Category Archives: Writing

How to destroy gluttony … along with yourself.

Last night I experienced something amazing. Something worth sharing with the 95 people sitting there ready to listen to me.

And then I picked up a microphone and killed it. But not in a mic drop way.

In a mic wasting way.

Who Am I?

I posted several months ago about learning that I’d been misunderstanding (or misdiagnosing, since that’s the way I treat it) my personality.

I’m an enthusiast.

The Enthusiast: Spontaneous, Versatile, Acquisitive, Scattered

It was a shock to learn that about myself, because I wasn’t living like an enthusiast. I was so unhealthy that I was living like a reformer. This is like being a juggler in a space too small to throw a ball.

The Reformer: Principled, Purposeful, Self-controlled, perfectionistic

Reformers are awesome! Enthusiasts need them, because without them, we’re like untethered helium balloons. But when an enthusiast acts like a reformer, all is not well. At least, that’s the case for me.

I need a little dash of the reformer, but 7’s aren’t known for little dashes.

The Sin of the Seven

A type 7 struggles with gluttony. I hate that word, hate being associated with it. I balked at the description. It even made me doubt my diagnosis personality.

I can’t be a 7, because I don’t struggle with gluttony!

True, if you restrict it to its foodish connotation. I don’t overeat. Quite the opposite.

I get teased for eating like a bird, thank-you-very-much!

I’m so sick of trying to figure out who I am that I’m starting to think the need to analyze my personality is the only thing wrong with me.

Maybe I’m not a 7. Maybe there is no 7. But I can’t deny, when I see it in its broader sense, gluttony fits me.

Example 1: My friend and I decided to make terrariums last year. She made 2. I made 10.

Example 2: I own over 50 pairs of pants.

I could go on, but the point is … I’m a glutton. I take everything to the extreme.

And that includes how far I restrict myself.

I do this naturally. If I “diagnose” something about myself, I go after it the way I collect pants and ecosystems-in-a-jar.

Example 1: When I did the keto diet, I ate under 6 carbs/day and under 600 calories. I lost weight all right, but it made me very sick. I still have the jeans I wore when I was skeletal, just in case I ever do that to myself again.

Example 2: I wasted the mic last night. I had something of value to say, but I kept it to myself.

And why did I do that? Because I’ve convinced myself that my gift is my curse. That my love of words has to be quenched.

Brevity: The Author’s Ball & Chain

As a writer, my gluttonous tendencies have to be restrained. Right?

Right?

King says proper book editing means cutting everything unnecessary. He’s right, of course. He’s the king.

But my brain takes his advice and runs with it. Too far. Always too far.

Say it in as few words as you possibly can.

Unfortunately, my word-cutting often yields the same results my diets do. In no time at all, I’ve taken my healthy story and turned it into a skeleton.

Don’t Keto Your Soul

Both ministries I serve in keep me running. This is my fault, of course, because I add work. I love work. I love ideas and crafts and making things better, always better, always more.

Last night at Journey Groups I was forced to do something I hadn’t done in years.

Be in the worship service.

I have some auditory issues (Misophonia) so I avoid spaces where I can’t control or escape noises that trigger me. This has led me to avoid the worship service.

It works for me, because it makes me available in my place of service longer. I’m able to help people in the lobby while everyone else is singing.

Win-Win, Right?

But last night I had to go into worship, because I needed to make some announcements afterward.

I was trapped in the room, surrounded by singing and prayer, and something happened. It got to my soul. Shook me. Fed me.

It’s been years. YEARS! Oh my gosh, it’s been years since I stood in that space, allowing myself to be a part of the worship service.

When I took the mic, I didn’t want to make noise and ruin the way I felt, the way I assumed everyone else felt. And I almost shared it, almost allowed myself to speak and cry and use my gift for words and vulnerability.

Almost.

Say it in as few words as you possibly can.

I quenched it. I had the opportunity to be vulnerable (which I love doing) with the group I’m there to serve. And I edited, King-style, a moment that should have been allowed to breathe.

Here’s what I should have said.

“Hi, I’m Rach. I struggle with a need to share words and a fear that no one wants to hear them.”

There’s so much more I wanted to say. A whole lesson in how to work on yourself without taking it too far. How to prune without killing. How to come through re:generation and still be yourself afterward.

Stuff the Journey Groups campus director should say!

But I didn’t say it.

Because I struggle with a fear that no one wants to hear what I have to say, I made my announcements, dismissed everyone to their small groups, and went back to running around.

Oh, well. There’s always next week.

K bye, Vella

I’ve known of Vella’s impending doom (officially closing in February) for a few months, but I held off on announcing it because it didn’t seem worth mentioning.

Losses come in clumps for me. In 2020, I lost my foster daughter and my ministry within two months of each other. While most of my wailing during that time was focused on Izzy, I had enough brainpower left over to grieve the closed church doors as well. Both losses hurt, and closer to equally than I would have admitted at the time.

But the current clump has a clear winner. And it’s not Vella.

Mom

There are few things you care about losing while you’re losing your mother.

Sherry Johnson
01/06/1954 – 10/02/2024

When I read the email from Amazon, I shrugged and swiped it away. Mom was in ICU. Her rapid decline was all I could think about.

I didn’t write. Didn’t publish. Didn’t check if the crown sat atop my most popular book. Didn’t care that what I’d been doing for two years was about to poof.

The Zon Giveth, and the Zon Taketh Away

A few months after losing my mom, I finally asked myself how I felt about Amazon’s decision.

Ross sums it up pretty well:

I’m an outlier, as usual. Many of my peers found the news distressing. But for me, Vella’s demise brings the same relief as the canceling of a show I’ve stopped enjoying but can’t stop watching.

It’s About Time!

Part of being a good writer is knowing when to shut up. Always leave the audience wishing for more.

I will forever be thankful for the experience Vella gave me. I put myself out there, got some great feedback, made a little cash, and met some incredible people. But I was ready to go.

I’m glad Vella’s poofing, because it might be the only way I was going to leave. This doesn’t feel like loss. It feels like escape.

What’s Next?

My plans could change, but right now I’m thinking I’ll publish my books here on my website. Print, audio, pictures! Fun!

Sabbatical

Day One

I’ve never taken a trip by myself before. While I was in re:generation, I stayed one night in a hotel to do my inventory. I made the mistake of booking close to home, and as soon as I was finished with my work, I went straight there. This time I found a cabin 3 hours from home and booked a 3 night stay.

The Drive

I knew before I hit Rockwall (meaning, within 30 minutes of driving away from my family) that this was going to be difficult. I cried before I left the house, then again when I turned down the first unfamiliar road.

All I could think about was doing this incredibly selfish thing–leaving my family for 4 whole days of rest. Would they eat well while I was gone? Would Gabe get to his classes on time? Noah likes to be alone, so I worried less about him. But Phill. Trying to work and drive Gabe places and feed everyone. Maybe even himself?

I’ve been married since I was 19, a mother since I was 21. Somewhere along the way, I lost who I am. I’ve been trying so hard to find her. So far, I haven’t located her in Oklahoma. It’s beautiful here, but like I told my husband this morning, it’s also beautiful at home.

Slow Start

I’m feeling a little panicky, because I’m still me here. I came all this way, but no magical unlocking of my block has occurred. Episode 131 of Carousel is still open on my computer, still not getting written.

No one is interrupting me. If I can’t write here, I can only blame myself. Maybe that’s what I came here to learn.

I kind of hope so.

Radical Rest

Not a Napper

Someone commented to me several weeks ago that they’d never seen me do anything halfway. I assured them there were things, and when they asked for an example, one word came out.

“Rest.”

I do that halfway, if at all.

I’ve been working on myself, following themes that I believe come from God. Trust was a big one. Coming out of my cave, wanting to live again. Pride is ongoing. Pretty sure that one will be around until I die. But rest is the first one I’ve bucked at.

God told me to rest, and I had one question for Him.

“But what do I do while I rest?”

Spiritually, I might as well be five years old, drumming my heels on my kindergarten mat. Because I hate this. I don’t want to do it. I want to be busy. Thinking about resting makes my tummy tense up. Can’t breathe!

I have a new therapist, acquired in similar fashion to my previous one. Someone else’s doing. Because I’m not going to seek help. But if it’s thrown at me, I tend to allow it. So here we go, back into the swamp of my thoughts.

EMDR

We started EMDR last week. By started, I mean we installed my safe place. I already had one from doing a couple sessions with my previous therapist.

Granny’s Porch.

If you’ve read my book, Summer, According to Sam, then you’ve already visited Granny’s porch. It seemed to me like the perfect place to call safe, because I have only happy memories there. Sitting in her swing, shelling purple hulls, watching the sunrise while sipping my coffee flavored sugar-milk. Granny’s there, too, watering her plants from a re-purposed milk jug.

But after testing it out, my therapist said I needed a new safe place. Why? Because when he asked me how I felt on Granny’s porch, I gave him a non-restful answer.

“Eager.”

That’s how I feel. Not at peace. Itching for adventure. That sounded right to me, because eagerness sounds safe. Being still doesn’t.

I loved sitting with Granny, loved the peas and the coffee and the sounds of whip-poor-wills. But my feet can’t wait to hit the ground. I was supposed to be trying to stay on the porch, but every time he paused to ask what was going on in my head, I was somewhere else.

On my motorcycle, playing hide-and-seek in the woods. On the trails down to Lake Texoma. Busting rocks to find the ones with sparkles in them. Running, cartwheeling, climbing trees. Granny’s porch isn’t a safe place. It’s a launchpad.

The Boat

He asked me to choose a new safe place, one that didn’t propel me into adventure. I deflated, rebelling on the inside, but not telling him that, because even my therapist doesn’t get to see the really, really, really, real me.

I know me, though, how desperately I want to be anywhere but with myself. So I knew this had to be a place I couldn’t escape. I didn’t think my therapist would approve of a cell with no door, so I went the other way.

Unfathomable space.

The boat is simple, more like a raft, really. No motor, no oars … it can only drift. The sky is clear, the sun doesn’t hurt my eyes, and the water is so still it barely licks my floating platform. I can’t google anything, answer any texts, clean up any messes, learn a new craft. No one can ask me for anything. I can’t win or lose any games. Can’t entertain anyone. I just lie there on my back, not even imagining the next scene I’m going to write, because I can’t type it out anyway. Everything gets really quiet. I take a deep breath. And it comes out quivering.

Ahh, this is what rest feels like?

At first I tense up, because I need to swim ashore and do all the things. Someone needs to clean the kitchen. Make sure Phill eats, because he doesn’t take care of himself either. Wash Gabe’s karate uniform. Get Noah to work.

My terrariums aren’t gonna water themselves!

Actually, they do. That’s kinda the point. But I won’t let them, because I can’t leave the lid on. Gotta tweak, gotta replace a plant, gotta move a rock or a shell. I can’t rest. I can’t stop working, even when it’s all done and I’m just creating work for the sake of staying busy.

But on the boat I have to stop. There’s literally nothing I can do there. It’s not just rest. It’s radical rest. And I had no idea how much I hungered for it. When we test it out, I don’t leave the boat. I’m breathing differently there, and it feels so good, even the lure of adventure can’t budge me.

Tomorrow we’ll use my freshly installed safe place to start a journey. We’ll seek–and hopefully destroy–the voice that tells me I’m not good enough. The voice I’m trying to silence by staying busy. By publishing the best episodes, having the cleanest house, taming a terrarium so ferociously it might as well have plastic plants in it.

And after I confront that voice, I’ll rest.

Chaos

I happened upon a little boy, sitting on the ground beside a hole filled with baby snakes. He was stirring it with a stick, watching them writhe. When he noticed me, he accidentally flicked the stick. Out popped one baby snake, which slithered away.

Dozens remained inside, but his eyes followed the escaped one, and then he looked up at me, mouth sagging, and uttered one pitiful, shame-filled word.


“Chaos.”

I woke up laughing. I’m not big on dream interpretation, but this one felt like a slap. That little boy was me, and though I don’t love having my work compared to a pit of snakes, the way I treat my books sometimes makes the comparison hit.

My Chaos

That baby snake could be a questionable comma or an uncomfortable plot. Or something vulnerable about me that shows through my writing. It could be my focus on attention for myself instead of a heart for the work. And when it gets flicked out, it’s all I can see. Everything else is in order, but I cry, “Chaos!”

So dramatic.

I got sick over the holidays–so sick I missed church and Journey Groups. It went on for weeks, making me skip Christmas gatherings. I even got off schedule with my writing and publishing, though you would think I could do those things while stuck on the couch. But my brain was mush.

I had finished Sam, (book coming soon!) but I came to a dead stop on The Misadventures of Mia Gibbs and barely stayed above water on Carousel. And as for promoting? Nope. I went from dreaming of readers to hoping everyone was too busy to read. I felt like a failure, with a pit too stuffed to stir.

Reset

Being knocked down was the best thing that could have happened to me. All the pointless baby snakes slithered away, leaving my pit less crowded. I confronted my fear of getting behind … by getting behind.

Then I made a new plan. Not to plan. To lean into who I am. Not just a Vella writer, or even just a writer. I don’t mind letting the wind take me where it will, because my Father makes the wind.

I’m back! Writing, editing, publishing, and loving it. Until the wind takes me somewhere else ….

A Time for Everything

No Time Like the Present?

Or no time BUT the present? I live in a constant state of frantic hurry, chasing moving targets, burning myself out. I take pictures so I can look back, forgetting to look around in the moment. I nearly did that today, even after my son counseled me last night to slow down.

Take deep breaths. Clean out the clutter in my mind.

Time to Celebrate!

I published the final episode of Summer, According to Sam today. The book was finished years ago, accepted for publication, and run through the entire editing process. So I could just shrug and not make a thing of this.

But it is a thing. A thing that made me weep with joy today … and I nearly didn’t tell anyone. I nearly didn’t write about it. If you’ve read the story, especially the final episode, the reason for this post will be obvious to you.

I’ve been doing some thinking, the same way Sam did.

Time to Make Amends

It’s easy to forget that people love me and that it hurts them to watch me struggling. I’ve made no secret of my fight to find joy again, to even want to be here at all. I’m not sorry for that, because I believe people need to know they’re not alone. I believe in being truthful. The part I regret is how rarely I share my good days. Days like this one.

Writing is therapy to me, so naturally, I do it more when I’m low. Even now, I’d rather get up and do something else. The house is half-decorated for Christmas, there are dishes in the sink, and I still have two stories to update on Vella.

But here I pause. And I say thank you. Thank you to my readers, to my family, to my herd, to my Father. Thank you for good days and second and third and fourth chances.

A Boy and His Elephants

Yep, another post about Sam.

Or more appropriately, about the inspiration for him. Summer, According to Sam is almost complete on Vella, and in celebration of publishing episode 43, I promised some pictures that inspired one of the scenes.

First, I have to share this post from my old blog, showing a book Gabe and I made together. I’m not sure where the images are stored, so it’s easier to link it.

The costume mentioned in author notes:

boy in elephant costume

The jungle, just because:

He was under the trampoline with the water hose running on it, creating a jungle for his toys.

boy under umbrella with jungle animal toys

And my older son, Noah:

This photo was taken when he was twelve. I used a different one from the same session and changed his eyes in it to use it for the cover. He didn’t like having his picture made and was at his limit when I took this final shot.

boy wearing cruel summer shirt

Together, Noah and Gabe inspired Sam. They’re 25 and 19 now and still two of my favorite three people in the world.

It’s Nice to Meet Me

Remember when I said I was an enneagram 1? You probably don’t, so here it is. If you don’t want to look back at it, I’ll sum it up by telling you that I was frustrated by a situation at re:generation, and I was convinced that my “oneness” made it a particularly cruel hurdle.

Well … turns out I’m not a 1. In fact, I’m so not a 1 that when I start acting like a 1, it’s a red flag, warning me that I’m not healthy.

Danger! Funk Ahead!

So what’s my real number?

Hello 7!

My real number kinda blew my mind. The enneagram seven is nicknamed the enthusiast. The one is the reformer, and it’s where I go when I’m unhappy. So basically, this means that when I’m not healthy, I go from loving everything to trying to fix everything.

I go from sprinkling glitter everywhere to vacuuming that messy crap up. I go from Phoebe to Monica. And speaking of Monica …

Monica friends seven

She pretty much sums up how I feel about my new number. I don’t want to make everything perfect. I want to make everything beautiful. But when I’m low — and I’ve been really low for a long time — I Monica my Phoebe. Hence, the confusion.

I tested as a 1 because I was just that unhappy.

Don’t get me wrong. Healthy ones are amazing. One of my best friends is a one, and I adore her. But a seven acting like a one is a miserable creature.

The New Me

I’m getting in touch with my enthusiasm. There are days when the words are flowing, and I dance through the house in celebration of a well-written episode. But holding on to that is difficult. Sometimes I still try to put my 7 characteristics in a cage. The chaos of my creative heart terrifies me.

I worry that I’m too much and too little at the same time. Can I really write fantasy novels and enjoy myself for a living? Isn’t that too self-indulgent? Shouldn’t I be the queen of clean?

Do I dare to allow myself to get used to feeling joyful?

I’m currently on step 7 in re:generation. I didn’t plan to wait and share my real number on this step. But it works out great, because step 7 is to follow. It’s time to put the things I’m learning into action. No more going in my cave, no more seeking out the comfort of loneliness. I need to move forward, to be brave, and do new things.

And it’s really hard to move forward when you don’t know who you are. I’ve been trying for so long to be what I thought I had to be, that I don’t know how to let myself breathe. I feel guilty for my good days. That doesn’t sound very enthusiastic, does it?

There’s joy in the juggle, if I will allow myself to be the scattered, creative person God made me to be.

Flat on My Back

Last week was rough. I feel less like I’m on a roller coaster now and more like I’m on a seesaw. Still up and down, but not nearly as exciting.

Re:generation is hard. Inventory is hard. I thought I had knocked it out. On the first week of inventory, I got a hotel room and plowed through it. I even wrote insightful little summaries about each category. Then I found out I had skipped an important step. I had to face some hard stuff–stuff I didn’t even want to think about, let alone share with my group.

I hadn’t knocked it out. It had knocked me out.

Back to Start

Inventory again. Not where I wanted to be. Instead of getting another hotel room, I visited my childhood church, intending to approach my new problem using an old, trusted method.

There used to be these huge cement tables behind the building. Once when I was young, I spent hours lying on my back on one of those tables, asking God for help. I had nowhere to live and no idea what I was going to do. I think back to that day when I’m at my lowest, and I remember feeling like God met me there. So it seemed a great place to visit.

After packing up all my re:gen stuff, I drove to Providence, Texas. I needed a date with God, lying flat on my back. I brought a plastic table cloth, because the last time I had seen the tables, they were covered in weird fungi and droppings from the trees. Nothing was going to stop me climbing up there.

And this is where the tables used to be.

Rerouting …

Now I’d driven more than an hour to lie on a table that didn’t exist anymore. I stood there and cried about it for a minute, feeling rejected. The same way I felt the last time I was there. I showed up for my date, but where was God?

Not knowing what else to do, I went around the building, searching for a place to sit that might mean something to me. But I’m allergic to wasps, and they seemed to be in all the cozy places. Alone, no EpiPen, hardly a signal on my phone, I wasn’t risking getting stung.

I took a few pictures as I wandered.

I love taking pictures, but it wasn’t what I came for. So I kept walking, eventually into the cemetery. Providence is a small community, so I knew a lot of the names on the headstones. It was nice, and a little sad, to think of them. I loved this broken headstone that used to say GONE HOME.

Reading Into Things

I wondered if God was telling me to go home. I couldn’t do what I came for. I wasn’t really trying to accomplish anything specific anymore. Just reminiscing, trying to make some use of what felt like a pointless trip.

And then I came across this, and it brought me to my knees. I knew Carolyn and Buddy were there, because I had been to their funerals. But this was the first time I saw their headstone.

They were the answer to that prayer I prayed the day I was on the table. Carolyn came and got me and took me home with her.

A New Perspective

Maybe not completely new. I’ve come to the conclusion many times that my story isn’t one of abandonment, but one of rescue. It’s easy to lose perspective when you’re listing every horrible thing that ever happened to you.

This was the reminder I needed. I’m not doing this alone. I can’t see the full plan yet, but there is one. God showed up for our date, just not where I thought He would. His plan was better than mine, as usual.

I wasn’t supposed to lie on a crusty table, focusing on feeling lost and alone. He wanted me to remember that when I’m flat on my back, I should be on my knees. Still looking up, but also forward, because there’s something good on the way.

I made a little wildflower bouquet for Carolyn and Buddy, and then I spent some time right there, thanking them both for what they did for me. And I’m still processing why I also felt like I needed to apologize to them. I’ll be working on feeling like a burden for a while yet, I’m afraid. But at least I know I need to work on it.

Leaving it Behind

The last picture I took is a reminder to myself to put the past where it belongs. I have to dig some stuff up in my recovery process, but I don’t have to dwell on it. I certainly don’t have to relive it. It’s time to let it go.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’ve always been a pencil person. I have a power sharpener by my desk, and I zip a pencil in it every time I so much as jot down an item on my grocery list. Then back into the pencil cup it goes, tip upward, one yellow beast in a bouquet of wrist stabbers.

The Point?

Mistakes get erased. No dull-tipped pencils, and certainly no pens, ever cross my desk. My eraser dies before I run out of graphite, so I keep a pack of extra erasers handy. Because what good is a pencil if you can’t erase mistakes? What good is any writing utensil if it betrays you by revealing your imperfections?

This is, of course, why I have 15 novels sitting here unpublished. When I was in therapy, I told my therapist what I felt my headstone should say.

Here lies Rachel.

She nearly did so many things.

On Valentine’s Day, my friend gave me a gift. A journal and a pack of glitter gel pens. I’ve had some of these babies before. I doodled with them, admiring the slick way they lay down ink, turning the page to watch the sparkles. But I’ve never really written anything with them. Especially not in a wonderful new journal! It’s even my favorite color!

So what was I to do? Every pretty pen I’ve ever owned has dried out, wasted, owned by the wrong girl. A pencil person, unable to shine. Girls like me don’t deserve shimmery ink. Do we?

Trying Something New

Deep breath. It’s just a pen and a journal. The pages can be torn out. I worried that I would have bad penmanship or get behind trying to record a scripture while the pastor was talking. I worried that the ink would bleed through the page. I hate that. I might misspell a word. The horror.

But, wielding a glitter pen, I committed words to the page. And I made a mistake. I knew it! No eraser. I needed to start over, maybe tear it out and rewrite all my notes later. Then it occurred to me that I could take notes in an ugly notebook, in pencil of course, and then transcribe carefully, slowly, into the journal. That’s when I realized that my perfectionism was rearing its ugly head, not only making me feel horrible, but causing me to miss the sermon.

So I stopped. And I wrote this verse, because it was from my re:generation book, and it had hit me just right.

“For freedom Christ has set us free. Stand firm therefore, and do not submit again to a yoke of slavery.”

I wrote it in green glitter and then added some red, which made it look like a bad attempt at making it 3D. But I didn’t care. I’m free. Flawed, but loved. I went back to my sermon notes and scribbled out my error, and it made a nice little glittery blob on the page. Man, you could really see the sparkles in a blob! Beauty from ashes.

Glitter Pen Girl

I’m officially a glitter pen girl now. I still try to turn my mistakes into perfect round spots, or even better, hearts or flowers. But I’m not so worried about erasing everything now.