Italian Mother Syndrome

Prayer #105: Left My Heart

2010-03-15T14:11:00.000Z

In San Fran this week with Fella! This fabulous city will always hold a special place in my heart as the first city I ever explored alone. Here, I learned the pleasure of waking up without an itinerary, picking a spot on a map, and taking the whole day to get there by way of Chinatown, Telegraph Hill, Alcatraz ... but not, oddly enough, by trolley. And sans Rice-a-Roni. But still a fantastic time.

So when I arrive today, I'm taking back what I left behind.

Prayer #105: Left My Heart

My heart is ready to hit the road. In fact, it's already out in the car, windows down, leaning out the passenger side into the spring breeze.

My heart needs affirmation this week, and permission. It asks for rest from constant wringing. It wants a jolt of the best variety, the kind that pops up with a see-for-miles view or a diner-on-the-roadside meal or a happenstance you know will become an inside joke for years.

Grant me this respite, Lord. Draw my heart's internal tempest, still wild from winter, out into a calmer, warmer season. Help me make sense of the constant swirls, and then give me the words to speak them into new being.

Amen.

Prayer #104: Forgotten

2010-03-08T23:28:00.001Z

I crawled out of bed as soon as I'd burrowed in because I remembered I forgot I'd remembered to post a prayer today. So here you go -- a short one to cap a long day.

Prayer #104: Forgotten

You're tickling my rib cage, begging my attention. I'm only half listening, though, focused instead on my lack of focus.

Filmy mirages flit across my dreams more these days. I grasp at the mist and grab nothing every time. But I can't shake the feeling that soon I'll thrust my hand into the shimmer and come away with a fistful of tangible ... tangible ...

Tangible what exactly? Answers? Suggestions? Hints? A clearly marked map would work just fine. Feel free to mark X at the spot. Any spot. And then tell me what the spot entails.

But no. That would be too easy. Instead, You knock at my ribs in Morse code, nowhere near an X -- just a stream of incomprehensible taps for which I have no decoder chart.

This much I know: You're asking me to forget the rest of the world and stick by You to find what's hiding in the mist. Forgive me if I'm not so eager to fall in line. I find it hard to forget what I don't know yet.

Amen.

Prayer #103: Sacriligifice

2010-03-01T10:02:00.002Z

Photo by maskedcard

Despite my belief that no merciful God would ask you to give up chocolate, this year I gave up chocolate for Lent.

Two weeks have passed with nary a nibble. However, I've noticed a concurrent, proportional rise of vanilla and oatmeal raisin products in my ~~stomach~~ cabinet.

Hmm. Convenient. But fair?

Prayer #103: Sacreligifice

May the letter of the law not write bonds so tight I can't breathe in its spirit.

And may the spirit of the law not leave me so light I can't attach to the letter.

Strike this balance in my will, so that I sacrifice weakness, and not meaning.

Amen.

Prayer #102: The Best Waylaid Plans

2010-02-22T10:35:00.007Z

My laptop is in the shop with at best a broken fan and at worst a fried motherboard. Expect light postings until it's back in the pink of health. Also expect a prayer based on what not having your ~~third arm~~ computer makes you ponder ...

P.S. How awesome would it be if our electronics came back from repair with a hospital gown, ID bracelet, and a Band-Aid sticker, a la American Girl?

Prayer #102: The Best Waylaid Plans

The saved chocolate that melts in your pocket

The wrong turn from the outdated map

The late train shuttle in a chilly morning

The conversation that sounded better when you rewrote it in your head

The leftovers gone bad in an empty fridge

The battery, dead, a forgotten switch

The black ice patch on a thawing sidewalk

The tiny umbrella that can't protect your backpack from winter rain

Become instead

An experimental dessert

An impromptu adventure

A chance to stretch your legs

A surprising revelation

An excuse to order pizza

A prompt to write a letter

A little rest on the ground

A spur to get home

Which says to me

That maybe

this was always

and exactly

Your plan.

Amen.

Prayer #101: Snow Down

2010-02-15T21:59:00.005Z

Today's prayer inspired by 4 snow days, 2 blizzards, 1 trip to Vermont, and a tweet from my go-to Twitter Buddhist -- all in 11 days.

Prayer #101: Snow Down

You shellacked the roads with ice. You tossed snow like monochrome confetti. You poured slush and mush and incompetent plowing in my path, but still ... still I would not slow down.

You begged me to listen to the flakes falling. You nudged me to bask in the winter sun when it finally broke through my bedroom window. You pushed me to curl up, and rest, and contemplate, but still ... still I would not slow down.

You put my friends in front of me and said, "Spend time with them." You gave me mountains and trails to romp on in the sharp winter air. You sat me in cozy parlors with a good book in my lap and public radio playing and someone else cooking dinner.

Then -- only then -- did I start to slow down. Yet then -- even then -- I didn't stop completely.

Instead, I telegraphed the same unspoken response to You: "Don't force the issue. I'll stop when I damn well please."

Your tireless, emphatic reply: "But stopping will please you more."

So I gave in. I stopped. I looked around. I inhaled. And exhaled. And I can say with great confidence ... sometimes I hate it when You're right.

Amen, and thanks for the break.

Word on the street: Tickets for the Indians

2010-02-12T10:01:00.001Z

The scene: Kitchen table at my cousin's house. I'm talking with her sons Aidan (7) and Caleb (5) about the band they've formed with their cousins.

Me: So who all is in the band?

Aidan: Well, I play guitar and Noah is the lead singer and Ethan plays the keyboard --

Caleb: And I play drums!

Aidan: Caleb, be quiet! (turns to me) Caleb plays drums. And Madison sings backup. And she's our manager.

Me: That's so cool. What kind of music do you play?

Aidan: Classic rock.

Caleb: And heavy metal.

Me: Wow, eclectic. Are you going to have a concert?

Aidan: Yeah! In Madison and Noah's backyard. Near the barn.

Me: So I bet you're practicing a lot right now, huh?

Aidan: Nah. We're just going to sell tickets.

Me: There's confidence for you. Who are you selling tickets to?

Aidan: Um, well, our families. And all the neighbors who live across the street.

Caleb: And the Indians.

Me: The Indians?

Caleb: Yep.

Me: I didn't know there was a significant Native American population still present in Pennsylvania. Where do they live?

Aidan: In the woods.

Caleb: And the desert.

Me: There's a desert in Pennsylvania? And where, pray tell, might that be?

Aidan: Sorta near New York City.

End scene.

Prayer #100: Cento

2010-02-08T17:13:00.017Z

Photo by jude_hill

I always thought cento was just a numeric prefix or a canned tomato brand. Turns out that cento in poet circles means something else entirely -- patchwork poetry.

The concept is simple: You write a new poem comprised entirely of lines from other sources. You can pull from one poet or several. You can be serious, clever, ironic, or obsequious. In any event, the theft is sanctioned -- plagiarism, with flair!

So, in honor of my 100th prayer here on Italian Mother Syndrome, I'd like to pay homage to some of the prayers and pray-ers -- of all shapes, styles, and backgrounds -- that inspire me to focus inward and upward.

And for all of you who read and pray and question with me ... can't wait to write the next 100 with you.

Prayer #100: Cento

May you not forget the infinite possibilities that are born of faith.
May you use those gifts that you have received, and pass on the love that has been given to you. [1]

[For] all work is empty save when there is love;
And when you work with love you bind yourself to yourself, and to one another, and to God. [2]

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident. [3]

[This is] not idolatry, but identity,
for love and God are one
when love longs to be Forever. [4]

[And] a story without love is not worth telling. [5]

Amen.

Who's counting? A note on anniversaries

2010-02-03T22:17:00.001Z

Photo by Stebaneze

I was at a party on Saturday night with Fella and his med school classmates ("Gubernaculum's my favorite word, too!") when someone asked me, "So how long have you guys been dating?"

"Ummm ... erm ... well, it depends," I replied.

"Depends?" she said.

"Yeah, I mean -- hang on." I turned to Fella. "How long have we been dating anyway?"

His eyes gleamed with the light of love that only a woman acting like a man can engender.

"See, that's why I like you," he said. "You're not even counting!"

Ah, Fella, if you only knew. You see, the real root of my question was about when to start counting. Was it from when we realized we liked one another after President's Day? When we got on the same page about it over 4th of July? What about our first visit on Labor Day? Or when we said we were 'official' during Columbus Day?*

* Yes, clearly we have a federal holiday fetish. Lord knows what Memorial Day will bring.

The truth is, Fella, I'm not the woman you think I am. I really like marking time. And while I'm not a 'monthiversary' addict, I do consider myself a year/five-year/decade kind of girl.

Why the annual love? In part, I follow anniversaries keep the greeting card industry copywriters in business (c'mon, you know we need those jobs right now). I also like an excuse for gifts, flowers, parties, or surprise European vacations where appropriate.

But I mark milestones mainly because they're a socially sanctioned form of navel-gazing, much like blogging or karaoke. They compress all your major victories, minor frustrations, and regular chores into one convenient timeframe, and push all the trends you missed (or chose to ignore) to the surface.

For example:

* Today marks my second year in DC. (You can read about the first year here.) Not much has changed -- oh, except for one of my roommates, a new job, that boy, and a renewed sense of purpose in my chosen life path.

* Today also marks my parents' 31st wedding anniversary. (You can read my dad waxing sentimental on their 30th here.) That journey has been nothing BUT change, with two kids, 3 states, 9 houses, and countless date nights to attest for it.

* Soon I will write Prayer #100. (Read the prayer series to date here.) What started out of frustration with young adult ministry has morphed into a personal mission to explore my own faith and help others think it through too. A good example of ending up where you thought you might be in unexpected ways.

So, who knows what will happen on Feb. 3, 2011? (I haven't hung my pictures from last year, by the way.) I imagine I'll still be writing, and still observing federal holidays, and still marking time in my own way -- just to see how it keeps unfolding.

Prayer #99: Love Bugs

2010-02-01T23:01:00.002Z

"If I speak in human and angelic tongues but do not have love, I am a resounding gong or a clashing cymbal.

And if I have the gift of prophecy and comprehend all mysteries and all knowledge; if I have all faith so as to move mountains but do not have love, I am nothing.

If I give away everything I own, and if I hand my body over so that I may boast but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It is not jealous, it is not pompous, it is not inflated, it is not rude, it does not seek its own interests, it is not quick-tempered, it does not brood over injury, it does not rejoice over wrongdoing but rejoices with the truth.

It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

Love never fails. If there are prophecies, they will be brought to nothing; if tongues, they will cease; if knowledge, it will be brought to nothing.

For we know partially and we prophesy partially, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away.

When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things.

At present we see indistinctly, as in a mirror, but then face to face. At present I know partially; then I shall know fully, as I am fully known.

So faith, hope, love remain, these three; but the greatest of these is love."

--{1 Corinthians 13: 1-13}

Prayer #99: Love Bugs

My love is impatient. My love is frustrated. My love doesn't want to be kind or understanding or polite.

My love wants its way. Which probably means I don't have love -- I just have agita.

So if my love isn't even formed ... then what? Maybe I first have to imagine and envision and act it -- even if I don't fully feel it -- to summon the gift into a solid state.

Maybe I do already have some love, though, and it's just young -- a neophyte emotion looking for a crack in the sidewalk to reach the sun where it won't scrape the ragged edges and retreat with a whimper.

Or maybe my love is here, fully formed, leaning against the door jamb with hands folded, an expectant look on its face, patiently waiting for my angry torment to subside so it can start on the real work of fixing things.

God, help me find peace in my partial knowing. Bear with me in my child-like ways. And teach me that love is patient, love is kind, and love can be -- will be -- me.

Amen.

Ssshhh! The library is speaking to you

2010-01-29T15:06:00.002Z

Photo by Ozyman

The last time I was in a college campus library, I had pimply skin, 18 layers of anti-winter gear, and a paper to write.

Fast-forward five (five!) years to today, as I sit once more in a college library, this time with clearer skin, only two layers on, and a blog post to write. Fella is upstairs in an 'optional'-but-really-required lecture, so I'm treating this learning hub as adult day care.

As I sit here staring up at the skylights, I think, "Why don't I come to libraries more often?" The system was really onto something when it decided all patrons should be quiet when they're here. I find it remarkable that this simple rule -- no speaking -- is so universally acknowledged, respected, and obeyed.

I don't think it's from fear of librarians' wrath, either. It's part of the unbreakable library code: Be silent for others to find silence within yourself.

After all, libraries are places where you accomplish things. Did you come hear to read? Then read. Study? Then study. Write? Then write. You arrive with a goal, you leave with a product. The quiet gives you space to do that.

Library quiet is also distinctive in that it doesn't necessarily equal "peaceful." Concentration pulsates here. People come and go with purpose. You can feel the stress ebb and flow. This heightened tension only makes the code more inviolable.

To break it, then, is unforgivable. Imagine if I screamed right now for no reason. The librarian would scold me for sure. But the other patrons whose trains of thought I derailed would inflict much worse with their glares and grimaces. The energy in the room would shift from trust, to hurt, to anger. And just as I disrupted their needed silence, they would ruin mine.

So people who want soothing should visit the ocean in the early morning. Those who want to contemplate should sit in a cathedral pew on a weekday afternoon. But people who want unspoken expectations to motivate them ... they should set up shop among the shelves.

How to put the brakes on a writing slump

2010-01-27T11:59:00.014Z

Hugh Macleod, via bioxid

Lethargy mixed with frustration on top of guilt. When this potent combo builds up inside writers' heads, it signals the enemy of all creativity: the writing slump.

You know the feeling. It derails your best intentions "to just sit down and write." You start losing hope you'll ever make it in this business. Worse, you make excuses or self-flagellate or ignore the problem altogether, none of which are remotely useful techniques for restoring your get-up-and-go for words.

I know the feeling because I'm on the downslide too. After a productive burst last weekend, I'm back to believing I can't sustain the momentum. But, since it's best to catch these downturns early, I turned to some wise advice I heard from a published author a few months ago.

Patricia Reilly Giff is the acclaimed author of Pictures of Hollis Woods, Lily's Crossing, and other children's and young adult books. She has been writing for over 20 years. Here are her snippets of advice and words of comfort to encourage aspiring writers, and help them stop the slump in mid-ride.

Writing Technique

1. Having story issues? Check to see if you have a person, a place, and a problem.

2. When looking at the problem in the story, consider: Will it make me worry for the whole book?

3. "All you have to do in a book is give everyone hope."

Sitting Down to Write

4. Give yourself 30 minutes a day. The cumulative effect is invigorating.

5. The first year of writing was 'really hard' for her. Sometimes, it takes a while to get into a groove.

6. Writing and stories are all about emotion for her. She'd picture 'softies with tears in their eyes' when she sat down to work.

Words of Wisdom

7. Stay up-to-date on what's new in your genre. What other books and authors are circulating?

8. When we write, we pull on a 'reservoir of memory' we change slightly.

9. "One of the loveliest reasons to write is to capture the past."

And, A Funny Story to Help Relax You

10. When Giff visits classrooms, she encourages students to interrupt her at any point with questions. At one point during a visit to a kindergarten class, a little girl waved her hand.

"Yes honey, what's your question?" Giff asked.

"I have a cat," the little girl replied.

Then the little boy next to her said, "Good question!"

***

So, I guess what I'm trying to tell you is ... relax. Take a deep breath, ask yourself some good questions (with or without cat), and concentrate on putting one hand over the other. Eventually, what went down will come up -- and bring you with it.

Prayer #98: Tweethology

2010-01-25T13:11:00.001Z

Prayers in 140 characters or less.

Prayer #98: Tweethology

(1)
Short on time. Long on worry. Any recommendations on how to extend one and cut the other? Thanks for the slice-and-splice advice.

(2)
@God: Tried to message you, but You don't seem to be following me. I'm a little confused ... didn't You follow me first?

(3)
The Bible, Twitter-style (via @God): Love me. Love each other. Know I love you. Tell others I love you. Sensing a theme?

(4)
The early prophets had sandals and conviction. I have social media and doubts. Different tools, but I hope the same results.

(5)
@God: You're my lifeline, my lifeguard, my lifesaver. Let me never then doubt You're w/ me for life, in life, after life. Amen.

Amen.

Five memorable meals and what they taught me

2010-01-23T16:08:00.003Z

My coworkers and I have this little tradition going called the Culinary Club, where we rotate hosting each month and teach the others how to cook our best dishes. Our core competencies cover Italian, Indian, and Cajun, with a healthy dose of "let's make something new" bravura to keep it interesting.

But the real intent of the evening is not the wine (though divine) and not the free homecooked meal (though appreciated). The club is a collective memory in the making, a standing reminder of all the good food that got us to this point and all the good cooking that will sustain us going forward.

We got to talking about this very idea last night, about how even if you're not an avowed foodie, meals can leave mile markers in your life. Which started me down my own epicurean memory lane with five distinct pit stops.

Some center of the food. Others center on the people. But they are all delicious. And I bet you have some to share too ...

1. "Wait, There's More?" -- Florence

I didn't know the meaning of feast before I ate this meal. It was my family's first night in Florence. All we knew was that "you have to eat at Il Latini," according to my friend Michael. So we made reservations, bypassed the line stretching around the block, and sat in a section of long wooden tables, surrounded by other diners.

What transpired was an endless banquet (I think we counted 14 courses). We didn't even order anything; the waiters just started bringing out food. When we thought we could eat no more, a new aroma or sauce enticed us to make room. (The gallon of wine we chugged also helped.)

Night fell outside, the din in the room increased, and pretty soon we were part of a rollicking, boisterous food extravaganza with everyone soused out of their mind and scarfing down food like it was their last chance.

The dish I remember best: white beans in a light marinara sauce. That's it. Nothing fancy. But oh, the way it smelled! Like rosemary and garlic and home. I could eat that dish for the rest of my life and never be lonely again.

2. Muffaletta Me At It -- New Orleans

I was helping Habitat for Humanity build homes in Slidell, La., the spring of my junior year of college. We took Friday off to cruise New Orleans and see what all the fuss was about. My group and I ended up at this little hole-in-the-wall I can't recall the name of, not too far from St. Louis Cathedral in the French Quarter.

I ordered a muffaletta. I'd never had one before. And I don't think I'll ever recapture the experience again, unless I find a way to approximate the level of crack in that olive mix. Plus, I don't practice voodoo or play jazz, and I'm sure both were required to concoct those unique flavors.

I ate the whole damn thing. By myself.

3. You Say Frittata, I Say Jumbata -- Syracuse, NY

Syracuse is not known for its cuisine, just its Orangemen. So I relied on my own knowledge and meager food budget to feed myself through college. Eventually, many friends came to rely on me too, because I was one of the few folks who regularly food shopped and remembered to buy such exotic items as "eggs."

No surprise then, that six hungry college boys -- all friends from church -- arrived at my kitchen table one late night, lured by the promise of a homemade frittata. I delivered on that promise too, by dumping the entire contents of my fridge into one pan and serving it with great enthusiasm.

A dozen and a half eggs, three veggies, 2 kinds of cheese, and some questionable meat later, I learned that watching people relish a meal I made for them was a sure recipe for my future happiness. I also learned that the way to men's hearts is not only through their stomach, but through their wallets too.

4. Spoonfeeding Sans Spoon -- somewhere on a highway in the snow

My boyfriend at the time and I had just left visiting his parents to make the four-hour drive back to school. It was already late when we left. Then a snowstorm hit. We were in the car so long we got hungry again.

Luckily, we had leftover chicken parmigiana in a doggy bag from the restaurant we'd just departed ... but no utensils. So while he gripped the wheel and watched the road, I tore apart the chicken with my hands and fed it to him sideways, all the while thinking that desperate times call for hilarious measures.

I'm pleased to report we made it home in one piece with nary a sauce stain.

5. "You Have Something In Your Teeth ..." -- Washington D.C.

I was on my first job interview in DC with a tight timeframe, seeing as I was traveling round-trip from Philly in one day. Yet meetings at my potential employer's were delayed. I had no lunch. So they sent me over to the Daily Grill with orders to eat a nice meal and bring the receipt back.

It had started to snow outside. The restaurant was packed with the lunch crowd. I sat by myself in my big-girl business suit. I ordered tomato soup and salad, even though they carried great risk of a) staining my outfit and b) getting stuck in my teeth.

I ate it slowly, watching the snow fall and listening to DC natives chatter. I pictured myself living here (in DC, not in the Daily Grill). By the time I finished, I felt fortified. I could see myself here. I wanted to be here.

So I went back to the office and landed the job. But only after checking my teeth for spinach.

What's your most memorable meal, and why?

Prayer #97: Baffle

2010-01-18T18:35:00.008Z

Joy and suffering is how God puts His glory on display. -- pastor at Summit Church in Raleigh, N.C.

Prayer #97: Baffle

Our world and its dramas are baffling. We tackle them anyway, with worship, science, policy, rescue and retribution and reconciliation. Yet all these efforts only chip away at explaining an infinite, mysterious God.

Still, He takes time to whisper to us in the din. He visits at dinner. He sits next to us in class and shares a pole on the subway. He explains himself for us.

How generous of our unfathomable God, we say, to invite and relish intimacy. Then doubt creeps in. Is our relationship now too vernacular? Too common?

Never.

God makes His extraordinary nature ordinary so we might be extraordinary in His name. It's an enormous, daunting, delirious gift.

But we must tackle it anyway, and use it in spite of our weaker nature. For in this way, we can penetrate God's mystery, and help achieve baffling joy in the midst of pain.

Amen.

Crisis-once-removed: A personal reflection on the Haiti earthquake

2010-01-14T21:40:00.022Z

I remember where I was for Hurricane Katrina and the South Asia tsunami. I will remember where I was for the Haiti earthquake too, though for quite different reasons. This time, I am working at a UN-affiliated organization. And I will remember what it feels like when a colossal system beats with one heart as one of its own collapses.

The news clips exude grief, but they also show resilience. The elaborate UN system -- the same byzantine body often caught up in process and posturing -- is built for this precise challenge.

No wonder the separate agencies and partners didn't blink when the news broke. Instead, they deployed. And under one coordinated umbrella, they are covering food, safe water, sanitation, medicine, telecommunications, and much more for the Haitian community.

Cut to me in my cubicle, many hundreds of miles from the epicenter, doing little more than watching the news. There I'm writing about how UN staffers who survived the quake carry on with their mission, even with the knowledge that they might pull the bodies of their friends and colleagues from the rubble.

I stop.

I think.

Would I have the strength to save a country? A city? My coworker?

I can't (won't?) answer. Because answering forces me to acknowledge that I'm not as brave as I like to think I am.

I'll remember that about the Haiti earthquake too. About how one situation captured the truest essence of a complex model by bringing its people to light.

My career will likely never hold such import. Thank God the peacekeepers' work does.

***

Honor the commitment of all the men and women delivering aid to Haiti right now. Donate to the UN's Central Emergency Response Fund, and help the UN help in time.

[Note: This post reflects my personal opinions only, and not the views of my employer.]

Prayer #96: To-Don't

2010-01-11T22:24:00.000Z

Prayer #96: To-Don't

Clean bedroom
Clean kitchen
Clean mind
Organize desk
Organize email
Organize thoughts
Figure out rent
Figure out food
Figure out purpose
Hit the gym
Hit the listings
Hit my forehead
File taxes
File nails
File down
Call Mom
Call Dad
Call help
Buy milk
Buy tickets
Buy time
Plan party
Plan trip
Plan life
~~Pray~~

Amen.

Word on the street: To-do List

2010-01-09T13:32:00.003Z

The scene: The ever irascible Pop-Pop DePaul is having a medical procedure done in a few weeks. His son Lou is preparing to stay overnight at Pop-Pop's house that night to make sure he's ok.

Pop-Pop: I'm cleaning your room, ya know. So you can have a nice stay.

Lou: Umm... that's not for another three weeks. You know that, right?

Pop-Pop: Of course I know that! I'm cleaning one room at a time! I'm too busy to clean the whole house at once! I've got the lawnmower that needs a new motor. My inside Christmas decorations need to go up. Today I was out shoppin' all day.

Lou: I'm staying in the other room anyway. The one with the big bed.

Pop-Pop: Well! Good thing you told me now! I may have left that room until after you came! Well, what else do you need? Breakfast in bed? I'll charge ya, ya know. I make good breakfasts.

End scene. (Thanks for sharing, Emily!)

How to find your dream editor

2010-01-06T19:45:00.007Z

Photo by Nic's Events

Confession: This headline is a bald-faced lie. You will never find your dream editor. Nor should you find your dream editor. Why? Because your career as a working, professional artist should not depend on a single editor at all.

Rather, it's up to you to remember that writing is a business. And to sell your material, you need to find the best-fit editors (and publishing houses) for your work. Here are some points to keep in mind as you're researching potential editors:

* Before you waste money on postage, investigate each publishing house's preferred subject and themes. Learn which editors deal with which topics, and direct your work to them specifically.

* Editors are people, and people are unique. Each one will work differently and see different things in your work. Subjective? Absolutely. But that's not necessarily a negative. It means at least one person exists in the great wide publishing world who will recognize your ability, connect with your story, and help you further along the path.

* So an editor wants to work with you. Now what? Give editors 10x more than they ask for. This will build their trust in your ability to receive feedback, revise, and improve your material.

* Be communicative. Respond promptly, revise thoroughly, ask questions, and push back when necessary.

* And just when you think you're ridin' high on the Publish-Me Express ... your editor changes houses. Don't panic. See how it all shakes out. You stand a great chance of expanding your network (provided they're staying in the industry). As one editor pointed out, "We leave projects, not relationships." So if they have more authority at their new digs or develop more contacts, your work might find an even better home.

* Also, don't discount the associate/assistant editors who rise in their place. These folks will be hungry for books and eager to make their own mark at work. Your material might be just the ticket.

But let's be serious -- writers still have a vision of a dream editor in their head. And you know what? That's ok, because the best editors -- the ones who can shape your style and your career for the better -- do share certain inimitable qualities. To note:

* They ask questions. Good questions. Lots of them.

* They have access to lots of money to give books their best production and promotion.

* They have great relationships with the art director.

* They themselves have a discerning and trained eye for art & design.

* They are bulldogs, committed to making your work all it can be.

P.S. You're not off the hook, writers. The editor's job is to be the first reader. And while they're not expecting perfect manuscripts, it's your responsibility to submit the strongest manuscript possible. Plus, you must remain an active and involved partner in the process. Editors can't drag you to glory, even if they wanted to.

So we now know there are no perfect editors -- just as there are no perfect writers. But damned good ones live in both camps, so let's do our best to get together and make our work sing.

(This post is expanded from notes taken at the 'Working Together: Author/Illustrator/Editor' panel, part of the Nov. 2009 SCBWI Mid-Atlantic Regional Conference. My thanks to the panelists for their insights!)

Prayer #95: Magi Formula

2010-01-04T21:40:00.000Z

Prayer #95: Magi Formula

The three wandering kings did not travel across a continent out of a sense of duty or obligation.

They did not leave their kingdoms because they liked stargazing.

They did not bring gifts to make a baby love them.

They sacrificed, and they risked, and they gave, because the reality of love incarnate compelled them.

That love is no less compelling or vital today. Yet I have no gold that befits royalty. I have no frankincense to waft to heaven. I have no myrrh to protect You in death. I have only me.

So please accept my one epiphany -- that I know and accept that You, my God, want nothing but me.

Let this truth direct my hesitant steps in hostile lands. Help me latch onto even a speck of light when I reach my darkest hours. May I return tenfold the gifts You've granted me -- not to make You love me, but to honor that You already love me.

Westward leading, still proceeding ...

Amen.

Prayer #94: Goodnight Grace

2009-12-28T23:16:00.001Z

Photo by North60

Prayer #94: Goodnight Grace

For the food piping hot, I give thanks to You.
For the folks who have not, I ask of You.
For the day that has passed, I hand to You.
For the dreams coming fast, I rest in You.
And for graces from this grace -- I trace to You.

Amen.

A Christmas play just for you

2009-12-25T15:35:00.001Z

Watch this Nativity scene courtesy of the movie The Bells of St. Mary's. Possibly the best, most sincere, and truest rendition of the miracle of Christmas I've ever seen.

May the peace and joy of the season be yours forever! Merry Christmas!

Britt Bravo features my (shorn) Locks of Love on WETV.com

2009-12-23T23:05:00.010Z

How do you guarantee a good hair day? By chopping it all off and giving it to someone else. That's how I spent my unexpected snow day on Monday as I made good on my promise to get my long-nurtured hair off my head and onto those who need it.

With my original appointment canceled due to inclement weather, desperate times called for quick thinking. Quick thinking led to me roping my ~~long-suffering~~ roommates into misguided adventures. Which found the three of us crowded in my shower stall, with Sus cutting off my braids while Jacob recorded it for posterity.

Don't worry, I then walked right over to Hair Cuttery and got it styled.

I thought the story would end there. Cut twice, mail once, and start the process over. But as I tweeted about the haircut and put the pictures and video up on Facebook, responses began to pour in.

Some were about my sassy new 'do, but most were about how great Locks of Love is. The organization's powerful story -- that people commit to growing out their most visible renewable resource so kids can have real hair again -- resonated with everyone. And I felt blessed to help spotlight its terrific mission before a fresh audience.

I was especially excited to widen that audience exponentially when prolific social good blogger Britt Bravo (of Have Fun * Do Good, BlogHer, and more) featured me on her WETV.com post about donating to Locks of Love. Check out her post here. (Thank you, Britt!)

So what can you, the prospective donor, learn from my hair-raising adventure? Note the following:

* Keep your hair healthy while you're growing it. That means semi-regular trims to keep the split ends in check.

* Hair does not grow as quickly as you might think. It took me two years to get my own locks long enough. This endeavor is NOT for the fickle follicle. Prepare to commit.

* Donating before a holiday amplifies the do good/feel good spirit of the season. (It also is perfect timing for your relatives to ooh and ahh over your new look.)

* It truly is the kindest cut you can make.

The more people hear about Locks of Love, the more I hope they'll feel inspired to turn themselves into do-gooding Cousin Its. The brave kids who get these wigs deserve every strand.

Besides, how else will you get your roommates to play hairdresser in the bathroom?

Check out Locks of Love for more information!

Prayer #93: Fade to White

2009-12-21T21:15:00.000Z

Snowpocalypse 2009 -- Arlington, Va.
Five days before Christmas

Prayer #93: Fade to White

Scholars debate the month and season of Your birth. Did snow fall outside the stable? Would the shepherds have tended their flocks? Was that cold winter's night really so deep?

Here's my question: Who cares?

Around this wide world, people in every clime, every temp, every zone are preparing to herald Your grand entrance onto our rocky sphere. Some watch in wonder. Others anticipate sorrow. But we all know You are coming.

And when You do arrive, kicking and screaming and hungry, You will fulfill a promise made in time immemorial to a broken creation. You will bring us a gift that far outweighs the frankincense, myrrh, wreaths, drums, ornaments, and cards we lay at Your feet.

You will bring us peace.

Peace that rivals a starry night on a mountaintop that disappears in the dawn.

Peace that trumps a beach at sunset, with vibrant palettes that wash out to sea.

Peace that surpasses bare desert dunes vanishing into the horizon.

Peace that envelops a hushed curtain of snow, waving aside only to melt away.

This peace is within You, of You, through You -- indestructible and indescribable. It's peace exactly as You promised.

No wonder we rush to wait.

Amen.

This I Believe #6: Why You Should Date a Girl With Cooties

2009-12-20T15:58:00.004Z

Photo by ZakVTA

Sixth installment of my unofficial This I Believe series.

My open letter to all the boys I haven't kissed yet worked. One showed up. And he really does want to kiss me.

In fact, this long-distance fella signaled his intentions several ways. He made the first move (and then the second, when I was too oblivious to pick up on the first). He introduced the terms boyfriend/girlfriend into our conversations. He even talked about coming to DC next summer for his internship so we try out living near one another.

Note: Summer is a whole SIX MONTHS away. He's planning for me. Cue swoon.

But amid the giggliness and excitement, I have a problem: me. Because somewhere between college and today, I caught cooties.

Cooties, as you may remember, refers to a mysterious, non-medical "infection" that inhabits the opposite sex. Anyone affected is presumed undesirable and untouchable. You save yourself by staying as far away as possible and pointing fingers across the school yard.

I contracted cooties after my first (and last) serious relationship ended sophomore year of college. That time of life brings a great deal of self-discovery, and mine collided headfirst with young love. The former walked away with minor scratches; the latter ended up in traction for seven years.

With love and its cohorts (emotion, vulnerability, connection, etc.) so laid up, I was free to focus on other important things, like figuring out who I was, what I stood for, and what I wanted my life to mean. I earned my own paycheck. I made my own decisions. I matured.

That's when the cooties moved in, keeping dates and boys and other such romantic attachments well at bay. Not that I minded (much). My cooties were excellent arbiters of personal taste: They sent incompatible men packing to the other side of the playground, and invited the similarly infected over.

But what happens now that someone has crossed into the red zone? Does he really know the extent of my cootie infestation? Will it intimidate him if he finds out? Should I get rid of them?

I hope not. I like them. They're tiny yet immense. They whisper or shout, depending on how I need to hear them. Their presence means I'm never alone -- instead, 30 million intimate friends surround me, each reflecting and refracting an infinitesimal part of my unique DNA.

No, the cooties stay in the picture. We're going to experiment on how infectious they really are. And a big thank you to my new fella for his willingness to participate in this groundbreaking study. Such a venture takes courage, optimism, confidence -- the very stuff, in fact, that cooties thrive on.

10 unusual Christmas wishes (recession-style)

2009-12-17T20:11:00.001Z

Do you have a particular tradition that kicks off the holiday season? Maybe taking a picture with Santa, hanging lights on your house, or seeing decorated department store windows? Well, for me it's a Word document. And not just any old Word document. I'm talking about my brother's annual Christmas wish list.

Fans of last year's list will be pleased to know my sib took this year's economic roller coaster to heart and crafted a list that reflects our current financial hardships. So read on, and if he moves you to contribute or even fulfill one of his wishes, please leave a comment with more details. (See? I'm saving you valuable postage!)

Francis Rocchi’s Annual Christmas List 2009: Recession Edition

1. Perhaps some warm gruel and old bread, sir? So hungry, so very hungry. (Funnier if read aloud in the voice of a Dickensian street urchin)

2. Fear and Loathing in America by Hunter S. Thompson. Anything that will quell my desire to take some acid, rent a convertible, and go on a no-holds-barred road trip through the American Southwest

3. A lock of hair off the head of the blonde violinist from Celtic Woman. With the right technology maybe I can make a clone of her. And make her mine.

4. A rich, elderly patron that I can dote on until they kick the bucket and name everything to me in their last will and testament.

5. Some polo shirts.

6. A wench. Preferably one that makes mead.

7. A job. If it involves a whiskey distillery, video games, or strippers assume it is the right job for me. Look for a whiskey distillery run by strippers, powered by the heat that emanates from used Xbox 360 consoles.

8. Socks. They should go to about mid-calf. And include strippers and whiskey.

9. Seriously though, some warm socks would be nice.

10. Another book. Think contemporary male author that was never in Oprah’s book club.

11. A medical report explaining how Dick Cheney is still alive ...

12. Some article of clothing that makes me look like less of a schlub.

13. Hire Sam Waterston to narrate my life for a week.