S.U.B.M.I.T. your writing!

Submissions… It’s the process of allowing another person (i.e. the editor) to critically evaluate your work and decide whether or not it should be published. Below is a list of submission tips to help you boost your courage and your chances of publication success! Enjoy!

Start—The most obvious starting point is the starting point. LOL Send out those submissions! Don’t let fear keep you from e-mailing an editor!

Use the rejection letters—Rejection letters are nothing to be ashamed of. In fact, they make wonderful wallpaper, paper hats, origami pieces, scrap paper … If nothing else, save those rejection notices and start a writing portfolio! As an example, I used my past rejection letters, publications, and writings to take a Prior Learning Assessment class at my college. I received 3 credits from the class, and those rejection letters helped provide proof and documentation of my writing experiences.

Be professional and polite—When sending a submission, make sure your manuscript follows the publication’s guidelines. And, if the editor rejects your submission, don’t be rude! Thank them for their time and then politely ask if they’d be interested in looking into a different article you’ve written.

Manuscript formats—Use standard font and marginal spaces throughout your submission. Editors prefer manuscripts that are in a functional format and ready to print! A brilliant article with a sloppy format is less likely to be published.

Invest time—Getting published doesn’t happen overnight. Don’t set your hopes on just one publication! Sending out simultaneous submissions will increase your chances (as long as the publication will accept simultaneous submissions). It can take a while before you hear back from the editors, so plan accordingly! Investing time means you should constantly be sending out submissions!

Try, try again—Just because one publication doesn’t want your article, doesn’t mean that another publisher will feel the same way.

Devo for the Day :-)

How Are You Praying Today?

By Lydia Rule

As I was reading my devotions this morning, I came across a chapter in the Bible that I had heard preached on many times. I started to read it not expecting to gain any new insights since I had heard the story before.

But I was wrong.

As I continued reading Mark chapter five’s account of Jesus healing a lunatic who lived among tombstones, two verses in particular caught my attention:

Mark 5:17-18 And they began to pray him (Jesus) to depart out of their coasts.

And when he (Jesus) was come into the ship, he that had been possessed with the devil (the lunatic) prayed him that he might be with him.

Right after Jesus healed the town lunatic, the townspeople wanted Jesus to leave! The Bible says these people wanted Jesus to leave so badly, that they prayed or begged him to depart. They didn’t want Jesus staying around—if Jesus could transform a lunatic and heal him, then what could Jesus have done in the lives of the “normal” townspeople?? By praying that Jesus would leave them alone, the townspeople missed out on the greatest blessing of all.

And yet, in the very next verse, the man who used to be the town lunatic prays that he can stay with Jesus.

The townspeople’s definition of “prayer” was to push Jesus away. The lunatic’s definition of “prayer” was to be close to Jesus.

Sometimes we do the same thing today. We push Jesus away because his ways are not what we want to follow. But in the end, we look like the lunatic for rejecting Jesus’ will for our lives.

How are you praying today? Are you asking God to work in your life or to leave you alone to make your own choices? God gives us the choice to ask Him into our lives or to reject Him— what will you choose?

More thoughts on writing...

The “Write” Perspective
By Lydia Rule


When everything you see, hear, say, or experience becomes an article, then you know that you have been bitten by the incurable Writing bug! Writers see things differently than most people. They weave their stories from the simple elements of life and gather the threads together into a complicated plot.

For example, when someone tells me their life story, I do more than listen—I’m mentally calculating how and where I could fit their experiences into my latest book project. When I accidentally let dinner burn, I try to find some redeeming factor in the unpleasant situation and shape it into a devotional, and then sell it to cover the cost of a new smoke alarm! Simple events trigger an instinct in me--- “I should write that down! That would make a great illustration in my next article…”

Just a few days ago, when my dog decided to chase me around the house to get my empty cereal bowl, my first thought was, “People often chase after empty things in life too… hmmm, I should write an article about that!”

When you write, your whole perspective changes. After all, having the “write” perspective can greatly increase your article output and idea flow. Suddenly, everything becomes a possible story… what’s the secret of the lonely pathway in front of my neighbor’s house? Why is the key missing to the front door of the old church? Whose initials are etched on the oak tree in my backyard? Why did the man act nervous when the cashier asked for his i.d.? Which little child left his bright blue stuffed animal to rot in the middle of the woods? And as the writer, only you can discover the answers to those questions…

Tips on having a “Write” Perspective:

1) Keep an open mind. Small, seemingly unimportant events can become the threshold of a storyline. Ask yourself, what can I create from this experience? How can I shape it into an article, book, or short story?

2) Write down your ideas in a personal notebook. Doodles, one-liners, and scene settings are all welcome!

3) Make a “Character Page” in your notebook that contains all the quirks, personality traits, and distinctive qualities of the people around you. Mix and match the characters to create a new character. Of course, don’t make it obvious which person you based your character on! After all, copying from one person is called plagiarism, and copying more than one person is considered research! The Character Page in your notebook is just a guide to help spark your creativity!

4) Don’t be afraid to venture out! Write one sentence and see where it leads you! Story starter sentences are just dramatic sentences that you can build a plot on. Write something wacky, scary, or dramatic and see what you can create from it! For example, you could write that “the old man knelt beside an empty patch of ground, for only he knew that just six feet below, a bleached white skeleton was laid to rest.” From there, construct the rest of your story and see how it develops…

Thought for Today...

All Alone?

Daniel… the name echoes down the Hall of Faith-filled Heroes. He was the young boy who kept his faith in a strange country, the prophet and wise man who interpreted dreams, the man who spent a night with lions and lived to tell about it.

When we think of Daniel, the Sunday school picture of him kneeling alone in prayer pops into our minds. Hey, we can even imagine a halo hanging over his head and heavenly light streaming down on top of his solitary figure.

But he wasn’t alone.

Daniel 2: 16-18: Then Daniel went in, and desired of the king that he would give him time, and that he would shew the king the interpretation.
Then Daniel went to his house, and made the thing known to Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah, his companions:
That they would desire mercies of the God of heaven concerning this secret; that Daniel and his fellows should not perish with the rest of the wise men of Babylon.

When encountered with a problem (namely, the king wanting to chop off all the wise men’s heads), Daniel didn’t pray alone. He gathered his friends and asked them to pray with him. Often, when problems creep into our lives, we become prideful and think we can get through our problems alone. We lock away that portion of our lives and try to appear normal on the outside. We don’t want to share our burdens.

But never underestimate the power of other people praying with you. Faith isn’t a one-man show. Everyone needs the strength of other Christian friends to surround them. Your pastor, youth pastor, friends, and parents are there to lift up your problems to God in prayer.
While there are times we can’t give the details of our situations, we can still ask people around us to just pray. We don’t have to be alone in our problems, God wants us to draw close to other Christians and pray one for each other.

Galatians 6:2: Bear ye one another’s burdens, and so fulfil the law of Christ.

When Life's a Lemon

When Life's a Lemon

By Lydia Rule

The feeling is universal... that heart pounding throb of expectation, hands that shake, and that wishful feeling deep within your chest. Then comes the plunge... You've jumped over the moon and now, planet earth greets you as you fall towards it, face first!!!

The word is disappointment.

Several months ago, I received an e-mail entitled, "RE: Book Proposal". I had sent out a proposal for a novel I had started at age fourteen to a major publisher, and now, I had received an answer. The first thing that greeted my eyes was, "Dear Lydia." Yes! I just knew it was...
Hold it. A rejection? No, that couldn't be. I read the note again, but there was no denying it. It said my story was "amazingly mature" in its plot, but it just didn't "fit" into their book line. I didn't know how to feel. Something inside of me had known not to get too excited, and yet...
I couldn't cry, that's not my nature, but I couldn't exactly get up and start dancing around either. What do you say when a dream's been so real you could hold it, and then it vanishes? How do you get back up? How do you have faith again?

The old saying is, when life hands you lemons, make lemonade. Modern translation, get up and do something about it! Don't sit around and bawl. Tears only produce red eyes and extra time spent in the bathroom trying to hide them. Sure, it's rough, but get back up! If you fall to pieces every time you're disappointed, you won't be able to see what you can gain from the experience.
You're probably thinking that it's easy to say what someone should do when they've been let down. And you are absolutely right. You've got to follow your own advice before you dish it out. In my defense, I did do something constructive about my disappointment. After I received that (rather painful) rejection notice, I wrote this article!

But on the more serious side, how do you cope with rejection? How do you get over it? Here are some basic steps to get out of your disappointment and move on.

First, start writing something--anything. It could be an all-out rant against the editor (but make sure it never gets sent!), an article you’ve never finished, or a small story that’s been in your head for years. Just start writing and let your mind focus on something else.
Secondly, try again. Don’t let one rejection hold you back… you have plenty of other markets to submit your work to! (If you don’t believe me, check out the Writer’s Market Guide from your local library and browse through it!)

And lastly, distance yourself from your work. Don’t make the editor’s comments or rejection of your submission a personal issue. They are not rejecting you. They are rejecting your submission. All authors have, at one time, been rejected. It happens. The difference between a writer and an adamant writer is that the adamant writer picks himself back up, keeps going, and seeks to perfect his craft.

So go on! Hit the keys! Start typing! Make lemonade!

Since it "Tis the Season to be jolly" and to remember our Savior, I have written a short Christmas story to share with all who happen to stumble across my blog. :-)

Merry Christmas!
Lydia

Mirian : A Tale of Christmas

Mirian slunk away into the corner of the room. The hearth's blaze was a vivacious red, sending out a golden hue into the place. Her father's Inn was crowded to capacity with travelers. Most were weary and dusty, their sandals leaving a trail of grime across the room. Some were laughing softly, others whispered. She stared at one traveler who stood a foot taller than the rest of the crowd. His hair hung just above his ears in greasy locks, resembling a mess of knotted fish nets. He wore a dark brown cloak across his shoulders and stood patiently as her bustling father prepared his room.

She turned her gaze away and held the water jug in her hands closer to her body. She was supposed to be giving the travelers water from the earthen vessel, but the sight of so many people made her want to hide. She did not like crowds; they made her nervous.

"Daughter!" her father roared, his beet red face showing his impatience. Mirian stepped out of the corner, her hands trembling as she held the jug and walked over to where her father was. He would be furious with her for dawdling. When she reached his side, he was busy talking to a troubled looking man at the doorway. From his expression, Mirian knew he was bitterly disappointed. Perhaps her father would forget about her delay while talking to the tired stranger.

"No more room!!" her father exclaimed in exasperation, as he threw up his hands in turmoil to illustrate his point, "We are full, try the one down the street."

"There is no lodging there either," the man said quietly, more to himself than to the busy Innkeeper. "I would not keep asking you Sir, but my wife... She is expecting very soon."

Mirian listened intently, shifting the dark colored jug onto her other hip, letting it rest there for the moment. The man's face reflected a honest spirit and sturdiness. Mirian glanced beyond the man's shoulder to see a young woman, roughly her own age and definitely large with child. Mirian could only imagine the young woman's misery as she stood outside in the cold. Sympathy filled her.

Her father sighed, then shook his head one more time, and shut the thick wooden door in the couple's faces. Mirian’s heart wrenched at the sight. Since Caesar’s order of taxation, travelers had flooded to Bethlehem in overwhelming numbers. All night long her father had been turning away the hordes of people knocking on the Inn door. Mirian did not know why, but she impulsively reached forth her free hand and took hold of the doors' metal ring and pulled it open. Her father looked shocked, and a bit angry, but for once, Mirian did not fear her father's quick temperament.

The door's light revealed darkness, and the figures of the couple heading down the road. Mirian thrust the jug at her father, and ran out into the night after them, quickly covering the few feet between her and the strangers. The man heard her footsteps and stopped in his tracks. The donkey, that the young woman sat on, obediently slowed his trot and stood by his master. Mirian 's sandaled feet felt the chilly night air and the sandy grit of the road.

She approached them and softly asked, "Is a stable good enough?"

The man looked a bit puzzled, so Mirian swallowed hard and repeated her offer, "You could stay in my father's stable." She could hardly believe that she was talking to people she had never met. Words were scarce and difficult for her--especially with strangers.

"Mary?" the man asked, lifting his eyes up to meet the gentle brown ones of the weary woman's.

"It will be fine Joseph. I can't go on...much longer."

"Are you sure? We could..."

Mary shook her head, dark hair spilling out from under her hooded green robe. Joseph's face showed his torn desires, but he turned his gaze back to Mirian and gave a small nod and a smile. "Thank-you," he said firmly, although his eyes revealed his exhaustion. Mirian only smiled back and pointed in the direction of the stable, carved out from the rocky cave in the back of her father’s property. "It isn't too far," she explained, noting the relief on the couple's faces when the words escaped her lips. "God be with you," Mirian whispered almost inaudibly, as Mary gave her a soft smile in return.

Joseph nudged the donkey's reigns as he headed off in the direction Mirian had pointed. Mary's body jostled along with the jarring trot of the animal that was loaded with belongings that could not be left behind. Mirian raced back to the Inn door, where her father waited. She hesitated to lift her eyes to his, fearing she would see displeasure. He stepped aside to let her in, then shut out the night with a slam to the door. Mirian timidly looked up at him, her momentary courage gone and replaced with silence. He just stared back down at her, not saying a word. He handed her back the jug she had thrust at him earlier, and said gruffly, "The guests need water. Hurry along now."

He turned away, leaving Mirian in shock. She had at least expected to be humiliated in front of the guests, as her father was wont to do, or feel the small rebuke of his backhand. She dared not risk anything further, and immediately went to her duties. Later, when the guests had all retired, Mirian lay awake on her bed, her breathing strange to her own ears. The young couple was still on her mind. She wondered if they were cold.

She threw off her covers, and slipped on her sandals. She quickly grabbed her extra blankets, and wrapped another robe around her shoulders. Stealthily, she crept out of the Inn, careful not to awaken the guests sleeping near the hearth. The night was bright with jeweled gleams as her feet followed the path to the stable. She entered into the stony entrance strewn with dried strands of hay. She stopped near the first stall, and peered over it. She heard voices. Then, her eyes adjusted to the quiet dark of the barn and she could see that a small child was placed in the manger--a shameful excuse of a bed for any newborn baby. She crept closer, but carefully stayed out of view, although she did not know why. Now she could see even clearer. The voices came from the corner of the barn, where Mary and Joseph were talking to some shepherds, who where excitedly whispering about angels, and that they had been told that the Christ-child was here.

The oldest shepherd lifted his hands in awe as he repeated the words of the angel, "For unto you is born this day... a Savior, which is Christ the Lord!"

Mirian felt numb with the realization of what the man had said. She looked over at the infant in the feeding trough. The Messiah had come, and she had seen Him! The bundle of blankets she had brought had momentarily lost their urgency. She laid the blankets down on the ground for Mary to find later. Perhaps they would warm the small child. In a way, her small intervention this night had given the Christ a place to stay, but yet she sensed that this Child was to bring her much more... for He had come to bring light to the world, a gift greater than any. She felt a greatness fill the worn stable, for the glory of the Savior was here. She fell to her knees, her body trembling--not with fear but with a strange peace. She felt overwhelmed. For she was in the presence of the King.

A Short Story...

Perhaps I should have posted this story in October since it is more of a Halloween story, but regardless, enjoy! Climb under the covers and get ready for a Spooky tale with a message of grace! Often, Halloween is seen as a dark, evil time, but I believe that our God can bring light even into the darkest moments of our lives...

~Dead Girl~

Bright orange Halloween pumpkins. Gaping sores. Cackling, costumed corpses holding bags full of sweet treasures. It was a familiar scene... especially to me. I lived in a world of death, tombstones, and flesh mangled victims. Inside of me, a darkened fire was taking over. I was deadened and numb emotionally. I could not take it anymore. Tonight with its shivering moon and ghastly gray skies, I would physically become what my insides were. Dead.

I stepped away from the scene of little children dressed as ghosts and goblins toting their sacks. I walked to the next block down and turned a sharp right. The edge of the road became a forest trail. I followed its leading, each step making a quiet, almost gentle noise. I lifted a wisp of brown hair away from my face. My eyes ached from teardrops. Every day I lived, the more emotionally, I died. I was a junior in Jacksonville High and I hated it all. Nobody there would care if I, Kerri Anne Mendill, died tonight in the middle of this forest, with my body rotting in some dank patch of earth. At least then, no one would spit in my face, shove me against my locker, flush my head in the toilet, and laugh at the underwear I wore. No one could taunt or snicker at me, and best of all, I would no longer feel anything... ever.

I came to the edge of the forest, where a gutted out precipice awaited. Below it, I could see the lights of what seemed like a thousand cars speeding by on the highway. They shot by like unbreakable rods of energy. Some guys I knew came here to make-out with their girlfriends occasionally, but no one had ever done what I was going to do here. Just one step, and it would all be over. I inched closer to the rocky edge. I took a deep breath, and put one foot in mid-air and let my body lean forward...

I fell backwards, away from the precipice. Something warm and tiny was wrapped around my arm. I landed on the hard ground with a thud. I spun around to face two wide blue eyes hidden behind the eyeholes of a child's floppy-duck suit, complete with a gaudy orange bill.
"You fall," the little boy said simply, lifting his duck mask from his round, chubby face. Dark curls caressed his head and stuck out in strange places. He looked about eight at the most, but his eyes seemed older, almost calmingly ancient.

"I intended to," I snapped back, feeling weak for not having accomplished my mission.
"Why?"

I only laughed at his innocence. He would know, soon enough. He squatted down beside me as I pulled myself up into a sitting position and held my head to my knees and chokingly tried to continue laughing. Instead, my laughs turned to sobs, deep and lonely. I felt a small hand against my shoulder, gently stroking my thick brown hair.

"I'm lost." His voice trembled. I looked up at him, my vision blurry from the stream of tears. It was not my problem, I told myself. I had come this far. I had to finish.

"Look kid," I said in a harder tone than what I felt, "I am going to die tonight, so leave me be, o.k.? Just go down that trail behind you and you’ll eventually see a road. Turn left and you'll find town."

I stood up and walked to the edge again, staring down at the stretch of car lights below. I sensed that the little boy was still there. I did not want him to see me. I had to be alone.

"Scram," I told him, turning towards him. He just walked closer to me and peered down at the traffic below.

"Are you scared?"

"No, of course not," I lied.

"My name is Ryan."

I felt impatient. I had to hurry before my resolve left. He was an unwanted delay.
"And your name is the Dead Girl, right?"

I did not answer him. His words were nothing more than childish babble.

"Why do you want to die?"

"It's too complicated to explain."

His eyes searched my face, then wandered up into the night sky. After an unnerving moment passed, he softly whispered, "I think I know."

"Know what?" I retorted, glaring at him.

"See that star?"

I nodded, looking up at the only sparkle the cloudy sky had in its rather barren crown.
"The darkness wants to kill that star."

At first, his words seemed ludicrous, but then I began to see what he meant. The gray, wispy clouds did seem to be trying to choke out the little star's glimmer.

"But the star is beautiful," he continued while bending down to tie his tennis shoe underneath his floppy duck feet.

"It doesn't think so," I replied softly, feeling a sort of oneness with the lonesome halo of light in the endless, deadened sea above my head.

"That's because it can't see what it looks like from here. It doesn't realize that it is special because it is different. It still has a purpose." He finished tying his shoe and then stood up as tall as his three-foot frame allowed, and looked me straight in the eye. "If that star gave up, the clouds would win, and nothing else would dare to stand against the darkness. But because of its courage... see what has happened." He motioned me to look back at the sky.

I did, and amazingly, there was now countless gleams staring solemnly back at me. Some seemed shy, and some bold and brilliant, but all lit the sky like sparkles on the outside of a Christmas ornament. I felt awed by their presence, and their simple beauty. My eyes searched for the first star, and finally found it surrounded by a half circlet of other winking glimmers.
"You are a light, Kerri. And nothing can steal that from you, unless you give it away."

How did he know my name? And why is this little kid suddenly turning into some sort of philosopher? I slowly turned my eyes away from the sky's mesmerizing display. My little companion was not there. I spun around, but no floppy duck costumed little boy was in sight. I began to panic. What if he had fallen off the precipice? I scrambled onto my knees and peered over. The traffic below made me feel nauseous to watch. But no limp body lay upon the ragged edges of the precipice. I yelled Ryan's name, but only a faint echo responded. I jumped back onto my feet and ran back into the woods. I ran along the path, pushing brush out of my face while calling for him.

As I neared the road I had traveled earlier, I stopped in dismay. I must be going crazy, I thought. A small sniffle- like a kitten's meow- reached my ears. The night was turning bitterly cold and I felt a shudder pass through me. I followed the sound to some bushes where something was curled up underneath. A little girl, no older than four, was huddled up, wearing only a thin white costume with angel's wings attached to the back. Her face seemed a delicate shade of blue and she quivered from the wind. I took off my weather-beaten jacket and draped it over the tiny body. I then gently pulled her out and lifted her into my arms. She only whimpered slightly but did not resist. I stood up with ease, the fragile girl in my arms seemed almost weightless.

I walked as fast as I could back to town, where a squad of police cars, concerned viewers, and a frantic woman was gathered. As soon as I came within a few feet of the group, the woman looked over at me and nearly screamed with joy. She ran straight to me and lovingly scooped up the sleepy blonde-haired girl. Tears were streaming down the woman's face as she tightly held the tiny being close to her. Several officers came to the woman's side as well as what appeared to be family members. I answered a few questions and was about to turn away when I heard the woman say something while stroking her little girl's baby soft curls. She was softly crying,

"Thank God, O thank God! My Star is safe..."

I felt a smile cross my face. I had not felt this kind of joy in a long, long time. I turned away and disappeared into the night's deep shadows. But before I started home, I glanced up into the sky. One lonely star winked back at me.

Revelation 22:16a I am the root and the offspring of David, and the bright and morning star.