The agony of victory...

I have won. Well, "won," really--I made it just over 50,000 words. Now I'll let the whole thing settle for a couple of weeks before trying to go back to it. But a good three-fifths of the thing will be cut pretty quickly once I do.

Nonetheless, I have a purple winner bar and some snazzy new icons and a fancy certificate of win.

Now "Story a Day" is back up for December. And I'll, you know, try to write on here occasionally, too.

Happy month of my birthday!!!

Slim pickin's

NaNoWriMo is haaard.

Also I was sick at the beginning of the month pretty bad and then my cat was sick for a week even badder and I had to start my book over and then my brain broke and then the sun got in my eyes...

But really, the CAT was sick and it feels like I have been living on the edge of panic about him dying for weeks. Really, it's only been a little over a week and he's better and now I should be getting back on track for the book.

37,000 words to go! Just over 5 days!

And that's all I really have to say.

My toofs

Today I had my FOURTH followup at my dentist. They like my strong teeth, they're impressed with the care I take of them, and we all want them to be prettier. So the last time I was there, he talked about what they could do versus what braces could do and the various costs and time tables of each of those things. The upshot is that likely the braces would take 3-3.5 years and I'd still have to get an implant and my gum line worked on and things shifted around a bit to compensate for gaps after I was done. Whereas the crowns (or veneers or bridge or whatever) they could do on just my front top line would make it LOOK like I had straight teeth all through. And I could have that all done in three weeks, basically. And it would cost less. They would even take out that tooth that's all by its lonesome behind the other teeth--the one my mom is always worried will go straight through my tongue one of these days.

So, here are some examples of my teeth as they are now (none straight on from the front, unfortunately):






And here is the model of my teeth as they would look after the procedures--well, sort of. They'd actually do a little more shaving of the teeth on my right side (left side of picture) so that tiny little tooth that the lab put in the gap that's there currently would actually match the size of the corresponding tooth on the other side. And there's gum shaving involved in the whole procedure! So weird. Oh, yes, and free teeth whitening thrown in because I know his daughter (and I think he feels kind of sorry for me) though I feel the need to point out that my teeth are actually whiter than this already, thank heavens. Anyway:




I would love this! Truly, I would. So if anyone has the $5800 it'll run me, feel free to pass it along. Yeaaaahhhh. Insurance might pay for it if I had any decay at all, but I don't, so these crowns all count as cosmetic. *sigh* Still, he did promise me that this price would be good until next Thanksgiving, so I've got a year to raise the money!

Anyone out there need a kidney? :D

Hello-ween!

Normally, I would never, ever do this, but I'm pretty proud of my Halloween look this year, so I'm posting some pictures. Of me. On the internet. Crazy.

Braaaaaiinnnsss!!!!!

I just found out about an event that makes me ENORMOUSLY sad that my sister isn't in town. And might just tempt her to come back next weekend. I will cut and paste below so that you, too, can be invited to participate.

_________________________________________________

Zombie Walk!!

Oct 22, 2008 - 12 01 If you Haven't heard already, Our Own GR is hosting a Zombie Walk! Here's a quote from the Facebook page.

"This is not a joke! I was contacted by True Entertainment out of LA and they'll be flying a whole crew and the host of a new TV show on DISCOVERY CHANNEL to film for a COMPLETE EPISODE on this event! If you or your friends want to be on National TV, come!

After the massive success and national attention of September’s Pillow Fight, on devil’s night Grand Rapids will try and break the world record for the largest Zombie Walk ever.

Zombie Walk: A Massive mob of people dressed as Zombies walking together as a massive horde in downtown Grand Rapids on October 30th at 9PM starting at Rosa Parks Circle in grand celebration of Halloween. "Zombie" Outfits are as basic as you want, white t shirts with some ketchup = perfect.

Confirmed World Record: 1098

These guys from Pittsburgh are the record holders, they hold the record at 1098, and are attempting to beat it this year. THEY'RE OUR COMPETITION!
http://www.theitsaliveshow.com/zombiefest2008/zwalk.htm

More then ever it’s critical that we tell as many people we can about the event, through facebook, word to mouth, any way we can. I promise to do my part to get the word out as best as I possibly can if you do too. Put the link in your status, "post a link" or just invite friends directly, anything is appreciated.

Here’s the direct link to invite friends:
http://www.new.facebook.com/editevent.php?guests&eid=46318061944

Websites great for working on a sweet outfit:
http://www.zombiemaker.com/
http://www.365halloween.com/zombie-costume

Also the B.O.B. has agreed to hold an event night in honor of our Zombie Walk, so our walk will finish for the Gates of Hell event night! They've been amazing in trying to get the word out, here's the info: The after party is "This after party for the Zombies will take place until 2am. Zombies are encouraged to join us in roaming around The B.O.B., specifically inside Crush. To give you a little more life, the Zombies get $5 pizzas and burgers until 12 midnight. The thriller dance or other choreographed moves among you and your zombie friends are strongly suggested.
For admittance to this event all Zombies need to carry an ID and some cash for entrance. It's $10 at the door and if you're a minor, we'll hook you up with a free Red Bull (While supplies last)."
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=36834255247"

And the nessisary info for the event!

Event Info Host: The Rob Bliss Urban Experiments
Type: Other - Carnival
Network: Global
Time and Place Date: Thursday, October 30, 2008
Time: 9:00pm - 9:30pm
Location: Rosa Parks Circle
Street: 132 Monroe Center St. NW, 49503
City/Town: Grand Rapids, MI
View MapGoogleMapQuestMicrosoftYahoo
Contact Info Phone: 6162954562
Email: robblissgr@aim.com

Flash of genius

Fine, not genius. My muse has finally popped in for a visit, though. She only came by to drop something off, but I have her word that she'll be back and her offering is in good faith of future longer visits.

I had only the vaguest idea of what my options were for this year's NaNo novel and I wasn't really satisfied with any of them. I mean, I could write a short story about a million different things, but to keep something up for 50,000 words? I believe the word daunting was invented for situations such as these.

There was this one idea, though. I really liked the thought of it, but I wanted to do a little more research. I wanted to figure out where it might go. I needed to figure out more than just the main character's occupation. So I just let it drift in with the crowd of other truncated ideas floating around up there in my belfry.

Yesterday, I decided that I needed to start seriously thinking and planning. Last year a lot of my book was just me reiterating thoughts that I or those I know have had during clinical depression. I didn't do a lot of research--which is why my scenes in the police station were inspired by episodes of Law and Order and C.S.I. Anyway, this year will require something a bit more.

Thus I committed to that vague idea, originally inspired by a dream and now bearing no likeness to the original. I sat down to start a notes list--I only had one thing, but I figured I could add to it over the next few weeks. After just five minutes, I now have the main character list, how her family will work, what the male lead does for a living, pitfalls to look out for, modes of dress, and an actual framework for the story.

Seems this story might actually WANT to be written! That's a relief.

I might be asking for help with a title a little further into the process and I'll give you a brief synopsis then. For right now, though, I'm just baking scones for the muse's next visit.

"Something of Note" or "It's here! It's here!"

Ladies, gentlemen, children of all ages, I gleefully present to you: my first official published work of fiction! 250 words and every one of them mine! (Said 250 words do not include the title--that's not mine at all).





I realize the pictures are crappy and the text is blurry, but you can at least see that it's my name, right? I wish you could see the picture the story is based on more clearly, but I guess you'll just have to go buy the magazine when it hits store shelves. (According to a couple of people, this issue has not yet done so).

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go write a thank you note to the editor who chose my story.

Ramble, ramble, ramble

Wow. Huh. September was kind of a slim month for posting, wasn't it? I'll try to do better this month.

Frankly, I was going to just wait until tomorrow to post 'Something Of Note' but I'm impatient and not likely to remember to take pictures of the thing I wish to post tonight anyway, so I'm just going to start here.

As most (if not all) of you know, I've started -- or restarted -- a Story a Day blog. We few, we happy few, we band of writers write to a posted title every few days currently and every single day eventually. One of today's stories contained the observation that humans are adaptable creatures and I was struck anew both by 'how true, how true' and by the fact that our very adaptability can sometimes get us into trouble. Sometimes there are things we should not adapt to: abuse, injustice, low expectations, 80s fashion... Sometimes we force ourselves to adapt, to make the best of a bad situation and then when the situation is resolved in the way we always hoped it would be, we're disgruntled because we've gotten used to the other and change is annoying. 'Now I have to adapt AGAIN,' we complain. But we do it. We find ways. We bend, to use a cliche, because those who don't bend, break.

Perhaps we adapt so notoriously because we're never fully content. Sure, we say, I've got a good thing going, but there's a possibility it's not the right good thing. So we'll try out this new situation, wriggle ourselves in to see if it fits, take a few tucks here and there, lift the hem an inch or two, cinch the belt tight so it doesn't fall off. We give verve to ill-fitting situations, carrying them off with panache.

I don't really have a point here, I'm just pondering. Just wondering if the adaptability we're so gosh darn, yeehaw proud of is really a good thing...or the thing that will ultimately destroy us all.

NaNo *clapclap* WriMo *clapclap* NaNo *clapclap* Wri...

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Chris Baty wrote me (well, every NaNoWriMo participant, really) last night to say that soon, they'll refresh the website and it will open for pre-business at the beginning of October. Forums and challenges and loot, oh my!

I'll be participating again this year, hopefully with as much success ("Winner!) as last time, and I encourage all of you to take the ride with me. More on that later. But for now, I just want to share some of the shiny things they sell to raise money that I want.

This year's t-shirt--verr cute:



Last year's t-shirt--my second year participating, first time actually winning:



And, finally, the thing I want most of all. I mean, all of their posters are darn cool, truly. But this is my very favorite favorite. WAAAAANT.


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Random bits

As I haven't posted in a bit, I thought I'd throw out some randomness, rather than trying to come up with something cohesive.

1. I was visiting one of my favorite sites this morning. Damninteresting.com fully lives up to its name and I highly recommend it to one and all. For example, the current article on Nikolai Tesla contained this gem of a sentence: Though his notes do not specifically say so, one can only surmise that Tesla stood at Pike's Peak and cackled diabolically as the night sky over Colorado was cracked by the man-made lightning machine.

1b. In the comments section, I also ran across an acronym that I haven't thought of in years. It's an extremely 80s thing, and for some reason reminds me of my sister, though I can't actually remember if she ever used it. SWAK, i.e. 'Sealed with a kiss'. Less well known than LYLAS or TTFY, etc., but I think maybe I had a sticker emblazoned with it or something.

2. I am oddly tired today. Perhaps because it's gray, perhaps because I didn't exercise this morning, perhaps because I didn't sleep well last night (though I thought I did). Whatever the case, I'm tired. So I was very happy when I found a lone dollar bill rattling around in my wallet. I can buy caffeine! I stood in front of the machine and tried to feed in the dollar. Why won't...go in! Why aren't you working? Then I realized I was trying to feed it into the coin slot.

3. I have a mini-rosebush at work, a thank you gift from a friend for whom I catsat. It's very pretty and cheery in my office. Except that the blooms are literally drying on the bush. And when I tried to deadhead one of the failing blooms to give the three buds around it a chance to blossom, they all dried up and died within a day. But you're supposed to deadhead roses! I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but now I'm scared to cut the other dying blooms off because what if the whole plant goes?

4. I got a line on another possible writing group today. I think it's still in the infant stages (or maybe zygote), but it looks like it might be a good option for me.

5. I may commit to being in GR for another year or three. There's a possible house purchase (if I can find someone crazy enough to give me a loan), that whole 'might adopt a kid' thing, etc. I don't know precisely how I feel about that.

6. Tegrin spelled backwards is nirget.

7. My newest coworker sat across the table from me at Dan Kersey's reception. I did not know him then. (Well, I don't really know him NOW, but I assuming that will come with time and work co-mingling.)

I believe that will do.

Oracle, prophetess, orphan

I’ve been requested to put more of MY life in the blog. Hey, I take requests. So here’s a big chunk that most of the people I know read this site have already heard, but I’m allowed to cheat if I want to. :)

You who know me know I have next to no maternal instinct. Not for children, anyway. For animals, for my friends, sure, lots. But I’ve never been into babies, never craved children of my own. Heck, I didn’t even like dolls growing up. I went for the stuffed animals and My Little Ponies. I’ve pretty much been an animal girl my whole life. Which does not preclude me from making a really great “aunt” to my friends’ kids, mind you. I’d love to be a real aunt, but Steph is of the same mind as me re: kids, so that’s not going to happen. Mom long ago resigned herself to this (mostly); sweatshirts of “I have a grand-dog/cat” are appropriate attire for her.

Anyway, the only way I’ve ever honestly considered having children is through adoption. However, what I really wanted to do is go volunteer at an orphanage or two and work with the kids there, getting to know them until I found a child who was perfectly suited to me and vice versa. (Also, I read way too much L. M. Montgomery as a kid). Given that orphanages don’t really exist anymore…this plan seemed unlikely.

Now, come back with me to Wednesday night. I was researching this catalog of children put out by the Michigan Adoption Resource Exchange for a story idea. I find the idea of an “available children” catalog that you can pick up at your local library odd, and had visions of a weird consumerist society of the future with children for sale on Ebay and such like that. I was perusing the listings, seeing how they described the kids, how it was presented, things like that. And, out of nowhere, I found a girl I want to adopt.

Believe me, no one is more surprised by this than I am.

Her name is Casandra . Go. Meet her. Watch her video.

I sent around emails to several friends, linking them to her. I said that I know this is a ludicrous idea, that there’s no way I could do this, but that I could pray for her and asked them to do the same. I ask you the same thing, if you weren’t a part of that original email (and, you know, you pray, which I know some of you don’t :) ).

And a funny thing has been happening since then. Every single person who has responded, rather than mocking me for this or breathing huge sighs of relief that I am not actually going to do this—which, frankly, is what I expected—has instead said in one way or another that I should stay open to the idea of actually doing this. I’ve gotten links to adoption assistance, encouragement that I could “mom with the best of them,” happiness about a possible grandchild, etc.

I guess what I’m asking from you is for prayer not only for Casandra—that she finds a loving home and is encouraged by people who understand her—but for me as well to be open to doing this if I should, for a GIANT, obvious, unmisinterpretable, blinking, neon sign, and for contentment if not pursuing this is the right decision.

I was going to put a lot more in here about how I can picture taking her to the farmer's market, giving her $10 and letting her pick out whatever she wants, or what her room looks like, or what chores she would get and how I would deal with fights and enrolling her in a charter school, etc., etc., but this is long enough.

There, Tailyn. News from my life. :)

Milestone

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Just a quick post to note that, according to my little counter thingie, I have now officially been viewed over 1000 times!!!!

Even if it was the same five or six people over and over again (and my own posting), I don't care. Thanks, you guys!!

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More "Emails with Adam!"

My friend Adam--he's a card and a brick. Here's more proof!

In which my absence ruins a trip:

Thank you for your sympathy about the Stratford trip. Yes indeed, if you had been there of course the plays would have been better. You know for next time.

Sadly, I don't believe there's been a next time for me since then...and that was in 2002 or thereabouts. I miss Stratford. :(

In which he explains the facts of poverty to me:

In answer to your question about how I financed the last out east trip. 1. I am now broke. 2. I slept in my van most of the time and ate 'things from home'.


A series of interesting closes to emails:

Write back & let me know if you'll be in town.

Seriously,

Adam

P.S. Oh, and I didn't call your house and hang up. It sounds like something Bill Kerr might do though.

*

Good to hear from you.

I have not picked up smoking or anything else.

Adam

*

I hope you're doing well and I'll talk to you soon. Kasey, I will.


In which Adam writes one of the worst travel advertisements ever:

Thank you for your well wishes regarding my trip to the wilds of S. India. It was indeed wild, it involved being locked in a train bathroom, being borderline assaulted by eunuchs (3 times), being sunburnt beneath my level 40 sunblock in the Bay of Bengal, and visiting an oprhanage full of the nicest little kids I ever met but will not adopt.

Are you involved in the Willow this year? I already asked you that didn't I. I apologize, it is the heat, it is 104 here today.


Regarding an inundation of advertisements from eHarmony:

I hear your in-box is full of Christian singles. I'm sorry to hear that, at least they are Christians. If you do decide to utilze a Christian dating service, I would suggest that you bring at least one friend along with you. In fact, if you utilize a dating service, I will come along.

This is unlikely to ever be necessary (I am constitutionally unsuitable for e-dating), but I appreciate the thought. If I had remembered this when Mom was meeting Don though, I would certainly have passed the offer along.


In which Adam shows perspective is key:

Katherine,

Did you know that there is a Shakespearean character named after you. Several of them! It doesn't matter much though because neither of us will be going to Stratford this year, because I and I believe you, are the dirt poor.

I thought I'd start off with something dismal, and let the letter progress upwards.
_____________________________________________________

And now, just to balance things out a little bit, I offer you one of the many moments in which Adam is not funny, but rather deeply wise and encouraging. I value these moment just as much, if not more:

Emotional memory comes in waves. There are stretches where you don't think about it twice, and then stretches of time when you think about it quite vividly. Knowing that there is some pattern to it, helped me prepare myself against despair.

My friend Adam, ladies and gentlemen!

Thing one and thing two

Yesterday I got two very exciting bits of news very nearly simultaneously. I share them with you now.

First, I got a letter in the mail, which I include below [click on the picture to be able to read the letter]. I have to say, I keep thinking it's not real. In fact, the realest moment of belief I had was when I first opened it, so I fear my sister got my truest reaction (on her voice mail).


Holy crap! I'm a real writer! People who have no idea who I am chose MY story!!!!

Then I called my mom to tell her about it and got the other big news of the day: She and Don are officially engaged!!! I don't have a picture of the ring or the moment, but this is a shot of the two of them on their first date (taken by my sister, who went on the date with them. Heh). Aren't they cute?




All in all, a pretty exciting afternoon, wouldn't you say? *grin*

Here comes the sun (doouhndoodoo)

I love the sun. I burn like a mad thing, but I LOVE the sun. Don't get me wrong; I love the rain, too. I'm a rain child over here, the classic puddle-jumper, rain-wanderer.

But still, I love sunlight.

This morning I woke up at Apple's. No one else was awake yet, so I had the morning to myself. I swept aside the curtains and lifted the shades and there he was--the sun. That thin, cool morning light flung through the window. A bunny was in the yard next door, chilling in the dew-covered grass, enjoying the early morning rays. And I couldn't help it (not that I tried very hard): I collapsed to the floor, falling into a modified lotus position, turned my face up into the light, and proceeded to do some hardcore basking.

*purr*

Then Apple came out and, all squinty and sick, and grunted, "Ahhh...who let the sun in?" Heh. My sister, the mole, would agree with her.

So now I go to the rest of my day meeting friends (Tailyn! Jeremy! New Julia! JODY!) with my solar panels fully charged and my spirit able to breathe once more.

Thanks, God, for creating the sun and sharing it with all we earth-bound.


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Old thoughts for new

My brilliant cousin, Jennifer, has started a blog based on a pile of notebooks and papers she found with scraps of previous writing she’s done. You should read it when you have a chance because, truly, she’s brill.

It also gave me an idea for something I can begin to do on my own blog in my never-ending attempt to make things more interesting for you, my loyal reader. I have a million old journals and papers and things like that from which to pull, though, have no fear, I will be selective.

For a first run, I was trying to find an email I sent to someone explaining why it is I love the Olympics so much, how they are so much more than a sporting event, etc. Said email was never tracked down, which is likely to mean it was a phone conversation or a figment of my imagination. Either way, if I want to post my paean to the Olympics, I’ll have to come up with it from scratch, and I shan’t be doing that now.

However, during my search, I did find rather a lot of emails from which I can cull interesting things. One series of said interesting emails was to and from my friend Adam (alternately known as “manly man of the red earth,” “Edmond,” and “that guy we used to know who’s never here anymore.”) A few years back, I moved to Iowa and he traveled to India. Both far from home, we wrote to each other, and the correspondence was sprightly and varied. Some were more consequential than others. I include here tidbits from the inconsequential with editorial comments as needed.

“Kasey C.

Hello!

I'm so sorry to hear that you cold-cocked yourself with a pole. That had me laughing for a little while, but I'm sorry if it hurt.”

I have only the vaguest memory of this happening and I really wish I knew more because it sounds hysterical. I’m not entirely sure how I would have accomplished such a thing, but it does sound rather like me. Actually, wait, it sounds more like Jen.

Re: my request for a fancy peacock of my very own:
“P.S I cannot bring you back a peacock, they are too large. I think I can fit a crow in my carry-on though. They are plentiful here.”

He lies. He brought me no such crow. I’m still waiting.

In which he informs me of a little-known custom:
“I was thinking again about your relocation choices, and I think it is a possiblity that you will move back to GR. The reason being, is that you did not throw a valued item in the Grand River when you left. Or did you? Are you aware of that custom? If you throw something you highly value into the Grand River when you leave, it means you won't come back. If you don't the curse is still on you and you will come back.

But I'd say, come on back to GR. . . . I have a newfound admiration for it. It sounds so clean when I think of it now. Your gypsy side can take road trips. There was a real live gypsy sitting next to me here in the internet place. She asked me about an english word and her gypsy boyfriend got mad.

I'm glad that you weren't aware of the grand river myth, you might have made a lifelong mistake.”

On John and Heidi’s then-forthcoming nuptials:
“I assume you'll be at the upcoming wedding. I wouldn't want you to miss the crystal glass/oral interp piece that I've worked on. I don't want to give it away but it involves a monologue from The Yellow Wallpaper and some dry ice.”
I am EXTREMELY sorry to say I was apparently out of the room for this piece’s performance. I am in hopes it will one day be recreated.

On the joys of jury duty:
“It is getting late, and I have been randomly selected for jury duty tomorrow morn. So I should probably sleep for that. I don't know what will happen but I have memorized several lines from 12 Angry Men that I plan on using at some point.

Talk to you soon,

Adam

'I'll just run this up the flagpole and see who salutes it'

..that's one of the lines.”

Next week on blogtalk: Kastie version-- More email fun! Or journal fun! Whichever strikes my fancy!

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Kindred spirits

Wandering by one of the blogs I visit on an infrequent basis -- A Dress A Day -- I found the following quote about George Eliot:

September, 1856, when she was thirty-seven years old, marked the beginning of her effort to become a writer of fiction. She had always desired to write a novel, but she believed herself "deficient in dramatic power both of construction and dialogue," although feeling that she would be at ease "in the descriptive parts of a novel."

I am familiar with this entire outlook on writing; it is, in fact, precisely my outlook. It gives me hope that George Eliot felt the same way once upon a time.



.

Yeep.

I have just done something that I'm already sure I'll regret: I have made this blog visible to search engines. Yikes. Now, for most people, I'm sure that's no big deal. But see, I have these things called trust issues and privacy fears? Yeah. Those. In spades. SPADES, I tell you!

So this is by way of an experiment. It's actually inspired by a blog my friend Tonya sent me earlier...if you mention "them," "they" will come. Authors, that is. I don't know if I want that to actually happen, mind you, but, there it is.

This may not last long.

Accomplishment

I have just met one of my goals for the year. I submitted my work to a story contest, thereby meeting the number of contests I promised myself I would enter. I'm freaking out just a little because that's what I do after doing something brave and/or new.

Eek!!

Now, I have to meet a different goal...better get that greeting card company off the ground, eh?


_

Flabbergasted #2

I don't GET people!!!! Their cruelty and/or complete idiocy...it boggles .

Excitement!!!

Thanks to the lovely and talented Robin McKinley (and, before her, Jodi Meadows of same), I offer you the newest Joss Whedon project! "Dr. Horrible's Sing-a-long Blog"!!!

It will be appearing for one week only (although whoever buys the eventual DVD with extras for me for Christmas gets extra-mega bonus points) online. This work of genius and merriment stars Neil Patrick Harris as Dr. Horrible and the ever popular Nathan Fillion as Captain Hammer. There's singing, cute-meeting, world taking over, and a special appearance by the henchman of the legendary Dark Horse, leader of the villiany world!!

I offer you a link to the justification behind said project. Click on "Home" at the top of this page to get to the videos. Only about 14 minutes long, and worth every second, even if you're watching them illicitly at work.

http://drhorrible.com/plan.html

Go! GOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!

Nesting and Longing

"Nesting" is perhaps a much stronger term than what I'm actually doing which is cleaning my apartment so that I can call maintenance to fix my air conditioning. It may not be that bad but it FEELS that bad, plus, I need a good excuse to motivate me. Anyhoodle, last night I tidied the dining area (which, you'll notice from the pictures, is also the library area...one of them, at any rate) and I finally implemented what I've been planning for eons. I created the centerpiece and set the table in permanent fashion (though I'd actually love to have placemats for the settings, but I haven't found any free ones that work). It's a different arrangement in the middle than I planned, but I can't find the green bowl that's supposed to go there so I was improvising. And I'm actually rather pleased with how it turned out.





In other, not-at-all-related news, I found a plane ticket to see Amy over Labor Day weekend--for $283!!!! However, I don't have $283. Who among us does, really? Which is too bad, because it's the perfect time for me to take a few days and visit. You see, she's getting married next spring. We've been talking about this day since we met in 11th grade. Now it's come upon us, and I'm far away. I can't help with any of the planning that we'd always imagined. I didn't even get to go wedding dress shopping with her. And I've never met her fiance. I'd really like to meet Andy before their wedding day, you know? He's going to be kind of important in my life. I'd also love to see her house and meet her dog and hang out with her mom and see the wedding dress and go bridesmaid dress shopping and... Nonetheless, neither of us has the fundage for such a trip, not even at this price.

She suggested I set up a PayPal donation account to raise the funds (and quickly, before this crazy special disappears), but I'm just not sure how I feel asking my very nearly as poor friends/readers to contribute to this trip for me. It's something that's VERY important to me, but it feels...well, I don't know how to describe it. I guess I'm asking how you all would feel about that? Or maybe I'm just asking for possible solutions and/or prayers. Yep. Email, facebook message, or post on here. Whatevs.

Confusion

There's a story I've written that I wish to send into a contest with an end-of-the-month deadline. I took it to writers group and I sent it to my cousin and sister, both of whom I trust to give me good feedback.

I feel like I should trust the opinion of the latter two over that of my group. After all, Steph and Jen have been writing like mad things for years upon years and are extremely widely read. Not only that, they're used to reading things in the genres that have most influenced me.

The general consensus with both groups seems to be that it's good. Possibly even very good. "Beautiful" was a word thrown about in both spheres, which is a lovely thing to hear. However...

I got far more criticism and suggestion from the writing group. That maybe the end could be stronger---more deliverance that I offered. That I needed dialogue throughout (which I think I'm actually going to ignore. I feel like so often writing teachers hit "Dialogue, dialogue!" as a necessary strength of all writing, but some of my favorite authors write incredible things fairly consistently with a minimum of chatter. I think it's a good rule of thumb, but if one's particular voice isn't dialogue heavy, does it HAVE to be?). And a few other things.

I thought they were valid at the time, and I took some notes on how to fix it. But now I'm not sure I should. There are a couple of things I definitely want to add. Sometimes, though, I feel like the folks in my group want EVERYTHING shown to them in a story, and, well, stories don't necessarily do that. They show you the important, relevant bits. One woman said that she found herself making things up about the family and the main character's life outside the story because I didn't put it in there and she thought I should add those things so she didn't have to imagine them. But isn't that actually a good thing? That you connect to the characters so much, you respond to them as you would a real person, imagining their life outside the moment you know them in?

I suppose the only thing to do is to tackle yet another rewrite, then look at them side by side and see which I prefer. Because while I'd very much like to win, in the end, I don't want to win by being someone else.

Summer house

I went to the house again. I was in the neighborhood on a legitimate errand and I just wanted to drive by. And then I stopped. There were roses!! Great swathes of roses on the side of the house. And rudbeckia (which I'm not all that fond of, but still) and a million other perennials in sore need of weeding.

So I got out and took pictures with my cell phone until the memory was full, which was four pictures. I thought I'd post them here just for kicks. They're not very good, and they all look a bit like I applied watercolor effects to them, but they'll give you a bit of an idea, I think.


I'll start with the photo of the house that currently appears on the sale site, which is smaller, but has better clarity.







Clearly this is the front of the house.








The north side of the house with arbor through to good sized courtyard.








The south side of the house complete with roses and perennials.








From the back of the north side courtyard into the back yard. The stairs on the left go up to the big deck (newly repainted, thankfully), and behind the little lattice wall, you can see the pond. Beyond that is one half of the yard, which you can see is still quite extensive.









In wandering around in the late afternoon sunlight, I decided that I don't care what the inside looks like after all. With an outside like that, what could it possibly matter? That and I have a million plans for updating and adding on a bit. It's making my head swim. If anyone has, say, $99,000 just sitting around, I'd be happy to take it off your hands.

When poetry runs amok...

I do so love word geeks.

Another Lindskoog quote

It is amazing how much creative people need to be creative, although it isn't always practical to be creative. Sometimes it is costly. Many teachers favor students who have high intelligence but who are not high in creativity, students who are careful and don't come up with surprises and odd answers. . . . Creative workers are sometimes penalized instead of rewarded for having good ideas. Yet people will usually be creative if they can be, even if they have to hide what they created. Creativity is a built-in drive. It is necessary play. It often gives joy; and when joy is impossible, it gives relief from boredom and solace for pain.

-- Kathryn Lindskoog, Creative Writing: For People Who Can't Not Write

Considering creativity

I've just started reading Creative Writing: For People Who Can't Not Write by Kathryn Lindskoog. It's fairly interesting so far (in the twenty minutes I put in at lunch). I've got a story idea from a specific syndrome she talks about, an urge to go out and buy massive quantities of vitamin B6 to help remember my dreams even more clearly, a book I want to find, and several quotes I'd like to cross-stitch to something. I'll share just a wee snippet with you that I think is a lovely description both of creativity and of the way my own mind is wont to work (it also describes my sister...and several of my friends. Apparently the creative band together, eh?).

“John W. Gardner claims that highly creative people are not outlaws, but lawmakers. They are nonconformists in a special sense of the word. They allow their hunches and wild ideas to come to the surface, and they are willing to take risks, but in everyday life they usually conform to what is standard and look and act quite normal. Their independence shows up mainly in their ideas. There they are flexible, playful, and open. They live to discover relatedness and connect things that did not seem to be connected. ‘Every great creative performance since the initial one has been in some measure a bringing order out of chaos.’ ”

Uncanny Valley = fascinating

This is really interesting and also incredibly creepy. This woman is studying Dr. Masahiro Mori's "Uncanny Valley Effect" theory. Click the link to her live journal page for some really interesting images and videos, and be sure to also read the article that prompted her interest.

In which I reveal myself to be a plebian

I’m going to get tomatoed and booed and generally taunted for my lack of taste, I’m sure, but I have to say it anyway: I don’t like Gregory Maguire. I know, I know! Many of my friends really love his writing and his stories and his ways of twisting known tales around on their existing structure, keeping the bones but slapping on new flesh.

Don’t get me wrong; I am all about retelling old legends, rediscovering their relevance for our modern minds and timeless hearts. I don’t not like Maguire because he messes with the stories I love. I don’t care what people do with those stories, frankly. It’s usually quite interesting and I’ve got a few buzzing around in my own head.

Wee bit of background: I’m currently reading “The Green Man” anthology edited by Ellen Datlow and Terri Windling. It’s full of wild variants of the tale of this archetype, (one of my favorites).* Some I enjoy more than others, but I can appreciate all of them. And then arrives the Gregory Maguire story. I think, “Eh, whatever. People’s short stories are different and it’s this anthology, so I’m sure I’ll like it.” Oh, how very much I did NOT like it. And I figured out why--I think.

His writing always makes me feel dirty. It’s not that it’s dark—I happen to like dark quite a bit of the time. It’s that it’s dank. It’s like he takes every character and every situation and makes them as seedy and soiled as possible. In this particular story, the ladybugs were the only things I wanted to root for in any way, and they kept getting squashed flat. And what’s more, his writing seems almost gleeful about its grossness. It revels in the sourness. I find myself wanting entire kingdoms and worlds to just be destroyed because there is nothing to redeem them and I just. Want. Out.

I still want to see Wicked, though.




*New life goal: be included in an anthology edited by Datlow and Windling. Oh, frabjous day!

Words I love

This is by no means an exhaustive list, clearly. Also, please feel free to add your own words via the comments. (How I long for comments!)

Inglenook _____ twilight _____ dusk _____ filigree _____ imagine _____ flutter _____ cloud _____ razzledazzle _____ dark _____ wistful ______ facile _____ thought _____ wink _____ cozy _____ blurb _____ dangle _____ Venusian _____ folksy _____ weinerschnitzel _____ kinesthetic _____ poisson _____ twitterpated _____ kerfuffle _____ ballyhoo _____ puddle _____ pickle _____ dagger _____ dragon

[List subject to update at any time, with appropriate noting thereof.]

Flabbergasted #1

I've decided to start posting links when I find things that render me speechless. Or make my eyes go all wide and incredulous.

Things like this.

And it took him a year to notice?

Recognition

FF&W, numerous blogs, books, Writers Market, Writers Digest...they all recommend finding an author or two to give agents and/or editors something to latch onto about your writing. I've opened this up to those who know my writing as well as having some thoughts of my own. Quite an interesting list has been generated, including Robin McKinley (yay!), Shirley Jackson, Stephen King, and Alice Sebold. I can understand why all of them were thought of, and I agree that I have elements of each (except possibly Stephen King, but I think that suggestion was more in the vein of genre than actual writerly comparison), but something just didn't quite click for lack of a better term. Robin McKinley's Sunshine probably came the closest to doing so.

So. Now. There's a man named Jason in my writers group. He is the aforementioned nice man who thinks my writing feels like horror. He is a good writer. He's a pleasant fellow. He's almost surely an INTsomething on the MBTI. He has also given me the greatest gift of all.

Well, perhaps not. But he led me to something awfully shiny!

It was he who told me that my writing rather reminds him of Neil Gaiman. I didn't quite laugh in his face. Nonetheless, on his recommendation I checked out one of Mr. Gaiman's short story collections, Smoke and Mirrors. I'd only ever read his Stardust and I honestly don't remember it that well. Most of what I know about his writing is that he is all cult figurey and cool. Which characteristics really can't be laid at my feet.

However. I am. I'm Neil Gaiman.

That sounds remarkably presumptuous, so I'll add that I'm perfectly aware that I am in no way at his level, nor will I likely ever be (though I'll continue to try). But all of those things I was trying to figure out -- how does someone combine a sardonic sense of humor with wistfulness, add in a dash of lilting dreaminess, and wrap it all up in not-quite-horror macabre? Or rather, having done all of that, where and how do you market that? -- he's done them! First and better and successfully! It can be done!

I just hope it can also be done by me.

In brief...

No, really, I can do brief, I swear.

I've been wishing for a long drive in the dusk and evening, a roadtrip with friends, a garden with actual plants in it, a certain chicken dish that always brings to mind get-togethers with my best of friends, and a few other things. Over Memorial Day weekend, I got every single one of those things I've been wishing for. And I still smile when I think about it.

I don't know why my fairy godmother didn't introduce herself on the way by. If she's still around, I'll make one more wish: I wish for each of you, my friends, my readers few, a perfect weekend of your very own with those little things you crave that make it yours and no one else's perfection.

In the gloaming...

I had to go out last night to fill my tank and I drove there and back (a total of maaaaaybe 3 miles) with the windows rolled down, taking in the very tail of end of the evening's light. The sky was that really dusky blue it gets just before it goes all black and night sky and there were just one or two stars out and the wind was cool and fragrant and the black, graceful silhouettes of trees settled into their mysteriousness for the evening...It was just lovely.

It took me back to night drives with friends, coming back from the beach or home from a party or those wonderful times when we were just out driving to indulge in driving. I especially loved those. Quiet, not much talking, just wind and smiling.

That's what last night was, minus the comradeship, and I very much wanted to just keep driving. But since it took $40 to fill my small tank, it didn't seem wise. Which made me disgruntled to have to consider, because what I really mean is that it didn't seem prudent (one of my least favorite words in the world, if not the least). It IS wise to indulge in beauty and things that give your lungs to breathe and joy, dang it!

I hate when practicality forces us away from the feeding of our souls in order to maintain the feeding of our bodies (and those of our wee beasties). I'm sure we are the poorer for it in the long run.

Daydreaming

Tonight, I go to see a house for sale. I'm not in the market for a house, not with my credit and my salary. In fact, I have no hope of being able to buy this house, inexpensive though it may be, unless a fairy godmother flits down and buys it for me or gives me the money with which to do so.

Contrarily, my biggest hope for this visit is that I get inside and find something incredibly wrong with it. Maybe it will be missing a toilet or have a hole in the ceiling where squirrels have chewed through the attic floor. (I had hoped for an extremely wet basement, but one of my friends looked at the house last year and informs me the basement is in immaculate condition.) I am hoping for ruin.

You see, I have fallen in love with this house and I need a reason to break up with it without regret.

There are many practical reasons to love it: it's quite close to work, it's in a fantastic neighborhood that I would feel absolutely safe in, and it's priced well below market value. It comes with new appliances, it has new air conditioning, new flooring, and new windows. I wouldn't have to do a thing to it for it to be livable for me. It's small (870 sq. ft), but how much room do I really need? One bedroom for me, one bedroom for a study--I'm good!

Practicality is all well and good, but I need more for love, for something to be right. I need charm and personality. This house has both. It has window boxes just waiting to be flowered. It has a cute front porch that welcomes you in and a sprawling back deck inviting you to kick back and watch the sun set. There is a burbling pond with waterfall near the deck for ambient noise, but even with the large deck and the waterfall, there's still plenty of yard. There are trees and perennials in the back as well as grassy expanses. The side yard is quite large as well, and an arbor to direct you to the little courtyardy area that would be perfect for a bench or a stone cafe table. The only thing the yard needs is a fence to make it perfect.

I've seen the inside only from pictures and from peering through doors and windows. I don't know what the bathroom looks like, nor the master bedroom, nor the basement. These are all important areas to examine. Even without knowing those parts, though, I can picture myself living there. I know how I would paint, I know where the furniture would go, I've designed the island for the kitchen, and I can see the perfectly placed Christmas tree. I know exactly what small things I would do to bring out the full charm this house has. I would be so good for it! It's not ideal for everyone, but I feel like I'm the crooked lid for this crooked pot.

So I really need for there to be an infestation of bees in the attic or no shower in the bathroom or something that enables me to let it go. Because--no matter how perfect we are for each other--this long distance relationship thing just isn't working for me.


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Update:
This is why I went.

I'm still wildly attracted to the facade. The outside has, if anything, gotten more charming and attractive (Japanese maples! THREE!). On further inspection, though, the inside...well, we could still be happy together. It could be done.

But it would take more work than I thought. There might be more healing than I'm truly equipped to undertake. This house and I could coexist and even be content, but there would always be these things niggling at the contentment. The ancient cardboard kitchen cabinets. The aged windows ("Newer windows!" you say? Where, exactly?). There may be too many old flaws I couldn't correct.

The yard, the curb appeal, these are looks I'm still drawn to. And looking out every window made me smile, for which I could overlook an awful lot on the interior. The outside is very close to a dream come true. There are far more good points than bad, when all is said and done and if offered the opportunity to have the house, I would take it. I would. It's not the house, it's me. *sigh*

I think we should just stay friends.

Irony and fairly useless fun: a duet

I shall start with the second because it has a pretty picture to go with.

Sunday morning I went to Pottery Barn for a flower arranging class. We listened to presentations that were mostly practical, but were certainly also opportunities to sell Pottery Barn products. I came away with several ideas I'd like to implement with vases I already own. I was also reminded of how very visual I am and how important aesthetics are to me, my cluttered, mostly undecorated apartment notwithstanding.

We got to play for a very brief time. I'd gone over to the table with an idea already in my head...and promptly discarded the entire thing. There was this sea glass, you see. It was bright orange and it called to me. So I threw handfuls of that into the vase and then looked around to see what would go with it. In went shells. Then a starfish. Finally, after destroying a bundle of beachgrass to get exactly the piece I wanted, I was finished. And it was good. It was complimented, even by people who weren't trying to sell something. It was also just a bunch of rocks, a few stalks of grass, and a few shells in glass block arranged in about five minutes.

One of the instructors offered to take my arrangement up to the counter for me to buy and take home, but I was attending the free class for a reason. Instead, I whipped out my phone and, ignoring the slightly annoyed look on the saleswoman's face, took a couple of pictures for posterity. Behold! A flower arrangement without a single flower!




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And now, the first. Last night I went to my writers group, which, as it turns out, wasn't scheduled for last night. My mistake. It wasn't a wasted trip though because a new guy was there wandering around looking for the group, so we held our own. Refreshingly, you can tell that he reads as well as "writes"--not always the case, sadly.

Now, some of you know about my discovery last year that everything I write seems to turn out...creepy. Through no fault of my own, I swear! I don't read horror, I don't watch it, it's not my thing. My stories don't have gore (usually) or monsters or zombies--that would be my sister's writing. My work just goes askew and twisty somehow. When I wrote my NaNoWriMo book last year, I was determined to write a straight book. None of this weird nonsense, thank you very much. I even had to let my main character choose her own name because it was the only compromise I could make to get her to stop wanting to be a ghost all over the place.

Due to my hard work, Oblivion is a straight book. It's literary fiction. It's normal and uncreepy. And the second chapter of this book is what I took last night for review. In this chapter, the husband has been throwing up from guilt and worry and just everything. He then goes out to comfort their worried dog and decides to take the dog for a walk. That's it. That's pretty much the gist of what happens.

The nice man listening to me read had a few comments and then paused, before speaking again. "You know what?" he said. "I don't know why, but you know what this feels like to me? It feels like a horror novel."

Aaaaaaaaaaaand irony.

Wanted:

One or more mentors, specifically in writing.

Someday, perhaps, I'll be able to afford to get my creative writing MFA. I'd very much like to for a lot of reasons, but right now, it's simply beyond my means.

So I'm looking for a writer who wants/is willing to have a protege.

This person should be someone who has either been published or been an editor and has, therefore, a fair amount of expertise. She cannot be cruel, but she must be honest. He should be willing to offer feedback, specific and extensive, negative and positive. She will help me to hone my craft while allowing me to retain my own voice. Ideally, this writer would live nearby and could meet me once or twice a week, but in today's world email, phone, and/or fax will work just as well. I would prefer if this person already works with an agent of their own or has in the past. I want to work in both fiction and creative non-fiction and I honestly don't know which I prefer--each brings out a different voice. He would not be a writer of primarily theological academic books, which lets out most of the authors I actually know. She will probably be a little weird and most likely sarcastic. Must be willing to recommend good books, both for learning and pleasure. I am willing to write for hours on end to make sure I keep up my end of the bargain.

Robin McKinley, Patricia McKillip, and Siri Mitchell are especially encouraged to apply.*

Sincerely,

Jane and Michael Banks



*I wanted to include a man in here but I can't think of anyone offhand. Isn't that awful?

Peregrination #2

During the session on metaphor (described in the endless post below), we were given 5 minutes to write down a description of our own writing metaphor. Mine, as I said, surprised me. I’ve never really thought about it before and THIS is the first thing that pops into my mind? I’m going to include it here just as it appears in my notes. It wanders. It gets convoluted. It has bad punctuation. You are warned.

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Training a wild horse:
I can see all these stunning, gorgeous ideas/horses in the distance. They race around, wild, manes cascading behind them, nostrils flaring, full of ancient power and young arrogance. I know others have captured them in the past or at least those like them. But now it’s my turn. I’m sure I haven’t learned enough, don’t know the right things to capture them and not destroy them in the attempt.

No, that’s not exactly it. I know I can catch one. I can catch twenty. (Some days they crowd around begging to be caught). And I can get them into the corral of my mind and close the gate and be proud of myself for bringing this wild beauty off the prairie. But I won’t because my admiration and pride is just a mask for my fear, the thing that holds me back from going out and doing the part I know how to do — once I have them captured, what do I do then?

If I just let them run, angry and magnificent even behind a fence, they’re wasted. Worse than useless. And I’m afraid they’ll die there. Will that slow death be any better than a quick and bloody breaking if I try to train them and can’t get it right (and I’m sure I can’t)?

I know what’s required. I have to take them one at a time and patiently train them. I have to gain their trust, learn their language, and figure out their individual quirks. So much patience is required, so many setbacks, so many times I think I’m teaching them the right thing only to realize they’ve learned something totally different…sometimes better, sometimes far worse.

At the end, if I’ve conquered both my fear and theirs, I have something beautiful. No less so because they’re now trained, because their essence, their wildness, is still apparent in every line of their bodies. Though restrained, there is still a power underneath, that quality that first attracted me. It’s just that, through my work, through my specific muse, I’ve been able to bring that power to hand where it can be encountered and wondered at and understood.

To sum up...

Okay, FF&W. It's a long story.

The encapsulated version: I got to work early on Thursday so I could leave early so I could make the first session and I did. Then I listened to Luci Shaw do readings, always a highlight of anything. Over the next two days, I attended several sessions, some interesting, some helpful, some incredibly funny, and one very boring and pointless one. I was very tired at the end, somehow managed to lose seven pounds over those two and a half days, and had one moment of combined bravery and shrinking violetness. And then I took Sunday off to breathe in spring air, nurse my sunburned and itchy skin, and completely enjoy the silence. It was nice.

Longer story:
First, Luci Shaw. I heart her. I do. I want to hang out with her and plant things with her and give free reign to my metaphorical nature impulses and speech which I can so rarely do around other people. And, because of her, I have to figure out where I can find a Tibetan prayer bowl. Which may be difficult as I don't think that's actually the name of the thing. ETA: Nepali singing bowl! Not Tibetan. Thank you, random blogger.

The "I've Written Something...Now What?" session was a given to attend. Realistic, depressing, but fun. Trying to write for eventual publication can be such an exercise in futility and yet, like Sisyphus, we keep rolling that hope up the industry hill, which just gets steeper and more slippery every year. At which point, maybe I mean the glass mountain with the princess at the top. Regardless, very helpful session with three industry insiders, one of whom I worked with directly at Baker, but who, I'm sure, would not recognize me at all. Good session.

The session on C. S. Lewis and Moral Imagination reinforced my assertion that children KNOW good and evil exist, no matter what adults try to tell them about the relativity of truth and despite our attempts at protecting them by filing down the teeth of fairy tales.

Brian Doyle, essayist extraordinaire, was deeply encouraging to a person who also employs excessive adjectives and wandering sentence structure.

The three ladies of "Can Christians Tell the Truth?" did just that and generated no less than three ideas for further writing according to my notes. My favorite line (or at least the only one I wrote down) was from Deb Rienstra: "Romance really is the Christian story, isn't it?" I quite like her.

No one who knows me will be surprised that I went to a session on metaphor. There was much discussion and an assignment on finding your own writing metaphor and discovering its inherent strengths and weaknesses. Mine surprised me. I'll do a complete write-up on that in a different post. Quite enjoyed it, though, and furthered my previously formed desire to someday speak to and learn from Leslie Leyland Fields.

Davis Bunn, best-selling author in both CBA and ABA markets, gave two interesting and useful sessions on writing commercial fiction, which is somewhat unusual at a conference so often focused on literary work. They were great to sit in on since, though my non-fiction is decidedly literary, my fiction tends toward genre fiction. (I think. I often find myself rolling my eyes at the difficulty of pinning down a pigeonhole for my writing.)

Chip MacGregor gave the session that I found the most completely practical (and at the same time, wildly amusing) of the entire conference. He's self-deprecating, which I always find funny as long as it doesn't make the audience uncomfortable which this absolutely did not. He told us the anatomy of a good book proposal from the inside, what all of the terms mean exactly, offered a helpful set/subset form of the three things agents and editors look for (Big Idea, Great Writing, Platform), and encouragingly reassured his audience that it's not only okay to be derivative, it's unavoidable. I like him, rather a lot. If I wrote Christian fiction, I would so want him to be my agent. (I kind of want him to be anyway, but I don't know if it would be a good fit--that's the annoying thing about being a Christian who's a writer, but not a "Christian writer").

The "Laughing Out Loud" session (starring Haven Kimmel and Joan Bauer, moderated by Calvin prof Karen Saupe) was an incredibly accurately titled time. Because that's ALL we did. Laugh hysterically. Which was great.

The last session I went to was...well, by this time, I didn't think I could go to a bad session. I didn't think there would be anything (at least in the sessions) that I could regret. I was wrong. This was pointless, boring, unhelpful, and had next to nothing to do with what it was supposed to be about. Grr.

Then I went to a mix-and-mingle reception for Seattle Pacific University's Creative Writing MFA program and proceeded to feel very badly about myself when I, unsurprisingly, was bad at mixing and mingling. I was hoping someone in the program would come over and talk to me, try to get me interested in spending money to go there and learn. Instead, I wandered around, feeling shy, telling the three people who came up to me that, no, I didn't have anything to do with the program but was, in fact, here to find out more. Which wasn't particularly helpful to either of us, as they were too. I wandered past Brian Doyle by his lonesome (the only person of the four I specifically wanted to talk to who wasn't surrounded by other people) a few times, trying to get up the courage to say hello, thank you, "Gee, I like essays," whatever, but never could. After half an hour, I left. But I went and I stayed for half an hour! Which is great for me!

In the midst of all of this, I got to talk to several people at magazines, publishing houses I don't work for, writing programs, and a matchmaking website for authors and publishing houses. True story. I was encouraged by the amount of people who want to see my work based solely (apparently) on conversation with me, my description of my own confusion on defining my writing, that I work in publishing, and am fairly articulate and easily amused. It's actually rather intimidating because I feel like their hopes are higher than my writing skill can deliver on, but I'm trying to focus on the "Cool! They like me!" side of things.

Now that it's over, I'm following through on contacts, writing furiously, considering the merits of SPU's MFA vs. finding a good mentor or two (which would be cheaper and possibly more helpful more quickly, but WHO?!), etc., etc. And this morning yet another book idea came to mind and I really want to write it, but I should probably finish the two I've already started first. Or I could take the 25 hours a week SPU says is average for writing in their program and just write simultaneously on all three and whatever else comes up, but I desire feedback and bettering my craft and...and sometimes my mind moves too quickly for my own good.

That's what I have to say about that. Sorry for the length.

Peregrination #1

More on the writer's conference at some point. (Man, do I wish I owned sunscreen--or didn't burn so easily). But for now...well, a goose just flew honking overhead. And it made me write the following:


There are certain sounds that grab something deep in my soul. The honking of Canadian geese. The warble of a loon. The echo of a train's horn. The ebb and crash of waves on the shore and rocks. The howl of a wolf.

Each of these cries brings a smile to my face automatically, an unasked-for burst of responsive joy. At the same time, they are some of the loneliest, most haunting sounds in creation. They have both pathos and perfection in their echoing strains. They carry an inevitability, a ring of time and history that my entire being seems to recognize. I respond to their resonance and beauty, a beauty that in large part is owed to sorrow.

Perhaps more than sadness or loneliness, though, the ache they evoke is due to something simpler. Each of these sounds carries with it a particular image -- solitude. It is the sound of space. The sound of wide-open plains and pristine vistas. Woven deep in the warp and weft of these one-note tonal symphonies is the memory of, the promise of it being the sole sound. No other people. Just a lake or trees or wind or rock or sun or moon.

They tell my heart a lie, that if I could simply find the place from which they are born, I could lose myself there, merge myself with the world I find. That this lonely, perfect place would be my Northern Eden, dark greens and shadows, nothing but the deep, minor note of quiet. That -- at long last -- I can become one of those moments of brief and absolute beauty that never fail to startle me and drive the air from my lungs.

They remind me of something I suspect deep down: peace on earth can only be a place of mingled transcendence and pain. Complexity is its foundation, a reflection of the realization that human peace, by our very nature, cannot be the truest peace.

Rueful amusement

I was wandering around last week, visiting a new library, getting cat food, etc., and realized I was on 29th St. I thought, "Hey! Isn't that wood store I wanted to visit around here somewhere?" And it was--down by original Andicott.

It's not what I expected. Less wood bits and more furniture, some of it really gorgeous. And away up in the very back "samples" room, I found it. A tiny little foldable set of a table and two chairs. Exactly what I've been looking for to put on my balcony since I moved into my apartment. Very thin white planks with white wrought iron. It would be super easy to transport because even the table folds up flat. It's perfect. And it was mega on sale for only $40.

I cast my mind back to all my little wistings about having tea on the balcony, and writing at the table and putting some potted flowers on it and...then I realized. Even $40? I can't afford. Well, I could if I didn't want to pay my bills, but I kind of do. $40!!! For the perfect table set! Trust me, I've looked everywhere for this, and the closest thing I could find before this was nowhere near as cheap.

Then on Monday, I came to another realization. The whole volunteering at the riding center in Rockford? There's no way I can do that. I simply can't afford the gas. I find the idea of not be able to afford to volunteer ironic.

A year ago--heck, three months ago--I would have been in the throes of despair about both these things. Not because of the things themselves, but as symbols indicative of how my life is a morass of thwarted hopes and unfulfilled dreams. But this time, I'm inclined to snort, roll my eyes, and chuckle ruefully at the ridiculousness.

Yes, the table set is perfect and cheap and I'll never find it again. Yes, I want to be around horses and help others at the same time. Yes, someday I'd like to be able to not have to live under a cloud of money-worry.

Eh. *shrug* Whaddya gonna do?

Considering creation

It was an interesting weekend. I had a terrible headache on Friday, enough to send me home from work, but Saturday and Sunday brought happy times and much fun with friends. Drinks with Adam, pizza and chatter with the Jewetts and Sebestyens, and baby showerness with at least half the people I love. Good times. But, strangely, Sunday night left me...not bereft, precisely. Empty? At loose ends? Suffice to say, I went to bed at nine for lack of anything else to do. I've sort of been thinking, "I need a vacation, I think. But I want one with something to do!"

This morning I got to work a little early. And in my email there's a note from the VP of my department about Calvin's Festival of Faith and Writing.

Now, mind you, I checked around back in January, again in February, and brought it up a again a couple of weeks ago. I'm the copywriter. It seems logical to go to FF&W. Plus, leaving logic completely aside, Luci Shaw is going to be there again!!! (I heart Luci Shaw. A couple of years ago I went to a reading of hers at the last FF&W. She was speaking on beauty, and when she started talking, my jaw dropped. Her words sounded like they'd been pulled from my head, then arranged in a far more compelling, coherent order and spoken out loud.) But no. Only editors get to go if we get free tickets. There was puzzlement as to why anyone else would even want to.

So, I'd given up on being able to attend, despite a coworker's offer to pay my way (which he can't actually afford to do--he's given to grandiose gestures). And then this morning the VP emailed me that she's arranged for me to have a badge. I get to go! The writer gets to go encounter writers! I'll have to take some time off work for Thursday and Friday, and Saturday--the one day I don't have to take any time--there aren't as many things I want to go to, sadly. But I don't care! I get to go!

Now I just have to narrow down what sessions I really want to attend. Heh. Just. That's an understatment. I can only go to one at a time, clearly, and there are usually three or four running simultaneously that I'd like to go to. I fear it will soon become a game of eeny meeny miny mo. Tiger toes, here I come!

Mind-boggling

So Martin Sheen and I have exchanged a couple of phone calls today. We both left messages.

I'm not kidding. Martin Sheen. The actual. He of the West Wing.

Sometimes my life is so very, very strange.

Misty, moisty morning

It's gray and soggy outside, which is normally something I rather enjoy. But today, I'm blue. Sort of a smoky blue, not navy--more a cadet blue, perhaps. Nothing too deep. Like I'm wrapped in a wisp of net or chiffon and it's slightly obscuring the world around me.

I don't think I felt like that when I woke up. In fact, I'm relatively certain it came upon me after I sat down at work.

You know what it feels like? That wistful feeling you get when you wake up from a really good dream--the kind where you've met that person you feel like you've always loved and they love you back and life is unbelievably rich and amazing and surprising and everything is hyperfocused and you're both just so in awe at the depth of feeling...and then you wake up and they're not there and never have been. But you can still feel them, this dream person, because you've only just left their side.

That's a little bit what I feel like this morning. Bereft and wistful for something I can't define.

In which I finish something I started

During my first phases (and by that, I mean the first week) of realizing my scannerness, I was so excited. I was suddenly able to focus, not worrying that if I did some things, the others would feel abandoned or if I picked one picture, three others would have been better. And I started doing things and getting things done I'd always wanted to.

One of those things was hanging things on my walls. I've never been good at that because it smacks of commitment. Never mind that if I don't like it, I can always move it. In my mind, nails are permanent things. Also, I was pretty sure that I'd inadvertantly knock a hole in the wall if I tried something so foolish as hanging a picture.

No longer! Not only had I finally been able to decide on pictures I wanted framed, I knew just what the frames looked like, I found them right away for $1 each, I found black shelves that I have been dreaming about and searching for since I moved here (and have never been able to find) on clearance, two to a box, and I found a white shelf that required no tools, was super easy to hang, and would house my idea binders for under ten dollars on the very day I thought it would be a good idea. That was a month ago.

And there it sat. All in the package and taunting me with its unrealized potential. Until last night.

I hung a shelf. I PUT TOGETHER AND HUNG A SHELF!!!! This is unbelievably exciting, though I know it wouldn't be for most of you out there who have nowhere near the same kind of commitment issues I have over the silliest things. It took a lot longer than I thought, because see those decorative brackets underneath? Yeah, those took twenty minutes of me practically laying on top of them to get into the predrilled holes. "Just two hands and firm pressure," my Aunt Fanny. But I did it! (Let my shaky triceps of today bear witness). And then realized I didn't have any nails to hang the pictures underneath with. Well, I haven't bought those binders yet, so I put the pictures up there instead. And every time I look at it, it makes me smile with pride. I did it!

Rejoice with me, oh my friends, for I am beside myshelf with glee! (Hee.)
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Calendars are our friends

There's this thing called, "Scanner Panic"--and I have been experiencing it again. Specifically attacking me is the part where I forget that there's a "future" and feel overwhelmed by the amount of things I want to accomplish. Because of course I have to start them all this week or they'll never get done. Of course.

I'd forgotten how easy it is for me to slip into that.

So I ran to the copier at lunch and snagged three pieces of 11x17 paper. I divided them each into two halves and wrote years at the top of the sections: 2008 through 2013. Six years. Which still looked incredibly daunting and drawn out to me. Won't I be old and possibly dead by then? That's when I decided to also write in the lower left corner of each section the age I will be for most of that particular year. You know how old I'll be in 2013? 36. THIRTY-SIX!!!!! That's not remotely old! Heck, my sister just turned 37, and a good third of my friends are 35 or 36. And they're doing just fine. The age thing was far more grounding that the date notation for me, so I just need to stay focused on that.

For 2008, I plan to:
Edit Oblivion; Send out a book proposal (or 7); try to sell five photos; volunteer at the Equest Center (which I've already started--one down!); pay off the Spicer's; start savings for cottage; put together a columnist proposal package; start freelancing again; take an intermediate French class; propose three articles; and enter three story contests. And I have another nine months in which to accomplish these. That's kind of a long time.

Quitting my job is slated for the end of 2009, learning to cross-country ski and taking a humpback whale tour are 2010 goals, and in 2013, I'll learn to sail and take a calligraphy course. There are 41 other goals on the list for 2009 through 2013, but that's totally doable! I think. Because I don't have to do them all right now. (Getting married appears nowhere on the list, in case you're wondering).

Weekend randomness

Last night, I got bored. That's the first time I've been bored in almost two months. Truly, mind-numbingly, restlessly bored. I blame facebook.

So finally I got super impatient with myself. I sat down, got out my Scanner Daybook (formally known as "The Glittering Dragon's Hoard of Ideas and Stuff" or "The Hoard" for short), and started writing. My first list was titled, "Seriously, right now, at this very moment, what I do I want to do with my life?" A heck of a lot, which surprises no one. And much of it has nothing to do with anything else. Last night, most of it wasn't even job related. (As always, this is subject to change).

Which led to my next list: "Things I want to have money for," actually a fairly short list. Granted, I didn't list things like food or clothes or cat food. I listed things that could conceivably be goals to save money for. Things like braces, the cottage I've been designing for the last month, two good cameras--one digital, one film, both SLR, a scanner retreat, paying off debt, a new mattress set, and a car with a warranty. That's actually most of the list, right there.

I have this mass of ideas that could actually make some of this money for me. That's what I'm good at--I'm the idea queen. It's the implementation that gets me. I have an entire business plan in mind for one project. I just can't seem to get to the point of doing it.

I want a job as a consultant for businesses. Ramping up their creativity and retraining them to brainstorm. And then leave. Jody came up with the perfect name for it. "Prime the Pump" Workshops. Now. How the heck do I do that? And who would hire me?

Thoughts? Ideas? Cattle prods?

Science--right before your eyes!

Every week, we have a meeting here at work. We sit in the conference room, windowed on three sides--which, I think you'll agree, is perfect for distraction. I carefully sit with my back to the windows looking out on the street, and angle my chair east toward the windows looking over the parking lot to the wooded swampland beyond. The third wall looks directly into the lobby.

Hanging in the lobby are three large globe lights suspended at different heights. Here's where the science comes in. I sit in meetings and watch the longest of the lights gently swinging. It's not even a subtle movement--swirl, swirl, swirl.

I love that we have our very own pendulum to demonstrate the rotation of the earth! Foucault would be so proud.

Sadly, most people don't notice this marvel of science so cleverly designed into our building. Even if I point it out or say something about it, I get mostly, "Huh..." or blank looks or "Foucault's pendulum? Didn't Poe write that?" I despair.

Nevertheless, I may be the only person geeking out to this, but I love it. No one ever looks up, but if they did, they'd see science happening.

Pathetic and hungry

That red star is me. Those red dots really far away? Those are the closest Sonics to me. This makes me sad. In a sorrowful way. Probably in a pathetic way, too, though.

Here be dragons...

If you're ever looking for a perfect present for me, you could never, ever do any better. Ever.

His name would be Ptolemy and I don't know why.

In which I discover music

A few weeks back, someone I didn't know sent me a myspace friend request. I usually say no, but out of curiosity, I generally check their pages anyway--hey, it might be someone I knew once upon a time. She apparently found me through Over the Rhine's page (they are on my friends list). She's a singer, and her voice...instantly mesmerizing. Then a few days ago, when I was looking for her albums and prices, I ran into a few other bands I've never heard of that I like. So here's a list for you to check out.

1. Katrina Parker
The original. Just lovely. She's got six songs that automatically play when you open this page. I tend to prefer her slow songs, which remind me of Karin Berquist. Her fast songs are fun, too, and remind me of a smoother or older Fiona Apple. I've discovered that, unlike most artists, including the ones I love, when I turn her up really loudly in my headphones, it actually helps me focus and write at work. Strangest thing.

2. Trespassers William
Her voice is just so...believable. Or something. Maybe a heartier Innocence Mission vibe? ETA: Nope. I just listened again and it's a definite Aimee Mann vibe. Also, I think I like their stuff on their first notable CD (Disappearing Star or something like that) better than any of their other stuff. So I'm gonna stick to that one, I think.

3. Mandrake
NOT the German death metal band of the same name or the '70s Japanese electronica version. This one I like, but I can tell it's an "only in certain moods" kind of thing.

Have any of you made any musical discoveries? Always looking for new stuff (and loving the old).

The Biological Imperative to Idiocy

There's been a lot of adultery in the news lately. This has, in turn, led to a lot of discussion about the reasons why, the pathologies of powerful men, etc., etc. And this morning the Today Show had the inevitable segment on why adultery is a biological imperative and monogamy is actually the unnatural state. I have some things to say about that.

First, say we accept the argument that evolution has programmed us this way, that it makes absolute sense from that standpoint to spread seed around like we still need to populate the earth. If that is your belief, I think that actually points to some obvious flaws in the argument.

First, aren't we supposed to be the most highly evolved critter around? Haven't we developed things that set us apart from other creatures--things like moral code, table manners, the ability to judge right and wrong? So can we not then say that those who give into these "inevitable" evolutionary urges are by definition less fully evolved? Good on you, Cro-Mag guy, way to sleep around!

Secondly, since when has something in our evolutionary past justified our more evolved present? Do we still drag our knuckles on the ground? No, because it's no longer necessary. We no longer have gills or feathers or whatever the latest family tree says is in our past. We don't have them because we don't need them. Can you imagine someone getting caught "gilling" and using the excuse, "I can't help it, honey! It's a biological imperative--millions of years of evolution have gone into my need to do this!" "But we don't live underwater anymore! That's just idiotic!"

Say men are programmed to look for the best partner of the moment, whether that's their chosen partner or not. (And leaving aside, for the moment, the fact that more women than ever are also cheating). How much of an excuse can that really be? I've just never understood the inability to admit, "Yeah, I looked and lusted in a split second before I realized it, but after that initial unconcious slip that I can be excused for, I made a lot of conscious choices that led me to actually have sex with this person." It's not like adultery doesn't usually take some planning. You don't see a woman at the bank or at your child's school and accidently boink her as you walk by. You still have to woo or be wooed, however abbreviated the process might be. You are culpable for every one of those decisions along that continuum. Biology can answer why you notice or appreciate, but past that, biology's just allowing you to get it up; it's not calling the hooker or booking the motel.

Harses, harses, harses, harses...

Pardon me while I indulge my inner pre-teen.

I got to play with horsies! I got to play with horsies! Whee!!!

*ahem* Thank you.

Last night I spent my first night as a volunteer for the Equest Center for Therapeutic Riding.

It was sort of a full circle thing for me. When I was 14, I spent the summer with my aunt in Lansing and was supposed to get a job--thus spake Aunt Stella. Only one problem: I was 14. I went on one job interview at Hot 'n Now, waited in line in the hot summer sun, went inside the dark shed out back (this is sounding seedier with every word), and handed over my application. Things were going well until the manager realized how old I was and dismissed me summarily. I can't say I wasn't relieved.

Caring only that my idle hands not become the devil's handmaidens, Aunt Stella agreed to volunteer work and I found the perfect "job" at the Beekman Riding Center. I groomed horses, I led them around the grounds and the arena, and I did a heck of a lot of mucking out. And I loved it!

Last night, I went back to being a volunteer for the same kind of center. I knew only vaguely what to expect, but I was excited to be working around horses again. I walked in and breathed deep the wonderful earthy aroma peculiar to horse barns and it felt so familiar. Then I started getting a sketchy tour-lette from the lead volunteer and realized how very much I've forgotten. How do I saddle a horse again? Curry, THEN brush, right? Which side do I lead from? How do I wield this hoof pick?! I felt inept and silly. And I kept having to wander up to random people and ask, "Can I help you?" and "What do I do?" So I groomed. I untacked. I swept. I lead a pony in from the corral. I toted water. I swept. I helped a girl unmanure the arena. I swept.

I keep having to remind myself of something Jody and I have talked about. When you're used to doing things well on the first try, it becomes difficult to pursue those tasks at which you don't automatically succeed. I had to tell myself over and over again, "But you will know what you're doing someday. You'll learn the horses's names. You'll remember how to be comfortable in a stable. You'll do fine when you've been here a few weeks. It's called a learning curve!"

It's better this morning. The whole experience has been shucked of the awkwardness and uselessness I felt much of the night last night. All that's left is the giddy horselover jumping up and down, clapping her hands and squealing, "I got to play with horsies!"
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This is the pony I got to groom last night. His name is Silver and he was very kind to me. I do so love grooming.

C. S. Lewis on blogging

Well, perhaps not directly. But I found this quote from God in the Dock on another blogger's blog about the proliferation of "Christian" blogs that read more like Republican blogs in the name of God. Which doesn't necessarily follow.

At any rate, this is one of the reasons I love C. S. Lewis: for saying things I think or have been trying to say for years in a manner befitting, rather than my halted and stumbling ramblings on same. Our way to evangelize or to glorify God is not to be the loudest or the most strident or the most obnoxious. It is to strive to reflect our God in whatever situation or field we find ourselves, like Daniel and his friends who rose above the crowd in Babylon, trusting that the excellence we can bring to any situation is God's excellence. Who's greatness can shine more than His?

And there I go a'ramblin. Why don't you read Lewis instead? He's better.

I believe that any Christian who is qualified to write a good popular book on any science may do much more by that than by any directly apologetic work.

The difficulty we are up against is this. We can make people (often) attend to the Christian point of view for half an hour or so; but the moment they have gone away from our lecture or laid down our article, they are plunged back into a world where the opposite position is taken for granted. As long as that situation exists, widespread success is simply impossible. We must attack the enemy's line of communication.

What we want is not more little books about Christianity, but more little books by Christians about other subjects--with their Christianity latent. You can see this most easily if you look at it the other way around. Our Faith is not very likely to be shaken by any book on Hinduism. But if whenever we read an elementary book on Geology, Botany, Politics, or Astronomy, we found that its implications were Hindu, that would shake us. It is not the books written in direct defence of Materialism that make the modern man a materialist; it is the materialistic assumptions in all the other books.

In the same way, it is not books on Christianity that will really trouble him. But he would be troubled if, whenever he wanted a cheap popular introduction to some science, the best work on the market was always by a Christian. The first step to the re-conversion of this country is a series, produced by Christians. . . Its Christianity would have to be latent, not explicit: and of course its science perfectly honest. Science twisted in the interests of apologetics would be sin and folly.
--C. S. Lewis, "Christian Apologetics," in C. S. Lewis, God in the Dock: Essays on Theology and Ethics, edited by Walter Hooper. Grand Rapids, Michigan: William B. Eerdmans Publishing Company, 1970, pp. 89-103. Quote is from p. 93.