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Finding the Knives and Who I Used Them On

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“Sometimes this human stuff is slimy and pathetic – jealousy especially so – but better to feel it and talk about it and walk through it than to spend a lifetime being silently poisoned.” Ann Lamotte, Bird By Bird

I was surprised at the way it jumped out and wrapped itself around my throat, sort of pulled me to my knees in less than a second. I thought I was finished with that old foe. I guess I’m not.

It all started when a friend of mine made a simple comment about another friend of mine, how well his book is doing, how widely-read he is. And not only that but how he’s such a nice guy with a great smile and a wonderful family.

I went from peeling a mandarin orange to looking for the knives in less than a tenth of a second. To use on who? The friend doing the talking? The friend he was talking about? Myself? Those old insecurities sort of lurched out of the shadows and set up camp in my mind. They were making themselves at home. They figured it would take me a few days to get this all sorted out, and in the mean time they could enjoy themselves.

That’s the problem with jealousy – it brings so many of its friends along for the ride.

* * * * *

I tried to slow down my breathing but before I knew it I was going on and on in an uninterruptable speech about how well my next book would do (I was sure of it, and very convincing). I may or may not have thrown in a few lines about how well my blog was doing and how much money I made last year, how it was my best year. Thinking back on my response is rather humiliating. It was like I had thrown up all over myself and didn’t have the decency to leave the room.

A few weeks passed. A few months. In the mean time I exchanged a few emails with the very person my friend had talked about, the very person who had so inspired my jealousy, and I was able to remind myself of a few things.

He is a nice person. A good person even (at least as far as I can tell). He acts and talks as if I am further along than he is in this whole writing thing (which, you know, what does that even mean?). I sigh. This is getting me no where.

* * * * *

Sometimes the only thing that helps me get through my deepest insecurities is to put one word in front of another. For me, writing is the equivalent of running around inside my brain with a little mason jar and capturing all those flashing bugs of thought, then release them on to the page. It’s not a sure-fire cure, but sometimes it helps, just to look at it. Just to see it for what it really is.

* * * * *

Then, in the middle of writing this post and skimming Facebook and generally procrastinating the start to my day, I read this by Michelle DeRusha:

Once upon a time I knew this. Once upon a time, six years or so ago, I knew the book was enough. Just writing the book was enough, more than enough, because writing it brought me back to God. And how could that ever not be enough?

But then, little by little, it became not quite enough. The book needed it to change someone other than me. The book needed it to make an impact, transform a life, become something more. I needed the book to be more.

The book became about finding an agent, and then about finding a publisher, and then about marketing and platform and promotion. Before I hardly even realized it, the book became not nearly enough.

That’s it, I realized. That’s one of the large roots of the jealousy tree growing inside of me: a desire for more. More money, more readers, more attention. And if someone else has it, due to the false law of scarcity, that means I can’t have it. Just the idea that what I have right now could be enough immediately began to starve the life out of my jealousy. I realized I could breathe again.

I realized that what I have, right now, today, is enough.

Maybe that’s where jealousy takes roots in you? Maybe one day all you wanted to be was a teacher, but now you’re surrounded by the competition of academia. Maybe one day all you wanted was to be a pastor but now you can’t take your gaze off all those huge churches out there. Maybe one day all you wanted was to own your own business, but now you’re obsessed with outpacing your competition.

I don’t know. Maybe the cure for the jealousy inside all of us is to realize that what we have, right now, today, is enough.

* * * * *

How do you approach the areas of your life visited by jealousy?

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Why I Write For a Living

The cold these days is the kind that makes me pull my shoulders up as soon as I walk outside. It’s the kind that reminds me I’m getting a little older – when I was a kid, winter was my favorite season, with or without the snow. Now, as soon as the Christmas decorations are packed away, I’m ready for spring, for some sign of life to break through all those dead leaves and tangled, naked branches.

I drive through the cold listening to the audio book of The Brothers Karamazov, the heat cranked up. I drive on winding roads and long country straightaways. I drive slowly around the large elderly complex, park, then walk under the red canopy that leads through sliding glass doors into an ornate foyer. The smell reminds me of my grandma.

* * * * *

The mystery of human existence lies not in just staying alive, but in finding something to live for.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamzov

* * * * *

“Hi, I’m here to visit Emma,” I tell the two white-haired women sitting behind the low desk.

“Oh, she’s not the one they took to the hospital this morning, is she?” one asks the other.

“No, no, that was someone else,” she replies, writing a few things on a small pass while I fill out the guest book.

Shawn Smucker. Emma Williams. Room D108. 10:30am.

“Do you know where you’re going, honey?” the second woman asks with a kind smile.

“Yes, thanks,” I say, returning the smile, then walking slowly through the massive retirement complex.

The carpets are heavy, as are the thick curtains. Everything moves slowly there: the people, the air, time. I walk behind a man pushing a walker. He leaves two long lines behind him where the wheels drag. He’s taped two playing cards to the back legs of the walker, face down, so that it slides easier. I stop by the elevator and wait.

* * * * *

Being at a loss to resolve these questions, I am resolved to leave them without any resolution.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

* * * * *

Up on the third floor I make my way down the narrow hallway. The ceiling feels low after all those high foyers and two-story lobbies. I stop by a door and notice the wreath has been taken down. I knock louder than I would usually knock on a door. When Emma doesn’t come right away, when I don’t hear her stirring in the apartment, I wonder if maybe the second woman was right. Maybe Emma was the one taken to the hospital.

But then I hear the phone ring inside, and she answers it after one ring. I wait until she is no longer talking, then I knock again, practically pounding. I hear her walker, then she opens the door.

She is 94 years old, sharp as a tack, but slowing down physically. I can tell it annoys her. I can tell she will not go down without a fight.

We spend two hours together. She does most of the talking, and because I know the recorder is doing its job, and because her apartment is very warm, and because I didn’t get to bed until about midnight the night before, I have to fight to stay awake for a short stretch in the middle. But I still make a few notes, write down a few follow-up questions. She tells me about the days following the death of her first husband, when she was 39 with three children. She tells me how she had $22,500 in life insurance money. She tells me how she lived on $400 a month.

Sometimes, when I sit down and listen to these life stories, it can make me feel very insignificant. Very small in the big scheme of things. Her husband died 56 years ago, and now, besides her and her three children, he is mostly forgotten. In another fifty years he will practically vanish from memory.

It makes you take a deep breath. It makes you think about things.

“Well, that’s two hours,” I say. “That was a good two hours. You’ve given me a lot to work with.”

“Yes,” she says, nodding slowly. “I guess that was a good two hours.”

“See you next Wednesday?” I ask. “Same time?”

She nods.

“See you next Wednesday.”

* * * * *

This is my last message to you: in sorrow, seek happiness.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

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Self-Publish Your Book in 2014…Here Are 8 Reasons Why

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Maybe it’s time for you to self-publish your book.

I know, I know. You want the affirmation of a professional third party (an agent, a publisher, or at least someone besides your mom or spouse). You’re worried about putting something out there that no one will read. You’re concerned about the marketing and promotional side to releasing a book.

Well, fear not. (That seems to be the theme this year: fear not. Do not be afraid.)

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve worked with three wonderful publishing houses and some incredible editors, and there are some huge advantages to working with an established publisher. Huge. Maybe that will be my next post.

But today I’m encouraging you to self-publish. Get your book out there. Create something, and give yourself the satisfaction of seeing it through to completion.

Here are eight benefits you’ll see should you decide to self-publish your book this year:

1)   Any story can be put into book form. It doesn’t matter how many people are interested in your story or your topic or your writing. You can write a book about your family, or a guide to recreating human organs out of spare Legos. You can write the story of your great-uncle Marv or a novel about ants (not that I have anything against novels about ants) – if you’re self-publishing, it can become a book. Books are still cool.

2)   You can title your book whatever you want. Because you don’t have to worry about marketing teams and third parties and, well, anyone else, you can choose any title you want. There’s a fair amount of freedom when it comes to self-publishing, and this is one of those areas.

3)   You can create any kind of cover you want. Would you like your great-aunt Martha to be on the cover? Your dog Grover? Or maybe you’re a minimalist looking for a black title on a white cover. Go for it.

4)   Access to inexpensive copies of your book. Most self-publishing services will give you a good deal when it comes to getting your hands on copies of your own book. If I want copies of books I’ve self-published, I can usually buy them for about $3.75 (with no minimum order). If I want copies of my books that have been printed through traditional publishers, I’m looking at paying anywhere from $6 – $9 (ouch).

5)   One of the great things about self-publishing is that you operate under no misconceptions that anyone else is responsible for the marketing of your book. Sure, with traditionally published books, the publisher will do its part for a little while, but there’s no substitute for creating your own PR and marketing plan, and then acting on it. When you have a publisher it’s easy to assume that ball is in their court, but when you’re self-publishing you have no one else to rely on. If you’re not talking about your book, no one is.

6)   Release the book whenever you want. I have friends who have written books and then it’s taken 18 months to 2 years for the publisher to release the book. I’ve had other friends who wrote the book and then the publisher changed their mind, or the acquisition editor got fired or moved on and left their title under-represented. I’ve been fortunate in that the published books that I’ve written were on a quick-release time frame, and all have moved along smoothly.  But if you self-publish, you could have that book in your hands as soon as you’d like, and no unexpected change in a huge conglomerate will alter that.

7)   Make more profit per book. Self-published paperback books will make you around 40% when sold on Amazon, self-published e-book’s will make you 70%, paperbacks you sell yourself will net around 70%, and you’ll make around 35% on books sold through local bookstores (although that takes a lot of work, getting a self-published book into a bookstore). For books that are traditionally published, the royalty for all of those, in any form, is closer to 15%.

But by far the most important benefit to self-publishing your book?

8)   You get to finish it and move on. I know too many writers who are sitting on that manuscript, just waiting for an agent or publisher to pick it up. And as the years pass, they don’t create anything new. They simply can’t get beyond that first book until it’s published. And this is where self-publishing is such a great tool, because you can publish it, learn from your mistakes, try to market it and learn from that, then write something new.

Of course, most of these could also be seen as negatives…make my own cover? Create my own marketing plan? Come up with the perfect title? Are you kidding me?

I never said self-publishing was perfect for everyone, or for every project.

What do you think about self-publishing versus traditional publishing?

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What Are You Looking For This Year?

It was late spring, 2008, and I was on a mission to find one thing. I got out of the van and walked through the unusually hot day, across the parking lot, and into the air conditioning. I stopped and took a deep breath. Then I looked around.

I started at the front, checked the new release table. Nothing. Then I walked back, past the beloved fiction section, beyond the self-help. I turned left off the main aisle and slowed down, my eyes sweeping the shelves. Thousands of books. Thousands of authors. Then I saw the business section. Of course. I should have gone there first.

That’s when I saw it.

Or perhaps I should say, I saw “them.” A pile of about fifteen books in the middle of a table, surrounded by similar stacks. A small sign said “New Release – Business.” I looked closer and there it was, my name on one of the books: “with Shawn Smucker.”

I was standing inside the largest Borders Books in the area, staring at my first book.

So why did I feel so underwhelmed?

* * * * *

I was thinking about this moment the other day as 2013 came to an end. I realized that if the payoff for this life I am living was simply seeing books with my name on them, it wouldn’t be enough. Not for me. It had to be about something else.

It had to be about the writing. It had to be about the audience – you folks. It had to be about a conversation, a sort of relationship. It had to be about stories.

I guess what I’m trying to say is, make sure your New Year’s resolutions are for something that will truly give you meaning. Make sure you’re targets are set on something that will give you more than what I got when I saw that book with my name on it in the middle of a sea of books.

What if you lose the weight? What if you find the right person? What if you read 1000 books? What if you stop smoking or start exercising or read your Bible everyday?

What are you really looking for?

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When Maile Told Me Something I Didn’t Want to Hear

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When I first got married, it was mostly because I thought Maile was smart and gorgeous and she loved to read as much as I did. And also for the sex. Seeing as how I was brought up in the Puritan ideals of abstention, the sex was a major consideration.

But now that we’ve been married for nearly fifteen years, there’s something else I love about her: her honesty. She is my most loyal critic, as well as my greatest supporter, and in a world that will all too quickly inflate you with meaningless praise, an honest, loving critic is worth more than I ever could have dreamed.

* * * * *

I spent two solid months this summer writing a novel for my children, a book about the things that concerned me when I was a kid, a book about friendship and adventure and dying (I was a melancholy child). I poured myself into that book, to the point that I was emotionally exhausted when I finished. Mentally worn out. And slightly depressed that it was over. Someday, I hope you will read this book.

But I have a fatal flaw for a fiction writer – more than one actually. In real life I avoid conflict, and that carries over into my writing. I protect my characters. No matter how hard I try, they get along too well with one another. They make responsible choices. They lay low.
This is not a good recipe for creating engaging fiction.

* * * * *

When I returned to blogging about a month ago, you all welcomed me back with open arms. I was away for nearly a year, yet you came back, too. More importantly, I’m enjoying myself again because at some point during my break I got over my obsession with numbers. I no longer get panic attacks if I don’t have a post lined up for the next day. I no longer feel the heart-rending disappointment when a post flops.

Still, I felt a sense of unease. This isn’t really what I want to write, not forever, I told myself at night, staring at the ceiling high above. I want to write fiction. I want to be a novelist.

But a sneaking suspicion had begun to grow in my mind, one that I pondered ever since finishing the book for my kids. And when I didn’t have the strength to say the words out loud, Maile said them for me.

They came after I expressed my novelist frustrations to her one morning. We were making the bed. I went on and on, complaining about my weaknesses as a fiction writer, my unhappiness with the plot of the children’s book I had written. Then she said something, something that I had been thinking but did not have the strength to admit out loud. Something that, if I had let it, could have hurt me deeply.

“You might not want to hear what I have to say,” she said in a kind voice.

“No, go ahead.”

“Maybe,” she said, “just maybe, you’re not a novelist. Maybe you’re a nonfiction writer. That’s your best writing. That’s what people respond to.”

I took a deep breath. Sometimes the truth about ourselves hurts. Sometimes it isn’t exactly what we want to hear.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” I admitted.

* * * * *

I wonder how many of us spend our lives trying to be what we want to be instead of embracing who we are? I wonder if this contributes to the truth behind Thoreau’s famous quote that “The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Maybe we’re desperate because we’re dishonest with ourselves and with each other about who we are.

What would happen if we were honest with ourselves? What would happen if we listened to the loving voices that speak into our lives, the voices of those who love us, those who can sometimes see what we cannot, or will not, see?

Of course there’s a flip side to this coin, the truth that life is a struggle, a journey, and that anything worth having takes some work, some perseverance. Don’t give up on your dreams. Etcetera, etcetera. But maybe the one thing standing between you and the life you were meant to live is a dash of humility, a small measure of honesty, and a mustard seed of hope.

The hope that who you are, who you were created to be, is enough.

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What Would You Do If Your Child Confessed to Murder?

Refuse to Drown front onlyJust over six years ago, a high school student and his parents were killed by an unknown assailant. This happened right here in Lancaster County. What made the case unique was that weeks passed without the police receiving any solid leads.

Then, one month later, another high school student confessed to the crimes. But he did so in the confines of a counseling session, and the psychiatric hospital where he was staying turned to the boy’s father, also in the room when the confession was made.

“You need to do the right thing, sir,” the counselor told the father, Tim Kreider, inferring that it was up to him to turn in his son.

What would you have done, if your son looked like he might be getting away with murder? What would you have done, if your son faced three life sentences?

* * * * *

Three years ago, I received an email from a man named Walt Mueller. He said that he knew of someone who had a story to tell, and he wondered if I would be okay with him giving them my details.

Sure, I said.

Soon after that I received an email from a man named Tim Kreider. He said he had written a story about what he had been through recently when his son confessed to murdering his best friend and his best friend’s parents.

He wondered if we could meet.

* * * * *

For some reason I think it was in the fall. I remember standing outside the front door, waiting, wondering what Tim and his wife Lynn would be like. I’d never met the parents of a murderer before.

Tim answered the door and shook my hand. Lynn gave me a hug. Tim has changed a lot since that day when I first met him, and on that early evening, in 2010, he had very sad eyes. While he was eager to tell his story, there was a subconscious reluctance, a hesitancy. He knew that if he was serious about telling his story, he’d have to revisit emotional spaces he preferred not to visit again.

At the end of the evening he asked if I would take a look at what he had written.

I nodded.

He reached down and brought up a folder filled with over 300 pages. He asked me if I would read it. It was a very rough draft, he said, something he wrote in a heavy, dark place, but the writing of it had been one of the keys to helping him find his way after what his son had done.

Over the last three years we have rewritten it, polished it up a little, added sections previously forgotten. There were large chunks of time where the story lay dormant – things resurfaced, made the writing too difficult for Tim. Times when he needed a break, or when the business of life took over. But it is finished now, the story of a man whose son admitted to a terrible crime, and the decisions Tim was forced to make. It’s a powerful story, one full of redemption and hope.

If you’d like to find out more about it, please go and “Like” our Facebook page, Refuse To Drown. Or you can check out our website and sign up to be notified when the book releases, on or around February 1st of next year.

Thanks for supporting this, my latest venture. You folks have been such loyal readers through the years, and I’m really proud to bring you this incredible story.

* * * * *

If you would like Tim to share his story at your church, please let me know.

If you are a blogger and would like an advanced copy of the book to review on your blog during the week of February 1st, 2014, please let me know.