Order Confirmed

I just clicked the most interesting, intimidating, invoking fear button ever. Of my whole life. Honestly.


“Confirm Proof Order” is all it said. That sounds pretty innocuous.

But the proofing order confirmed is my first self-published work.

That’s scary.

All those times I’ve called myself a writer, all those books I’ve critically read and wondered who wrote them, all those bookshelves in all those libraries and stores full of books without my name have new meaning now.

I am a writer - a published author. People will criticize my words and syntax. A library or used bookstore somewhere eventually will hold a copy of what I have created by hitting that button.

No fanfare. No celebration. No notice except for those friends near and far pushing me along so I don’t chicken out at the last second.

By this time next week, or before, I’m guessing, I’ll be posting instructions for you to order your own copy. The cost will be $14.99 plus shipping. It will be about 100 pages. You can have one, if you like.

Daddy’s Hands, in its original form is in it; so is Patchwork Quilt of Me, complete with photo. Those are pieces I know people like. Those are insurance pieces.

There is a poem about being alone and another about broken glass. I think people will like them, too, but I’m not sure. They are kind of . . . personal. Maybe they won’t relate well.

There are other scattered bits in the book. Some you may have read and forgotten. Some you may not like.  Random views through my eyes as I grew into this new version of me.  Becoming better when I had every right to become bitter. 

Good or bad, syntax complications or not, overused phrases and all; the proof is on the way.

I’m an author.

Thanks for your encouragement. Thanks for listening.

Kris

Middle Ground

I should be working on my Philosophy test, but the words and meanings are all pushed behind the idea of The Book. It sits there on my shoulder waiting to be finished.

It’s almost there now. I have one more editor to meet with. One more set of ideas to sift through. One more session of page creating, picture editing, getting it all together.

Almost there.

And now I’m more terrified than before.

Sitting here, on the middle of the bridge, too far down to turn back, not quite in the safety zone, is the worst part of bridge crossing. I remember the first time I walked across the Poetry Bridge in Minneapolis. The traffic raced beneath me. Lives scurrying from point A to point B with no thought of me and my drama. Didn’t anyone care that I was so alone? Didn’t anyone know how little value I placed on myself?

I had the option at that moment to make them remember me. To become a life they would never forget. To stop their rushing and force their attention to me. I didn’t, but the thought occurred to me. By not finishing the crossing of that bridge I would have made an impression on them. A horrible one, to be sure, but I would have become a part of their lives. They would see me then.

Today I stand at this metaphorical bridge and find a different scene. If I don’t cross this bridge, if I go backward, if I never finish The Book I will cease to make an impression, no one will remember me, I will be the focus of no one. I could be literarily invisible.

There is a great deal of comfort in that anonymity. For one thing, there is no risk of painful backlash if I simply slide off the grid here. I could take down the website. Stop answering e-mails and phone calls and before long everyone would forget my ramblings and go about their business without me just like they did a year ago before I started publicly writing. There will be no criticism of my expressions, no doubt about my sentence structure, no dislike of my endless strings of thoughts. No exposure of my doubts, fears, failures, inadequacies.

Like the voices which pulled me across the Poetry Bridge all those months ago, something compels me forward. I am not sure why my writing is so important, but I feel it is. Not in an egotistical “I have something to say!” way, but in a “I have lived this, am better for it, and you can make it, too” way.

Had my routine not been interrupted a couple of weeks ago, The Book would already be out there. You would know what I’m afraid of. Although many pieces have been strewn about, only a couple of people have read the whole thing. Their reception pushes me to the other side.

I think, by next week-end, while you are scurrying about your lives hither and yon without thought of me, a momentous event will occur. I will hit the button that says “send” and off will go the first edition, ready for publication, real library-ready book containing my words.

I’m not sure if angels will sing or heaven will notice, but I know a little lady with brown eyes, a tall Swedish man, and a biker in a leather who will be looking from beyond smiling. Whatever value they saw in my little life at the beginning, I give this book back to them in appreciation.

God has been very good to me.

If you haven’t yet, and care to, please visit the website: krisanewman.webs.com. The snatches of prose mentioned above are posted there. Although I’ll have links here for purchase, the website has a little more information.

Thanks for walking this bridge with me. It’s nice to not be alone.

So, yeah, where you from?

Looking at my stats, it appears there are readers reading this blog from all over the world.  India.  Thailand.  China.  Ireland.  England.  Chile.  Mexico.  Alaska.  And everywhere in between.

But only a few of you have made yourselves known.

I wonder who you are.  I wonder what you like about what you read here, if you like anything.  I wonder how you found this blog.  I wonder if you'll come back again or if you came here by mistake like someone who opened a door unintentionally.   I wonder what we have in common.

You're welcome to come back.

You're welcome to tell me about you.

You're welcome to share the common ground we're walking.

Writers write because we can't not let the words have their way.  Readers, on the other hand, stop hither and yon by their own will power. 

Writers are always trying to figure out what makes a reader read.

Are you from France?  Thailand?  Mexico?  Are you raising a family in Singapore?  Are you a missionary kid in India?  A student in Ireland?  A truckdriver in Alaska?

My writer's mind places you in all sorts of adventerous roles. 

Add a comment. Jot a note.  Join the website at krisanewman.webs.com and tell me more about yourself there.

Or, just follow along in the same invisible way and see if I don't some day write your life through my writer's eyes.

Music Sings the Colors of Life

Music plays a big part in my world.

I was listening to music practice one afternoon and feeling the keyboard notes run along my arms and it occurred to me that music, like writing, is intrinsic to my identity.

I could describe people to you by the kinds of music they like. John is a little edgy, a little country. Melissa is sometimes romantic, but with a strong streak. Tina is rock ‘n roll laced with a healthy respect for blues. Bob? Full of mystery and depth behind blue eyes. Thi might come across as traditional, but once he opens the door you find a wide assortment of sound and intellect.

I’m an eclectic mix that begins with a colorful clash of poetry and sound and ends with fun mixes.

I’ll let you guess which bands apply.

I like Christian music, mostly, but I get bored with the repetitious redundancy of much of it. I find it interesting that people criticize my wide taste in music. Really? You think my musical taste is questionable, don’t even ask me about what I read.

I also find it interesting that they don’t want to take up the discussion about why I like what I like and how I think God sees it. They only want to tell me how they think God sees it. Hmm. In the words of my oh-so-wise Grandma, “who died and made you boss?” I wonder if they would object to a classical composer if they knew of his personal choices and misadventures. I don’t meant to be critical, but it sure sticks in my craw sometimes.

Back to music.

Music speaks to me. Not only the lyrics, the very sound of certain melodies will stick with me for days. I can hear their strains calling me to move for days, sometimes years. There seems to be a song for every event. I am forever singing something random because music is forever filling my mind.

I find myself drawn to music, like all art forms, which has a deeper meaning, something that goes well beyond the surface. I have to like the surface, too, though. A wild cacophony of sound has no purpose. Distorted, unintelligible lyrics are foolishness to me. Shallow, common rhythms bore me. Loud, I like. Soft, I enjoy.

I’m not a musician, but I sure do dig music.

Presenting . . . The Book of Pages

Well, your friend the writer is considering taking a leap to cross the chasm between writer and author. What’s the difference? Publication.

I have fearfully looked over this chasm with its plethora of unknowns for many years. How does one find a publisher? Are all agents the same? Can I afford to self-publish? And is there any point in that? How can I sell my own stuff? Who cares?

If you know me at all, you know I'm terrified of heights.  Someone with great patience will have to walk with me over this bridge....

Along comes Lulu.com and, for the moment, I think I may have solved the publisher problem. I can self-publish an e-book which can be converted to hardcover by personal order for a pretty small sum.

I am going to start the process. I think. If I don’t back down.

I mean… what if I go to the trouble and throw my heart out there on a string and it doesn’t make it to the other side, but crashes splintering into the abyss? What if no one cares that I have a book out there that could be read?

But see, then there’s the other “what if.” What if people would like it, would grow from it, would glean something of value from my meanderings? God gave me this talent to use for some purpose. What if by not sharing it, I’m failing Him?

That’s scarier than failing, to be honest with you.

Therefore, hereby I do declare I will at some point in the nearer, rather than later, future put together the Book of Pages – Musings and Meanderings of a New Single Woman.

If in the past at some point you have read something -whether on this blog or through various other Kris NewMan sharing events -you remember, please let me know. It may make the final cut and you’ll know it was at your suggestion.

Similarly, if you have ever read something of mine that was really, really bad . . . please, please tell me! I wouldn’t let you walk out of the restaurant with lettuce in your teeth. Don’t let me put something in my first attempt at authordom which stinks.

I’m kind of excited about this. I don’t expect I’ll make any bestseller list and I don’t guess Oprah will call me, but perhaps there is someone who will be blessed.

Now you know how a writer looks at becoming an author. We’re terrified.

Hope's Boy - A Book on the Love List

Following is a book review that was posted on ninetyandnine.com some time ago.  I wrote the review shortly after reading the book.  I still love Hope's Boy and Andrew Bridge is still my hero.  His words have impacted my life. 

When a writer finds an author and a book who speaks to their soul, this is how we see it.


Hope’s Boy by Andrew Bridge


I love this book. I love the way Andrew Bridge uses words. I love the flow of the story. I love the pictures painted on the pages. I love this book.

If you know me at all, you know that I’m not a fickle book lover. Some books I like. Some books I very much dislike. There are very few on the Love List. The Bible, Dr. Zhivago, These is My Words they are on the Love List, but not much else.

Hope’s Boy is at the top of the Love List.

Apparently, I am not the only one who loves this book. Within one week, Hope’s Boy was named a New York Times Best Seller and a Publisher’s Weekly Best Seller.

Andrew Bridge draws the reader into the mind and emotions of a foster child. He begins at the same level that most people do when they encounter an abused child; from the outside. He is the lawyer sent to investigate a facility to report on the treatment of children. The neglect and abuse that he finds strengthens his resolve to do more.

And then he tells you why he is driven to do more.

His story begins with scenes of life with his grandmother in Chicago and carries you to the streets of Los Angeles with his mother. Try as she might, Hope could not take care of her son. Try as he might, Andrew could not take care of his mother. Andrew was only seven when the authorities took him from his mother. Growing up in foster care wasn’t the worst thing that might have happened to him physically, but the emotional scars run deep. A tale of determination and strength follows until you realize that the end has brought you back to the beginning. Along the way, Andrew has grown into the recipient of a Wesleyan scholarship, become a Harvard graduate and a Fulbright Scholar. You will cheer his success as though he were your brother.

More than that, however, Hope’s Boy stirs compassion. Rather than a victim’s tale of woe, Hope’s Boy is the story of a child who sees the struggles of the adults around him and understands. This foster child didn’t become a statistic, but found a way to succeed. With Andrew’s resume, he could have become a Wall Street corporate lawyer jet-setting with the big firms. Instead, Andrew gave his skills back to those without a voice.

Although Andrew has represented children through a number of channels beginning in Alabama, his work with the Alliance for Children’s Rights in Los Angeles, CA may have had the widest impact. Beyond providing legal services to children, Andrew has been instrumental in linking health and education services to children as well.

In my personal opinion, Andrew’s greatest work has been the attention drawn to children at the edge of emancipation. In the past, foster kids turned 18 and they were on their own. Just like that. If the foster parents didn’t feel a need to help them beyond 18, they didn’t. Most foster kids had no real contact with their birth families by that point and so the birth family didn’t help them, either. The state, certainly, didn’t help them. Statistics show that the strong majority of foster kids fail after emancipation. They don’t go to college. They can’t hold a job. They abuse their kids. They spend their adult lives trying to find a solid place to stand. Most fail. Under Andrew’s supervision, The Alliance for Children’s Rights has implemented model programs to assist kids beyond the age of 18.

Perhaps, this book is important to me because I was raised in foster care. Like Andrew, I lived in a home where my physical needs were well cared for. Like Andrew, I learned that love and failure can be elements of a parent’s character. Unlike Andrew, I have never really found a way to go back and help those who come behind.

For those who want to be involved in the legal side of foster care, Andrew suggests working with the Court Appointed Special Advocates program, also known as Guardians ad Litem. Andrew states, “These are volunteers who work with kids in the foster care system, who most often take on the kids most in need, and find solutions to problems that have eluded dozens of lawyers and judges that have preceded them. They do a great, great job and there are far too few of them. It would be tremendous if someday every kid in care could have one.” Beside this suggestion, Hopesboy.com lists several resources for various advocate programs. I recommend checking out the site and finding a place to put your talents to use.

If you work with kids, if you have ever considered becoming involved in foster care, if you were raised in a foster home; Hope’s Boy is required reading.

Hope’s Boy is not a book that you read. It’s a book that you experience. Thank you, Andrew, for giving the story a voice.

To order a copy of A Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or a Friend Named Jesus, 

please visit my website:  Writer's Pages

Facebook:  Author Kris A. Newman

 

Did you see that?

Proverbs 27:17 (New International Version)

     17 As iron sharpens iron,
          so one man sharpens another.

Why do I do what I do?

Live the way I live?

Don’t do what I don’t do?

I can do anything I want. I have no one beside me or behind me or before me to make me do anything.

Except for God.

And that’s a big deal.

I do what I do to be pleasing to Him who has given me peace in the storm, provision in the lack, laughter in the sorrow, fullness in the aloneness.

I live the way I live to enjoy the presence of Him who shares with me laughter, sunshine, flowers, stars, friendships, affection.

I don’t do some things that might make me crass, harsh, bitter, foolish.

I do some things out of habit, out of need, out of obedience.

At the very bottom under it all, I really don’t care what others think.

It may appear that my actions are intended to win someone’s approval, someone’s attention, someone’s respect.

That is only partially true. I do want approval, attention, respect – just like every other human being walking on the earth.

But ultimately?

I want the approval, attention and respect of my God.

I think if I can live right before Him, everyone else’s opinion falls into place.

However, I have also gotten to an age where I realize that there are others watching, always.

They want to see how to develop this relationship with God that has grown natural to me. They need to learn how to depend upon Someone to get them through the bad times. They need to figure out what’s okay and what’s not good in cultivating this relationship with God.

They are my children, grandchildren, peers, co-workers, colleagues, associates. Some are new believers. Some have always been a part of a church community.

So I cajole, challenge, question, example and remain mindful that I am never truly independent of the world.

I try to be sensitive to them, to hear how they are really living. To listen to their needs when they are not talking.

It’s hard for me to remember I’m a grown up, a leader. My age and season of life makes me so. I have walked this path for more than 20 years through many, many dark days; have seen incredibly deep blessings; have watched God do amazing miracles. I have crossed some bridges.

When I look in the mirror, I see someone who struggles with faith and purpose and intangible questions. I see my failures and inabilities and the futility of my efforts. I hope no one else is watching my stumbling about.

Two songs from the early years play softly in the background of my life. They seem to define the ambiguity within me.

I’m Not Perfect, Just Forgiven
Author Unknown

     I’m not perfect, just forgiven.
     Haven’t yet arrived! But I’m on my way!
     Since Jesus found me and forgave me.
     Can’t say I’m perfect.
     But I can say I’m saved!”


Oh, I Want to See Him
R. H. Cornelius, 1916

     As I journey through this land, singing as I go.
     Pointing souls to Calvary, to the crimson flow.
     Many arrows pierce my soul from without within
     But my Lord goes ahead through Him I must win!

     Oh! I want to see Him!
     Look up on his face
     On the streets of glory
     Let me life my voice
     Cares all past, home at last
     Ever to rejoice!


I am not perfect, but I have managed to keep walking with Him. I can’t be afraid to share my experience. It’s ok to let the walls down.

I am bound to see Him, face-to-face someday. My Jesus, my Lord, my God.

That is why I do what I do, don’t do what I don’t do and live the way I live.