Yesterday, I drove to a convenience store to do some quick shopping.
Once in the store, I picked out what I needed and went to the cashier. The person behind the register was a smallish person, quiet and solemn. As I handed her my money, I asked if she could please give me change for a dollar. Not receiving an answer, I repeated my request.

“I said, YES!” she roared suddenly, exhaling hotly through her nose. The unexpected gust nearly blew back my hair.

Have you ever noticed how silly people look when they lose their temper? And how ridiculous it is when we lose control of our thoughts and minds? If there’s one thing in this life we can control, it’s our thoughts, and the actions that follow.

One of the hardest things to do is to react peaceably to a person who we feel is attacking us in word or deed. Anger grows if met with anger. If I’ve learned anything from the 178 self-help books I’ve read, I’ve at least learned that much. If anger is met calmly, it often ends more quickly.

After the cashier’s yell, inner me briefly desired to rip all the heads off the nearest Pez display just to demonstrate what I thought of her unprovoked outburst. But then my anger would render me out of control too.

I apologized for not hearing her the first time, and debated whether I should point out that not only was her first reply inaudible, but likely took place only within the confines of her head, as I happened to be watching her for an answer. Taking a closer look at her stopped me. Her face sagged with unhappiness. Anger and happiness do not travel in the same circles. Clearly, her anger stemmed from within herself.

I smiled and waited for her to catch my eye. The line behind me grew, but I’m certain no one would have minded if they’d realized my good cause.

Finally, she caught my eye and a wan grin appeared. I thanked her and left.

Anger cramps the mind’s growth. We writers need to control our minds and place it in the proper state to write effectively. Okay, if anger is a state of mind you need in order to write, at least keep it to yourself, and keep it short. I don’t know about you, but I write best with a clear, calm mind unhindered by negative emotions. How to chase negative emotions away? Start with a smile. If you can’t achieve a genuine smile, fake it. Keep faking it until it becomes the real thing. It works.

Our mental state plays an important part in writing our best. Irritability has no place in a writer’s life.

I not only woke up one morning on the wrong side of the bed, but on the other side of the room. In fact, on the other side of the house, next to the side door where the spiders and sow bugs and beetles patiently wait to stampede outside, first thing.

I need quality sleep at night like a tortoise needs its shell…or else I spend most of the day doing a fine impersonation of an unpleasant person. Last night, I didn’t get my required amount.

In the morning, I yelled at my mother, yelled at my husband who had the audacity to ask why I acted “low key,” (my apologies to both), but thankfully, I spared the children. A bowling ball had replaced my head, sitting wobbly and heavy between my shoulders. It didn’t help my cause when the day’s temperature soared to an undignified 100 degrees.

I puttered around the house in a sort of brain fog. Oh, I know that’s now a recognized medical state and describes a mind hindered by stress, anxiety or worry. Confusion or forgetfulness characterize brain fog. My state was different. It was more of a lightweight madness where tiny, virtually nonexistent obstacles seemed magnified. Mine was more like brain smog; useless, frustrated, blurry thoughts cluttered my mind, leaving no room for any light or fresh air to seep in.

The best cure for such a turbulent state or for depression, fear, stupidity or practically any unsteady frame of mind is to try doing something for someone else. Take the focus off yourself. Which is why I decided to go out among the public.

Since I am a sporadic library volunteer, this was the perfect opportunity to assist the denizens of almost all things literary, and hopefully jump-start my mood into something better and more promising.

I went. I helped. I conquered. I stayed longer than usual and didn’t leave until I heard voices. The voices of an eight-year-old girl and her grandma.

Grandma asked me where books should be returned. I showed her. She dropped them in. Girl hollered that she needed the books, and Granny made a big mistake in returning them. At one end, Grandma kept telling me, “Don’t listen to her,” and at the other, the girl insisted that she needed to keep them a little longer for a book club report at the library. This went on for quite some time. Grandma and Girl might as well have been in two different buildings. No communication took place at all. This is a cozy library. Pleasantly plump people cannot squeeze past each other in the aisles.

The girl was right. She gave her report, the books were returned and peace was restored.

After they left, one of the librarians whispered to me, “Have you ever felt like grabbing a kid by her ear and pulling her outside?”

I realized then that the frustrated voices I heard merely echoed my own. “I think the little girl was feeling a little overwhelmed and underheard, that’s all. I’m sure this was not her usual behavior.”

One set of thoughts always drives the other out. Of course, there are people that don’t harbor thoughts, but I know, my dear readers do. By changing direction and attempting to help others, anyone can, in effect, stamp out less desirable states of mind and, in my case, forget about sleep deprivation. Okay, so I wasn’t exactly the most proficient volunteer. I didn’t always shelve the books in perfect alphabetical order, but I caught my mistakes and corrected them.

Don’t allow your mind to accommodate anything less than the best thoughts. For your sake, the sake of those that cross your path and for the sake of doing the very best writing.

Lemony Snicket, Charlie Bucket, Simon Legree, Voldemort, Sherlock Holmes, Scarlett O’Hara, Huckleberry Finn, Ebenezer Scrooge…the list goes on and on. A character can leap off the page and onto the reader’s shoulder with the right name. The very names themselves burst with personality. How do writers conjure them? Often the name “pops” into one’s head (Corrie Locke jumped right in my head, first thing. I pictured a strong female who believes folding or caving in is not an option and who thrives on dangerous, risky situations). Other times names are carefully selected. I’m going to focus on the latter since there’s no accounting for the popping.

Names set the tone for the book. What if Scarlett had been Susan? Or Huckleberry had been Harry? It wouldn’t be the same. A sampling of the stories behind my namings:

Michael and James: These are the real life, middle names of my favorite men. I wanted classic, strong names for heroes that represented every man…if every man was smart, brave, hot, handy in the kitchen and at the beck and call of the heroine in their lives.

Veera Bankhead: In high school, a student had this unforgettable surname, which I’d mentally filed away. She’s Corrie’s sidekick and friend. Gwenaveera (Veera, for short) is a derivative of Guinevere and reminds me of a resourceful, driven, loyal, noble, virtuous woman, or so I imagined from the Arthurian tales. Veera is resourceful, loyal, noble and almost virtuous, so it was a perfect fit.

Druby: I met a cabinet maker named Druby, which I adopted for this book. The real Druby was talented, handy, and popular, kind of like the fictional character. Hence, the victim in my story was born with a simple, different, yet memorable name.

Paprika: This character’s original name was Kristy, but was changed in a late draft because I felt it was too close to “Corrie,” not to mention mediocre and dull, unworthy of a volatile, unpredictable, and manipulative character. And a spicy one as well.

Clayton Pott: One afternoon, I drove home with a large ornamental clay pot in the passenger seat. I thought, “Look at you, so pretty on the outside, but empty on the inside. It’s all about looks, isn’t it? You shallow, self-absorbed, dirt bag.” The conversation continued in this manner. And Clay Pott was born.