There were a lot of reasons to tell my sister no, the main one being I’d set aside running when I took up Lu a couple years ago. Could I do a writing chair to 26.2? And when? This summer was about publishing. This fall was about teaching. Around, underneath, over, and throughout it all were TroyBoys. I didn’t have time.

So, so, so many reasons to say no – valid reasons my sister would understand, and I’d have no problem using if they were for anyone other than Jeni. She’s the older one; there’s residual hero worship. But my ultimate “Yes” came from a more basic place. Running the marathon was my chance to support a person who has supported me and doesn’t often ask for help in return.

I assumed my body would fall in line with my “Yes.” Prior to my running sabbatical, I’d run most days of the week. I told myself that June was a grace month – an important reminder for a girl who wants to be where she wants to go right now.

June became July and July turned to August. People would tell me they saw me running around Oxford, and I’d apologize.

“No one should have to see that.”

The vice didn’t leave my lungs, and my legs felt like mush. I didn’t consider quitting, but I did question whether my “Yes” was a wise decision. I prayed about it.

There’s worth in not doing something well. There’s learning in the struggle.

Great. I trudged on. Mileage crept up. I coped with Sunday naps. My left knee started hurting. I popped Ibuprofen. My right foot caught tendinitis. I rested. As soon as I could put weight on it, I ran.

Here was my devotional on the morning of the marathon (Jesus Calling, December 9):

Be willing to go out on a limb with Me. If that is where I am leading you, it is the safest place to be. Your desire to live a risk-free life is a form of unbelief. Let me lead you step by step through this day. If your primary focus is on Me, you can walk along perilous paths without being afraid.

The devotional was the first and last thing to go well:

• My left knee started hurting at Mile 3. I took Ibuprofen, but it was like throwing Tic Tacs at a hungry lion.
• I started walking at mile 15.
• My fingers swelled up like sausages at mile 16.
• I started limping at mile 17.
• I squatted behind a cactus on the side of the road (context: AZ marathon) at miles 18 & 21. I called a friend who’s been suffering from a more acute version of this malady over the past year, and we shared a laugh.
• I called Matt at mile 23. He told me to keep going.
• The medic asked if I needed a ride at mile 24 – 2.2 miles from saying I finished my first marathon. “Yes!” I shouted with my last reserve of energy.
• I left the course without a finish time or a medal and with my left knee wrapped in ice and my right hand clutching a PB&J.

And I was fine. At the same time I’d been training to run a marathon for 6 months, God had been training me to fail one. It’s not that I had to spin failure, it’s that the failure didn’t sting. Every run from June 1 to December 9 had prepared me for it mentally, physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

There’s worth in not doing something well. There’s learning in the struggle.

2017 was a year. Celebrating my 16th wedding anniversary. My boys turning 9, 6, and 4. Publishing my first book. Returning to full-time work. That’s a lot of highs – some earned, some given, and none done perfectly or absent of struggle. I’m glad it ends here with a failed marathon and this lesson.

The blog ends here for 2017, too. My boys are home from break, and I’m going full-on mom and holiday for the next couple of weeks. When we’ve all had enough of that, they’ll head back to school, and I’ll head back to writing, but of the Lu2 variety. Look for me here early next spring.

Until then, I hope you enjoy your year’s-end. I hope you seize the early days of the new year. My prayers are with you and my gratitude. A wise man I know once said it takes a village to raise a writer, and you all have certainly done your part in 2017 to raise me. Thank you!

“How could I not buy it when everyone is saying they want Book 2. There is a Book 2, right?”

Because of you, a not-yet reader is asking about a Book 2 for a Book 1 she hasn’t read yet.

Yes, there’s a Book 2, and it seems like at some point in NaNoWriMo, we should get around to the No[vel] part. To celebrate Day 30, here’s a sneak peek – the first two chapters! I can’t say when the rest will follow. I can’t say that these two chapters will read at all like this when I publish the book. But I wanted to say thank you to everyone who has read this book and this blog in 2017. The moment I published Lu, writing stopped being a private pursuit for me. And because of you – your reading time, your Lu budget line, your encouragement … your sheer Lu peddling … I wouldn’t want it to be. What a group of readers you are! Oh my (I’m crying right now).

Thank you, and happy reading.

Lu2, Chapter 1

At least the trees were cooperating with my plan.

Grandma Pat’s tombstone sits on a slight hill in the Dunlap’s Creek cemetery. I’d plotted the scene in my mind, how the pace of my thankfulness for her kindness – her prayers – would escalate as I approached the grave, culminating in an, “I believe now, too!” as I laid down a bouquet of her favorite flowers.

Or something like that.

The problem is the grocery’s flower department doesn’t open until nine on Sundays, but that’s when church starts, and I need to be there in ten minutes. I knew this, which is why I’d planned to buy the daisies yesterday, but yesterday hadn’t gone according to plan, either.

I blame this on my family. The last time I’d come home from New York City, they’d been waiting for me. Lying in wait for me. My voicemail announcing my twilight departure accounts for this reception, but it was also five in the morning when I’d pulled into the drive. Where else would they be?

I arrived in the middle of the afternoon this time, with no heralding voicemail. I wanted to surprise them, but when I turned the doorknob of the front door, no one turned it from the inside.

“Hello?” I called, poking my neck from the vestibule, looking left, looking right. Nothing. My query landed like a dead weight as I wandered along the hallway to the family room, dining room, and kitchen. I looked out the screen door to the deck and backyard, but when I didn’t see anyone, I headed to the second floor, and then my bedroom on the third, in case anyone was hiding under the bed.

This was not how it was supposed to go, at least according to the story of The Prodigal Son. There, the father awaits. He runs to meet the once-lost but now redeemed child. He even roasts a fattened calf in celebration. But my parents didn’t return until dinner last night, hours after my return. They had my three little nieces in tow, which didn’t leave much time to do anything other than give me a surprised look and enlist me in dinner prep.

There was no time while divvying hot dogs, potato chips, and apple slices among plastic plates to ask me why I was back, and when my parents got around to asking, the nieces’ parents entered from stage right, which, fortunately, includes my best friend, Gracie, but also, my brother, Ted.

“Back again, Lu-ser?” Ted asked and laughed, despite Gracie’s warning look.

His question brought all eyes on me, giving me the attention I’d expected three hours ago. I opened my mouth to declare the tidy monologue I’d prepped on the drive home, but the diversity of my audience stumped me. I hadn’t planned to tell my nieces or their father – I was going to let Gracie break the news to Ted. And how I was going to tell Gracie about what happened was different than my version for Mom and Dad.

I’m not one for speeches, and improvising now was beyond me. So, I closed my mouth, which opened the door to speculation.

“John again, honey?” Mom asked, her voice full of concern. “He cheated on you again?”

I shook my head, and Gracie’s eyes widened in knowing, as she put her hand to her mouth and whispered, “Oh no, you didn’t come back because I told you about …”

I shook my head, more abruptly this time, to stop her from finishing what she’d started, but she’d already said too much. Now Ted couldn’t help himself.

“You came back for Jackson!” he shouted before he started laughing at me for the second time in 30 seconds. Not a record, but still not welcome. “I hate to tell you Lu-ser, but that’s over. Have you seen the girl he’s dating now?”

Dad cut him off with a squeeze to the shoulder, but the damage was done and the verdict handed down. I, Lu, was not returning home as a changed woman, but as a sad girl-woman, somehow more pathetic than when I’d done this the first time ten months ago when my then-boyfriend, John, had actually cheated on me.

This time was different, but I was the only one who realized it.

“This is not how it’s supposed to go!” I shouted, burying my face in my hands to avoid seven pair of eyes looking at me with varying degrees of pity, including Dad who is not supposed to take part in these things.

“Well what did you expect when you went back to New York? That Jackson would wait around for you?” Mom asked.

“Wait. Are you talking about the pastor? Gross,” Caroline, my oldest niece at eight-years-old, said … right before she started gushing. “Oh, but have you seen his new girlfriend? She’s so pretty with all these blonde curls …”

“That’s enough out of you, little lady. And no, I’m not talking about Jackson.” I looked around the room, pleading with each person to believe me. None of them did, even my 3-year-old niece, Holly. Or maybe I was just misinterpreting why she was no lying on the floor with her feet on the wall.

“I’m not!” I insisted. But nothing I said made any sway the rest of the night, nor this morning when Nana Bea – whom my mom asked me to pick up on my way to church – opened our conversation with:

“Jackson is dating someone else now, Lu.”

I ignored her words, like I now tried to ignore her sitting in the car while I followed through with my planned pilgrimage to Grandma Pat’s grave, though I had no flowers and only five minutes.

So I walked the hill from the parking lot a bit more quickly than intended, leaving me more physically breathless than spiritually, but it was in the pause to inhale that I noticed the trees. They, in their spring hybrid of half-leaf, half-blossom, were on point, as was the touch of breeze that paused to caress my face before catching an assortment of pink and white blooms in a lazy whirlwind. I spent 30 seconds watching the blossoms twirl their way on down, decorating Grandma Pat’s tombstone in ways her creative eye would have appreciated.

I knelt to pick one up, rubbing the silky petal between my thumb and forefinger, saying nothing. A lot had happened in New York, and Grandma Pat would appreciate any way I’d tell it – so long as I would tell it, already. I stood back up.

Out with it, I could hear her say. Just say it.

But I’d never said something like this before, and the only memories that came to mind were from high school when normal kids would leave for a youth retreat on Friday and return as holy rollers on Monday.

I gave Jesus my heart Saturday afternoon right after lunch.

I confessed Jesus as my Lord and Savior at the redemption bonfire!

I prayed the prayer.

They’d raise their eyebrows like that made any sense, but even now, with me understanding the sentiment behind the phrases, the wording still bothered me. I can’t talk like that, not even to a grave in a cemetery.

Nana honked from the car, which I took as my 30-second warning. I needed to say something.

“I don’t know what to say …”

Okay, not that. Grandma Pat never liked people stating the obvious.

Nana Bea honked the car again. Fifteen seconds. I cleared my throat.

“And I guess you know why I’m here …”

Another honk – maybe from heaven this time. I suppose Grandma Pat had better things to do in glory than listen to me awkwardly recount what she probably already knew.

And with that revelation, I had my way out.

“So since you already know, we’ll talk about it later, okay? After church. And no. I’m not going there because of Jackson. You were wrong about him. He didn’t wait for me.”

I looked down at her epitaph from her favorite Bible passage, John 4, the woman at the well: Whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become a spring of water welling up to eternal life.

“But you were right about everything else,” I whispered.

And with this most evasive confession of faith ever uttered in the history of girlkind – it was time to go church.

Chapter 2: Lu

The last time I’d walked into this church was Grandma Pat’s funeral. The pain of the day blurs recall, but knowing me, I probably left resolved never to return.

Which is why God is laughing at me right now, but I had little time to join in. The music started as I routed Nana next to my family, who must have also arrived later than normal since they were sitting in the back right instead of their accustomed front-and-center. A small kindness.

Performance anxiety hit me as the congregation started singing. I wanted to sing with everyone, even lift my arms like some, but my desires outpaced my comfort. I’d been raised in the church but had just realized God was real about 48 hours ago. Given my family’s complete misunderstanding of why I’d returned to Dunlap’s Creek, plus the rest of the town only knowing the Lu who’d left, lifting my arms wasn’t an option today.

So I closed my eyes – a handy, childhood trick. If I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. The darkness drove away the crowd, and my breathing slowed. I could feel the sweat from my palms receding as I clasped them to anchor me to this space instead of running away, per my default. Stay here, be here.

The lyrics from the song overtook my chant. I smiled. I knew this song, an old hymn burnt into memory from Sunday school. Maybe I couldn’t sing it right now, but I whispered the words as my mind reclaimed them.

My God, my portion, and my love,

My everlasting All,

I’ve none but thee in heaven above,

I knew these words, but more than that, I now understood them. The hymn moved to another and another – all unknown – but my mind stayed here; my eyes, closed. God knew. I exhaled, measuring my breath against this truth. God knew what happened in New York. He knew me then; He knew me now. He also knew what would happen next, and I think that’s what gave me courage to open my eyes and take a seat as Jackson took the stage.

My memory hadn’t failed me. I hadn’t forgotten a detail of how he looked – his height, the brown of his hair, the green of his eyes – but I’d forgotten how the sight of him made me feel. Happily caught with no need to turn with the rest of the world unless it somehow brought me closer to him.

Jackson didn’t know I was here, so this was my chance to look at him without the possibility of my being here in his mind. I took advantage. My participation that Sunday morning was a keen display of multitasking as my hands took notes from a sermon my mind couldn’t focus on because right now it was more preoccupied with the sound of his voice over the truth of what he was saying.

The intensity of the present moment mixed with memory. First, to the last sermon I’d heard Jackson preach on Ecclesiastes. Jesus is the answer. Jesus is the conclusion of the matter. What if I’d surrendered then? Or later that night? God is here for you, he’d said. Salvation is a free gift. Jackson had always made that clear – in his sermons, in our conversations – but that night his words carried an urgency. Do you believe that?

But I’d turned away, starting a chain reaction of withdrawing that would carry into that next week as I lost my job at the paper and Grandma Pat to a fall. I avoided the very man I wanted to sink into, unwilling to lose myself in the pieces falling all around me. I didn’t hold Jackson when he held me. I didn’t stay when he asked, but defaulted to muscle memory and walked away from here to a city and boyfriend from a former life.

Put a title to it, and it’d read The Misadventures of Lu Sokolowski. The story finished well, with me arriving at Jesus as the answer, as the conclusion of the matter. It ended with me saved.

But without the boy.

I’d known Jackson had moved on from me before I left New York, and my family was wrong; I hadn’t come back for him. I’d come back because I could. There’s nothing like the promise of redemption to give a girl courage to face her past and try again.

No, I didn’t return to Dunlap’s Creek for Jackson. But I wanted to be with him all the same.

That’s the truth I landed on when his eyes finally landed on mine in the congregation. He’d been wrapping up his sermon, but he stopped when he saw me. It was a few seconds of silence, eventually broken by a cough from somewhere to my left, but enough to leave me catching my breath for the second time that day.

Jackson finished a minute later, and I stood for the last song like the good little church girl I now was. I kept my eyes open this time and looked over to Gracie as soon as the song ended and church was over.

What do I do now? I silently asked.

She looked toward Jackson and back at me.

I have no idea, the shrug of her shoulders said.

I made myself plain. There? I pointed the exit. Or there? I pointed to the stage.

She shrugged again, and I grabbed my purse, intending to follow my family out, but Nana Bea put her hand on my arm.

“Retreat now, and you’ll keep doing it.”

She was right, of course. I headed forward, wondering if Jackson would meet me halfway.

I worked my way toward him, as many of the people in between me and him welcomed me back to town. How was the city? Was I back for good or a visit? Was I going to write again for The Daily? All innocuous, unanswerable questions, but I did the best I could, treading the baseline of politeness while trying to make my way to Jackson.

It took forever, but before I knew it, he was standing in front me. I knew I should initiate this conversation, but my breath had caught in my chest again. I wasn’t going to last long if my physiology continued to short circuit like this. Thankfully, Jackson began.

“Back for a visit.”

My thankfulness evaporated. Everything about him was absent in that statement. The old Jackson would have smiled at me. He would have questioned instead of presumed. But these were minor problems in comparison to his tone. It wasn’t anger; it was nothing. The Jackson standing before me saw I was back. And he didn’t care.

“No.”

His expression didn’t change with my response, not that I’d said anything interesting to change it. Any additional explanations I’d intended to offer were sort of stifled at this point, thus opening the door for Jackson’s second observation of the morning.

“New York didn’t work out.”

Another presumption. At least I had enough wherewithal to correct it.

“It did. I didn’t work out in it.”

That little nugget didn’t illicit anything other than a head nod, but his eyes said typical. I shook my head and reached for his arm, not thinking how touching him was an unwise maneuver. He looked at my hand, and then at me, not moving.

That’s when I noticed the woman standing beside him. His girlfriend, I deduced, courtesy of my niece’s description from last night. She was pretty and with golden curls, but Caroline had left out what a friendly smile the woman had. Her round face looked made for it, like she was the type to smile more often than not. Basically, the opposite of me.

I removed my hand as she extended hers to greet me. Jackson stepped back so we could step toward each other.

“Louisa, this is Rebecca, my girlfriend. She recently moved to town to teach at the elementary school. Rebecca, this is Louisa …” He paused, unsure of how to classify me. I empathized with his predicament. What we were had never been certain, though I’d said “just friends” often enough.

But what Jackson landed on was nothing at all.

“Louisa is from Dunlap’s Creek, but just returned from New York. Tell your family I said hello, Louisa.”

And with that, I was dismissed. Jackson put his hand on Rebecca’s back to greet the people I didn’t know were standing behind me, and I stood alone in the middle of the sanctuary with nothing accomplished other than meeting Jackson’s girlfriend, who was presumably friendlier than me. And definitely way friendlier than him.

I left, trying to mask the dunce cap I felt like I was wearing with enough smiles and nods to the straggling parishioners. I needed to scream. I needed to cry. I needed to scream-cry, and I couldn’t get to my car fast enough, which is why I didn’t see Jackson’s father until after he greeted me at the double doors.

“Hello, Lu,” he said with a kind smile. I’d always been a little scared of Paul Cleary, who was my pastor growing up. But right now, he was far less scary than his son. I stopped to shake his hand.

“It’s nice to see you back,” he continued. “Are you going to be around for a while?”

“I think so.”

“How about you come to my office Tuesday morning at 9? I have a project that might interest you for the church’s 50^th anniversary celebration.”

“Oh, I don’t plan events anymore.” At least that’s the work I assumed Paul wanted me to do, given my organization last year of Creek Wedding Fest, a bridal expo my editor at The Daily had assigned to me shortly before he fired me. This had more to do with the sinking publishing market than the event itself, which had gone surprisingly well. Still, I wasn’t looking for a repeat.

“It’s more on the writing side of things. A book of sorts, to document the church’s history.”

I was set to object, for no reason other than to get out of here as quickly as possible, but then he put his hand to my shoulder and smiled at me again. “Are you willing to consider it?”

And so I found myself nodding. Because out of all the people welcoming me back to our small town, he was the first one to consider me.

“It’s a marathon, but you ran it like a sprint,” my writing buddy told me.

Laura was right, and her feedback reminded me of my operating instructions. Lu is not a plot-driven book because its author is more interested in people vs. what happens to them.

Without good characters, my story would have diddly squat, so I developed loose rules for character development early on:

• Let my characters be unlikable – not as a whole, but certainly at times, and maybe even for extended periods of time. Lu reads hard for the first part of the book. We ultimately learn what’s shaped her perspectives and decisions, but not at the start. When we first meet people in real life, we don’t get the luxury of their back story. We just git what git and learn more over time. I wanted Lu to unfold in a similar way.
• Leave some stories unexplained – for example, Jackson’s divorce. We might want to know details – especially juicy ones – but Lu’s viewpoint drives the book. I don’t think that’s a question she’d ask, certainly not from a church standpoint, but also because I don’t think she’d ask a question she herself wouldn’t want to answer. She’s private like that. I also don’t think it’s a story Jackson would offer without a direct question. I let it lie.
• Don’t give characters equal play. Some characters in Lu are underdeveloped – the mom, in particular. I kept thinking I should write her in more, but the two grandmas kept butting in, and the amount of pages Gracie claimed took me by surprise. Could I make room for fifth female lead? By the end of the book I was too tired to try, and then I remembered this rule and felt justified in keeping her in the background. I’d like to learn more about the mom in book two, though.
• Let characters make bad choices. I don’t think Ted is a jerk, but he is to Lu in the way siblings are. John shouldn’t have cheated on Lu, and Lu should never have gone back with him, but characters, like people, don’t always behave. They sort of take over a chapter and leave you to write them out of their mess.
• Keep mum about physical qualities unless they served another purpose. This is partly a cop-out. I’m not great with descriptions of any sort. But it also goes back to my interest. When I start a chapter, I’m more curious about what a character is saying, doing, thinking, and feeling than the color her hair. Sometimes I never get around to figuring that detail out. I can’t tell you Gracie’s.
• Throw characters some gimmes. Some things have to go well some of the time. This describes the middle section of Lu. We needed a breather between New York & New York, so I gave her the promise of a career and relationship. I remember my editor questioning me on how fast her social media was taking off. Was this realistic? Probably not, I responded, but the girl (and her readers) needed a break before Round 2. The writer, too, because remember – I didn’t want Lu to go back to New York City.

“Would you like for me to bring anything?” Gail asked.

“No, but I’m going to need your help in making a cupcake costume for my Thriller flash mob tomorrow.”

This weekend’s friend-and-family request didn’t involve a glue gun, poster board, quilt batting, and sparkly pom-poms. I kept it simple for my NaNoWriMo poll with just one question: What makes for a good character?

Texted to Brenda Homan – friend and budding entrepreneur of a wine leadership training course

Me: What makes for a good character?

Brenda: All good characters drink wine.

Me: And?

Brenda: Good characters stay true to themselves. I like the character who can’t do what others do because that isn’t them. They do the things they do because that’s what they do. Their trials in life come from being themselves.

Anyone else feel like she’s talking about you instead of fictional characters at this point?

Asked to friends Anne Lynn and Brian Minick over Sunday dinner

Me: What makes for a good character?

Anne Lynn: Someone who is not perfect – who is likeable but has flaws, too. Someone you can relate to.

Me: Brian?

Brian: Relatable.

Me: Your wife just said that.

Brian: Oh, come on!

Me: You come on.

Brian: Full of adventure. Indiana Jones-ish.

Asked to friend, Leah Hricko

Me: What makes for a good character?

Leah: Any criteria?

Me: Just what comes to mind.

Leah: A good character is one that convinces me based on the information given and keeps me engaged both by what I know and don’t know about them. Much like getting to know an actual person. I see aspects of people I know in them and aspects like no one I know.

Asked to creativity professor, David Eyman (whose mind hangs out on earth only half the time, which is why he comes up with the best ideas)

Me: What makes for a good character?

David: Ooooh! I like that.

[10 seconds of silence]

Me: So will you answer the question?

David: Answer what?

Me: What makes for a good character.

David: The character flaws that establish them as a unique individual. For example, there are characters who do dumb things – like make bad dad jokes – but you can rely on them to do that dumb thing. It helps you understand them and be more endeared to them.

Texted to my 13-year-old niece, Juliana, and my sister, Jeni

Me: What makes for a good character?

Juliana: I think that what makes a good character is a good introduction. The introduction means everything because it shows us who the character is, their struggles, and who they aspire to be. If, for instance, a character’s struggles weren’t introduced, then the story wouldn’t have a meaning or purpose, and the readers won’t feel attached. A good character is someone that the readers can relate to and that they don’t have to question. That will help the readers feel more attached and emotional about what will happen to them. Additionally, readers won’t be able to put down the book in anticipation of what might happen next.

I text her answer to Jeni: How old is your daughter?

Jeni: Now that she’s completely one-upped me, I’ll give you something from the one-word department: believable.

Me: We need the one-liners to mix with the expository.

Jeni: Glad I serve a purpose.

Asked to my boss, Jim Friedman (winner of many an Emmy – no joke)

Me: What makes for a good character?

Jim: A lack of truth telling.

Me: What does that mean?

Jim: There’s an air of mystery. There’s secret, there’s depth. A good character requires something of me. I have to work to understand them.

Texted to my friend, Amber

Me: What makes for a good character?

Amber: Other good characters. So many of the characters I love in books or shows are brilliant because of the juxtaposition of them against another. The also have to be relatable – even if I can’t stand them.

Which explains why she’s put up with me since my Muncie, Indiana days!

Asked to Matt before bedtime

Me: What makes for a good character, baby?

Matt: Superpowers.

Me: Like a ring of power?

Matt: That’s a totally different genre.

Me: Which do you think is cooler?

Matt: Obviously Lord of the Rings is cooler than Marvel, but a ring of power is inherently evil, so there’s that.

I go quiet, hoping the man forgets we started this convo.

And you …

Et tu, Brute? What makes for a good character? Answer in the comments below by Friday at noon to win a $10 STARBUCKS GIFT CARD. It’ll get you like half a latte, but your answers are priceless in helping me with Lu2.

**

Character Descriptions, by Laura L. Smith

My novels all begin in my head with an abstract idea of a girl facing a certain life issue in a specific setting, usually someplace fabulous I’ve traveled to. The issue and the setting lodge in my brain and won’t let go. Once I realize this is something I have to write about, I spend a large chunk of time working out a character description.

Who is going through this thing in this place? What is she like? Who are her friends? Are they the right friends for her? What’s her family like? How do they treat her? What will delight her, concern her, energize her, wear her out? I need to have a character fully in my head before I can write about how she’ll act and react to all of the things that will happen to her in the course of a story.

My definition of a character description is:

1. How the character sees herself AND
2. How others see her

I require both of these viewpoints, because like a real person, my character will miss some of her own characteristics, and the people around her will often miss some of my character’s finer (and less fine points) that only she can see.

I begin with what my character looks like. I need to be able to picture her. I might people watch for a few hours at a public park or the campus student center. I’ll usually pick out a girl who embodies the character that would need to go on the journey of the story of my book, seal her in my mind, and go from there. When I wrote Angry, my main character had a fiery personality, so I wanted a redhead to embody that trait. When I wrote about Claire, in my Status Updates books, I scrolled through pictures on Google for hours until I found the right petite and pale image who would be essential to the fragility of Claire’s character arc. And when I found her—wow, it was like she was sitting next to me.

Once I know what my protagonist looks like, I sketch out her hobbies, quirks, favorite foods, who she lives with, what that silly thing is she’s afraid of that she knows she shouldn’t be (for me this is mice—eek!). There’s the kind of music she listens to, the books she reads, her pets, allergies, siblings, her nervous twitches. Does she rub her hands on her thighs when she’s thinking or tuck her hair behind her right ear when slightly uncomfortable. You get the picture.

And if I’ve done my writing job right, this really cool thing happens. The more of the bad habits, anxieties, and rawness I develop for the character, the more beautiful she becomes. She becomes real, not a cardboard cutout person, but like me or like you, she becomes someone who has real concerns. There are things that haunt her and bother her, little things that amuse her for no apparent reason. She has feelings, and at the core of it all—she longs to be loved.

A great way to practice writing character descriptions is to write your own. Start with an outline of yourself—name, age, where you live, who you live with, physical description, favorite color, etc. Dig deeper by writing the name of your best friend and explaining why they’re your best friend, what your favorite food is and where you like to get it, what show you’re hooked on and how that show makes you feel. List the places you feel happiest and the activities that drain you. As you spend more time writing about your habits, the things that bring you joy, the way you react to certain things, you’ll hopefully not only better understand how to write a character description, but also better understand yourself and how you tick.

But they can’t take center stage. Neither can these people.

The beautiful day, the back-lit hair, color coordination at its best – a story of a family who looks at the camera at the same time and smiles on cue is worse than one-dimensional. It’s nauseating. It’s not real. And it’s very, very easy to write, which is why Hallmark, bookshelves, and social media are packed with stories like it.

What if I told you the mom in this picture has had a muscle twitch in her left eye since the beginning of October because she’s bone-tired and stressed out? What if I told you that on the day of this picture, she woke up at 3AM in a panic. What do I have to do today? Too much. How will I fail? She feels like she’s been failing for months. She can’t even organize the family picture. She’s pushed it back three times, and the children still don’t have clothes without holes in them. I’ll go to TJ Maxx at 3:30. The middle son still doesn’t have a haircut. I’ll do that at 4:30. The plan is to include the family dog in the picture, but the family dog messes herself in the crate. I’ll take care of that after the picture. Wrangling three boys for the half hour mini-session is enough anyway. This mom loves her sons, but they’re all energy all the time, and she’s tired already (see earlier note about 3AM). I’ll just push the photo shoot back a fourth time. Then, I can change into my jammies instead of putting on make-up.

Tell me, what resonated with you: the family picture or the fine print? For me, it’s both. The best stories have both. The picture is like a book cover. It draws me in. What a lovely family. The fine print keeps me there. They sound just like mine.

Great stories, like great meals, have diverse tones and textures.

This was another take-away from the story workshop I went to earlier this month. A story that reads only like that picture is mashed potatoes with a slice of white bread. A story that reads only like the fine print is liver and onions. I’ve stopped reading stories for both reasons.

People only care about the highlights if you share the lowlights.

I’m celebrating the last week of NaNoWriMo with discussions on characters. Every story has one. In his Q&A earlier this month, Jim Michels said good stories have two components: the storyteller must have something to say that matters to him/her and then must say it well.

We tell stories because we have something to say. But how will we get people to listen? Through our characters.

Our reading choices don’t vary much from our life choices. It’s all about who we want to spend time with.

Gift Lu to your family and friends this Christmas! Now through December 1:

• Get signed copies of Lu for $10 + a free wooden bookmark for each copy when you purchase through me (pick-up only)
• Get a free wooden bookmark for each copy of Lu you purchase on Amazon (contact me with number of copies of purchased and I’ll mail them to you or you can pick them up)
• Get the Kindle version of Lu for $2.99

The soundtrack for Lu started with my Dixie Chicks Pandora station 8 years ago. When I picked it back up 5 years later, I was jamming to the Lumineers Pandora station. Writing at the mercy of the online radio algorithm became a drag, and so I downloaded my favorites, and then I discovered the wonder of Spotify and added more songs based on their recommendations.

My daddy always said my taste in music was eclectic, and I don’t know if it works for anyone other than me, but I thought it’d make for some Friday Fun for y’all. Bonus points if you can guess which songs go with which chapters.

To keep on, I have to choose gratitude. Thanksgiving is the only way to drive away the question of enough and the doubt of insufficiency. When I give thanks, I actually acknowledge both. I haven’t done enough, and I am insufficient. This reality takes me by surprise, but never God. He knew this when He called me to this work, and He called me anyway. God gets the first thanks.

The Lord is my chosen portion and my cup;
    you hold my lot.
The lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
    indeed, I have a beautiful inheritance.

Psalm 16:5-6 (ESV)

You get the second. I have been more in tune with the generosity of people this past year than at any other point in my life.

My husband, who has never once complained about the odd hours I keep and who keeps me on the up-and-up with the government. Paying sales tax never once entered my mind when I was planning my book release party in June, but it didn’t have to because Matt took care of it. He takes care of so.many.things to free me up.

And I didn’t plan that book release party. Maggie Wolff did that and did it beautifully. Women from my church baked a spread because I couldn’t afford to feed everyone who came, and so many women came – my roommates from college came! – and bought Lu and shared it.

Michelle C, you took on Iowa. Michelle P, you’ve got Wisconsin. The only reason people know Lu exists in Seattle is because of Brittany. Arizona, I’m sorry that whenever my sister is in town she’s bugging your people about what book they should be reading. Brenda, Leah, Mika, Joy, Megan – I lost track of how many books you’ve bought a long time ago. Lu is in the Yellow Springs library thanks to Maggie and in the Johnston library thanks to a woman I’ve never met.

My parents will get kicked off the golf course at one point for peddling my business cards to people in their leagues and scrambles. They went on a European river cruise this fall and sold books.

Thanksgiving is a snowball and so many minds are filling my mind right now – Gail, Laura, Norma, Sue, Sara, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah, Sarah … (I know a crazy number of Sarahs), Stacy, Pati, Mariana, Nancy, Joani, Bunny, Pam, Jeane, Sam, Heather, Linda, Kelli, Kelly, Kristin, Laura, Amber, Anna, Cassie, Summer, Diane, Katie, Stacey, Liz, Lindsay, Ruth, Carol, Yvonne, Barb, Katrina, Bev, Kasey, Maren, Joanna, Alison, Christy, Heidi, Jeanne, Terry, Anne Lynn, Emily, Ashley, Debbie, Deanna, Juliana, Cate, Olivia, Joelah, Jim, Clay, Steve, Mick, Jed, Jeremy, Chris …

… I’m leaving names out. This is the problem when you start naming names. This is the problem when you have such a memory that can barely remember your own boys’ birthdays.

But don’t you see?

There is no such thing as “small” generosity.

Our stories don’t land in a void. They land in a world of people who need them for reasons that aren’t ours to know (though sometimes we get to find out).

I wouldn’t know any of this if I hadn’t published Lu. My life is better for knowing this. Knowing this has changed me and changed my course.

Thank you God for calling me out of my comfort zone. Thank you family, friends, and readers for making this scary place palatable. I pray you all have a happy Thanksgiving.

Almost. At least it’s better than everything, I thought, which is why I didn’t start a new file but chose to redeem this one. It took me a month to revise the first three chapters and work up the courage to send this second draft to my writing buddy.

An exodus makes for a great start to a story. The slam of the door behind, the drive ahead. There’s mystery, expectation. And hope. There’s great hope where the road meets the horizon. Maybe there, an answer awaits. The conclusion of the matter.

My journey traces these lines from a distance. It’s even beautiful with its coral sunrise that hogs the sky and ripe cornfields bursting, practically begging, for someone to take their offering. Only a two-lane interrupts their call, meandering through their acres more like a lazy river than a road.

I should know; I’ve been driving it all morning, and in an ’85 Cutlass that runs old in an exodus that could use something vintage. Even a car that that doesn’t eat itself would do. My driver’s window isn’t rolled down as an act of abandon; the car ate it. Swallowed it whole when I stopped for gas around 2:00 a.m. Such a detail sharply veers from the exodus outline, as do the effects of how the run-away humidity balloons my hair and fills my car with the smell of manure.

The sunrise is almost up, and this hot July morning promises a hotter day, which even if I were eager to get to, I couldn’t, courtesy of the delivery truck that’s curbing my flight to 40 mph.

I should be going 55, but I’ve driven this road enough to know that when this truck turns, another will take its place. I lean my head back – gingerly. I don’t want the seat gulping the headrest. I’m tired, partly because I’ve been driving all night, but mostly from why. A cheating boyfriend is so tiresome it’s typical, but the storyline wearies me all the same. And I know where this road ends. There’s no rush. 40 will do.

At least in this draft, there are a few words and phrases that made the final cut. You can see I’m still playing with metaphor, this time an exodus. There’s also allusions to Ecclesiastes, which I now knew would serve as the story’s scriptural anchor. Both are too heavy-handed. Delete, delete. What will stay is Lu’s weary tone. Yes, she’s upset that the man she loves cheated on her, but she’s wearied by this typical story line – the one about the boy who cheats and the girl who leaves. I’ll discover that line in Take 3. You could dress it up and call it a journey. But there was nothing new in the story about the girl who went home because she had nowhere else to go. These lines will follow and ultimately lead to the line that opens the whole thing. All the stories have been written, including mine.

8 years, 8 drafts, and I don’t know how many hours. I didn’t count them because I don’t track what I don’t care about. I cared about the story, and as much as these footprints to the final draft make me grimace, they’re my work table – the remnants of me writing as best I could on a story as best I understood at those points in time.

Two things shout to me from this glimpse into my writing past. First, the grace of God. There’s a lot of life in those 8 years and 8 drafts, some of it very hard. Lu is just one example of God’s grace to me.

The next is how much I enjoy writing. I wasn’t nervous to commit to writing about writing for the 30 days of NaNoWriMo; it’s a great excuse for talking about what I’m often thinking about, which reminds me of why curiosity is one of the first lessons I teach my students in my creativity and innovation classes.

What you’re curious about is what you’re tireless about. What you’re tireless about is what you’ll work hard at. What you work hard at you’ll eventually get good at.

Keep at it, storytellers.