Easter may bring to mind happy images of bunny rabbits, colorful eggs, treasure hunts, and candy. But we know the holiday is about more than fun.
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For those of you new to my newsletter, this one is a bit more serious than my typical stories. At Easter service this morning, I found myself thinking about being chosen.

Who else remembers the trauma of hoping against hope not to be the last one chosen for kickball or other sports? There’s something special about feeling chosen or set apart from the crowd in a good way.

But who would want to be chosen to suffer? Or die?

I have a tendency to keep my spirits up by putting a positive spin on things. When someone dies, I tell myself they had a long, fulfilled life, or at least they didn’t suffer a long, painful death.

Even with Jesus, I tell myself he found joy in his time on earth by making friends, spending time with his loved one, choosing and training his apostles, and doing his father’s will.

Jesus turned things on their head in so many ways. When some of his apostles (or their mothers) got the big head and asked for a special spot on the throne of God, he said, “You do not know what you are asking.”

Jesus taught humility by saying to avoid the seat of honor at a banquet, lest a more distinguished person arrive, and to choose instead the lowest seat (Luke 14:8-10).

If you have not yet watched the series, The Chosen, I think it is well worth your time.

I wonder if the idea of embracing Gentiles as part of God’s plan made God's chosen people feel less special. Herman Wouk, who always writes of Jewish characters, has long been one of my favorite writers. I have not read his novel, The Hope. Perhaps, when I do, my understanding of the Jewish faith will grow.  
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In my novel, Joy After Noon, Joy has gone through much of her life without feeling special … until handsome, charming widower Ray chooses her.
https://www.amazon.com/After-Noon-Sugar-Sands-Book-ebook/dp/B07P7S5Y7Z

What if you knew when you were going to die? What would you do differently?

At least two fairly recent novels address this question, using different setups. In Liane Moriarty’s Here One Moment, a woman on an airplane goes up and down the aisle, telling people the time and cause of their death.

In The Measure by Nikki Erlick, people receive a package containing a string indicative of the length of life ahead.

I want to share with you a quote from a novel I just started entitled I See You’ve Called in Dead. The boss of the protagonist in the novel is telling him about a group of nuns who make a point in everything they do of remembering they are going to die.

“When they were asked if it was depressing, they said no. Quite the opposite. It makes life almost impossibly beautiful,” the boss said.
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A couple of days ago, the wind on the beach was quite strong. Looking out to sea, I observed a rainbow hued kite with a woman in tow, skimming across the water.

"Look at that!” I told my husband.

“There’s another one off to the left,” he said.

“And there’s a third.” I pointed to a smaller sail, not like the other two.

“That one’s a wind surf,” he said.

“What are the others?”

“The one on the left is a kite surf, and the other one’s probably a kite board.”

“What’s the difference?”

He explained, something about the size and shape of the board, as well as the kite or sail.

“That looks like so much fun!” I said. “Do you think I could do that?”

“I imagine myself falling down, being dragged across the water, and drowning,” he said. “I think wind surfing is harder to learn, but the others probably take a lot of strength.”

“Hmm,” I said. My appetite for adventure is greater than my skill or my strength, I fear.

I have a friend about ten years younger than I am who often brings up bucket lists. Although I know I’m not getting younger, I tend to procrastinate when it comes to thinking about bucket lists.

I had planned a trip to Japan in 2020 when the pandemic struck. Since then, when I bring up Japan, my husband says, “I’m not going to Japan, but you go ahead.”

His tolerance for adventure is less than mine. Still, for better or worse, we tend to do things together.

Every now and then, though, I need to take action or risk waiting until it’s too late. I’ve always wanted to try snow skiing. Surely, I could still handle a bunny slope.

Also, I’m planning a trip closer to home. My husband often says, “There’s a lot of the U.S. we haven’t seen.”

New England in autumn sounds appealing.
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We know we have no guarantees of our days on this earth. So, maybe, within the next year…

​A favorite TV series of mine is Lark Rise to Candleford. I watched it many years ago and liked it enough to consider rewatching it recently. A character on the show, the Postmistress, made me laugh by remarking, “It’s my one weakness.”

Over the course of the show, she said this on multiple occasions, revealing multiple “one weaknesses.” I picked up the phrase and use it from time to time to make my husband laugh.

When I say it around other people, though, they sometimes give me a funny look. “Your one weakness?” my sister echoed.
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“Of course it’s not my only weakness,” I explained, and I told her about the show. Since then, I worry that people take the remark to reflect a lack of humility. Who, among us, has only one weakness?

Usually, when I make the remark, the weakness is something superficial. “Chocolate is my one weakness,” I’ll say.

“Shoes are my one weakness.”

Or “Butter is my one weakness.”

Or “Clutter is my one weakness.”

You get the idea. What I rarely, if ever, reference are more serious weaknesses, like pride or anxiety or selfishness.

I don’t say, “Worrying too much is my one weakness,” or “My one weakness is that I’m too easily distracted from doing what I know I should be.”

I’m unlikely to say, “My one weakness is being inconsiderate of others by being habitually late,” or “My one weakness is prioritizing the wrong things.”

Oh, I have plenty of one weaknesses, both superficial and more serious. Perhaps our weaknesses help us to overlook and forgive those we see in others. He, who is without sin, can cast the first stone. (John 8:7)

I’ve signed a contract for the publication of my next book, The Girl from the Bell City Bottom. Failing to tell people I meet about my writing is often my “one weakness” so please spread the word for me. Thanks!
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In the meantime, check out Song of Sugar Sands. I was able to set the sale to run for $1.99 on Kindle through March 22 (free on Kindle Unlimited).  http://www.debracolemanjeter.com/song-of-sugar-sands.html

A couple nights ago, my husband and I lucked into the last two seats in a tribute to songwriter Carole King. I had seen Carole perform at the Ryman a few years earlier, and I’ve seen Beautiful on stage too. But I think I enjoyed the tribute by Suzanne O’ Davis almost as much, or possibly more.

She covered such a wealth of Carole’s songs, and the number of hit songs Carole has written is truly staggering. Suzanne focused on the album Tapestry, but she also brought back wonderful memories of songs by the Monkees and Herman’s Hermits, among so many others.

“We’re the youngest people here,” my husband said.

I looked around. We were not, I’m sure, but there were plenty of blue hairs, as my director from community theater used to refer to the typical matinee attendees.

When the allotted time approached an end, more than a few of the older guests hobbled out. “Hey, I’m still performing,” Suzanne called after them, and everyone chuckled.

The rest of us were glad we stayed. When she closed with “I feel the earth move under my feet,” a lot of the crowd rose to their calloused feet to dance.

The rhythm almost pulled me to mine, and I thought back to my early childhood. My parents occasionally took me to a hamburger joint with a jukebox. When someone chose a snappy number, I couldn’t resist. “Watch my 7-up,” I’d order, jumping from my chair to spin, twist, and twirl.

At that age, I didn’t care that no one else was dancing, or wonder if people were laughing at me or with me. I just moved to the beat with joy.

Later, though, I became aware of issues like coordination and dance steps. I had one ballet lesson. In my memory, everyone else knew what to do when the instructor spoke in a foreign language, or so it sounded to me. I felt so foolish and lost that I never returned for my second lesson.

Another time, my parents allowed me to join in a square dance. I’d seen the adults on many occasions swinging their partners and doing a do-si-do, but I had not really paid attention to the calls or the moves. It looked so effortless when they did it. Once again, I felt foolish and lost.At the Carole King tribute, I nudged my husband. “Want to dance?”

He looked at me without budging. I knew he wasn’t feeling well. I also knew that, even if he had been, it’s not in his nature to dance. But why didn’t I?

Remember Elaine’s dance moves in Seinfeld? Perhaps I feared I might dance like Elaine. So what if I did?

Next time I will dance.

What makes you laugh? Most of us don’t laugh enough. If you’re interested in where funny comes from, try Mel Brooks:The 99 Year-Old Man on HBO, though perhaps not if you’re easily offended. A lot of humor offends someone, and we all have our sensitive spots. Comedians aren’t trying to offend...just to make you laugh.

Before I met my husband, my girlfriends thought I was funny, so I thought so too. Not long after we started dating, I realized that he rarely laughed at my jokes or even recognized when I was joking. So, I quit cracking them, losing confidence I’d ever been truly funny.

I wonder if our attitudes toward humor are inherited or learned from our parents, perhaps a blend of the two. My dad is serious minded and does not often laugh out loud or appreciate sitcoms. He found Bill Cosby offensive long before the rest of us.

I remember my friend Laura’s dad, who laughed so readily at just about everything, it seemed, when we were growing up. My mom is more like that and laughs easily at herself, even when she’s done the most embarrassing things.

I tend to laugh out loud like my mom, but I’m somewhat critical about what I find amusing, like my dad. Like my mom, though, I think I laugh more readily as I grow older. I’ve realized how difficult it is to sustain humor in a routine or a show, and I do love a good comedy.

I find that I enjoy humor more when it takes me by surprise. My husband, on the other hand, seems predisposed to smile at a predictable setup in a sitcom or routine of a novice stand-up comic.

Maybe there’s a generosity of spirit in laughing when we know someone’s trying to be funny, even if they fall a little short. After all, we all love it when we’re trying to be funny and someone responds with genuine appreciation. It’s good for them and us.

So, when the waiter asks, “How do you want to take care of the bill?” and my husband says, “I want you to pay it,” or a desk clerk says, “I need to see some ID,” and he replies, “Does it matter whose?” I’ll smile or chuckle to show my appreciation even if they don’t.
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As they say, laughter is the best medicine. I know he only cracks jokes if he’s in a good mood, and I do welcome good moods.

When I was a kid, I don’t think my parents ever debated the choice of schools. If I was zoned for a particular school for my grade, that’s where I was going. No questions asked.

Things have been different for my kids and their kids. “We hear about gangs in the high schools,” my daughter says. “Drugs even in middle schools.”

“The public school we’re zoned for has terrible ratings,” my son says. Ratings? Who knew there were ratings?

Occasionally we took standardized tests in my day. I remember them as something of a mystery, never knowing when they were coming or what they were used for. My daughter worries that her son, genius that we all believe him to be, does not excel at test taking and that this may come back to haunt him some day.

Now that he’s almost ready for high school, I recall a story she told me when he was just starting kindergarten. They were visiting a magnet school, probably the one he ended up attending.

“There was only one other family on the tour,” my daughter said. “The principal was talking to us, and the other prospective student was sitting in a chair, listening attentively, chin resting on his hands like a little prince.”

“I looked around for Finn,” she said, “and he had managed to remove the cloth belt from my coat and wrapped it around his neck. Looked like he were strangling himself out of boredom.”

“Don’t worry,” I told her. “There will be plenty of time for anxiety when he’s applying for colleges.”

What I didn’t realize at the time was just how rapidly those intervening years would fly past.

If you like stories that bridge the gap between the old and the young, try my book, The Past Ever Present. In it, my dad Cliff recalls his own childhood while serving as my son Clay’s guardian on a tv set.
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The Past Ever Present: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B091F3MN3R (only 99c to buy on Kindle)

​Often, when I’m enjoying myself—swimming, boat riding, basking in the sunlight, watching a sunset or a snow fall—I catch myself smiling to express my enjoyment. I’m reminded of my childhood. One of my parents or grandparents would ask, “Are you happy, Debbie? Are you enjoying this?” and I’d smile to let them know I was.

Now, even when I’m alone, I smile as if to an invisible audience.
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I’ve been reading a novel called The Fury by Alex Michaelides. He poses the question of whether the person we become is more determined by character or by fate. Then he quotes the Greek philosopher Heraclitus, who argues they are one and the same. Michaelides’ protagonist, Elliot, says, “Character is fate. Remember that, for later. Remember the kid, too. And I don’t just mean the kid in me, but the kid in you.”

If character is largely determined by childhood experiences,  I’m thankful for having had adults around me during those formative years who cared if I was enjoying myself. And, perhaps as a result, I find much in life to enjoy.

In fiction, I appreciate characters who also enjoy life, and I often long for happy outcomes.

Nonetheless, too much happiness in a novel becomes boring before long. Conflict lies at the heart of fiction, and we all know that happy-ever-afters don’t always materialize in real life, or in good literature.

As many of you know, I have not published a new book since 2019. I have, however, been writing assiduously. Last year I sent out a series of synopses, asking for input as I decided which to publish first.

Many of you were kind enough to respond. Thank you for that. After analyzing the responses, I’ve decided to launch a series of four semi-autobiographical novels beginning with my maternal grandmother, who was born in 1900.

Although I’m tentatively thinking of the series as “A Hundred Years of Happy,” you can imagine it was not all sunshine and roses. But don’t get me wrong. There’s plenty of joy along the way… and sometimes even in the end.

The characters in my first novel, The Ticket, were also loosely rooted in some members of my family. My son Clay made this brief trailer to introduce the characters. Trailer for The Ticket: https://vimeo.com/50187275

https://www.amazon.com/Ticket-Debra-Coleman-Jeter-ebook/dp/B0BZB6F11J
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I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for your patience.

Happy New Year, everyone! Let's make 2026 a good one.

I frequently complain about everyone’s fixation on cell phones these days. I’m as guilty as anyone, though, and often find myself googling books I’m reading or shows I’m watching for insights.

As I wrap up the final season based on Elena Ferrante’s “Brilliant Friend” series, I stumble upon an article discussing Elena’s greatest influence—the Italian writer Elsa Morante. Both writers ignored the popular trends in writing of their day and carved their own paths.

I found this reassuring and consistent with what my daughter tells me when I complain. “I don’t care for twists at the end,” I’ll say, “but readers seem to love them.”

Or “I love to read and write about what’s going on inside my characters’ heads, but editors and publishers don’t like introspection.”

My daughter says, “Go with your gut feeling.”

I know she’s right, but rejection and criticism are hard for me to take, as much as I admire those who ignore them and forge their own way. I’m working on that, and I want to follow the lead of Elena Ferrante, whose work I so admire.

There’s a line in the tv version of The Lost Child that struck me as I watched last night. Lenu, the narrator, remarked that her last book was bad because it was too carefully structured and too organized…that she had yet to learn how to imitate the complicated, chaotic, disorganized banality (my paraphrase) that constitutes real life. This is my goal, one most likely beyond my capabilities in this lifetime. Still I can try. And keep trying…

I’ve always been a fiction reader and writer. Yet, as I age, I find I appreciate memoir more than I used to. I like to hear stories from real people, not just famous ones, about what they’ve learned in their journey through life.

I’m planning to start Matthew McConaughey’s Green Lights; and, yes, I do realize he’s a famous person. Publishers seem to prefer those, and so they are easier to find. Here, once again, we come full circle…back to current trends in the writing and publishing world. Oh, well. 

A central character in my novel, The Ticket, is fourteen, an age when most of us suffered frequent agonies over things we’d done or said, how we looked, or what other people thought of us. You can watch a two-minute trailer for The Ticket: https://vimeo.com/50187275
https://www.amazon.com/Ticket-Debra-Coleman-Jeter/dp/B0BZBB4TS8/ref=monarch_sidesheet

Being a perfectionist, or living with one, can drive people nuts. And no one more than yourself. Whether it’s the temperature of the house at night, the texture of the pillowcases, or the exact right shade of new blue paint for the bathroom, decisions for perfectionists create stress.

My mother used to tell of one of her uncles, who would ask, “Is that clock slow or fast?”

“Neither, so far as I know,” she’d answer.

“You know it has to be one or the other. No way is it right on time.”

This is the way I am about temperatures all too often. Airplanes, in particular, are often too hot for me during takeoff and too cold once they reach a desired elevation. Layers work well, but are cumbersome when you need to peel most of them off.

In my novel, Joy After Noon, teenage Marianne torments herself by not living up to expectations set for ballet, gymnastics, and wardrobe…expectations initially set by her mother and now by herself. Her new stepmother, Joy, tries to help her relax, while also overcoming anxiety about not being as perfect a wife or mother as her husband’s first wife.
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A vacation in Fiji turned out nearly perfect for me. Here are some notes from my travel journal.
 
Fiji 2025 (St. Patrick’s Day)
Today the Auckland airport was the busiest I’ve ever seen. Who would have suspected St. Patrick’s Day to attract so many flyers? Hope to land shortly.

Next entry: Wednesday, March 19, 2025, Yasawa Chain, Mantaray Resort, Fiji

We landed safely in Nadi, Fiji, on Monday afternoon. Only a one-hour time difference between Auckland, New Zealand, and Fiji. Like the Auckland airport, the Fiji airport was very crowded. Long lines and lots of check points. We’d been careful to eat or throw away all our fruit and dairy products, having made this mistake before, though it hurt to surrender nearly a full pound of New Zealand tasty cheese (their name for cheddar).

We caught the shuttle to the Gateway Hotel. Though it’s just across the highway, we were packing two heavy suitcases, three carry-on bags, and my handbag (nearly as heavy), as well as sweaters, jackets, and coats. Fiji is nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit, but we knew there might be chilly nights in Auckland or Los Angeles, and Tennessee was bitter cold when we left. Also, airplane temperatures are unpredictable.

The Gateway has no elevator, and they assigned us a second-floor room. Norm asked them to change, and fortunately one was available on the first floor. We dropped our bags, and I donned my swimsuit. I’d noted there would be no pool at the Mantaray Resort (I was wrong about that, as it turned out), so I wanted to take advantage of the large heated pool at Gateway.

Norm wasn’t hungry, but I, as usual, was. I ordered steamed wahoo with Asian greens, soy and ginger sauce, and sticky rice. Generous portions, and I shared with Norm.

Our boat to the island was scheduled for 8:45AM, so we got up early to check out. We waited at the bus stop, and the bus arrived on time. We’ve used Sea Cruises before, but I couldn’t remember the best place to sit. We started out on an open deck, but began to wonder if we’d get sunburned. After watching scads of people climb down into the cabin, I followed suit. There was only one empty row left, so I grabbed it. Before long, I realized it was virtually the only row with no window at all and no view. When motion sickness strikes, I always focus on the horizon, which I couldn’t see.

There were a number of stops before mine, so some of the seats began to clear out. We moved to a row in the middle with only one person seated. The TV monitors showed lots of photos of various resorts on the islands, alongside items for sale on the boat. I bought a chocolate mousse and Norm a coffee. Some of the passengers were day trippers, and we recalled a year in the past when we did that. That year we stayed in Nadi for the durations, but scheduled day trips to visit several islands. After that, we decided to stay on the other islands.

We’ve never been to Mantaray before, but we stayed at Octopus once, which is also in the Yasawa chain and, like Mantaray, has a mandatory meal plan. Norm and I typically do not eat three full meals a day except when required (can’t turn it down after paying for it). My Uncle Bill used to joke Colemans would take a case of the clap if it was paid for.

Because I worked in Auckland annually for a few weeks each year, from 2003 to 2020, I found that stopping off in Fiji really helped me adjust to the time change. A nice excuse for staying on a glorious island too. Most years I stayed in another chain of islands, closer to Nadi—most often at the Matamanoa Resort, Lomani, or Mana.

The boat arrived on schedule, around 11:30AM, and we were transferred to a smaller boat with a few other passengers and some workers. Our luggage traveled in another boat. “Bula!” is the traditional Finian greeting, and we were met by smiling faces. Fijian people must be among the kindest and friendliest I’ve encountered in any of my travels.

Our room was ready, a reef front bure. It’s quite lovely, and the sea is right at our doorstep at high tide. We have palm trees between us and the water and a hammock. The bathroom is also lovely but outdoors and quite warm most of the day. It’s attached and private, nothing like the outdoors toilets I remember from childhood, just open air. The bure, thankfully, is air-conditioned.

There’s only one restaurant, and it entails a host of steps. Another guest informed us that we might request to be served by the pool, so we did that one night for dinner. Today we mounted the stairs for breakfast but requested room service for lunch. It has yet to arrive. Oops, I think they are here now.

Just finished eating. Norm had Kokoda, and I had fish tacos. He had Kokoda yesterday also, and said it was the best he’d ever had. He chatted with the chef, a young guy from New Zealand, who turned out to be a fan of Clay’s series, Live to 100, about the Blue Zones where a disproportionate number of individuals lead healthy lives into their nineties and beyond. I had the poke bowl yesterday with marinated tuna. Both my lunches were good.

We’ve been snorkeling twice already. Yesterday the tide was very low when we went out, and I was tired. Nonetheless we saw the best coral we’ve seen in a long time, lots of different colors and types, some clown fish, several schools of fish, including a school of unusual needle-nosed fish. Today we saw a large colorful clam as well as a host of fish and coral. The tide was pushing us to one side, so I headed in against the tide. Norm swam with the tide a piece and then made his way to shore. We say and lay (he sat, I lay) in a hammock for a while watching the little white fish with brown stripes frolic near shore.

I plan to tackle the steps once more tonight for dinner, as our room doesn’t lend itself well to room service.

Later: For dinner I had linguini with squid (good but cold) and Norm had a beef curry dish. After dinner, as we walked back to our room, stars dotted the southern sky.
I asked for a late checkout, since our flight to the U.S. wasn’t until 9:30 PM. They gave me until noon, so we went snorkeling one last time. I saw another clam, or possibly the same one though it looked smaller to me. Once more we saw a lot of colorful fish and coral. The tide was pretty high and quite strong, so we didn’t stay out too long.

We showered in our room, even though the dorm showers would be available to us later, before checking out. We paid extra for one final lunch not included in the meal plan. I ordered the fish tacos again, but wasn’t very hungry. Then we lounged by the pool. I went for a final swim in the sea and picked up a couple of souvenirs for my grandkids Frankie and Silas: a pretty pink-toned rock and a piece of coral shaped like a dog.

“They’ll both want the dog,” I said. I remembered when Nikki and Clay were their age. Seemed like if I got two suckers, one yellow and one red, at the bank drive-through, they’d fight over who got which one. Turned out I was right about the dog.

The boat to Denarau arrived early, so we had to hustle to get our stuff together. About a three-hour cruise, and raining when we arrived. The weather had been glorious the entire time we spent at Mantaray Island. I had a nice chat with our hostess, Ennie, before we left, and she accompanied us to the boat, carrying one of our bags. A lot of the Fijians who work on the smaller islands have family on the big island and go home periodically, perhaps working a week or ten days and then have three days off, etc. Others commute daily.
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This may be my last post for 2025. Hope everyone has a great Christmas!
 

Ever wonder what it would be like if something wiped out our uniqueness, our individuality? This is the premise of the tv series Pluribus.

When I was a kid, I remember thinking that outside our family—where frequent quarrels, nagging, and complaining erupted—the rest of the people in the world led mostly content, normal lives.

Over the years, I would occasionally bump into a troubled soul, whom I still viewed as an exception. Most people, other than these few and those in my own family, surely led normal, content lives. Finally, it dawned on me that we’re all troubled souls, though each in our own unique way.

Now, when I see a child or a self-conscious teenager mortified by their own clumsiness, incompetence, or ignorance, I want to say, “Don’t waste a minute of precious life feeling that way. Nobody will notice, at least not for long. They are all too wrapped up in their own issues and anxieties and challenges.”

The older I get, the more often I see individuals with traits or physical features that remind me of other human beings. We are all so similar and yet so different. What a mystery that some people are able to write music in their heads, draw figures that practically burst from the page, or play the piano without having a lesson.

My grandmother used to say of a woman she knew, “She could make the piano talk.” I play piano, but I can't compare with that. Paul McCartney says he just woke up one morning with the tune to "Yesterday" in his head, and "Yellow Submarine" another day.

This all strikes me as strong evidence of a creator. Not just a contented, normal creator but an omniscient, omnipotent creator who is somehow able to make each and every one of us unique, far beyond my ability to imagine or understand. How miraculous is that?    

A central character in my novel, The Ticket, is fourteen, an age when most of us suffered frequent agonies over things we’d done or said, how we looked, or what other people thought of us. You can watch a two-minute trailer for The Ticket: https://vimeo.com/50187275
https://www.amazon.com/Ticket-Debra-Coleman-Jeter/dp/B0BZBB4TS8/ref=monarch_sidesheet