The Power

One of the reasons I write is to rid myself of situations in which I feel helpless. To give myself power to look at both the good side and the bad, and to give my characters power over situations in which they might otherwise have none.

Sometimes I really do hope to help someone—even if it’s just one person—finds his or her own power. Whether it’s the power to save the world or the power to defeat demons (real or imaginary). The power to find courage, or the power to give of themselves. The power to be strong, to make better choices, and to choose good over evil.

Is this my way of fighting back? Of taking control of things I can’t personally fix? Maybe. Do I think I can change the world? Sure. Why not.

Someone has to try.

Because They ALL Matter

By now you all probably know I had a birthday last week. (No, I will not tell you how old I am because it would totally ruin the illusion I have going on about that. Besides, age isn’t the point.)

Ever since I joined Facebook, I’ve discovered that my online friends are thoughtful people who remember the special days every year. Granted, you can’t miss those little reminders, but still. Every single birthday wish is thoughtful nonetheless.

Those people (even if I can’t really see their faces in the itty-bitty avatar box) took a small piece of valuable time to wish me happy birthday. ME. Even the ones who don’t know me IRL. I appreciate that. I am grateful for each person who is willing to take that time.

So on that day when I had a couple hundred birthday wishes, I wrote a couple hundred thank you replies. If I’d had a thousand, or ten thousand wishes, I would have written that many thank yous.

Someone suggested just write a blanket thank you on my own wall (as most people do—and which is a perfectly acceptable way to say thanks to a thousand people at a time—I’m totally not criticizing that practice, cuz a thank you in any form is always valuable). But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. For some reason, I felt it important to take a piece of my valuable time to thank each person individually. Because when it comes right down to it, each one of the people making those wishes matters to me.

Just as each one of my readers matters. I once told some author friends that I will never turn away a reader wanting their book signed, even when my hands are cramped and arthritic and screaming in pain. That’s not who I am. I value every single individual fan.

I believe that NO ONE on this earth gets where they are without help. For authors, readers are a large part of that help. I intend to do my very best to never ever forget their contribution.

On the day when I end up with half a million screaming fans waiting in a line that stretches across the city, I invite you all to question my sanity. (I do it every day.) But if that ever happens, I guess I’ll get to brag that I broke David Farland’s world record. And dang, I’d be ever-so proud.

Memorable People

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” ~ Maya Angelou


I have a theory. Probably not an original one, actually. In fact, someone somewhere has most likely done a study on it at some point. But I believe that our memories are based not on sights or tastes or sounds or smells, but on feelings first. Everything else is secondary.

For instance, we might remember our first vacation because of the excitement and happiness we experienced during that trip. And then we associate smells and sights and sounds with that incident, and voila, we have a memory.

On the other spectrum, we might remember a broken heart because of the hollow ache, the physical pain. And again, all the other sensations we remember are linked to that original gut-wrenching feeling.

I don’t remember a lot of books I read as a child. But there are a handful that I do, and they affected me enough to help shape what I became as an adult. Thinking back, I’ve always been a fan of romance in plots. Even in Nancy Drew, I couldn’t get enough of the almost-kisses between Nancy and Ned. That’s the feeling I latched onto, and the only part about those mysteries I really remember. Well, that, and the fact that Nancy always conveniently carried a change of clothes in the trunk of her car. But ya know. I think that had more to do with believability.

Another example: People.

I’m terrible with names. It takes me at least three times of meeting you before I remember yours (unless you’ve done something to make a huge impression, then it might only take two). But if you made me smile, I’ll remember that feeling and associate it with your face. If you made me angry, I remember that too. And if you said or did something outlandish or incredible or absolutely impressionable, if you made my cheeks hurt from laughing, or my heart flutter with happiness, or my gut clench with pain or anxiety, I will definitely remember your name. The first time.

How do the people you meet remember you?