You have no idea

After one of my book readings this summer, a lady approached me with a comment. She had read my book and quite liked it, but had to exclaim in a loud voice so everyone around could hear - "I DIDN'T KNOW YOU WERE SO SMALL!"
I'm not very quick with repartee. It's only much later when I'm lying in bed at night that I might think of a response so stunning it would go viral on youtube. (By morning I've forgotten it.) So all I managed to squeak was, "Well, how BIG did you think I WAS?"  ( I didn't really want to know the answer to that.) She patted me and assured me that she didn't mean to insult me, it was just that, surely, with all the things I did in the story, one would need to be quite a large person.
In a twist of kismet or whatever you call the quirks and folds of the universe, another woman came up to me at the same evening and said basically the same thing. She sounded aghast: "But you're SO SMALL!!"
I have never thought of myself as small, petite, tiny - none of that. Woman who are size 2 are small. I am way larger than that. In fact, although I'm not that tall, I consider myself stout. Sort of chunky. Solid. Curvy.
So when Denis sent me pics of these dog tee shirts last week, I thought perhaps I should order the last one and wear it to my next reading. Although historically the last dog I owned was a poodle. (He had to be put to sleep in his prime and I loved him so much I cried to see him go.) However, we did NOT accessorize. EVER. I admit he wore a purple sweater for winter walks and because of my white hair which gets a little frizzy when humid I KNEW passersby were thinking, "There goes another dog owner who looks just like her dog." This did make me paranoid.




When I read a book I always get a mental image of the author or character that is described. Meeting them in real life can be enlightening. Even photos don't always give an accurate impression. So it's not surprising that people have ideas about how I look. I don't want to disappoint readers, but there it is. Or, rather, there I am. At this stage of life, accepting what I look like feels pretty good. These days, I'm caring more about those sneaky inside places that still need a lot of work.
Here at Toad Hall, we are looking forward to the weekend. Family is coming tonight and our house will ring with grandkids. Pulled pork sandwiches and watermelon for supper. Tomorrow my daughter-in-law is running a 10k and the kids are going to do the family mile. I hope you enjoy your weekend, too. Read a book. Take your dog for a walk. Get outside. And we, none of us, will worry about what others perceive about our size. Not today, anyway.

Secular Bio

I’ve been approaching a few libraries in our region letting them know that The Exact Place is available for their collection, meaning, would you please purchase one and shelve it for the millions of readers clamoring to read it. Anita (our assistant at Ransom Fellowship) has been an invaluable help in contacting and following up. Usually they ask me to donate a copy and I usually do.  Perhaps some readers will be inspired to purchase a copy – maybe as a gift for someone.  Perhaps library exposure could open the door for an author’s reading which would lead to response and discussion.
One thing on my to-to list this week has been writing a bio that would be appropriate for libraries, small shops and venues that include a few chosen books.  Places like that.  Some aspects of this that are difficult for me.  The challenge first of all is to get past me.  Blah, blah, blah me.  How do I write a bio without sounding neurotically self-focused?  Next is how to write it in such a way to hint that I’m a person of faith, but not a dangerous, crazy Christian.  It should sound professional, but also be personal.  IT must be interesting, but not too much detail.  It’s best to be brief.  Like around 100 words or less.

I remember an editor chiding writers: why would you take all the time and effort to write a book and then think you can whip off a summary and a bio in ten seconds.  So after much deleting and drafting, I’ve come up with this.  Comments and kind criticisms are welcome.

Margie Haack lives in Rochester, MN with husband Denis, on a small urban lot where she tries to attract bumble bees and hummingbirds with marginal success.  Nature and place connect her to the spiritual geography that has shaped her life.  Margie’s writing includes a quarterly publication of personal essays – Notes from Toad Hall, and her work has appeared in ArtHouseAmerica, The High Calling Blog, Washington Institute for Faith and Comment Magazine.  She recently shattered a platter, sucker her socks into the vacuum cleaner and backed into a parked car proving that safety lies in writing more and leaving the desk less.  You can find her blogging at Toads Drink Coffee.

Sometimes I have no idea what I’m doing.  I trip ahead hoping God will continue to extend mercy as I go.

A message from my dog

In December, I received the following card that turned out to be my favorite surprise of the season: “A Holiday Message from the Dog you Killed…”

 Inside was a silly poem. In typical doggy generosity and faithfulness – Bing forgave me and wished me a Merry Christmas. HOW did Hallmark Cards know? All I can think is that I must not be alone for this to be a salable topic.

A friend who read the first chapter of The Exact Place found this card SOMEwhere. In my defense, I would LIKE to remind everyone that it was an ACCIDENT. Although it is true that this was strictly against the rules I didn’t want him to get hurt when I set him on the horses.  “With a flying kick, Duke sent Bing somersaulting through the air until he rested quietly on the floor of the woods among decaying leaves and tiny blue violets. From a distance he looked like a still life, a bouquet of small white flowers pushing through the chilled earth….a tiny marsh of blood forming beside his head.”

 

I still think of Bing occasionally and wonder if dogs will be in heaven. Sometimes I imagine being joyfully greeted and bowled to the ground (gently) by all the pets we ever knew. All these creatures God has made and that we have cared for and loved or not loved as well as we should have…. I give thanks for them.

Galleys

 I’ve been waiting this week for the galleys* for The Exact Place to arrive. I heard they’d been sent last Saturday. Knowing they were coming, and that when they got here I would need to focus exclusively on going over them, I had Monday to prepare for something I have no idea how long will take. Hours? Days? I did laundry, paid bills, answered urgent mail and watered flowers. Read Image and The Sun magazine. They didn’t arrive. It’s Thursday and the USPS has not seen fit to deliver them yet. What was I expecting? An entourage from Kalos Press? A police escort? Still, this slight delay has given me time to do things I love, but have been ignoring. Dusting the giraffes on my desk. Swiffering the floor of the office – ridding the corners of small webs and insect carapaces. Sorting and shelving stacks of books.

As today began, I reviewed God’s inimitable timing for things. Pick something. Anything. A job. Buying a house. Marriage. Illness. You just never know. The time-line for publishing this book has been a fruit-fly zig-zag for years. Who knows how many times I offered the work up to God asking for trust and patience? How many months did I consign it to darkness, acknowledging it may be an effort for God alone and a few friends? I wanted to be content. Satisfied with that.

Now as I anticipate going over the galleys and correcting each little mistake, am I happy, grateful? Yes. But I'm also worried about being perfect – the very thing I claim so loudly not to worry about. I will see entire pages, chapters even, that need to be re-written. It’s way too late for that obsession. I can hear critics wondering what MFA program I failed. (None, sir. All my own doing.)  My daughter Marsena, a writer and novelist, says I should go over the book backwards. Start at the end and read each sentence one by one up the page. It is agony, but it so startles the brain, you are able to catch mistakes that your eye would otherwise miss because you have got into the flow of the story and automatically corrected the error.

* Galleys are the book's pages almost print-ready minus the small editing changes to correct errors.