Well, I was released from the hospital today with the prognosis that I’ll live. I am in a little pain from the incision and all that an incision in my back implies, but the pain is NOTHING compared to what I’ve endured over the last few years. I am excited to get on with my life, and wish My neuro-surgeon a long and happy life of making people feel better. I’ve sworn to behave myself and not do anything that will inflict further damage on me which means no vacuuming, dishes, or laundry . . . darn. I’m heart broken.

I go in for my back surgery on Monday. I’m a little freaked out and a little worried, but mostly I am sooooooo hoping they fix me up for good. Since all of this is going on in my life, I’ve been dwelling far too much on death.

I have an author friend who recently died after a year of battling breast cancer. What an amazing woman. I so admire her peace. She’d lived the life she’d wanted and came to the end with no regrets. She asked us all what we’d do with our last month, since she knew she had only that long left to live her life. 

I’ve been thinking about it a lot. 

I’d go to the ocean and watch my kids collect seashells, and be with my husband every minute. And I’d eat a lot of really great food. And since this is me, I’d be repenting a lot, just in case any of my previous pleas for forgiveness got missed. I’d pick up a stack of books and read until my eyes fell out. I’d go to bed late and I’d wake up early so as not to miss a moment. I’d watch pride and prejudice a few more times and make my husband watch it too. I’d go parasailing. If I like it, I’d go twice. I’d go to Disneyland one last time and sing yo ho yo ho a pirates life for me at the top of my lousy untalented voice. And I’d go online and write birthday cards to everyone I love because you can predate them and have them sent later on for up to  a year (at least that’s what I’ve been told, and how cool to get cards from the grave?) That way I’m covered for the first year.  I’d go to the temple. I’d write my testimony out and make sure my kids and my parents each had a copy so they knew without a doubt that I have one. I’d type a little faster so I could finish the novel I’m working on. I’d make great notes on the novels I have planned just in case any of my kids decide to be writers and want some material.

If I had just one more month—I’d live.

I guess that’s what it boils down to. I likely do have another month in this world and (I’m hoping) another month after that. Do I live each day so it’s full?  I don’t know . . . I try.  My husband forwarded me an email I really liked. It sums up what I’m trying to say:

Life’s journey is not to arrive at the grave safely in a well preserved body; but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, “YES! What a Ride!” 

I am a slightly demented human being. I think about things most people never consider . . . like death. I know what you’re thinking; you believe everyone spends mental energy on death. And it’s likely true. It’s the inevitable outcome of breathing, so it’s only natural to consider it from time to time.
I’m not afraid to die, not even a little. I look forward to the reunions of the after life, and all the hugs, and kisses, and I’ve missed you-s. What I’m afraid of is HOW I’ll die.
This is also not what you think. I’m not afraid of a painful death (although I’m hoping to avoid it) I’m afraid of a lame death.
Let me explain. I’d imagine most conversations on the other side start something like this. “So how long have you been here?”
“A couple of months, maybe, I’ve kind of lost track.”

“If you don’t mind me asking . . . how’d you die?”
This is the question that I am certain everyone is asking. The conversation starter, kind of like all us living people asking strangers what they do for a living. Imagine dying a lame death and having to explain it to everyone you meet. I really hope I don’t die from a bowling accident or something like that.

I read a quote somewhere that burning up on re-entry is one of the top five cool ways to die.  I could handle going out that way, or from saving an infant from a raging fire, or from jumping in front of a bullet to save a perfect stranger during a c store robbery. Yep—blaze of glory. Please, please don’t let me die from choking on a jellybean.

I haven’t played tag since I was in college (I went to BYU . . . they play those kinds of games there to keep the students out of trouble). But my dear friend Tristi pinkston tagged me from her blog and so now it’s my turn.  I’m all kinds of nervous. I sucked rocks at tag and was always the kid that was “it” every single time until someone took pity on me and volunteered to be “it” just so I could catch my breath. The deal with this blogging tag is you have to tell five things no one knows about you. This all started with Jeff Savage, curse him.  But I know where he lives. If anyone snickers at me, I fully plan on toilet papering his house. So here we go . . . to the five things no one (or very few) know about me. 

1. My favorite little-known Julie fact is that Ewan McGregor (you know, Ewan, Obi-Wan from Star Wars . . . yeah I know, totally cool) kissed me at the wrap party for the movie A Life Less Ordinary. He’d said in his Scottish accent (that is just so cute), “Stick with Scott; he’s a good bloke.” Scott had been his stand-in for the duration of that filming. I stood in for Cameron Diaz for a day, but that’s as cool as I get. My husband is waaaay cooler than I will ever be. 

2. I married my first date (and am still married to him fifteen years later) in spite of the fact that I dated half the world, and was proposed to seven times, while he was on his mission for the LDS church. 

3. I am almost 35 years old and am still afraid of the dark. (How lame is that?)    

 

4. I had a warrant out for my arrest when I was in college. It sounds way more exciting that the actual occurrence merits. I received a ticket for speeding in Las Vegas and decided not to pay it. I did end up paying it when my dad called me from Salt Lake wondering why in the world the city of Las Vegas was trying to arrest me. ($145.00 as a poor starving college student!!!!!!!) But I included a poem called The Highway Robber that I wrote for the occasion with my payment.  (the poem doubled as an assignment in my creative writing class; I love killing two birds with one pen)

5. I refuse to lie about Santa Claus to my kids. I put up with the whole Santa deal until they were old enough to ask outright. As soon as they asked, I told the truth. Don’t worry, none of them need counseling and they all know at this point. I told them Santa is the embodiment of the spirit of giving and then took them out to the angel tree in our town and let them pick a person for them to “play Santa” for. They all thought that was pretty cool. Some people think I am a total cow for doing this, but I say “bunk” to those people.  Now comes the moment when I get to tag someone else. Who will be my victims?  Candace Salima  Eric James Stone Tami Norton

 Edmund Schbert

 Annette Lyon

 

I went to the World Fantasy convention in Austin Texas last November. Lee Modesitt took me to lunch (fabulous butternut squash soup with pine nuts, mmmmmm-mmm) 
Any one who has ever met Lee knows he ALWAYS wears a vest. The vest is usually bright and colorful, and many of them are very beautiful, which makes him easy to spot in a crowd. We discussed how he feels comfortable in his vests. They are his armor for going out in public. I thought about this concept of armor, and determined we *all* wear armor at times when we feel vulnerable.
I always wear black. Black is my armor. I am comfortable when I blend into the background. It’s funny I’m like that since I am pretty loud and fairly brave when it comes to approaching people. I make lots of new friends at booksignings. Yet, I want to blend in . . . what does that say about me? The one time I wore a blue and green shirt at a writer’s conference I panicked, and felt uncomfortable and absurd all day long. I love the shirt, but when I wear it in writer settings, I feel like a key lime pie gone awry.
Writing is a solitary thing. Yet writers are expected to go outside of their typical solitude and sell their books and worse—themselves. How we can be expected to do things that are so atypical of our personalities is a quandary. But I keep wearing my black and hoping it will protect me from whatever it is I’m afraid of. (besides, black doesn’t stain ) As an informal poll . . . I’m curious, what armor do other people wear and what situations do they wear them in?

This must be my year to contribute to the medical society of America. I went to a neural surgeon yesterday and it is official, he is going to fix my back. So after five years of chronic suffering, an end is finally in sight! Hooray! I can go four-wheeling again. I can jump on the trampoline again. I’ll be able to give piggy back rides and hold one of my children on my lap without cringing and wincing from the pain. So . . . one more surgery for me and I’ll be normal again—well as normal as I can be anyway.
I had my gall bladder out a couple of weeks ago. I’m thrilled because now I can eat pizza without staying up all night feeling like I’m going to die. But something weird happened. When I went to my follow up appointment from the surgery, the surgeon poked my stomach and ripped off bandages, then mentions he went to my website.
“Oh really?” I’m trying not to cry at this point since he’d ripped off flesh along with the bandages. So the conversation is a good distraction.
“Yeah, I was telling the anesthetics doc all about how you’re a writer and how you come into my office with that little typing thing (he means my Alphasmart). So he asked if you had a website. You were sleeping just fine so went and Googled your name.”
How weird is that? I’m unconscious on the operating table with tubes shoved down my throat and my stomach blown up so they can yank out vital organs and they decide to surf the internet??? I laughed my head off over it.  This takes the cake as my most surreal moment as an author.
And it also makes me wonder what other surgeons do when they have patients under. Do they read their email?  Do they sneak in a doughnut and big gulp to swig in between cutting and stitching? I think I’ll leave a note on my website for my neural surgeon. It’ll be a great big “GET BACK TO WORK!”

I live in the middle of nowhere. Whenever anyone comes to see me for the first time, the first thing out of their mouths when I open my front door is, “I didn’t think I’d ever get here.” Then they fall to my couch and twitch like a fish pulled from the comfort of water.

Even though I’m a restless person, and suggest to my husband we move every so often just to keep things interesting, we are firmly planted here. I realized for the first time that this place was different from the city I left when I was mowing my lawn (don’t feel like my husband is abusing me, it’s a ride on mower and doesn’t count as yard work) Two four-wheelers loaded up with teenagers and rifles drove by. All the boys waved at me and called out the greetings of, “Hey Julie!” as they sped by. I lifted my hand to wave back and then lowered it feeling the absurdity of the moment. Seven teenage boys just raced past and all of them carrying guns. If I’d still been in the city, I’d have popped open my cell phone and dialed 911 faster than you could say crime rate.

But I am in my sleepy little town where everyone carries guns and no one cares.

What reminded me of this was I worked in my store yesterday while my husband was away. Three boys from my husband’s Sunday School class came in with their rifles to buy some chips and drinks. I didn’t even bat an eye as I rang out their groceries. We chit chatted and I told them to stay warm while they were out.

“Warm?” you say. Three teenagers with guns and the only word of caution is to stay warm?

Well yeah. It’s a cold day. And not a one of them was wearing a hat.

Ah the good life, where life is genuinely good.

I finished the Spiderwick Chronicles by Holly Black with my kids. I wasn’t supposed to be done so soon. I determined to read one book each Sunday for five weeks. I thought this system would give the kids something to look forward to after church. But alas, the need to know what happens next prevailed.
My middle son dropped his backpack on the floor at the front door, shed his coat along the way to my bedroom and demanded we read the next book. (so much for my thousand word writing goal that day) The other two children joined us shortly and there we were reading book two, the next day book three, and so on until we were done. Five books, five days—instead of the five weeks I’d intended. I’d pretend to be miffed over my plan going so far awry, but in truth LOVE that my kids loved the books. I loved seeing them excited about the plot and the characters and hearing them ask questions. And there is something wonderful about snuggling with three of my favorite people and a good book (or five).
Now for my review: The five books were charming, inventive, and well written. Holly Black is an exquisite author to use such economy with words in keeping the books short, yet providing adequate character depth and description. The storyline flowed in a way that made every page a joy to turn.  I give it five stars and fully plan on leaving a glowing review on Amazon. As a side-note, something to remember, authors love feedback. If you loved a book, leave a review at the most appropriate place for a review. It helps our editors know they should continue the relationship with us.

Someone wrote me and asked why my manuscript was going in to Covenant and not Deseret Book. Well . . . the answer is simple (if painful) Rejection happens.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen . . . I know people imagine that the bigger you are the harder you fall, but let’s face it—it hurts to fall regardless of your size. Take me for example. I’m not all that big. In fact, I am considered by many at my publishing house to be the ugly stepchild. My publishing house would deny this—of course since it’s not polite to say such things and they are, if nothing, polite. But the fact remains that there are princesses, and there are the ugly stepchildren, who wait for months that turn into years for an acceptance of one (or in my case two) manuscripts.
So . . . in spite of my small stature, it still hurts to fall.  It aches to know that having a publisher and keeping a publisher are not the same thing. It hurts to be told that I’m not brilliant after all. But there is hope for this ugly stepchild. I have enough pride to thumb my nose at them, pick myself up from my not-so-major fall, and start over. There are other publishers . . . other manuscripts.
I tried lying and telling everyone I was stepping off the stage. I told them I would never write another word and live (finally) a normal life. I may never hear the thunderous applause again, but I won’t get any rotten vegetables chucked my direction either.
I am a liar.
Apparently, I am destined to help supermarkets clear out their over-date produce, since I can’t stop myself from writing. I cannot live a normal life, I am a writer. I read once that sharks will die if they aren’t constantly in motion. I’m like that. If I am not moving forward, then I will die. So I must keep writing. Besides, my husband won’t let me quit. Behind every great author is a perfect spouse.  
I went to work on something new. Something NOT for my current publisher (as though me writing for anyone else will punish them—see, I really am arrogant).
I peeked at the offensive manuscripts, the two not being accepted for publication and couldn’t hate them. I could only look on them with the love of a mother watching her babies sleep. They are not ugly in spite of previously voiced opinions. I’ve determined that rejections happen, no matter who we are or how splendid our reviews look in the newspaper.
But even the ugly stepchild gets to go to the ball sometimes. I’ve resubmitted elsewhere (I did do a bit of rewriting; I’m not so arrogant I can’t take construction criticism). So pardon me while I have this dance.

It’s the New Year. Time where people resolve to be better, lose weight, get done all those things they procrastinated in the previous year, and where we all send up a prayer like a desperately thrown “Hail Mary” that this year will end happily.  

I did the same thing last year. I determined to make myself look decent in a swimsuit again (darn baked goods!) I determined to write three books (I wrote two and a half . . . does that count?) I resolved to be more patient with my kids, and stop giving way to dramatic and incredibly idle threats (this is the same year where the threat, “If you don’t stop fighting with eachother, I swear I will rip out your tongues and beat you with them” was born. The kids love that one) I was certain that things would end differently than they did last year.  

But they were the same. And though in some ways I am truly disappointed with myself, I’m not altogether unhappy, in spite of the broken resolutions. I have three really fabulous kids. Each of them has qualities so unique and yet so necessary for our family that I feel incredibly blessed. They made it through the year without trips to the hospital for serious injuries. They made it to the end of the year without me ripping anyone’s tongue out. And they are thriving. I have a great husband who is smart enough to tell me he thinks I’m sexy even if I don’t look quite as fabulous as the girl he married almost fifteen years ago. I enjoyed a Christmas surrounded by family and felt loved at every turn.  

So what if I ended a year with a few broken resolutions? I say Bunk to resolutions.  

That doesn’t mean of course I didn’t make goals for this year . . . it just means I’m not going to beat myself up for last year. It’s 2007 . . . bring it on.