I’m late.  Two weeks late.  I was supposed to have already turned in the first chapter of my book on the beatitudes to a publisher.  I’m being perfectionistic I know and time’s been scarce with the live CD and new web site to oversee.  But I’ve had a minor breakthrough that has me really liking writing this book again, and that makes me move faster.

I’ve had a hard time putting meaty theological content in with the lighter stories I think shed some light on the theological points I’m making and give a break to readers before they have to dive back into the next deep section.  The problem has been transitioning between the two.  So I decided to separate them entirely, to create bloglike sections, posts with their own character and function.  No transitions needed – most of the time.

But then I worried about the stories being all the same approximate length.  They weren’t.  I’m just OCD enough for that to bother me.  And I wasted a week beefing one story in particular up with extra details and adjectives and walked away frustrated.

The breakthrough was making myself tell the story without worrying about length.  The story is what the story is, even if it’s half a page and the next one is three.  So here’s the story I muttled up with fluff in it’s much more concise form:

Mrs. Grandberry smelled like desert and flowers.  Her tan skin dimpled at the corners of her mouth and wrinkled around the edges of her eyes when she smiled, which was almost always.

I had a small crush on Mrs.Granberry, who seemed more like a tall kid than an actual adult.  It was her first year of teaching and the administration and the parents and their children and the coming boredom of lessons a thousand times taught hadn’t drained the joy from her face or the color from her hair yet.  She was new and all grins.

I especially loved Mrs. Grandberry at art time.  She strolled throughout the grid of first grade desks patting us gently on the shoulder as she cooed encouragements.  “That’s a handsome snowman, Amy.  I just love his scarf.  I’d wear a scarf that nice wouldn’t you?”

I was after Amy on her rounds.

Mrs. Grandberry leaned over my chair to admire a single doily I’d glued to a blue piece of paper.  “It’s a snow flake,” I smiled.

“It’s a special little snow flake,” she whispered, “Just like you.” Her dimples appeared and her finger flicked my nose playfully.  And I promise I heard a tiny “ding” as a twinkle twirled for an instant in her squinty delighted eyes.