Writing Sex

by H. Linn Murphy

Recently I read a question on the ANWA Facebook page about sex selling. It's a topic I've been thinking about for a long time.

I read extensively. I read a variety of genres and time periods. That's also how I write. I put pen to the page and write what hits me. I am a storyteller. I write truths.

I thought back over several of my favorite books and series. It's anything from Lord of the Rings to Pride and Prejudice to Martian Chronicles to Elizabeth Hayden's books, Book of Mormon to How to Stay Alive in the Woods and A Light in the Forest. From Runemaster to Dangerous Favor to First Year Latin. Through out all of those books a single thread runs: No sex, no bad language. There is some violence (in the Book of Mormon of all places and among others) but it's not graphic.

I'll say it again. No sex. No bad language. It's trash. We don't need it to tell the story. If it's a story that cannot stand without sex, it isn't worth telling. What needs to come out is the truth of that story--the truth of the character. And that can happen without letting fly with the exact swear word put to paper. It can fly without telling us about falling zippers.

I thought about what I'd do if a publisher insisted. Then I made a decision. No. I won't do it. I don't write that kind of trash. I'm not saying my books don't contain some tense situations. They do. But I'm trying very hard to write books I'd want my kids to read.

I say this: Don't buy into the false ideology that if it isn't 59 Shades of Murk it won't sell. That's what those who are working for the Destroyer want you to think and to help them peddle. This is the deal. If your publisher insists that you have to add sex scenes for it to be real, hit the highway. Because he's lying to you. Otherwise Jane Austen wouldn't be selling a single book. Every one of her books has sold millions of copies, been made into movies, audiobooks etc. Even Mansfield Park, my least favorite. And not a single one had an ounce of sex in it. We were hard pressed to read about a single kiss.

In actuality, the Church has recently come out with information labeling romances with heavy sex in them pornography. That's right. There are now addiction classes for sex-filled romance.

I personally know of at least one instance where the wife got addicted to reading steamy romances. She bought them by the ton and read them non-stop--even on the way to church and the temple! She is now, because of those books, looking at the back end of a four year separation and a vitriolic divorce. Those books actually changed the chemistry of her brain. They change how a person looks, feels, and acts about the real act and about love. It renders a person incapable of recognizing real love. I've seen that first hand.

Bad language clogs our brains so that the Spirit cannot enter. It sits in our minds like silt, waiting to bog down any good thoughts and fill us with darkness.

Be the shining light. Be that huge beacon on the hill. Blaze forth with REAL love, REAL sacrifice. A REAL story for the ages.

How to Write a Perfectly Dreadful Query Letter

by H. Linn Murphy

Because I am a backwards girl, I like to explore the whatif side of things sometimes. So this is my stab at writing a What-if-I-Wrote-the-Worst-Query-I-can-Possibly-Think-of query.

The jury is still out on whether writing a horrible query is worse than writing no query at all, but I can't write a negative, so here goes:

Subject: My book (Let's just make this a great big void in space.)

Hi, um, whoever. I rote this book and just new you'd like it; because it's stoopendus. (Already the slush pile slave's finger is hovering over the delete button for several reasons. Misspelled words, bad grammar, and boasting are all flags. Don't worry about the color of the red flag.)
I got your name off the internet. Put this at the top of your pile. I just know all your readers will read this book and love it so much. (Yeah, don't bother finding out anything about this publisher or what they want to publish. Also don't specify a target audience. On the off chance that your slush pile slave has gone to lunch and just left your query on her desk, keep going.)

This book is about cats. How to take care of cats. I had a cat once. It was a tabby with cute little paws that need me in my chest and chaste mice and one day it cot one and brought it to my feet and it was so cute I just had to right about it cuz I now how to take care of cats reel good cuz I have 51 if you don't count the wild one's that come eat at my house two. They just love me--love love love love. So i will right down all my ways of feeding them and taking care of them and making sweters out of there fir. Their are alot of things you can make out of there fir cuz thay shead alot all over the place and sometimes p but you can try and train em if you just dont feed em. (Poor slushy is either gagging on her sub sandwich or sending the thing out to her co-workers as an example of what dolphins can do with some education. Don't bother letting anybody else read your query. They might steal it.)

This book is 1,000 pages and the size is 24. I'm not dun with it, but if you want to publish this, I can have it done next year. I think. (Slushy is revising her estimates. Even mentally challenged dolphins write better queries. For a dreadful query about a cat book, anything over 65,000 words is great. In fact, the bigger the better. Try 100,000+ words. That'll wow 'em. And try to make the font unreadable and either too small or too large. Don't do 10--10.5 point type and definitely don't look at the publisher's parameters and go by them. In fact, don't even read a publisher's parameters. They're merely guidelines anyway.)

I might send this out to a bunch of other publishers to. If I don't here back by Tuesday, I'm camping on the lawn of the publishing house. (They'll just love that. Make sure you park far away so they don't come by and let the air out of your tires.)

I have a high school diploma and I know how to make doilies. I don't have a husband write now but if you no any good guys that would be swell. Oh and I got a award for spelling in third grade. My teacher said I should right a book so here I am righting a book. (Don't worry about keeping your credentials current or having anything to do with your subject. They'll know right away anyway.)

Wow. You've done it. Now just sit back and rake in the big bucks.

People and Other Trash

by H. Linn Murphy

My youngest daughter is finally going through the room she once shared with her sister, shoveling out years of garbage I've asked them to clean countless times. The middle daughter has gotten married and she now and then deigns to come by and rescue an item or two. It is, in our house, as if a giant had an upset stomach and has belched forth a giant, bulky pile of vomit.

The thing is, that now that she is in this mode, (or call it 'they' since middle daughter participates on occasion) J is getting rid of everything. All ties to her past have been cut loose and are now relegated to big black trash bags and boxes in my living room and kitchen and bedroom. As long as it isn't in her new bedroom. Things I'd given her and her sisters are jumbled up with old school papers and broken hair ties and a million other bits of flotsam.

Don't get me wrong. I've begged them to shovel out their room on many occasions. I just want them to be carefully selective. It's been very painful for me to see everything go. Toys that cost us loads of money and were barely played with, she tossed out as if they were bags of bug-infested candy (also in there). I fully expect to see my grandmother's carefully concocted doll house resting atop Crud Mountain in the next day or two. Maybe she's weighing the thought of having it gone, with the fit she thinks I'll pitch.

So this morning I thought about it. Why are they so blithe about dumping everything? Why does it bother me so much that I can't give them the least little thing. They demand all new stuff. Why should their tossing things I've given them bug me so much? Maybe it's because for me, all of this is actually a parable about people.

This is the deal: All of my life I've been the Stuff Adoption person. I don't get new stuff. I've never once had a new car. I've never gone to a store to buy a new couch or any other large item of furniture (although last year my husband bought a new dish washer and stove). I very rarely get to go buy myself new clothes. I adopt other people's stuff, whether it's from my mom or my grandma or my messy best friend. I've examined each thing that people are casually dumping and wondered if it had a place in my house--if its presence would mean that we could have something new without paying anything for it. Does it have value? Or should I let it go into the trash? It offends me to see people toss perfectly good pennies (sometimes in actuality). Save up the pennies and buy something good with them.

It's not like there are tiny trails around my house amidst the tidal waves of rubble--well normally. (This week is an exception, apparently.) I'm not a mental hoarder case. I do toss stuff all the time. I donate items regularly. I've tried to promote a mindset of one thing in, one thing out. But I have also built a home some people call eclectic and cute. And I've done it without breaking the bank. I give things value. I enjoy taking out the old things from my childhood to look at and reminisce over.

I think that the children of today don't know how to assign a value to anything that isn't currently new or in constant use. They want all their music on Pandora. They want all their movies on the Cloud. They get their recipes and decorating ideas from Pinterest. They get their knowledge from Google. They want their relationships on Facebook or Twitter or the next big thing. "Those things will always be there," they say. But I know they won't. Those things will go away and they'll have nothing to show for it all.

I and my husband often chaperone youth dances. The kids these days hardly move. They stand on the dance floor and text each other.  Why can't we have decent face-to-face conversations anymore? And why do they refuse to think that there is anything wrong with insulating themselves with barriers of circuits and plastic and miles?

Not only that, they don't want to have to carry boxes of old things around with them. They, the perennial nomads, flitting from one garishly spangled ride to the next at the fair. What catches their fancy had better be glitzy and at the cutting edge of fashion or they won't offer it a second look.

And that's apparently often how they want their relationships. If you aren't exactly their type, they don't have time for you. They rarely take a moment to dig for the real gold. It's all surface sequins. "What have you done for me today? Nothing much? Bye-bye." "Misunderstanding? Too bad. I don't have time for you." Those learning instances go flying past with the speed of a runaway freight train.

I'm hoping it's not too late. I'm hoping that someday soon she'll wake up and realize that what she's been running over for the last six months wasn't gravel, it was people with very real feelings. Take time to get to know a person. 

When I first started visiting teaching as a young married lady, I didn't really 'get' older ladies. They were just homogenized, two dimensional paper dolls with bluish white hair and a weird split pea soup smell. But then one day I took the time to stop and listen. Whole vistas opened up for me that day. Each woman had stories, many of them avidly interesting. I've known dancers, authors, a woman who someone just gave a child to, lock, stock, and barrel. I've visited climbers and artists and war brides. I've known cowgirls and chefs. 

All of those millions of hours of life to be wadded up and thrown in the trash because they're an old lady paper doll? I don't think so. I want to teach my children that each person matters to Heavenly Father--each one is intrinsically important. If He keeps track of every single sparrow, what then of His beloved children?

What, then, of the works of their hands, of their hours of service and creation? They have value. I feel appreciating a person's value is one lesson Heavenly Father is avid for us to learn.

Merci for Tender Mercies

by H. Linn Murphy

I lost my church keys for a couple of months. Not fun. I looked everywhere for them. I tore my car apart. I ripped into my house, finding a few things I'd been missing for years. I made a few dozen trips to the church library where we usually keep lost and found items. I choked down the embarrassment and asked loads of people at places where I'd performed or shopped or gone to conference. I described them to passers-by (well nearly). And then I checked the old places I'd already checked several times.
No dice.
It was utterly mortifying. I had to use my councilors' keys to get into my cupboards to get things out for Relief Society. It almost felt to me as if I were missing the actual keys to my calling.
So the other day I was sitting in the car, waiting for my son to get to the bus stop so I could take him home (he buses across town to a school outside our zone). Usually I have several books to read. This time I'd run out without one. So I decided to clean the area between our seats. There's a cargo net to keep the bunch of junk we keep in the car from rolling under our feet.
I looked down at that mess and for some reason remembered the keys. I'd already looked there about seven times--lifted stuff up and looked under it. Thoroughly. So getting the urge to look there was random, although it did need a good dusting up.
And just as randomly, I said a prayer, laying out for Heavenly Father how I really needed those keys. I told Him how I felt so naked without them. I asked Him to help me find them. After I closed, I got this overwhelming feeling that my faith would pay off that day.

Then I leaned down and started to clean. I took all the keeper items out and chucked the trash. Then I got the idea to unhook the cargo net, which is completely see-through. It's a net. Random. But I did it.
There in the crack beneath the seats were my church keys! I couldn't believe it! Such a graphic illustration of how the Lord takes care of me even on the little things completely filled my soul and overflowed in tears of joy, mostly because it showed how much He cares for me.
I drove clear home with those keys in my grip. I probably would have slept with them if they weren't so sharp...;o)
The Lord does things like that all the time. I can't imagine thinking that God isn't real. He does way too much for me to ever ignore. And it's not like it's coincidence. There is no random generator that could accomplish the miracles He engineers on a consistent basis. God is real and He cares about us all.
And He is the Key.

Going to the Dogs

by H. Linn Murphy

My son wants a dog. He has wanted one for years--before he could even spell puppy correctly, in fact. Every time he sees a corgi or pug or any puppy, he makes the same 'aaahhhhh' sound people make for adorable babies. It's so cute.

When he gets just rabid to have a dog, we trot out the pluses and minuses, heavy on the minuses. And there are many. We want him to go into his future dog ownership with his eyes wide open. No way do we want to be saddled with a pet the kids won't take care of.

Being a writer is similar. Lots of people think they want to be a writer. They have a book idea and someone has told them they can make piles of ready cash, so they plop down to write their bestseller with very little planning or preparation and towering expectations.

What they don't understand is that there are all kinds of things one needs to do to become a competent writer:

Pay for your pet:
It's difficult to write your bestseller on your off-time between job and family. You're going to have to allot a certain amount of time to write. And you aren't going to jam out a top-priced book the very first go-around. You'll need to spend some time and maybe money getting an editor to go through your book. It's very, very rare that a book goes to print without lots of editing. If you decide to self-publish, you'll need an editor and a cover designer. Without those two things, your book is going to suffer. Believe me. People won't even look at a book with a lousy cover. I've done reviews for bookstores on perfectly good books that weren't selling because their covers rotted. I've also read atrocious books which were in such need of editing that I couldn't bear to read more than the first page.

Obedience school:
You need discipline. Someone said you'll need to write at least 10,000 words before you can ever be called a writer. I think it's many more than that. You need to sit down and write something every day. Make it a habit. Write a book. Write a short story. Write a blog post. Write a laundry list. Just write. And don't let anyone or anything stop you. Make it a habit. Call yourself a writer. Learn how to do a slamming query. Learn how to do an elevator speech. Learn great grammar. Fall in love with beautiful language. Learn to spell.

Care and feeding:
You need to feed your brain. Read books in your genre. Read LOTS of books in your genre. De-construct them and figure out what worked and what didn't. Pay attention to what the market is doing. What kinds of books are people reading? If you're writing a sparkly vampire book, are fairy-like bloodsuckers on the cusp of the market, or are they old and worn out and needing to be chopped up in little pieces and burned? I once heard a panel of publishers and agents plead, "Please, no more dead girls."

When he barks:It's doubtful you have the world's number one book and thus are untouchable. Your editor is going to want you to change things. Count on it. Do so with as much grace as you can muster. Publishers don't want to mess around with a writer who won't work with them. Just remember you get to keep your first run if you want to. But your editor is there to help you clean up your manuscript and make it palatable for your reader.

Scooping the poop:
I like to keep a separate file for things I cut from my stories. I call it my slag pile. For whatever reason a phrase just didn't read well in that spot. Into the slag pile it goes. At least twice, I've cut half a book off and tossed it out. Using this file means I don't have to bemoan the fact that that particular piece is gone. Think of it as the stuff a director cuts from the movie that often ends up on the blooper reel. I have occasionally gone back to the slag heap and unearthed something to use later or in another book. It makes the whole editing process much less painful.

Room to run:
Give yourself a chance to get good. Don't compare yourself to Shakespeare right out of the gate. It's not going to help. Improve. Learn your craft. Take classes at conventions. Take college courses. Read books on writing. Take on-line classes. Find a critique group. Find a set of Beta readers you trust. Enter competitions. Talk to people about your craft. Study.

Share your toys:
Teaching someone else is almost always going to make you better at it yourself. Share what you've learned. Sure, you're competing for a slot (publishers have only a certain number of slots to fill each year. The odds of getting your book into one of those slots are slightly better than getting run down by a rhinoceros), but better books make better readers. We want an audience for our books because we have something to say. Educate your audience. Share your expertise.

Plenty of exercise:
You are going to actually need more exercise so you don't develop a rear end the size of Texas. Hours of sitting will not only give you a large gluteous maximus (or however you spell the dang thing), but can cause heart problems and poor circulation. Exercise will also give your mind fuel and blow away the cobwebs.

You also need mental exercise. Lots. Read abundantly. Go to conventions and retreats and book clubs. Use a critique group. Friend authors on media sites. Pay attention to successful writers and how they got that way.

Going to the dog park:
In this age of competition and falling book sales, it's a very good bet that you're going to have to help sell your book. You're going to need some marketing skills. It's rare these days for a writer to sit down, write his/her book, turn it in, and everything is done. You have to help. Get educated about the best ways to help sell your book, whether it's using media sites, signings, tours, or selling it on the corner in your child's lemonade stand.

Know your breeds:
Rarefied, archaic language might interest you greatly. (I personally love ponderous verbiage.) But you need to tailor your words to the audience for whom you are writing. A three year old speaks much differently than a Harvard professor. Fit your language and content to your audience.

Keeping shot records:
You need to keep records of every transaction. Good rapport with a publisher can go very wrong if you fail to keep exact records. For your peace of mind and that of your tax preparer, document every sale and every time you purchase a box of books. Competent records make happy friendships. Keep track of your contracts. If you need to, have someone look over your contract to make sure it's what you want.

When the dog bites:
Notice I didn't say if the dog bites. You need to continue to write through the set-backs that will come. L. Frank Baum, the writer of the Wizard of Oz, got 36 rejections before a publisher finally believed in his book. There are major writers who have had even more rejection slips. You will get them, whether it's because it's the wrong time, it's not the book for them, it's poorly written, you have a sub par query, you didn't follow instructions, or the planets just weren't aligned. Learn to roll with the punches. If your book is wrong for one publisher, it might do for another one. Or perhaps your hook is wrong or your story needs tightening or maybe you need to put it away for a bit and write something else. Ask someone you trust (who isn't your mom) to give you an opinion.

Another thing. If you write, you're a writer. Don't let your family or friends or other naysayers treat you like a dilettante. If you've payed your dues and you write, you're a writer. Should I say it again? Don't let them drag you down to wannabe status. Keep at it. If they say you're a hack, write better. Most writers have early works that make them want to toss the book off the Empire State building. Write something different.

Putting him down (sob):
 Occasionally there comes a day when you must face the facts. Your book is a dead dog. There is nothing you can do to revive it. You've tried rewriting. You've edited the heck out of it. You've run it past all your Beta readers, your relations, and your mom. You've trotted it out to any and everybody who will sit still long enough to listen, and nobody wants it. It's tired, hacked, and you can't find a way to revive it. It's hogging all your time without possibility of making a go. It's time, my friend, to put the thing down and move on to writing something else. Learn to know when this time comes. Luckily, this is a rare occurrence.

This one just made me laugh

Enjoy your dog:
Writing is a fabulous job. Where else do you get paid to make stuff up? You get to be the pilot of your own space ship. You get to climb to the top of Everest or pilot your own bathyscaphe to the bottom of the Marianas Trench. You can plunge into the sun before lunch and kiss Mr. Darcy before bedtime. You are the architect of a million far-flung worlds. The horizon is wide open, limited only by the scope of your imagination.

Christ is the Reason for the Season

by H. Linn Murphy

About this time every year the pace kicks into holiday mode. We see ever earlier sales. Black Friday is now a holiday children recognize. The Saving Christmas shows pepper the TV, punctuated by ads for glitzy toys, diamonds, gigantic screen TVs, and gleaming sportscars. We run around trying to do, make, and buy everything in time for the Big Day. We run around like ants, busy with making Christmas. But we often forget that Christ is the reason for the season. We not only forget to celebrate His miraculous birth, but the most remarkable gift anyone ever has or ever will give to us: Eternal Life. We forget God's gift to us: namely His Son.

We see all these festive decorations and gifts and helpful hints about how we should celebrate the holidays, but we often fail to see Jesus. And yet we marvel at the people from His own time and place who didn't see Him for what He was. They were too blinded by politics, or disdain for his upbringing and origins, or by their own problems. The Pharisees who should have been His biggest supporters because of their scriptural knowledge, were instead some of His greatest detractors.

 So who did see Him? Not Pilate, who thought of him as a sort of discomforting rabble rouser. Not Herod, rich and selfish King of the Jews. Not the powerful or the knowledgeable. It was the small people--the humble shepherds and servants, the craftsmen shutting their shops for the night, the publicans, and fishermen, and women drawing water at the well.

In this age, knowledge of our Savior gets overshadowed by glitzy movie and sports stars, by the rumble of science disavowing His reality, and by the jeers of the inhabitants of the Great and Spacious Building. We find ourselves either defending Him at every turn, or, like Peter at the cock's crow, weeping at our lack of faith. Sometimes the frantic pace of our lives takes Christ's place and fills the emptiness we've left as we chase the dollar bill, elusive fame, or power.

In the holidays, much of the greed and selfishness comes to a head. The refrain of "Mommy, I want that," fills the frosty air. There have been times when I sat wrapping those last presents that I felt my children had never been such brats all year and I wondered why I was rewarding such wretched behaviors. The gimme children never seemed happy. They fought over everything, especially about serving others by doing their chores. The whole season depressed me. It wasn't until, like Christ, we started focusing on the happiness of others that we started to find our own joy. 

Maybe it's time to buck the crowds, walk back down that Spacious Building ramp, and hop across the stones in the river, back to the Tree of Life. 

I remember once when I was little (we lived in Y Mount Terrace back then--married student housing). I had a Penny Brite doll, which I really loved. One home evening my dad asked us a sneaky question. "What's your favorite toy?" Thinking that I was going to get clothes for her or something equally cool, I piped up with, "My Penny Brite doll is my favorite." My sister, probably sensing more than I did, mentioned something I knew for a fact wasn't her most special toy. Then Dad said something that chilled my childish little heart. "Well then that's the thing we'll give away." My mom then made gorgeous clothes for her, and a box with homemade furniture in it for the doll. Wow. I bawled and bawled. I thought that was a really wretched thing to do. We took those offerings upstairs and gave them to another, poorer family. At first I felt so betrayed. And maybe I was, in a way, since I wasn't allowed to make that choice on my own. But I have never forgotten the way I felt at seeing that other little girl's eyes light up. (Then, because I was about five and selfish, I plotted for a little while on how I was going to take it back--but never did. There is hope.)

Later we enjoyed several 12 Days of Christmas forays. One time we lived in Oregon. My parents had moved down to Arizona and left my sister and me up there because of jobs and school, etc. That Christmas was going to be a little bleak for us. But also Mom had left lots of friends without a champion. Patricia was one of those friends. This season was especially lonely for her. She'd recently lost her husband and was feeling the pinch, once remedied by my mom's kindness. 

So my sister Lisa and I decided to do the 12 Days of Christmas on her. We bought all kinds of things we thought Patricia would like: a back scratcher, cans of soup, slippers, books, goodies and several other items. We thought we were being so sneaky running up to her porch, dropping the item for the day, ringing the bell, and racing away. 

Then one day we got caught. We were hiding in her bushes when some woman we didn't know walked out to the front porch and yelled, "Hey! Whoever you are, Patricia moved. You can have all the stuff we didn't eat back again!"

I remember thousands of meals my mom made and took to other people. I remember baking bread and every time we took it out of the oven, without fail the missionaries were there for a slice. Everybody stayed at our house--Young Ambassadors, BYU Folkdancers, Up With People kids, German Club kids, the indignant runaway children of friends. Everyone. I remember my mom giving everything from her suitcase to women in Zimbabwe, only coming home with what she was wearing and a skirt for me. She went to do service, handing out massive amounts of clothing, food, and sock dolls she made by hand. I remember her and my dad cleaning out ICU's and orphanages in Bulgaria and taking food and water to Bande Atche (or however you spell it), the epicenter of the tsunami in Indonesia. And I think of all the presents I've given her that she's turned around and given to other people. My mom lives to give. Thousands of people bless her name. That's how I want to be. Someday I'll make it.

I hardly remember any presents I ever got. What I do remember are those I gave that took some trouble. I remember their faces and how it felt to do something for someone else. Imagine, then, how Christ must feel when we accept His offerings. When we come humbly to kneel at His feet and give our lives into His careful hands, it must fill Him with exquisite joy. 

What a great birthday present!

What My Daughters Should Know

by H. Linn Murphy

I recently wrote a letter of sorts to my sons. This one is to my daughters.

I grew up, like lots of little girls, playing dress-up and dreaming of the day I would find my handsome prince and he'd toss me up on his horse, jump on behind, and gallop off, first to the temple, and then into the sunset to live in his castle happily ever after.

Well for starters, riding double with a saddle is unpleasant. And jumping there hurts like a mother. Castles are damp, drafty, and moldy (I know this because I've been to many of them). Don't let the movies fool you.

Welcome to reality. Your handsome prince might not be either. He could be really cute but really twisted. Or slightly toad-like but princely. He might not own a horse. Ever. Or he might gallop into the sunset with someone else, leaving you with a screaming princess under your arm and a shattered life. Maybe your castle is actually a hovel to begin with. Or always. Maybe you have to go be a scullery maid to put him through school. Maybe your handsome prince gets sick and dies early. Maybe he likes you...and the twelve other dancing princesses. Don't just latch onto the first dude who smiles at you. And don't expect that just because he takes you to get married in the temple it's a lock on Eternity. It takes two of you working like crazy to keep a temple marriage intact.

Date lots of people so you have a frame of reference. You need lots of toads to kiss before you find the Prince. Don't just fall into his arms because nobody else has opened his, or because all your friends are getting married. Or any other reason but that you love each other deeply and know you can build an Eternal life together. Who is he when you aren't around?

Don't just wait for a rescue. Make your own stories. Don't just wait for his. You might not meet your handsome prince until you get old and prune-y. You might not meet him at all. Things happen. If you sit around waiting for the cherry guy to fall into your arms, you could be waiting a long time. Go out into the world. Learn how to live on your own. Learn how to live within your budget. Go to school. Go on a mission if you feel called. Explore what kind of Child of God you really are. Get a degree. Learn to do things which make you happy. Learn to serve others. Get out of your cocoon and be a butterfly. Be worth something.

Be logical about your must-have list. Expecting a guy to be perfect is ridiculous. There has only ever been one perfect man on this planet and you'll not be going out with Him. So you're going to have to logically decide what's a definite must-have, and what items are just perks. Because if your guy is missing a few of your must-haves, they might not be changeable. Remember, though, that if your guy's nearly perfect, (somehow) won't he expect the same kind of perfection?

Expecting him to change for you is ridiculous. You might be completely ga-ga over him and find out that he can't keep a dime in his pocket. Changing that will be impossible. If he's casual about his priesthood responsibilities, that probably won't change. Laziness will stick. Dishonesty will still be there. If he skates along the raggedy edge of the law, hit the ground running, before the ring. Essential things about him will stay the same or only change for a little while. It's human nature. Keep that in mind.

Make a must-be list. For yourself. You can't expect him to do all of the changing. He won't. You're going to need to make changes. You're the one you can control. So choose right, before the problems arise. Change things about yourself that are weak or unpleasant. Make this a habit, not just something you do right before he comes to the door to pick you up. I had a roommate in college who was a full on slob. She'd race around the room tossing things in the closet and under the bed, hoping he'd think she was a good housekeeper, when in reality she sucked at it worse than the vacuum she never used. That's bait-n-switch. How would you feel if he was doing the same thing? Danger Will Robinson! Danger!

If you're a horse and you marry a rhinoceros, expect trouble. You're already going to have some problems meshing your lives together. If you add in extra differences, the mountain of problems increases exponentially. If you have mismatched (or nonexistent) spiritual beliefs, or come from other cultures, you'll have a much rougher road. You'll have to make extra decisions not only for yourselves, but for your children. If you go bullishly ahead with your choice, just know that you'll have to deal with the consequences sooner or later. You need to discuss how you'll make it work before he slides that ring on your finger and the kids come along.

Expectations can be a killer. Go into it with your eyes open. Life isn't going to be all roses and smiling cherubs. There are Maleficent Moments in everyone's existence. Be prepared. Be strong. Suck it up. Running home to mommy is for pansies. But getting wise council from her is smart. Your parents love you and want the best for you. They've been there, done that, and ripped up the t-shirt for rag material.

Train him early to talk with you. It's supremely important. You can't expect him to read your mind because half the time he'll be in his computer game world and you won't even be a blip on the horizon. You have to be able to work things out in a way that doesn't give you ulcers or get you locked up for assault with a deadly frying pan.

Take some time. Some girls take more time to pick out a pair of shoes than they do a boyfriend. I was stupid. I only took four (4, vier, quatro, chi, IV, yes four) days of dating and hanging out to decide to say 'yes' to my ex (the operative word being EX). I didn't give myself long enough to really explore the guy's personality. I had no good idea what made him tick. I had no clue what happened when he got mad. I could have talked to his best friend and found that, in reality, he was a pathological liar. I could have found out that he was actually in love with himself and any girl who worshiped him. I could have found out that he couldn't be bothered to keep a job. And I could have found out that he had a drinking problem. I didn't give it enough time. I didn't want anything to pop the euphoria bubble I was bouncing around in. Bad mistake. Take plenty of time to get to know him.

Infatuation isn't love. We went straight from him serenading me in the Spanish from his mission, to the physical kissing. I was completely hooked. If you go straight to being physical, hormones take over your brain and you lose that ability to think about anything at all. And you won't listen to council from friends or family, either. After the initial loss of all cognitive ability that comes with the kissing and cuddling, comes that period when you've ripped off the mask and see the not-quite-as-handsome guy beneath. Give yourself a chance to experience that before saying I do. Too many girls just jump at that bubbly feeling they get from kissing (or Heaven forbid sleeping with) the guy. Then when the mask comes off and they see the warts and moles and boils of his actual personality, they freak.

Life doesn't conform to your plan. You plan for life. Waiting for Mr. Right to come along is idiocy. Get schooling. Make a plan. Be flexible, because if there's anything I've learned, it's that plans always change. But at least you have one. Get a college education. Get a skill set. Be able to work and work hard. Work hard at home. Do your best. Be excellent.

When you marry him, you marry his family. If you don't think that's true, you'll be in a world of hurt. His family raised him. Sometimes people can rise above their upbringing. Sometimes they can't. Sometimes they go the complete opposite of their parents' upbringing, instead of finding a happy medium. How he treats his mother (especially when he doesn't think you're looking) is how he'll treat you. Remember, his parents are going to be your kids' grandparents.

Sitting around all the time eating bon bons and watching Netflix is uncool. He'll hopefully be going off every day to work hard to put food on your table and a roof over your head. If you sit around all day doing nothing, how is that fair? You don't have that right. Growing up means you accept responsibilities, not just that you can stay up longer and eat what you want. It means your efforts should match his. You aren't the Queen of the World and you aren't the scullery maid. You're his partner, which means you work hard too. It means sometimes you have to fix things. Sometimes you have to kill your own mouse. Sometimes you have to dig the garden or landscape the backyard. And you can't always expect him to come home from his grueling job and do all your work too. Do your own. Give 130%. 

Remember that relying on someone else to make you happy is a fallacy. You choose to be happy or not. If you need a guy to prop you up, you're going to be disappointed and unhappy a huge chunk of your life. Because at some point he's going to disappoint you. He'll definitely do things that make you want to bury him in the backyard. That's a given. If you let those things knock you off your perch, you'll be running to a lawyer as soon as he does something stupid. You have to know who you are and that you are loved and a valid, intelligent, gifted, worthwhile person in your own right. His love doesn't make you worth something.

You didn't marry Mr. Goodenough. Stop looking for Mr. Right after you get married. Your husband is IT. The words "Married for Time and all Eternity" should mean something to you. Those words don't mean married until rough seas make you feel like barfing. They don't mean married until someone cuter or richer or better in bed comes along. They mean you're married until long after the world ends and the Sun explodes. They mean you've got your man forever. Stop looking. Stop comparing. Be true to him in your heart and mind and actions. He'll be able to tell. He'll be your Prince if you let him be.

There are absolutely some things you don't have to put up with. Things can change even if you've done all your homework. You don't ever have to put up with being battered. You don't have to put up with him sleeping around with other people. You don't have to put up with porn. You don't have to put up with someone who hurts your children (and I'm not just talking about the occasional much-needed smack). You don't have to put up with criminal behaviors. If you choose to allow these things, you do so at your own and your children's risk. You are not a punching bag or a doormat. You are a Child of God. You are the Queen he chose to marry. Don't risk your Eternal Salvation.

Always remember that there are people who will love you whatever happens--God, Christ, and your parents. We want and expect you to succeed. We know that you can't do that without being close to the Lord and following Christ's example. If you make them the third partners in your marriage, you'll have a successful life.

What My Sons Should Know

by H. Linn Murphy

I believe the scripture about men's hearts failing them in the last days is very real. And it's happening now. People are losing the ability to look beyond their own personal bubble to empathize with others' problems and challenges. Hearts are becoming vestigial organs, like the appendix.

If, my son, you are lucky enough to trap a woman into marrying you, there are a few things you need to know for future reference:

The most powerful words in a marriage? "I love you and this is why...." Find something to complement her on every day. Even if she's gained a ton of weight or she's got a bad haircut or something else has happened, there's got to be something you find appealing. Even if it's just her shoelaces or the way her hair shines. Saying something loving will get you miles down the road toward a happy home. And it will do wonders for her self esteem. If she thinks her husband is still interested in her, still loves her even after two weeks of wedded bliss, she'll bloom for you. And she'll try harder to look nice for you. Sometimes she might act like she doesn't believe you, but deep inside she'll eventually believe it if you keep it up. And if you don't, there'll always be that worry that you've lost that loving feeling and she's just running on fumes. Don't make her guess. Tell her.

Take care of your Spiritual Responsibilities. You are the Priesthood in your home. Act like it. Go to the temple. Make it a priority. When it comes time for FHE, call them together and have FHE. Call for family prayers. Give them blessings. Take your son out Home Teaching or to collect fast offerings if that's his job. Call the family in for scripture study. This is your job as a priesthood holder.

Own your own baggage. Everyone has troubles and challenges. Everyone. If you didn't have some flaw, the good Lord would have translated you already. So acting as if you don't, is pure hubris, and it's frustrating for anyone around you. Don't force your wife to consider rigging an angelic visitor because you won't listen to anyone else trying to batter through your lofty throne of pride. You do get some things wrong at times.

She's not always wrong. It's statistically impossible. Someone once said a room full of monkeys typing random letters on typewriters will eventually come up with the works of Shakespeare (poor monkeys). Well, your wife will sometimes be right. You need to acknowledge that. It really doesn't take much effort to let her know. But it will mean the world to her. When you hog all the credit, it's a total mental beat-down.

Do your own personal housekeeping. Sure she might stay home all day with nothing to do but eat bon bons and watch Netflix (extremely unlikely) but she isn't your purchased slave. Pick up your own dang socks. Put them in the dirty clothes hamper. Take your place settings to the sink. Do your chores happily. If there is something broken around the house, it's your job to fix it. If you don't know how, learn. It'll save you loads of money not having to pay someone else to do it for you. And best of all, it'll save arguments.

You need to work. Hard. That's a fact of life. You are the provider for your wife and children. Nobody else should have that responsibility. That means that you need to study hard in school. Put forth the effort to make great grades so you can then get into college so that you can then get a good enough job so you can feed and clothe your family and put a roof over their head. And you need to start that now. Life doesn't have to offer you nonstop entertainment. It's not one big video game convention. And don't just think you can test video games for a living. It rarely works like that. Find something to do to contribute to society. Find the work you love and love the work you find. But you're going to have to get off your rear and DO SOMETHING. Because if you don't make that choice, life will make it for you.

Your wife is your bride. Never forget that. You chose her. You put that ring on her finger and signed the license. She isn't your love slave, your maid, roommate, or unpaid cook. She certainly isn't your punching bag or doormat.  She's your wife. She's your Queen. Treat her like that. Remember that you aren't giving her these rights. She's already got them. She shouldn't have to earn your love or respect. And she shouldn't have to earn her children's respect either. By virtue of being a Child of God, she has just as many rights as you do.

Be her champion. And I don't just mean just when you're out in public. Always. Don't make her fight all her own battles with the kids. If you act like it's not a big deal when they yell at her, or tell her "no" when she asks them to do chores, or lie to her, they'll push the boundaries they do come up against. Pretty soon your home will just be an armed camp, and your wife will snap. You'll have 156 lbs of screaming hag on your hands, rightfully. Yes, she should act like an adult. But it isn't really your job to raise her. It is your job to raise your children. And if you allow them to treat your wife like she's a third class citizen, you're reaping the tornado. They won't respect anyone. Be her champion with loving patience.

Don't abuse her children either. There's a fine line between being a father and being a friend to the exclusion of your wife. Don't always force her to be the bad guy. Be the friendly father. There are going to be some times when you can't be their friend, but you can discipline with patience and kindness and love unfeigned. Set boundaries for your children. Enforce them lovingly. Let them know with velvet gloves on, that you won't allow them to treat your Queen like they are. Believe me, your life will run much smoother when your children understand that your wife isn't champion-less.

Ask her how she's doing. And when she tells you, respond with kindness. If you give her a calm way to address the things that happen in her day, she'll adore you for it. Pillow talk is a fantastic thing. When she's feeling fragile, it's your job, as the Prince she married, to find out why. It's not always your task to fix it, but you need to at least listen. Find out what makes her feel loved and do that thing.

Men have compartments in their heads. I call them rooms. The big important things have larger rooms. I once handed my husband a penny-sized box. When he finally asked what it was for, I told him it represented the Heidi room in his head. Everything else had enormous rooms: work, computer everything, Church callings, the kids. He never responded, which made me think the cube I'd given him was much too big. Give her the second biggest room in your head. God and Christ are the only ones who should have a bigger room.

Communication isn't just a perk of a great marriage. Talk with her. Respond to her questions and dig deeper. It's utterly essential. And it can't just be surface stuff about the kids or the bills or whether the dog needs a vet. You need to dig into the deeper layers and really get at the feelings and spiritual essence. And you need to do this while you're dating too. Practice something more than face-sucking. Surface talk is for roommates and people you don't particularly care deeply for. And don't wuss out and fall back on the "Oh men don't talk" thing. That's the Natural Man rearing his hideous, lazy head. Caring men do talk.

Show her you care about what she says and does and thinks. Don't just hand her the flower you got at church on Mother's Day and call it done for the year. This is a daily thing. She uses those words of love and encouragement as fuel. Good fuel can fill your home with happiness. Bad fuel will nuke the place. You choose what you want to come home to.

Don't accuse her of nagging. If she has to tell you repeated times that something is wrong, GET A CLUE. Something is not right in her world. How else is she supposed to address it? Apparently wigging out and lopping off body parts is frowned on. Don't wait until she feels like doing that. And yes, it might be painful, but you have to rip the Bandaid off and examine what's beneath it. Maybe it needs Neosporine. But maybe, since you've left it so long, it's going to need amputation. Don't let it get that far. Hello. Man up and address it.

When you have an argument (because you will) don't fight dirty. Dredging up all her past wrongs and flogging her with them is wrong. How can she address something you've glazed over? It's not fair. She may even have forgotten about the problem, it's been so long. This isn't a court room. She shouldn't have to subpoena witnesses, keep a record of every offense, and formulate a defense. If you have a beef, address it as quickly and Christ-like as you can, and not in front of others (certainly not the children unless you're both doing it deliberately to show them how to do it correctly and with kindness). Saving things for the next big argument will make it World War III and she'll feel like you're sniping at her from the building across the square. Own your mistakes. Work to address what's wrong. Give her credit where credit is due. Be honest about your feelings. Give tangible, logical, workable ways to fix the problem. Don't sweat the stupid small stuff. Be patient. Actually work to change what you've done wrong. Squash pride and selfishness.

Sometimes you're going to have to go out of your comfort bubble. Do it. Her happiness is worth a night of dancing or a trip to the theater. Do things she likes to do sometimes. I don't mean you have to be surgically sutured to her side, but it shows her how important she is to you when you gracefully endure discomfort or boredom to do things she likes (graceful being the operative word here. If you complain, all bets are off). And she'll be more inclined to do some things you like to do. Also, she might need a cooling down period too. Moms never get to go home from work. They live at work, and they don't get paid for it very often. You try working for the occasional child's smile or the split second the house is actually livable.

Don't ask her to do something and then make it impossible to do. My husband hates it if I touch his things. At all. And yet he likes a clean house. But to clean, I need to dust and move furniture and dusty stacks of papers. Sometimes he loses things. If I've moved anything an iota out of the way, he accuses me of their loss. He hates not being able to find tools in the shed but he won't let me clean it, putting everything in clearly marked containers. He wants to do it (or not) because he knows where everything is. But he forgets that he isn't the only one living in his house, or his bedroom. For years we haven't been able to walk into the shed or find anything out there, because he has to have it just so. All my growing up years my dad yelled at me until everything was clean. Now my husband yells at me if I touch anything. This is a great frustration to me. Don't do that to your wife.

When you want to do something, plan it with her. Otherwise she'll feel like she's only accidentally along for the ride. She has valid points and hopes and dreams (and a working brain) too. She should be your first mate, not the skivvy. And when you're out there on that family vacation, treat her like she's your love. Walk with her. Hold her hand. Thank her for things. Ask her how she's doing. If you want to buy a new car or a house, consult with her. She'll probably be spending a fair amount of time in it.

Open her door even after the ring is on. Take her out on dates. They don't have to be expensive, but something with just the two of you. Don't make her beg for them and complain when she does. You chose her, after all. In case you don't realize it, THIS IS BIG. This marriage thing is for real. It should last for the rest of Eternity. It takes maintenance. You can't just flick a ring on her like in a ring toss game and call it quits. You have to work hard at it constantly. And yes, you have to, or you'll fail. Lots of people do. It's never going to be easy with anybody. Ever. If you think it is, someone is selling you a water-spanning structure.

Treat her like you'd like to be treated, or better. If you would rather not be sniped or yelled at, and you'd like the Kingly treatment, imagine how she must feel. Nobody wants to be treated badly, and certainly not from the mate they've chosen to spend Eternity with. You're the guy she's dreamed of and planned for and secretly kissed her pillow for. You're her Prince. Act like it. Believe me, it'll be worth it.

Next time I'll write to my daughters.

Flame On

by H. Linn Murphy

When I was little, I lived in Colorado. The Fall heralded a nip in the air and a halo of russet, scarlet, and gold around nearly every tree. I remember shushing my feet through piles and piles of crackly leaves, the scent of wet mold wafting up.

The zucchinis were blimp-sized and we had to launch them into people's car windows because everybody had an overabundance. Cornstalks grew tall and whispered in the freshening wind. The grinning orange pumpkins abounded, tourmaline monarchs enthroned on porches and walls.

Now I live in a sere place where the flora aren't flowers, mostly, thankful for the memories of a beloved childhood. These colors stay the same drab, pointy colors they are all year. We don't have much of a pageant. The sky remains a dusty cerulean now that the random summer rains have seeped into the ground. The heat lays like a stifling, too-heavy blanket over everything.

Last week, though, our family traveled up to the land of the leafy feast. Shimmering golden coins, a wash of vermilion smearing across the jagged mountains, and again, just as in childhood, a crop of pumpkins on every porch. Now my children have something to be thankful for: a new memory.

Going to the mountains is only slightly less a banquet of spiritual food than crashing ocean waves. There's simply something so soothing about listening from the inside of a tent to sussurant whispering of the wind through the shimmering coins and frothy furs. I close my eyes and let the soft soughing lave away the cares and annoyances of the day.

Too soon I am back in my paint-starved stucco monstrosity. I hug the memory of a caress of cool night air to me, wrapping it around me like the sweaters which sprout from it, missing that feeling. The temperature outside reads 93, even though the sun has long gone down.

My poor desert waif children have never known what it is to swim through the stinging air to their first day of school. Such a sting only comes with the advent of Christmas decorations here. Last week they learned the joy of a brilliant maple shower of leaves, experienced the grip of winter-chilled water, and felt the frisson of delicious apprehension at a wolf howl in the darkness. Now they, too, know what they've missed.

I'm glad. It's good that they know what it felt like to play Kick-the-can beneath a harvest moon. I'd like the color green to be not just a memory, but a daily sight. I'd love to introduce them to the joys of lying in the grass without the worry of being eaten alive by ants. And I want for them the waterfall of Autumn colors painted across the mountains.

Someday.

Of Bananas and Plantains and Month-old Fish

by H. Linn Murphy

(Metaphor warning: I'm going to be mixing them like a nurse in a nuthouse.)
(Disclaimer #2: I'm waiving the pictures in favor of ever getting to bed in this century. What, are they having another slow down day?)

Bananas were made for baboons. Just saying. When I was young they were great. I also ate strained spinach. That doesn't mean that I want a banana now, or ever. I do, however, like plantain chips exceedingly. They're still in the banana family but they don't make me dash for the nearest chuck bucket. I'm not sure if it's because platanos aren't sweet or if they just don't go all gluey as fast. Nothing says run for the barf bowl faster than a mucky banana. And platano chips are fabulous. Just the right salt and they're better for you than potato chips.

And they don't taste like bananas.

So what does all of this have to do with the price of fish in Alaska? Often the dividing line between what we like and what we don't can be nebulous at best. This also extends to those poor persons who have to wade through the slush pile to fish out the occasional mahi mahi from the carp.

They too have likes and dislikes, good days and bad, perhaps a presently full docket of books exactly like yours, or your story went moldy like last month's fish. Who knew?

How are we supposed to ride the swells in this business? The truly savvy writer can predict, can plan, can go to a fortune-teller, can chase that illusive best-seller status. But if the fickle public suddenly decides they've had enough mahi mahi and that's what you've based your whole book on, you lose.

So what happens to all those poor lifeless vampires hanging about in dusty attics waiting for their chance to shine again? Do they wait around for another flap around the high school or do they quietly go lock themselves back in their coffins for another fifty years?

I say if you write it, they will come. If you write a story full of "truth" that touches the human psyche, your readers will school around your bait. Make it tempting without being titillating. Make it so good they won't miss the sex or raunchy language or violence. Make it speak from your soul. I've never heard people say, "I only buy books for the sex." (They may say that but I've never heard them.) People buy something that speaks to them.

This is my plan: If I fill the pond up with fabulous halibut stories, readers won't have to settle for trashy sucker fish. So even if publishers say people only want garbage stories, we can show them they are wrong. Another good thing is to go on sites like Goodreads, Barnes and Noble, and Amazon and give the books you love great reviews. Not only does this show the authors, but it shows the publishers, that we are intelligent, discriminating readers with morals and a wish for spectacularly good writing.

May your seas be fair and your catch prodigious. And don't settle for the banana when you can have the plantain...;o)

Marin At The Well

by H. Linn Murphy

My friend Wes owns two bookstores. The other day we were talking books, as we often do. He said to me, "Heidi, I want you to write me a book. I need a book like the Tennis Shoes books by Heimerdinger that will capture youthful imaginations and increase their testimonies." He told me he's tired of the freshet of admittedly great middle grade and YA fiction which doesn't also answer that need for spiritual nourishment our kids are finding lacking.

At the time I was polishing my LDS book about a sister missionary and was deep into edits for my forthcoming LDS romance. Those will hopefully increase testimonies, though not especially youthful ones. At the time I really had no intention of haring off in a completely new direction to light fires under today's youth. I have four other books in the works right now and a whole host of others waiting impatiently for publishers or agents.

But the other day something happened. I woke up with a story banging at my head to get out. It flew from its aerie nearly fully fledged. I can only think that God wants me to write this book and sent it to me nearly complete. I was on fire with it, lit from the inside.

I continued to kick at it, having so many other ideas flocking around for other books. I'm researching honey badgers and Mozambique, Johns Hopkins University and Niassa nature reserve. But this morning whole scenes of Mary's life clattered across the stage in my mind and I could no longer deny them pride of place there.

MARIN AT THE WELL is the answer to these questions. It's basically the story of Mary and Martha told through the eyes of a modern teen. I allowed myself to examine how I would feel in Mary's place. What would it be like to kneel at Christ's feet and hear his stories and teachings? How would it feel to tell my sister that Jesus was coming to dinner? How would it feel to stand in the knot of other weeping women on that fateful hill, knowing everything was changing? To crouch and look into the tomb and find my Savior gone?

I think a lot of times we don't write these powerful stories because we're afraid they won't make any money. Well this book is pushy. Marin and Marco want their story told and won't take  a pansy-ish "no" for an answer anymore. I don't care if the "great unwashed hordes" want sex and violence. This is what I write.

I suppose I'll just have to tell Wes I've got his book. Hopefully Deseret will help me out with that.

Punting Piranhas (or I Need a Nap)

by H. Linn Murphy

Slacker Mommy signing in. This has been my day:

*2am--go to bed after running, writing, meetings, and random hijinx or however the heck *you spell the dang thing.
*4am--bathroom break
*6am--second bathroom break
*7am--send son off on his high adventure camping trip and the Hubs to work
*9am--check mail and give son his health waver
*9:15am--clean room and make bed
*11am-4pm--help a friend clean, pack to move, and unpack the truck at the other end

*5pm--paint a lawn gnome (my son will be so thrilled since he hates lawn gnomes) and some gingerbread for the house (not the edible kind) while watching Gilmore Girls re-runs (you can't beat the wit)
*6pm--make a delicious and oh so healthy veggie soup for dinner
*7pm--work on mail and suddenly remember I have this blog post (flogging to begin momentarily)
*7:05pm--write like the wind, Silver

*7:29--eat soup alone with the Hubs since the girls bailed when they found out we were having soup
*7:30pm-plus--prepare for staffing at cub camp tomorrow and the next day (owl pellets and liquid nitrogen and bucky balls and giant weather balloons. Yay!!!)
*Somewhere in there--write at least 100 words on one of my WIPs for the ANWA site so I'll be in the running for a prize sometime
*Copious spare time--Hunt down what died in the fridge and embalm it
*Somewhere else in there--hang the laundry that has been sitting in the basket for cough_a_day_cough getting rained on
*Midnight--clean more things and make sure everybody has clean pants and staff shirts and they aren't sitting out there in that basket of nasty-smelling stuff
*Some nebulous time after midnight--rack 'em up, Judy