Rena Olsen

I am super in to alliteration titles lately, I guess. I’ll try not to make it a Thing. But. Maybe I will. Always Awesome Alliteration.

It’s become almost a theme in my life lately that something I hear in church sparks a blog post, and this week was no different. It’s a little crazy how very relevant I always find the messages, and how easy it is to bridge into my every day life and Writing World.

At the beginning of the message this week, the pastor shared the video of Susan Boyle’s first audition for Britain’s Got Talent. If you’ve never seen it (who even are you), here you go:

Confession: I have watched this video so many times, I could practically quote it. Related: I still tear up every time I watch it. Sitting there, watching it for the eleventy-ninth time, I could feel the stupid giant grin on my face.

The message the followed was about expectations. Watching that video, you can see how it relates. When Susan walked on stage, people had specific expectations based on her outward appearance, on her slightly nervous babbling. And she Blew. Them. Away.

How often do we do this in our lives? We are nothing if not individual bundles of expectations, based on the way we see the world. We expect to be treated in certain ways, and we treat others based on those expectations as well.

A friend of mine recently told me something that I have repeated so many times in the past couple of months, to myself and to others. She said, “I guess I just go into every interaction assuming that people like me. If they don’t, I’ll find out, but until then, it’s a lot easier to assume they like me.”

We certainly can’t control what other people think, or what their expectations of us are, but we can control how we see the world, and where we set our expectations. I didn’t realize until that conversation how much I looked at every interaction as a challenge to EARN someone’s approval. Looking at those interactions from the perspective of already having that approval was, honestly, life-changing. I mean, why wouldn’t someone like me? I’m delightful 😉

I need a really fancy segue into the next part of this, but I’ve got nothing.

In life, we place so many expectations on ourselves and on others. I have always told my friends who call me pessimistic that I am a realist, and that I like to keep my expectations low in order to protect myself.

Well, I’m calling bullshit on myself. (Sorry, Mom!)

Almost every one of my expectations for my life have been blown out of the water. A year ago, I never expected to find an agent, or get a book deal. I mean, I always HOPED for it, and worked very hard toward that goal, but I kept my expectations low. “I’ll still be querying a year from now,” I told myself. “Expect the worst while hoping for the best,” was my mantra.

It makes me wonder what other low-bar expectations I’ve set for myself that I need to do away with.

What I’ve realized is how much of a disservice I’ve done myself, and God, by keeping my expectations low. Would I tell my kiddos at work what I tell myself? DREAM BIG (aim low). Uhhh, no. Do I tell my fellow writers that? Absolutely not! So why am I different? Why do I get to expect only small things from myself?

So I’m doing away with expectations. I’m embracing all the possibilities that life has to offer. I’m trusting that God knows what He’s doing, and I’m trusting in myself and my abilities. And I’m accepting that I’m not psychic. The best way to know what’s going to happen in life is to live it, every moment. And I intend to.

PS: Of course, the flip side of this is expecting too much of ourselves, which I talked about in my previous post on perfection. (Yay, alliteration!) Check it out.

It’s been a busy couple of weeks in these parts. Lots of pretty amazing things going on. Stress, but the good kind. Mostly.

Last weekend I had the opportunity to sing with the worship band in church for the first time in almost two years. I had to get up eaaaaaarrrrrrrrrlllly to rehearse, and then sing through two services. I had an absolute blast. I felt like it went really well, except for one point where I was distracted and sang the wrong words for one line, but otherwise so great.

I got home, fully meaning to finish my read-through on my MS before sending it back to my editor (more on this soon), but my adrenaline ran out and I crashed on the couch for two hours.

When I woke up, it was as if I had been reprogrammed. Far from the high I was on, all I could focus on was that one line I missed. All I could focus on was the fact that I completely messed up my first time singing with the band because I wasn’t perfect. I fixated on it like a crazy person, fully realizing how ridiculous it was to do so.

To distract myself, I dove into my MS, which I have been very happy with following revisions. I’ve always been proud of this book, but each round of revisions has shaped it into an even greater book. And then I came upon one line that floored me in its awfulness. I won’t even put it here because it was just bad. And had somehow survived how many rounds of revisions?? I stared at it, aghast, before quickly deleting and writing a much more clever line.

But that line haunted me. I mean, how could I have written it? Worse, how did it survive so long? Did I really think it was good? It sounded nothing like my character! It made absolutely no sense in the scene. And it was DIALOGUE, which is something I pride myself on doing well. I fixated on that mistake, though there were several larger revisions that I have made that didn’t cause me to so much as bat an eye.

If you think I overreacted to either of these situations, YOU ARE RIGHT. But that’s the perfectionist in me. It’s what happens when I put this insane pressure on myself to do everything EXACTLY RIGHT the first time, with very little grace.

I see this all the time in Writing World. Not just from me. I think it’s how our brains work. We look at something we’ve worked hard on and say, “Nope. This is garbage.” We beat ourselves up over a project gone wrong, a failed line, a misspoken word. We go back over interactions the way we go back over our WIPs, and facepalm at all the things we did wrong, because we can’t fix them like we can our written words.

My new plan is to give myself a little grace. In life, in writing, in relationships. It’s okay not to be perfect. In fact, perfection is boring. If I didn’t fall down in slow motion on a regular basis, how would I entertain people at parties? If I said everything exactly right, how would new and fun inside jokes emerge? In fact, imperfection is the perfect form of communication. We’re all human, and that’s a beautiful thing.

I hope everyone reading this will do the same. Give yourself some grace. We are all harder on ourselves than we need to be. Lighten up. As long as you’re doing your best, you should be proud. Strive for imperfection. Life is more interesting that way.

One of the first signs of spring in these parts is the sudden burst of dandelions. I love dandelions. They are so vibrant, and persistent. You cut them down, and they grow back up. Even in death, they spread their influence, floating on the breeze to land in new and exciting locations, where fresh gorgeous yellow flowers will sprout.

Many people look at dandelions and grumble. “Weeds,” they say. “Cut them down, poison them, keep them at bay.”

But not me.

Where others see weeds, I see flowers.

How many other places in our lives do we miss the flowers for seeing the weeds?

Where others see an oppositional brat, I see a child in need of love.

Where others see low test scores and underachievement, I see a gifted child with oodles of potential.

Where others see dirt and grime, I see the smiles and joy of kids who get the most out of life.

Where others see a messy house, I see a life too full to waste on chores.

Where others see horrible first drafts, worthy of the trashcan, I see diamonds, waiting to be uncovered.

Where others see rejection, I see opportunities for growth.

I see flowers.

What do you see?

Wednesday afternoons at my job are for meetings. Yesterday, during a break between meetings, I wandered the halls (all the computers were taken) to find a friend to play with. I ended up in the area I used to work, the Land of Cubicles. Now, when I worked there, we didn’t get our own schmancy individual cubes. Six of us shared one, which is an entire blog series, or novel, all on its own.

But I digress. (As usual.)

When I worked in the Cube, it was doing home-based therapy for teens in the juvenile justice system and their families in a program called Functional Family Therapy (FFT). Basically kids who had gotten in trouble to the point of court involvement, from petty theft to assault to serious gang involvement and everything in between. I did that for two years before moving on to work in the school-based program.

I got to reminiscing about those two years with some of the current therapists. The ups and downs, the hilarity and quirks of certain JCOs (Juvenile Court Officers). I have always said that even though I was soooo ready to move on (the hours were terrible and I drove out to the rural counties), it was probably one of the best experiences I could have had as a therapist just starting out.

Later, I was thinking about some of the clients I encountered in my years as an FFT therapist. They were a colorful bunch, to be sure. But those poor, poor folks, who were stuck with Baby Therapist Rena. I had no idea what I was doing half the time. Okay, probably more like 90% of the time. Sure, we had a manual we were supposed to follow, but for some reason people don’t always follow the manual guidelines, no matter how well the manual is written. I look back at some of the sessions I had, some of the things I said, and I just cringe.

But I shouldn’t. Baby Therapist Rena did the best she could with the knowledge she had. All the Greats start somewhere. I’m sure in 20 years if I’m still doing this therapy thing I will look back at Teenage Therapist Rena and giggle at how naive I am/she was. But I hope I’ll be proud of who I was, just like I’m proud of Baby Therapist Rena. She did some terrifying things. She had chutzpa. She went for it, and she was like a sponge, soaking in each new experience. I think that’s something Teenage Therapist Rena could probably learn from.

But, Rena, you say. This is all very interesting, but what does it have to do with writing?

I’m glad you asked.

When I look back at some of my first writings, I cringe at some of the things Baby Writer Rena did. She wrote in cliches. She used adverbs like they were paying her. She threw characters around willy-nilly, and probably used phrases like “willy-nilly” far too often. And that’s only the beginning.

There was a hashtag going around Twitter a few days ago called #1stMSConfessions. I was reading through, giggling and nodding. Yup, did that. Did that one too. Did that twice. What I loved about it was that writers were not only sharing, but EMBRACING the things they’d done first starting out. Sure, the things we did weren’t right, and maybe we roll our eyes at them now, but everyone starts somewhere. Everyone makes those mistakes. If not THOSE, then some other equally horrendous/entertaining ones. EVERYONE.

I remember Baby Writer Rena. She had the world at her fingertips. She was so excited to be writing a NOVEL. Giving voice to the characters in her head. Writing late into the night, not caring if the character had to have a poignant dream and wake up to look at herself in the mirror before starting at a new school where the best looking guy would clearly fall for her because it was FUN to write. No rules. No rejections yet. Just pure passion.

Teenage (Preteen?) Writer Rena is in the midst of some pretty major edits, and I’ve been thinking about Baby Writer Rena and pulling from her, letting her passion infect me again. I think we forget sometimes who we were, why we started writing, why we go through so much. And when we forget, we are in danger of becoming stagnant. Not soaking in, not learning, not growing. And I always want to grow. I hope when I’m 40 I can look at the book I’m working on now and appreciate it, while also being secure in the knowledge that what I’m writing at 40 is worlds better. I hope the same when I’m 50 looking back at what I write when I’m 40. And so on down the line until I’m just too old to write anymore (Heaven forbid!)

Be proud of what you’ve done, wherever you are in your journey. After all, the journey is what makes us the kind of writer/therapist/fill-in-the-blank that we are, and into which we’ll continue to grow.

Sometimes I wonder about how my brain works. (No comments from the peanut gallery.) Really, I wonder about how everyone’s brain works. It’s why I went into psychology in college. It’s why my day job is piecing together reasons for why kids act the way they do, and coming up with solutions to help their brains process in more healthy ways. It’s why I write stories that explore deep within the human psyche, digging through all the best and worst traits of humanity to create balanced, believable characters.

But still, I baffle myself sometimes.

For my day job, I often face down belligerent children. I have scolded known abusers. When I did home-based work with teens in the juvenile justice system, I drove through rough areas after dark to talk with families with known gang affiliations. I have stood between chain smoking/drinking parents and their screaming children, been called any variety of vulgar names, and had to request assistance for a child destroying my office.

In writing world, I have written five books. I spent two years sending queries and receiving rejections. Two years pushing through, stubbornly refusing to quit, launching my words into play again and again. I got an agent and a book deal. I get to call myself an author.

In January, I started attending a new church, which I have mentioned here before, I think. (I’m too lazy to go back and look.) A few weeks ago, I decided to take the plunge and try to connect instead of slipping in and out practically unnoticed, which I did for three years at my previous church before finally getting involved. So, with shaking hands, I filled out a card and dropped it in the offering plate. Friends, that act was more difficult than knocking on any of the doors in the scariest parts of the city.

Last week, I auditioned for the worship band. I hadn’t sung in front of anyone but family for almost two years, since my last church closed. Not gonna lie, I was physically ill beforehand. I had to run a meeting early in the afternoon, and then sit through another one until 4. I thought I might throw up. Why? Because of the what ifs. What if I was actually terrible? What if my friends and family were like the ones from American Idol, who have told their loved one how great they are for years to avoid hurt feelings, but were actually lying through their teeth? What if I forgot the harmony? What if I tripped and fell? What if I babbled incoherently? What if I just completely screwed it up?

But I didn’t. I auditioned and it went well and it was so much fun to sing with a real person instead of a recording. The worship leader was super nice and didn’t even give me strange looks when I babbled a little. It was good. It was worth it. And it was the scariest thing I’ve done in many years. More scary than any of the therapy or writing stuff.

I don’t know why some things scare us more than others. (Well, I have a bit of an idea about my church anxiety, but that’s an entirely different and impressively long story.) But what I do know is that every time I’ve done something that I was terrified to do, the results have been more than worth it.

Doing home-based work, working with difficult children in unstructured situations? That helped me hone my skills, mature in my profession, learn to think on my feet, which is a skill that is helpful in areas other than just therapy.

Being rejected for two years and pushing through anyway? Taught me that perseverance pays off, and that just because I don’t succeed right away doesn’t mean that I’m a failure. It just means I need to work harder or come at things from a different angle.

This church stuff…I have a feeling it’s going to teach me a lot. Still in the beginning stages here, but getting reconnected after two years without a church home is exciting and scary and I can’t wait to see what happens next.

So, in conclusion (breaking it down research paper style), DO WHAT SCARES YOU. Take that step!

Send that query letter to agents.
Write that synopsis.
Let a CP or beta reader look at your work.
Write that first sentence.
Let that brilliant idea run away with you.
Ask that question that’s been burning in your heart.
Talk to that person who intimidates you.
Dream those *unattainable* dreams.

If it’s scary, but also exciting, it will be worth it. Trust me. You can do it. I believe it you.

This afternoon I was watching an episode of The Voice that I missed last week, just generally enjoying the massive amount of talent people have. I’ve always liked The Voice better than American Idol or some of the other shows out there where part of the show and ratings is mocking people and tearing the down. With The Voice, even when artists aren’t picked for teams, the judges have kind and constructive words for them, and will encourage them to work on things and try again.

One of those people did. She tried out and no chairs turned, and she got so discouraged that she stopped singing for six months. Singing in church brought her back around and helped her build up her confidence, and she worked on the things the judges suggested and came back. The result: THE FOUR CHAIR TURN. Watch!

If you don’t want to watch her beautiful audition, skip ahead to 2:00, when Adam says something that I LOVE.

Adam: I have a question for you.
Deanna: Yes?
A: How many chairs turned around for you the first time you were here?
D: None.
A: How many turned around this time?
D: Four! *nervous giggles*
A: I am so overjoyed by the fact that somebody got turned down, and came back, and FOUR CHAIRS turned.

Then later, as they’re fighting over who she should pick, Adam says, “And I will also tell you this.  My honest opinion is there are definitely some things that I heard that needed a little bit of work. My goal is to make you better. That’s how I work with my team… Not everybody likes to hear that. …It’s the people that like to hear it that are the ones who go the distance.”

In the end Deanna chose Adam for those words, for his honesty. And it just resonated with me so much, because how often are we tempted to give up because we get criticism? Because we are told that what we’ve done isn’t actually perfect the first or second or tenth time that we try?

I’ve been watching the #PitchMadness feed over the past week or so, and it’s looked like a lot of fun. In some ways I miss the excitement, and the opportunities for connection that being in a contest together create. Today the picks were announced, and I KNOW. I know those feels for people who weren’t picked! I entered Pitch Madness at least twice and didn’t make it. Not to mention the many other contests I entered and didn’t get picked for.

Each time I was passed over for a contest, I had a choice. I could have chosen to quit, to decide I wasn’t good enough, I was never going to make it, no one would ever understand my true genius. Or I could take what I learned, find more great writing/critique partners to give some honest feedback, and keep forging ahead, applying constructive criticism, honing my craft.

If you’ve kept up, you know which route I took.

And it’s still hard! Reading the good but honest edits from an agent and editor are just as difficult, even when you already know they like the writing and the story! But there are so many opportunities for growth, and who knows? Maybe the next time around you’ll get that four chair turn, that spot in the contest, that request for a full manuscript, that call from an agent.

It’s just around the corner. Now go get it.

If the title of this blog pulled you in, then it might possibly mean that I’m getting better at titles. Or worse. But we’ll go with better.

You know that thing where you start a sentence and delete it and start it again because it just isn’t quite right, and then delete it again and the cycle just keeps going until you’ve completely forgotten how to word? That’s been this post for me. Mostly because it’s such an important post, but one that I simply can’t find adequate words for. I’ll give it my best shot though. Here goes.

If you’ve known me for any length of time, you realize that I pretty much live and breathe books and writing. Seriously, any length of time. You could have stumbled on this page because you were looking up “buts” (check your spelling), and just by the header could see that writing is very important to me.

When I was younger, I enjoyed writing. BUT how could I possibly make a career out of it? I took the “safe” route, or as safe as majoring in psychology and going into social services can be. Even after grad school, I was full of reasons why, much as I enjoyed it, writing would always be a hobby and nothing more.

A few years ago, at my church, I met an amazing woman, Jenny Moyer, who really planted the seed that got my writing to grow again. She was chasing her own publishing dream (which she also reached!), and I was inspired by her. She is also the one who got me on Twitter and introduced me to the world of publishing. She’s been my guide, my sensei through this entire process.

After A LOT of rejection, I learned to close myself off from the emotion of trying to get an agent and get published. All the emotions for writing, none for actually sending work into the world. I mean, sure, I wrote a book, several, in fact, BUT that didn’t mean that anyone would be interested. And when there was interest, that was great, BUT it didn’t mean I would ever get an agent.

And then I did. I signed with Sharon Pelletier of Dystel & Goderich and I’ve never looked back. Best decision ever.

BUT.

Getting an agent is not guarantee of a book deal. It helps, sure, and I knew Sharon would work hard to get my book into the right hands, BUT there are no guarantees.

The week after my book went on submission, I talked to some fantastic editors. Some of my favorite conversations ever. BUT, a good conversation is still no guarantee.

This was my mindset. This was my expectation, though of course, I remained cautiously optimistic.

Then that Friday came, and with it a voicemail from Sharon. “Call me as soon as you can, I have an update.” An offer! A great offer from a great publisher! I had to rush to a meeting right after that phone call, but basically I was useless. After the meeting I sat in my office alternating between tearing up and maniacal laughter.

I was out of BUTS.

It was happening. The entire day was a whirlwind, many phone calls, because that first offer wasn’t the only one. I know I did some therapy sessions that day, but I’m not entirely sure I was at all helpful to those kiddos. Sorry, short ones!

Last week, I was finally able to share this with the world:

If you can’t read it, this is what it says:
Rena Olsen’s THE GIRL BEFORE, about a young woman who begins to see through the lies about the family that raised her and realizes she must question everything she knows about her past and decide whether to protect the man she loves or to face the secrets he’s been keeping, to Liz Stein at Putnam, in a two-book deal, by Sharon Pelletier at Dystel & Goderich Literary Management (World).

That’s right. My book is going to be a THING and it’s going to be published by PUTNAM. Even as I type this I can hardly believe it. I am so incredibly excited to work with Liz Stein. I spoke with her on my birthday (a good omen, I think!) and she just gets the book, all parts of it, and had some fantastic ideas to go even deeper into the story. By the time it gets to you…oh I just cannot wait. It’s going to be so good, you guys.

If you take nothing else from this, remember that no matter what your dream, never let the BUTs get in your way. Big buts, small buts, bump ’em out of the way and keep moving forward. You can do the thing.

More details on MY thing will be coming over the next few months, but for now I want to say thank you to a few people who got me to this place. My acknowledgements are a long way off, so bear with me 🙂 First thank you to my parents, who have always believed in me, always pushed me to step outside of my comfort zone, and allowed me to be me. My mom especially for reading this book multiple times, once in just a day, and for fielding the many many neurotic and sometimes tearful phone calls through the years without ever changing her phone number. And my dad for telling me repeatedly that I would do great things, and for offering to get a tattoo with me when I got a book deal. Better get to picking one, sir! The rest of my family as well, my sister for being my super stalker and keeping an eye on things, my brother-in-law for reminding me regularly that I do work hard and deserve good things, my brother for always giving me new material to be inspired by, my sister-in-law for being the first of my siblings to actually read my book, and for always being interested in what was going on in writing world.  To all of you for every kind and supportive comment. Each one means more than you’ll ever know.

My agent, Sharon, has been a dream. I thank my lucky stars that she starred my pitch in a Twitter contest and took a chance on my book. She’s a rockstar, and I’m so blessed to have her as my partner in this crazy adventure.

Of course, as I mentioned above, thanks to Jenny Moyer for leading me through this crazy maze. For many lunches, both to commiserate and celebrate, I know there will be many more. To Andrea, who has been with me from the beginning, my Alpha Gal, who knew long before I did that this would be a reality someday. And Kari, Beta Babe extraordinaire, who has read everything I’ve written (except my first novel, which I won’t let her read), a feat only accomplished by one other person, and that person birthed me (HI MOM!)

Thanks to the writing community, to Ami, who helped keep me sane through this process as a veteran herself. Tana and Margie, my first partners in crime on Twitter, I can’t imagine doing life without you guys. To Jamie and Sarah, who hung out with me in the virtual Clubhouse for hours and hours talking writing, books, life, and snacks. To Kathy, who can always put a smile on my face with a well-timed picture or gif. And Kris, the best postboy there ever was.

I wish I had time to list everyone in the Twitter writing community who has made a difference, but that includes pretty much everyone in my followers and following list. And anyone reading this who doesn’t fall into the above category. You’re all amazing.

This is the point where the music would start playing at an awards show, and I totally get that pressure now, even if the music is only playing in my head.

Most importantly, I thank God for putting this story in my brain, the talent in my fingers, and the people in my life that brought me to this point. I have been unbelievably blessed, and I can’t wait to see what He has in store for me next.

The Queen of Buts has been dethroned. Thank God.

I was perusing my social media sites a little bit earlier. I do that from time to time, look back at the past several weeks, especially when I get an influx of new followers or friends. I try to look at things as an outsider would. I know that sometimes I’m kind of a weirdo, and I don’t want to scare people away too quickly.

Here’s what I noticed, and please forgive my vanity for a moment.

I look really great on paper. (I know. *eye roll* Stick with me.)

I have a great job. I work with kids. Some really tough kids. And according to social media, I do it with a smile and a snarky quip 95% of the time. I volunteer through my organization. I have a successful second career in writing, with some really exciting things going on. I love to sing, I am well-read, I have a master’s degree, I’m out more evenings that I’m in.

Okay. Done puking?

The above paragraph only tells a small percentage of the story. It’s an overly shiny facade that tries to distract from the real person underneath. The one with the messy bits. Heck, the one MADE of messy bits.

I do love my job, but for every entertaining kid anecdote, I have ten instances of frustrating phone calls, DHS referrals, and stories so heavy that I sometimes have to take a few minutes to just lay my head on my desk between sessions to try to recover. There are days when I can’t imagine hearing about another kid in pain, and just want to stay home, and then I remember how very selfish that is, because it’s not even my pain.

I am a permanent mixture of excitement and anxiety over writing (which I’m pretty sure is the typical writer personality). While celebrating one milestone, I’m already gnawing my fingernails with anxiety over whether my next step will live up to what I’ve already done. The writing part of my brain is a constant ticker tape of “What if what if what if…”

I haven’t been able to sing in public for a year and a half. I haven’t opened a book in a week. Half the time I want to cancel all the plans I’ve made to sit at home and play Mahjong. My apartment is a disaster more often than it’s clean. I’m late everywhere I go. I am unbelievably disorganized. I eat my feelings, when I have them. I am ridiculously lazy.

Why am I admitting all of this? Honestly, it seemed like a good idea when I started this post, and now I’m starting to second-guess myself. I have been told more than once recently that my life must be so easy. That everything I want just seems to happen. That I couldn’t possibly understand what it’s like to struggle, to long for things I can’t have, to  work hard and never see the fruits of my labor. And why do people think this about me?

Because I’ve told them that’s how it is. Because I only want to share the shiny pieces of my life. Those are the parts that people want to see, right? They don’t want to see the messy bits, the struggles, the crippling despair at times. And because that is my perception, I’ve learned to turn off my feelings, ignore the messiness of life.

Last month I began attending a new church. And for the first time in a long time, I really started to feel again. To realize that maybe people can accept me, messy bits and all. In general, I am pretty quiet about my faith. It’s very personal to me, and I’ve been hurt pretty badly in the past by churches. My previous church had begun the healing process before it closed, and now I have hope that this new church will help me continue. To accept all parts of myself, even the messy bits, and know that others will as well.

So many of you reading this have been with me through a lot of stuff, and I thank God for putting you in my life. I hope you’ll continue to stick with me. To those who already know some of my messy bits, thank you. I make no promises that I will be any less shiny online. But know that it’s not the entire picture.

And to those who are afraid to show your messy bits…I’m there with you. I love you. Even the messy bits.

(Virtual hugs to anyone who tells me how many times I used “messy bits” in this post.)

(Also, sorry.)

Over the past couple of weeks, I’ve been asking my kiddos at work about their plans for Christmas, the things they like the most, their traditions. Some of them have very specific things they do, and others just shrug. Whether looking forward to traditions, new experiences, or just two weeks off, the excitement has been palpable, to the point of pain for the staff. Now that the kids are gone for two weeks, I’ve been able to sit back and consider my own traditions, how they’ve had to change throughout the years.

I grew up as the youngest of three occasionally angelic children. We were (and still are) about as different as is possible, a perfect three year gap between each of our ages. Around Christmas, however, we banded together toward one common goal.

Santa drills.

My brother, the oldest, six years my senior, was in charge, although my sister, three years older than me, might disagree with that. We were hardcore in our Santa drills. They started weeks ahead of time. We would have “secret” meetings, planning, making diagrams to plot the best route for stocking retrieval.

Then came the dry runs. My sister and I would lay in our beds and pretend to sleep. My brother would creep in and “wake us,” then we would practice finding the least creaky routes down the stairs. I’m sure we were plenty loud, but I remember the pride I felt when my brother would look back in surprise. “I didn’t think you were still behind me, you were being so quiet, Rena!” Hint: If you step on the outside of the stairs, they are less squeaky.

Christmas Eve night, we always got to open one present before church, usually my parents’ choice. That was enough to tide us over until bedtime. Not long after that, it was go-time. We weren’t allowed to check our stockings until after 1am. Because Santa was on a schedule, of course. It was always closer to 1:30 by the time my brother tip-toed into our room to lead the mission to the living room, but I always figured that he just wanted to be absolutely sure Santa had already come.

It wasn’t until years later that I learned he always went down before us and emptied all our stockings to compare prizes. Because he cared, probably.

After checking out our stockings (and maybe eating some candy and possibly spilling paint on the carpet), we’d head back to bed and try to sleep until 6, when we were allowed to wake our parents to open presents.

We always opened in age order. Of course, I always voted for youngest to oldest. I won sometimes, but not always. We had to take turns opening presents, and watch whoever was next. In fact, the person usually wouldn’t start opening until everyone was paying attention. My sister, ever the perfectionist, I think got a special thrill out of opening each present as carefully as possible, not ripping the paper, causing my brother and I to twitch impatiently. We oooed and ahhhhed over every present, and spent the rest of the day lounging, playing with our new treasures.

Now that I’m an adult, this has obviously changed. We stopped Santa drills when we left Ackley, IA, though the present opening stayed the same for years. These days, present opening is usually me and my parents, taking turns as we used to, but it’s different with three of us. And we tend to do them all Christmas Eve. I haven’t gotten to witness the excitement of a kid Christmas morning for many years, except once about four or five years ago when there was a terrible blizzard that snowed me in at my sister’s house for Christmas.

Sometimes it’s a struggle to capture the magic of the season. Life flies by too quickly. I am as guilty as anyone of getting caught up in the busy-ness of the season, and it tends to sneak up on me. But not matter what, even when I wake up surprised it’s already time for Christmas, there’s always that glimmer of magic. Now it’s my turn to leave stockings for my parents, my job to plan for Christmas Eve feast and Christmas morning brunch. It’s different, but still good.

Merry Christmas!

What are your holiday traditions? How have they changed? What has changed that you miss the most?

I have to laugh at this one, because I’m terrible at titles anyway (ask anyone I’ve tried to help), so a randomly selected one might be even better than the product of my brainstorming. Anyway…

I’ve been tagged by my dear friend, Jenny Moyer, author of ASHES FOR STARS (spring 2016), to do a blog hop on terrible titles. It’s pretty simple, just scroll through your manuscript and stop in random places. Whatever you land on becomes one of eight terrible titles. I’ll be using my dark contemporary, REMEMBERING DIANA, which is going through revisions, so I’ll have to be gentle. Let’s begin, shall we?

1) We Broke That Habit
2) Say Nothing
3) The Devil Himself
4) Bed Making with Molly
5) Why Am I Tied Up?
6) Meet the Hussy
7) Beauty and Pain
8) Final Act of Betrayal

Well that was fun. I’m sitting here giggling because some of those give the absolute wrong impression of my book. Although a couple have potential, and I am contemplating a new title…

Now I’m supposed to tag people? Okay. I tag… Krista McLaughlin, author of BREATHLESS, Jamie Adams, AAGAAO Queen Extraordinaire, Tana Haemmerle, maker of mullet photoshops, S.E. Carson, beautiful word-weaver, Margie Brimer, who may actually be my twin, and Kathy Palm, angel with a dark and twisted soul.