Without thinking about it I picked up a credit card I saw on the floor and called out the name on it.

“Donald,” I said standing near the check-out line at the library. A short, thin fellow turned to see who was calling his  name.

I offered the card. He reached for it with a smile. I was reminded of someone turning in my wallet the day before. First I left my wallet on a bin next to yogurt-covered pretzels I enjoyed at Fresh Market. I was in another part of the store sampling fresh-squeezed orange juice and lemonade when I realized something was missing. I rushed back to the snacks station and was happy to find my wallet exactly where I had left it. Inside, the cash and credit cards were still there. I thanked God privately.

I realized I probably needed a nap to clear my clouded-crowded mind, but instead, proceeded with other errands on my to-do list. I stopped at Safeway and as I stashed my groceries in the car I made a mental note, “don’t forget your wallet.” Five minutes later, when I stopped at the gas station to vacuum my car, I realized I had left my wallet again!

I prayed, “God do it for me one more time.”

When I returned to the parking lot at Safeway, I was dismayed to find the cart with my wallet gone. I rushed into the store anyway to ask if it had been turned in. Maybe one of the store workers who tends the carts had seen it and turned it in for brownie points.

“Excuse me mam. Did anyone turn in a walle…” I asked, panicked.

“What’s your last name?” the young woman wearing a store apron asked.

She smiled and explained that they had just announced it over the intercom.  Within seconds she was handing it to me.

“Did the carts clerk find it?” I asked. No.

A customer had turned it in. Didn’t leave a name. The cash and credit cards were still there, and I doubted that the person honest enough to turn the wallet in would have taken time to steal the numbers off my license to steal my identity. I was glad the old axiom, “finders keepers, losers weepers,” had not ruled the day.  Goodness, godliness, prevailed in the individuals who saw my wallet unattended and left it alone or turned it in.

I was happy to get three successive reminders that honesty can prevail. But, if my wallet had been stolen, leaving me desperate and angry when I spotted the credit card the man dropped, would I have passed on that desperation and anger, as well? I hope not.

“How people treat you is their karma; how you react is yours,” says Wayne Dyer, an international motivation speaker and author.

When I was growing up a kid up one of my aunts said repeatedly, “Allah does not change the condition of a person until they change the condition of their heart.”  We were Muslims, “poor,” as in financially struggling. My aunt was raising 12 children with her husband, living in public housing in Washington, D.C. at the time.

The outside of her home looked barren.  Most front and back yards in her neighborhood were patches of dry, dusty dirt. Only two people in the entire complex had planted flowers. We played in the parking lot and climbed on the clothes line poles for fun since we had no playground nearby.

Inside my aunt’s home, however, was very peaceful and calming. She burned incense, and maintained discipline and order.  We did not always know what we would eat, but we knew that we would eat even if she had to make pancakes from scratch and water down the last two tablespoons of Kyro syrup to go around for lunch. We always knew that at certain times throughout the day everyone would stop whatever they were doing and we would come together to prayer because of our Muslim obligation.

One of her daughters described their home in the projects as if it was a mansion because that was the way she saw it.

“We have six bedrooms and two bathrooms!” she liked to brag. Before I saw the house, I expected to visit a mini-mansion.  I knew they were moving to Southeast Washington, and I could not imagine a rich palace in that area. Besides, neither of her parents had good government jobs. So, how could they afford six bedrooms and two bathrooms? My cousins, nor my aunt seemed ashamed of their circumstances. In fact, they seemed delighted that God had provided them a house, much bigger than the apartment they had been cramped in.

Rather than complain about needing public housing back then, they fully appreciated it and seized opportunities that have led to the lives they are enjoying today.

Today, twenty-five years later, that aunt is living in a mini-mansion in Atlanta, remarried to a more loving, supportive husband.  She enjoys her days providing day care to some of her grand children while their parents work and create lives more abundantly than any of us could have imagined all those years ago.

They are all living better now and I can’t help but think it had something to do with their attitudes and outlook way back then, when times were tough.

This week I called her to ask her to elaborate on this lesson I had learned from her so many years ago. She asked whether I remembered the peach tree she discovered in the community. It had become so barren no one even knew it was a peach tree. She fed it scraps from her own kitchen table, stirring leftover peelings and fruit cores at the base of the tree like compost. The tree blossomed the next year.

She asked whether I remembered the stock of clothes she kept clean and folded in an upstairs closet to give away to neighbors she discovered more in need than she.  She gave away clothes by the bags-full. I mostly remembered the fun I had with my teen-age cousins at the time, and remembered the attitude imparted on us. She had grown up in a Seventh Day Adventist Church reciting the “Beatitudes,” popularly known these days as the “Be-Attitudes.” (Blessed are the poor…the meek shall inherit the earth…)

“Living well is a state of mind,” she reminded me this week. This lesson she had learned as a child, memorizing the text from Matthew 5:3-12, had been fortified when she studied Islam as a young woman. She was reminded of the Christian and Muslim teachings recently when reading “The Courage to Create,” by Rollo May.

“Wherever I lived, I chose to create,” she said. “I took old bed sheets and made curtains and matching bed skirts,” she added. “However much money you have – or don’t have – you have to know in your heart that you are blessed. You have to have the courage to create.”

Sometimes things are better than they seem. When I arrived at the checkout at my neighborhood Fresh Market recently, for instance, I was a little disappointed that there was no offering of samples to taste.

“What? I missed the samples?” I asked the two women at the register. “You always have a sample of something at check-out. I count on it,” I added.  I realized a while ago it’s the company’s way of providing a memorable, pleasant shopping experience to ensure my return.

“You have samples all over the store,” the seasoned clerk explained.

“Not today. I had the orange juice and lemonade,” I told her. “But there was nothing else out.”

Usually, around the store, tables are set with chips and dip to sample, bites of cake or something from the deli counter. But not this day.

“If you want something at one of the counters, just ask,” the clerk said.

I paid for the bags of cashews I made the special trip for, then circled back for the full shopping experience. At the snack bin I sampled a handful of Craisin-pistachio trail mix, a few chocolate-covered banana chips, some three-chocolate pecan mix, and blueberry yogurt covered pretzels.

At the cheese counter I considered requesting a sample of blueberry cheese or cranberry cheese. (Growing up, gub’ment cheese had made the best grilled cheese sandwiches. But my tastes have evolved.) I looked over at the deli counter, then the bakery behind me, and was delighted just thinking about all that was available to sample just for the asking. I sampled apple pie and blueberry coffee, and left the store with my appetites sufficiently satisfied. I thought I had missed the usual sample at the check-out counter, but was instead invited to a mini-feast of sorts.

Later I considered: What if God was showing me something through this experience? What if life has more than a small taste of something sweet at the end? What if it’s o.k. to sample what life has to offer in all departments?

As part of my career exploration these days, I sometimes ask individuals about their job, why they do it, how long they’ve been doing it, whether they like it. I was speaking with a library clerk, who mentioned that she is retired from a career in management analysis and enjoying working part-time at a library because she had always wanted to work around books, when I realized I have cheated myself.

I asked her what did she do as a management analyst. She said she had been assigned to go into companies or departments within companies, analyze what they were doing wrong and offer suggestions for how to fix it.

“How did you end up in that job?” I had asked, a moment in time standing still between us.

“I always had a knack for being able to look at something and see exactly what was wrong. I could look at a process and tell you how to make it better.”

I left thinking that if I had gotten paid for all the bosses and companies I worked for and criticized, paid for all my suggestions to improve processes, I could be working part-time, enjoying a retirement pension for all that hard work. I gave it away for free! Never again. My criticism will have to be earned, paid for. Otherwise I’m keeping it to myself.

I headed to the beach one Sunday morning to enjoy group yoga, planning to meditate then do some journaling. Turns out I had mis-read the sign. It was scheduled for 10 a.m., not 11, and it was held at a school near the beach, not actually on the beach. So, I ended up alone on my yoga mat at the beach. Perfect for deep reflection and uninterrupted observation.

On my knees in a yoga pose, I realized there were dents and pockets in the ground.  What, from a standing position, had looked like a smooth, welcoming carpet of grass, was not so smooth when I got right down to it.  I also noticed that the water looked particularly muddy this morning with sheets of film, twigs and other plant parts floating on it. Yuck.

I was enjoying my little observations when the excited squeals of a small boy running toward the water startled me.  The boy splashed and laughed, bobbing up and down in pure bliss of the liquid playground.  He found unadulterated delight in the same river I had just condemned. I did not bother to tell the little boy’s father about the snakes in the water because I have warned people about snakes and jelly fish in this river before but they went in anyway.  Beside, I looked up water snakes on the internet and found that they are harmless. They avoid human contact.

The little boy ran up and down the sand bank, in and out of the water. He called his little sister to join him and she did for a while, squealing, running behind him.  He waded into the water up to his waist then waded further, up to his neck.

“Hey Dad, com eon in!” he yelled to his father.

“No! It’s uh, too wet!” his dad yelled back.

The little boy’s sister didn’t stay in the muddy water long, but he had himself a good time.  He ran to the area where I was sitting, discovering something in the sand.

“Don’t disturb the lady,” his dad told him.

“He’s inspiring me,” I said, smiling at the boy. “How old is he?” I asked.

Little Henry was six. He ran back in the water and played until his mother joined his Dad a few minutes later and it was time to go. He left the water, obviously refreshed.  As he bounced away with his family, a couple of birds flying low near the water caught my attention.  I got up and went to where I had tossed a portion of my breakfast – pieces of fresh star fruit I had bought for the first time, thinking I would try something exotic, and pieces of my blueberry muffin offered to keep me from consuming all the calories.  I was delighted to find that the birds had eaten it all.  Now, I was feeling as joyful as Little Henry.

I looked further down the stretch and noticed three women friends sunbathing.  I figured they probably would not be getting in the water either, but they would be refreshed by the sun and each other’s companionship.

I looked out to the water again and noticed a snake in the area where Little Henry had just been. I thought, “God’s protection is amazing.”

I looked around and noticed a man reclining on his sun deck, reading a newspaper. I thought, “It must be nice to live right here at the beach.” It would be nice, I guess, until the tide rises, too high.  But what if I could have a beach house, and a condo in a high-rise someplace where I could retreat at the first warning of a high tide.  A range of possibilities flowed.

I enjoyed journaling, observing nature and the people who soon filled the beach and park all around me. I did not get in the water, but left feeling refreshed none-the-less.

How does the water inspire you? Some of my friends like to jog around a lake, read on a pool deck, meditate on a beach. What do you like?

I write because I must. Writing for me is like breathing, like thinking. It has been a saving grace since I was eight-years-old writing plays where characters said and did all the things my religion deprived me of enjoying. Writing, as a young woman, saved my sanity.

All my life, all I’ve wanted to be was a writer. I’ve wanted to share my passion for literature, share my observations and analysis of common experiences, and share my unique experiences, but if self-promoting is essential to this, forget it.

I mulled this over as I went out for an afternoon power-walk. I was walking home from the bank when it suddenly occurred to me that the God had sent me to train with a master self-promoter. My last supervisor was a pain in the ass because she insisted on writing her own press releases while I insisted on doing the work I was allegedly paid to do. She knew what she wanted to say and found it quicker to write her promotions her way than to answer my questions and wait for me to pen a press release. I hated this. I had, after all, by then published hundreds of newspaper articles and two books. As much as possible I tried to beat her to the punch, anticipating news and drafting press releases before she could get started, but we often ended up with her doing her own thing.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that it was training for work I would need to do for myself until I can afford to hire a p.r. expert.

Penning my own press releases may even force me to break a life-long habit of self-deprecation. It will train my brain on what is best about me and the literary gifts I pen.

I recently completed my first novel, and felt transformed from bitter to neutral to soon-to-be-all-out-grateful for what had felt like two years of hell. Writing about the experience helped me detach and see incidents as just that – incidents. It helped me put the incidences in context. It helped me see the “enemy” as just a character, an antagonist. It helped me see myself as just a character, a protagonist, who had to mature by the end of the experience.

Figuring out how to promote this story promises to be rewarding, as well. Already market research has showed me my experiences, as challenging and tragic as they felt, are much more common that I knew. I am looking forward to the other many rewards from this process.

Posted on March 30, 2011 by sonsyrea

What’s the difference between a writer and an author?

I was delighted to consider myself a writer, having published hundreds of newspaper articles and two books with major publishers. Then I heard Zane’s opinion that the difference between a writer and an author is the personality quotient. An author has to have a marketable personality, she says. Now, coming from a woman who publishes books and has sold her own books to the tune of NY Times best seller status, that struck me as instructive.

There is a reason why so many great, well-researched, well-written books never even get published. A reason why many great books never make best seller lists. Half of the job is selling the book and, yes, it takes personality, charm, and a whole lot of other things to sell the book. I have picked up books from bargain bins, books I never saw reviewed, books I had not heard of on the internet, books that were great because they offered some novel perspective I had not considered, offered something that solved an internal conflict for me.

Now I’m inclined to get a good old fashioned dictionary and compare the definitions of writer and author. Thinking of the definitions, I am considering that a writer is one who writes and an author is one who has gained a level of authority on a subject or an experience. In fact, speaking of authority, just this morning I was thinking about how important it is for me as a writer to seek more authority of my characters and their internal conflicts and high hopes. That would mean more research and interviews.

It occurred to me this morning that in my first memoir, when I wrote about losing my beloved granddad, and the impact that had on me, I had not explored the emotional impact it had on my grandmother, who had lost her husband of 20-plus years. That came to mind this morning as I considered how my current experience of loss and grief will help inform my writing in the future. As a writer, I wrote the basic details of the experience: who died, when, why, how it made me feel. As an author I can establish more authority of that experience by exploring – and sharing – the emotional and psychological ramifications of the experience.

What do you think?

on March 24, 2011 by sonsyrea

We discussed social media best practices for authors during a conference call yesterday. It was one of the weekly calls Strebor authors have where we exchange information, encourage each others, and get a chance to ask the publisher and our publicist questions as a group. Something said during the conversation resonated long after I hung up. The publicist talked about the necessity for authors to self-promote. No, this was not news to me. I knew it. I tried it. I concluded after more than ten years that I simply was not good at it. Since this is what it takes to succeed as an author, I considered, I may as well die.

I write because I must. Writing for me is like breathing, like thinking. It has been a saving grace since I was eight-years-old writing plays where characters said and did all the things my religion deprived me of enjoying. Writing, as a young woman, saved my sanity.

All my life, all I’ve wanted to be was a writer. I’ve wanted to share my passion for literature, share my observations and analysis of common experiences, and share my unique experiences, but if self-promoting is essential to this, forget it.

I mulled this over as I went out for an afternoon power-walk. I was walking home from the bank when it suddenly occurred to me that the God had sent me to train with a master self-promoter. My last supervisor was a pain in the ass because she insisted on writing her own press releases while I insisted on doing the work I was allegedly paid to do. She knew what she wanted to say and found it quicker to write her promotions her way than to answer my questions and wait for me to pen a press release. I hated this. I had, after all, by then published hundreds of newspaper articles and two books. As much as possible I tried to beat her to the punch, anticipating news and drafting press releases before she could get started, but we often ended up with her doing her own thing.

Yesterday, it occurred to me that it was training for work I would need to do for myself until I can afford to hire a p.r. expert.

Penning my own press releases may even force me to break a life-long habit of self-deprecation. It will train my brain on what is best about me and the literary gifts I pen.

I recently completed my first novel, and felt transformed from bitter to neutral to soon-to-be-all-out-grateful for what had felt like two years of hell. Writing about the experience helped me detach and see incidents as just that – incidents. It helped me put the incidences in context. It helped me see the “enemy” as just a character, an antagonist. It helped me see myself as just a character, a protagonist, who had to mature by the end of the experience.

Figuring out how to promote this story promises to be rewarding, as well. Already market research has showed me my experiences, as challenging and tragic as they felt, are much more common that I knew. I am looking forward to the other many rewards from this process.