Scott Writes Good

Today is the day!

I’m excited to announce The Bright & Morning Star, a deeply personal creative project that has been in development for many months. 

I’ve long wanted to find a way to combine two things I’m passionate about: Creative writing and the gospel of Jesus Christ. I think I’ve found the right way to do both.

The Bright & Morning Star is a Substack newsletter (more about Substack in a minute) delivered to subscribers by email or through the Substack app. Typically once a week, I’ll be sharing short personal essays about my personal efforts to learn about and follow the Savior. 

These reflections will be more personal than anything I’ve shared before. And I promise, no preaching. Trying to get closer to Him is the hardest work anyone will ever do. It’s messy. Stop and start. A journey filled with stumbles, mistakes, and unending, wordless prayers. But also, the sweetest Voice.

A newsletter? Seriously? That’s what all this silly hype has been about? Well, yes and no. What if I called it a love letter, about the Savior, from me to you? Would that make it any different?

I’m excited and more than a little terrified about this moment, to be honest. Failure in any creative endeavor is always a possibility, of course. I’ve considered bailing on this idea more than a few times—and as recently as five minutes ago. But as the saying goes, “nothing ventured, nothing gained.” Or is it “nothing lost”? 🙂 

And now for the most frightening part of all—three heartfelt invitations:

☆ I’d love for you to subscribe! For free! Here’s the link https://brightmorningstar.substack.com (You can also just read posts without subscribing FYI.)

☆ If you are find the things I’m writing about helpful in some way, please share! 

☆ Consider becoming a Founding Sponsor in the future (more details about sponsoring on the main page).

Subscribe. Share. Sponsor.

Subscribers receive an email from Substack each time a new post is published (every week or so) or, my personal preference, be notified of new posts in the Substack app. The best thing of all is the ability Substack gives you to comment and engage directly with writers. I can’t wait to have meaningful conversations with you about your own efforts to know and follow Him.

With today’s launch, you can also read my first post! It’s titled “That I might…not shrink—,” and it begins with one of the most embarrassing moments I’ve ever had; the day I wet my pants during a baseball game. Everything gets worse from there…until it doesn’t.

Here are a few titles from upcoming essays I’ll be sharing with subscribers:

✯ Be Still

✯ The man at the rest stop

✯ Breakfast with Lazarus

✯ Through a glass, darkly

✯ Careful & Troubled About Many Things 

✯ The Fellowship of His Suffering

✯ Waiting at the Water

I will also be sending out a bonus newsletter each month called Of Good Report which will be a curated list of things I’m reading, watching, and listening to, with hopes readers will share their own favorites. I also plan to start a virtual Bright & Morning Star book club, invite guest writers and perhaps even a podcast at some point in the future.

All the details at https://brightmorningstar.substack.com 

I can’t go without giving a huge “Thank You!” to my amazingly talented graphic artist (and awesome sister-in-law) Emily Bunnell, the designer of my gorgeous logo. So thrilled she was willing to make it for me. Thanks Em!

I’d love for you to join me on this walk with Him.

She couldn’t remember the last time he had actually looked at her. Seen her. Missed her. Has he forgotten me so completely? Am I even needed by him – or by anyone – anymore?

Cara sat alone near the back of the chapel. Her five-year-old Mason and two-year-old Abby were temporarily entertained. That could change at any moment. Eruptions were always just a broken crayon or a dropped fruit snack away. Cara had cried hard enough that morning to cause her eyes to sting and swell. Makeup covered most of the obvious signs unless someone looked close. Which no one would, of course. She’d become invisible to the ward. They’d stopped talking to her. Fine, not all of them. But most. Busy. Everyone was into their own situation. They just didn’t have time for her. Sister Barnam, the Relief Society President, would check in once in awhile. But it felt obligatory to Cara. Forced. Cara wanted to tell her not to bother.

The first counselor in the bishopric, Brother Tucker, was conducting. Had they already sung the opening hymn? Had she missed it entirely? Truth be told, she’d not been doing much singing recently. More of an occasional tired mumble. Sacrament meeting had become the worst hour of the week for her. Sixty jagged minutes of being reminded of all the innumerable ways she fell short. Not kind enough. Too emotional. Too mouthy. Impossibly broken.

“We’ll now sing ‘I Stand All Amazed’, Hymn 193, following which the sacrament will be administered by holders of the Aaronic Priesthood.”     

Cara gritted her teeth. Not one of her favorites. The words rubbed her wrong for some reason. She wasn’t sure why. The melody, maybe?

She wondered what he was thinking right then. Was she in his thoughts at all? Did he miss her? Want to hold her? To run his finger along the back of her hand as he once had?

I stand all amazed at the love Jesus offers me,

Confused at the grace that so fully he proffers me.

I tremble to know that for me he was crucified,

That for me, a sinner, he suffered, he bled and died.

Their conversation the night before hadn’t gone well. She had shouted. Probably swore. Why can’t I stop from doing that? He’d just stared at her, his eyes wide. Standing in the entryway, his hand on the doorknob. She hadn’t even let him take his coat off. She’d sat on the couch and waited for the garage door to go up. Waiting to pounce. He didn’t stand a chance. I was so vicious. Out of control.

“I promise to do better. You deserve better, Cara. There’s no excuse. I’m sorry.”

She’d wanted – ached – to walk to him then. Imagined him opening his arms. Pulling her against his chest. Feeling his hands rising to the back of her neck. Hearing him say her name. Forgiving all of it. Everything.

Instead, she shook her hand at him, swore again, and walked down the hall and into the spare bedroom, slamming the door shut as she fell to the floor, her heart cracked glass, cutting her everywhere.

God, this isn’t what I asked for. What I – what we wanted. You promised something different. That we would be closer. That our love would grow.

The loneliness was the worst. She should’ve known. Her mother had been through the same thing. Almost seven years. Cara remembered many times looking over during church and seeing tears pooling in the corners of her mother’s eyes. If she noticed Cara staring at her, she would quickly turn away.

I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt!

Such mercy, such love and devotion can I forget?

No, no, I will praise and adore at the mercy seat,

Until at the glorified throne I kneel at his feet.

She watched as the young deacon approached, tray of broken bread in hand. Should I take the sacrament? I feel so…what? Fractured? It had been a bad week. Another one. The deacon (Kyle? One of the Harrison’s kids?) extended the tray to her. She glanced up at him. He smiled. Cara took a piece – the smallest one, and then motioned for Mason and Abby to also do so. She held the bread against her lips. Forgive me. Please.

The deacon moved to the next row. Cara closed her eyes and waited. She didn’t chew. The bread sat on her tongue. She felt the broken edges slowly dissolve in her mouth.

Forgive me. Forgive us. I promise to do better.

The water came next. Cool. Cara felt a drop spill on her finger. She smoothed it dry against her palm.

Brother Tucker stood again and thanked everyone for their reverence.

“Before I announce our program, Bishop Jackson would like to take just a minute. Bishop…”

Cara breathed in sharply. What is he going to say?

“I’m grateful for the blessing of the sacrament, brothers and sisters. Especially today. I, like each of you, need the Savior’s forgiveness. And I, like you, sometimes hurt the ones I love the most – including members of my own family.”

Cara dared to look up at the bishop – her husband – as he spoke. He looked directly at her, his eyes brim.

“That phrase – ‘I think of his hands pierced and bleeding to pay the debt’ – struck me today more than ever before. I thought of all the ways I yet lack. I resolved once again to love better. To try harder. With each of you, but most of all at home. With Cara, my Cara. And with my children.”

Her hand went slowly to her mouth. She would not let free the sob that hung there. Father, is it real? “My Cara?” Did he mean it?

Her husband, her bishop, sat back down. He put his hand to his lips and looked at Cara. She looked at him. He meant it.

He meant it.

Writing is a never-ending fistfight against the voice that whispers “You’re not…(talented enough, connected to the right people, disciplined, etc.) or “You’re too…(old, out-of-touch, predictable, etc. etc.) Insert your favorite self-doubt here 🙂

In 2012 I began writing a little novel about a broken family and how they try to get unbroken. At year’s end I was about 15,000 words into an anticipated 60k finished work, happily skipping along.

And then 2013 happened. New job. New church job. Life. My little novel stayed little. For over five years. Yeah. I DID publish another book. And also wrote and published a Christmas story with a screenplay to boot. So, not a total slacker, right?

But that little story stood beckoning – untold, unwritten – forlorn. So I got back on the bike. Started pedaling. Things were shaky at first. Hit a few curbs. Scrapped my knees once or twice. But it eventually came back. Last July I finished the first draft and then began revising. In December of 2019 I felt I was ready to take the leap of terror and share it with select readers. I shared. They read it. They…had feelings. Some liked it…parts at least. Some had strong thoughts about my main characters. They weren’t enamored. I was grateful for their feedback. Back to the work.

I was crushed.

I thought I was exempt from the rules of the universe. Not so, verily. I stopped writing. For weeks. I’d think about it. Get ready to start. Slump back. Later I would tell myself. Not ready quite yet.

I needed to get unstuck. Needed to believe I still had something. Still had the knack.

That’s when I learned about a flash fiction contest from Booksie.com. I’d never even heard about Booksie, but I thought what the hey, I’ll see what I can come up with.

The rules were simple. Write a short, 500-words-or-less story about the photograph at the beginning of this post. Spent a few days thinking about what to write. Wrote it. Rewrote it. Several times. And then submitted it and forgot all about it. Until this past Sunday, when I received this email from BooksieGuy:

Hello, I wanted to let you know your story Catch Me and Gone was chosen as the winner of the flash fiction story contest. Congratulations! As the winner, we’ll send you $500 and give you a gold contest badge. Can you let us know your PayPal address so we can send the money. If you send us your Facebook or Instragram account we’ll also tag you with the winner announcement. Congrats again!

I won? Like, first place? I even get a gold contest badge (digital only, sadly)

I WON! You liked it!

Here’s Catch Me And Gone should you wish to agree or disagree with BooksieGuy.

Do the work. Again and again and again. Mom and Dad were right. Stop whining. Do the work.

Traveling through the Dark

BY WILLIAM E. STAFFORD

Traveling through the dark I found a deer
dead on the edge of the Wilson River road.
It is usually best to roll them into the canyon:
that road is narrow; to swerve might make more dead.

By glow of the tail-light I stumbled back of the car   
and stood by the heap, a doe, a recent killing;   
she had stiffened already, almost cold.
I dragged her off; she was large in the belly.

My fingers touching her side brought me the reason—
her side was warm; her fawn lay there waiting,   
alive, still, never to be born.
Beside that mountain road I hesitated.

The car aimed ahead its lowered parking lights;   
under the hood purred the steady engine.
I stood in the glare of the warm exhaust turning red;   
around our group I could hear the wilderness listen.

I thought hard for us all—my only swerving—,   
then pushed her over the edge into the river.

Every six months or so, for the last couple of years, I’ve received an an envelope like this one below in the mail. It’s always a happy occasion. This is my semi-annual report of sales from my publisher, Covenant Book. It usually includes a check as well (nothing wrong with that, right?) Sometimes the checks are very humble (my last one in July was for something like $31.00) and sometimes they’re more substantial, but whether small or not so small, it’s a lot of fun to receive this twice-a-year validation of my work. To think that there was someone out there that I’m not related to who thought something I created was interesting enough to spend their own money on it. Much of the work of creation is done in isolation, at least the type of creative work I participate in. But once it goes out into the world, in many ways the stories are no longer just mine. This is a humbling and scary thing. Now my work will be judged in the court of public opinion, I’m thinking. Am I ready for that?

Another fun part of this is that you really have no idea what the response was until you get your royalty statement. You could’ve sold ten books in the last six months or five hundred. No way to know until you get your envelope of shame/redemption in the mail.

I was truly surprised to see that I had sold over 10,000 copies of my little Christmas story My Broken Horse Christmas in the month of December. I’d hoped it would do well, but had no way of knowing for sure. I’m sure that having the DVD out at the same time (which I  don’t get paid royalities for) helped with the sales. But regardless, seeing that figure was a lovely affirmation of my work, and it got me thinking…maybe I should write some more Christmas stories! Thank you to everyone who has supported me in my writing journey, and for buying my stuff!!