So cue that song up and sing the lyrics below. Feel free to pass this along; I’d love to see someone actually set it to music and sing it.

Speaker of the House

Welcome good sir,
lay yourself down,
and tell us please what level of brown.

Spray-on’s no good,
won’t last too long,
a real tan will always make you look strong.

Seldom do you see,
Ohio boys so tan,
a gent of strange intent, with no helpful plan.

Speaker of the House,
doling out the smarm,
ready with a handshake and an open palm.

Tells a fishy tale,
weeps a little tear,
takes a stance that thrives upon the people’s fear.

Glad to do his pals a favor,
doing what’s been always done.
Cause for libs and cons alike, the status quo’s really quite fun.

Speaker of the House,
keeper of the zoo,
ready to relieve us of a right or two.

Oppose laws on this day,
support them on the next,
at least he doesn’t send naked pictures over text.

Everybody loves the congress,
everybody wants them out.
Tanned and suited nicely, they’ve got us in a rut.

Speaker of the House,
will not break his pledge,
will not steer the bus but drive it off the ledge.

Servant to the rich,
Deaf ear to the rest,
Trust him that he always knows just what is best.

Thinks he’s got a good idea.
Nothing but a mindless drone!
Cause for libs and cons alike, the status quo’s really quite fun!

As I wrote that chapter, intending to submit it to the LDS Storymakers 2013 Conference first chapter contest, I found that my characters had a mind of their own, and young Hannah Praetor’s family came to vivid life on the page. And the fantastical events that happen to her as she enters her family’s ancestral home, becoming the heir to the power and duty of her family’s legacy, these unfolded in a magical way to me.

I fell in love with the story.

Then I massaged that chapter, got feedback from a lot of readers, smithed it, and put as much craft into it as I could. It is the single best first chapter I have ever written, far and away better than anything else I’ve done.

I submitted it to the First Chapter Contest this year, hoping that my streak of being totally skunked in this contest would end before it hit three.

I admit that I had some pretty high hopes, because I knew it was great and so many people I respect said so too.

I was skunked. Didn’t even place. Again. One judge gave me one point shy of a perfect score. The second judge took seven points off (out of 40). The third took eleven off. And his/her feedback totally contradicted what the first two said. I mean it was nearly opposite.

That was my best work, and it got nothing.

I have put six years of very intense work into learning the craft of writing. I know I’ll never truly master this art form, but I know (or really, thought I knew) that I was getting better, and was even becoming pretty good. I’ve been reading and writing for my entire life, of course, and have been writing stories and books for the better part of two decades.

Outside of my family and faith, stories are my life. I’ve poured so much time and effort and emotional and physical and mental energy into writing. I love it when I’m working and feel totally alive when I’m in the groove.

I’ve submitted, gone to countless workshops and classes, regularly meet with a critique group, read how-to write books, and write as if my life depended on it. I’ve written 5 complete books in 6 years, all while doing a Masters and working at a day job for upwards of 8 hours/day. And I don’t ignore my family when I get home.

I do projects around the house, maintain a rental property, repair our sprinklers, and a few more things here and there.

I don’t let writing completely take over my life, because I want to keep my family and serve in my church and help those around me.

I just wonder how much harder I’m going to have to work to make this happen. Is this a failing effort? Am I wasting nearly 20 hours/week and a fair amount of money and all kinds of energy (emotional, mental, physical) on a dream that won’t ever happen?

Honestly, I don’t know.

I have nothing uplifting to say here, sorry. I don’t know what lesson I’m supposed to learn. I know how to get up after being kicked– that’s been happening all of my life and by the grace of God, I’ve been able to get up every time.

The thing is that nobody in the industry has ever said I was any good.

So maybe I’m not being kicked. Maybe I’m being told to leave off. Because I am working as hard as I can. I don’t think I can work any harder.

I’m flat-out exhausted.

Josh has to get away. Born and raised with ten other kids in the Fundamental Faith in God, a communal cult that splintered off from Scientology, he feels his life and soul being crushed under a tyrannical cult leader. Who happens to be his mother. When his oldest half-brother, who is his only friend in the cult, leaves, Josh faces living this life of fear and strange rituals all alone. Unless he can escape like his brother did.

And then the worst thing possible happens and Josh has to deal with grief, isolation, and a terrible temper. As Josh tries to find a way out of the cult and discover the truth about his father, he also must try to keep the cult leaders’ controlling attention off of him. But at a moment when isolation and escape seem like his only option, he finds a friend in one of the other cult children. Now Josh must decide which betrayal to commit: not follow his oldest brother or leave a friend whom he’s beginning to fall in love with behind?

*****

That sums up the basic plot and themes of The Cabin fairly well. Ask any questions you wish.

The Cabin is done. Or, at least as done as I feel I can get it without professional feedback from an agent who asked to see the entire manuscript.

My beta readers for the most part got back to me. All of them had a lot of good to say and most of them had some very similar feedback, particularly concerning the main character and his personal arc.

I am happy to report that everybody loved the ending.

I am thrilled at some of the things my readers told me. I love how it seems to have had different resonance for some people.

So I am letting the manuscript stew until Monday, and then I will send it to the agent.

Why haven’t I disclosed the agent’s name? That feels unprofessional to me, plus if this agent rejects the manuscript I don’t want you to know the name of the person for whom I will be making a voodoo doll.

I’ll keep you apprised.

Meanwhile, I’m terrified.

Beta readers will have about two weeks to read and send along any comments if they want their comments taken into account for the draft I send to the agent who has requested this manuscript.

Comment on this post if you would like to be a beta reader of this book!

You see, we bought our small ‘starter’ home in Provo in 2001, after coming back from our Japan teaching experience pretty flush. Our neighbor in the house just to the west was Donna Bird, an older lady, in her seventies, who still got around plenty and was just very endearing. She loved to watch our oldest, Thomas, who was 1 at the time, play around in the front yard and on the sidewalk. When we had our second child just about a year later, she watched him go from just a couple days old to walking.

We took off to parts known and unknown for the next two years, but when we returned, kind of licking wounds, Donna was still there. We arrived back in Provo in 2005 after leaving in 2003– and we were wiser, more world-weary, and had child number 3, our one girl, with us. Lily turned 1 the day after we got back to Provo.

As we rebuilt our lives, with me doing my darndest to screw things up for a while there (WHAT WAS I THINKING??), Donna was always around. She sat in her living room, watching the world through her windows, adoring our adorable children. They liked her a lot too. All of my kids, except for #6, have called her “Sista Bud.”

When Donna needed something, she knew she could call. I shoveled her driveway a lot during our few snowy winters. Annemarie helped her every day, twice I think, when Donna hurt her arm and needed assistance with some basic daily activities. This went on for a few weeks. Thomas, the oldest, helped her by taking out her garbage every day or so for nearly a year.

Donna Bird has been a part of our lives for over a decade. So when I got the voice mail that she had been hospitalized and that doctors had found a mass in her stomach and that she was in poor shape, I got very emotional. I called Annemarie. I almost didn’t hold it together there in my car. I put myself in a semblance of order and got back to work.

That night at dinner, we told the kids. We held nothing back and were very clear on Donna’s outlook. Annemarie visited her that day and has talked to her a few times. Some of the folks in our old neighborhood have made great efforts to keep us in the loop.

Donna has terminal, inoperable cancer. She is 87. We told the kids tonight. I was glad that they’d had time to heal a bit from the last announcement. Donna has maybe a few months left. My dear 6 year old, whom I call Sunshine, kept suggesting that she might have a miracle and survive. I told him that was possible, but that it was also a miracle that her last few months could probably be relatively pain-free and that she would be surrounded by family.

But it’s still raw. We love Donna. I didn’t really want her to be the person who helped my family truly start to understand how death is the gateway to the next stage– and it is necessary and sometimes merciful.

In all of this grim news, something kind of miraculous has happened. Donna won’t be going home to her old house in Provo, next to the house we now have renters in. She is being moved to a care facility. Here in Orem. Four blocks away. In our ward (a geographical region that provides the members for an LDS congregation). We do sacrament meetings there pretty regularly for the people being cared for.

Donna is going to be our neighbor again, for a little while at least. We will get to sit by her, smile with her, and just be neighbors again. For a little while at least.

So I will start with writing goals.

As you might know, I have had an agent request the entire MS of The Cabin,
my YA literary novel. She also said she was really excited about it. *brief, dignified squee*

This fact informs my writing goals, changing them significantly. Anyway, without further ado, the writing goals for 2013:

1. Finish revisions on The Cabin, which will consist of finishing the conversion to first person, adding stronger arcs and strengthening characters, and crafting a real ending. Do this by the end of March by working on it every day before I do any goofing off.

2. Complete revisions on Perception, my novel of the Thirty-Six, by the end of April. I would like to have it ready for submission to smaller publishers and get it out there. This commitment to Daron Fraley weighs on me so I need to get it done.

3. Complete my rewrite of Beat and get it submitted to some smaller publishers. I’d like to have this done by end of June, hopefully earlier.

4. Get the first draft of A Town Called Solemn finished by the end of the year. If I can do it faster, great, but I don’t anticipate doing so. This is because there is a great deal of world-building and outlining that needs to be done before I can really delve into the meat of the story. I actually need to do some research, in combination with workshopping so I can get the world right.

Incidentally, I’m really excited about this project.

5. Consider a sequel to The Cabin.

6. Maybe poke away at Servant of the King. It’s pretty good so it needs a home after I make it really good.

7. Sign with an agent. Hopefully that will happen sooner rather than later so that she/he can get us a book sold by the end of the year.

8. Sell one of my other books to a smaller house. I really want to be able to vote for the Whitneys!

9. Post one (at least) movie review to my movie review website each week. Here’s that site, if you want to stop by: www.reviewsbyjared.com

10. Do some kind of writing every day, be it with novels or my review website.

And that is a good place to stop with my writing goals. Hard, smart, consistent work will make things happen. Do you have any writing goals? Do you have goals that you are working toward to make some other dream come to pass?

I have other goals. Primary among them are goals relating to my family and my health, as well as one personal goal. Here they are in no particular order (but they’re numbered because that’s how I roll).

1. Laugh with at least one kid daily.

2. Take it day by day to not raise my voice.

3. Sleep 7 hours every night. I need to accept that there will be some nights I don’t do this, but that I can’t let that derail the very serious health goal that I have. Discipline, baby.

4. Exercise a minimum of four days each week, for 30 minutes to 1 hour. On Saturdays, this is usually 1.5 hours.

5. Reduce casual sugar intake to one very moderate instance/day. Saturday is the cheat day.

6. Chat with and kiss my wife daily.

7. Stop talking politics everywhere except in my home. Honestly? To heck with it. I am, in fact, serious about this. This goal includes commenting or sharing on Facebook. I will continue to ‘Like’ things that appeal or speak to me. This is a health goal.

8. Somehow learn to play either the piano or guitar. I think this might require paying for a class or lessons.

9. Attend the temple (LDS) at least once a month. I am shooting for Mondays or Tuesdays at 5:40 AM. I need to plan for the regular closings too.

That’s it for goals. There are other things I need to accomplish. These are tasks/projects rather than goals:

1. Complete the downstairs bathroom (I will be doing most of the manual labor on this).

2. Landscape the unbelievably messy back yard (manual labor!).

3. Fix up and treat the back deck (manual labor! ugh!).

4. Better organize the storage shed so I have workshop space.

5. Craft at least one new leaf for our dining table (alternatively, buy a new table).

6. Replace the window in the master bathroom. (Considering doing this myself. Yikes!)

7. Remove the rose bushes from our property after letting Sarah Eden get cuttings.

8. Arrange a way to safely allow the chickens to have use of the side yard and no wandering in the back yard.

9. Find and create a compost space in the back yard.

10. Possibly fix the chimney flue so we can use our wood-burning stove. This might have to wait until next year.

11. Do whatever it takes to make the chicken coop more accessible during winter. Also buy two bales of straw in the fall.

Whew! I’m going to have to stop there or I might start crying.

So tell me, my friends– indeed, tell the world– what tasks and goals are you working on this year? 2013, I believe, is going to be a very important year for me and my family. How about for you? Are you just buckling up for all the bad luck coming your way in this ill-numbered year, or are you ignoring superstition and going for it?

Chapter 1

            “I can’t believe it’s really called Solemn.” I watched the strangely shaped pale blue sign as it faded into the distance behind our van. The letters on the opposite side felt like a joke. Welcome to Solemn. The early evening swallowed the sign completely a few seconds later. I switched my reading lamp back on and flipped my book over. Maybe I could get another page or two in.

“Did you think we were kidding?” Dad slowed the car as the town came into view.

My little brother belted out some garbled mess, ending with “Ki’ing!”

“Thanks, Fanny,” I scrubbed my fingers through the dark, velvet curls on his head. “But I don’t need two dads.”

Fanny clutched my hand to his creamy cheek, his dark brown eyes wide and a grin on his face. “’Ana pay five?”

“No, buddy.” My book in my lap, I stared out the windshield at the boring-looking town that would be our new home. “No playing five.” I tugged my hand free. “Maybe later.” I felt a tickle on the back of my neck and swatted. No bug. A soft tingle, like the touch of a feather, slid down my spine.

I squirmed, trying to scratch at the itch. No good. It drifted down and faded as it hit my waist. What the heck is that?

“Pay five!” Fanny’s shriek pulled my attention back to him in time to see his lower lip jut out. I wanted to laugh at the adorable face, but I couldn’t find the energy.

“Nathaniel.” Even Fanny, at almost two years old, recognized Mom’s discipline voice. “No screeching. And Hannah, I wish you wouldn’t call him Fanny.”

We passed Solemn’s first building. Short, flat, and gray-bricked. It looked like it might have been a glass store once.  “Mom, he calls himself Fanny. I’m just showing him the respect he deserves.”

I sensed her eyebrow raise and met her unappreciative glare. “You’ve tried that line before, my dear. Would you like a moment to think of a snarkier comeback?”

Dad extended his left hand, holding three fingers up between the two front seats of the van. “Eye roll launching in three—two—“

Mom burst out laughing, slugging him on the shoulder and grabbing his hand. I watched their eyes meet. The skin around Mom’s eyes tightened and she gave him a flat smile.

I blinked long and deliberately, turning away.

Lucky me. Parents who thought it was fun to mock me instead of consult me about moving from our perfectly good home in perfect San Diego with perfect friends, especially perfect Brandon Williams—

To end up in an ugly, faded town in Iowa. Called Solemn. Seriously.

Solemnly.

My mocking parents kept holding hands as Fanny kicked his bare feet and I stared out the van windows. I mean, I got why something had to change, what with Mom being laid off from her job with the city and Dad’s design consulting work drying up. But did we really have to move to this place? I poked my bare toe at one of Fanny’s balled up socks on the floor of the van, adding it to the pile of garbage he’d accumulated down there. As we drove down what had to be Solemn’s main street, all I saw were squat, brown and gray buildings, with random blobs of color here and there. We followed the curve of the street, passing a tallish building covered completely in reddish-brown wood planks.

Fanny kicked harder and shouted, “Tuck!”

I fished Chucky Chinchilla out from under his seat and handed it to him, spinning it by the tail. “There’s Chuck with his possessed hindquarters and crazed eyes. Now… chew him!”

Fanny wasted no time, inserting the beaten-up toy’s tail between his teeth and bobbing his head up and down. The balding stuffed toy danced crazily.

I laughed. What a goofball. The kid was insane, but adorable.

Looking past my baby brother to the buildings we were passing, I saw two people meandering down the sidewalk. It looked like they were headed to a small café with a worn awning.

At least there was a restaurant here. I wondered if they served fresh fish or Mexican food, or even anything that wasn’t brown or gray.

Would it have killed us to have just rented a small apartment somewhere in San Diego? Besides, what kind of job were Dad and Mom going to find in my dad’s old hometown in Iowa, anyway? What, were they going to start a corn farm? Make poisonous sweetener for poisonous soda?

Praetor’s Super Deluxe High Fructose Corn Syrup. I would inherit the family business when they retired. I’d be seven hundred pounds and would drink the stuff like water.

And I might as well be a bowling ball, since I was pretty sure Iowa didn’t have any beaches.

My multi-colored toenails mocked me, whispering, “Enjoy your view! Before long, you won’t be able to see us!”

And none of my friends will ever see me again. No more laying out with Emily and Emma. Em and Em. No more Emma laughing every time I put sunscreen on, and laughing harder when I told her milk chocolate could burn. No more Brandon Williams’ beautiful smile and stupid, charming puns.

No more evenings sitting on the beach, letting the motion and breathing of the ocean sweep me into dreams of captaining pirate ships in rescues of princes and queens and treasure. No more fish tacos at the shack near the big fire circle.

I felt the tears coming again and scrubbed them away. I didn’t need another lecture from Mom about how Dad grew up in Solemn and we could get back on our feet here and how it would only be for a year or two.

An eternity or two, she should have said.

We followed the main street as it curved to the right. I glanced around. “Wait. Are there seriously no traffic lights in this town?” I switched my book light off, studying the streets and buildings closer.

“Nope,” Dad said. “Be a waste of money.”

“Is there even a store here?”

“Sure. Two, last I heard.” Dad gestured vaguely back behind him. “We passed Barton’s Grocery a minute ago. Should be a FoodCity somewhere up here.”

“Two stores?” I felt happiness and good memories sink deeper, further out of reach. “And why did your family live in this place again?” Why did anyone live in such a boring place?

“I never really knew,” Dad said. “But the Praetors have been here for generations. Since Aunt Joan died, these last two years have been the longest time that no Praetor has physically lived in Solemn in ages.”

“Wow. Crazy that the town didn’t dry up and blow away while we were gone,” I said, trying to inject as much sarcasm as possible into my tone. I glared at the gas station we were passing as Dad turned left onto a street with a big sign that said Clarion Drive.

“Say what you will, Han,” Dad said, “but the legend is that this town was founded by the Praetors and a couple of other families. There were people here who actually felt betrayed when I went to Berkeley, got married, and never came back.”

“Yeah, but that’s just because—“ I stopped myself, realizing what I was about to say. Mom and Dad had talked about it, but they’d said I shouldn’t worry or anything.

“What?” Mom craned around to face me. “Because what?”

“You know.” I looked away.

“Tuck!” Chucky Chinchilla landed in my lap. I tossed him back to Fanny.

“Hannah,” Mom said. “Because I’m Black? No. These people aren’t like that.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but Dad broke in.

“Well,” Dad said. “Most of them aren’t. We can’t speak for everyone.”

“Steven.” Mom’s discipline voice again. “They’re not like that. These are good people.”

“True, generally. But people are people, wherever you go,” Dad said.

“But do you know a family anywhere that would never accept money for taking care of another family’s home? Ever? Anywhere?” Mom poked him in the upper arm.

“True again. But Wallace Ames.” Dad let out a breath. “Wallace is something special.”

“Seriously?” Clarion Drive had taken us through a small residential area and out to what felt like it must be past the edge of town. Now tall trees, evenly spaced, grew on either side of the road, with wide meadows stretching way past the trees. “Some guy’s been mowing the lawn and stuff? For free?” I realized that Clarion Drive had become gravel at some point.

“Seriously,” Dad said. He pointed out the front of the van as we pulled to a stop.

Our headlights threw shadows from a low stone wall across a wide expanse of lawn and onto the front of a huge house with four tall columns holding up a second-floor porch.

Dad laughed. “And it’s a big freaking lawn.”

I felt my mouth drop open. The front of the house went on forever, with wide, dark windows and all kinds of strange-looking stonework covering it. “This is it? This is it?”

“Yup.” Dad took a sharp right turn and guided the van through a break in the low wall and drove between two enormous stretches of grass, stopping under a carport. Night had fallen fast as we’d driven through Solemn, so that for a moment, all I could see was what the headlights illuminated, and that was mostly deep shadows. Tons of shaped hedges lined the ground directly in front of the house—and I could have sworn I saw some marble statues. Some of them didn’t even have arms. As we stopped in the carport, two massive floodlights came on.

This was like out of a movie. No way had my dad grown up here. “This is actually it?” I tugged the earbud out of my right ear and stuffed it in the pocket of my denim jacket. The battery had died in Nebraska.

“She’s genuinely stunned, honey. Nearly speechless,” Mom said. “Repeating herself, even.”

“We should arrive at the family home for the first time more often,” Dad said. “But yes, we’re here and I’m starving.”

“Hungry,” Mom said automatically.

“Nope, sincerely about to die of hunger.” Dad laughed. “Wallace said there would be basics in the kitchen.”

I reached for the van door, glancing at Fanny. His eyes were wide, his mouth open as he blinked in the floodlights. “We’re here, little chubs.” I pulled the van door open and dropped onto the carport, my bare feet registering cool, solid concrete.

“Hannah, will you get Nathaniel, please?” Mom closed her door and went around to the back of the van. “I’m going to get his bed set up right away. Too many movies and snacks in the car for this guy. He’s going to melt down any second.”

“Sure.” I stared all over as I walked around the van. Those were statues. “Dad, was this a plantation or something?”

“Nope. From what I was told, for the longest time it was a horse ranch. Now it’s just a bunch of hills, grass, streams, and trees. Dead boring place for a couple of kids.”

“Are there still horses?” Hope flared for a moment. Maybe this wouldn’t be awful.

“Not for a long time.”

Of course. But the place was still way different than I’d imagined. I’d thought it would just be an ancient, creaky dump of a house.

Dad pulled two suitcases out of the back of the van. “Wallace Ames has some, though. Horses.”

“Really?” Hope returned. I pulled the door on Fanny’s side open and unbuckled him. “Why didn’t you tell me what this place was like? It’s huge!” As I reached for Fanny to pick him up, movement caught my eye—something across the expanse of yard at the side of the house. Like a flash in the darkness. My heart skipped a beat. What was that?

“Really. He might let a responsible teenage girl learn to ride on one of them, too.” I heard a door open and glanced over my shoulder. Dad disappeared into the house, following Mom.

I pulled Fanny into my arms, and turned to go in. Movement caught my eye again and I turned, this time looking out the deep end of the carport. My heart stuttered again. I closed my eyes. “Don’t be an idiot, Hannah,” I said.

“Idut, ‘Ana!” Fanny shouted.

“You’re helping, chubs.” I stared out into the night. Nothing moved. I let out a breath. It had been a long drive. I needed food and sleep. I turned back toward the door.

Just as I was reaching for the knob, the door jolted outward. I stepped back, my hand going behind Fanny’s head.

“Oh!” Dad grinned and grabbed the edge of the door, stopping it from swinging. “Sorry. I thought you might need a hand with him.”

“I got him.” Dad stepped out and held the door for me.

I stepped into our new home. Chills exploded at my scalp. I gasped, holding Fanny tighter as the odd, tingly sensation spread across every inch of my skin. My vision swam, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. My fingertips went numb.

“Hannah?” Dad’s hand came around me, cupping my hands under Fanny. “You okay?”

I blinked, trying to clear my vision. I couldn’t think beyond the need to not let Fanny fall as I felt like my body, for a few seconds, suddenly wasn’t under my control.

“Hannah?”

I heard fear in Dad’s voice.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Mom’s voice now. I felt Dad’s arms go around me, felt Mom pulling Fanny from me. But it all seemed like I was seeing it through a piece of glass, like I had taken a step away.

Finally the tingles faded and feeling came back to my fingers. Dad came around to look me in the eyes. “Kiddo, what’s up?”

“I don’t know. I just—I just felt. I don’t know, almost like I was going to faint or something.” I leaned on one of the cubbies that lined an entire wall of the small, suddenly crowded room.

Dad’s big hands cupped my face, feeling warm and strong. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. I’m fine.” Except for totally confused. What was all that? And the tingle in the van? Had Solemn suddenly made me sick?

“You hungry?”

“Yeah.” A strange taste had spread through my mouth. As if I had bitten my tongue, but also sucked on a rose petal or something.

“Well, let’s get out of the mud room and find something for everyone to eat,” Mom said. She took Fanny through a doorway, into what looked like a short hallway that led to a big kitchen.

“Good idea,” Dad said. He looked me in the eyes. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s gone now.” I thought back. It had happened the moment I’d stepped into the house. Would it happen again? I made a quick decision. “Hey Dad, I forgot my shoes in the van. I don’t want to get tetanus from your old house.” I pushed the door to the carport open.

“Our house, my flower.” I heard the smile in his voice. “Our new house. And there aren’t any rusty nails.”

I stepped into the carport. Nothing as I went through the doorway. “I’ll believe that after I get my shoes.” I jogged around the van and opened the sliding door, suddenly sure I’d see movement in the darkness again. What was with this place?

“Well, hurry up and help Mom with dinner. I’m gonna go make a million bucks or something.”

I rolled my eyes as Dad’s laughter carried through the carport. Worse than a dad who was always joking around was a dad who was the only one who laughed at his jokes. I dropped my shoes to the ground, slipped my feet in them, and slid the door closed.

A sensation like someone pulling my hair made me turn fast. Heart thudding in my chest, I tugged my jacket closed. What was going on here? Was this place haunted?

I looked up as a light, tiny and gold, caught my eye. It fluttered and hovered for a moment, then more lights appeared. Fireflies. I’d never seen them before. They looked like magical, miniature stars. The small bundle of fear in my chest went away. I watched the flickering spots, feeling quiet settle into and around me.

One of the fireflies floated closer. I held out my hand. It came close enough for me to see its wings buzzing faster than I could follow. The glowing bug landed on my hand with a whisper touch. Slowly I moved my hand, bending closer to see better.

Time stopped.

The firefly had a face. It smiled at me.

Welcome, Guardian.

I am beginning to think that being a writer is a physiological and emotional thing. Part of that physiological thing is a constant need to be surrounded by people like me. People who can go from thinking, “Wow! That paragraph– that scene– I really am a writer. And a pretty darn good one!” to “I just need to raise goats and learn to play the guitar. This word stuff is impossible and I hate it.” These are writers. Even accomplished, inarguably successful writers go through this, it seems.

I’m so excited that conference season is beginning soon. The first writing conference I get to attend is LTUE– easily one of the best writing and spec-fic conferences for your money. Smart, wonderfully goofy and good, and hard-working people gather at this thing and riff about all things spec-fic and writing.

That said, LDS Storymakers is the highlight of my conference season. More of my (undeserved) friends show up to that conference, and when I sit around and chat with them, talking writing, story, character, dialogue, and more– I just feel empowered and as if a need that had been growing in me has been met.

Don’t get me wrong, I still feel like a poser when I’m surrounded by these folks. I am terrified of asking any of them to read my stuff, because what if IT SUCKS?? But then I think of how many of them got a leg up from others who went before them and I think I ought to just ask for that leg up.

But I hate to impose.

Gosh I’m a pansy.

Anyway, I’m writing about these conferences because I’m excited to attend them for a lot of reasons. LDS Storymakers is a bit pricey, but the opportunities to learn and network  and make friends with extraordinary people are amazing. This year’s Storymakers has Anne Perry as the keynote speaker– and you can attend only the keynote if you want.

Anybody reading this who’s interested in this conference, go to the LDS Storymakers Website. (You don’t have to be LDS. You should write clean stuff, though.)

I should also mention that this is the first time I’ve decided to take part in the Storymakers “Show Your Love” contest. To that end, I want you to stop by the description of this contest and join up– let’s make it a fair contest and get lots of people involved. I still need to win, but I want lots of you to be awash in disappointment. Here’s the link to the contest description on the Storymaker Authors Blog.

While this year has involved only enough writing to more or less stay caught up with my movie review website, ReviewsbyJared.com, I so badly need to get back in the novel saddle. My day job has been totally robbing me of my real job, and I need to rectify that.

These conferences are an important part of that. I don’t really have any goals for these conferences– for the first time ever– but maybe I’ll come up with some. I’m still trying to get my foot back in the stirrup.

If you’re a writer, check out LDS Storymakers. Join your people.

The salad was Romaine lettuce, celery, carrots, red peppers, and mushrooms. Homemade ranch dressing. The steamed broccoli– you had better know how to steam broccoli. Honestly.

The amounts are approximate. (I feed 6 semi-picky kids and two food-loving adults)

Mustard-Crusted Roast Red Potatoes :

• About 5 medium to large red potatoes, washed and cubed.
• 4 Tbsp olive oil
• 1 Tbsp salt
• 1/2 Tbsp mustard seeds
• Several generous dashes of pepper

Pulverize the mustard seed until they are chunky powder. Combine all of the ingredients in a microwave-safe bowl. Combine really well. Microwave on high for 6 minutes. Stir very well. Microwave again for 5 minutes. Heat oven to 450 degrees, put a tablespoon (maybe a little less) of olive oil on a baking pan that is big enough to hold the potatoes in one (1) layer. ( I use a very well seasoned Pampered Chef stoneware pan.) Put the pan in the hot oven for a couple of minutes. When the potatoes are done with their second microwave cycle, spread them out on the heated pan. Bake for 15-20 minutes until browning nicely.

Remove from oven, let them sit for a minute on the pan. Serve nice and warm. Sully with ketchup at will.

Now for the chicken recipe.

Blackened Savory Teriyaki Chicken

This is savory teriyaki because teriyaki sauce is usually way too sweet. Mine is sweet and savory just right. But I didn’t measure a thing.

• 2+ lbs of cleaned chicken (use breast AND thigh meat!), cut into 2-3 surface inch squares.

Marinade:

• 1/2 cup rice vinegar
• 1/4-1/3 cup of soy sauce
• 1/2- 1 Tbsp of garlic powder
• 1-2 Tbsp corn starch
• 2 Tbsp dumpling dipping sauce (can be found at most Asian markets)
• A dash or two of black pepper

Clean and cut the chicken. Put it in a tough gallon ziploc bag. Combine the marinade ingredients, mixing very well. Pour marinade over chicken in bag. Squeeze air out of the bag and seal it. Put the bag on a cutting board with a tough paper towel over the top. Take a wooden food mallet (or a good rolling pin) and whack the bag, doing your best to equalize the thickness of the chicken pieces.

Let the chicken marinate for up to 2 hours.

Cooking this is best done in a tough stainless steel, large skillet, or in a cast iron skillet.

Put a few Tbsp of olive oil in the skillet, turn heat high. When the pan is hot, use tongs to place several pieces of chicken in the pan. Keep pan on high! Move the chicken around a little to spread the flavorings and oil. Let the bottom of the pan blacken a little, then cook all of your chicken in batches, only one layer of chicken at a time. The oil will spit like crazy; wear an apron.

Take the chicken off before it is overcooked. If your chicken is about 1/3 to 1/2 an inch thick, it only needs a couple of minutes on each side. Place hot chicken in a serving dish, cover tightly in tin foil while you cook each batch. When the last batch is in the serving pan, cover tightly with foil and let it sit for at least 3 minutes– up to 5. This will equalize the temperature and let the chicken absorb the juices.

Serve hot.