Tuesday, December 30, 2014
I'm Back With A Little Biggs of Everything!
For the past 2 1/2 years I've enjoyed serving as primary president to the children 18 months-12 years old in my church. However, it's been very time consuming and has left little time for crafting, re-dos and especially blogging! Now that I'll be moving into a less demanding job at church, I've decided to create a blog about everything I do. I hope you can take the time to stop by for a visit. Although I will still be featuring many of my trash to treasure finds and room make-overs, I'll also be making most of these items available for sale, hosting fun events where you can make or buy these items and of course talking about the crazy adventures of the Biggs family- I guess you can say my new blog will be "A Little Biggs of Everything". Hope to see you there. Love, Kelly
Wednesday, December 10, 2014
About 8 months ago, I had a dream.
Every novel I've written, plus the start of my blog has all been because of a dream I've had. I've had lots of dreams that haven't turned into novels or blogs, but about eight months ago I had a dream I haven't been able to stop thinking about.
In the dream there was a
peasant girl in an abandoned village standing near a swing hanging from a giant
tree. Her father had built her the swing
years ago. She was hesitant to sit down on
the swing because she wasn’t a child anymore and there was work to be done, but
after a moment she let the swing take over and found herself pushing off into
the clouds. The wind and sky were all
around her and for a moment it seemed all was right in the world when she heard
the desperate cries of a man. She knew
the sound well. It was the sound of someone being killed.
Roman guards surveyed the
area often. The citizens of her village
were all in Bethlehem Bethlehem
She heard the desperate cries
of the man once more. She left the swing
and walked deep into the forest knowing she was putting herself in great danger,
but still followed the sounds of the tormented man. Deep into the woods, she found him bound and
a slew of Roman guards with their swords drawn surrounded him.
Hiding behind a tree, she watched as the man received his final blow
from the largest guard. The man was killed for his
crime and left tied to the stump of a tree as an example to other rebels in the
area.
The girl had been trained by
her mother in many things; helping others in childbirth, aromatherapy, apothecary and burial
rituals. She knew the man’s soul would
not be permitted into heaven if he did not receive a proper burial, so she
waited until the guards were gone. Through a bit of creativity and lots of hard
work, she was able to drag the man to her deserted house in the village by the swing.
It was nightfall when she
started the rituals – the seven candles burning around his deceased body, the
rose oil circled into both of his hands symbolizing the good and bad deeds of
his life, chanting the prayers for the dead, a lock of hair burned to purify
his soul, his wounds cleaned, his beard shaved and finally she would administer
a cut into the jugular vein were his blood would be drained. With scalpel in hand, she prepared herself to
dig deep into the flesh of his neck when someone grabbed at her. Little did she know she hadn’t been alone
during the ritual. The very man she was preparing for burial had come back to
life! Deranged, he held her captive in
his grasp – demanding for answers!
Yeah, I know!
Crazy dream!
It was awesome!
So, I’ve been working on this new manuscript (working
title The Swing) for about 8 months
now. I’ve had some good days where the
story line flows like melted butter and others where I literally have to work
for every s i n g l e word. It
can be physically exhausting yet wonderfully liberating. There are days I resent the task (never the
story or my characters, just the writing process itself) because I’m such an
active person and I have to sit here for hours on end; writing, editing,
searching while the world moves on without me.
I stay up too late, wake up too early and sometimes my kids eat Serrano’s
bean deep and doughnuts from Bashas for dinner.
I’m figuratively running through my mind searching who these characters
are, understanding the Old and New Testament on a deeper level than ever
before, researching embalming methods of the Egyptians, learning more about
Biblical days (and sometimes finding nothing so I have to fill in the blank)
and it can be exhausting. But I love
this story so much, the characters are constantly stirring around in my soul;
therefore I must write them on paper!
So you can imagine my
frustration when I experienced writers block around page 70. The story line is thick and juicy with
romance, conflict, character development and history, but I didn’t know where
to go next. Writers block doesn’t happen to me often and
I can usually see scene after scene in my mind, so I was incredibly frustrated
with my mind drew a blank. I took a few weeks off.
I’m not the most patient
writer anyway. I find I write 10 pages
at a time very fast paced, like drawing a skeleton without any flesh. Then, I go back and fill in all the
details. Sometimes this doubles the
original 10 pages to 20 pages or more. I
find additional plots and twists, insights into my characters, loop holes and
missteps in the plot so it can be a pretty rewarding/difficult process. Both rewarding and difficult at the same time
can be grueling.
So, how did I work through the writer’s block?
I found this incredible painting of the baby Jesus by artist Jenedy Paige and stared at it for a time, touched at the pureness and simplicity. My testimony grew on how important it is to cherish the miraculous story of the birth of the Savior of our word and find creative ways to share it so it continues to touch our hearts in new and beautiful ways.
I walk about an hour every
day, mainly to work through the horrible morning sickness I’m still
experiencing and I’ve started listening to best-selling author interviews on YouTube. They share writing tips, how their plots are
developed and spread love and motivation for all. My favorite tips so far come from author Stephenie Meyer and author Sue Monk Kidd. I've read all their books and respect them so much as authors and creative women!
I continued reading. I just finished Lauren Oliver’s book Before I Fall.
Um, WOW!
Totally different writing style then mine (and actually, I wouldn't recommend it to young adults for some adult content), but I was in awe. Superbly written and the message at the end was so good.
I attended author Deirdra Eden’s discussion on her experience of writing and publishing her book The Watchers and it was just what I
needed. Thank you, Deirdra.
I ate lots of chips and homemade
salsa, which seemed to work for me.
I worked on other projects I
have including editing novels I have completed or working on other ideas and manuscripts in process. I started my query and synopsis for The Swing. I blogged, read other authors blogs and
researched authors I love and their current projects. The creativity out there is highly
motivating.
I went to the doctor and saw the first photo of my little baby.
Baby wasn’t cooperative, so still not sure what we are having. I find I’m very creative when I’m pregnant because
hey, I’m creating the greatest gift ever. The joy in my heart keeps everything in perspective.
Then, yesterday I was working in the kitchen when I had an idea. I
wasn’t even thinking of The Swing or
my plot when a scene ran through my mind and practically knocked me over. It
was perfect. I rushed to the computer
and typed out six pages. I know exactly
where the story is going now and my goal is to finish by Christmas. This book is a Christmas story and it has
brought the spirit of Christmas to my heart in a very personal way.
So, there you have it. My new manuscript and the simple things I do
to work through the occasional writer’s block I have. Now, onto writing!
For those interested, I’ve
pasted below the first chapter of The Swing. I hope you enjoy it.
The Swing
A Novel
At first I had the idea to
not even approach the swing, let alone sit on it. It was a cloudy gray morning and I had work
to do, but I watched the swing sway gently in the wind, like an angel was taking
a turn. That’s when I felt something calling
me.
“Come swing Miriam. Play as you did as a child. Forget everything else,” it seemed to
say.
The hem of my dress dragged across
the ground as I walked toward the tree.
I stopped and reached out to the rope like it was an old friend; for
truly, how many times had I held onto the swing when I needed to hold something. I turned back toward the home, expecting to
see my mother standing in the door throwing out a bucket of breakfast scraps
for the chickens, but there were no chickens and there was no mother.
The swing enticed me to sit
down. Never had I felt so lonely, rocking
slowly at first which caused me to stay inside my thoughts. The gentle motion nudged open the doors of my
mind and I contemplated all the changes I’d been through the past year since
Mother’s death. The gentle breeze seemed
to go through me, caressing every part of my
body until a chill ran up my spin.
Eventually the swing took over and my toes reached the top leaves of the
giant olive tree. Flying high seemed to
set me free. I was closer to heaven and for
a moment, I wanted to smile.
It had been a year since we
left this home, but there it stood just like the day Father and I carried out
the few things we needed for our journey.
Because of the irrigation system Father designed, mature olive trees
grew around the perimeter of the home and provided shade all times of the
day. Father had mortared the bricks with
the help of his brothers and carried Mother over the threshold on their wedding
day. I was born in the walls of this
home 9 months later. I would be 17 years
old this winter.
I’m not sure how long I’d
been on the swing, letting the rhythm of it carry me away - outside my thoughts
with the clouds and sky waiting for me; when I heard something in the distance. The bird’s stopped chirping and the breeze died
down when I realized I was never truly alone at all. Roman guards were all around these
parts. Again, I heard a muffled sound. Someone screamed out in pain, a sound I knew
all too well. It was the sound of
someone dying.
I placed my feet on the
ground and released myself from the swing, walking away from all the questions
I couldn’t answer. Each step was
carefully placed. I couldn’t make any
noise or I’d risk being caught.
Because of the rainy season,
the ground was damp. As a child, rainy
days made me sleepy, but now I was wide awake.
In the distance; I heard the unmistakable sound of thunder. I stopped and placed my hand on my
heart. How I wished it was only thunder
I had heard earlier? I did not want to
walk into danger. The wind picked up and
blew wisps of my hair across my face. I
wanted to go back to the swing, back to the memories of picking flowers and
braiding them into my hair, back to Mother tucking me into bed at night when again, I heard the voice of a man cry out. Now that I was closer I could make out the
words.
“I, Ezra, son of Gareb - on
my father’s grave, am innocent,” he yelled. I turned my head and walked toward the sound, wanting
to rush but knew the need to be quiet; hoping to help but knowing there was
nothing I could do. That’s when I saw
him.
He was strapped to a
tree. From where I stood, I couldn’t see
his face. He took his beating well, only
grunting when the guards took turns whipping him. How could he receive it? Hit after hit and his muttered screams turned
into soft moans when finally, one of the guards lashed the handle of his sword into
the side of the man’s head. The man went limp.
`“Coward,” one of the men in
uniform said and spit at the prisoner.
“He’s dead now. Leave him as a warning,” the captain said and
placed the sword in a saddle belt around his waist. They turned and walked back toward the city. I stayed hidden behind a tree, catching my
breath; waiting until they were gone so I could provide a proper burial for the
man now dead.
Linking up to:
Monday, December 8, 2014
My journey - what now?
I’m not sure how many times
I’ve sat down to write my story about sexual abuse. I start
a page, maybe finish a chapter and 6 years ago I wrote an entire 300 page
novel. That first novel was fiction, of course,
but the story was about me. I’m there in
every page.
From day to day, my motive
changes. One day I want to write for
healing; another day I want to write to help others and some days I want to
write to explore. But, every day I can’t
help what I write; for writing has been
most healing and I have to let it carry me where it wants.
What do I want to share? What will help other people suffering the
most? Could my story prevent others from
being hurt? Can I do it?
As I get older, I’m so
impressed with people who share their unique challenges and trials; their hurts
and fears cupped with spoonfuls of hope.
My favorite books of 2014 include A
House in the Sky by Amanda Lindhout
My
Story by Elizabeth Smart
and Finding
Me by Michelle Knight.
The
heartache and fear; the horror and despair, but these girls found a
way through there abuse. They over came in such a triumphant
way, their courage and faith like fireworks during a thunderstorm. These girls are my hero’s and I strongly
recommend these memoirs to anyone.
I’m finally at a place where
my past no longer hurts me. It’s been
this way for a couple of years now. This
is because of my Savior, Jesus Christ and also because of the tender, nurturing
love of my husband. My story now feels
just like that – a story. Some days,
it’s even easy to forget that scared hopeless girl was me. In many ways I’ve overcome, but almost every
angle of my character has been built on my struggles of overcoming.
Where I was once vulnerable,
I’m now acutely aware.
Because I was hurt, I’m now
able to see the hurt in others.
The loneliness I once felt serves
as a constant source of gratitude; for I never forget the blessings that
surround me.
I’ve always been happy; that
was one element not taken away from me; but now I’m happy deep down to my soul
– not just as a coping mechanism.
I most relate to teenage and
young adult girls, because this is the age my life took a difficult turn. It took me nearly a decade to get back on
track.
Because of my healing, I
could move on easily. No longer do I
have flash backs when my husband touches me a certain way, no more panic
attacks at strange hours of the day, but something inside of me says “Don’t forget.”
About a year ago, I started
project:USED.
You can read about my inspiration for project:USED here. It was an incredible
undertaking with so much support, but I’ll never forget how vulnerable I felt
releasing the video. Days before the
release, I cried into my husband’s shoulder.
What was I feeling? Was it
shame? Hurt? Fear? I’ve always been good at keeping secrets. There have been so many things in my life no
one was every supposed to know about. I
think the hurt came from breaking open a secret.
I continue to discover my
path. I have a great desire to
save. Sometimes this come out in the way
I salvage thrift store finds. It’s a fun way to save- to redeem. My Dear Trash ( six years old now and almost 1,000,000 hits) is full of hope. Where I once felt like trash, I found value
again in myself. I find a little bit of myself in every piece I work on.
Then I wrote my first novel The Mermaids Handbook of Secrets
(originally titled Colors of the Sea).
I explored scientist Rachel Carson and her
desire to protect the sea and our environment.
I’ve always loved Rachel Carson and her books, even making her a major
part of my studies through my communication degree at ASU. I took a postmodern twist on Rachel Carson
and developed a character for the young adult audience that would reintroduce
her passion for the sea to a new generation. There is an underlying theme of saving the sea from environmental trauma and the sexual abuse my character faces. You can read the first chapter here.
Then, my daughter was
born. Her presence; the very essence of
the female spirit radiated in her.
She. Girl. Safe. Loved.
And I’ve learned so much about myself and mothering from having a daughter.
Next, I wrote The Memory Catcher with my mom author
Sarah Hinze.
The book is her memoir; her
journey of her own miscarriage, to studying prebirth experiences and finally to
becoming a voice for the unborn.
Her
books share how unborn spirits can warn, protect and enlighten us. Then, unexpectedly her research presented
evidence that aborted babies may die here on earth, but their souls live
on. These real-life accounts in a book she
wrote called The Castaways provided
healing and hope for so many.
Coming soon, the 15-year anniversary edition of The Castaways (more on that later).
I learned
God can lead us when we write, especially when we write to honor Him. The experience made me crave
inspiring memoirs and I broke out of my normal reading genre - fiction. I’ve always known difficult things that happen
to us can lead to good things, but I learned it in a literary sense. There is a beautiful way to share such
stories.
I can’t forget my new found
love of Christian music. I spend a lot
of time painting and restoring furniture, working in the kitchen and so
forth. I stopped listening to political
radio and top 40 and turned the dial over to the inspiring messages and gorgeous tunes of
these amazing musicians. So many songs
touched my heart, but the one that stands out is Overcomer by Mandisa. Her story is amazing.
I was being
spiritually nourished throughout the day.
My relationship with Jesus Christ grew in leaps and bounds.
Then, project:USED
(www.projectused.com).
Dresses, the very
core of woman; some might say its sexist, but with the inspiration of
DRESSEMBER and a new look at what it means for a woman to wear a dress, I found
dresses liberating. The dress became a
symbol of what it means to be a strong woman.
Don’t hide behind pants, celebrate the female spirit.
After all that, what
now? I’ve come a long way as a mother,
wife, an entrepreneur, a writer and a girl.
I’ve blogged for almost six years.
My dear readers, what courage and healing you’ve provided me! It’s been so much fun. Thank you for following me on this journey and
I look forward to continuing the exploration of My Dear Trash. In addition
to my blog, I’ve written and completed almost five novels all about strong young adult girls that overcome in their own way. An exciting twist, my last two novels are historical fiction. God willing, I think I know where my next
step leads. I’m currently working with a
literary agency and I think my time may have finally come to publish my stories. Yes, it’s a big leap, but oh my! Am I ever
ready to hold own of my own books.
You’ll find me in a puddle of tears jumping for joy.
All these experiences (and too many to count) have lead me to light. I have so many stories and
ideas; dreams and goals – all bringing another step closer to the joy of being
a strong, confident girl!
I love having
so many artistic outlets in my life. If it wasn’t for the therapeutic outlet of
furniture restoration, I wouldn’t have so much time to collect my thoughts and explore plots. If
it wasn’t for writing, I’d probably explode in a big pile of ideas! So, wish me luck and courage and I take this
leap of faith into the world of publishing.
I’m so excited I can hardly stand it!
You can check out my website at lauralofgreen.com.
I'm also on pinterest here.
Friday, December 5, 2014
The only thing I’d ever painted was a house
I paint almost every day, sanding and prepping first before I apply that first coat of beautiful paint. I can't imagine what I did before finding this addictive hobby of mine I love so much. Here's my latest creative - an antique buffet done up in Paris gray.
But, before shabby chic furniture, I was somewhat of an outsider. To be quite honest, the only thing I'd ever painted was a house.
Well,
that’s not entirely true if you count the paint-by-number and watercolors from
my Barbie coloring book when I was a kid.
My first real painting experience with a grown-up home-improvement store paint brush was when I was 25 years-old and a week before my wedding.
I decided
long before becoming engaged, I wanted my wedding reception at my parent’s
house. My childhood home was on an acre of land with dozens of orange trees and
giant pine trees that were somewhat out of place in the middle of the Phoenix
Truthfully,
my parent’s house was beautiful all on its own.
Rows of wild grape bushes stretched their vines; intertwining in and out
of the rusty pool fence as if trying to reach the pool water. The property was an organic jungle where my
family shared long thoughtful talks and countless games of baseball. The grass never seemed to stop growing, wild
flowers sprung up where the oranges had dropped last year’s crop and a large
juniper bush had grown big enough to invite my younger siblings inside its
branches to build a fort. Sure, the
other yards in the neighborhood were manicured by professional yard crews, but
not my parents. Oh no, it was all done
by hand, literally because none of the power tools worked well enough to actually
function on a regular basis. I learned
the beauty of clipping a mile long hedge with hand trimming sheers wasn’t the
fact the blisters eventually turned into calluses, it was you knew every square
of the yard. Pushing a lawn mower row
after row put me into a strange sort of trance; calming and meditative. As a teenager, when I was frustrated I worked
in the yard. It always had something for
me to do that felt significant. The
reward of all that work was a giant tree swing my dad made and a lazy hammock
Mom picked up at a garage sale that offered rest and relaxation.
A
week before my wedding reception, my parents had most of us, their children, out
there working for the big event. My
brothers trimmed trees while my sisters raked dead leaves. We were like a fine-tooled machine,
composting and trimming away. That
really only lasted about an hour before someone ran off and another complained
they were hungry, but I appreciated every bit of it as much. The yard was my
happy place; it just needed to be cleaned up a bit. It was the place I would hold hands with my soon-to-be
husband and celebrate the start of our eternity with several hundreds of people
and a giant wedding cake.
A
week before the big event, I started to notice a few not-so-perfect things
about the house. It wasn’t that I
expected things to be perfect for the big day; after all I was a hippy girl
with waist-length hair that hadn’t been cut in a while too. Still, I knew hosting an event with hundreds
of my closest friends, family, and co-workers was a big deal I needed to
prepare for. So I started a conversation
with my dad that went a little something like this: “Dad, what do you think
about the paint trim on the house? Should we touch it up for the
reception?” My dad’s reaction was like
asking a car mechanic driving an old beat-up Datsun what he thought about the
suspicious sound coming from under the hood; it was no big deal. I could tell
my dad wasn’t getting it, so I tried another idea: “If you bring home some paint, I’ll do some
touch up on the trim?” His eyes lit
up. I had offered my dad a suggestion;
just a little nudge - you lend me your house for a day and I will make it
beautiful for years to come.
I had
done it. I convinced my dad it would
only take a gallon of paint, maybe two to get the trim of the 3,500 square foot
home up to date. My dad pulled a ladder
from his workshop and we positioned it so I could start. Finally, there in my hand was my first experience
with a paint brush. I slathered that
forest green paint right onto that wood like frosting on a cake. The dry-rot wood sucked up the paint like a dehydrated
athlete to Gatorade. I smeared a bit
more paint on, half expecting it to look perfect, but I think deep down I knew
better. The flaking trim needed to be
prepped and fixed in many places, but I would just have to do my best because doing
something would look better then doing nothing.
Later
that day at my request, my dad went back to the hardware store for another
gallon of forest green paint. I remained
optimistic about the task, but painting for hours with my head faced upward kinked
my neck. Really, how long could this
take? Had I only moved a few feet since
starting that morning? Reality set in when
my beloved family came to the rescue. My
brothers offered to help. My dad pulled
out a long paint stick with a roller on it and invested in a 5 gallon bucket of
paint. Things turned serious and the
house trim slowly turned from a dingy sierra brown to a bold forest green. For three long grueling days alongside my dad
and brothers, I craned my neck, stroking and applying pressure as needed, as
paint took to wood.
The morning of the wedding I took one last walk around
the property as a single lady; my mind whirling like water forced down a drain.
I was still a girl, yet I would be a wife; his wife. I had saved myself for this day and I
wondered what he would be like as a husband.
My heart was his, as was my absolute trust. Never had I tasted the flavor of love he
radiated. He was my perfect secret.
An
unexpected morning rain left the muggy September air with a mist of cool and
the cool grass rubbed against my bare feet.
The sun wouldn’t stay hiding behind the clouds forever so I relished the
few moments I had to dream about my big day. My fiancé Derek was my best friend
wrapped in a 6’5 perfect masculine frame.
His ability to love completely shocked me and after four amazing weeks
of dating (and a three month engagement), he reeled me in like a fish on a line. We were both somewhat misfits of society; a
shy hippy I would later call him after I got to know him better, but somehow we
had found one another. I bent down
underneath the giant orange tree and collected an arrangement of wildflowers
worthy for a bride. I was getting
married in just a couple of hours.
I
rushed inside and jumped in the shower, scrubbing the left-over paint still on
my hands and underneath my fingernails when I felt a strange burning on my
arm. That’s when I noticed a deep gash
running along the back of my arm. Where
had that come from? Then I remember just
yesterday while mowing the lawn I had walked into the gnarly branches of an
unforgiving orange tree. Paint stains and
scars on my wedding day – no sweat!
And, that is why I wore long gloves on my wedding day.
(no, it wasn't just to be coy!)
Covered the paint under my fingernails,
paint on my hands
and most of the scab on my arm.
Playing with my darling flower girls in my parent's orange patch.
Linking up to:
Wednesday, December 3, 2014
Birthday's with Trash
Oh, my Momma!
My love for her is something else.
We can get a bit crazy together!
She lives down the street, so I see her everyday on
bike rides or walking the dog.
When together, we travel all over the emotional spectrum
with deep talks on spiritual things, exploring feelings on motherhood and laughing
about the joys (and sometimes mishaps) of this amazing life.
Plus, we look a lot alike.
For years now, I’ve renewed
her COSTCO membership for her birthday gift, but I always like to do something
else too.
Enter trash!
I have it all around my house.
TRASH: what others have thrown out or discarded
Yes, trash! This is mainly what I find at thrift stores,
but lately I’ve been trying to think
outside the proverbial trash box. What
can I use that I already have?
Vintage mirrors turned into chalkboards
Old shutters display art
And now, old pieces of wood turned into letters for a birthday.
Let me explain.
These brackets supported a mirror on the back of a
dresser the counselor brought home.
I learned a long time ago when working on furniture
keep everything. Screws, fixtures, even
brackets because at some point you’re going to need it to fix another piece of
furniture.
Of make something completely different.
A little paint, configuring and viola!
A letter H for Momma Hinze to hang on her front door.
I had the key hole left over from another dresser and the key pendent I purchased in Prescott this summer as a necklace charm. I thought it appropriate to put both on the H, since my Momma hold's the key to my heart.
Plus, my sister Becky’s
daughter turned three. How could I
birthday her with trash!
Little Emma is a delightful
thing with sparkling eyes. I had an old
frame and whitewashed the canvas to try something different. On a side note, when I travel to any beach
town, I enjoy collecting sand from my travels and use it in sand art later.
Well, Becky recently returned from Hawaii Oahu, so it was perfect to outline little Emma's photo from Hawaii in beach sand. I used a burlap rope as the final touch around the photo.
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