I am the least organized person I know.
I like things to be neat and organized and tidy and simple, but when I try to make them that way myself ... chaos ensues.
(Curiously enough, when I was department manager at the hardware store, I did NOT have that problem. I ran one dept and assisted with two others, and kept all of them in STUNNINGLY organized condition, better than almost any of the others in the entire store. Which is odd. And the only time/place in my life where that has happened.)
Yesterday was my birthday, and my husband cleaned the kitchen for me after dinner. Except he didn't just clean, he tidied and organized and threw things away and rearranged other things and picked up items that had been on the counters for so long I'd stopped even seeing them, and at the end of the night, I stood there thinking, "huh. I could have done any of this at any time, but it never even occurred to me. Why not?"
Part of my problem is that I'm scatter-brained. Just ask anyone who knows me. My parents used to joke that they always knew how I'd spent my day by following the trail of shoes, books, and teacups through the house. I just never even noticed I was leaving them behind! It's even worse when I'm cleaning - I hop from one thing to another to another without ever finishing any task, ending the day by feeling exhausted and accomplishing nothing. I am really bad at time-management - I have a beautifully written schedule pinned on my fridge, and I never, ever manage to follow it. (In my defense, we haven't had one week since October where all four of us have been healthy. It's been a sick, sick winter, which makes it nearly impossible to stick to any kind of a schedule.) I always have marvelous, and even reasonable goals, and then I get derailed almost immediately.
Part of the problem is that there's just SO MUCH that I want/need to be doing. Keep the house clean and running smoothly. Raise the kids. Teach the kids. Write. Self-publish. Sew. Cook all the meals (from scratch). Skate. Learn to draw so I can teach the kids. Study. Along with raising and teaching the kids, train them to become independent adults. LAUNDRY. And oh yeah, have a relationship with my husband and try to make time for friends as well. Not to mention make sure I get that bit of alone time each week so necessary for my introverted soul.
I know a lot of people manage to juggle all those things effortlessly. I'm still figuring it out, and dropping almost ALL the balls constantly in the process. I think I spend more time picking the balls off the ground than I do tossing them through the air!
Add to all that the very deep desire to NOT live a mundane life, to do more than just muddle along. One of my deepest fears is that when I die, what's going on my tombstone is "Well, at least she tried." This life is so short, so precious, I don't want to spend it flustered and frustrated and frittering it away! I want to really live, to taste every moment. No, I'm not buying into the lie that says "you have to enjoy every minute of while your kids are small/while you are young/while whatever it is the speaker currently wants you to feel guilty about not savoring." I've fallen down that pit before, and I won't go back.
But neither do I want to, as I mentioned before, spend my life just muddling along, half-heartedly attempting many things without really enjoying or living anything.
So, any advice for this scatter-brained, introverted, disorganized, mummy-wife-and-mother-and-writer on how to stop wasting my time, and start making the most of my days?
Have at it in the comments!
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label philosophy. Show all posts
Friday, March 15, 2013
Thursday, March 7, 2013
Once Upon a Time, and Good vs Evil
Once Upon a Time is one of my favorite shows (I almost wrote "new" favorite shows, but since it is more than halfway through its second season, I can't really call it new anymore, can I? I still think of NCIS:LA as new, though, and it's in its fourth season. I guess it just takes me a really long time to get used to a show!). I am not quite as enamored of it as I was in its first season, but I still really enjoy it. I'd enjoy it more if all of the characters except, possibly, Gold and Granny, didn't do really stupid things on a really regular basis, and then act shocked when said stupid decisions come back to haunt them, but even so. It's a fun show to watch.
Last Sunday's episode really got me thinking. (Ahead lie theme-spoilers, though I won't be giving any details away. Still, stop reading if you haven't seen it and don't want to know anything about it.)
*****
*****
*****
Still here? Right.
At the end of this episode, it looked like Evil had taken another giant leap forward toward defeating good. And Snow was sick of it. Tired of doing the right thing every time, and coming out poorer for it. Tired of always showing mercy and having it come back around to haunt her. Tired of always taking the high road, when it seemed only to hurt those she loved.
David tried to comfort her, but let's face it, David is really good at hitting things and making noble-sounding proclamations, not so much at ... well, anything else. So his comforting speech and meant-to-be-encouraging words fell flat. In fact, he was lucky, because if I'd been Snow, I would have decked him for his lame, cliched words. She just basically ignored him. Kind, kind Snow.
Here's what he should have said:
"You are absolutely right. We have been fighting evil our entire lives, and every time we think we've won, it crops back up and steals our happy ending. But that's the thing, isn't it? We aren't fighting for our own happy ending. We're fighting for Emma's happy ending, for Henry's. If we are just fighting for ourselves, how are we any different? Regina wants her happy ending, and we want ours. The means we take to that end are different, but they're both driven by selfish motivations.
"What makes us different, is that we aren't just fighting for ourselves. We are fighting to make the world - both this world and our other home - better for everyone. Safer. We are fighting so our daughter and grandson can live in freedom, instead of in bondage to evil.
"And yes, I know that you are tired. It's okay to be tired. It's okay to want to lay this burden down. It's understandable that you feel it isn't worth it. That's why I'm here. I still believe. I'll carry you through this period of doubt, and someday, when I'm the one struggling, you'll carry me. That's what we do for each other."
I think sometimes, especially in fantasy, it's almost easier to make Evil nuanced than Good. We're been trained to go against the cliched "bad for the sake of being bad" guy, giving them all kinds of depth and interest, but in this era of anti-heroes, it can be hard to remember what it is that makes the true hero stand out.
I recently re-read Stephen Lawhead's Taliesin, and while it isn't the brilliant, gripping prose I remembered it being when I was eleven and enthralled by it all, parts of it did still stand out to me with a shining, brilliant light. The notion of true heroism being fighting against the dark even when you know it's hopeless, even when you know you will lose, simply because it is the Right Thing, and because you have faith that eventually, even if you're not there to see it, light will overcome the darkness, and you want to be a part, however small, of that light.
I'm interested to see where OUAT goes with this "Dark Snow" theme they've brought up. I hope they'll use it as a chance to bring in some of these deeper motivations behind "being good." Given their track record, I kind of doubt it, but I can hope, right?
Do you watch Once Upon a Time? Are there any TV shows that you do watch that cause you to ponder philosophical questions on a semi-regular basis? Do you think it's harder to make a hero interesting than it is to make the villain sympathetic?
Last Sunday's episode really got me thinking. (Ahead lie theme-spoilers, though I won't be giving any details away. Still, stop reading if you haven't seen it and don't want to know anything about it.)
*****
*****
*****
Still here? Right.
At the end of this episode, it looked like Evil had taken another giant leap forward toward defeating good. And Snow was sick of it. Tired of doing the right thing every time, and coming out poorer for it. Tired of always showing mercy and having it come back around to haunt her. Tired of always taking the high road, when it seemed only to hurt those she loved.
David tried to comfort her, but let's face it, David is really good at hitting things and making noble-sounding proclamations, not so much at ... well, anything else. So his comforting speech and meant-to-be-encouraging words fell flat. In fact, he was lucky, because if I'd been Snow, I would have decked him for his lame, cliched words. She just basically ignored him. Kind, kind Snow.
Here's what he should have said:
"You are absolutely right. We have been fighting evil our entire lives, and every time we think we've won, it crops back up and steals our happy ending. But that's the thing, isn't it? We aren't fighting for our own happy ending. We're fighting for Emma's happy ending, for Henry's. If we are just fighting for ourselves, how are we any different? Regina wants her happy ending, and we want ours. The means we take to that end are different, but they're both driven by selfish motivations.
"What makes us different, is that we aren't just fighting for ourselves. We are fighting to make the world - both this world and our other home - better for everyone. Safer. We are fighting so our daughter and grandson can live in freedom, instead of in bondage to evil.
"And yes, I know that you are tired. It's okay to be tired. It's okay to want to lay this burden down. It's understandable that you feel it isn't worth it. That's why I'm here. I still believe. I'll carry you through this period of doubt, and someday, when I'm the one struggling, you'll carry me. That's what we do for each other."
I think sometimes, especially in fantasy, it's almost easier to make Evil nuanced than Good. We're been trained to go against the cliched "bad for the sake of being bad" guy, giving them all kinds of depth and interest, but in this era of anti-heroes, it can be hard to remember what it is that makes the true hero stand out.
I recently re-read Stephen Lawhead's Taliesin, and while it isn't the brilliant, gripping prose I remembered it being when I was eleven and enthralled by it all, parts of it did still stand out to me with a shining, brilliant light. The notion of true heroism being fighting against the dark even when you know it's hopeless, even when you know you will lose, simply because it is the Right Thing, and because you have faith that eventually, even if you're not there to see it, light will overcome the darkness, and you want to be a part, however small, of that light.
I'm interested to see where OUAT goes with this "Dark Snow" theme they've brought up. I hope they'll use it as a chance to bring in some of these deeper motivations behind "being good." Given their track record, I kind of doubt it, but I can hope, right?
Do you watch Once Upon a Time? Are there any TV shows that you do watch that cause you to ponder philosophical questions on a semi-regular basis? Do you think it's harder to make a hero interesting than it is to make the villain sympathetic?
Monday, February 25, 2013
The Importance of Story
Heroes, heroism, and what all that entails, is a fairly common theme on this blog. It wasn't until I read through Diana Wynne Jones' essay collection, followed by The Wand in the Word, that I started to understand some of my impulses that drive me to contemplate such ideas, and to search for ways to bring them into my stories without even realizing it.
We as a society, especially here in America, are in desperate need of heroes. Not even real-life heroes, though those are (obviously) important, but heroes of mythical stature, for us to look up to and emulate without even knowing it. America is a funny land: we have absorbed so many cultures to make up this beautiful, multi-facted nation, and yet we haven't embraced any of their myths - nor do most of us embrace the mythos of the Native Americans, which is beautiful and rich and deep.
Instead of myths and legends reaching back into a shadowy past, showing us heroes and heroines and quests and striving for a goal more noble, we have generations of Americans raised on Disney princesses and Power Rangers as children, vampires and dystopias as teenagers, gossip magazines and reality television as young adults. Not all of those things are bad - but they aren't anything close to enough.
We have no King Arthur, no rich carpet of legend rolling out beneath our feet, for us to tread upon and absorb without even knowing it. The closest thing we have in this country to a cultural mythos are comic book heroes, and while those have their own value, they don't have the weight of age behind them.
That's not something I can change. I don't have a TARDIS, I can't pop back in time to create another Beowulf.
But I, personally, have a strong sense of the importance of heroes. As a kid, I fought imaginary dragons in my back yard. I believed in standing up for the underdog, even in my kindergarten class, wearing a pretty dress with my hair in two long braids, not letting anyone bully Thomas because he didn't fit in. How did that happen (aside from my parents' teaching)?
The books I read, the Stories I learned. What books did I grow up reading? Books by Lloyd Alexander, Susan Cooper, CS Lewis, JRR Tolkien, Brian Jacques, Edward Eager, E Nesbit, L Frank Baum ...
People say fantasy doesn't matter? That fantasy books aren't Real Books?
It is fantasy, myth, legend, the hero seeking to save others, the beauty of the quest through danger to achieve salvation, that will rescue this world from falling into utter darkness.
In the end, fantasy books are the most Real Books out there. They just might be the most important books you will ever read.
They are certainly the most important books I will ever write.
Monday, December 3, 2012
The Joy of the Library
Thank you all for your encouragement on my last post! I did get out my journal (and my fancy pens that I bought for art and then never used because I haven't started the art book yet) the other day, but I haven't written in it yet. Mainly because I started a new writing project (I am calling it Jane Austen meets Alias meets Diana Wynne Jones, which gives you a glimpse into how my brain works) and am having too much fun with that to try anything else.
Carl and the kids dropped me off at the library Friday late afternoon, and after wandering around for twenty minutes in a blissful daze about being able to pick out books without distraction, I meandered to the back, sat at a table, pulled out my laptop, and wrote.
Aside from the one tutor who breezed through the DESIGNATED QUIET AREA (seriously, there are signs!) talking at the top of his voice to his clearly not-hearing-impaired student, it was bliss. Forty minutes of quiet writing time, no one needing me, no guilt over the household chores staring at me, no need to hop right up and get supper started, nothing.
So I wrote, and I plotted, and I looked up the differences in address as regards a contessa vs a countess, and I wrote some more, and finally I got up with a happy sigh, checked my books out, went into the foyer, called Carl, and talked him through the last few steps of supper prep (basically: "Stir, turn the oven off, leave the dish covered."). Then he and the littles came back for me, we went home, and ate the dinner that I'd started before I left and Carl finished. It was delicious, by the way. Lentils and rice!
We are definitely attempting to make this a weekly thing. Coffee shops are fun, but a quiet (or MOSTLY QUIET yes I'm talking to you obnoxious tutor who was supposed to be in the teen room anyway) library with all sorts of wonderful resources (not just the internet!) at my fingertips is far better for me. And it gets me out of the house, and even one hour of not having to be "mommy" is wonderful.
I love libraries, always have, ever since I was very young and enthralled by the one row of picture books at our local library (it was teensy-tiny, for a teensy-tiny town, but far better stocked than you might think). Library nights were the highlight of the week for our family for years: Dad would get home from work, we'd all pile in the car and drive to the library (the one night it was open late), browse for a while, check out an enormous stack of books apiece, stop at the gas station on the way home for soda (or Clearly Canadian - Mountain Blackberry was the BEST) and chocolate bars, then go home, Dad would make popcorn, and we'd all sit in the living room with our books and snacks, and read until bedtime.
The first thing I do in every new town we move to is find the local library. Sometimes the local library sucks and we have to go further afield to find the best one for us. We've been lucky these last two moves - we've ended up only five minutes away from a wonderful library each time.
The big excitement for Joy when she turned five was that she could finally get her own library card. Both the girls love going to the library, admittedly for the toys as well as the books, but also for the thrill of SO MANY books in one place, and all for the reading of anyone who wants. It really is a wonderful thing, when you think about it.
So it makes sense, for me, that the library would bring a sense of peace to my soul when I go there to write, that it would feel just right, comfortable and natural in a way that no other place can quite match. I'm already eagerly anticipating my next writing visit there.
Maybe this week I'll get around to attempting some poetry.
Where is your favorite out-of-the-house place to write?
Carl and the kids dropped me off at the library Friday late afternoon, and after wandering around for twenty minutes in a blissful daze about being able to pick out books without distraction, I meandered to the back, sat at a table, pulled out my laptop, and wrote.
Aside from the one tutor who breezed through the DESIGNATED QUIET AREA (seriously, there are signs!) talking at the top of his voice to his clearly not-hearing-impaired student, it was bliss. Forty minutes of quiet writing time, no one needing me, no guilt over the household chores staring at me, no need to hop right up and get supper started, nothing.
So I wrote, and I plotted, and I looked up the differences in address as regards a contessa vs a countess, and I wrote some more, and finally I got up with a happy sigh, checked my books out, went into the foyer, called Carl, and talked him through the last few steps of supper prep (basically: "Stir, turn the oven off, leave the dish covered."). Then he and the littles came back for me, we went home, and ate the dinner that I'd started before I left and Carl finished. It was delicious, by the way. Lentils and rice!
We are definitely attempting to make this a weekly thing. Coffee shops are fun, but a quiet (or MOSTLY QUIET yes I'm talking to you obnoxious tutor who was supposed to be in the teen room anyway) library with all sorts of wonderful resources (not just the internet!) at my fingertips is far better for me. And it gets me out of the house, and even one hour of not having to be "mommy" is wonderful.
I love libraries, always have, ever since I was very young and enthralled by the one row of picture books at our local library (it was teensy-tiny, for a teensy-tiny town, but far better stocked than you might think). Library nights were the highlight of the week for our family for years: Dad would get home from work, we'd all pile in the car and drive to the library (the one night it was open late), browse for a while, check out an enormous stack of books apiece, stop at the gas station on the way home for soda (or Clearly Canadian - Mountain Blackberry was the BEST) and chocolate bars, then go home, Dad would make popcorn, and we'd all sit in the living room with our books and snacks, and read until bedtime.
The first thing I do in every new town we move to is find the local library. Sometimes the local library sucks and we have to go further afield to find the best one for us. We've been lucky these last two moves - we've ended up only five minutes away from a wonderful library each time.
The big excitement for Joy when she turned five was that she could finally get her own library card. Both the girls love going to the library, admittedly for the toys as well as the books, but also for the thrill of SO MANY books in one place, and all for the reading of anyone who wants. It really is a wonderful thing, when you think about it.
So it makes sense, for me, that the library would bring a sense of peace to my soul when I go there to write, that it would feel just right, comfortable and natural in a way that no other place can quite match. I'm already eagerly anticipating my next writing visit there.
Maybe this week I'll get around to attempting some poetry.
Where is your favorite out-of-the-house place to write?
Joy signing her name for the library card
Enthralled in a book that she checked out all by her very own self!
Thursday, November 29, 2012
Poetry of Life
I am not a poet. I shouldn't really have to say that on here, should I? If you've read even a few of my posts, you'd know that I have a very conversational style in my writing; I write as I talk, and I am not a poet in my conversations, either.
Most of the time that doesn't bother me. I'm not much on reading poetry, either. I memorized the first few stanzas of Sir Walter Scott's "The Lady of the Lake" when I was a kid, and I gained some appreciation for Emily Dickinson in my freshman creative writing class in college, and I struggle to appreciate John Donne because of my abiding love for Lord Peter Wimsey, but really? Poetry is a closed book to me. I can scratch together a few lines for a Christmas present for a family member, or put together a little poem to hang next to a baby picture on my littles' bedroom wall, but using poetry to express my innermost feelings? Not gonna happen.
And then I read people who write prose so beautifully that it reads like poetry, those blog posts that dig into my heart, those words accompanying a recipe in a cookbook that make me want to bury my hands in flour and build a legacy, those lines in a book that shine a light on feelings that have been obscure even to me. And I wish (oh how I wish) that I could write the same way. That even if I can't write poetry, that my prose could be deep and rich and beautiful and speak out of the chambers of my heart, right into others' hearts.
But I sit with my fingers poised over the keyboard, or twirling a pen above a blank page, and what comes out is my usual light chatter instead. Even when I am writing for myself, that doesn't change, so it isn't that I'm afraid to expose my inner self to others. Or is it that, is it that I have hidden myself away from others for so long that it's become an ingrained habit, something I can't break even for myself?
This post here is more stream-of-consciousness than I usually write. It's about as close to poetry as I get. I do have a poetry blog that I started several years ago in an attempt to develop a more poetic side, but it's been gathering dust for many months. Maybe I should start working on that again?
I don't want to stay in the shallows, with my writing or with my life. I'm not afraid to dive into the unknown deeps when it comes to my life. I shouldn't be afraid of stretching out with my writing, either. Light entertainment is fine, and even good, at times, but I don't want that to be all I ever write. I want to make people think, and feel, with my writing. I want to use my writing to convey at least a part of the beauty and wonder I find in this world, this life.
Maybe I just need to take a deep breath, and dive right in. No fear.
I wrote this over a period of a couple days, but I have not edited anything (well, aside from a few spelling errors). An attempt to stay raw and not polish the truth away from my words.
Most of the time that doesn't bother me. I'm not much on reading poetry, either. I memorized the first few stanzas of Sir Walter Scott's "The Lady of the Lake" when I was a kid, and I gained some appreciation for Emily Dickinson in my freshman creative writing class in college, and I struggle to appreciate John Donne because of my abiding love for Lord Peter Wimsey, but really? Poetry is a closed book to me. I can scratch together a few lines for a Christmas present for a family member, or put together a little poem to hang next to a baby picture on my littles' bedroom wall, but using poetry to express my innermost feelings? Not gonna happen.
And then I read people who write prose so beautifully that it reads like poetry, those blog posts that dig into my heart, those words accompanying a recipe in a cookbook that make me want to bury my hands in flour and build a legacy, those lines in a book that shine a light on feelings that have been obscure even to me. And I wish (oh how I wish) that I could write the same way. That even if I can't write poetry, that my prose could be deep and rich and beautiful and speak out of the chambers of my heart, right into others' hearts.
But I sit with my fingers poised over the keyboard, or twirling a pen above a blank page, and what comes out is my usual light chatter instead. Even when I am writing for myself, that doesn't change, so it isn't that I'm afraid to expose my inner self to others. Or is it that, is it that I have hidden myself away from others for so long that it's become an ingrained habit, something I can't break even for myself?
This post here is more stream-of-consciousness than I usually write. It's about as close to poetry as I get. I do have a poetry blog that I started several years ago in an attempt to develop a more poetic side, but it's been gathering dust for many months. Maybe I should start working on that again?
I don't want to stay in the shallows, with my writing or with my life. I'm not afraid to dive into the unknown deeps when it comes to my life. I shouldn't be afraid of stretching out with my writing, either. Light entertainment is fine, and even good, at times, but I don't want that to be all I ever write. I want to make people think, and feel, with my writing. I want to use my writing to convey at least a part of the beauty and wonder I find in this world, this life.
Maybe I just need to take a deep breath, and dive right in. No fear.
I wrote this over a period of a couple days, but I have not edited anything (well, aside from a few spelling errors). An attempt to stay raw and not polish the truth away from my words.
Monday, August 6, 2012
Everyday Writing
Yesterday morning after church, Carl stayed inside chatting with friends while I kept an eye on the kids in the little playground in the courtyard. After a few moments of watching and thinking, I reached into my purse, pulled out my pen and the sheaf of papers I'd shoved in earlier ... and started scratching out the basic outline for my next novelette.
And then I had to laugh at myself. Yes, I'm a writer all right. Even with having to take a break when Grace and another girl had an disagreement on the slide (the other girl lost, but Grace was the one who came away in tears), even when I texted Carl to say Where are you, the girls are getting restless and I'm melting in the sun, even though there were people all around that I could have been talking to ... I was thinking about characters and setting and plot, and getting down as much of it as I could.
My kids already know what editing is, as well as outlining, plotting, and all the rest. They hear me talk about it, they even ask me about it now. Joy draws pictures and makes up stories about them as she draws. Grace plays with her toys by acting out stories with them. When we stopped at the drugstore to get a birthday card for their friend today, I walked out with a card, fresh pencils and colored pencils for the girls, and new post-it notes for me, since I can never find Carl's when I need to use them for story notes.
Somewhere along the line this summer, I've started treating my writing more seriously. It's always been my passion; now it's my business as well. It's becoming an essential part of our family life, just as Carl's studies did back when seminary became more than just a "someday dream" and moved into a serious "in the next few years plan." It's not taking over anything, it's just entwining into our everyday lives and activities.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
And then I had to laugh at myself. Yes, I'm a writer all right. Even with having to take a break when Grace and another girl had an disagreement on the slide (the other girl lost, but Grace was the one who came away in tears), even when I texted Carl to say Where are you, the girls are getting restless and I'm melting in the sun, even though there were people all around that I could have been talking to ... I was thinking about characters and setting and plot, and getting down as much of it as I could.
My kids already know what editing is, as well as outlining, plotting, and all the rest. They hear me talk about it, they even ask me about it now. Joy draws pictures and makes up stories about them as she draws. Grace plays with her toys by acting out stories with them. When we stopped at the drugstore to get a birthday card for their friend today, I walked out with a card, fresh pencils and colored pencils for the girls, and new post-it notes for me, since I can never find Carl's when I need to use them for story notes.
Somewhere along the line this summer, I've started treating my writing more seriously. It's always been my passion; now it's my business as well. It's becoming an essential part of our family life, just as Carl's studies did back when seminary became more than just a "someday dream" and moved into a serious "in the next few years plan." It's not taking over anything, it's just entwining into our everyday lives and activities.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Finished! (Well, Sorta)
Monday evening right before dinner, I typed the last words to my final short story planned for this summer. I still have plenty (PLENTY) of editing to do on all five stories and the novella, but the actual creating part is done.
So weird this morning not to open up a document on my computer as soon as I got up.
I'm not going to write anything (except blog posts and Twitter/FB updates, naturally) for the rest of this week. Give it all a chance to simmer. Clean my poor neglected house. Make bread. Finish organizing the school supplies for this fall.
I'm making a good start on cleaning up other projects already - I have the main body of Grace's sunshine quilt all sewn and almost all the borders on. After that, it's a simple matter of assembling, tying, and binding (which will still take a long time, but not as long as the putting together of the quilt top itself).
I was nervous about setting myself such a definite goal and project for this summer - a collection of short stories and/or a novella to indie publish this fall. And it's definitely stretched me, and I definitely will never again set myself such a tight time frame for a relatively major project while my kids are still little, but it's also been great. I've proven to myself that I CAN do this, I can accomplish something when I set my mind to it, I don't always have to be the person who loses heart partway through.
Granted, there's still a great deal to do. I have a copy-editor, but I still need to figure out cover design and formatting, along with the aforementioned edits.
But the end is in sight. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I have confidence that I'm going to get there, and confidence is half the battle, right?
The other tremendously important thing I've learned this summer is that, while making writing my career is so vital to me, it's not worth family. Honestly, that's said so often that it's completely cliche, but I've never been entirely certain of its veracity before. Not until I actually had to make the choice every day: kids/husband or writing? The times I chose the family I do not regret at all, and the times I chose writing ... well, sometimes taking a break from my family WAS needful for my sanity (hey, just trying to be completely transparent here), but mostly, I have learned that spending time with my family over my writing will always be the choice that leaves me the most satisfied. And it was good to have the opportunity to learn that for myself, instead of wistfully looking at my piles of unfinished writing projects and suspecting that all those writers that talk about family over writing are just blowing hot air.
My next writing project, after I've published these stories, will be to polish up Magic & Mayhem (I have GOT to think of a better title) over the fall and winter, with the loosely-held goal of indie publishing that in Spring 2013. And maybe a few other sneaky side projects along the way - I've discovered that short stories can be rather fun.
I'm sure I'll have plenty other thoughts throughout the rest of the summer on what I've learned from this particular writing project, so stay tuned.
If I'm very diligent, I'll even be able to post pictures of the sunshine quilt before fall, too.
We'll see!
So weird this morning not to open up a document on my computer as soon as I got up.
I'm not going to write anything (except blog posts and Twitter/FB updates, naturally) for the rest of this week. Give it all a chance to simmer. Clean my poor neglected house. Make bread. Finish organizing the school supplies for this fall.
I'm making a good start on cleaning up other projects already - I have the main body of Grace's sunshine quilt all sewn and almost all the borders on. After that, it's a simple matter of assembling, tying, and binding (which will still take a long time, but not as long as the putting together of the quilt top itself).
I was nervous about setting myself such a definite goal and project for this summer - a collection of short stories and/or a novella to indie publish this fall. And it's definitely stretched me, and I definitely will never again set myself such a tight time frame for a relatively major project while my kids are still little, but it's also been great. I've proven to myself that I CAN do this, I can accomplish something when I set my mind to it, I don't always have to be the person who loses heart partway through.
Granted, there's still a great deal to do. I have a copy-editor, but I still need to figure out cover design and formatting, along with the aforementioned edits.
But the end is in sight. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. I have confidence that I'm going to get there, and confidence is half the battle, right?
The other tremendously important thing I've learned this summer is that, while making writing my career is so vital to me, it's not worth family. Honestly, that's said so often that it's completely cliche, but I've never been entirely certain of its veracity before. Not until I actually had to make the choice every day: kids/husband or writing? The times I chose the family I do not regret at all, and the times I chose writing ... well, sometimes taking a break from my family WAS needful for my sanity (hey, just trying to be completely transparent here), but mostly, I have learned that spending time with my family over my writing will always be the choice that leaves me the most satisfied. And it was good to have the opportunity to learn that for myself, instead of wistfully looking at my piles of unfinished writing projects and suspecting that all those writers that talk about family over writing are just blowing hot air.
My next writing project, after I've published these stories, will be to polish up Magic & Mayhem (I have GOT to think of a better title) over the fall and winter, with the loosely-held goal of indie publishing that in Spring 2013. And maybe a few other sneaky side projects along the way - I've discovered that short stories can be rather fun.
I'm sure I'll have plenty other thoughts throughout the rest of the summer on what I've learned from this particular writing project, so stay tuned.
If I'm very diligent, I'll even be able to post pictures of the sunshine quilt before fall, too.
We'll see!
Joy's quilt - we're using the same nine-patch pattern for Grace's, but with yellows instead of pinks. They are going to look SO ADORABLE side-by-side in the littles' room once it's all finished!
Thursday, July 19, 2012
The Why Behind the Word
Life has been weighing heavily on my shoulders this week. You know how it is sometimes? It seems like everywhere you turn there's more tragedy, more brokenness, more need, more heartache, and it's all so much you don't even know where to begin.
And it's not just the sad stuff. You read stories of people triumphing against the odds to rescue a street boy from an impossible life in Africa. Firefighters doing ridiculous things to save people's homes in Colorado. People advocating for those who have no voice. All over, people doing their part to bring healing to this broken world.
And this is what always gets me - the need is so big, and so widespread, and others seem to know what to do to meet at least some of the need, but I get so overwhelmed and feel so feeble. What can I offer? Where do I begin? How do I take care of what's already been entrusted to me and still have something left to give to the world?
Tuesday night, I heard that my hometown was shredded by a micro burst. Literally. Several downtown building were horrifically damaged, including the local hardware store where I worked from when I was a young teenager right up to a week before I got married. The store my dad has worked at for over 30 years. The roof was lifted completely off and flung into the river, and the sub roof couldn't hold out the rain, and the water just flooded in. At one point they weren't even sure they could salvage the building.
I was sick. Just sick, thinking about it. And Wednesday morning, when I heard about the community coming in and pulling together to help bring the store back from the brink, to the point where it could re-open for business this afternoon and start giving back to the rest of the community, it killed me that I couldn't rush right home and join in.
But Grace woke up puking that morning, and I had to take care of her. No home-rushing heroics for me. At one point during the morning I looked at the short spy story document open on my computer and put my head right down on the table and said "WHY? Why do I write? What good does this possibly do in the long run? Why am I spending my time on this earth writing instead of doing ... something?"
(And then I had to go hold the puke bucket for Grace again. Truth.)
The more I thought (and prayed) about it, though, the more certain things started to come clear. Would I even be the type of person who wants to do something if it weren't for the books I grew up reading? Would I be the Louise I am today if I hadn't grown up with Lucy and Edmund, Anne and Diana, Randy and Rush, Taran and Eilonwy, Will and Bran, and all the rest? In my "Influences" posts, the common thread is that not only did these books shape me as a writer, they shaped me as a person.
It's an odd circle - if it weren't for people doing great things, writers wouldn't be able to imagine such deeds to write about. If it weren't for writers creating great heroes and deeply compassionate characters, real people might never be inspired to do great things themselves. We need books to show us the people we want to be.
That's why I write. I write to bring hope, to inspire courage, to give comfort and encouragement. Even in real life, my role has always, since childhood, been that of an encourager. Writing is my way of spreading that beyond my circle of immediate family and friends. It doesn't excuse me from acting in real life, too (and I pray that I will always be ready, in season and out, to act where I am needed and able), but it helps to give me a purpose, to remind me that my writing is not just for escapism or amusement. Not that there's anything wrong with that, either (and certainly my spy stories are mostly sheer indulgent fun), but that can't be all. Not for me.
This all sounds kind of pompous, looking it over now. "See me, how noble my goals are for my writing!" I don't mean it that way. Rather, it makes me humble, seeing how very far I have to go before I can live up to my own hopes. And it helps to keep me grounded - when I have a day that I can't write because my poor baby is retching on the couch, I can let that go more easily, because this is the real life that the writing is supposed to help inspire me toward.
My very favorite sort of stories are those of ordinary people doing extraordinary things. And I hope that's the life I can live, and the stories I can write to encourage others along the same path.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Unconventional Wisdom
This is one of those Monday morning where I hunch glassy-eyed over my computer, hands wrapped around my favorite Stars on Ice coffee mug, blearily wishing I had written a post last night like I had originally planned instead of blithely assuming my brain would be working better in the morning.
HA HA. Merriment! (as Eeyore would say.)
For the last few weeks, I started getting up half an hour earlier than my usual time. Yesterday and today, I managed to bump that back by another half hour. This has been fantastic, because I used to get up about five minutes before my kids (who are ridiculously early risers, and will probably be the teens who bounce out of bed smiling at six in the morning - wait, do those sorts of teenagers even exist? If they do, my girls will definitely be among their ranks), and the day started with "Mommy I need this" and just kept going from there.
Now I get time in the morning to start my day with a large glass of water I can drink straight down without interruption. I open my Bible and get a chapter or two read. I brew my coffee, talk quietly (so as not to wake the littles up early) with my husband before he heads off to work, make my breakfast, check my blogs, and if I am very good (or there are very few blogs that morning), even get in a few moments of writing time before thump, thump, thump "MOMMY!" is heard and my daily duties begin.
I know conventional wisdom says I should use all that time to write. Honestly, though, I've never been much for conventional wisdom. I am a better person, and therefore a better writer, by spending my morning routine this way. I am hoping at some point to push this getting-up business back by another half hour, which ought to give me all the time I need to do all this AND write in the morning.
I'll be going to bed every night at 9:00 by that point in time, but who cares? I'm thirty years old, married eight years (tomorrow), with kids out of the toddler stage and into the kid stage - I'M OLD. I can go to bed at 8:30 if I want!
My writing has not been suffering for my new morning routine. It has improved, as fact. Nor are my kids suffering from neglect - I've been spending more time throughout the day interacting with them, too. My house is generally a wreck, but out of all the things I can let go, that's top of the list. I do still manage to get meals on the table, even though they might not be as fancy as sometimes since I'm not wanting to spend as much time in the kitchen.
I have three short stories and one novella in the editing stages. One short story ready for the second draft. One partway through the outlining process, two partway through the first draft. And all this since June. That is shockingly prolific for me.
So I guess what I'm getting to here is, sometimes conventional wisdom has to be thrown out the window. Preferably a second- or third-story window for a more satisfying crash at the landing. Find what works best for you, what helps you become the best person you can be, and the writing will follow. Conventional wisdom doesn't know you; only you know that, and so only you can decide what your best life and writing path will look like.
And above all, find joy in it!
HA HA. Merriment! (as Eeyore would say.)
For the last few weeks, I started getting up half an hour earlier than my usual time. Yesterday and today, I managed to bump that back by another half hour. This has been fantastic, because I used to get up about five minutes before my kids (who are ridiculously early risers, and will probably be the teens who bounce out of bed smiling at six in the morning - wait, do those sorts of teenagers even exist? If they do, my girls will definitely be among their ranks), and the day started with "Mommy I need this" and just kept going from there.
Now I get time in the morning to start my day with a large glass of water I can drink straight down without interruption. I open my Bible and get a chapter or two read. I brew my coffee, talk quietly (so as not to wake the littles up early) with my husband before he heads off to work, make my breakfast, check my blogs, and if I am very good (or there are very few blogs that morning), even get in a few moments of writing time before thump, thump, thump "MOMMY!" is heard and my daily duties begin.
I know conventional wisdom says I should use all that time to write. Honestly, though, I've never been much for conventional wisdom. I am a better person, and therefore a better writer, by spending my morning routine this way. I am hoping at some point to push this getting-up business back by another half hour, which ought to give me all the time I need to do all this AND write in the morning.
I'll be going to bed every night at 9:00 by that point in time, but who cares? I'm thirty years old, married eight years (tomorrow), with kids out of the toddler stage and into the kid stage - I'M OLD. I can go to bed at 8:30 if I want!
My writing has not been suffering for my new morning routine. It has improved, as fact. Nor are my kids suffering from neglect - I've been spending more time throughout the day interacting with them, too. My house is generally a wreck, but out of all the things I can let go, that's top of the list. I do still manage to get meals on the table, even though they might not be as fancy as sometimes since I'm not wanting to spend as much time in the kitchen.
I have three short stories and one novella in the editing stages. One short story ready for the second draft. One partway through the outlining process, two partway through the first draft. And all this since June. That is shockingly prolific for me.
So I guess what I'm getting to here is, sometimes conventional wisdom has to be thrown out the window. Preferably a second- or third-story window for a more satisfying crash at the landing. Find what works best for you, what helps you become the best person you can be, and the writing will follow. Conventional wisdom doesn't know you; only you know that, and so only you can decide what your best life and writing path will look like.
And above all, find joy in it!
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Friends and Food
Yesterday evening, Carl and the girls and I were able to impromptu meet up with old friends for dinner. They live in California, and somehow whenever they come up this way our schedules never coincide enough for us to get together. Ethan was best man at our wedding (I threatened to make him be maid of honor if my sister couldn't make it home in time; told Carl I had prior claim since Ethan and I had been friends since we were eleven, and he and Carl had only been friends since they were eighteen); we watched his Californian wedding over live video feed when Grace was a newborn; I totally monopolized his wife Elizabeth last summer at a wedding reception up north; and when I heard they were going to be driving from Vermont to Lake Placid yesterday, I jumped at the chance to really get caught up.
We had the nicest time. Lots of talking, laughing, going through buckets of the complimentary bread (we left a hefty tip), sharing where we've been, where we are now, where we're still dreaming about going. That's one of the wonderful things about like-minded friends - even if you aren't going in the same direction, you can still strengthen each other's dreams with encouragement and hope. Carl told about his seminary plans; Ethan and Elizabeth talked about the partnership they're dreaming of forging together into a movie production company; I shared some of the tricky waters I've been navigating with the indie publishing world and trying to get any of my projects actually completed to the point where I can actually attempt publishing them. All different worlds, but all of us aiming high and trying to balance reality with dreams.
Plus Ethan and I got to talk a little about possible collaborations in the future - me writing scripts or screenplays for films he's producing. With dialogue being my strong point and my skills of description being so weak, that might be just the ticket for me! And as I'm finding with the picture book collaboration I've been working on with another friend, if one has the right sort of mindset, one really can blend work and friendship without too many problems.
It can get easy to feel alone, for both Carl and I. He has the quintessential "good American" job right now, and can't wait for the day when he can leave it behind to pursue seminary, and teaching, and possibly even moving across the world if that's where we're called. I am the stay-at-home-mom to our two kids, trying to homeschool and keep the household running smoothly, and every second of the day my fingers itch to leave behind these dishes and laundry and kindergarden math books and just write. We're oddballs in suburban America, and it's good for us to talk with like-minded friends and remember that we really aren't that weird or alone (or super special, as sometimes our ego inflates at how "different" we are - o hubris!), and that it is possible to pursue a life that colors outside the lines.
So, here's hoping that you, my friends, get a chance to have that same encouragement this week! And if that encouragement include dinner at an Italian bistro with excellent complimentary bread and a very patient wait staff, well, all the more power to you.
We had the nicest time. Lots of talking, laughing, going through buckets of the complimentary bread (we left a hefty tip), sharing where we've been, where we are now, where we're still dreaming about going. That's one of the wonderful things about like-minded friends - even if you aren't going in the same direction, you can still strengthen each other's dreams with encouragement and hope. Carl told about his seminary plans; Ethan and Elizabeth talked about the partnership they're dreaming of forging together into a movie production company; I shared some of the tricky waters I've been navigating with the indie publishing world and trying to get any of my projects actually completed to the point where I can actually attempt publishing them. All different worlds, but all of us aiming high and trying to balance reality with dreams.
Plus Ethan and I got to talk a little about possible collaborations in the future - me writing scripts or screenplays for films he's producing. With dialogue being my strong point and my skills of description being so weak, that might be just the ticket for me! And as I'm finding with the picture book collaboration I've been working on with another friend, if one has the right sort of mindset, one really can blend work and friendship without too many problems.
It can get easy to feel alone, for both Carl and I. He has the quintessential "good American" job right now, and can't wait for the day when he can leave it behind to pursue seminary, and teaching, and possibly even moving across the world if that's where we're called. I am the stay-at-home-mom to our two kids, trying to homeschool and keep the household running smoothly, and every second of the day my fingers itch to leave behind these dishes and laundry and kindergarden math books and just write. We're oddballs in suburban America, and it's good for us to talk with like-minded friends and remember that we really aren't that weird or alone (or super special, as sometimes our ego inflates at how "different" we are - o hubris!), and that it is possible to pursue a life that colors outside the lines.
So, here's hoping that you, my friends, get a chance to have that same encouragement this week! And if that encouragement include dinner at an Italian bistro with excellent complimentary bread and a very patient wait staff, well, all the more power to you.
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Come Down, Lady, Come Down!
I never used to have weird dreams. Nightmares, yes, all the time when I was a kid and teenager, but never fun, weird, harmless dreams. That changed when I got pregnant. I had the most bizarre dreams almost every single night. I thought the dreams would stop when the pregnancy hormones finally left my system, but they haven't really. I don't get them every night any more, and they usually aren't quite as strange as the ones I had during my pregnancies, but they still come with great frequency, and they are ... odd. Usually fun, too, though sometimes not so much.
Last night I started out with an ordinary weird dream - hanging out in PA with some of our friends from back there, and Todd Eldredge, and all laughing and chatting and waiting for the wrecking ball to swing by and destroy the house down the street, and Todd found out and was picking on me for fangirl-ishly stalking him over the years (for the record, in real life, I've only seen him and asked him for a picture ONCE, and that was at the '98 Worlds, and I was asking LOTS of the skaters for their pictures), and Colin Firth was singing this in the background.
(Just Colin and the guitar, though, No Rupert Everett and the piano, which makes me sad.)
Then the dream switched the that age-old stand-by: I had emerged from a long series of dark tunnels (which in real life would send me into a claustrophobic coma, but didn't seem to faze me in my dream) and needed to get through a ballroom filled with people waiting for a wedding to start in order to reach the hotel lobby and complete my secret mission. And I was only in my underwear.
No, really. I had that stereotypical dream of being at a wedding in my underwear. I didn't even have that dream when I was stressed out from planning my own wedding; I don't know why I would have it now!
The really interesting thing is, though, is that I was not embarrassed or ashamed. I don't remember the reason I was in my underwear, but whatever it was, it wasn't my fault, and so I stood straight and tall and simply walked through that ballroom without even blushing. I got to the end, and everyone was whispering and shocked, and I spun around and announced "If it bothers you all so much, then maybe one of you could lend me a shawl or something?"
And someone did, so I wrapped myself in that and went to the lobby, delivered my message, was given some clothes by one of the guys there, said hi to Todd (who apparently felt the need to pop back into my dream just for a brief moment, thankfully after I had pulled on the jeans and black t-shirt), and then left to go help my dad judge swimming trials for the Olympics.
I enjoyed the entire dream, but I'm still pondering over me not being at all bothered by my lack of clothing in front of well-dressed strangers. I'm wondering if it indicates an increase in self-confidence? The fact that after two kids my sense of modesty has completely altered (hey, you try having kids wandering in and out of the bathroom while you're on the toilet and not have your sense of modesty shift)? Maybe that I'm willing to be more honest in my writing and not worry so much about people misjudging me as I did when I was younger?
Or just the result of that glass of red wine I had with dinner?
Last night I started out with an ordinary weird dream - hanging out in PA with some of our friends from back there, and Todd Eldredge, and all laughing and chatting and waiting for the wrecking ball to swing by and destroy the house down the street, and Todd found out and was picking on me for fangirl-ishly stalking him over the years (for the record, in real life, I've only seen him and asked him for a picture ONCE, and that was at the '98 Worlds, and I was asking LOTS of the skaters for their pictures), and Colin Firth was singing this in the background.
(Just Colin and the guitar, though, No Rupert Everett and the piano, which makes me sad.)
Then the dream switched the that age-old stand-by: I had emerged from a long series of dark tunnels (which in real life would send me into a claustrophobic coma, but didn't seem to faze me in my dream) and needed to get through a ballroom filled with people waiting for a wedding to start in order to reach the hotel lobby and complete my secret mission. And I was only in my underwear.
No, really. I had that stereotypical dream of being at a wedding in my underwear. I didn't even have that dream when I was stressed out from planning my own wedding; I don't know why I would have it now!
The really interesting thing is, though, is that I was not embarrassed or ashamed. I don't remember the reason I was in my underwear, but whatever it was, it wasn't my fault, and so I stood straight and tall and simply walked through that ballroom without even blushing. I got to the end, and everyone was whispering and shocked, and I spun around and announced "If it bothers you all so much, then maybe one of you could lend me a shawl or something?"
And someone did, so I wrapped myself in that and went to the lobby, delivered my message, was given some clothes by one of the guys there, said hi to Todd (who apparently felt the need to pop back into my dream just for a brief moment, thankfully after I had pulled on the jeans and black t-shirt), and then left to go help my dad judge swimming trials for the Olympics.
I enjoyed the entire dream, but I'm still pondering over me not being at all bothered by my lack of clothing in front of well-dressed strangers. I'm wondering if it indicates an increase in self-confidence? The fact that after two kids my sense of modesty has completely altered (hey, you try having kids wandering in and out of the bathroom while you're on the toilet and not have your sense of modesty shift)? Maybe that I'm willing to be more honest in my writing and not worry so much about people misjudging me as I did when I was younger?
Or just the result of that glass of red wine I had with dinner?
Monday, April 16, 2012
Destiny ... Or Not
Do you believe in destiny?
Not necessary "twoo, twoo wuv" destiny, but fate, the idea that your path is already laid for you, all you can do is walk it.
Depressingly, I sometimes wonder if I'm destined to be the "less-than" all my life. Or maybe rather, the "almost-good." Almost a good skater, but never quite made it to good. Almost a good singer, but not really there. DEFINITELY quite a bit less than a good pianist (but hey, all those years of piano lessons at least taught me how to read music, so there is that. Even if I do struggle with the bass clef still). Almost a good actress, but not wholly convincing.
When I start to add up all the things I'm not quite good at, it gets really depressing. In fact, I don't recommend doing it. At all. Because then, as I said, I start to think "Gee, maybe that's just my destiny, to always be halfway there, but never quite fully successful at anything." And THAT leads to -
"MAYBE I'M NOT EVEN VERY GOOD AT WRITING."
And then I panic. Because what if this one thing I love so well is just like everything else, something that I do okay at, but will never be able to excel at?
And then I panic some more.
And then I read all these quotes that are supposed to be inspirational, about how if you love something you'll succeed at it, and that everyone is a genius if they just find what they're suited for, or that JUST WORK HARD and you'll eventually gain your heart's desire! And all that sort of thing, and then I get all cynical and sarcastic, because honestly, when has life ever worked that way? Some people are going to work their whole lives at something they love, and they will never be very good at it, and that's just life, and what if I'm one of those people? Destined to be mediocre at everything? There's no reason why I SHOULDN'T be the other type, the type who can achieve dreams and glory through hard work and perseverance.
And then I finally turn off my brain and just sit down and WRITE, because doggone it, even if I'm not ever going to write anything worth anyone else reading, I love this, and I'm going to keep pouring my heart into it, and keep trying, and I will be writing until the day I die, even if it's all crap, even if it's destined to be useless.
So there, fate.
What do you do to turn off those negative voices that tell you your writing is no good?
Not necessary "twoo, twoo wuv" destiny, but fate, the idea that your path is already laid for you, all you can do is walk it.
Depressingly, I sometimes wonder if I'm destined to be the "less-than" all my life. Or maybe rather, the "almost-good." Almost a good skater, but never quite made it to good. Almost a good singer, but not really there. DEFINITELY quite a bit less than a good pianist (but hey, all those years of piano lessons at least taught me how to read music, so there is that. Even if I do struggle with the bass clef still). Almost a good actress, but not wholly convincing.
When I start to add up all the things I'm not quite good at, it gets really depressing. In fact, I don't recommend doing it. At all. Because then, as I said, I start to think "Gee, maybe that's just my destiny, to always be halfway there, but never quite fully successful at anything." And THAT leads to -
"MAYBE I'M NOT EVEN VERY GOOD AT WRITING."
And then I panic. Because what if this one thing I love so well is just like everything else, something that I do okay at, but will never be able to excel at?
And then I panic some more.
And then I read all these quotes that are supposed to be inspirational, about how if you love something you'll succeed at it, and that everyone is a genius if they just find what they're suited for, or that JUST WORK HARD and you'll eventually gain your heart's desire! And all that sort of thing, and then I get all cynical and sarcastic, because honestly, when has life ever worked that way? Some people are going to work their whole lives at something they love, and they will never be very good at it, and that's just life, and what if I'm one of those people? Destined to be mediocre at everything? There's no reason why I SHOULDN'T be the other type, the type who can achieve dreams and glory through hard work and perseverance.
And then I finally turn off my brain and just sit down and WRITE, because doggone it, even if I'm not ever going to write anything worth anyone else reading, I love this, and I'm going to keep pouring my heart into it, and keep trying, and I will be writing until the day I die, even if it's all crap, even if it's destined to be useless.
So there, fate.
What do you do to turn off those negative voices that tell you your writing is no good?
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Rising: Resistance (and a giveaway!)
Rising: Resistance
by Laura Josephsen
All Alphonse wants is a quiet summer at home before his final months at university. What he gets is a half-dead stranger on his doorstep and the task of delivering a package to the leader of his home country. Not long after he boards a train toward the capital, he's attacked by knights, elite soldiers of the neighboring king.
Alphonse is temporarily rescued by Mairwyn, a mechanic with a haunted past and a deep hatred of knights. Together, they attempt to carry out Alphonse's urgent errand, only to learn that if they fail, countless people will die.
And even if they succeed, they may not be able to prevent the war that lurks on the horizon.
I don't even remember, now, how I first stumbled on Laura's blog. I think maybe she had left a comment on Patricia C Wrede's blog that caught my eye? (Was that you, Laura, or am I thinking of someone else?)
At any rate, when her book Confessions of the Underworld (Otherwise Known as High School) came out, I eagerly bought it, and loved it. So when she offered me the chance to read an advance copy of Rising: Resistance, I didn't hesitate, already trusting her writing enough to know it would be good.
And it was. It was nothing at all like Confessions, even aside from the difference in genres. But it was so, so good in its own right, standing on its own merits. It certainly wasn't a light read; while there was a great deal of humor in it, it also tackled some pretty weighty stuff. Laura has talked on her blog about the difficulty of putting her characters through dark places, and after reading Resistance, I understand a little better. The important thing is, though, that her characters grow through these hard times, and even though the reader gets put through the wringer right along with them, we get to grow and develop, too.
And that's what makes a book truly stand out from the crowd, isn't it? When you, the reader, get to become a little bit of a better person, a more whole person, just by reading it. And that doesn't always happen just through tragedy - goodness knows many of the comedic books I've read have suddenly stretched me here and there before I know it. Any book that makes you care more about other human beings, about searching out deeper truths and living for something beyond yourself, is a great book.
Which is why I'm offering a giveaway (my first ever giveaway on this blog!) of an e-book edition of Rising: Resistance to one reader. Just leave a comment with a valid email address by 12:00am EST next Tuesday (March 7th), and I will randomly pick one commenter to win it. That's it! No hoops to jump through - no requirements to follow this blog, Tweet about this giveaway, or anything like that (though, of course, if you want to do any of those things, I won't stand in your way).
Good luck, and happy reading!
And that's what makes a book truly stand out from the crowd, isn't it? When you, the reader, get to become a little bit of a better person, a more whole person, just by reading it. And that doesn't always happen just through tragedy - goodness knows many of the comedic books I've read have suddenly stretched me here and there before I know it. Any book that makes you care more about other human beings, about searching out deeper truths and living for something beyond yourself, is a great book.
Which is why I'm offering a giveaway (my first ever giveaway on this blog!) of an e-book edition of Rising: Resistance to one reader. Just leave a comment with a valid email address by 12:00am EST next Tuesday (March 7th), and I will randomly pick one commenter to win it. That's it! No hoops to jump through - no requirements to follow this blog, Tweet about this giveaway, or anything like that (though, of course, if you want to do any of those things, I won't stand in your way).
Good luck, and happy reading!
Should you not win the giveaway, you can buy Rising: Resistance by following any of these links:
or check it out at
Monday, February 20, 2012
Rituals
As Carl and I prepared our second pot of loose-leaf tea this morning, we started talking about how drinking tea really does help one get through the winter, which led me to musing about how it is the ritual involved in making tea (especially loose-leaf) that helps as much or even more than simply drinking a hot beverage.
Which led me to thinking about rituals in general, and how useful they are, and how in our quest to make life easier for ourselves, we have lost so many rituals that have helped us see and touch on the deeper meaning in life.
Tea, for one - the act of measuring the tea leaves, warming the pot, heating the water to the proper temperature, steeping for the prescribed time (and if you are fortunate enough to have a clear pot, watching the leaves expand as they steep), and then pouring the tea into your cup is far more work, true, than dunking a tea bag in a cup of hot water, but the reward is so much greater.
Or cooking. Yes, it's easier and quicker (and times when it's all one can do) to tear open bags of frozen vegetables and frozen chicken, dump it all into a pot with canned tomato sauce and a can of chicken broth, but I know from experience that it is so much more satisfying to chop fresh vegetables myself, adding them to the pot one at a time, slice up the meat that I cooked myself, use fresh tomatoes instead of canned sauce, and my own chicken stock. The ritual of preparing the food myself adds a depth of flavor that cannot come from anything else.
And I do realize that sometimes - often - it's all one can do to do it the easy, quick way. Hey, I keep frozen vegetables in my freezer, tea bags in my cupboard. But if one can make something a ritual, by all means, do so.
I think that applies to writing, as well. I have one story I am attempting to write out longhand. It's driving me distracted. My fingers (and wrists) have been long accustomed to typing: re-training them for long stretches of handwriting is torture. It takes longer, too - and to be perfectly honest, I just don't have that time right now for writing all my stories by hand, first, and then typing them up. So I use the computer for most of my stories, saving only one out for writing by hand. I also keep a journal, so that by choosing (out of necessity) the quicker, easier, more practical path for writing, I don't lose entirely the beauty of the ritual of pen scratching, ink flowing onto paper, hand creating what my mind sees, slowing down and enjoying the act of writing, as well as the result.
Which led me to thinking about rituals in general, and how useful they are, and how in our quest to make life easier for ourselves, we have lost so many rituals that have helped us see and touch on the deeper meaning in life.
Tea, for one - the act of measuring the tea leaves, warming the pot, heating the water to the proper temperature, steeping for the prescribed time (and if you are fortunate enough to have a clear pot, watching the leaves expand as they steep), and then pouring the tea into your cup is far more work, true, than dunking a tea bag in a cup of hot water, but the reward is so much greater.
Or cooking. Yes, it's easier and quicker (and times when it's all one can do) to tear open bags of frozen vegetables and frozen chicken, dump it all into a pot with canned tomato sauce and a can of chicken broth, but I know from experience that it is so much more satisfying to chop fresh vegetables myself, adding them to the pot one at a time, slice up the meat that I cooked myself, use fresh tomatoes instead of canned sauce, and my own chicken stock. The ritual of preparing the food myself adds a depth of flavor that cannot come from anything else.
And I do realize that sometimes - often - it's all one can do to do it the easy, quick way. Hey, I keep frozen vegetables in my freezer, tea bags in my cupboard. But if one can make something a ritual, by all means, do so.
I think that applies to writing, as well. I have one story I am attempting to write out longhand. It's driving me distracted. My fingers (and wrists) have been long accustomed to typing: re-training them for long stretches of handwriting is torture. It takes longer, too - and to be perfectly honest, I just don't have that time right now for writing all my stories by hand, first, and then typing them up. So I use the computer for most of my stories, saving only one out for writing by hand. I also keep a journal, so that by choosing (out of necessity) the quicker, easier, more practical path for writing, I don't lose entirely the beauty of the ritual of pen scratching, ink flowing onto paper, hand creating what my mind sees, slowing down and enjoying the act of writing, as well as the result.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Sacred Joy
On the second-to-last night of 2011, I unexpectedly got the best gift of the year - two free tickets to see Stars on Ice, my favorite show in the world, in Lake Placid, my favorite village in the world. My mother-in-law, already planning on visiting for the holiday, came out a day early so she could baby-sit the littles; the friend who gave us the free tickets had two others she gave to my mother and sister, so Carl and I met Mom and Lis in the village, had dinner together (served by the Slavic version of Basil Fawlty, though he was more harried than rude, but still - Carl was the first to come up with the comparison and it was so apt), and then went to the SHOW.
It was to flip over.
(I know, groan, but come on, you don't expect me to get a picture of Ryan Bradley mid-back-flip and not come up with an excuse to use it and make a lame pun with.)
Our seats were in the bleachers, but when they did the retakes for tv after the show we were able to sneak down and take the seats of four people who had left. I pulled my camera out of my bag and just started clicking. Kurt Browning was gracious enough to do the majority of his retakes right in front of where we were sitting. My sister and I might have fan-girl squee-ed just a little.
It was a two+ hour drive back to Albany after the show - the weather was hovering between rain and ice through most of the Adirondacks, which meant we had to drive slowly. So what do two people do to keep each other awake on a late-night long drive back home? Well, my sister and I might have done more squee-ing over the likes of Kurt, Ryan, Todd Eldredge, etc, but since it was Carl and I, of course we started talking philosophy.
Philosophy of figure skating? Why, of course!
Way back in college, I wrote a paper on the debate as to whether figure skating was sport or art. My stupid, stupid English professor gave me a C, not because it was poorly written, but because he didn't think it was a real issue (note: at the beginning of the semester he told us anything was acceptable as a topic, and cited one of his favorite papers from the previous year, on "Why Blondes Have More Fun). I looked at him and said, "I am a figure skater: trust me, it is an issue."
He refused to believe me; that is the one and only C I have ever received on any assignment in an English class. And yes, it was close to ten years ago, but IT STILL RANKLES.
Anyway. Carl was asking me about my thoughts on it, and being wiser now, I wasn't so quick to jump to the defense of figure skating as sport. I told him that I couldn't really be objective on the matter, because figure skating was so much more to me than anything I could describe.
You see, when I am on the ice, just as when I am writing, I feel I am coming closer to the me I am meant to be (I know this all sounds a little "woo-woo." Sorry about that), back to the core of who I am, the Louise God intended me to be with all the baggage stripped away. Only skating and writing do that for me - nothing else. It is too close to my heart; I cannot speak objectively about it. Even when I am not skating myself, watching pure, good skating gives me an echo of that. It satisfies me in a way nothing else does, the same way that reading a brilliantly-written book satisfies me even when I am not writing myself.
And I am not a great skater, but when I am on the ice I feel like I am great. I am always pretty sure I look like this:
Joannie Rochette and Sasha Cohen)
Or this:
I want to be Katia Gordeeva when I grow up
And I really look like this:
True story - I got done with this spiral and told my friend who was holding the camera "That was great! My leg was really up there, my head was high, it was an awesome spiral!" She said, "uh-huh," and handed me the camera. I was shocked to see I had only achieved a straight line - but I suppose I should be thankful at least my head was up and my leg was straight. I don't always even accomplish that.
Or this:
SELL that final pose, girl!
But that doesn't matter. Not really. I do my best skating when I am all alone in a rink, with no one around to make me self-conscious. It's not a solitary act for most, but like writing, it is for me.
And that - because it is almost sacred to me - is why it brings me such joy to watch it done well. Oh sure, the eye candy is nice, too, but skating is unique and special and wondrous simply because, for me, it is an act of worship.
As is writing.
It's kind of a nice way to end the year, isn't it, making those connections and getting an unexpected chance to experience that again?
It makes me want to write more, too, and to remember more of what my writing is - not just a hobby or career, but an essential part of me, one of those elements that makes me me, and something that brings me closer to my best, my purest version of myself.
And that is the last bit of philosophizing you will hear from me until next year.
Happy New Year's, friends!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)