The Crooked Tree: How one thought touched another's life

How can one little thought touch a stranger's life?

The morning was fresh, the air laden with a rich spice that only the wilderness can offer: an atmosphere free of oil, soot, and modern-day strife. The coffee perked in anticipation, waiting to be sipped. French toast begged to be drowned in pure maple sweetness.

And the first of my guests arrived.

A husband and wife from Alabama traveling to the Pacific Northwest for the first time in their life, ready to embark on their inaugural fly fishing expedition on the Rogue.

While the rest of the world slept, we spoke in hushed voices. Over the course of a few minutes discovered we a couple things in common, one being a love for the written word.

Weeks have passed since then, and I had all but forgotten that pre-dawn chat…

…until today when I received notification from the post office that I had a package waiting. After standing in line a few minutes, the post master brought me a large, yellow envelope from a Jeff Barganier. The name didn’t register and I walked back to my car perplexed. Why would a stranger send me something?

The moment I slit open the package the dam burst and the memories flooded into place. (Including the moment he asked if he could have my mailing address to send me a little something.) In my hands I held a hardbound book with beautiful artwork on the cover beneath a simple title: The Crooked Tree.

The story within the pages proved to be just as simple, but the take-away was incredibly rich and powerful.

The Crooked Tree is a tale about a little seedling beside a stream that initially goes ignored by the entire forest, but as he grows all he wants is to become as big and mighty as his father, the Hickory on the Hill. Then comes the storm that knocks the little tree down. Mangled and twisted, he becomes the butt of all the other trees’ jokes and he despairs of ever having any value. And that’s when everything changes.

A thought changes a life when it's nurtured, allowed to mature, and then is released into the world.

Dave Lambert once wrote, “Nonfiction communicates truth to the intellect, through logical thought. Fiction communicates truth to the heart, through emotion.”

The Crooked Tree does exactly that. As I turned each page I felt a stirring inside and tears welled up. I didn’t just identify with the little tree, for a few minutes I was the little tree. And when I closed the back cover I felt inspired, ready to tackle every obstacle the world keeps knocking across my path.

That’s what writing should do. Fill the reader with a desire to do more, be more, and then challenge her not just to want it, but to act upon that desire.

So as I sit here with my laptop after dark, with a panting pup at my feet, the first mug of hot apple cider of the season by my chair, and a chill autumn breeze playing a mournful tune in the wind chimes, I find myself feeling incredibly encouraged and immensely grateful for the day Jeff went for a walk in the woods and discovered something that made him ask the question, “Lord, how did this tree come to be so crooked?”

And even more thankful for the morning I spent with Jeff and his wife by the river. 

Writing advice from a Sports Trainer

Do what you have to do to eat. But if you want to be a writer you have to write.
 Photo ©2008 MMagallan via Stock.Xchng

One of the hazards (or perks, depending on how you look at it) of working in the service industry is overhearing bits and pieces of guests' conversations. I've picked up conflicting advice on dating, overheard several heated political debates, and have tried to put out of my mind images from sentences I hope never to hear uttered again.

Recently a group of a hundred football players came through. They'd just won their first game of the season against one of our local high schools and most of them were spending the day on the river. After splitting my morning between my breakfast duties and driving shuttles I finally had a chance to clean the lodge.

Usually by this time of day everyone has passed through onto their morning activities and I'm able get through my daily checklist without feeling like I'm underfoot, but on this particular day the sports commentary coming from the TV above the mantlepiece was being ignored by a student who skipped the raft trip and was instead sitting enthralled in the tale of his chaperone.

I didn't get to hear much, but from what I did I learned that the man came from East St. Louis. Having spent some time volunteering there as part of an after-school program during my freshman year of college I had no trouble setting the scene. And like that part of town, it wasn't pretty. It was, however, incredibly intriguing and I found myself working a little slower as the mentor shared about a life that seemed straight out of a Hollywood film. As I walked away with my cleaning supplies I found myself wondering how he had found himself here in Oregon and what made his life so drastically different from some of his family members.

Later on while I was preparing the deck for lunch he came out and struck up a conversation with me. It turns out he's a sports trainer and he works with a lot of the players in his community (both amateur and professional). We started out talking about one of the players who was severely injured in the game the night before. While his teammates were trying to enjoy their victory, he was undergoing surgery. As the captain of three different sports (and he's only a junior this year), he's well loved and respected by his peers. According to the trainer, even if the doctor said he'd never play a sport again, this young man would be the one to prove him wrong. But even if he didn't, he'd do all right for himself. He's just that sort of kid.

There was no mistaking the admiration the trainer had for this young man, and our conversation eventually led into him talking with me about his own journey. By the world's standards he should have been another statistic. Instead he took on the world, put himself through college, started a business that while successful wasn't what he was passionate about, so he sold it and started up his training organization and has never looked back, even when the going was tough. He was living his dream and he couldn't be happier.

That's when he asked about me. 

For the first time in my life I boldly said I'm a writer. I told him how it wasn't what I first set out to do when I started college, but it's what I love. We talked about college, about working with youth, and about what I've been doing this past year. I shared a little about my book and my roughly sketched-out plans for the future.

As I spoke he shook his head and smiled.

"You know what? You're the real thing," he told me. "Don't stop. You keep writing. Don't let anything or anyone hold you back. Do what you have to do to make ends meet right now, but when you get home you make sure you write."

I don't know what encouraged me more, the fact that he called me the "Real thing" or that he took the time to have a real conversation with me. I've gotten so used to the superficial chats with guests that I never would have expected such a huge motivational boost from a complete stranger. In my mind I was just a working grunt. In his mind, I was one of his players who just needed a shove in the right direction.

It was a much needed reminder that my dreams are important, that work doesn't define an individual, and success is rarely what the world describes it as. I'm not the only writer who is working an odd job to put food on the table, so there is no need to feel defensive about it. Unless I use it as an excuse to do anything but write, that is.

Maybe it was his passion that lent me the gumption I needed. Or maybe he just helped me find my own inner fire again. Whatever the case, it was exactly what I needed when I needed it.

I'm still exhausted when I get home from work every day, but now I'm grabbing my laptop or notebook and writing my heart out before I pass out.

30 Days of Thankfulness in Writing – Day 3: Morning Walks

It’s easy to focus on the negative in the world around us. In observation of a month many dedicate to counting their blessings, I’ve started a 30-day challenge in which I’ll focus on one aspect of my writing life for which I am thankful. I’d love to have you join by sharing about something that has blessed your own writing life in the comments section below.
 -Jen

While at Youth Group last night one of the high school students shared with me that one of her family members was about to go in for a major operation. He has diabetes and has to have his second leg removed. It’s no surprise that I immediately started wiggling toes and trying to imagine what it would be like to be unable to walk on my own. It took all of a second for me to decide I would probably go insane. It’s hard enough having to constantly read labels to make sure I don’t accidentally poison myself with gluten.

I love going for walks. It’s a simple exercise that allows me to clear my mind, work through conflicts, process story ideas, and it’s amazing getting to see the scenery changing around me on a weekly basis. It also gives me a chance to spend time talking with the people I love without the distraction of texts, e-mail, or phone calls. (Our walks are technology-free zones so we can have 30 minutes to completely unplug.) As I write this I’m just starting to warm up from my trek through the local park. It was 40 degrees out and raining, but as long as I was moving I didn’t really seem to notice.

So today I’m thankful for the ability to exercise — to stretch my arms and legs, and flex my cold fingers and toes.

I’m thankful that I can see the flaming reds and yellows and oranges clinging to branches and covering the ground.

I’m thankful I can hear the geese and ducks arguing with each other while standing on a bridge watching from above.

I’m thankful for the heat I felt seeping through my coffee cup into my mitten-clad hands. For the rich taste that warmed me as I took each sip.

I’m even thankful I could smell that pile a careless dog walker “didn’t notice” their pet left in the middle of the pathway.

It’s so easy to take the little things for granted, but when I stopped to consider them this morning I realized how big an impact each one has on my life. I also realized that without these amazing yet simple abilities my job as a writer would be a much more challenging task.

The View from Where I’m Standing

On Tuesday mornings, I meet up with my brothers at the Dutch Bros. coffee stand one of them works at to buy a coffee and then take a walk along the Rogue River. I couldn’t help but notice (for the hundredth time) just how particularly beautiful the view was from the pedestrian bridge, and I wanted to share it with you.

Wherever you are today, whatever challenges you’re facing, whatever joys you’re celebrating, I wanted to take a moment to encourage you to stop and enjoy the beauty surrounding you. You can find it in the most insignificant little thing, if you just take the time to look.

Happy writing!

-Jen

P.S. The Writer’s Wellspring reached 1,000 views last night. Thank you all so much for your support these past few months. Your responses and the private messages you’ve sent me telling me how a particular post has touched you has been such an encouragement to me.

The Missing “Scents”

I think smell is one of the five senses we tend to take most for granted, and yet it’s one we depend on more than we realize. It’s allergy season for me. The cottonwood trees are in full bloom and are filling the air with their own form of watery-eye, itch-inducing, fuzzy snow. Even with taking allergy meds it’s a miracle when I can breathe clearly through both nostrils at the same time.

Today happened to be one of those days. While Phillip and I were walking across the pedestrian bridge spanning the Rogue River, I noticed two distinct scents. They were so strong we joked that someone had stopped and sprayed two canisters filled with the particular smells just to catch people’s attention. (In truth, they come from two different trees growing along the river.) The first smell was sweet, a mix of floral and spice drops. It’s the perfume I attributed to the fabled gumdrop trees in the realm of Fancy. The other reminded me of my brothers’ soccer bags after a week of daily doubles.

Smell is also key to taste. Without it, I wouldn’t be able to differentiate the passion fruit from the rest of the flavors of the tea I ordered this morning. Everything just blends together obscurely. I know it’s there, I get a hint of the flavor, but it lacks the full body. And then there is the role it plays in creating memories. A whiff of cologne or body spray will bring to mind a friend or family member I haven’t seen in years. Vinegar reminds me of the summer my grandmother spilled a full bottle in her car. Finally, smell can alert us to danger long before we see or hear it, such as smoke, gas, or milk that has recently turned.

Why this long-winded talk of smell, you wonder? Well, I’ve been helping some friends with their writing projects over the past few months and I’ve noticed sight and sound has been abundant, but there has been little mention of the smells surrounding their characters. This made me take a closer look at some of the books I’ve been reading. Lo and behold, there it was: Sight. Sound. Touch. Taste. And Smell. Coupled with the past few weeks of limited breathing capabilities, I’ve become more aware of just how flat the world is without the sharp, sweet, sour, and gym-bag fumes permeating my environment. It’s one more thing I’m keeping in mind as I work through my own revisions.