Val Muller

Last month, on the way to a (wonderful) vacation in Myrtle Beach, we made our annual stop at Parker’s Barbeque in Wilson, North Carolina. We knew the place was good the first year we stopped–because we didn’t get to eat there. It was recommended by Yelp or TripAdvisor, and we arrived on Sunday during prime lunch time. With such a long drive, we didn’t have time to wait, so we had to pass it up that first year. It was so crowded, we knew it was good.

The next year, we learned to leave our house earlier, so we made it before the lunch crowd. We’ve been coming ever since—each time we head to Myrtle Beach.

When we stopped last month, we were greeted by attentive employees, standing ready to serve. Not one of them had a cell phone. Not one of them looked distracted or disdainful. This shouldn’t be an anomaly, but based on the metropolitan suburb where we live, it’s getting harder to find attentive employees unfocused on their phones. Just before vacation, I saw an employee texting in the aisles of his store of employment. The difference was insane.

So, score one point for Parker’s.

Courtesy of http://i2.cdn.turner.com/cnnnext/dam/assets/130708143604-parkers-barbecue-horizontal-large-gallery.jpg

But then, as we were waiting (about twelve seconds) for our food, I reached toward my bag to check my phone—I hadn’t checked email for several hours and was getting “that itch.” What if an editor was trying to contact me? What if I had a new blog comment to moderate? What if the world needed saving? But something stopped me.

I looked around the room as I noticed it was filled with an unfamiliar noise: friendly chatter.

Looking at the packed dining room, I saw table after table full of people of all walks of life…

…and none of them had a cell phone out.

Instead, they were all talking to each other. You know, having actual, genuine conversations. Making eye contact. Laughing. Interacting. I watched as two girls competed for their grandfather’s attention while their parents talked with each other.

I watched as a group of “grown-ups” seemed to be engaged in a serious conversation. As couples chatted like they were on a first date. Laughter. Giggles. Banter. When we were leaving, an older couple stopped us, commenting on my husband’s William and Mary hat. We had a conversation about Williamsburg, our upcoming vacation, and the lack of cell phones in the restaurant—a comfortable conversation that lasted until their food arrived, at which point we each wished each other well and continued our journey to Myrtle.

I left the restaurant in a bit of a daze. I felt like I had entered another world, perhaps another time—one in which people still knew how to have conversations with each other. People who knew the art of eye contact and reading body language. People who didn’t need a phone to entertain them 24/7. I actually regretted the fact that I would have to leave that world and—when vacation ended—enter a world in which cell phones seem to be attached at the hip. A world in which restaurants are relatively quiet because people—grown-ups and children alike—are pacified by their phones.

I think Einstein or maybe Orwell would have something to say about how “far” we’ve come with our technology and how “sophistication” has killed the art of conversation.

I wish everyone—especially those who live in a technology-rich location like mine—could have the experience of a place like Parker’s, especially the students I teach, the ones who seem to be unable to live for more than ten minutes without a phone. The experience reminded me of growing up in a time without cell phones, when families “had” to interact and get to know each other while waiting for food. When we could make eye contact and read body language instead of hiding behind the comfort of a glowing screen.

Even though I only get to go once a year, visiting a place like Parker’s is good for my soul. We all need a little reminding from time to time. The best part about life on Earth is not the latest smartphone or the best 4G network. It’s the people, our interactions with each other, and the stories we share.

I look forward to my next opportunity to put down the phone and hope that as my life continues, I don’t need so much reminding.

Today I’m celebrating the release of two anthologies in which my work appears.

The first is available for pre-order at this point, but for some reason, Amazon.com has the book offered at a 51% discount (which is essentially cheaper than I can buy it from the publisher!). The book is a Chicken Soup for the Soul title called Dreams and Premonitions: 101 Amazing Stories of Miracles, Divine Intervention, and Insight.

In this book, my story “The Mentor” appears. This is the amazing dream I had that changed my life. In the dream, my grandfather, who I never knew, gave me advice that led me down the path as a writer. I was fascinated by the Chicken Soup title Messages from Heaven, and I look forward to reading the collection of stories in this anthology as well.

Description from the publisher: Sixth sense, gut feeling, instinct. Whatever you call it, sometimes we have no logical reason for knowing something—but still we know it. In this collection, you’ll read 101 stories of intuition, insight, and inspiration that will amaze you and encourage you tap into your own inner wisdom
We all have the ability to tap into our intuition, but often find it hard to do. Dreams and premonitions are often the way our intuition or our faith in the beyond manifest. You will be awed and amazed by these true stories from everyday people who have experienced the extraordinary. The 101 stories in this book will enlighten and encourage you to listen to your dreams and your own inner voice.

The second release is an anthology published by a company called FTB. The book is called Irrational Fears. My story is about a burned-out teacher who finds escape in lucid dreaming. In her sleep, she is able to live out her desires and cleanse her frustrations so that she can better function at work. The problem is, she becomes so good at lucid dreaming that the line between dreaming and reality starts to blur… and then blur some more.

You can purchase it in paperback, borrow for free with Kindle Unlimited, or purchase the Kindle version for about the cost of a cup of coffee.

Description from the publisher: Irrational fears can be described as an anxiety or phobia of seemingly normal or innocuous objects, animals or happenings. The fear can be subtle or paralyzing, either way it makes for a great story. This is a collection of those stories.
Irrational Fears is a anthology of works from a talented and diverse group of international writers. FTB Press is proud to share their voice with a shared community of readers. Among others, the stories include strange fears, of clowns, ballerinas, vomit and a creepy hand floating in a toilet.
The cast of writers includes Essel Pratt, Wayne Via, Lance Hyden, Katherine Hannula Hill, Paul Rhodes, Matthew Lett, Tracey Chapman, DJ Tyrer, Alex Harasymiw, David Bergheim, John Timm, Paul Griley, Robin Becker, Thomas Elson, Casey Douglas, Erin O’Loughlin, Val Muller, Anne Wilson and Carol L. Park.

Today I’ll be presenting at Longwood University’s Summer Literacy Institute. One of my presentations is an “about me” author discussion in which I take the audience through my dual life as writer-teacher as well as journey through my past to take a look at my influences. In preparing the presentation, I realized that serendipity, or fate, does play a role in our lives. Sometimes, when we aren’t sure whether we’re in control, factors are pushing us toward our destiny.

Whether they realized it or not, my parents created the perfect mix in an environment that fostered creativity yet kept me on edge just enough to encourage the desire to write.

First, my mom:

One of the first things I remember about my mom and reading/writing is admiring how neat her handwriting was (and still is). It was almost like artwork, the way each letter was shaped consistently. It almost looked like a computer font. Try as I may, I never could (and still cannot) write that neatly. But my fascination with the way letters form on a page has stayed with me. To this day, I write by hand the same way I used to as a kid, only typing the second (or subsequent) draft.

The power of writing: I was obsessed from a young age, scrawling by hand all the time.

Mom also read to me all the time, fostering my love of reading and stories—something essential to any writer.

Something else about my mom: she was the voice of reason, the stable rock, of my childhood. She went out of her way—sometimes to a fault—to explain everything to me. If she had to run to the store, she would explain exactly where she was going, why she was going, and how long she would be gone. She was always right almost to the minute. Because of her diligent way of explaining things, I always assumed the world contained a sense of logic.

Enter my dad.

My dad is a logical person, but he did not make the same effort to explain things logically to me—except when it came to tools, which could be dangerous, of course. He explained, for instance, that saws could cut skin, fire could burn, and hammers could bruise. But other than that, he liked to have a little fun. Talking about my dad in college, one of my professors said he is “a writer’s gold mine.” And it’s true. The weird, creative stories he told me definitely made an impact.

As a kid used to Mom’s sense of logic and truth, I could not fathom the fact that a parent would “fib” to a child. So when my dad told me “stories,” I believe him.

An early second draft.

First: a child will turn to stone if she is awake past midnight. It had to do with trolls who use the power of the moon. I’m sure he told me this as incentive for me to go to bed early, but all it ended up doing was making it harder for me to fall asleep. Who can sleep when they have to constantly check the clock and make sure they aren’t turning into stone? I mean, I would literally sit in bed and wiggle my toes just to make sure the stone-spell wasn’t setting in.

My uncle walks with a cane. But when he would stay at our house at night, he wouldn’t use the cane to get from the couch to the kitchen or the bathroom. I asked my dad why. Instead of logically explaining that he didn’t need a cane for short distances, my dad made up this whole tale: that I only saw my uncle without a cane at night, at night the moon is out, another word for “moon” is “lune,” and my uncle can be pretty “looney” sometimes; hence, he used the power of the moon to be able to walk without a cane.

My younger sister rolled her eyes.

I was fascinated. Who would have thought such power existed in the world? How amazing! If only I could harness some of that magic.

My dad’s crazy stories fostered my sense of wonder. After watching The Dark Crystal and noting that female gelflings have wings, I would check the mirror on the back of my door each morning to see if my wings had sprouted yet. No joke.

An episode of Beauty and the Beast. Could that baby be… me??? (Courtesy IMDB)

My mom loved the TV show Beauty and the Beast. Always loving a good joke, my dad told me that Vincent, the lion-man, was really my father. He had to leave me “with the humans” for a while, while he sorted things out. But he was my father and Catherine, the female human lead in the show, was my mother. He even said, in Catherine’s voice, “Oh, Vincent, she has your hair,” explaining that the only way I could have red hair—when Dad had brown and Mom had very dark brown—was that Vincent was actually my father.

Evidence of my fear of Vincent. Excuse the spelling.

My dad laughed at this tale, and once again my younger sister rolled her eyes. He had no idea that I took it seriously. I was terrified to go up to my room at night: I had to enlist my younger sister to go into my room first and turn on the light to make sure Vincent wasn’t there waiting for me. And even if it was safe, there was no telling when Vincent might hop up onto the roof and climb in through the window. He was stealthy that way. And if he arrived after midnight and woke me up—well, then he would have a stone statue of a child.

So much to worry about!

Yet so much to foster the imagination.

I like to think I’ve grown up a little since then—I no longer fear that Vincent will come for me. But I haven’t lost that sense of wonder about the world. Sometimes at work I’ll share my irrational fears with coworkers. “Hey, have you ever gotten to work and had to look down because you worry that maybe you forgot to put on pants, or a shirt, or shoes?”

Their reactions show me just how abnormal my thoughts are. But that’s the thing: I’m always thinking of strange—but slightly possible—possibilities. When an earthquake hit our building and my coworkers were trying to figure out what was happening, my brain already accepted that not-so-abnormal possibility and had my legs running into the door frame before the rumbling was over. I even had time to decide whether it would be smarter to stay there or make a run for the exterior door (I stayed).

My first “book”–The Mystery of Who Killed John Polly

The point of all this is: my mom’s sense of logic and my dad’s warped sense of creativity fostered the perfect atmosphere for the creative person I would become. My mom’s love of writing and reading made it a logical, calming activity. My dad’s sense of creativity left me with that edge that is never truly content with the world as it is. Combined, it’s the perfect storm for a writer.

The first time I remember words coming together to create true, resonating meaning: My dad had been reading “The Night Before Christmas” with me for weeks and months to the point where I nearly had it memorized. I knew the story and understood what was happening, but it wasn’t until one particular moment that the words resonated with me. It was a snowy Connecticut winter, and one night my dad approached. He reminded me of the line from the poem “The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow,” and then he pointed out the dining room window. The snow had fallen and sat undisturbed on the lawn. In the moonlight, it sparkled as if fairies had sprinkled dust all over. Indeed, looking out, it was almost as if the midday sun were shining on everything. It was the first time I understood that words could not only paint mental pictures but could also evoke emotions. I realized that whenever I read that line from the poem, even if I was reading it from a tropical island, I would be summoned, at least emotionally, to that moment—to the snow sparkling under the moonlight. What a beautiful image.

And I don’t even like snow!

But I think from that moment, I was hooked. I understood the power of words, and I needed an outlet for all that creativity. It would be impossible, from that point forward, for me not to be a writer.

When I was younger, I read a series of books in the Serendipity series—about a sea creature that I always thought looked like a dragon. I remember at some point, my mom tried to explain the meaning of “serendipity” to me, but I was young for my grade level, and lots of things didn’t make sense that early.

Either that, or maybe I always just operated on a different wavelength.

This past weekend, though, I experienced a serendipitous moment.

I was in the basement (it’s cool down there, and it wasn’t quite hot enough to warrant air conditioning in the rest of the house. The television was on, and the dogs instantly howled, barked, and hurried upstairs. They do this only if someone is at the house or if they are confused (by a nefarious bird tapping at the window, for instance).

Thinking it was the neighbors (their daughter loves to visit the corgis), I prepared myself for a friendly visit. But instead, I saw a young woman shielding her eyes so she could peer into the side window of my front door.

My mind instantly raced: had she indeed sounded the doorbell? Who was she? Why was she peeking inside the house? Was she trying to see if we were home? Trying to break in? Was she the “attractive distraction” while the real thugs were waiting in the bushes until I opened the door? See, the situation did not fit into any known paradigm.

Slowly (it only took a few seconds, but time seems to slow down during moments like this), I came to realize that I recognized that face. But from where? From where? The long, perfectly-trimmed hair… the comfortable yet coordinated outfit. Was this a coworker?

No.

A neighbor?

No.

Maybe someone I met at a conference.

No, no, no.

Then it hit me: it was my sister! What in the world was my sister doing at my front door, peering in, and not even calling my cell phone? She lived at least two (trafficky) hours away and always planned her visits well in advance.

Bear with me here; I’m an author. My mind always races with the strangest possibilities. It’s a helpful skill with storytelling, but it isn’t always the most practical. It’s why I could never fall asleep at night as a kid. My mind can take any innocent fact and turn it into a nightmare if allowed to go far enough.

So my mind raced with possibilities—again, in slow motion—as I retrieved the key to the front door from where it is kept. “Are you alright?” I was mouthing through the glass even as I went for the key.

She nodded her head, but my mind didn’t believe it yet. It raced with possibilities: maybe she ran away from home. Maybe she just had to get away. Maybe her cell battery died—or perhaps she didn’t even have time to grab her phone. And then the more sinister possibilities: maybe she was an outlaw now, looking for a place to hide away (I live somewhat in the middle of nowhere). Or maybe she was being pursued by someone, or something. Zombies, perhaps?

Thankfully, by this time, I had managed to unlock the door and reach out for a hug. I wondered if she would bust through the door and slam it behind her, peering outside in a paranoid way. But no, the dogs were already on her, and she petting them and smiling.

The truth was far more boring and pleasant than the potential my imagination had assigned it: She and her boyfriend had been on a day trip in West Virginia. Their phone’s GPS was taking them “a back way” home and then got “turned around,” giving them directions that didn’t make sense. They just happened to be driving along the road when my sister turned and said, “Hey, that’s Val’s house!”

So on the spur of the moment, even though my husband and I had just eaten pizza (!), we went out to eat with them. He got a cookie sundae and I got a salad (the place has really good salads! And it’s healthier than dessert, right?)

But most importantly, it was a serendipitous moment of togetherness. I tend to be someone who likes things that are planned and expected so that my mind doesn’t have to go through its obsessive-list-of-crazy-possibilities. But once in a while, it’s healthy to do something unplanned—to let your brain cycle through the possibilities, and to live a little.

Each Friday, I post something to celebrate–we could all use a bit more good news and positive vibes in the world. Today I’m helping fellow author Melissa Eskue Ousley celebrate the launch of her new book, The Sower Comes. She’s invited 10 authors to celebrate with her on her Facebook page on Sunday, July 12th from 12 noon Pacific time (3 p.m. Eastern). Each author will host 30 minutes and will feature a giveaway.

You’ll find my giveaway below. So even if you can’t join us on Sunday, you can still have a chance to win!

On Sunday, I’ll be highlighting my young adult novel, The Scarred Letter. If you’re not familiar, check out the trailer:

And the latest review:

“Val Muller wrote this to be both gut-wrenching and lyrical, drawing inspiration for her characters and the story from Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel. The juxtaposition of the beautiful and almost-grotesque paint an intriging, accurate picture of life in the halls of a school made famous for sports achievements—and what it’s like to be an outsider. The climax of Heather’s “before” and introduction to the “after”–the branding of her as a traitor in the form of a large “T” drawn across the middle of her face—tugs at readers hearts while putting into perspective what happens when otherwise good people stand by and let others speak (or, in this instance, react) for them.” – Betwixt These Pages (full review here)

And, as promised, the giveaway:

I’ll be giving away one paperback copy of Corgi Capers (book 1, 2, or 3–winner’s choice), two paperback copies of For Whom My Heart Beats Eternal, one paperback copy of the freedom-themed anthology Forging Freedom (volume 1), one paperback copy of The Scarred Letter, and several ebook coupon codes for The Scarred Letter. Please note that paperback copies can only be shipped to US addresses. Winners will be drawn on August 8 and notified via email. (If you are having trouble viewing or using the Rafflecopter entry form below, you can simply enter at this link: http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/ccb3bdd621/?)
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