Anna Henkens Schmidt

There’s a reason I hire an editor. In one of the short stories featured in our upcoming release, The Ding Dong Altar Boy, Donald mentions a memorable fried baloney sandwich he once ate. Our editor texted me: “Do you really not know how to spell bologna?” Apparently not. But I couldn’t take full responsibility for my mistake like a mature, honorable person. “Just so you know,” I texted back defensively, “I’ve had four beta readers, and none of them pointed it out. Spellcheck didn’t flag it either.” I shared the exchange with my 13-year-old daughter. “Well, duh,” she said. “Baloney is a word, but it’s spelled differently than the lunch meat.” “My 13-year-old is smarter than me,” I lamented to my editor. “I mean, she’s usually smarter than me too,” my editor responded. “But baloney means false. Bologna is a food.” “By that definition, lunch meat is also false,” I said. “’Cause there ain’t nothing real about bologna. I stand by my spelling.” (I changed the spelling immediately.) But I did ...

I read Psalm 16 this morning and immediately thought of The Lion King. In this psalm, David offers a prayer of confidence to God. He praises the Lord for safety and protection, for being the source of all good things.  Then David says this: “The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; indeed I have a beautiful inheritance.” There’s an iconic scene in The Lion King where Mufasa leads Simba to Pride Rock. They look out over the Savannah and Mufasa says, “Look, Simba. Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” He goes on to tell the young lion cub that one day, Simba will inherit the kingdom. Jesus says something similar in Matthew 25. “Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world.” When Simba learns of his coming inheritance, he gives a simple one-word answer. “Wow.” It’s hardly an adequate response, but I can relate. Knowing that “The Spirit himself bears witness with our spirit, that we ...

Guilt and I are well acquainted.  It doesn’t even have to be my own guilt. I’ve read crime thrillers which left me walking around in a shameful haze, sure someone would discover the murder weapon in my possession. I’ve woken up from nightmares dripping with sweat over horrific mistakes made by my subconscious. Certain movies and TV shows leave me feeling as though I’m keeping a terrible secret, even though the secret is entirely fictional and not even plausible in real life.  This could mean I’m empathetic. Or, at the very least, catastrophically prone to secondhand shame. Whether real or imagined, I know I’m not the only one who suffers from a guilty conscience. I recently learned the United States Government has something called the Federal Conscience Fund. Like most government entities, the Federal Conscience Fund collects money, but this one is quite unique. The fund, established in 1811, accepts voluntary, anonymous payments from people who feel guilty about having commit...

I don’t usually put my foot in my mouth.  Normally I swallow both feet whole. Then choke on my embarrassment. Later, I regurgitate the scene over and over again, longing for a vow of silence. This lasts until I open my mouth again. Some people tread lightly with their words. I cannonball. My verbal self-control is limited. Though, I do deserve some credit for all the things I don’t say out loud. This is why writing is a sanctuary. The delete key is within easy grasp, so I can undo the endless stream of word vomit. With writing, I’m forced to pause and think before the words escape.  How I wish I could go back and rewrite a conversation I had at my husband’s work dinner. One of his colleagues flaunted a shiny new engagement ring. I didn’t know her well, but wanted to make conversation. “Congratulations!” I gushed.  “Thank you,” she said, holding out her ring and allowing the facets to catch light. “How did he propose?” I asked. “He proposed on Thanksgiving Day.” “Oh nice. ...

Dear David at VRBO. Thank you for your recent response to my inquiry for your beautiful property. It’s understandable you cannot accommodate my request due to the fact I have children. They are rather inconvenient. If you can believe it, they require feedings three or more times a day. They have an endless number of arguments as to why we are always wrong, The youngest one breaks things.  But hear me out. What if I told you they weren’t actually children, but rather human pets? We live in an age where people love pets. Some people wear T-shirts that self-advertise as Dog Mom. Others don bumper stickers on their cars that say, “Drive safe: Fur babies on board.” I love animals too. As a bonus, my pets don’t even shed. They’re more like fur-less fur babies. Reptiles? But better than reptiles, because my pets have been successfully potty trained for years. And yet, we’re somehow considered worse tenants than a group of adults who may or may not treat your property like a Vegas afterpar...

I spent four years teaching a writing class to middle school students. At the beginning of each year, I’d write on the whiteboard: Great writing is ______________. Then, I’d ask for raised hands. The kids had all sorts of inspired answers: creative, descriptive, entertaining, spell-checked. I couldn’t disagree with any of them. But it wasn’t the answer I was looking for. When they finally exhausted their list of suggestions, I’d turn back to the board and finish the sentence: Great writing is rewriting. I’d warn them not to become overly attached to their first drafts, because magic happens in the second, third, fourth, and sometimes fifth drafts. The magic happens when you’re willing to scrap all the unnecessary stuff. Writing is a lot like sculpting. I’ve read enough about the great sculptures of our time to know that they all start out as a block of stone, wood, or whatever the artist’s preferred medium is. If they stopped there, we’d have a lot of blocks, but not much art. The scul...

I once wrote a novel about a college graduate trapped in a dead-end job. She staved off an eventual emotional breakdown by self-diagnosing with every mental illness in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders. They say, “Write what you know.” It wasn’t entirely autobiographical. For one thing, the main character didn’t have a husband, and I didn’t have a dog. The main character had a degree in psychology and a lifelong commitment to vegetarianism. I graduated with an English Journalism degree, and my foray into vegetarianism lasted only long enough for me to forget most of what I’d read in Upton Sinclair’s The Jungle. (That’s a lie. I still remember the meat packer who fell overboard into the rendering vats, but turns out my love for a slightly-pink hamburger overshadows my fear of cannibalism.) I titled the novel A Self Diagnosis and spent months querying every agent listed in The Writer’s Market. Some responses were encouraging, and I even received positive feedback....