Angel Collection

I have an angel collection.  I didn’t used to.  It was started many years ago by Lopez, my boss, who asked someone else if I collected anything.  She figured I collected angels.  So, for Christmas and birthday and Secretary’s Day and for sundry other times when gift giving was an appropriate part of our work relationship, he bought me angels: figurines, ornaments, candles, bookends and more.  Finally, I asked him why he always bought me angels. 

“Because Judy said you collect them,” he answered plainly.

“I guess I do now!”  We laughed and that increased the angel giving. 

We worked together for ten years.  I have a lot of angels from him.  That kind of thing is contagious and so I also have a number of angels from other people, too.  It’s easy to give gifts when one has a theme.

This year when the angelbabies were decorating my little Christmas tree I was caught by the beauty of it.  They kept asking me, “Who gave you this angel?  Where did this angel come from?”

The angelbabies had never, and likely would never, meet the angelgivers.  They are collected along the rainbows of my past.   Those rays of promise, peace and plenty who gave what they could to smooth the way.  We shared laughter – so much laughter  – as we walked and some tears.  Although, the tears I tried to keep to myself.  My angels always seem to have enough sorrow of their own without borrowing mine. 

I always felt I took more from my angels than I gave.  Like the Little Drummer Boy, I always seem to be the poor one with nothing to offer but my love.  Many times I have sat with my Lord and talked about my angels and all of their needs.  “Please, God, can’t you just…..”   The blank would be filled with “make them better, bring some cash, heal the hurt, do something about the anger, bring peace to their lives?” 

I wished a thousand times for unlimited supplies to fix all that was wrong. 

In the meantime, these angels kept doing good things for me.  Compassion and grace and books and clothes and dinners and coffees and calendars and time they gave.  Filling my empty cup again and again with memories.    How could I ever repay them their generosity?  How could I ever give back?

I am not a very good friend.  I forget birthdays, important events and details.  I don’t mean to.  My days move quickly and I lose track of time.  I try to do better by adding things to the calendar, and then I forget where the calendar is.  I try to listen better and take mental notes, but then the notes in my mind get misfiled and I forget if it was her or him with that particular problem.  Sigh. 

And then, there I am again, back in my prayer closet asking God to help all these precious angels.  Hoping I have enough faith and He has enough grace to overcome my forgetfulness.

I also thank Him, often, for the angels He has given me.  If you hear me say, “Thanks, God!” it’s not a cliché.  I am often caught off-guard by the gifts He gives me and can’t help but thank Him.  Most often, though, the thanks I give Him for the angels cannot be heard by others.  It’s mingled with tears flowing from a grateful heart.

I pray today you see the angels He has given you.  Forget looking for signs and wonders inexplicable.  Notice the everyday, amazing, stunning miracles that He has littered your path with.  Drown yourself in His blessings.
 

I thank my God for you, my readers.  You give courage to my voice. 

I thank my God for you, my lifetime friends.  You give purpose to my laugh lines.

I thank my God for you, my angels.  You give ever much more than you receive.

Thanks, God, for so many gifts. 

Readers and Writer

I have to apologize to my readers, wherever you are. I haven’t been in the mood to write much lately. Maybe it’s the way people have reacted to the book that’s made me reticent. I feel almost third-person-ish talking about this Author Kris Newman who spills her guts to the world.

I know the transparency of my words give honesty and purpose to my experiences. That’s why I write about them.

Some have been angry with me. Misunderstanding my need to express, they think perhaps I’m trying to justify myself, my actions, my life. I’m not. Some of my writing is, indeed, cathartic. Most is the result of prayer, contemplation and reader reaction.

On one level, my writing is a ministry. It’s a way of helping others to deal with the difficulties of life that I have dealt with. Not because I have become some perfect specimen of grace and forgiveness; but, in my human reactions to the events of my life I have found Someone to give me grace and forgiveness. The answer to my life’s complications doesn’t come from within my own strength, but in the strength I get from God.

Say what you may, but that’s how I see it.

I see my writing as an expression of that, a way to connect others to God who has helped me so He can help them.

Some readers of the book are surprised to learn how similar we all are. At least, that’s how I perceive their response. Perhaps it is I who is surprised to learn how similar they are to me. Some pieces I expect people to like and they don’t. Some pieces I expect them to find shallow or foolish, and they love them.

Readers, I have decided, are an unpredictable lot.

The one piece which seems to garner the strongest reaction is the one I enjoyed writing the most: A Night at the Theater. Some readers have begged to know who is the mysterious woman, what is the relationship between the two, and is there a sequel! All are unanswered questions which make my heart smile to no end.

I’m a little afraid to see my words in print because I know I can’t take them back and hide them anymore. I think that’s why I haven’t written.

But don’t think for a minute that the words have left me. They push me along on the whims of their way. As long as I’m alive, I’m sure, I’ll be writing something.

And as long as I know you’re reading, I’ll keep writing. Please forgive the time between when I simply must catch my breath and determine if I really am strong enough to throw my heart out there.

I know not everyone will like everything that I write. I know not everyone will understand everything. Writing isn’t a popularity contest or a test of my ability. It’s only expression.

And so, my readers, please forgive my reticence. And thank you, so very much, for stopping by to chat with me.



If you would like more information about The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges, please visit my website at:  Krisanewman.webs.com   Grab a cuppa java and visit awhile!
 

Where to Place an Order

Some people have asked about how to order the book, please send me an e-mail at imnewkris@yahoo.com with "Book Order, Please" as the subject line and let me know that you would like to place an order.  I will respond with where your check or money order can be mailed.  When I have received payment, I will fill the order.

You can also order through Amazon.com or through my website:  Writer's Pages

There is something very strangely fulfilling about seeing my words in print.  I realize that anyone can publish anything so being published doesn't make it good. 

However, those are my words.  Those words I can't hide from or stash away or live without.  My words.  And now, they are part of the experience of many, many others.  People who are from completely different walks of life are sharing my path. 

My words bridge the gap between their perspective and mine.  It's not easy - this opening of my heart and spilling its contents to a stranger, but it's good.  It's a risk worth taking and I would recommend it. 

All very interesting to my writer's eyes.  I watch and listen and perceive that underneath all of our bluster, we are more alike than different. 

The EStore is Open for Business!

IF you were one of those people who said they wanted to order a copy of my first self-published work,

THEN here is the place you want to go to place your order:  createspace.com

A couple of people have already ordered their copies and it seems to be a pretty smooth transaction.  Let me know, please, if you have any difficulties.  I can also order copies for you, but it's a longer process since you have to send me the money and then I have to place the order, receive the shipment and then send it out to you.  Going through the link above cuts me out of the process.

I really am humbled by the support I've received, and the encouragement.  I don't understand why you want to read my ramblings.  I am not all together sure I make any sense at all and I surely don't have anything deep or profound to say that will shift your paradigms.

But, maybe, just in the transparent honesty of looking into the world through my eyes you can see something just a little differently.  Maybe it's yourself that looks new.  Maybe it's someone you work with, or live with.

I pray for you, my readers, that God will use my words to bless you.  And I thank Him, too, for your friendship.

You can also access the link through my website:  Writer's Pages 

Let me know you stopped by!

If by chance you would like to host a book signing, please let me know.  I'm sure we can arrange something.  I would love the opportunity to share with you and your friends what God has done.

Blessings galore!
Kris

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.