Three score cards and a paperback book

Struggling with my identity while holding a dream in my hands (then giving it away)

Remember when I said, several times over the last few weeks, that I was waiting for something to arrive in the mail so I could tell you about finally holding it in my hand?

The books arrived. My whole life, as far back as I can remember, I have wanted to have my name attached to a book—not a blog post, not a newspaper article, a book.

A year ago, when the lovely and capable Helen Heavirland put out a call for Christmas-themed short stories for her upcoming anthology, I jumped at the chance. I didn’t have a book of my own yet, but this would be the next best thing. My story, with my name, could be in the book, even if my name was not on the front cover. I submitted two of my best Christmas stories for her consideration. With a little editing, she accepted both.

Of course, a book takes a long time to go from initial submission to hardcopies that can be held in a person’s hand. So, I have waited. A few days ago, my copies finally arrived.

I checked the table of contents, found my name, and opened first to page 19. There I read my story about Christmas 1996, when my carpenter husband and I were nine months pregnant and lacking a decent place to lay our heads. Sound familiar?

Next, I flipped to page 110. There I read my story from further back, 1990, when my three girlfriends and I celebrated a most unusual Christmas in a spartan train car, accompanied by two inebriated and tearful Marines, an enormous farm boy in overalls and flannel, and a Jewish pizza parlor owner from Tel Aviv.

The second story wasn’t exactly how I had originally written it. Because the book was published by a Seventh Day Adventist press, and Adventists don’t do caffeine or alcohol, a few details had to be changed. The soldiers couldn’t be drunk—even though in reality they were. In fact, the reader couldn’t even be led to suspect they had possibly been drinking. And the morning coffee we so needed after that long night had to be orange juice instead. I winced, but that’s editing, I suppose. No big deal.

I read the rest of the stories—other authors’ hearts spilled out in the form of squiggly bits of black ink on the white pages. It’s always amazing to me how a collection of stories can bring the blur of the past into crisp focus. Laura Ingalls Wilder’s Little House series is so beloved now, not because she was so particularly brilliant, but because she (and her daughter) put the work into crafting her life experiences into stories for others to read.

What was her very ordinary life is now a window into a different time and place, accessible to people all around the world, all because she was willing to write it, edit it, and put it out there for us all to see. That’s how this Christmas story book is, too. Each short story is a glimpse into someone else’s life experience, and we are the beneficiaries.

As I read, I wondered if this compilation of stories is as important to any of them (the other authors) as it is to me. Have they been in print before? I recognize some of the names of the other contributors. For me, this is a first. I wonder, does it still feel special to people with other books in print?

To be honest, though, I wasn’t as excited about the book as I had assumed I would be. I’d been looking forward to this moment for so many years, and the anticipation had ramped up to dangerous levels. But when the books actually arrived, and I held them in my hand for the first time, I didn’t feel the jubilation I had predicted. On the contrary, I felt fairly deflated. It wasn’t the book’s fault. My ego was still smarting from a few hours prior, when I had received an email regarding a writing contest I had entered.

ACFW’s First Impressions contest is only open to writers of fiction who have never been published in anything book-length. That’s me, baby. I cleaned up my WIP (that’s work in progress, in writer-speak), read over the contest’s entry instructions approximately 27 times, and then nervously submitted both my meager entry fee and the first five pages of my novel, along with a back cover-style blurb.

I told myself I was entering just to get the valuable feedback from the three judges, but who am I kidding? I like to win things. I wanted to at least be a finalist. I thought my first five pages were tight and clean, and I assumed I had a pretty good chance. I waited.

When I received the email containing my score cards and comments, only hours before my books arrived in the mail, I really didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t a finalist. Not by a long shot. One judge had generously assigned me 98 points out of a possible 100. The only remarks consisted of one compliment on a particular sentence, and an overall note that said the story was enjoyable. Another judge was a little more critical but at least offered extensive feedback in every category. I can work with feedback like that, even though the scores only added up to a 77. The third and final judge also offered significant feedback, much of it quite positive and helpful, but my overall score from that judge only came to 60 points.

Sixty.

Out of 100.

In the high school world where I so recently taught, 60 is the bare minimum score required to pass. In the private school I attended for a few years, it would have been a solid F.

Ouch.

Three score cards: a high A, a C+, and a D-/F. What am I supposed to do with a spread like that? Was my five-page entry excellent, average, or poor? The feedback was all over the map, but one thing was certain: two of the three judges didn’t deem my work anywhere close to being finalist quality, even for beginners. It isn’t ready. I’m not ready. I have a lot of work to do.

Unfortunately, since my earliest days, I have measured my own self-worth in my ability to write. Even when I was a teacher, what I wanted to do, what I loved to do, what I longed to do was write. Facing rejection is tough when it’s attached to identity. Who are we, after all, when we realize we aren’t who we always wanted to be? Of course, it isn’t healthy to create an entire identity around something so fickle. I know this. I’m working on it.

I’m really not fishing for compliments, friends. Truly. I ‘m just being a little transparent here. We generally try to hide the things that sting, don’t we? Life’s little victories are posted on social media with the semi-humble hashtag #blessed. Life’s little disappointments, on the other hand, are tucked away into the back of the dresser drawer, under the socks.

When my long-awaited copies of the Christmas book arrived, only a few hours after the contest score cards, they unexpectedly felt more like a consolation prize than a victory. Remember the lovely parting gifts on The Price is Right? When a contestant was hoping to win *A NEW CAR*, being informed they were going home with a lovely new food dehydrator just didn’t feel very exciting. Even the background music sounded disappointed. But the contestants had to be grateful, right? They had to say thank you and shake Bob Barker’s hand and act excited to receive that lovely parting gift, even though it wasn’t what they had hoped for at all. They had to put on a brave face and shake it off and convince themselves, all the way back to their seat in the studio audience, that it was fine. Everything was fine. They had made it to the coveted contestant’s row, and they were going home with a free gift. It was a win, right?

That’s how I felt this week. It’s fine. Everything is fine. I am grateful for the feedback. It’s helpful and will make me a better writer in the long run. I’m happy to have a paperback book with my name on both page 19 and 110. My identity is not so fragile that a little discouragement destroys me. Swing the cameras back up to the smiling host on the stage. Cut to commercial. I’ll be fine.

My name is finally in a paperback, but of course, I have no use for five copies of the same book. I will keep one in my three boxes of special things that survived the brutal winnowing process I wrote about this past summer. I will give one copy to my parents. Two copies are going to the people who commented on the following image, which I posted both here on Substack Notes and on Facebook over the last few days.

That leaves one copy for you, faithful readers. If you would like a collection of Christmas stories, including two of my own and 30-some others, leave a comment below at the bottom of this post and I will put your name in the hat, even if you already entered on Facebook. Those of you who read on Tuesdays, when my posts first hit your email inbox, will be the early birds getting the worms this time around. I will choose the winner of the final remaining copy of the book late TODAY, Tuesday, November 21, 2023. Just drop a comment—any comment—to enter. Quite honestly, I don’t get many comments here. Your chances of winning are very good—and I will ship it out right away to anywhere in the world.

If you don’t win a free copy in the giveaway, but you want to dive into a great collection of Christmas stories, you can buy a copy for yourself, either at Amazon (click here) or at Adventist Book Center (click here). If you like heartwarming stories, thick with nostalgia, the spirit of giving, and some crazy adventure (like the one about the Greyhound bus that stranded passengers on the side of a snowy hill on a sub-zero night—wow!) you will enjoy this collection. And of course, it makes a nice gift, too.

Really, I am grateful. And my name is in a paperback book! I’m still trying to come to terms with the score cards from the contest. I’m also less than two weeks away from having no fixed address, homeless—or at least location-independent—by choice, and it has my emotions a little out of whack. The stress level around here has been fairly high, as we wrap up the final details in preparation for walking away from the only way of life we’ve ever known and launching into this crazy nomadic future of uncertainty we’ve chosen. It’s kind of a big deal. But we will be ok.

I’m especially grateful for you, dear readers, for sticking with me. Allow me to call out three by name:

Joanne Crawshaw has known Andy and the Chidwicks for much longer than I have. Her family was influential in my husband’s upbringing through the church they attended together in Santa Barbara, California in the 1980s. I truly believe Joanne and her husband helped mold Andy into the man I have been privileged to call my husband for 31 years now (our anniversary, which I wrote about last week, is today as I write). Thanks, Joanne.

Sharla Gottschalk is one of those rare and precious forever friends. She and I raised babies together a lifetime ago in Vancouver, Washington. Now she helps run an organization that assists immigrants in getting their legal residency paperwork in order. I am so proud of the strong work she does there. Through all of life’s ups and downs, I know I can count on her as a faithful friend, regardless of the distance that separates us. Thanks, Sharla.

Tracie Heskett is a friend I’ve made in the writer community. She writes an impressive array of academic curriculum for elementary and middle school, as well as leveled readers. Tracie and I have connected on a variety of topics and share similar opinions on matters of faith and family. Her comments are always insightful. Thanks, Tracie.

Next week’s post isn’t planned out yet. It will be our last week living on this property, the property that has been in our family for fifty years, and I have no idea what the week will hold.

Happy Thanksgiving to you all, dear friends. May you be reminded of all God has done for you. Regardless of the difficulties that come our way, we have so many reasons to be grateful.

Until next week,

Sherry

P.S. Bonus fun fact for those of you who made it all the way to the end: my brother was once a contestant on The Price is Right. He did not win *A NEW CAR* but he did receive a lovely parting gift. It was a food dehydrator. He gave it to me.

P.P.S. Don’t forget to leave a comment to be entered into the giveaway for the last copy of the Christmas book.