Lindsay Eland - Middle Grade Author

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My husband and I love puzzles. The big 1000 piece puzzles that we have to spread across our kitchen table on our fold-up puzzle board (yes, we have one). We’re working on one now and we’re just about finished, which is both sad and good. Sad because we have such a great time together: eating abnormal amounts of ice cream, smack talking each other, listening to music, and laughing. Good because it becomes an obsession where it’s hard to tear ourselves away from the puzzle cause we think “just one more and then we’ll call it quits” or we go to sleep and all that we can see in our minds are puzzle piece shapes.

But anyway, like I said we’re almost done with the puzzle and this can sometimes be the hardest part. We’re left with maybe 100 pieces and little bits of the puzzle unfinished. You’d think it would be easy and obvious where the rest of the pieces go, but it’s definitely not. It’s only when you try them out every which way and they meld into the bigger picture that you say, “oh, of course that’s where it belongs. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.”

And we never really do get to see the bigger picture of our lives, cause we’re not finished putting all the puzzle pieces in the right spots, and sometimes the puzzle gets knocked a little and pieces fall out, but still each moment is part of something bigger than we think, more wondrous that we can imagine, more beautiful than we dare to believe, and more intricate and complicated than we could dream.

I can tell you the stories behind each one.

I received the small scar by my eye from my older sister who “accidentally” hit me with a canoe paddle one summer that we spent on Lake Charlevoux in Michigan. I love Lake Charlevoux and I love canoeing.

Then there’s the scar on my wrist and ankle. I got this one in India while riding a moped. Me and the driver crashed when a cobra reared up at the tire. We walked away fine, but infection soon set in, I was laid up for a week, visited a hospital in the middle of the night, and now proudly bear the scar from that amazing summer.

Then there’s the small one  on my hand wear my younger sister accidentally stuck a steak knife in my hand during dinner. The scene was very dramatic at the time, though the memory always makes me laugh when I look at it now.

Scars have stories and memories, feelings and longings attached to them…don’t they? And not just the scars that we see on the outside, but those silent ones that litter our hearts–ones that we keep hidden.

We are riddled with scars and we are filled with stories–scars and stories that make us laugh and cry and cringe…and are a part of the beauty of who we are.

People that know me, know that I’m not particularly overly organized or clean. I believe heartily in my method of putting my clothes away. Yes, the “roll it into a tiny ball and stuff it in the drawer and then lean on the drawer as hard as you can” method really does work. True, I hate it when my kitchen is dirty or my living room is full of paper, magazines, and so many cups that the room looks like it was part of the set for the movie SIGNS, still, I pick up all the clutter, wipe down the counters, and heave a sigh.

Clean…or something like that.

Not really, I’ve found. And knowing that my mom is coming for a visit tomorrow only seems to illuminate ever dust particle floating through the air. Now, my mom isn’t necessarily very clean either and I do have to say that my closet is MUCH, MUCH cleaner than hers (love you mom!) and my sisters will agree, but still, when someone is coming to visit, I start to notice all the mess that has been growing steadily kind of like a moldy piece of cheese. I take stock in the fact that a spider moved in a while ago, and invited all his friends and relatives and acquiantances to visit for a while and that the little arachnid family has seen birth, life, and death right above my head. I look around and see that we still have our gingerbread house sitting on top of the cabinets that we made nine or so months ago, and though most likely the Girl Scout cookies are still good (because really, do they ever go bad…seriously, do they?) they’ve been sitting next to the gingerbread house since March and strangely enough, the gingerbread woman is pregnant.

Ah, yes. I will be cleaning today. Washing the sheets, scouring the oven, vacuuming the floor, cleaning the inside of the couch (ummm…why is there star wars underwear stuffed in here rather than rolled into a ball and stuffed into your drawer?). And then, of course, I must tackle the bathroom–yuck. Usually I save the toilet bowl for John to clean…and really he is A LOT better at it than me (or so I’ve convinced him), but today, I fear that it must be done…Because even though the kids are all out of diapers and peeing and pooping all on their own, we’re having a little trouble reminding them to PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY, FLUSH THE TOILET!

Anyway, I gotta go.

I have laundry to “fold.”

I’ve always thought that getting on a horse was a no-brainer. There’s a saddle, you put it on, make sure not to step in poop, put your foot in the stirrups, grab the reins, kick your heels into the sides of the horse, and then hold on for dear life.

That was, of course, before I took horseback riding lessons.

Saturday morning was my second lesson, and I feel like maybe I’m getting a bit better now…or at least my inner thighs aren’t in a constant state of pain anymore…so that has to be a good sign.

Anyway, I’ve learned in my two lessons that much of riding horses has to do with the details. Pelvis forward, loose hips, heels down, back straight, legs wrapped around the body, subtle movements with your feet, gentleness with the reins, and so many more that I’ve already forgotten about.

But it’s all in the details.

And that is what wonderful, engaging writing is like. And for  me at least, the details of a story are what separates great writing from amazing writing.

The details.

Details added that give us insight into a character, a setting, a theme, a moment, an emotion.

For instance: your main character eats breakfast. Sometimes that’s enough. But sometimes adding little details like: what specifically did she have? Does she always eat the same thing and if so why? Is it a special breakfast? Describe it. Who makes it for her, or does she make it herself? what does the food look like through her eyes? can open up the writing and character and story so much more that you find yourself full engaged.

And that is our job as writers, and as human beings. To write and live and move and laugh and cry our way through life fully engaged in the stories playing around us.

To take notice of the details and subtlities in life.

I am the first author featured in Kay Cassidy’s Writing Caves series on her blog! Go check it out at Kay Cassidy!

I decided that today I’d write down a few of my favorite things that have happened today! Here goes:

1. I sent off three partial manuscripts to my agent who will then send them on to my editor! Crossing fingers now that they will both love what I wrote

2. Played two games of SORRY with my seven-year-old and he won both times…I love it when he wins cause he gets so very excited

3. Both of my girls wrote and illustrated their own little picture books about their stuffed animals: cow and pig

4. Number 4 who is only four-years-old took off his shirt to play a variation of beach volleyball at the park today…he then said, “I am awesome at this game!”

5. Went to the park with a good friend and her kiddos. She mentioned that she’d love to sew me my very own Jane Austen dress…I’m in heaven

6. The dog that we are watching till Wednesday did NOT poop on the bathroom rug this morning

7. The bathroom rug is clean

8. I’m drinking a mocha latte right now and it’s delish…yes, I said the word “delish” and hope to use it at least once a day

9. John came home for lunch today and he ALWAYS makes me laugh

10. Me and my four kids made it out of the grocery store in under a half-hour…but really, I would never, ever time myself…ever

What are some of your Monday Favorites?

Growing up, my grandparents had a cabin in the woods that sat right at the edge of the Loyalsock River in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. Me and my family would spend a week there, splashing in the creek, floating along the current, searching for fossils or frogs, playing badmitton and crochet in the yard. Sometimes, when evening fell on the pines we’d all scatter and play “kick the can” our squeals and laughter ringing through the woods. Then we’d settle by the fire and play cards or play with the miniature iron stove until it was bedtime and we’d creep up the creaky stairs and settle into beds under heavy quilts. It was always magic at the cabin.

One summer when my sisters and I were down at the beach swimming in the cold water and attempting to catch frogs, I spied a dragonfly helpless on top of the water. He’d flown too close to the water, I supposed, and he lay helpless on top of the current, his wings soaked through.

Of course I didn’t hesitate in saving him, scooping him out of the water onto my finger. I remember his wings were limp and he didn’t move. Was he dead?

No, that thought was too scary.

I kept holding him and slowly he dried off, adjusting his wings, turning his head, moving his tickly feet on my skin. The rest of that day I carried him around on my finger. He never tried to fly away…just sat on my finger or arm watching, occasionally fluttering his wings a little bit.

I wonder what he thought of me. If he thought I was as wonderful as I thought he was. That I was as magical and wild as he was to me.

The afternoon fell away to evening and my MomMom made him a little place to live in with dirt, sticks, some flowers, and some rocks–a MomMom always knows just what a pet dragonfly could want. Reluctantly, I set him inside and let him walk around though I was terrified he’d fly away.

I knew somehow that he didn’t belong to me, though I didn’t admit it at the time.

I was away from him only long enough to swallow down my dinner as fast as I could. Then I stuck my finger inside the small tank and he crawled up on my finger once more to my intense delight.

He hadn’t flown away! He wanted me just as much as I wanted him.

And then, maybe it was a half-hour later, maybe it was just a minute or two. But slowly, he lifted his wings and fluttered off. I remember watching him and then chasing him…wanting him to come back so desperately.

Knowing my sensitive heart, I probably cried, though I can’t remember if I did.

But he didn’t belong to me just as nothing wild can ever really belong to us. But still, I was lucky. I had a pet dragonfly for an afternoon that I truly loved.

And now every time I see one, I can’t help but feel like I was eight years old again.

Eight years old and wanting to hold something wild again.