Monday, February 9, 2015

Vivien Leigh as Scarlett O'Hara
Scarlett O’Hara. Katniss Everdeen. Michael Hosea. Jane Eyre. Do you recognize any of these names? Obviously, they are all characters from books. And yes, they are all heroes. But before they were heroic, they were flawed and fallible. These frail, imperfect, unlikely paragons struggled with weaknesses in their character—like serious flaws—vanity, envy, fear, jealousy, and pride, just to name a few! But instead of turning the reader off, their failings made these characters relatable, and oh, so memorable.

The heroine in my latest novel, Cheryl Cooper, is likewise afflicted (Where Hope Dwells, Guideposts 2015). Instead of being smart, savvy, and self-confident, Cheryl struggles with a less than perfect self-image, and she hides a bitter secret—unforgiveness toward the man who left her standing at the altar. So when circumstances thrust her into an Amish community, in the middle of an investigation into a kidnapping, Cheryl is quite certain she is not the person for the job…or is she?

Very often, the books I write have a theme that coordinates with something I am facing in my personal life. No, I haven’t recently been left standing at the altar. Nor have I ever been the lead investigator into a kidnapping. But I have battled with unforgiveness, and like Cheryl, I could not see the bitterness in myself, yet I readily saw it in the people around me. These two things are what prompted me to tackle the tough issue of forgiveness—both in the church, and outside it in our circle of friends.

Bethany House, 2014
Another example is from my last historical romantic suspense, Tide and Tempest. Like Cheryl, the main character, Tillie McGrath, has developed a sense of unworthiness that stems from personal choices she made as a girl. The consequences of these actions not only led to an unplanned pregnancy, they led to the loss of her child and murder of the man she loved. Thankfully, while these circumstances do not exactly mirror mine, I can say that I understand what it means to lose a child. The grief, guilt, and sorrow that I poured into Tillie sprang from my own experience after the death of my son—as do the healing, strength and victory that she claims by tale’s end.

Isn’t that what makes characters in books so endearing? Don’t we hope that these beloved friends for a time will somehow be better than we are ourselves? We want their circumstances to be different. We want their person to be somehow improved. And we want our own lives to reflect what we have read.

I believe the best books—and the most memorable characters—are the ones that reflect something about ourselves—not just in our ugliness, but in our striving toward godliness. Their story urges us toward victory, and encourages us to believe in the strength of our character and power of our Creator to overcome. Their message is healing and hopeful, even if at first, the words we read remind us of our lack. And they linger in our conscience—these beloved books—the pages dog-eared and wrinkled where something we read touched or challenged us.

My prayer is that the names of my characters will someday be added to the list of those that readers count as memorable. That they will linger…and that they will help someone else overcome the failure inside.

BIO: Elizabeth Ludwig is the bestselling author of Christmas Comes to Bethlehem, Maine and the highly successful Edge of Freedom series from Bethany House Publishers. Her popular literary blog, The Borrowed Book, enjoys a wide readership. Elizabeth is an accomplished speaker and teacher, often attending conferences and seminars where she lectures on editing for fiction writers, crafting effective novel proposals, and conducting successful editor/agent interviews. Along with her husband and children, she makes her home in the great state of Texas. To learn more, visit ElizabethLudwig.com.

Contact Elizabeth: HERE

Sunday, February 8, 2015

Paul, still speaking of his imprisonment in Rome ...

19 For I know that this will turn out for my deliverance through your prayer and the supply of the Spirit of Jesus Christ, 20 according to my earnest expectation and hope that in nothing I shall be ashamed, but with all boldness, as always, so now also Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by death.

 21 For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain. 22 But if I live on in the flesh, this will mean fruit from my labor; yet what I shall choose I cannot tell. 23 For I am hard-pressed between the two, having a desire to depart and be with Christ, which is far better. 24 Nevertheless to remain in the flesh is more needful for you. 25 And being confident of this, I know that I shall remain and continue with you all for your progress and joy of faith, 26 that your rejoicing for me may be more abundant in Jesus Christ by my coming to you again. (Philippians 1, NKJV)

Everything we do, everything we endure, is for one thing ... for the sake of the One who came to this earth and gave His life for us.

Every effort we make ... His life, His Spirit, working in us, as we surrender ourselves to Him. And every moment we’re here, it’s another chance to pray, to encourage, to affect others for Him, to bring them closer to Him.

Yet, under the surface of all the work and prayer and concern, we feel a longing for release. For home.

I’ve written of that before, but it’s true. Even Paul, who saw so clearly in his time, felt that tug to step through the veil and be made finally complete. But he as tells us, sometimes our reason for being kept here isn’t so much for our own refining and growth—although that’s part of it too—as it is because we’re still needed by those around us.

I think about this as I’ve watched my mother suffer various medical trials the last few years, things which at any moment could have, and some almost did, take her life. A vibrant, intelligent woman with a deep love for color and art and reading, she spends her days now sitting, waiting, listening ... nearly blind and all but confined to one place. Why? I’ve asked, so many times.

Because her journey isn’t finished yet, I keep hearing.

The prayers she offers for those she loves are invaluable. And she provides a reminder of the fragility of human life and relationships. An opportunity for our family, and others, to learn to minister to those weaker than ourselves.

Sure, sometimes her mind is fuzzy from the medications. And she often asks the same questions over and over, and then gets so busy thinking about the next thing she wants to say/ask that she doesn’t wait for my answer. I miss the woman she used to be ... but she’s still my mom. And I still need her. I need the lessons of love, of humility, of compassion.

However useless I might feel, too, in the throes of whatever trial I happen to be going through, there’s someone who needs me, and the lessons I have to share. Probably several someones, and not only my husband and children.

I am not finished yet. And, I’m willing to bet, neither are you.

Thursday, February 5, 2015


  • How long were you writing before your first publication?  
I wrote for almost ten years before I had my first novella published. 

  • How many manuscripts had you written by that time?
Homeschooling and a new adoption took up much of my time in that period, but I had managed to write three manuscripts. 

  • Have you published any of your early works since? Do you plan to?
I have not published any of my early works, and I don’t plan to. There was a very good reason that they were never picked up by any publisher! They were tools that taught me how to write.

  • What can you tell us about your writing schedule Are you a morning person? A night owl?
I am most definitely more of a morning person than a night owl. My husband and I like to be to bed by 9:30 or 10:00 at the latest. We’re both up by 5 or 5:30, him for work, me for a walk before I have to get my kids up for school. I like to write as soon as I get home from dropping off my daughter. If I can possibly get 2000 words written by noon, I’m feeling very much in the groove. That way, I can be done with my marketing by the time my girls and my husband get home in the afternoon. It leaves me able to enjoy time with my family.

  • When working on a manuscript, what do you do when you get stuck?
If I don’t have a deadline looming, I can leave it for a day or two and ponder it. I do my best thinking when I’m walking or cleaning or even trying to fall asleep at night. As I turn the problem over and over, a solution usually begins to appear, and I can get back to the writing.

If I have a deadline, I don’t have the luxury of stepping away from the manuscript for a time. In that case, I have to power through. There have been days where I’ve had to place my hands on the keyboard and force my fingers to move. I pray for the right words, and it’s amazing how God brings them to me.

  • Do you ever read your dialog aloud to see how it sounds? Have you ever performed an action you want one of your characters to carry out in order to help you visualize or describe it? Have you ever embarrassed yourself doing this?
I read the entire manuscript aloud right before I send it to the publisher. I like to get the flow of the story, the feel of the dialog, the tempo of the pacing. It’s a good way for me to pick out repeated words, poor grammar and misspellings. 

I do perform some of my characters’ actions in order to be able to describe them or in order to make sure that what I’m describing is physically possible! I don’t often embarrass myself, because I’m usually home alone when I write. That’s a good thing, because in addition to acting things out, I talk to myself. It’s how I think best and sometimes how I’m able to overcome writer’s block.

  • If you felt the Holy Spirit urging you to quit writing, would you do it?
If I felt that writing wasn’t what I was meant to do at that point in my life, yes, I would. If the Spirit gave me another task such as caring for my husband, children or parents that made it impossible to write, I would have to give it up. Right now, I believe I’m meant to keep writing. I’ve struggled with this decision in the past few months and wondered if writing was what I was supposed to keep doing. But the Lord keeps bringing me signs that he doesn’t want me to stop – two new writing opportunities, a new recognition of my writing, good reviews of my latest release. I can’t ignore those signs, either.


  • If you’re a plotter, have you ever tried pantsing it? If you’re a pantser, have you ever given plotting a try? Can you swing both ways, or are you a confirmed devotee of one of these methods? 
I’m a pantser, and I have tried plotting. It was a disaster. My characters were flat and lifeless, and the story grew complicated. When I focus on plot, my characters suffer. I much prefer to write a character-driven book where the plot flows from who the characters are. Pantsing works well for me. I’ve begun outlining the three major turning points for each of my books, and that has been a help in writing a synopsis and giving me a place to go when I get stuck with the story.

  • Does your best writing flow? Or are you most satisfied with the work that you’ve labored over, sweating and groaning?
My best writing will flow. When I’m in the zone and my fingers are flying over the keyboard, the story is strong and the characters are working well. When I labor with my words, the story is stiff and so are the characters. I had been having trouble getting going on my latest novel. One day, however, the words just came. I wrote a chapter in just a few hours. When my critique partner read it, she was able to pick out right away where in the story the words began to really come for me. It shows.


Thank you for taking the time to give us a glimpse into your writing life, Liz!

New York Times best-selling author Liz Tolsma is the author of Remember the Lilies, Daisies are Forever, Snow on the Tulips, and a contributing author of A Log Cabin Christmas. When not busy putting words to paper, Liz enjoys reading, walking, working in her large perennial garden, kayaking, and camping. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband and children, all adopted internationally.

To keep up with Liz Tolsma, visit liztolsma.com, become a fan on Facebook or follow her on Twitter.

Purchase her latest release, Remember the Lilies, on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or ChristianBook.com.








Tuesday, February 3, 2015

Here at The Borrowed Book blog, we feature authors and look at writing-related subjects. This year, however, we'd like to shift the overall theme to focus on overcoming obstacles.

God allows any number of troubles to touch us, for a variety of good purposes. Today, Liz Tolsma has graciously agreed to share with us a moving account of one such challenge she and her family have dealt with.


In November 2007, my husband and I adopted a five-year-old girl from an orphanage in the Philippines. We had two other children at the time, an 11-year-old son and a 7-year old daughter. We had adopted them as infants.

We knew that bringing an older child into our home would be a challenge. Though we thought we knew what we were getting ourselves into, the experience proved to be much more difficult than either of us could imagine. We knew that Jonalyn had cerebral palsy and that her speech was delayed. The cerebral palsy was something we felt confident we could handle. After all, the report stated that she could climb a few stairs even. We attributed her delays to orphanage living. Our son spent the first five months of his life in an orphanage and couldn’t even hold his head on his own when we first got him. How much more, than, a child who had spent five years in an institution.

I have a background in special education. In those first few hours with Jonalyn, I observed her closely. She was shy with us, but she seemed to have a sense of humor and interacted with her caregivers. She loved the bubbles we brought, but so does every five year old.

In the van on the way back to our hotel, the social worker who came with us for part of the ride gave Jonalyn a piece of paper. Our new daughter took that paper and was fascinated by crumpling it. Later, when we took her to play with the blocks in the playroom, she had no concept of stacking them. My stomach fell. There was something much more seriously wrong with her than orphanage delays.

Two months after we arrived home, our doctor confirmed that Jonalyn had microcephaly (literally small brain), leaving her with moderate to severe cognitive delays. We were told she would likely never live on her own. She also began having seizures during her sleep. Though we didn’t see the seizures, she was always sick afterwards. Caring for her was draining. She didn’t know how to come to us when she was hurt, was afraid of my husband, and couldn’t make decisions for herself.

But God is good and faithful. He upheld us during those very difficult days. He never left us and never forsook us. Slowly, things began to improve. We went to Disney World and took her on all of the rides she was tall enough for. She always went with my husband and during that time, learned that she could trust him, that he would keep her safe and love her. She is now a daddy’s girl through and through. Her seizures were identified and are now well controlled with medication. She has learned to love.

It was a time in my life when I had to learn to depend on God for everything. On my own, I couldn’t care for my daughter. I didn’t know how to help her. We felt rejected and alone. The Lord kept us together and kept us going through each new day. It was only in his strength that we managed to survive – no, we learned to thrive. He has given us a new normal and a daughter that we love more than we ever imagined we could.

Thank you, Liz, for sharing your story!


New York Times best-selling author Liz Tolsma is the author of Remember the Lilies, Daisies are Forever, Snow on the Tulips, and a contributing author of A Log Cabin Christmas. When not busy putting words to paper, Liz enjoys reading, walking, working in her large perennial garden, kayaking, and camping. She lives in Wisconsin with her husband and children, all adopted internationally.

To keep up with Liz, visit liztolsma.com, become a fan on Facebook, or follow her on Twitter.




Purchase her latest release, Rememeber the Lilies, on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, or ChristianBook.com.







Sunday, February 1, 2015

I grew up hearing, “Worry is a sin.” This is based, of course, on the scripture that tells us, “Do not be anxious for anything,” but ... what exactly is worry?

The dictionary would tell you that one definition of worry is to shake, to snap at or chew on, to rub repeatedly. This describes so perfectly what happens during those moments when we fall prey to our fears.

They pick us up ... shake us to disorient us ... then settle down for the chewing that leaves us shredded and raw.

The thought occurs to me ... maybe worry is not so much something that we do, as something that happens to us. And it’s the giving in to the worry—letting ourselves remain its victim, its prey—that we’re supposed to fight.

I suppose, really, it’s just a matter of semantics here, and “do not be anxious” and “do not give in to worry” are two different ways to say the same thing. Mentally, though, it helps me to think of the fear and worry as something outside myself, trying to get in and devour me.

Maybe it starts as a mere nibble at the edges of my heart. Maybe it’s a sharp snap, a snarl, that initially I recoil from. But it seems once worry gets its teeth into me, there’s a poison that seeps in, paralyzing, making me insensible to the fact that the worry is slowly, surely, shredding my soul and spirit.

How do we get free, then?

By throwing ourselves before the Lord. “...in everything, with all  prayer and supplication, make your requests known to God.” Sometimes it’s as simple as a desperate, God help me! Even that can provide at least the jolt that yanks us free from worry’s jaws.

Pray, we’re told, with every kind of prayer there is. And in everything. Not just the “big” things, but anything which threatens to steal in and nip at us. The more persistent the worry, the more prayer we should pour ourselves into.

And what then? A peace we cannot explain or even fully understand will, as Scripture says, guard us. God’s peace is, itself a force to be reckoned with. And lest we doubt that, do we consider the metaphor of peace “like a river”? We tend to think of peace like a pool, undisturbed, but Scripture says it’s as powerful and relentless as a flowing stream.

Imagine, then, a river sweeping in, and washing all those fears away.

6 Be anxious for nothing, but in everything by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God; 7 and the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4, NKJV)

Thursday, January 29, 2015

When I started writing novels, I had no idea. About anything. Somehow, I managed to pull together a stray chapter – a fleshed-out scene. But I was proud of it. And showed it to my mentor, Cindy Martinusen Coloma, who encouraged me to get to a writer’s conference to submit my “book.”

“All you need is a proposal,” she said. “A mini-proposal, really. Cover letter, a couple chapters…and a synopsis. ”

I nodded, wondering what in the world was a synopsis? Since Cindy was a busy author, I hated to bother her with those minor details. I worked at a library; why not look it up myself? Thus began what I refer to as my evolving synopsis style.

Side Note: If one has no plot, it’s not easy to write a synopsis. Even if one memorizes the definition.

At the beginning, I was a panster. I wrote as it came, by the seat-of-my-pants. For the first conference, I had two decent chapters that had no relation to one another, except in my mind. Different characters, different points of view. I had a problem. With only an inkling of how they might fit into the same story, I needed a plot, a way to connect them, or I couldn’t develop the dreaded synopsis for my proposal.

That situation birthed what I called my trusty “plot parties.” I invited three or four writers out for pie and coffee and we brainstormed ideas for my story. Madly taking notes, sometimes I got a great suggestion that made it worth the cost of the pie. More often, something was said that caused me to think, “Not that…but how about this?” By the end of the night I was not only on a sugar-high, but had something like a story pieced together. A plot.

Though I liked the panster role, as a new writer, I didn’t have the liberty to enjoy it long. A synopsis was always required. Agents and editors alike wanted to see how I’d crafted the story from the first page to the last. My chapters would show off the writing. But the synopsis would tell them if it was worth the read.

Once I accepted my lot, I came to rely on my synopsis. I wrote long, long ones, relating everything that happened. The cat sneaked under the house and came out the next day, dragging a clue. The protagonist went for coffee, then couldn’t get to sleep that night, setting her up to see something she normally wouldn’t. That bratty child down the street threw a ball through the neighbor’s window and made her mad – maybe she had a temper that got out of control? The protagonist’s sister collected pink lustre. I put in all the details I wanted to know for later. It became a very dear guide to my story.

Saving the long synopsis as “Synopsis.mine.doc” I began to cut words for the proposal. No editor wanted to know the sister collected pink lustre. I edited it over and over, then sent it to my first reader, Maxine, who cut more. Finally, I had something I could send to my agent, who cut it some more before sending it out in the proposal.

This worked through two books. And several unsold proposals.

During the writing of A Stitch in Crime, I tried something new. I took my first, long synopsis and cut
it into chapters, estimating where one chapter should end and another begin, drawing lines for separation. Using the required word count as a guide, I decided how many chapters were needed to make up the entire book. Then, as I wrote, I noted the word count for each chapter, writing it down. Having the chapter word counts written in bold ink on the page caused me to notice if concurrent chapters were all the same length. If they were too similar, I’d find a place to end a chapter early and cut the length every so often. To mix it up.

With this method, I was better able to keep track of things that shouldn’t slip by without another mention. I’d put a Post-it in a later chapter as a reminder. It looked a mess, but it served me well.

Truly, there is no right way to write and plot. There are many ways. You must find your own way. I finally found mine.

Though someone was just talking about Scrivener….



Cathy Elliott is a full-time writer in northern California whose cozy mysteries reflect her personal interests from quilting and antique collecting to playing her fiddle with friends. She also leads music at church and cherishes time with her grandchildren. Cathy’s other plot-twisting works include Medals in the Attic and A Vase of Mistaken Identity.

Tuesday, January 27, 2015

As I celebrate the recent release of my new cozy mystery, A Stitch in Crime, I find myself missing someone. Missing my plucky protagonist, Thea James, even amid much mention of her exploits. Once, her thoughts and movements and loves and concerns filled my head. They kept me company as I wrote recorded her adventures in the daytime and later, when I teetered on the edge of dreams, I’d plan what she might do tomorrow. 

I was so drawn into Thea’s story, often I didn’t notice certain things. Important things. Like the night I rushed into the kitchen, cut up my favorite veggies – broccoli, Brussels sprouts, and cabbage – and arranged them in the steamer. I turned on the heat, covered the pot, and hurried back to my computer. To Thea. She was in the middle of a very bad situation, in need of immediate rescue. No one could help her except me. I had to write her out of that wrong. And be quick about it.

It took about forty-five minutes to move the story past that terrible part, allowing Thea a chance to escape, but I was focused. Determined. Single-minded, if you will. And finally managed to bring Thea through without real harm. Whew. 

I sat back in my chair, happy, relaxed, breathing deep sighs of satisfaction. But wait. What was that smell? Straightening up, I did the head-cock thing. The veggies!

Like a rocket, I zoomed back into the kitchen and turned off the heat. Picking up the pot with the steamer inside, I noticed it seemed extra light. When I took off the lid, I saw why. No water. I’d forgotten to fill the bottom of the pot with water for steaming. And forgotten to set the timer. Thea’s dilemma had consumed my thoughts so much that now I had no dinner to consume.

Turning on the water, I allowed some to accumulate in the bottom of the pot. It sizzled resentfully. Steam rose up through the vegetables, moistening them. Hey, they didn’t look all that bad. I forked through and realized they weren’t burned. True, they had a curious smoked fragrance, but I didn’t see any burned broccoli. Of course, the pot was black as soot. I sent up a “thank You” that I’d used one of my heavy-duty, All-Clad pots that I love so much just for this reason. To accommodate my absent-minded, culinary skills. Especially on deadline.

What a relief. I’d saved Thea and the pots had saved dinner. A little butter, sprinkle of lemon pepper (my new favorite seasoning), a bit o'cheese, and it became a blackened feast. Okay, in truth, only the pot was blackened, but the dish had the hint of the old campfire about it, without the roasted marshmallows. Not bad.

Thea and I had many such side trips. Where her world seemed more real at times than mine. It certainly invaded most everything I did, everywhere I went, and every conversation. At Bible study, I’d admire the quilt on the back of a sofa and think, “I bet that would be a good quilt to put in the Blocks on the Walk Quilt Show.” I’d find out the details and make a note to self. At dinner with friends, someone would tell a funny story about a relative or say something in a way I’d never heard before. “Do you mind if I use that in the book?” I’d ask, writing it down. 

Thea and I had a close relationship for some time and I enjoyed every companionable moment. Not thinking about her is an adjustment. It feels a bit like empty-nest-syndrome. And maybe I’m taking too much time to say “goodbye.” I need to do so pretty soon. Once she is settled in the hearts of new readers, living out her story, maybe then. 

After all, many other characters are waiting, vying for their worlds to be created. For their stories to be told. I think it’s almost time to open the door and welcome them inside. I’ll wave to Thea as she goes and give her a high-five, knowing she’ll be okay.


Cathy Elliott is a full-time writer in northern California whose cozy mysteries reflect her personal interests from quilting and antique collecting to playing her fiddle with friends. She also leads music at church and cherishes time with her grandchildren. Cathy’s other plot-twisting works include Medals in the Attic and A Vase of Mistaken Identity.


Website & Occasional Blog - www.cathyelliottbooks.com

Newsletter Subscribe

Followers

Categories

Blog Archive

Powered by Blogger.

Historical Romantic Suspense

Historical Romance

Comments

Comments

Popular Posts

Guest Registry