by Roseanna White | May 22, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
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| Children on a Path Outside a Thatched Cottageby Helen Allingham, late 19th century |
With the first round of edits wrapped up on A Soft Breath of Wind, I moved on this week to my first round of edits on The Lost Heiress. (Lots of editing going on around here!) There are some changes I know I’m going to make, some inconsistencies I’m finding. An old (for me) story taking on new life.
But one of the major themes in this book has been there since I was 12, when I first started writing it–the one that involves Brook, this noblewoman raised in a country not her own, finding her rightful place. Finding her home. Finding her family.
When I was writing this in seventh and eighth grades, it was easy for her. She lifted her chin, screwed her stubbornness and faith into place, and took England by storm. Her family all adored her, London adored her, life adored her. The only people who didn’t were the bad guys, because they were evil and therefore couldn’t love.
When I was writing this in seventh and eighth grades, I was trying to find my place. Trying to adjust to friends who were suddenly interested in boys instead of Barbies, in being popular instead of being genuine. I was trying to figure out how to be who I knew I was in a world that demanded I be who they wanted to make me.
I was an outspoken 13-year-old. The kind that refused to be led by other kids my age because, frankly, I found them obnoxious. I was the one who thought about consequences. About right and wrong. I was the one who told the other girls at the sleepover that if they were serious about trying a seance, I was going to call my mom and go home. The one who said if they were seriously going to try to sneak out, I would lock the windows and stand guard. The kind who greeted gossip with, “Are your lives so boring that you have nothing better to talk about than me? Seriously? Sorry to hear it.”
Yes, I was an outspoken 13-year-old. But I also wanted those I liked to like me back. I didn’t want arguments for no reason. I wanted to please people, when I deemed them worth pleasing.
I remember one time in the cafeteria, talking about spaghetti, of all things. I proclaimed my mom’s homemade sauce the best (which it is. Just sayin’.). A friend asked, “Does it have chunks of tomatoes?” in a voice that I interpreted as meaning “because if it’s the best, it will.”
Now, my mom’s sauce is ground totally smooth. But I hedged and said something along the lines of, “I don’t know, maybe a few.”
My friend then said, “I hate chunks of tomatoes.”
And there I had a conundrum that brought me to an epiphany. My desire to make this friend agree with me made me lie–and now the truth, which would have been pleasing, couldn’t be spoken. That was the day when I realized that my yes must be yes and my no be no. That was the day when I realized that having someone’s good opinion didn’t mean squat if it wasn’t right opinion.
That was the day when I realized that my place in life couldn’t always be easy–but that it was only worth having if it was really mine.
I’ve never been one of those people to be found in a gaggle. I have some awesome friends, but the best ones are few. I have an amazing family, but I’m not the one always throwing parties, or going to them. I’m not the popular one. Sometimes I wish I were, sometimes I wish people showed up to things when I host them, that I knew how to draw a crowd. Sometimes I wish my place was what Brook’s used to be in my story–beloved by all, effortlessly.
But it’s not who I am. And it’s not my place. It’s never been my place, not when I was a kid penning her first novel in class, and not now, when I’m rewriting it.
Brook’s place has changed now too. Because though 13-year-old-me wanted to believe someone could have it all, 31-year-old-me knows better. Because while there may have been, in some point in history, one young woman who was beautiful and rich and popular and of strong faith and different from everyone else…that’s not the story most of us know.
And it’s not the story I needed to write this time around. This time around, I needed a story of someone who had to fight for her home. Someone who had to decide whether she was going to be molded or if she would do the molding. Someone who had to choose what path she would tread and then face the consequences.
Someone who is less who I wished I were back then…and more who I grew to be.
Someone whose place wasn’t just waiting for her–someone who had to find it. And when she does, she finds there are those in it who oppose her. And those who would do anything for her.
Because that is life. We can never have it all.
But we can have what matters most.
by Roseanna White | May 15, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
I don’t often post purely writing-related articles on my blog, and I’ll try to make this one not just that, too, since I know only a few of you are writers. But as I’m revising and editing A Soft Breath of Wind, I keep thinking about some of the decisions I made in the story, and why I did it the way I did.
As a general rule, we writers are told to arrive late to the story, when the main action is upon them. As a general rule, I do just that. And since the main body of my story takes place when Zipporah is 18, that’s where I kept trying to start it. Over and again I attempted to begin this book there. I even had a few chapters written, one focused upon Zipporah on the villa outside Rome, then one with Benjamin and Samuel, my two male leads, in Jerusalem.
But when I came back to it, I knew it was wrong. And though it followed that “late arrival” rule, it was wrong because it was the easy way. It skipped over the turmoil that set them on their current course and picked up when the pain had eased.
That wasn’t going to cut it.
So though it required going back four years in time, I started earlier. I started on the day Zipporah received the gift that scarred her for life and set her future on its course. I then moved to a death in the family that set all my main characters reeling.
I did it because it hurt. And because without that hurt, my characters wouldn’t have become who I needed them to be. Sometimes it works to just have them already be that, and keep the why in the backstory. But not here. Here, I needed to show the shaping so that we could understand and love these injured, strong characters.
I’m so glad I started those four years earlier. Because then, when I knew the characters better, I could write the here-and-now so much more effectively. I realized that Samuel, who at first greeted a stunning revelation with calm and cool, would not be so unaffected. I realized that Zipporah, who greets adversity with a smile, was burying a world of hurt.
In life, we don’t often deliberately choose the hard way. Not if we see that it’s the hard way, LOL. We don’t want the underscore of pain if we can help it. Certainly I would spare my children those hard-won lessons if I could. It’s different with characters, but real people…we don’t want to learn that way.
But like with characters, how often do we miss the real blessings God wants to show us by choosing the path we think is easiest? How often do we miss His rich depths because it’s easier to skim the surface?
Maybe I’m still not going to seek out the hard way in life. But it’ll find me, that I know. And I pray that the lessons I’ve learned in fiction I can carry through to reality. Because it’s only through the hard stuff that the beauty really shows itself. It’s only through the pain that we find the strength to really find
Joy.
It’s only along the hard path that we find where we were always meant to be.
by Roseanna White | May 8, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
I reached a major milestone on Sunday–I finished my book, for the, er… (one…two…three) fourth time. And I’m talking the fourth total, complete, toss out every scene previously written and start from scratch rewrite.
It’s a pretty awesome feeling to finish a book any time. But when it’s a book you first wrote “The End” on at age 13? Yeah–I’m still a little shocked that I’m doing it again, LOL, and so incredibly thrilled that I’m doing it again because that book, the one whose premise I came up with at age 12, is contracted by Bethany House. I can’t think of a much better example of how God leads us on some crazy paths that last a lifetime! (I had a guest post up on the rather amazing journey of this book on Go Teen Writers last week. If you haven’t seen it yet,
Read It Here.)
Making the feeling even better is that I really love the new setting I gave the story, and the new elements and plots that got worked in–or worked back in. In every previous version, Brook (my heroine) was an orphan. The legalities of that were tricky though, for things like inheritance laws, so I decided in this version that her father still needed to be alive.
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Whitby Abbey ruins – close to the new setting of the book
and where a big scene happens
Photo by Chris Kirk |
And oh my goodness. That changed everything–in ways I love! She now reunites with him in the first couple chapters, and their journey added such depth to the story–it just makes me grin to think about it.
In the first two versions, I put a great deal of emphasis on Brook’s maid. That’s something I took out in version 3 and its various revisions for a number of reasons. But I re-introduced the below-stairs point of view in this one, and I was so happy to get to do so. I love that dichotomy too, of the two different perspectives who both get to realize that family is family, no matter the circumstances.
I’m now to the point where I get to let the MS rest for a little while before I dive into edits and trim it down to size (not as much trimming required as usual! LOL). For me, that means editing
A Soft Breath of Wind and a slew of WhiteFire books in the meantime. I’m putting the finishing touches right now on WhiteFire’s historical that comes out next week,
Sweet Mountain Music, and having a blast. The characters in SMM are on the hunt for a certain legendary ape creature said to haunt the Cascades, and it’s a story that will make you laugh and sigh and cheer them on.
In not so happy news, one of the reasons I forgot to blog yesterday is that Rowyn woke up with a sore, swollen knee and spent the first hour of the morning (my blog writing time) on my lap. With no injury to link to this, we took him to the doctor, who suspects it might be juvenile arthritis. We would certainly appreciate prayers about this!
Hope everyone’s enjoying May thus far, and that all you moms have a special weekend planned. =)
by Roseanna White | May 1, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
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| Happy May Day! |
I remember this week last year. It wasn’t meant to be a busy one. But it turned into it. I’d been sick the week before–like, flu. We’d traveled to Annapolis for the weekend and had a lovely time with friends. I was well enough to do that, but still dragging.
Then on the Tuesday, the 30th of April last year, my wine rack came crashing down. I spent most of the day cleaning up broken glass and crystal and mopping up wine. It fell partially into the two trunks the kids kept their toys in. Which necessitated a complete clean-up of those, which turned into reorganization. I’d been meaning to spend the day writing. Instead, I spent it cleaning, which so thoroughly wiped me out by evening that Xoe thought to treat me to a spa day, courtesy of Fancy Nancy. She made me a foot bath, and a face mask from banana and honey.
Apparently I have an allergy to banana when it’s applied to my face, LOL. I broke out in hives and felt like I had a serious sunburn all evening. Had to run out for some hydracortizone cream. And I woke up on May 1 thinking, “Well, it can’t be as bad as yesterday. The wine rack can’t break again.”
No, it couldn’t. But bones could.
Today marks a year since Xoe ran through the yard, tripped over her too-big shoes, and broke her elbow. Xoe, who usually cries for about two minutes when she gets hurt, wailed for half an hour and showed no signs of stopping, though she wouldn’t let me really touch her arm to see what might be wrong. At last, I got her onto my lap, and I could put my hands on her elbows. That would be when we decided a trip to the doctor was in order.
It turned to a trip to the ER, which lasted all evening as they tried to find a pediatric orthopedist to send her to.
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| Xoe, the day after the break |
So many people prayed with us for healing, and receive it she did–the bone healed so perfectly that the doctor said that, looking at the X-rays, he wouldn’t have known there had been a break. The soft tissue, however…
She’s still in occupational therapy, and she still has a ways to go before she regains full extension. But progress is being made.
And this year, this week is a busy one–planned that way, LOL. Since last Friday when I had the Joy of speaking at the Fourth Friday Tea at my local historical society, it’s been nonstop. We’ve had field trips and therapy and well check-ups and book club talks, and today is class day for our homeschool group. And as I’m buzzing from place to place, I keep thinking back to last year.
I keep praying, Thank you, Lord, for planned busyness instead of ER trips and prescription pain relievers, hospital gowns and trips to Baltimore doctors.
This year, I’m within a few scenes of finishing up a book instead of sending a note to my editor saying I’ll be out of touch for a few days. This year, we’re planning summer camp instead of worrying about surgery. This year, I need an extra cup of coffee because I’ve been getting up early to write, not because I got no sleep because my little one was hurting.
It’s so easy to get overwhelmed in these weeks that are go-go-go. But you know…I’ll take it in a heartbeat over those weeks that force normal activities to a halt. And I’ll praise the Lord that this May Day, I can just drive along and notice all the flowers in bloom. This year, I can look back and see how brave and strong my little princess was, knowing that today she doesn’t have to be. This year, I can just be plain ol’ busy.
by Roseanna White | Apr 24, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
This is a repost of a guest blog I had up on a friend’s blog at the beginning of the month, but in case you didn’t make it over there to read it…
Free Indeed
“You have prayed for forgiveness
from your sins. Have you prayed for freedom from their bonds? . . . Never once
in the bible does God speak either for or against physical slavery. But
spiritual slavery—that is a topic He addresses time and again. Over and over
Paul pleads with the early church to embrace the freedom of the soul that
Christ offers. You must do that, Mari. You must cling, not just to cleansing,
but to freedom.” ~ Barbara Gregory in Cirlce
of Spies
This was a line in my latest book that
I really loved—so I was beyond thrilled when the very first review of the novel
quoted this line. But it has an interesting history in my little mind.
As I was writing Circle of Spies, our president was about to be inaugurated for the
second time. And as my husband was flipping through the TV channels as he’s
wont to do of an evening, he landed for a minute on one of those commentators
on a news channel that I usually ignore. Especially on this particular channel
(no names mentioned, LOL). He was saying, loudly and with great condemnation,
how ridiculous it was to expect the president to take his oath with his hand on
a Bible.
Insert me narrowing my eyes and
thinking, Oh, this should be good!
The guy held up a typical-looking
dollar store Bible. “Not once,” he said, “does this book condemn slavery—an
institution that held the President’s ancestors in bonds. Not once. I looked!”
My first thought was Yeah, sure, an internet search is really
going to show you everything, dude. But then I thought about it (because I
try to do that, LOL). I’d read the Bible through several times. And had I too not
been struck by this?
He was right. The Bible doesn’t condemn
slavery. Ever. It gives instructions on how to treat slaves from among the
Israelites (namely, they’re not to be held in perpetual slavery, but more as
indentured servants). But in the New Testament, all we ever hear is that slaves
ought to obey their masters.
Yeah, I could kinda see where this guy
took offense on behalf of the once-slaves. But it was also clear he hadn’t read
this Book, not really. If he had, he would realize that especially in the New
Testament, God doesn’t address society. He doesn’t tell a nation what laws it
should make. He tells individuals how they should act in the society. And the Bible does
talk about the importance of freedom. A LOT. But as my Barbara points out
above, it’s just that God isn’t so concerned with physical slavery or freedom.
He’s concerned with whether our souls are free of the bonds of sin.
I did a lot of thinking and praying on this as I wrote my
novel. I had a few characters who were slaves, yes, and one of them in
particular chafed against those bonds. But she was free. Because she had embraced salvation, she was far freer than
her mistress, who had been long held captive by her sins.
There were men and women of great faith on both sides of the
Civil War. Many people today assume that any real, true Christian must have
been against slavery…but the fact is, they weren’t. They lived by different
standards, with different assumptions. We assume God judged them if they held
slaves…but did He? I think, more likely, He judges on what we let hold us captive. He sees the chains on our
spirit, not on our wrists.
And so I would challenge that commentator, and my readers,
to ask the real question. Because today, every American is free in body. But
how many are free in spirit and soul?
by Roseanna White | Apr 17, 2014 | Thoughtful Thursdays, Uncategorized
So I’m working now on the rewrite of the book I wrote at age 12-13. And as I’m writing, I pause (as I do at some point in every book) and wonder to whom I’ll dedicate it. But with this one, it wasn’t much of a question.
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| Photo by Bangin |
When I was 13, still working on that first draft, my grandfather was diagnosed with cancer. This was the first time cancer really invaded my life, and I remember pretty well the feelings that swamped me. There was denial that it could really happen, that it would be more than just something he beats. There was the startling realization that though I loved this man, my Pappap, intensely, I didn’t often show it–for some reason, I was bashful about giving him hugs. Maybe because it was my sister who was Pappap’s girl. There was the painful reality that while my parents and sister cried, I couldn’t.
I could only go back to my room, close my door, and pull out a notebook. Words were my tears.
Though we had the diagnosis–though we knew it was in the bone already and inoperable–Pappap wasn’t sick yet. It was easy for me to tuck it away that 8th grade year. Still. When I finished my book in the spring, I thought, I want to dedicate this. And so I wrote on the first page:
To Pappap
CWM
His name was Charles William Mulligan, though he went by Bud. And my pappap was probably one of the funniest people I’ve ever known. He always had a joke. He always played a joke. He would tell us, when we were little, that we had better trim out toenails, so the toenail fairy would come…and then go plant quarters in our pillows while we laughed. A down-payment, he said. He would tell some jokes so many times that they became part of our family, and we still occasionally break out in old punchlines.
And he loved stuff. He yard saled, he upgraded, he personalized. And on every single thing he kept, he would put his initials. His truck had CWM on it. So did his toaster. And the beer stein he never once used. And his other toaster. And his VCR. And his other other toaster. Another family joke, that. And so I knew, when I decided to dedicate the book to Pappap, that it would have to bear his initials too.
I’m not sure I understood, then, what it really meant to put his name on my book. It was a nice thing to do. And when I considered this step–dedicating my first-ever novel–I just knew it was the right thing.
Then 9th grade came, and Pappap got sick. We got to know the hospital very well. We watched this strong man fail. Tears finally blurred my eyes when I saw him fumble to get a mouthpiece for a breathing treatment into his mouth–and when he couldn’t remember anyone’s phone number but ours and called my mom in a panic one day when he couldn’t find my nanny (who was hanging laundry outside).
I learned, that year, what heartbreak is. I learned what it means to lose someone who was so integral to your life you thought you couldn’t. I learned how to trust in God for a miracle…and then to trust Him even when you don’t get the one you ask for. That’s the year I started reading my Bible on my own, every day, instead of just when I had to in church.
That’s the year I learned how to laugh to keep from falling apart, to find
Joy in the smallest thing–because that’s what Pappap wanted. And it’s the year I learned to hug all I can, while I can. Because no one lives forever.
I’d rewritten my book the summer before he died. This summer, with that loss still fresh, I tore up that first-first page. And I typed out a new one.
In loving memory of Pappap
CWM
Looking back now, I see how his life, his death shaped me. I see where it forced me deeper–into faith, into my heart, into my family. I see that, if he hadn’t taught me how to laugh at everything, I could so easily have been too serious. I see that, if I hadn’t known the pain of losing him…
I don’t even know. I don’t know who I’d be without all the reflection that forced upon me. I don’t know what I’d feel. I don’t know how I’d relate to this world where death plays such a part.
So as I made a new first page on this new version of this old, old book, no. It wasn’t a question of to whom I would dedicate it. It was just a question of the right words to use. Because the book wouldn’t be worth redoing without what I learned from him. I wouldn’t be capable of rewriting it without the lessons his life and death taught me.
The ache of missing him has faded, but the memories haven’t. I still talk to my kids about my pappap (that’s what they now call my dad), and earn their giggles with the tales. I still occasionally look at his picture on the family shelves and hear his laughter. And I know that of all my dedications in all my books, this one is perhaps the truest.
It’s a week to think about life and death, of sin and consequences, of victory over the grave. And it’s a book that made me do the same, thanks to him. This is what my first page now reads (though it may yet get a tweaking, who knows.)
“To Pappap” was my dedication when I
first penned this novel at age 13.
After I had rewritten it at 14,
it said, “In loving memory of Pappap.”
Your life taught me to laugh in every possible moment,
your death taught me trust Him with all my might.
You helped make me who I am,
and I’ll always love you.
CWM
Roseanna M. White is a bestselling, Christy Award winning author who has long claimed that words are the air she breathes. When not writing fiction, she’s homeschooling her two kids, editing, designing book covers, and pretending her house will clean itself. Roseanna is the author of a slew of historical novels that span several continents and thousands of years. Spies and war and mayhem always seem to find their way into her books…to offset her real life, which is blessedly ordinary.