NameThat Boy

Remember the Virtue Chronicles? Yes? No? Kind of?

RECAP.

Ancient Greek-ish culture, 8 Houses of government, each a different "virtue." Girl named Astraea in the House of Justice. Meets a peasant boy. Boy surprises her with his knowledge of government, and the corruption within it. The boy is smart, determined and out to expose said corruption.

Not bad, eh? But there is {at least XD} one hitch in the story so far:

El chico no tiene el nombre.

*clears throat*

The Boy doesn't have a name :3

I mean, he did at one point, but then I started second guessing and "ehh"-ing it, and now I'm not so sure. So, if you would, I'd really appreciate your opinion. I had a list of about 25 potential names, which became 10, which became 6, which is now 3. 3 potential names. Which one will it be?

If you've been reading this blog for any time at all you know I love names, and put a lot of stock in them. It's very important to me to get the Boy's name right. And asking you to name him out of the blue when you don't even him seems ridiculous, so I've decided to post the scene where he and Astraea meet.

If you want to and you have time, read through the scene and get a feel for the Boy. If you don't really care and would rather just pick a damn name, okay XD The choices are at the end. Leave a comment with your pick, por favor :D

{Also, thoughts on the scene...terrible criticism is better than nothing IMO.}

So here you go. Astraea and the Boy meet:

She glanced behind and saw that she’d fallen into a dark alleyway, shrouded in ominous shadows. A small smile pulled at her lips at her own clumsiness. She pulled herself to her feet and got a glance at her cream-colored robe. At least it had been cream-colored when she’d put it on. Smudges of dirt covered the hem and worked their way up to her waist. She almost chuckled; those laundering secrets would have been useful after all.

Suddenly her eyes flicked upward, almost of their own accord. She squinted, trying to sort through the darkness. There was something up there. There was something on the wall. She opened her mouth to demand that the shape show itself, but before she uttered a sound the shape detached itself and dropped the twenty feet to the ground, landing lightly with bent knees.

Astraea gasped, but quickly regained her composure and cut the sound short. It was a man, but aside from that the lighting was too poor to make out anything else.

“Who are you?” she demanded without thinking. The man’s eyes laughed.

“You wander into a dark alley that you clearly don’t belong in and the first thing you ask is who I am?”

Astraea frowned. “Maybe you’d like to know who I am then, peasant.” She regretted the arrogance in her tone immediately. The man was right, and it was beyond foolish to go around angering strange men alone and far from home. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I…” He looked at her with an expression of stone. Astraea glanced around awkwardly. “I…” She turned on her heel and half ran out of the alley before stopping in her tracks at the crowded street.

“You don’t know where you are, do you?”

Astraea frowned over her shoulder. The man had come out from the shadows. She revised her original assessment. He wasn’t a man; he couldn’t have been much older than she was. His voice had made him sound even older than Ramiro. She turned back to the street.

“Of course I do.”

“Alright, so you are not a Daughter of Truth.”

Astraea looked back at him in spite of herself. “No. I’m not. And you’re not a Son of Wisdom.” The boy looked mischievously taken aback.

“Perhaps you’re of the House of Sarcasm,” he said. “But tell me, why am I not of Wisdom?”

Astraea looked him in the eye. His eyes were green-brown and large, framed by unexpectedly long lashes. “You’ve clearly figured out that I belong to one of the Houses,” she began. “and you’ve probably also deduced that I’m not where I ought to be. Therefore if you were wise, you would put as much distance as possible between yourself and me before you’re caught up in a kidnapping trial.”

“Ah,” he said, his eyes laughing again. “But the House of Peace doesn’t know you’re missing, does it? And Peace is the only House with the authority to arrest criminals.”

“News travels quickly between Houses when necessary,” Astraea said, raising a formidable eyebrow. The boy allowed himself a smile.

“Not a Daughter of Peace then, either,” he said quietly. Astraea’s eyebrow dropped.

“Perhaps I’ll tell them you kidnapped me,” she threatened.

“More evidence against your being of Truth…or Justice.”

Astraea’s eyes flew wide, fierce anger spiking through her body. “How dare you,” she said lowly. The boy’s face betrayed his genuine surprise.

“Justice? And yet you’d encourage the punishment of an innocent?”

Astraea’s anger melted into horror and stuck in her throat, making it difficult to breathe. “I wouldn’t have done that,” she managed, completely unmasked. “I wouldn’t have, really.” The boy cocked his head, studying her closely.

“I don’t know about that,” he said. Astraea scowled again.

“You don’t know anything,” she snapped. “You’re just a citizen.” She turned back to the street once again, but didn’t go out into it.

“How dare you,” the boy said, clearly mocking her. “When did citizenship become synonymous with ignorance?” Astraea frowned, but did not turn.

“Please. You don’t know the first thing about government.”

“No, of course not. Unless you mean about House members, Board members, Counselors, Advisors and High Justices.”

“Any fool can spout off that which he’s heard rumors about. It doesn’t make you any more intelligent.”

“House members: anyone and everyone born or married into a particular House. Board members: twenty-four officials who are elected by the House and are part of the jury in trials. Counselors: officials selected from the Board by the Advisors and High Justice. Also part of the jury. Advisors: three officials selected from the Council by the High Justice. Again, part of the jury in trials. And lastly, the High Justice: leader of the House, elected by the entire House. Serves as the judge in trials and can only be replaced if found unworthy by a ¾ majority of the House. Or if he resigns.”

A shocked silence settled itself in Astraea’s mouth. She breathed in and out, tapped her foot, blinked, and otherwise tried to reassemble the shards of her dignity. “Well,” she finally breathed, swallowing hard. “I suppose…”

“You were wrong?” the boy offered, his voice mockingly light. “It happens, Daughter of Injustice.”

Astraea turned on him, suddenly livid. “You will leave my House out of this, do you understand me? Peasant?” She took an involuntary step towards him, and he stepped back, eyebrows raised.

“Defensive. You sure you aren’t of War? They’re in charge of the defensive army, as I understand it.”

“Don’t pretend to understand anything,” Astraea said, her green eyes snapping. “You may know the technicalities, but do not presume to understand the intimate workings of the Houses.”

“Do you always talk like this?”

Astraea’s nostrils flared angrily.

“Now listen. You’re not making yourself or your House look any better by insulting me and my intelligence. I proved you wrong. Admit it and rise above it. Move on.” The cockiness was gone from his tone; he addressed her in earnest. Astraea immediately felt ashamed. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and swallowed hard.

“I misjudged you,” she admitted, though through gritted teeth. “But you misjudged me as well. I am not a Daughter of Injustice, and it disturbs me deeply that I’ve portrayed myself as such. I seek justice more sincerely than almost anyone I know. That is the truth.”

The boy nodded slowly never breaking eye contact. “A Daughter of Justice after all,” he said. “Perhaps.” A frown threatened in Astraea’s eyebrows and the boy raised his own. “What think you of the Travi Scandal, for instance?”

Astraea blinked. “The…what?” She winced. A citizen who knew more than she. It was nearly unbearable, but her curiosity outweighed her pride—for now.

“The Travi Scandal.” The boy frowned, then smirked. “You don’t know? They don’t tell you?” He shut his eyes and shook his head, turning around. A frustrated sound growled in his throat. “Of course not. Justice doesn’t apply inside the Houses, only to the commoners.” He turned on Astraea, poorly concealed fury in the back of his hazel eyes. “Not three years ago, Counselor Travi attempted to poison the High Mercyman and Truman, just before the annual Assembly of the House of Prangtar.” The hairs on the back of Astraea’s neck stood on end at the accusation. “Mercy and Truth were planning to vote against extending the death penalty to offenders as young as sixteen. Counselor Travi’s attempt failed, and the House of Justice resorted to bribing the vote counter, a young man from Truth ironically enough.” The boy’s jaw jerked in anger. “And that was that. Now citizens as young as you could lose their lives for a loaf of bread.”

Astraea’s eyes stared icily at the boy. “I cannot believe someone would spread such vicious, inaccurate rumors. Nothing of the kind happened, do you hear me? Nothing. My father was the High Justice three years ago. He would have known if Counselor Travi had been planning an assassination! He would have stopped it, without a doubt.” Astraea shook her head, a fierce smile coming. “I am sorry to disappoint you, but there was no scandal. The leaders of each House met together, as usual, and discussed the benefits versus the risks. The benefits were found superior. They voted. The age for the death penalty was lowered. That is all that happened.” She exhaled harshly, raising an eyebrow at the boy. “Surely you don’t think me so simple as to have missed two murder attempts within my own House.”

The boy shook his head grimly. “I don’t think you simple at all. That is why it’s all the more disturbing that you didn’t know.”

Astraea narrowed her eyes and shook her own head. “You must be insane,” she said plainly. “I mean it, really insane. You’re talking about the House of Justice. The House of Justice.”

The boy tilted his head thoughtfully. “You may know this,” he began obligingly. “Counselor Travi stepped down from his position as Counselor less than a week after the Meeting.”

Astraea stared intently at the boy, her eyes fierce with passion. “I’ve got to get back,” she said abruptly, passing a hand tiredly over her face. “Or they really will think I’ve been kidnapped.” She turned to the street for at least the fifth time and frowned into the crowd.

Which way had she been going? To the right, but now she wasn’t sure if that was correct after all. The buildings were so tall and close together it was impossible to see the House Hill.

“It’s difficult enough when you know where you’re going,” said the boy. Astraea could hear the laughter in his voice again. “Especially for someone who has no experience navigating the street.”

“Are you going to offer a suggestion, or are you just being obnoxious?”

“I can take you back, Daughter of Arrogance, if you’d like.”

Astraea would have loved to refuse the offer, but realistically… “Very well, Son of Exasperation. To the marble staircase, if you please.”

She made a move towards the pressing crowds, but felt a hand on her arm holding her back. She flinched away from the touch, giving the boy a scathing look. He removed his hand and beckoned her farther into the alley.

“What?” Astraea said, growing irritated. “We’re not going that way; you’re taking me back to the marble stairs, you—”

“As I said, you have no experience navigating the street, and I will not be the one to teach you in this crowd.” His eyes laughed again, a foreign expression that fascinated Astraea. “Shortcut. Come.”

A moment later he was halfway down the alley, taking the dirty darkness with long strides. Astraea felt a stab of panic. “A shortcut?” she cried angrily, jogging forward a few steps. “I’ll go no such route!” The boy had disappeared. Astraea stopped. “Hello?”

A head of the boy’s shaggy brown hair poked out from a distant corner. “Yes?” Astraea could hear the smirk in his voice from halfway down the alley. He chuckled. “I suppose you’ll have to trust me.”

“I don’t. I’ll trust no one who spreads up lies about my House.”

The boy grunted thoughtfully and stepped back out into the alley. “Well, suppose you trust me for now, on loan as it were, and do some research when you get home. If I’m lying, arrest me for slander. I’m sure Truth would be all too willing to assist. If I’m not,” he tilted his head. “dig a little deeper. Agreed?"

Names:

Brayden

Alekos

Markus

~Stephanie

P.S. Btw, I found this random hott guy while trying to find pictures for the Boy. Enjoy.

kBai.

The Virtue Chronicles

I'm writing a story. I really like it. But I never actually finish anything sooo...yeah. This may bomb completely like everything else I've ever written, BUT.

It may not.

And with that in mind, I give you the premise for my story, currently titled "The Virtue Chronicles."

Once Prangtar was ruled by a royal family, as most lands are. But as the king and his family grew greedier and more corrupt, it became obvious that to avoid civil war, something needed to change. Each of the King’s advisors had different opinions on what was tearing the kingdom apart.

One blamed injustice, saying that until people were held strictly accountable, chaos would continue.

One blamed dishonesty, insisting that so long as there was deception and misunderstanding, peace could never be achieved.

One blamed hatred, believing that only when people accepted each other could the world run smoothly.

One blamed political apathy, declaring that strong loyalty and respect for the government were necessary to keep the kingdom together.

One blamed hostility, stating that to rule the kingdom, peace must be a chief priority.

One blame bad thinking skills, claiming that solid, true solutions would never be reached unless the people understood their government.

One blamed the lack of compassion, impressing the importance that the people show understanding and unity.

And still another maintained that a poor understanding of the world was to blame.

One night, the advisors gathered for a meeting whose chief purpose was shove opinions down each others’ throats. During this highly productive exercise, the King was assassinated by one of his own body guards. The rest of the royal family met the same fate within minutes. Naturally, the entire kingdom plunged into a dangerous and chaotic game of Survivor.

At the peak of the kingdom’s desperation, the young advisor who advocated the use of Wisdom made a bold suggestion to his fellow councilors: perhaps they were all correct. Perhaps to rule a kingdom effectively, one must use all eight of the proposed virtues: Justice, Mercy, Logic, Love, Truth, War, Peace and Wisdom. Each virtue, in turn, had its place in a prosperous kingdom.

The suggestion was simple and logical, and it wasn’t long before the other seven advisors came to agree. With the help of the army and the citizens still devoted to unity, the advisors put into place a clever system of Houses, each dedicated to one virtue, with representatives from each forming the House of Prangtar, which would ultimately rule the kingdom.

The Houses worked together well with few major conflicts for nearly 200 years. Each House grew larger as its original founder had children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The Houses grew in respect and prestige and the people began to identify themselves with a particular House.

But now, things are growing unsteady, or so some people say. Astraea of Justice has no doubt that the kingdom is on the brink of even greater prosperity, which will surely come because of her house, and more specifically, her very own family.

Even though she has little direct experience with politics, everyone knows she’s going to be a tremendous asset to the House of Justice, including Astraea. It doesn’t bother her that her betrothed never shows her any affection; he’s from Logic, of course he’s unemotional. It doesn’t seem wrong to deal out severe punishment; crime must be discouraged, at all costs. And it doesn’t matter that Justice is bending the rules to get the result it needs. The end justifies the means...right?

But then Astraea meets the peasant Boy and everything changes.

He’s intelligent, which catches her off guard first. He knows exactly how the government works, and has real opinions about it. Astraea is reluctantly fascinated by his ideas, but when the Boy starts criticizing her House, she shuts him out.

But she can’t get his ideas out of her head. He told her the House of Justice was hypocritical, corrupt. He gave examples, but Astraea had never heard of them, so they couldn’t be true.

Could they?

Astraea begins to search, and research, and ask questions. The questions are tough to ask, but what she finds is even tougher to swallow.

The Boy tells Astraea things she doesn’t want to hear, and he makes her more angry than anyone else in the world. But every time she tries to prove him wrong, she gets the rug pulled out from under her by her own House’s recent history. The Boy knows more than she does, and it’s scaring her. Where has she been her whole life? What all has she been blind to?

How can she believe in Justice and support her House at the same time? But if she doesn’t support her House, where does her allegiance lie?

Questions, comments, thoughts, compliments and criticism are always SUPER welcome when it comes to my writing, just so you know. I'd rather have horrible criticisms than nothing XD

~Stephanie

Hi :)

I'm actually here this time! This is not a five-sentence quickie. Life has finally given me a breather, and I'm posting! Either you've been waiting with bated breath to hear about my Europe trip, or you've completely forgotten about it. Either way is cool with me XD The trip seems a thousand miles away to me too.



BUT, I journaled every day, so there are 19 little treasures for me to post here...and that's a lot. So, I'm only going to be posting my journal entries on Tuesdays and Thursdays. {The other five days of the week you'll get some of my usual unparalleled wittiness to chew on.}



Hopefully this will last longer than the Twi-Hard posts. I'm sorry guys, but about Chapter 5 I just sort of lost interest in Bella Swan et al. The book was never awful or anything, I think I'm just sort of over it. It will probably never interest me again. Ever.



Anyway, without further ado, I give you {uncut, unedited, uncensored}...



STEPHANIE'S EUROPE JOURNAL

DAY 1



7.8.11



"I'm on the plane to Dallas as I'm writing this :) Two other girls besides me had never been on a plane either, and we're all sitting near each other. I'm sitting with Claire and Karson, who are really nice and helped me not be too nervous during the take-off.



The take-off was not bad at all! At first I didn't even realize we were moving, then I noticed as we picked up speed and inclined. My stomach felt jumbled once, but that didn't last long.



And it's a good thing because I forgot to take Dramamine! I threw my water bottle away before I did.



I chewed my first piece of gum when the plane took off, and everyone thought Sarah was the coolest, sweetest sister ever for doing that for me. I'm about to put in piece #2 :)"



IMPORTANT NOTE: So, I really do have an amazing sister, guys. She knew I was nervous about my first plane ride, so she made me a gum package. A piece of gum for every hour of the plane rides, each a different flavor, each Sticky-Noted with the appropriate hour. {First Hour, Second Hour, etc.}. She made me gum for the plane ride from here to Dallas, from Dallas to Madrid, from Rome to Chicago, and from Chicago back home. She's so awesome XD Anyway. Back to the journal.



"The flight should arrive at 12:45, and the pilot said we're right on schedule. He seems wonderful from the intercom and he said the flying weather is perfect. So far no turbulence really :) Flying isn't as freaky as I feared, although Claire said this is even gentler than usual. Perfect, haha :)



I think I really like it. We're literally in the clouds! They look just the way they do from the ground except closer and lower...which is a dumb thing to say, I guess b/c how else would they look? XD



The stewardess just came by and I got some ginger ale, even though I feel just fine.



I've started reading 'Lily's Passport to Paris,' and I still love it :) Having Lily and her family is a little like having my own here :) I don't feel at all the horrible, empty loneliness I expected. Yet XD"



~Stephanie

Being a Writer

I love it. But it's not the romantic gift it's cracked up to be. I'm sure a lot of you know what I'm talking about.

Being a writer is more like a mental illness than a gift.

When you're a writer, writing isn't really something you can just "not do." I mean, you CAN just NOT WRITE, but then you end up waking up in the middle of the night with your eyes like this O.O thinking, "Oh my god, oh my god, where is my notebook, where is my notebook" and fly out of bed and knock your lamp off trying to turn it on and tear your room apart looking for it. Because you had this one line that sounded good in the dream you were having and you might be able to use it sometime.

Or, you're just living life, maybe babysitting, and you get on the kids' tire swing. Sudden the warm breeze is just right and the sun hits your leg and the tree you're under seems perfect and the way the tire swings is spelling one thing to you: STORY IDEA. And yet here you are again without your notebook so you must as calmly as possible ask the kid you're watching if he has any notebook paper available please???

And, for the record, getting a story idea isn't always {or ever} accompanied by that delicious, dreamy look writers get in movies. You know, as an idea gently floats through their mind and they reach for a neat stack of paper and a quill pen.

Actually, getting a sudden story idea feels a lot like wetting your pants.

It's urgent, unexpected and embarrassing, especially if your eyes do the aforementioned thing {O.O}. For me, when an idea hits me like that, it's like a window has been opened to my soul, bright and blue and pure, and I'm afraid everyone can see into it. I feel the physical urge to cover myself.

{This is giving you a whole new appreciation for the mental illness metaphor I used earlier, isn't it?}

Then, if I'm with other people, it's awkward because 1) My eyes just did the bullfrog for no apparent reason and so 2) I have to play it off with some unconvincing excuse because 3) when that Soul Window is open my lying skillz are way incapacitated and 4) I'm also having to hide the fact that I desperately want to GET AWAY FROM YOU and write.

Then there's also the frequently referenced problem of the voices in your head.

Yeah, I don't get that. The only character who won't shut up is Ember, and she's basically an independent form of myself, so...yeah, however that works.

Buuut anyway you slice it, dice it, or look at it, we writers...

...are NOT normal.

~Stephanie

~{.dancedance.}~

Heat filled the room, heavy and sticky. Thick heat, dense heat. The room felt small, like there was a charged, pulsing pressure building.

Deep inside, Ember felt her heart thudding a rhythm. Steady and deep, her body responded, letting her beating heart set the pace.

From her lips came small paths of air, hard, steady, controlled. She pushed air out, she pulled air in.

Her whole body beat and breathed at once. Her heart thudded from her chest to her ankles; when her lips drew a sip of air, so did her fingers. Beating, breathing, steady, together.

She felt her body improvise, a thud of her heart led her head to turn. With the next breath, her legs found their way into the air. Again, her arms twirled, her feet spread themselves wide. Her body twisted, her hands pulled into a tight spin.

Before she could notice, her heart had stopped beating. She had stopped breathing. There was no thud; there was no air.

There was only Ember and the music. From somewhere at the center of who she was came a bright spark that quietly exploded.

The world was there only as an afterthought. Nothing was in the front of her mind, only that she was. She didn’t feel tired or anxious or frustrated; she didn’t feel happy or proud or calm. It was a feeling much deeper.

She felt whole.

And there's an excerpt from one of my stories :]

It's especially appropriate because today is my dance recital! I've been dancing for almost 15 years and it's the love of my life. Whenever I write Ember dancing, it's really just me writing myself, from my heart.

I love a lot of things, but dance is somehow in an entirely different category, an apple among the oranges of my life.

Here's hoping the recital goes well :]

~Stephanie

Question

So, I was wondering. On a scale of yes to no, how interested would you be in reading bits of my stories?

~Stephanie

Re-Edit? Pre-Edit?

Thanks for following, Angie and Mrs. H!

I have started editing my novel. Um, again.

I started "The Mirror" when I was fourteen, three years ago this past January. I didn't intend to go anywhere with it; I never finished anything, I was sure this wouldn't be any different. I had a few fleeting sentence thoughts and decided to type them out.

It was the best thing I'd ever written.

I went farther and farther, met more characters, and began to realize the potential the story had.

Then I got completely stuck because I got everyone into situations that I didn't know how to get them out of.

Outlining FAIL.

I hadn't outlined at all, so I guess it was only a matter of time before the whole thing went kaput. Three years later, the characters have refused to leave me alone, so I've decided to jump back into the mix and sort things out.

Step 1: OUTLINE THE FREAKING THING. I did this, and it already looks about a million times better in my head. I added some key events, took out some stupid ones, and shifted things around to be more realistic.

Step 2: DETERMINE WHAT IS SALVAGEABLE. {This is where I am right now.} Surely SOME of my original manuscript can be saved, right?

Or so I thought.

It has clearly been a long, long, long, long, LONG time since I edited "Mirror."

Except that it actually hasn't, which is sad and scary.

Last time I edited, probably just six months ago, the first page looked like this:

Yesterday, I decided to print out a new copy to work with. After I was finished with it, the first page looked like this:

Yeah. Clearly I've gotten a bit more brutal.

The story is going to be better because of this. I'm going to be ruthless and rip things out left and right, rewrite things, scrap things, reword things, delete things and add things.

Then I'll get to actually rewriting the story as a whole.

I'm almost positive that I'm doing this the wrong way, but I'm equally positive that there is nowhere to go but up.

~Stephanie

Darren

Thanks for following, Polka Dot and Samarah!

First off, I stole this tag from Lily and the picture from Cassie Anne XD

Character tags are my favorite, being a writer and all. Basically what you have to do here is come up with a character {or use an existing one} and answer the following questions about him or her. Eaaasy.

{Character Tag}

1. What is his/her full name? Darren Arius Blackburn-Lonwyn {Hey, you said FULL. He only ever goes by Darren Blackburn though.}

2. Does his name have a special meaning? *gasppp* I have never, ever done a tag that asked this question. I can't believe this! Name meanings are SO important to me, but I never have a good place to talk about it. Sweet. "Darren" means "small great one."

3. Does your character have a methodical or disorganized personality? Well, he's a teenaged guy, so how methodical can he be? XD Generally, he's a fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants type, but when the situation calls for it he can cowboy up and make a pretty good plan.

4. Does he think inside himself more than he talks out loud to his friends? (more importantly, does he actually have friends?) Darren is an out-loud thinker. Even if he doesn't necessarily want people to comment, he works things out better when he can hear himself. He definitely has friends. He was always the "popular" type.

5. Is there something he is afraid of? He doesn't like being out of control. Whenever he's in a position where he can't do something or when someone else is calling the shots, he gets uneasy. His biggest fear is somehow causing someone he loves to be hurt. He beats himself up about things.

6. Does he write, dream, dance, sing, or photograph? He does not. He's the athletic type.

7. What is his favorite book (or genre of books)? He doesn't read a WHOLE lot, but he enjoys it when he does. He like action-suspense type books, or books about wars.

8. Who is his favorite author and/or someone that inspires him? He's always found soldier stories inspiring: men who showed courage in the face of danger and pulled through while staying loyal to their country.

9. Favorite flavor of ice cream? He's not picky, but Moose Tracks is a favorite.

10. Favorite season of the year? Spring. He loves baseball.

Anyone who wants to do this, have at it. And lemme know so I can come read it :D

~Stephanie

Annual Christmas epistle

December 2010
Phoenix, Arizona

Dear family and friends,

I hope that this letter, sent by email and my blog because printing and postage are still not in my budget, finds you well in every sense of the word. Prospering in your hopes and dreams. Growing in all your relationships with those you love. Learning and standing taller, always.

Twenty-ten has been a year like no other in my life. It began with me packing up my “stuff” and showing my home in Redlands, in preparation to sell it. After being laid off from my job in June 2009, I’d run out of savings, and only God’s miraculous providence through some incredible servants of His, got me through and kept me going until the house sold and escrow closed. The help came in several forms: checks in the mail, a legal settlement, skilled handyman work and moving (bathroom tile, house painting, dismantling my heavy stuff, moving boxes and heavy furniture onto and off the trucks, driving the U-Hauls, and so much more).

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

My Redlands house sold in less than 30 days, for the agreed-upon, appraised amount. That was rather a large miracle in this depressed economy. Then it was time to find a house to rent in Phoenix, and with lots of help from my brother and sister-in-law, I found a nice one in a nice neighborhood, which reeked of tobacco smoke (I’m SO allergic to it) for weeks, no matter what we did. Eventually, with Febreze neutralizer sprayed directly on walls and the carpet professionally cleaned twice, the toxic smell departed. You remember how I’d designed and planted my trees and flowers in Redlands, and I mourn their loss. This rental house has stickers and vicious weeds that defy my lawnmower! And no trees… not one.

I’ve continued to apply for jobs in communications (copywriting, publications and website editing, primarily), but have only been called to three job interviews all year. If the official jobless rate is 9.7%, they’re only counting the people currently receiving unemployment comp. The real rate is 19-25%. In August, my brother and his wife both lost their jobs, too. Brian has found lower-paying work and is hoping his networking will land him a better job soon.

So what am I to do? I had several small freelance editing jobs, but that’s not employment! Yet I keep very busy. In April, I began researching a historical novel on Mary Barrett Dyer, the Quaker minister who was executed for civil disobedience in 1660 Puritan Boston. Because I made an Excel spreadsheet on my major characters cross-referenced with political and natural history events, I’ve found some absolutely amazing details that historians haven’t connected—stuff that will make my book (even more) fascinating. As of the beginning of December, I’ve written more than 53,000 words, and have barely scratched the surface! When I say “historical novel,” I’m emphasizing history, with fiction to create bridges and conversations between actual events. Even the fiction will be culturally correct. My favorite authors (with whom I correspond on Facebook) have set a lofty standard. The book’s protagonist is my direct ancestor, 12 generations back. My religious experience, coupled with my writing skills, make me the perfect person to write her story from what I believe will be her mindset. The working title of the book is The Calends of June, as several major events occurred on June 1 during her life. I created a Facebook page and photo albums for her, which you’re most welcome to join.

My devotional book, We Shall Be Changed, was published in hardcover in June 2010, and is now available for sale on two websites at least: Amazon, and the ABC Christian store. It was advertised in the ABC Christian book catalog, too (page 2). It’s a daily devotional book for the whole year, and I hope you’ll at least take a look at it online, if not buy some copies to keep and give away. (The book was written for a non-denominational audience.) I was paid a salary while I prepared the drafts, so I receive no sales royalties now. But it’s still awfully COOL to have my name on the cover and in the Library of Congress. Woo-hoo! Some of my classmates, friends, and members of my Bible study have purchased the book. My friend in Canada says her store sold out and she had to reorder. I wish I had copies to just give away, but you know how it is when you haven’t had a job for 18 months…

It’s been great to reconnect with my Arizona friends here, but I really miss my California friends, too, and the dear ones who made themselves family. Facebook and email are no true substitute, although I’ve met some amazing people online who share interests in spiritual matters, history, genealogy, professional skills, and shared memories. I’ve even connected with relatives I’d never known before. One of them wrote: “Christy, I just love you!! That reminds me of the Disney movie Up when the dog says, ‘I just met you and I LOVE you!!’ LOL!” And it was a thrill to get a phone call from my cousins Phil and Christine Berkland as they passed the Mary Dyer statue at the Boston statehouse. They’re not descended from her, but they remembered me because of the Facebook page I set up for Mary.

I’ve edited all sorts of publications and video scripts over the years, and have had a byline in many of them. After I edited several of her manuscripts, Hyveth Williams asked me to write a preface for her Secrets of a Happy Heart a few years ago. But this year my name made several surprise appearances: I found my name on page 298 of I Used To Think God Was Perfect, But…, an autobiography of Herman Bauman, who called me “special” and a dear friend; and in Trudy J. Morgan-Cole’s book The Wise Men, in her dedication! (“To all my writer friends who are so supportive, especially Patty and Christy. I’m sorry I didn’t use your suggestions.”) When in Trudy’s first draft, the wise men were stalled, getting ready for their road trip to Bethlehem, we suggested (via Facebook) why they might have delayed—but strangely, our anachronisms didn’t make Trudy’s manuscript:

1. In winter cold, camels need a 20-minute warm-up.
2. Got a late start because the donkey races went into overtime.
3. Spent too much time at the Checker Camel Parts stall in the bazaar.
4. Once on the road, ain’t nuthin’ stoppin’ the wise men–not asking for directions, not taking hieroglyphs along the way, no time for a quick trip to the bushes…
5. Does the next oasis have a Pita Bell?
6. Gold, frankincense, myrrh, and Cheetos.
7. “Someone” lost the camel keys.
8. Couldn’t decide whether to take the Bactrian or the dromedary.

May the Lord bless you at Christmas season and in the new year. I’m a living testimony that he does take care of his children, and I thank you for your prayers in the past and the future.

Earnestly desire the best gifts. And yet I show you a more excellent way.. And now abide faith, hope, love, these three [gifts]; but the greatest of these is love.

Grace and peace,

Christy K Robinson
and pets Evie, Mali, and Smetana

We Shall Be Changed is now in hardcover!

It finally happened! It started in early 2004, when I wondered how I could compile 366 first-person essays on how God transforms lives, and use it with the thousands of constituents of my former employer, Quiet Hour Ministries. And it's resurrected as a hardcover daily devotional book published by Review & Herald Publishing Association in June 2010.

The book's primary purpose is to show how God and his message of intimacy are clear and easy-to-understand without theological jargon. It speaks of how we, the writers, were transformed by the revelation of  God's love for us.

There were countless nights and weekends spent at my home office, using a 10-year-old Macintosh with dial-up internet, devising the writer guidelines, writing my 92 essays, rewriting many of the essays I solicited from others, and editing and formatting all the essays for length, content, redundancy, leaps of logic (or lack of it), correcting misquotes of scripture, paraphrasing quotes from other authors (to avoid misquotes and copyright issues), and many other activities. I emailed Word documents to the office computer, and the articles were reviewed by the ministry officers and proofread. It was wonderful to make new friendships with writers around the world.

The first version of We Shall Be Changed was issued in 2005, in four quarterly soft-cover books that our staff designed and proofread, had printed locally, and mailed to subscribers. Nearly every employee was involved in this book: some of them wrote essays, but the customer service people, those in accounting, the mailroom, marketing, evangelism, information services--we all had a stake. We formatted it in a database to run on our company website. Even the website was revamped partly to accommodate the text of our book. Once it was out in the hands of readers, we received scores of notes of praise for the articles, and the phone calls were universally positive.

Early in 2006, we sent the set of books to each writer, to board members of The Quiet Hour, and a number of influential ministry partners. One of the sets was sent as a thank-you gift to Jeannette Johnson, acquisitions editor at RHPA, who had helped me several times over the years. She phoned me and asked if RHPA could re-publish the set in 2010. My voice was calm and professional while we talked, but when I hung up, my office chair was spinning as I raced down the hall to share the news.

Although I had done more than 90 percent of the writing and editing work at home, I had done it under the authority of The Quiet Hour. And of course they funded the first edition and paid the salaries of the entire staff who participated.

When it was time to submit the updated manuscript early in 2009, I again worked nights and evenings at home, although this time with a laptop and fast Internet! It took about six weeks of evenings, plus a few weekends, to revamp the old manuscript, find 365 scripture verses to fit every essay, replace weaker essays with new ones, format it as required by RHPA, and email it away. About 10 days later, Jeannette notified me that the book had passed muster with the book committee, and that it would be printed in 2010 and marketed for 2011. Click here to see what the publisher and friends said about the book manuscript in 2009.

Just a few days later, I was laid off from my position as communications director, along with a third of other staff members.

In late April of 2010, I began researching a historical novel on Mary Barrett Dyer, my grandmother 12 generations ago. It's not a biography, history, or theological treatise. It's a narrative of a woman who defied convention, and even colonial law, to obey her Holy Spirit-directed conscience. Her execution changed American history. I believe I'm uniquely suited to tell Mary's story because of my faith, knowledge of the Bible, genealogy and history research, and experience working with religious institutions and their policies and leaders. (For lots of info on Mary and William Dyer, join her Facebook page HERE.)

I received my five (only) complimentary copies of We Shall Be Changed on June 23, and they'll be marketed (probably late summer 2010) by RHPA and Adventist Book Centers in catalog mailers and their online bookstores. For sale information, I'll post links in Facebook and on this blog's margin. Some have indicated an interest in having their copy signed by me, and I will do so locally. But for others, I'll design and print a sticky bookplate and mail it to you in your self-addressed stamped envelope.

Meanwhile, life goes on. And I need to get back to my novel!