave the tower of books a quick scan and pulled out the thinnest, having faith it was something he could actually finish by Monday morning. There’s no other way to put it: That good fortune changed my life.
A year later he invited me to join him on his television show to share some of the true Christmas Jars miracles I’d heard since the book’s release.
Another year later he read and endorsed The Wednesday Letters, again inviting me on television and radio. Then came Recovering Charles, which Glenn again praised and promoted with me at his side.
In 2008, Glenn asked me to co-write The Christmas Sweater and I was fortunate to spend time on the phone and in-person hearing his personal story and his vision for sharing it with the world. It remains a highlight of my writing career.
Last year Glenn made time in a very busy season to again discuss the Christmas Jars movement on his radio and TV programs. I spent the day in his offices, soaking up the energy and capturing as many memories as I could. At one point during a one-on-one discussion in his office, I actually became emotional discussing a personal trial. He hugged me and offered words of encouragement. It was a tender moment I hold dear.
Since first meeting Glenn, he’s become a national phenomenon. There was a time I could get him on the phone, but that’s become a near impossible task for all but his closest associates. There were many days he replied to my e-mails, now he must receive more e-mails everyday than I receive in a year.
Even his staff, the most loyal bunch I’ve ever encountered, is much harder to communicate with. But such are the challenges and realities of being the #3 most popular radio show in the country, a TV mega star, and a publishing machine. As his star has grown, the protective layers around him have understandably multiplied and thickened.
Obviously I understand the desire to connect to Glenn Beck. I owe him a great deal and I readily acknowledge I wouldn’t be where I am today without him. Love him or hate him, his clout in the publishing marketplace is colossal. When Glenn mentions, endorses or interviews an author, he moves books like no one but Oprah, the original kingmaker.
I were as successful and visible as Glenn, would I want my friends constantly using our friendship as an entre for everyone who needs my time or name on the back of their book? Would I resent the fact that being friends with Jason means he’ll bombard me with every next-big-thing that hits his in-box? I’ll never know, but I can certainly imagine.
No, I can’t introduce you to Glenn Beck. But I like you and I’m glad we’re friends/acquaintances/neighbors/complete strangers. What I can do is invite you to watch his show, listen to his radio program, read his books, and enjoy everything his growing empire has to offer.
If you have a book, CD or other creation to promote and it’s something in Glenn’s wheelhouse, Google his address at Fox News in New York and send it to him. Trust me, it’s worth a shot.
Finally, I promise that if Glenn and I ever race those golf carts, I’ll tell him you prefer the blue sweater.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Wright Words: What is a Seventeen Second Miracle?
At long last, The Seventeen Second Miracle isn't just a crazy idea floating around my head. It's finally a novel available in bookstores around the country. I've said this before, but there's nothing quite like "Release Week" for an author.
Of course the book is also available online at these web sites:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Borders
Books-a-Million
So what is a Seventeen Second Miracle?
You're in line at Wal-Mart with enough groceries in your cart to feed the mouths and wipe the noses of everyone living within 50 miles. In fact, your cart is so heavy the wheels haven’t been spinning since the produce department. And if you stack one more Charleston Chew on the mound of groceries, someone from OSHA will appear and demand you wear a back brace while checking out.
Meanwhile, behind you in line, there's a guy buying the travel-size version of Connect Four, a box of Pop Tarts, and a single Yoo-hoo.
Just as you set your first item on the belt you glance backward and notice him. You smile and say, “Sir? Would you like to jump ahead?"
His mouth says, "Well, OK, I guess, if you're sure, why thank you." But his mind says, "Sweet Granola, yes! Thanks, lady!"
You, dear shopper, have just performed a Seventeen Second Miracle.
You and your family are walking into a restaurant or your favorite fast food spot and you see an elderly person eating alone. You ask if they'd like some company and they say yes.
You, fine diner, just performed a Seventeen Second Miracle.
You opened a door for someone? That’s also a Seventeen Second Miracle.
Befriended the new kid at school? There’s another.
Loan someone $5 for lunch? You get the picture. There are opportunities to perform daily miracles all around us. But are we seeing them?
I was fortunate to grow up in a home with a father was constantly looked for opportunities to serve others. Hardly a day passed without him performing some unscheduled act of kindness, some Seventeen Second Miracle for someone in his path.
Earlier this year I set out to write a novel that could give life to these acts of service, these daily miracles. I based the novel in my hometown, Charlottesville, Virginia, and unfolded the action on the same streets and around the familiar landmarks where I saw my father perform countless service miracles.
The novel, of course, is a work of fiction and my father never referred to his knack for service as Seventeen Second Miracles. And, frankly, if he were alive today to give me an earful, he probably would. He didn’t live his life for credit or accolades.
So why seventeen seconds? I’ve come to believe that in many cases that’s all it takes to change the course of someone’s day. Too often we think of how life can turn tragic in a matter of seconds: Car accidents, drownings, bad news from the doctor. But can’t life also turn for the better in the same blink of an eye?
Opening a door takes five seconds, saying hello to the new kid might take ten, and changing a tire might just take twenty minutes. But those are the very best kinds of service. No grade, no ribbon, no certificate. You get nothing but the sweet satisfaction that this time, at least on this occasion, you had your eyes open.
I like to say that with each book I’ve written I’ve taught myself something I’ve long needed to learn. In crafting The Seventeen Second Miracle, I learned that life isn’t so much about the grand organized service projects we undertake at church, school, or in our neighborhoods. They have their value, naturally, but I think a long life’s quilt is made up of much smaller pieces. It’s those few seconds here and there each and everyday that define who we are.
I wish I could say I’m the perfect ambassador for the Seventeen Second Miracle. I’m not. I’m simply thankful that I’m surrounded by generous people who are far greater examples of the power of simple service than I’ll ever be. If my parents, my wife, and my siblings all play professionally in the service big leagues, unceasing in their desire to lighten someone’s burden, then I’m in the pee wee division just hoping someone brought the juice boxes and fruit snacks. Yes, I’ve got a long, long way to go.
Now as I embark on another book tour I’m excited to meet people from Salt Lake to Charlottesville and to hear their experiences. Call them what you like, but every single one of us has been the beneficiary of a daily miracle, a moment of unexpected kindness from someone living their life with their eyes wide open.
So the challenge is this: Will you pledge to perform a daily Seventeen Second Miracle?
Of course the book is also available online at these web sites:
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Borders
Books-a-Million
So what is a Seventeen Second Miracle?
You're in line at Wal-Mart with enough groceries in your cart to feed the mouths and wipe the noses of everyone living within 50 miles. In fact, your cart is so heavy the wheels haven’t been spinning since the produce department. And if you stack one more Charleston Chew on the mound of groceries, someone from OSHA will appear and demand you wear a back brace while checking out.
Meanwhile, behind you in line, there's a guy buying the travel-size version of Connect Four, a box of Pop Tarts, and a single Yoo-hoo.
Just as you set your first item on the belt you glance backward and notice him. You smile and say, “Sir? Would you like to jump ahead?"
His mouth says, "Well, OK, I guess, if you're sure, why thank you." But his mind says, "Sweet Granola, yes! Thanks, lady!"
You, dear shopper, have just performed a Seventeen Second Miracle.
You and your family are walking into a restaurant or your favorite fast food spot and you see an elderly person eating alone. You ask if they'd like some company and they say yes.
You, fine diner, just performed a Seventeen Second Miracle.
You opened a door for someone? That’s also a Seventeen Second Miracle.
Befriended the new kid at school? There’s another.
Loan someone $5 for lunch? You get the picture. There are opportunities to perform daily miracles all around us. But are we seeing them?
I was fortunate to grow up in a home with a father was constantly looked for opportunities to serve others. Hardly a day passed without him performing some unscheduled act of kindness, some Seventeen Second Miracle for someone in his path.
Earlier this year I set out to write a novel that could give life to these acts of service, these daily miracles. I based the novel in my hometown, Charlottesville, Virginia, and unfolded the action on the same streets and around the familiar landmarks where I saw my father perform countless service miracles.
The novel, of course, is a work of fiction and my father never referred to his knack for service as Seventeen Second Miracles. And, frankly, if he were alive today to give me an earful, he probably would. He didn’t live his life for credit or accolades.
So why seventeen seconds? I’ve come to believe that in many cases that’s all it takes to change the course of someone’s day. Too often we think of how life can turn tragic in a matter of seconds: Car accidents, drownings, bad news from the doctor. But can’t life also turn for the better in the same blink of an eye?
Opening a door takes five seconds, saying hello to the new kid might take ten, and changing a tire might just take twenty minutes. But those are the very best kinds of service. No grade, no ribbon, no certificate. You get nothing but the sweet satisfaction that this time, at least on this occasion, you had your eyes open.
I like to say that with each book I’ve written I’ve taught myself something I’ve long needed to learn. In crafting The Seventeen Second Miracle, I learned that life isn’t so much about the grand organized service projects we undertake at church, school, or in our neighborhoods. They have their value, naturally, but I think a long life’s quilt is made up of much smaller pieces. It’s those few seconds here and there each and everyday that define who we are.
I wish I could say I’m the perfect ambassador for the Seventeen Second Miracle. I’m not. I’m simply thankful that I’m surrounded by generous people who are far greater examples of the power of simple service than I’ll ever be. If my parents, my wife, and my siblings all play professionally in the service big leagues, unceasing in their desire to lighten someone’s burden, then I’m in the pee wee division just hoping someone brought the juice boxes and fruit snacks. Yes, I’ve got a long, long way to go.
Now as I embark on another book tour I’m excited to meet people from Salt Lake to Charlottesville and to hear their experiences. Call them what you like, but every single one of us has been the beneficiary of a daily miracle, a moment of unexpected kindness from someone living their life with their eyes wide open.
So the challenge is this: Will you pledge to perform a daily Seventeen Second Miracle?
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Wright Words: Saying 'yes' to the green toy ball meetings
I love most Sunday afternoons.
There is nothing quite like coming home after church and knowing that until Monday morning, if you choose, the world exists exclusively inside your home.
Like many of you, we don't shop or eat out on Sundays, and we generally stay close to home base.
Sometimes we'll travel to visit a relative or share dinner with family or friends, but even in those activities, we do our best to treat it as a day of rest. Admittedly, we're not always successful, but we recognize our failures and constantly work toward a better understanding and a tighter embrace of the Sabbath. After years of far-too-casual treatment of his day, it's become a high priority for our family.
If you're actively involved in any church, you know that Sundays are not always strictly for worship. They're also a common day for the administration of church affairs. There are often planning or finance meetings, myriad committees, scheduling sessions and more.
The business of doing God's work, no matter your religion, unavoidably requires us to dip our foot in the world's pool of paperwork, assignments and administration.
My current volunteer assignment in the LDS Church is to serve as the president of the young men's organization covering 11 congregations in the Winchester, Va., area. Every week I have the opportunity to meet, fellowship and teach young men 12 to 18 years old in wonderful places like Woodstock, Front Royal and Berryville. I've never had so much fun serving in church.
This particular assignment, like many others, requires a number of meetings to ensure the needs of the young men in our area are being met.
Are they growing closer to their Heavenly Father? Are they being spiritually fed each week in their respective congregations? What can we, as leaders, do to enhance their growth as men in the gospel of Jesus Christ?
These meetings, held at least once a month, also cover the nuts and bolts of leadership. What activities might we share with the young women?
Who's planning the barbecue next week? Who's designing the poster? Who's inviting the speaker to our next youth conference? Who should be assigned to this or that new committee?
These are important decisions made in important meetings by people with important responsibilities. These sessions are usually enjoyable and productive. I value them and the people who sacrifice to attend.
On a recent Sunday, my family returned from church with fewer scars than normal. There was no pushing, biting or screaming. No animal cracker wars. No shoes tossed three pews forward. It was a complete, and rare, peaceful and successful trip to worship in the church we love so dearly.
After mom's famous nachos for lunch and a quick discussion about the busy week ahead — we call it Family Council in the tradition of my own mom and dad — the kids disappeared to read, color, play with toys, etc.
My youngest went to his room to play with his treasure-of-the-moment, a green toy ball he'd been carrying and sleeping with for days.
As for my wife and me, we found ourselves sitting in the living room rehashing the morning at church and enjoying the unusually quiet Sabbath afternoon.
Then I looked at my watch.
"You have a meeting today, don't you?" she asked.
Sigh. "I do."
"All the way at the chapel in Winchester?" It was another question she already knew the answer to. She also knew very well it's a 40-minute round-trip drive.
"Yep."
"You need to be there?"
"I do."
And with that I stood up, slowly retied my tie, and trudged back upstairs to retrieve the suit coat I'd tossed upon the bed.
Then it happened.
As I walked back out of my room, my 3-year-old son met me in the doorway. He was wearing his favorite crocodile shirt with red flannel snapping jaws and green shorts. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"I have a meeting, bud."
"A meeting?"
"Yes, a church meeting. I'll be home tonight."
Then with pure childlike innocence he pulled his green toy ball from his pocket and said, "But there's a meeting in my room, Daddy."
"There is?" The lump in my throat felt like an 8-pound bowling ball.
"Yes," he said. "It's a green toy ball meeting. And it's reaaaaaally important."
Ouch. Make that 12 pounds.
I knelt down and he opened his skinny fingers, one of them sticky with leftover nacho cheese. In his palm he held his prized green toy ball.
Looking back, I sure wish I'd said something profound. Instead, with tears racing to form drops and a pit in my stomach, I simply gave him a hug and promised to be home by bedtime. Then I closed his fingers back around the ball, patted his lowered head and sank down the stairs.
Ten minutes later, I rolled out of the driveway and headed to a meeting I hardly remember attending. I'm sure it was productive, and I'm sure important decisions were made.
I've thought of that afternoon almost every afternoon since. I love my church responsibilities and the opportunities I have to serve the Lord and the youths around me. Serving them brings me closer to him. Of that I have no doubt.
But what happens when the meetings and planning and planning more meetings becomes more important than the people we serve? At what point do I — or you — allow those we love the most to become low priority items on life's agenda?
I love the Lord. I love his gospel. I love the people with whom I worship every week. I'm especially grateful for the amazing young men I work so closely with and for whom I pray for their success and well-being.
But in the very end, when the meetings have concluded and the benedictions have been said, when the only one across the table is the Judge, the Holy One, the Redeemer of Mankind, I suspect my attendance at the administrative councils of life and religion will matter much less than the number of times I said "yes" to the green toy ball meetings.
I can't wait for the next one.
There is nothing quite like coming home after church and knowing that until Monday morning, if you choose, the world exists exclusively inside your home.
Like many of you, we don't shop or eat out on Sundays, and we generally stay close to home base.
Sometimes we'll travel to visit a relative or share dinner with family or friends, but even in those activities, we do our best to treat it as a day of rest. Admittedly, we're not always successful, but we recognize our failures and constantly work toward a better understanding and a tighter embrace of the Sabbath. After years of far-too-casual treatment of his day, it's become a high priority for our family.
If you're actively involved in any church, you know that Sundays are not always strictly for worship. They're also a common day for the administration of church affairs. There are often planning or finance meetings, myriad committees, scheduling sessions and more.
The business of doing God's work, no matter your religion, unavoidably requires us to dip our foot in the world's pool of paperwork, assignments and administration.
My current volunteer assignment in the LDS Church is to serve as the president of the young men's organization covering 11 congregations in the Winchester, Va., area. Every week I have the opportunity to meet, fellowship and teach young men 12 to 18 years old in wonderful places like Woodstock, Front Royal and Berryville. I've never had so much fun serving in church.
This particular assignment, like many others, requires a number of meetings to ensure the needs of the young men in our area are being met.
Are they growing closer to their Heavenly Father? Are they being spiritually fed each week in their respective congregations? What can we, as leaders, do to enhance their growth as men in the gospel of Jesus Christ?
These meetings, held at least once a month, also cover the nuts and bolts of leadership. What activities might we share with the young women?
Who's planning the barbecue next week? Who's designing the poster? Who's inviting the speaker to our next youth conference? Who should be assigned to this or that new committee?
These are important decisions made in important meetings by people with important responsibilities. These sessions are usually enjoyable and productive. I value them and the people who sacrifice to attend.
On a recent Sunday, my family returned from church with fewer scars than normal. There was no pushing, biting or screaming. No animal cracker wars. No shoes tossed three pews forward. It was a complete, and rare, peaceful and successful trip to worship in the church we love so dearly.
After mom's famous nachos for lunch and a quick discussion about the busy week ahead — we call it Family Council in the tradition of my own mom and dad — the kids disappeared to read, color, play with toys, etc.
My youngest went to his room to play with his treasure-of-the-moment, a green toy ball he'd been carrying and sleeping with for days.
As for my wife and me, we found ourselves sitting in the living room rehashing the morning at church and enjoying the unusually quiet Sabbath afternoon.
Then I looked at my watch.
"You have a meeting today, don't you?" she asked.
Sigh. "I do."
"All the way at the chapel in Winchester?" It was another question she already knew the answer to. She also knew very well it's a 40-minute round-trip drive.
"Yep."
"You need to be there?"
"I do."
And with that I stood up, slowly retied my tie, and trudged back upstairs to retrieve the suit coat I'd tossed upon the bed.
Then it happened.
As I walked back out of my room, my 3-year-old son met me in the doorway. He was wearing his favorite crocodile shirt with red flannel snapping jaws and green shorts. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"I have a meeting, bud."
"A meeting?"
"Yes, a church meeting. I'll be home tonight."
Then with pure childlike innocence he pulled his green toy ball from his pocket and said, "But there's a meeting in my room, Daddy."
"There is?" The lump in my throat felt like an 8-pound bowling ball.
"Yes," he said. "It's a green toy ball meeting. And it's reaaaaaally important."
Ouch. Make that 12 pounds.
I knelt down and he opened his skinny fingers, one of them sticky with leftover nacho cheese. In his palm he held his prized green toy ball.
Looking back, I sure wish I'd said something profound. Instead, with tears racing to form drops and a pit in my stomach, I simply gave him a hug and promised to be home by bedtime. Then I closed his fingers back around the ball, patted his lowered head and sank down the stairs.
Ten minutes later, I rolled out of the driveway and headed to a meeting I hardly remember attending. I'm sure it was productive, and I'm sure important decisions were made.
I've thought of that afternoon almost every afternoon since. I love my church responsibilities and the opportunities I have to serve the Lord and the youths around me. Serving them brings me closer to him. Of that I have no doubt.
But what happens when the meetings and planning and planning more meetings becomes more important than the people we serve? At what point do I — or you — allow those we love the most to become low priority items on life's agenda?
I love the Lord. I love his gospel. I love the people with whom I worship every week. I'm especially grateful for the amazing young men I work so closely with and for whom I pray for their success and well-being.
But in the very end, when the meetings have concluded and the benedictions have been said, when the only one across the table is the Judge, the Holy One, the Redeemer of Mankind, I suspect my attendance at the administrative councils of life and religion will matter much less than the number of times I said "yes" to the green toy ball meetings.
I can't wait for the next one.
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Guess the number, win a copy of The Seventeen Second Miracle
Inside this jar are wrist bands that say, "I believe in the Seventeen Second Miracle." (click on image to enlarge)
Guess how many bands are in the jar. Closest to the actual number (without going over) wins a book and a band. Be sure to include name and city/state.
Check back tomorrow for results. Good luck!
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Want an advance copy of SSM?
To celebrate my Seventeenth Anniversary during the month the Seventeen Second Miracle is released, let's give away another advance copy of the book.
In the comments below, tell me in exactly seventeen words why you deserve the advance, VIP copy. Good luck!
As always, include your first name, city and state. (Those don't count against your 17 words.)
In the comments below, tell me in exactly seventeen words why you deserve the advance, VIP copy. Good luck!
As always, include your first name, city and state. (Those don't count against your 17 words.)
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
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