Featured

My ultimate dream...

 

Another one of my essays was featured on our writing group's website recently. This is neither surprising nor special, since our group has taken a summer hiatus and I am running the website on my own. Just out of sheer boredom, I have been trying to add some interesting things to the site, trying to keep all 24 of our readers interested.

 

I also redesigned the website.

 

And added a twitter account.

 

If you haven't visited it lately, you should really check it out.

 

Who knows, maybe next I will record our stories onto audio tape and have a running story-time every time you visit the site. You better check it out just to see if I really go there....

 



The Case of the Dog-Napper

The following is an experiment that I played with for my writing group. I took one of my favorite memories of Erica growing up, and wrote it in story form. The story was featured on our website, but I included it in it's entirety below.

 

Happy Reading!!

 

I sat on the step of my front porch, watching my four-year old daughter, Erica, as she was playing with our neighbor's dog. It was time to make dinner, everyone would be hungry and complaining soon, but I just couldn't tear myself away from watching the girl and dog. The sounds of her laughter, intermingled with the joyous yips of the little black puppy bounced off the grass and seemed to fill the culdesac which we lived on. They were currently chasing each other around in circles, the dog making almost instantaneous changes in direction and reversing the circular pattern, teasing my giggling girl who could not possibly keep up. Her short legs tripped over the grass, the exertion creating a ruddy pink flush in her round cheeks.

"Ebony!" Erica called out, gasping between laughs, as the pup darted again in another tangent, sending Erica spinning.

I laughed too. Nothing could warm a mother's heart more than seeing her child blissfully happy. The stress from the day, all the pent-up frustration from working with irritable patients, along with the physical exhaustion associated with leaning over a dental chair for nine hours, all seemed to melt away, dripping off my person and depositing itself onto the pavement below my feet. The longer I soaked up the joy shared between my daughter and the neighbor's dog, the more at peace I felt with the world.

We had only just pulled into the driveway, arriving home at the end of a long day. Before the car was even in park, Ebony was outside Erica's door yapping excitedly. Erica quickly slid the door open and was off playing with her little buddy. This was the new routine. Our neighbor, Denise, was always out in the yard, working in her garden while Ebony would chase insects and run laps around the dogwood tree with the white blossoms. As soon as she saw our car coming around the corner she would start barking and jumping excitedly in our driveway. Then, when a car door was opened she was jumping on our legs and yipping happily. It was our own little welcome party every evening.

Tonight I hadn't even made it into the house. Too tired to care, I had sat right on the porch step in my grey and blue scrubs.

Obviously hearing the commotion, my husband Eric came out the front door and sat down next to me on the step.

"What are you doing?" he asked, even though the answer was apparent.

"Sitting," I replied, and then sighed blissfully.

We watched the two play-pals scampering around in the grass. Denise was still weeding in her garden, but she would look up every once in a while and let out a little chortle of amusement.

"That kid needs a dog," Eric said for probably the hundredth time.

I sighed again, this time not so peacefully. We had been over this so many times.

"Every kid needs a dog," Eric muttered under his breath.

"Hey, not every kid," I said. "I never had a dog growing up, and look how I turned out."

"Yeah, look how you turned out, you animal-hater," he responded, but he chuckled and bumped my shoulder with his teasingly.

"I am not an animal-hater," I retorted. "It's not my fault that I'm deathly allergic to all of them."

"Nah, you're just pretending," he said. "You're just faking all the sneezing, drippy noses, and red eyes."

"Hey, what can I say? I'm good at what I do."

Although he teased me about it, he knew that owning a pet was not an option for us. We had tried it before with abysmal results. Seven years earlier we had acquired an adorable black kitten, with soft white paws and a star on his nose. I had only been able to tolerate living with him for a year before my allergies became so severe that we had to give him away.

When my oldest daughter, Heidi, was ten years old we got her a black hamster which she named Little Bear.  The kids had a lot of fun chasing the little fur ball around the house until the week that my daughter was gone to fifth grade camp. I neglected to feed or water the poor creature and it didn't survive. I almost bought her a new hamster to cover up my mistake, but then decided that she would probably figure out the truth immediately. We held a simple burial service in the back yard instead, placing three large stones in the soft dirt to mark the spot.

Thinking that it was a no-brainer, our latest venture was an aquarium. The fish did not last very long, however, owing mostly to the fact that one fish in particular seemed to enjoy eating the others. The kids soon lost interest in the quiet, non-furry and non-cuddly creatures, so that when the last fish finally died we got rid of the tank altogether.

No, it was much better to have a next-door type of pet. Similar to the joys of being a grandparent, with all the fun of spoiling the little tykes and none of the responsibilities associated with it. Erica could play with the dog all she wanted, but we did not have to walk her, or feed her, or clean up her messes in the grass. We could simply give the dog a farewell pat on the head and go into the pet-free environment of our house.

Except that Erica never seemed to want to leave Ebony. She asked to play with her all the time, and when it was time to come inside for the night, a serious meltdown would occur. She loved that dog and Ebony loved her right back.

The next day I was washing the dishes in the kitchen, while Erica was playing outside in the backyard. It was a beautiful day and all my doors and windows were open to take advantage of the cool breezes which would occasionally sweep through. Suddenly I heard the front door slam shut and the unmistakable clicking of puppy paws on the hard wood floor.  I turned to find Ebony rounding the corner into the kitchen, with Erica right on her heals.

"Ebony's here to play with me!" Erica stated proudly.

"Umm, I don't think so," I said, bending down and picking up the little dog. Ebony gave a cheerful yip and licked my hand.

I took the dog out through the front door, thinking that Denise was probably working in the garden and that Ebony had followed Erica into the house. There was no one outside.

"That's strange," I thought. I started to walk across the yard and up our neighbor's driveway. Before I reached her front door, however, Denise came running out, breathless.

"Are you missing something?" I asked, laughing, as Ebony squirmed out of my arms and ran over to her, yipping and jumping on her legs.

"You won't believe what just happened!" Denise said, after greeting Ebony with a loving scratch behind her soft ears.

"What?" I asked.

"I was napping on the sofa, when I was woken by Ebony barking at the end of the hall. Suddenly Erica walks right past me, picks up Ebony and takes her out through the front door. For a few minutes I thought that I was dreaming, but then I realized that I was awake and that Ebony was gone!"

My jaw must have seriously dropped to the pavement.

"Erica was in your house?" I asked, dumb-founded. "And she took Ebony?"

"I guess so. It was all so strange, because I had just been asleep...."

I could not have been more mortified. "Oh, Denise! I am so sorry! I will need to talk to her about this. This is unacceptable."

Denise seemed to take stock of the situation then, and started to chuckle. "It's okay, really. I know she loves that dog. She probably just wanted to play with her."

I apologized all over again, letting her know that I was taking it seriously. It would never happen again.

Back in the house, Erica stood in front of me, her face downcast and tear-stained.  I was just explaining to her that we cannot go into our neighbor's houses, and we certainly cannot take their puppies home with us, no matter how much we love them.

"But Ebony wanted to play with me!" she cried, her bright blue eyes brimming with large wet tears.

I sighed, not sure if my message got through to her.

When Eric got home later that night and was told about the puppy-napping incident, he immediately began to laugh.

"This isn't funny!" I cried. "Our daughter is turning into a felon, and all you can do is laugh?"

"I still can't believe she walked into their house," he replied. "Denise must have been in shock."

I couldn't help but chuckle over the scene playing through my head. Denise, in her sleepy state seeing a phantom child whisk away her precious little pup, and then jolting awake several minutes later to discover that it was her precocious neighbor girl.

"Maybe we need to get her a dog of her own," Eric said, unhelpfully. Again.

"You know that we can't," I said. "We would fall in love with it, and then I would get so sick I couldn't live in my own house. Then we would have to give it away and it would break all our hearts."

Eric sighed.

Over the next few days I kept a vigilant watch over Erica, only allowing her to play in the fenced backyard, but she proved to be a highly capable escape artist.

The doorbell rang, and there was Denise standing with Erica and Ebony.

"Erica!" I cried. "You were just in the back yard!"

Apparently, Erica had shaken the gate open on our side of the yard, found a hole in Denise's fence which was covered with vines and a low hanging tree, and slipped into their back yard. She had then walked right through her back door into the kitchen and started to take Ebony out the front door with her. This time, Denise caught her.

What was I going to do with my child? Denise laughed and was very nice about everything, but I just wanted to sink into the earth. I was so embarrassed.

We had many long talks about going into other people's houses, uninvited. Then I started to get paranoid and had to cover the topic of stranger danger and not going near anyone at all. What if she marched right in to someone's house that was dangerous, or if she walked off with someone who was supposedly looking for their "lost puppy?" My paranoia seemed to rub off on her, and she was constantly on the lookout for "bad people." When we were driving in the car one day, Erica heard police sirens and said that "the police were going to get the bad people, so they don't take me away." I knew at that point that it had gone far enough.

We needed a new tactic.

A lovely pink tricycle, decorated with several popular princesses and shining tassels streaming from the handlebars was just the trick.

Now as I sit on the front porch, the culdesac is once again full of my daughter's laughter. She is pedaling merrily on her princess bike, and although it is still difficult for her little legs to push the pedals in a full rotation, she doesn't seem to notice. Ebony is jumping around her feet, making her progress slow, but the yips and laughs make it clear that the two of them are enjoying themselves. Ebony starts off in a quick lap around the bike, egging Erica on to go faster. She pushes her legs down harder, propelling the bike forward in a smooth and quick movement and Erica squeals in delight.

I close my eyes and soak in the sounds, letting the outside world just melt away.

Erica, with her buddy Ebony.

 

The above story is based on one of Heather's favorite memories of her daughter growing up, written in story form. All characters are real people and a real dog. No animals were injured during the making of this story, except of course the hamster, the dead fish, and the poor cat whose fate is unknown.

Tee Shirt Designer

You're Just My Type

 

 Last week I made some iron-on transfer shirts.

 

I'd rather be at Pemberley.

 

What can I say, I'm dorky like that.

 

Keep Calm, Write On

 

I've gotten several comments on them already, so I must not be the only dork out there. Too bad they probably won't last through very many washes.

 

typewriter keys

 

So then I decided to take my favorite image and start up a new tee shirt campaign for my writing group! Here is my lovely creation!

 

Order your shirt HERE.

 

  I am super excited to launch this new tee shirt campaign with a new fun design! If you would like to order your own, please see the link attached to the image above. Featuring a vintage typewriter and a note saying, "You're just my type!" this is a fun way to show your love for the Six Chicks!

Shirts are available in women's sizes, as well as unisex, and offer a variety of styles. You can choose a V-neck shirt, hoody sweatshirt, or go for the traditional tee! As before, the shirts will be available for a limited time, so get yours today!

Super CUTE, and they are only $12! Plus free shipping if you have it delivered to me! I can't wait to get mine!!

The Land of the Free

This is a personal essay which was posted on my writing group's website yesterday. I hope you enjoy!!


Yesterday was Independence Day. What a glorious day to celebrate the beginning of our wonderful country! To celebrate, we organized a block party for all our neighbors, held in the culdesac in front of our house. Our next door neighbor concocted the idea with us, and we spread the word, knocking on everyone's door to let them know of our plans. After setting up a canopy in the street, and covering several food tables with bright cloths, our neighbors began to trickle out of their homes, with bowls of potato salad and platters of fruit in hand. Several of them wheeled out their barbeque grills and soon the air was full of the scent of smoking charcoal and seared meat.

I sat at a table with the couple who lives down the street from us, laughing with them as they fed their little toddler boy sliced tomatoes, and wondering why I had never met them before. The husband, who I now finally know to be named Joe, mentioned that he has seen my son Ethan playing soccer a lot. He told us that he wanted to come and offer to play with him, but felt like it might be strange to come and approach Ethan about it when he didn't know him.

Another neighbor's son brought out his pet gecko to show around, and then passed out bubble wands for the little ones to play with.

I discovered that a woman who lives around the corner from me has been a children's book author for thirty years. When my husband Eric told her that publishing was a dream of mine someday, she got excited and told me that we have a lot to talk about.

It felt good to get to know my neighbors. We always waved in greeting before as we sped out of our driveways and on to our daily lives, but now I will probably actually stop and talk to them. We will be better equipped to look out for each other, our properties, and our children running around in the culdesac just because we know more about each other now.

Last night, as I sat in the safety and comfort of a beautiful home, surrounded by the exhilarated spirits of my children hyped up on sugar and fun from the day's events, and listened to the myriad of explosions and pops coming from a city of celebration, I couldn't help but reflect on all that I am blessed with. I watched the huge fireworks show which occurred in New York City and marveled at the impressive display of artistry, choreographed so perfectly by the "Star Spangled Banner" and finally, "God Bless America."

I thought about what it truly means to be an American.

It means having the freedom to not only dream, but to live your life in a way which allows you to pursue it.

It means having the freedom to worship as you see fit, appreciating all that God has bestowed on this blessed land.

It means having the freedom and means to make a place your own, and if you work hard enough, own a piece of property for yourself.

It means having the freedom to look your children in the eyes and know with all your heart that the sky is the limit for their potential, as long they are willing to work for it.

It means having the freedom to question our leaders and legislation, because they are held accountable to us.

It means having the freedom to be protected from lawlessness when we obey and honor the laws which have been established to safeguard our rights.

It means having the freedom to have an opinion and to be able to express it.

It means having the freedom to make our own lives, in our own little blocks, and enjoy the companionship and protection which comes from making a neighborhood a family.

I thought about the time that I had felt the most connected to my fellow Americans. It occurred in the aftermath of our recent history's most tragic event, the destruction of the World's Trade Center buildings in New York City.

Like most people who were old enough to remember, September 11, 2001 will forever be etched in my memory.  The day and the feelings associated with it are so vivid it seems just like yesterday.

The morning was spent with me frantically getting ready for work.  Ethan had just celebrated his first birthday a few days before, so I was still in the difficult process of preparing a baby for daycare and getting my five-year-old Heidi off to Kindergarten.  As I was running out the door, Eric mentioned that it looked like there was an accident at the World Trade Center.  I didn't really know what that meant.  I don't think I really even knew what the World Trade Center was at that time.

By the time I got to work, people were glued to the television in our front office, watching the replay of the plane crashing into the first tower.  I couldn't believe what I was seeing.  It seemed like such a freak accident.  Then my boss speculated, "What if it wasn't an accident?"  My mind couldn't make that leap.  It still can't, really.

We proceeded through our scheduled day, seeing our patients and talking about what was going on in New York with them.  Then the second plane hit.....

Then the first tower crumbled into dust....We were all so shocked, I don't think any of us spoke for several minutes.  I just remember crying and thinking, "All those people....."

As the events of the day progressed, including listening to the audio from the plane that was taken back by the passengers, hearing of the Pentagon being hit, and watching firefighters running into the smoke and ruins of the first tower, to their deaths for 343 of them, it was like watching a horror movie.  Only this was very, very real.

I went home and hugged my babies, so grateful for my family and our safety, but afraid of what the future would bring.

No, I will never forget that day, or the people who perished in those airplanes, at the Pentagon, or in the World Trade Center buildings.  There were so many heroes, and acts of selflessness.  And I will never forget those who answered the call to serve their country and defend our freedoms.  Their ultimate sacrifices have enabled us to continue to enjoy our freedom of speech, right to bear arms, right to worship how we may, right to elect our own leaders, and many more.

I say to them: THANK YOU

and....I WILL NEVER FORGET!

But along with the images of devastation and destruction, I will always remember the sight of house after house, building after building, proudly displaying our magnificent flag. Right after that event, everyone that I knew and everywhere that I looked immediately put out their flags to show their support and solidarity. The red, white, and blue was more than just a pennant flapping in the breeze. It was a symbol of our resolution to come together as American citizens, despite our many differences, and band together in strength, compassion, and commitment.

Independence Day is a chance for us to remember these tender feelings for our country, the blessings which we claim for living on this piece of land, and honor all those who have sacrificed so much to ensure the continuation of our freedoms. We truly are the land of the free, because of the brave. I will do all I can to honor the brave, succor the weak, and cherish the freedoms I enjoy.

I think a few more block parties wouldn't hurt, either.

San Juan Island Holiday

 

Lately all of my spare time has been consumed with finishing a story of mine that was being posted last week on our writing website. It was turning out so long, that it leaked into this week as well! At 17,500 words, it is the longest complete story that I have written to date, and I am proud of myself. I based it on my love for the San Juan Islands here in the Puget Sound. It is seriously one of my very favorite places to go, so I thought it would be fun to have a cute story take place on one of the islands.

 

As I read through the story, it reminds me of the beautiful sights and the tranquil atmosphere of the islands. It is a place to have fun, but also to escape the bustling craziness of life. Here is a link to the story that I wrote. I hope you enjoy it!

 

"San Juan Island Holiday"

 

 

What Stories it Told

A woman who lives in our neighborhood and in our Ward at church is having to sell most of her belongings to move into a retirement home. She is a dear friend and I have had some wonderful evenings chatting with her. She has some amazing stories to tell, of hardship and pain, but also overcoming her trials with love and humor. I will be sad to see her leave our area.

 

Last weekend she had a garage sale, trying to clear out her house and earn some money. My friend Audrey was helping her run the garage sale and she told me about a typewriter that Bette was wanting to sell. As soon as Audrey saw it, she knew that I would have to have it. She called me to come check it out.

 

They hadn't even put the typewriter out in the general sale, hoping that I would be interested. Boy were they right! Eric was with me, and we were both stunned when we pulled it out of the cardboard box it had been stored in. It is a Smith Premier Typewriter No. 2, built back in 1904. I had never seen one like it in person before, only in pictures. The pictures cannot do it justice! This is a neat machine!

 

Bette wouldn't even let us make an offer on the typewriter. She said to go ahead and take it with us, and we could talk money later. She just wanted it to go to someone who would love it, and not try to turn around and sell it. The typewriter had belonged to her father, and he had loved it. I think about all the words that have gone through that machine over the years, the stories it could tell. I am inspired to write a story based on that, hopefully I can do it justice!

 

Bette told us a funny story about how she acquired the typewriter from her father. She and her older sister were always in serious competition with each other. As soon as Bette said she wanted something, it was an automatic response that her sister would want the same. As her father was in his old age dividing up his possessions between his children, Bette asked if she could take the old typewriter. She had always loved it. She loved to write, and it was something special to her that reminded her of her father. Her sister immediately said that she wanted it as well, even though she hadn't paid any attention to it before.

 

Bette's father leaned in conspiratorially with her sister saying, "It's broken anyway, and Bette just likes to play with it. Just let her have it."

 

At first Bette was offended, thinking that her father didn't take her seriously, saying how she just likes to play with it, but soon she realized that he just wanted her to have it. Her sister, thinking that she and her father were in on a little joke, agreed to let Bette have it. Bette won.

 

She said that she had never loved her father more.

 

Now I get to make some memories with this old machine. Bette had told us that her uncle sautered some of the pieces together because it was falling apart, and so it no longer worked. Eric took it home, pulled out a flashlight, and together with Ethan marveled over the delicate mechanisms inside the machine. He tweaked a few things and got the keys to work properly. Now it just needs a new tape with ink to completely work.

 

Eric teases me, saying that it was an expensive paper weight, but he was just as excited about the old typewriter as I was. It may not even ever write anything again. It may just collect more dust. But now it sits in a place of honor in my pretty glass curio cabinet. It is valuable, not just for its monetary worth, but for what it meant to Bette and her father, for what people touched its black and white keys, for what stories it told and what letters it wrote.

 

Oh, if only it could speak for itself.

Six Chicks Retreat

 Last weekend my writing group had a mini retreat. We met up at a local hotel, ate tons of food, and laughed A LOT. Funny thing was, that we actually got a lot accomplished! We passed a new series of stories around, getting them ready to be posted on our website in the near future. Watch out! Some of these stories have some zany twists and turns, while others are sweet and will bring a tear to your eye. I am so lucky to get to rub shoulders with these amazing ladies! I have learned so much from our writing group, seen improvement in my writing style, and made some bonds with these women that will never be broken. I am so blessed.

 

 The tee shirts that I designed for our writing group came in and I LOVE THEM!! I was so excited when my package came in the mail with these fun shirts in them! I ended up getting both a tee shirt and a hoody sweatshirt. Of course, I also ordered a custom case for my iPhone with the design printed on it as well. My family thinks I'm crazy. What can I say? When I get into something...I GET INTO SOMETHING!

 

Lessons from Elise

I wrote an essay entitled "Lessons from Elise" which is featured on our writing group's website today. I went into more detail of what life is like living with a child with disabilities, as well as my journey to being at peace with it.  Check the link to read the full essay!

Chick Style

I recently designed a tee shirt to sell as advertisement for my writing group, Six Chicks Writing.  I had a lot of fun working on it and utilized Heidi's cool teen factor in order to make sure it was something people would want to wear, and not just me.  The shirts sell for $15 and are available for a short time only, so get one today if you are interested!  The campaign will close one week from today.

Here is a link if you would like to check out my shirt!

http://teespring.com/sixchickswriting

Magic

~Albus Dumbledore

 

A little magic happened tonight.  Not only did I write on the story that had me stumped yesterday, but I cruised right through an addition to the next story in my line-up.

 

Magic really does exist.

Nothing to Writing

I am supposed to be writing right now.  But not on this....

I am stuck on a story that I am trying to continue for my writing group.  I have been thinking about it for days.  Where is this supposed to go?  How do I get there?  What do I see happening?  What is the bridge that I need to build to lead up to the grand finale?

Ugh!

This quote from Ernest Hemingway totally sums it up.

"There's nothing to writing.  All you do is sit down at a typewriter--and bleed."

Only a writer would know EXACTLY what he is talking about!

When you write, you are not just sitting down, with the words pouring out of you like an overflowing pitcher.  You fight for every word.  Every sentence.  Every thought.  How do they blend together?  Does that sound right?  This sentence needs to have a choppier rhythm, while this one needs a languid fluidity.  Not enough description.  Too much description.  Too obvious.  Not obvious enough.

Sometimes I sit for an hour, staring at the computer monitor, rolling words around in my head.  Sometimes nothing comes out.

But sometimes, every once in a while, magic happens, and the words roll out so fast I can't even keep up with them.

Those are the days I live for.

I need me some magic about now.

Mary's Story

I have always been intrigued by Mary, the mother of Jesus Christ.  What kind of woman must she have been to be entrusted with the incredible task of bearing and raising the Savior of the world?  She must have been one of our Father in Heaven's choicest spirits.  This must have been true about Joseph as well, to be humble enough to raise Jesus as his own, and to love and honor his mother, Mary.

Elder Robert J. Matthews said this about Mary:

"When we consider the strong influence that a mother has on the personality and attitude of a young child in the home, we sense the responsibility that our Heavenly Father gave Mary by entrusting her with the rearing of his chosen and Beloved Son.  This would require adequate training of Mary, both as a premortal spirit and as a young woman in mortality.  Notwithstanding her pre-earth assignment, Mary would not have been worthy to bear the Son of God and give him a body of flesh and blood unless she was clean and pure in mortal life."

When I first read the quote above from Elder Matthews, I was overcome with a feeling of admiration, respect, and love for this very choice daughter of God.  I am so thankful to have such an amazing example of a woman to study from the scriptures.  She truly exemplified faith, obedience, humility, and love.

Finally, Elder Bruce R. McConkie said this about Mary:

"As there is only one Christ, so there is only one Mary.  And as the Father chose the most noble and righteous of all his spirit sons to come into mortality as his Only Begotten in the flesh, so we may confidently conclude that he selected the most worthy and spiritually talented of all his spirit daughters to be the mortal mother of his Eternal Son."

I recently wrote a short story which was posted on my writing group's website for Christmas.  It is a portrayal of the story of Jesus' birth, as seen through the eyes of Joseph's donkey, who carried Mary on his back on their journey to Bethlehem.  I really enjoyed the opportunity which it gave me to think more about what Mary and Joseph must have really been like, what their daily life would have looked like, what the challenges were that they faced as they made this necessary trip to Bethlehem.  It made me appreciate even more the sacrifices that they each made, in order to bring our Savior into the world.  It also helped strengthen my testimony of our Father in Heaven's plan for each of us, and the joy which we can receive by following the example of Jesus Christ.

I am so thankful for a Father in Heaven who loved us enough to send his Only Begotten Son into the world, who would provide the way that we can return to live with them again one day.  Jesus Christ truly is the light of the world, and I hope that I can share that more fully with those around me, even if it is through the simple means of sharing a sweet bedtime story.

I hope that you have time to enjoy my story:

"Samuel's Stable" by Heather White

Thanks for Thanksgiving

We had a wonderful Thanksgiving last week.  Since family was so far away, we decided to invite some friends to share the meal with.  I invited a coworker friend with her son, as well as the sister missionaries who are currently serving in our Ward.  We had a great time together laughing and talking, and had a big laugh over Elise and her antics.  She gets pretty excited with an audience, and even more excited with new friends to show off to.

Sharing time together as a family, plenty of food to eat, a warm comfortable home to live in....we are truly blessed.

I am so grateful this holiday season for all that the Lord has blessed us with.  We have enjoyed good health this year, successful and stable employment, satisfaction and fulfillment in service opportunities at church and in the community, and happy and active children.

Most of all I am so grateful for the way my family has been blessed by being members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  We receive peace in knowing that, through the Atonement of our Savior Jesus Christ, we have the opportunity to improve ourselves each day, drawing us closer to our Father in Heaven, and closer to our family here on the earth.

******

On a fun side-note, I wrote a Thanksgiving-themed short story for my writing group's website. I hope that you will read it and enjoy it, and remember all the things that we have to be grateful for....especially FAMILY!

"A Thanksgiving Week," by Heather White

Ethan's Sunset

(Ethan had an assignment to write a poem about a sunset for his English class. He said that he didn't know how to write a poem. I told him to just write what came to his head when he thought of a sunset. He said, "I'm going to write about a sunset in Hawaii." This poem just made all the money spent on this last trip worthwhile.)

Sunset

by Ethan White

Yellow, red, orange, and purple,

These are the colors of sunset.

Birds flying around for the last of the day,

Searching for fish.

Not a single cloud in sight,

Just the brilliant colors of sunset fill the horizon.

The sounds of waves fill the air,

Their rhythmic beat drumming on the sand.

The smell of salt tingles your nose,

Making you dream of one last swim.

(I think that this kid knows how to write a poem....)

Writers

For as long as I can remember, I have always wanted to be a writer.

It wasn't enough to just write.  I wanted to earn the title of WRITER.

In the sixth grade, my English teacher must have seen a hidden yearning within me, because she gave me an individual assignment, separate from the rest of the class.  I was to write a "book," and at the end of the assignment period I would read it to my class.

I was both exhilarated and terrified.

At that time, I was a very shy girl.  It was difficult for me to raise my hand to answer any questions in class, let alone read an entire piece aloud.  I was proud to be so singled out.  While I was given permission to sit quietly in a separate room to work on my creation every day, the rest of the class worked on English assignments.  However, it was a lot of pressure to be so singled out.  I felt that everyone would be looking to me, thinking that I was showing off, and torment me even more than they already did.

I wrote a story about a girl who travels through time, having adventures with a new friend named Zack.  I was terribly embarrassed to read the passages out loud which showed the awakening within a girl when she discovers boys for the first time, and I know that I blushed profusely when the two held hands.  But I also remember how it felt to share something that came from within me, something that didn't exist before I put pen to paper, something that was a part of me.

It was wonderful.

I went through countless spiral notebooks throughout the next several years, filling them with stories, poems, and even songs.  My sophomore year of high school, I attempted to write another "book."  This one was about a girl who is mistaken for another girl, living in a mysterious castle.  She must choose between two different men, the stalwart and brave one, or the mysterious and dark one.  Which one is deceiving her, and which is the true hero?  I would tease my friends with the story, a chapter at a time.  They would beg me to finish the next installment.

I was in heaven!  They all told me that I was going to be a writer someday.  I believed them.

Then, I embarked on the new and exciting adventure of college, and the practical need to provide for a family became a top priority,  My beloved literature classes were replaced with science and biology, anatomy and physiology.  Instead of reading for pleasure, my time was consumed with studying from ten pound text books.  Instead of experimenting with alliteration and prose, I was engrossed in research papers and statistical charts.

It took two years after I graduated from college before I actually picked up a novel to read for pleasure.  As I began to pour over the crinkly yellow pages, it was like something awakened within me again.  I began to devour books, trying to catch up on the years that I had devoted to studying for my degree.

I tried to form a book club.  I was living in Boise, Idaho at the time, and craved the social interaction associated with a club, and also the intellectual stimulation which comes from literary dissection.  A few people came a few times.  It was a disappointing venture.

We moved to Meridian, Idaho.  I tried to form another book club.  No one was interested.  When asked, everyone would respond, "I don't have time to read."  I would think to myself, "Neither do I, but now I have learned to MAKE time."

Finally, after moving to Everett, Washington, I made my most recent attempt at forming a book club.  I felt all alone in the area.  We had no family close by and I needed to feel connected to where we lived.

Once again, I was the shy new girl, but I asked everyone that I met if they would like to be in a book club, started by me.  Everyone wanted to join!

That was seven years ago.  Our book club has been going strong ever since.  It has been one of the most fulfilling things that I have ever been a part of.  And even though people come in and out, moving across the country or even just in the city ten minutes away,I have formed a connection with them that I never dreamed was possible.  Sometimes our discussions are deep, sometimes they are just frivolous fun, but they give me the fuel that I need to continue to motivate myself to accomplish all those things that I want to achieve.

It was this amazing success with a book club, and the subsequent pouring over hundreds of books, good and bad, which reminded me of my original dream, that of being a writer.

As a test, I started a blog.  It was scary at first.  I was completely out of practice.  My writing was halting and laborious.  I struggled over every sentence, every phrase, every idea.  But gradually the words began to flow again.  I began to discover my voice.

This voice is different.  This voice is no longer eleven years old, pining to experience life and everything it has to offer.  This voice has already experienced heartbreak, extreme joy, and everything in between.  This voice can share the richness of dreams already attained, and hopes of new experiences yet to come.  This voice has the understanding of ultimate sorrow mixed with the solace of gratitude and humor.

This voice is mine.

Relaxing at our Writer's Retreat in September 2013.

A year ago I was invited by a friend to join a writing group.  Six ladies with the giant dream of honing our skills as writers and creating something special.  I jumped on the chance!  Each one of us have completely different voices, yet all have the same dream.  We meet once a month, sharing things which we are working on and giving general encouragement and advice.  It is a safe place to share and learn.  I look forward to our meetings every month.

We recently started a blog, which includes serial stories, written by us in sequence.  We start with a prompt, and each of us begins a story.  We pass that beginning on to the next person, who adds a section to the story, then passes it on to the next.  It has been a fun project, and a wonderful exercise in brainstorming new and interesting ideas, matching voices, and creating memorable characters.

I invite each of you to check out our new blog.  Please follow us daily, as a new section of the week-long story is added every morning.  We are so excited to share our stories and hopefully instill in you a new desire to create something of value.

I find that my journey as a writer is still evolving.  As I continue to develop my voice, I am also discovering what is inside of me. I may have substituted a laptop for my spiral bound notebook, but the end result is the same.

What leaves my fingertips is my heart.