Becky Wallace's Blog

[vc_row type=”in_container” full_screen_row_position=”middle” column_margin=”default” column_direction=”default” column_direction_tablet=”default” column_direction_phone=”default” scene_position=”center” text_color=”dark” text_align=”left” row_border_radius=”none” row_border_radius_applies=”bg” overflow=”visible” overlay_strength=”0.3″ gradient_direction=”left_to_right” shape_divider_position=”bottom” bg_image_animation=”none”][vc_column column_padding=”no-extra-padding” column_padding_tablet=”inherit” column_padding_phone=”inherit” column_padding_position=”all” column_element_direction_desktop=”default” column_element_spacing=”default” desktop_text_alignment=”default” tablet_text_alignment=”default” phone_text_alignment=”default” background_color_opacity=”1″ background_hover_color_opacity=”1″ column_backdrop_filter=”none” column_shadow=”none” column_border_radius=”none” column_link_target=”_self” column_position=”default” gradient_direction=”left_to_right” overlay_strength=”0.3″ width=”1/1″ tablet_width_inherit=”default” animation_type=”default” bg_image_animation=”none” border_type=”simple” column_border_width=”none” column_border_style=”solid”][vc_column_text css=”” text_direction=”default”]It’s an old argument. Are plot or character more important to a story?

The easy answer? There isn’t one.

I’ve read beautiful novels with compelling characters who don’t do enough. And I’ve read action-packed, well-plotted stories with characters I can’t connect with.

The best plots stem from strong characters. And the best characters grow and change as the plot progresses.

It’s not one or the other. The best books require both.

A character arc is the emotional or psychological journey a character experiences throughout a story. While the plot keeps the story moving, the character arc gives it heart.

Here’s the secret: the strongest character arcs occur when the character’s nature conflicts with their goals.

Let’s take everyone’s favorite scoundrel, for example. Whether you love or loathe the Star Wars franchise, Han Solo’s character arc is one of the best in the industry. He’s a selfish, cocky smuggler who values little more than his ship and filthy lucre. But as the series develops, he makes friends and sacrifices his original goals to save the lives of those he’s grown to love.

Who did this to you?

Very little in the original Star Wars trilogy explains why Han was amoral and self-serving. As he isn’t the main character in that series, not getting all of his backstory is pretty typical. But thanks to the breadth of Star Wars canon, many of my fellow nerds will know that Han grew up impoverished and fell in with a street gang at a very young age. He also had a history of being stabbed in the back by people he trusted.

Understanding where the character started will help you know where the character needs to go.

What are their flaws and fears? What are their false beliefs? What’s their best-case scenario, and what’s their worst nightmare?

Han believes that everyone is out to get him, so he approaches every situation with a chip on his shoulder and little faith. His beliefs drive his actions.

Who do you want to be versus who do you need to be?

In A New Hope, Han thinks he wants to be rich and powerful and own the fastest ship in the galaxy. He initially uses the rebels for his own benefit. But, he develops new friendships with people who are more trustworthy than he’s used to, people who would sacrifice themselves on his account; he begins to value relationships more than money.

In The Empire Strikes Back, Luke goes missing. Han is warned that searching for Luke during a snowstorm is a suicide mission. Not only does Han put himself at risk, he saves Luke from freezing to death by stuffing him into a very stinky Tauntaun.

How did we get here?

Han Solo’s redemption arc is particularly satisfying because it’s believable. Han struggles. His change isn’t immediate. He relapses. He makes bad decisions. His growth isn’t linear.

The moments when he doubts himself and his decision create delightful tension, and that’s when viewers become the most emotionally invested in his character. The story puts Han in situations that challenge everything he believes, pushing him to change.

Han’s arc is ultimately about trust, vulnerability, and transformation—a loner who learns to care deeply and fight for something bigger than himself. And he does it all while shooting first (we know the truth ).

Based on the Han Solo Model:

Focus on flaws, fears, and false beliefs.Create conflict between what the character thinks they need and what will actually make them happy.Demonstrate the struggle and change.Provide a sense of closure—help the reader see that everything the character went through meant something.

Your characters deserve a journey worth rooting for. If you need help figuring out that path, request a sample edit! [/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

[vc_row type=”in_container” full_screen_row_position=”middle” column_margin=”default” column_direction=”default” column_direction_tablet=”default” column_direction_phone=”default” scene_position=”center” text_color=”dark” text_align=”left” row_border_radius=”none” row_border_radius_applies=”bg” overflow=”visible” overlay_strength=”0.3″ gradient_direction=”left_to_right” shape_divider_position=”bottom” bg_image_animation=”none”][vc_column column_padding=”no-extra-padding” column_padding_tablet=”inherit” column_padding_phone=”inherit” column_padding_position=”all” column_element_direction_desktop=”default” column_element_spacing=”default” desktop_text_alignment=”default” tablet_text_alignment=”default” phone_text_alignment=”default” background_color_opacity=”1″ background_hover_color_opacity=”1″ column_backdrop_filter=”none” column_shadow=”none” column_border_radius=”none” column_link_target=”_self” column_position=”default” gradient_direction=”left_to_right” overlay_strength=”0.3″ width=”1/1″ tablet_width_inherit=”default” animation_type=”default” bg_image_animation=”none” border_type=”simple” column_border_width=”none” column_border_style=”solid”][vc_column_text css=”” text_direction=”default”]Occasionally, I’ll get an editorial request that makes me sit straighter in my chair.

“Hi. Hello. What is this?”

My eyes race down the screen like there’s an Olympic medal for reading… Then the sample ends, and I’m flooded with disappointment. I need more story!

There’s a certain magic to scenes that propel readers throught the story. Let’s break down the alchemy of golden first pages.

Master the opening line.

“It’s a widely known fact that most moms are ready to kill someone by eight-thirty a.m. on any given morning.”

~Elle Cosimano, Finlay Donovan is Killing It

“Today was the day a thousand dreams would die, and a single dream would be born.”

~Mary Pearson, The Kiss of Deception

“When Mary Lennox was sent to Misselthwaite Manor to live with her uncle, everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.”

~Frances Hodgson Burnett, The Secret Garden

“Once upon a time, an angel lay dying in the mist. And a devil knelt over him and smiled.”

~Laini Taylor, The Daughter of Smoke and Bone

Instead of Googling “best first lines,” I kicked back and asked myself, “What are the best opening scenes that you—Becky Wallace—can remember.” My brain kindly provided these novels; lo and behold, they all have excellent opening lines.

So, let’s break down what we’re seeing in these quotes: humor, heartbreak, an unkind observation, and lovely, lyrical prose.

Even though these opening lines are from different genres, each accomplishes four things:

They make the reader curious.They set the conflict.They supply an unfamiliar detail.They capture the tone.

How many of those items can you work into your opening line? All of them? Two? It takes workshopping and effort…and sometimes powerful first lines don’t pan out.

It’s not the end of the world. If the opening line isn’t happening, make it a strong opening paragraph.

Give the readers something they can’t ignore.

Of all the novels I’ve read in the last fifteen years, there’s one opening scene that I will never forget. It’s from Beth Revis’s Across the Universe.

The opening line is good, but it’s not overwhelming.

“Daddy said, ‘Let Mom go first.’”

The rest of the opening page, however, is unreal. Here’s the opening paragraph:

DADDY SAID,“LET MOM GO FIRST.”

Mom wanted me to go first. I think it was because she was afraid that after they were contained and frozen, I’d walk away, return to life rather than consign myself to that cold, clear box. But Daddy insisted.

It got you, huh? The bullet points above apply here, too! It creates curiosity, demonstrates conflict, provides an unfamiliar detail, and captures the tone. *chef’s kiss* Perfection.

Don’t be afraid to start in the middle of a scene.

Beth Revis could have started the novel with the main character, Amy, and her family arriving at the space station. She could have demonstrated the conflict between child and parents or explained in detail that Amy and her parents had been selected to join a mission to find a new planet. Part of the mission required them to be frozen so they could live for hundreds of years of space travel.

At what point did your brain start skimming that paragraph?

The author made a smart choice. She showed the reader the glitter, so they’d stick around to find the gold.

The explanation for why Amy and her family are being frozen isn’t layered in for six more pages, but the writing is so compelling that if I stuck around for six pages then I’d definitely stick around for sixty more.

Starting the opening scene in media res—the technical way of saying “without preamble”—adds a layer of tension, suspense, and mystery.

In grade school, we’re taught that every story has a beginning, middle, and end. That’s true. A story has to start somewhere.

But the best part of being an author is that you get to decide what’s the beginning and what’s just backstory.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

[vc_row type=”in_container” full_screen_row_position=”middle” column_margin=”default” column_direction=”default” column_direction_tablet=”default” column_direction_phone=”default” scene_position=”center” text_color=”dark” text_align=”left” row_border_radius=”none” row_border_radius_applies=”bg” overflow=”visible” overlay_strength=”0.3″ gradient_direction=”left_to_right” shape_divider_position=”bottom” bg_image_animation=”none”][vc_column column_padding=”no-extra-padding” column_padding_tablet=”inherit” column_padding_phone=”inherit” column_padding_position=”all” column_element_direction_desktop=”default” column_element_spacing=”default” desktop_text_alignment=”default” tablet_text_alignment=”default” phone_text_alignment=”default” background_color_opacity=”1″ background_hover_color_opacity=”1″ column_backdrop_filter=”none” column_shadow=”none” column_border_radius=”none” column_link_target=”_self” column_position=”default” gradient_direction=”left_to_right” overlay_strength=”0.3″ width=”1/1″ tablet_width_inherit=”default” animation_type=”default” bg_image_animation=”none” border_type=”simple” column_border_width=”none” column_border_style=”solid”][vc_column_text css=”” text_direction=”default”]You’ve completed a manuscript! Congratulations! It’s honestly—no sarcasm—an impressive feat. Depending on which studies you trust, less than twenty percent of people who set out to write a book actually finish it. Pat yourself on the back, throw on the music of your youth, and have a little dance party.

You’ve earned it!

Screech. That’s the sound of your music stopping.

You’ve got a finished story, but now what? What are your next steps?

Your path forward depends on your goals.

You really have three-ish options.

Do nothing. You’ve finished a manuscript. It’s something you’ve always wanted to do. Save your story, celebrate a little more, and tuck it away for the next time you want to remind yourself that you accomplished something impressive.Pursue self-publication. It’s a faster route to a finished product, which allows you more control, but it lacks the backing of a publishing house and makes it much harder to place your novel in brick-and-mortar bookstores.Pursue traditional publication. Sacrificing creative control means working with a team of professionals who will help edit, design, and market your book. Traditional publication means more access to bookstores and lower up-front costs.

We can delve into the pros and cons of self-publishing versus traditional publishing in another post. For now, I want to focus on where Option 2 and Option 3 merge.

If you want to publish a novel—independently or traditionally—you have to revise.

“But my story is brilliant,” you say. “There’s nothing else like it in the world!” It may be a high-concept, marketable manuscript with a twisty, inventive plot and characters every reader adores.

I pinky-promise your fabulous first draft will be better after a revision…or three.

Start with a self-guided revision.

Most authors have a gut sense when something is off in their writing. There are lots of options to work through a revision, but here are a few of my favorites:

Read your novel OUT LOUD as quickly as you can. The all-caps was intentional. Hearing your own words will help you stay focused, look for places you trip or get lost, and identify plot holes. Avoid the compulsion to make changes, as it will slow down the read-through. Instead, make notes in the comments, on your phone, or in a handy dandy notebook. It will help you identify places where the story is weak and determine a path to fix those mistakes.Reverse outline. Many outlining guides are available online, ranging from the Save the Cat Beat Sheet to the tried-and-true Hero’s Journey Outline . Ask yourself if the story is moving through the typical story points with plenty of tension, action, and character development.Follow a seasoned author’s revision template. Susan Dennard’s Guide to Revision and Jessica Brody’s Organized Way to Revise are fabulous, free models for tightening your story.

As a (future) writing professional, you owe your readers—whether because they’ve paid to read your story or they’re doing you a favor—a clean, coherent manuscript.

Find beta readers or critique partners.

A beta reader is an impartial third party who is willing to read your manuscript and give specific feedback on where the story is strong and where it needs improvement.

Don’t ask your mom or any other family members to read your manuscript. Few families are great at constructive criticism. Instead, let your loved ones be your cheerleaders!

Many bookstores and public libraries have writing groups, where you may be able to find someone willing to exchange critiques. I found my critique partners at AbsoluteWrite, and we’ve been together for fourteen years!

The only downside of critique groups and beta readers is the timeline. Unless someone is already in the industry, they’re reading and writing as a hobby. Your manuscript won’t be important to many of beta readers, and you may end up waiting several weeks or months to get any feedback.

Hire an editor for a developmental edit.

A developmental edit is a close, critical review of a manuscript to identify plot holes, character weaknesses, world-building mistakes, pacing pitfalls, and more. It doesn’t focus on grammatical errors—except where they are annoying or make the story difficult to read.

Unlike a copy or line edit, a developmental edit examines the structure of a story. Many developmental editors will include in-document notes and a separate editorial letter to suggest revisions, best practices, and ways to make the manuscript more engaging and coherent.

I was very, very lucky when I found my beta readers. They have all been traditionally published—a true miracle in the industry—and all gave rich, helpful, informative direction. Their guidance helped me polish my novels and get an agent.

But nothing compares to a professional edit. I didn’t recognize the difference until I received my first editorial letter from Simon & Schuster. It was both overwhelming and impressive. A professional edit focuses on a deep analysis of a story’s bones, while a beta read concentrates on a personal experience and may or may not include solutions to fix mistakes.

Once your manuscript has been revised, you can move forward with the next stage in self-publishing—copyediting—or write a query to seek an agent.

More information on both of those subjects will be included in upcoming posts.

If you’re interested in a free sample edit, please reach out via the contact page. I’m always happy to give future clients a taste of what a professional edit would include.[/vc_column_text][/vc_column][/vc_row]

Photo ID: A beautiful lunch prepared by a refugee family for my son and I.

Yesterday, one of the most powerful leaders in the Afghan Women’s Rights Movement made me lunch. 

My son, Gavin, and I took our new Afghani friends to the Halal market, and they asked us to stay to share a meal. While Gavin played a game with the children, I leaned against the counter and talked to Sediqa, her husband, and her niece, Shikwa, as they cooked goat curry, spiced okra, and a beautiful dish of rice, raisins, and carrots. 

“My aunt is a very important woman,” Shikwa had said the day before. “Google her.” 

It wasn’t until Sediqa began telling me her history that I took Shikwa’s advice. The sweet woman who worried that their food would be too spicy for me is Sediqa Sherazi, the famed journalist and founder of Radio Roshani—an Afghan news organization focused on promoting the ethical treatment of women. 

Sediqa offered me her phone to watch a video where her face is obscured but her voice is unmistakable. She spent twenty years challenging cultural traditions and the Taliban’s violent interpretation of the Quaran. 

Dozens of articles, videos, and social media posts popped up on my phone, each decrying Sediqa’s bravery as she fought extremist beliefs and describing how her radio broadcasts helped dismantle the patriarchy. 

Her actions weren’t without risk. Taliban forces fired a rocket launcher at Radio Roshani’s headquarters, raided the building and stole equipment, and planted mines in her office. In 2015, one of her colleagues—a young cleric who hosted a show on the station—was killed when a bomb hidden in his car exploded. 

As the country destabilized, there was no choice for Sediqa and her family but to escape to the United States. 

“I’ve left many friends and colleagues behind,” she said, as she chopped vegetables for our meal. “I need to help them.”   

Sediqa is barely settled. She doesn’t have internet access, a car, or an easy way to go grocery shopping, but she’s focused on caring for other people. Even American strangers like me and my sixteen-year-old son. 

Many comic book heroes wear capes, but my new hero wears a hijab. 

*Reposted from my Facebook update January 24, 2022 for easy access.

Henna design by a young refugee woman.

I shivered as I waited for my friend Charlotte and her three-year old son Harrison to join me outside a small apartment in Houston’s Chinatown area. The bitter wind found every nook in the cinder block stairwell, swirling leaves and gum wrappers and carrying a hint of hookah smoke. 

Last week, my church congregation furnished the two-bedroom dwelling for a refugee family who fled the violence and upheaval in Afghanistan. Charlotte and I needed to drop off a few kitchen utensils and wanted to make sure the family had enough food to last until their case manager visited.  

The door swung open, letting out a blast of heat and revealing a teenage boy with wide, surprised eyes. He held up one finger in the international sign for “just a minute” and came back with a young woman dressed in a long denim shirt, puffy vest, and simple black hijab. 

“Hello! Welcome! Please come in,” she said in faintly-accented English. She ushered us to a bistro table like we were honored guests and not perfect strangers. 

I’d heard from friends who’d helped settle other families that few of the refugees spoke English. I’d been nervous about meeting them face-to-face because I have substantial hearing loss in my left ear. It makes conversations with native English speakers tricky, and understanding anyone with a heavy accent really difficult.  

The young woman told us her name was Shikwa, and introduced her aunt, uncle, and eight-year-old cousin. Shikwa and her two younger brothers have an apartment of their own in the next building, but without a car, bus cards, television, or money, they spend a lot of time visiting their aunt to fight off boredom and loneliness.

“Your English is excellent,” I said as her uncle slid a steaming cup of lavender tea and a plate of dried fruit and cookies in front of me. “Where did you learn?” 

“I was in my second year at university studying in the English department before all of this.” Shikwa straightened her hijab and gave me a pleased smile. “For the past several years, I’ve been working with my aunt. She was a journalist in Afghanistan for twenty years.” 

Shikwa often translated for her aunt as they worked alongside British and American reporters. Last year, they interviewed a female security officer from a different province and the story appeared in a military magazine, complete with pictures. 

A few months later, the security officer called Shikwa with a dire warning: the Taliban has a copy of the magazine. You are in danger. 

Shikwa’s aunt reached out to a contact at the British parliament and their family was granted visas if they could get to London. 

They couldn’t even get to the airport. 

You probably remember seeing Afghan citizens bombarding planes, climbing on the wings, and standing on runaways in a desperate bid to leave the country. The roads to reach the airport were equally impassable.  

A New York Times reporter who had worked with Shikwa and her family asked the State Department for help. They were granted refugee status for six people. Her aunt, her husband, and their daughter, prepared to leave, but Shikwa came from a family of six. Three of them had to stay behind. 

“My parents told me to take the boys…” she paused and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “They didn’t want the Taliban to take them and make them fight.” 

“My parents told me to take the boys…” she paused and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “They didn’t want the Taliban to take them and make them fight.” 

Charlotte and I exchanged a look across the table. Harrison was snuggled close on her lap, giggling as he and Shikwa’s cousin shared a cell phone to watch an episode of Peppa Pig, completely oblivious to the weight of the conversation. 

“Have you been able to talk to them?” Charlotte asked. “Or Facetime?” 

“No.” 

The room fell silent. We didn’t need a translator to share this family’s fear. Shikwa’s aunt patted my hand gently, as if I was the one who needed consoling. 

“Is there anything we can do for you? Is there anything you need?” I asked, wishing an HGTV Extreme Makeover team would appear with a rug for the floor and a few extra chairs for the table. 

“Shoes,” Shikwa said, pointing to the pink soccer slides on her cousin’s feet. “We need shoes and more food. Fruit and vegetables, please.”

I looked at the platter of raisins I’d picked at half-heartedly. I hadn’t wanted to eat anything they needed, but I had no idea just how precious their hospitality was. 

Shikwa agreed to text me the sizes everyone needed and asked for a few pairs of socks. Then it dawned on me why the apartment’s heat was turned up so high—their feet were freezing against the cold, vinyl floors. 

I promised to work on getting socks and shoes and maybe a rug and coffee table as we walked the short distance to the front door. 

“Please come back,” Shikwa asked. “It’s part of our culture to have guests. Please do come back.” 

I was silent for the short trek across the apartment’s parking lot, mind spinning as I tried to process their story, their bravery, their sacrifice. 

“I hope meeting them helps you keep going,” Charlotte said, as she backed out her minivan. “We’re doing a good thing.” 

So far our congregation has resettled seven families and four bachelors. It’s been a ton of work, and I’ve complained mightily about the mess of storing several apartments worth of furniture and houseware items in my dining room and garage.  

I’m so embarrassed to have complained at all. 

My heart ached when I heard about the tumult in Afghanistan, but I could change the channel, scroll past the news story, tuck myself into my comfortable bed in my nice warm home. Sitting across from Shikwa, sharing a pot of steaming tea in a too-warm apartment, isn’t something I can forget. I can’t swipe away the tremble in her voice as she talked about leaving half her family behind.  

I don’t have the power to bring her parents and younger sister here, but I may be able to make things a little more comfortable. I can buy a bag of socks and watch Facebook marketplace for an inexpensive coffee table and gently used rug. It’s not much, but it’s something small I can do. 

There’s probably something small you can do too. 

*Reposted from my Facebook page on January 21, 2022.

“Yearning to breathe free” is from the poem The New Colossus by Emma Lazarus on the base of the Statue of Liberty.

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I shivered as I waited for my friend Charlotte and her three-year old son Harrison to join me outside a small apartment in Houston’s Galleria area. The bitter wind found every nook in the cinder block stairwell, swirling leaves and gum wrappers and carrying a hint of hookah smoke. 

Last week, my church congregation furnished the two-bedroom dwelling for a refugee family who fled the violence and upheaval in Afghanistan. Charlotte and I needed to drop off a few kitchen utensils and wanted to make sure the family had enough food to last until their case manager visited.  

The door swung open, letting out a blast of heat and revealing a teenage boy with wide, surprised eyes. He held up one finger in the international sign for “just a minute” and came back with a young woman dressed in a long denim shirt, puffy vest, and simple black hijab. 

“Hello! Welcome! Please come in,” she said in faintly-accented English. She ushered us to a bistro table like we were honored guests and not perfect strangers. 

I’d heard from friends who’d helped settle other families that few of the refugees spoke English. I’d been nervous about meeting them face-to-face because I have substantial hearing loss in my left ear. It makes conversations with native English speakers difficult and understanding anyone with a heavy accent nearly impossible.  

The young woman told us her name was Shikwa, and introduced her aunt, uncle, and eight-year old cousin. Shikwa and her two younger brothers have an apartment of their own in the next building, but without a car, bus cards, television, or money, they spend a lot of time visiting their aunt to fight off boredom and loneliness.

“Your English is excellent,” I said as her uncle slid a steaming cup of lavender tea and a plate of dried fruit and cookies in front of me. “Where did you learn?” 

“I was in my second year at university studying in the English department before all of this.” Shikwa straightened her hijab and gave me a pleased smile. “For the past several years, I’ve been working with my aunt. She was a journalist in Afghanistan for twenty years.” 

Shikwa often translated for her aunt as they worked alongside British and American reporters. Last year, they interviewed a female security officer from a different province and the story appeared in a military magazine, complete with pictures. 

A few months later, the security officer called Shikwa with a dire warning: the Taliban has a copy of the magazine. You are in danger. 

Shikwa’s aunt reached out to a contact at the British parliament and their family was granted visas if they could get to London. 

They couldn’t even get to the airport. 

You probably remember seeing Afghan citizens bombarding planes, climbing on the wings, and standing on runaways in a desperate bid to leave the country. The roads to reach the airport were equally impassable.  

A New York Times reporter who had worked with Shikwa and her family asked the State Department for help. They were granted refugee status for six people. Her aunt, her husband, and their daughter, prepared to leave, but Shikwa came from a family of six. Three of them had to stay behind. 

“My parents told me to take the boys…” she paused and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “They didn’t want the Taliban to take them and make them fight.” 

“My parents told me to take the boys…” she paused and looked at me with tear-filled eyes. “They didn’t want the Taliban to take them and make them fight.” 

Charlotte and I exchanged a look across the table. Harrison was snuggled close on her lap, giggling as he and Shikwa’s cousin shared a cell phone to watch an episode of Peppa Pig, completely oblivious to the weight of the conversation. 

“Have you been able to talk to them?” Charlotte asked. “Or Facetime?” 

“No.” 

The room fell silent. We didn’t need a translator to share this family’s fear. Shikwa’s aunt patted my hand gently, as if I was the one who needed consoling. 

“Is there anything we can do for you? Is there anything you need?” I asked, wishing an HGTV Extreme Makeover team would appear with a rug for the floor and a few extra chairs for the table. 

“Shoes,” Shikwa said, pointing to the pink soccer slides on her cousin’s feet. “We need shoes and more food. Fruit and vegetables, please.”

I looked at the platter of raisins I’d picked at half-heartedly. I hadn’t wanted to eat anything they needed, but I had no idea just how precious their hospitality was. 

Shikwa agreed to text me the sizes everyone needed and asked for a few pairs of socks. Then it dawned on me why the apartment’s heat was turned up so high—their feet were freezing against the cold, vinyl floors. 

I promised to work on getting socks and shoes and maybe a rug and coffee table as we walked the short distance to the front door. 

“Please come back,” Shikwa asked. “It’s part of our culture to have guests. Please do come back.” 

I was silent for the short trek across the apartment’s parking lot, mind spinning as I tried to process their story, their bravery, their sacrifice. 

“I hope meeting them helps you keep going,” Charlotte said, as she backed out her minivan. “We’re doing a good thing.” 

So far our congregation has resettled seven families and four bachelors. It’s been a ton of work, and I’ve complained mightily about the mess of storing several apartments worth of furniture and houseware items in my dining room and garage.  

I’m so embarrassed to have complained at all. 

My heart ached when I heard about the tumult in Afghanistan, but I could change the channel, scroll past the news story, tuck myself into my comfortable bed in my nice warm home. Sitting across from Shikwa, sharing a pot of steaming tea in a too-warm apartment, isn’t something I can forget. I can’t swipe away the tremble in her voice as she talked about leaving half her family behind.  

I don’t have the power to bring her parents and younger sister here, but I may be able to make things a little more comfortable. I can buy a bag of socks and watch Facebook marketplace for an inexpensive coffee table and gently used rug. It’s not much, but it’s something small I can do. 

There’s probably something small you can do too. 

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http://beckywallacebooks.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/08/hugs-kisses.mp4

FAR FROM NORMAL comes out in two months, and that means it’s time for my pre-order giveaway! Simply order FFN from any bookseller, e-mail a copy of your order and your mailing address to becky@beckywallacebooks.com, and get:

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1⃣: The entire set of character stickers—Maddie, Gabe, & Watford
2⃣: A personalized and autographed bookplate
3⃣: A keepsake postcard
4⃣: A bookmark (not shown because I don’t have them yet

If you haven't seen it yet, check out the gorgeous cover for my next book, FAR FROM NORMAL, which will be out September 22, 2020. You can read an excerpt here and read the summary below!
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From Stealing Home author Becky Wallace comes a Devil Wears Prada-inspired YA romance, in which “normal girl” Maddie must repair the image of Major League Soccer’s bad boy to ace her internship. A perfect read for fans of Morgan Matson and Miranda Kenneally.

Maddie McPherson is sick of Normal—both her hometown of Normal, Illinois and being the ‘normal’ sibling. But when she lands a summer internship with a sports marketing firm, she finally has a chance to crawl out of her genius brother’s shadow. Not to mention, a glowing letter of recommendation could secure her admission to her dream college.

But Maddie’s nickname is “CalaMaddie” for a reason, and when the company tasks her with repairing the image of teen soccer phenom Gabriel Fortunato, she wonders if she’s set herself up for embarrassment. Gabriel is a tabloid magnet, who’s best-known for flubbing Italy’s World Cup hopes. As Maddie works with him to develop “pleasant and friendly” content for social media, she also learns he’s thoughtful, multi-talented, and fiercely loyal—maybe even to a fault. Falling for a footballer is exactly how CalaMaddie would botch this internship, but with the firm pressuring her to get the job done, perhaps her heart is worth risking?


You want to read it now, huh? ;) The good news is that you can pre-order it at your favorite indie bookstore, Amazon, and B&N!  If you can't pre-order, you can also request your library to order it!

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I’m so excited to announce my STEALING HOME book events!


 
I will be signing at Blue Willow Bookshop on July 13 at 3 p.m. and two other awesome authors—Brigid Kemmerer and Elizabeth Eulberg. It’s such a full circle moment! The first author event I ever attended was for Brigid, and now we’re signing together!

Click here for more details. 
 

 
Then I’ll get to go to my hometown and have an awesome Book Launch Party at The King’s English in Salt Lake City! If you’re in the area on July 16 at 7 p.m., please come say hi!
 
Click here for more details!
 

 
You can order from either store (or anywhere else!), send me a copy of your receipt and your mailing address, and I’ll send you a fun gift pack! See previous post for a picture of the swag pack! 
 

 

 

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Readers who pre-order STEALING HOME can submit their receipts to receive a super fun swag pack that includes a bookmark, signed bookplate, post card, and baseball charm wish bracelet. BUT the first thirty pre-orders get the navy blue wrap bracelet!! 

Can’t pre-order? No big deal. Request a copy of STEALING HOME at your library, and I’ll mail you a swag pack too!

And to sweeten the deal, anyone who shares, reposts, or retweets this post will be entered to win THE GRAND PRIZE, which includes:

The swag pack, the wrap bracelet, the silver baseball charm bracelet, and the baseball stitch ring.
And a pre-order of one YA book of their choice.

You get one entry for each preorder, library request, or share. Email a screenshot of your pre-order/library request and your mailing address to becky@beckywallacebooks.com by midnight of July 9, 2019.

Pre-order giveaway is only open US/Canada, but the GRAND PRIZE is open internationally! 

Here are some handy dandy links for your convenience!

Order a signed copy from Blue Willow Bookshop

Order from Amazon

Order from Barnes & Noble