I just finished showering and breakfasting. Actually I got up a while ago and sat in bed reading one of my journals (it was a bad idea). I don't need to be thinking about the past when there's so much in the present to think about. It's funny, in leaving, one of the hardest things to leave behind are my journals. I have a lot of them. I think I'm on #36. Of course, I often write with bleedy pens, so sometimes I can only use one side of the pages...so it's more like 20 journals. I don't know.
But these journals are my outlet. They are where I do most of my writing, and where I learn to be honest when the world around me keeps whisper-yelling "Hide! Hide! Don't come out and don't talk!" Journals are like photo albums to me...when I read them I can often picture the exact event, remember the same feelings, remember exactly what people said.
So going to Ukraine and leaving my journals behind is kind of an act of releasing and letting go of things I'm tempted to hold on to, good and bad. I'm a little freaked out about it, but it's probably the best thing that ever happened to me. I kind of get a new start. It's not that I forget good memories, but I have to quit clinging to them.
It's like C.S. Lewis said in Out of the Silent Planet (the only book I read out of his Space Trilogy), something about how continung to hold on to pleasure past the moment it occurs robs it of it's sweetness. It's like gluttony. Donuts are good when you eat them, but continuing to eat and eat and eat them makes you sick.
I love the quote from Gloria Dump in the movie Because of Winn Dixie:
"You gotta love it while you got it and then let it go."
Yesterday it was great to be home and relax. I did a lot of little stuff, like visit with Mom, measure my carry on bag, organize the mound of stuff-to-pack in the corner of my room, and make shopping lists. Sometimes life feels so crazy that it's nice to have something organized and set out in nice, neat, orderly lists. It's sort of a false hope, but hey, it worked for yesterday!
It reminded me of this line from a Winnie the Pooh story:
"Now it happened that Kanga had felt rather motherly that morning, and Wanting to Count Things- like Roo's vests, and how many bars of soap there were left, and the two clean spots in Tigger's feeder..."
Hehe. Only it was sort of just me and my suitcases, nothing much to mother. But I "counted" a lot of things. And I can't explain why in the world that makes me happy!
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
More From Jonesville
(Written Monday)
Dad and I are probably the mystery of Jonesville by now, after our daily and sometimes bi-daily walks through the neighborhood in this heat wave. I joked that we might just end up in the newspaper. For one thing, we’re the only people we’ve seen walking the blocks, and we’re probably the only ones crazy enough to be out in 98 degree weather, which is 15 degrees above average for this time of year.
Tonight as we walked by one house, we waved a greeting to a guy clad in a white sleeveless shirt and tattoo, sitting slouched on his front steps.
“Hot enough for ya?” he asked.
This morning we got “attacked” by “Rascal,” a cute little fluff ball who was, thankfully, all bark and no bite. Once I managed to pet him, we pretty much made friends. We met a shiny black snake, too, which made a quick series of S’s out of the road when Dad through sticks at it. We’ve also seen two deer, a hawk, and a whole lot of Flopsies, Mopsies, and Cottontails.
Tonight there weren’t really leftovers for all of us, so Dad and I visited a Chinese restaurant intriguingly called “Hong Kong Buffet.” There was nothing much Hong Kong about it, and neither of us thought the food was spectacular, but it was clean…so I didn’t mind.
The girl in charge sat calmly sorting silverware at a table in the back, giving us prompt attention when needed since we were the only customers for most of the meal.
My fortune cookie amused me. It said, “You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book.” :) I don’t take much stock in fortune cookies, but it’s nice to hear encouragement, even if it’s from a random source!
After my long nap and more MickeyD’s coffee, I have no idea when I’ll go to bed.
God is so good to me. The knowledge of His life inside me and peaceful assurance of His perfect capability to provide for me and lead me through each day is what fills me with love for Him right now. I just appreciate it so much.
I don’t really understand life. I don’t understand why so many people’s lives are wrapped up in what seems the tragic isolation and littleness of illness, or old age, wasting away with no apparent purpose. And then there are the people who faithfully care for them…I know it is right and good and pleasing to God to care for the sick, the old, the helpless. But in a world where I’ve always been taught to find purpose and meaning and accomplishment in life, this looks like a waste. I have no idea what God’s purpose could be in all this, what it even has to do with His kingdom.
When I think of “God’s Kingdom” I think of young, passionate, able bodied people going and doing and being. But what about Ima Jean, giving these later years of her life to care for my great grandpa and others like him? I know everyone has a different calling before God. There are a lot of things about life I just don’t understand, but I feel confident leaving it in His hands right now.
It’s nice to know that His Spirit is in me, even when I’m sitting in a deserted Chinese restaurant over a plate of sticky food. It’s not really up to me to “save people” it’s up to Him to do what He wants with me. I’m like, “Have at it Lord.” I have this special sense of being “Sent” wherever I go, even if there’s no obvious reason in my mind for it, or when I’m not doing anything I really see as “important.” It’s kinda cool.
Dad and I are probably the mystery of Jonesville by now, after our daily and sometimes bi-daily walks through the neighborhood in this heat wave. I joked that we might just end up in the newspaper. For one thing, we’re the only people we’ve seen walking the blocks, and we’re probably the only ones crazy enough to be out in 98 degree weather, which is 15 degrees above average for this time of year.
Tonight as we walked by one house, we waved a greeting to a guy clad in a white sleeveless shirt and tattoo, sitting slouched on his front steps.
“Hot enough for ya?” he asked.
This morning we got “attacked” by “Rascal,” a cute little fluff ball who was, thankfully, all bark and no bite. Once I managed to pet him, we pretty much made friends. We met a shiny black snake, too, which made a quick series of S’s out of the road when Dad through sticks at it. We’ve also seen two deer, a hawk, and a whole lot of Flopsies, Mopsies, and Cottontails.
Tonight there weren’t really leftovers for all of us, so Dad and I visited a Chinese restaurant intriguingly called “Hong Kong Buffet.” There was nothing much Hong Kong about it, and neither of us thought the food was spectacular, but it was clean…so I didn’t mind.
The girl in charge sat calmly sorting silverware at a table in the back, giving us prompt attention when needed since we were the only customers for most of the meal.
My fortune cookie amused me. It said, “You are a lover of words. Someday you will write a book.” :) I don’t take much stock in fortune cookies, but it’s nice to hear encouragement, even if it’s from a random source!
After my long nap and more MickeyD’s coffee, I have no idea when I’ll go to bed.
God is so good to me. The knowledge of His life inside me and peaceful assurance of His perfect capability to provide for me and lead me through each day is what fills me with love for Him right now. I just appreciate it so much.
I don’t really understand life. I don’t understand why so many people’s lives are wrapped up in what seems the tragic isolation and littleness of illness, or old age, wasting away with no apparent purpose. And then there are the people who faithfully care for them…I know it is right and good and pleasing to God to care for the sick, the old, the helpless. But in a world where I’ve always been taught to find purpose and meaning and accomplishment in life, this looks like a waste. I have no idea what God’s purpose could be in all this, what it even has to do with His kingdom.
When I think of “God’s Kingdom” I think of young, passionate, able bodied people going and doing and being. But what about Ima Jean, giving these later years of her life to care for my great grandpa and others like him? I know everyone has a different calling before God. There are a lot of things about life I just don’t understand, but I feel confident leaving it in His hands right now.
It’s nice to know that His Spirit is in me, even when I’m sitting in a deserted Chinese restaurant over a plate of sticky food. It’s not really up to me to “save people” it’s up to Him to do what He wants with me. I’m like, “Have at it Lord.” I have this special sense of being “Sent” wherever I go, even if there’s no obvious reason in my mind for it, or when I’m not doing anything I really see as “important.” It’s kinda cool.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
What is Means to Have a Nearsighted Soul
Wow. The "Honest Words" at the end of the last post set me to thinking. I said I wanted to be myself more on my blog instead of trying to avoid writing complaints or grumbles that I often have...
I realized that I may never have explained the name of my blog, "Notes from a Nearsighted Soul." I called it that because my aim in it is to write honestly about the close-up things in life. There are so many small things in our lives that beg to be taken under a microscope and written about- like kittens and berry picking and five-year-old boys. So when I sit down to write, I tend to peer around and pluck a few tender, ripe ideas that would go unnoticed from a larger, grander view. Hence my soul being "nearsighted."
Often, the "little things" in life are simple, happy, or funny. But sometimes the "little things" are not so idyillic, and I've felt uncertain about exposing those, too. When I do write about anything like tiredness, sickness, boredom, frustration, or chores, I feel apprehensive, fearing that it will bother or bore people.
If my aim is to write about the thoughts or things that are "close at hand," then I should write about the frustrating as well as the felicitous :) If you think about the blog as being nearsighted, there is room to remember that the little things in life, no matter how delightful or annoying, are just what is "seen in a glass dimly." My far sight, though a little weak and wavering at times, is set on God, whose unsearchable mystery engulfs my little world like a tidal wave.
"Thanks be to God, who has given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!"
I realized that I may never have explained the name of my blog, "Notes from a Nearsighted Soul." I called it that because my aim in it is to write honestly about the close-up things in life. There are so many small things in our lives that beg to be taken under a microscope and written about- like kittens and berry picking and five-year-old boys. So when I sit down to write, I tend to peer around and pluck a few tender, ripe ideas that would go unnoticed from a larger, grander view. Hence my soul being "nearsighted."
Often, the "little things" in life are simple, happy, or funny. But sometimes the "little things" are not so idyillic, and I've felt uncertain about exposing those, too. When I do write about anything like tiredness, sickness, boredom, frustration, or chores, I feel apprehensive, fearing that it will bother or bore people.
If my aim is to write about the thoughts or things that are "close at hand," then I should write about the frustrating as well as the felicitous :) If you think about the blog as being nearsighted, there is room to remember that the little things in life, no matter how delightful or annoying, are just what is "seen in a glass dimly." My far sight, though a little weak and wavering at times, is set on God, whose unsearchable mystery engulfs my little world like a tidal wave.
"Thanks be to God, who has given us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ!"
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
In Which We Examine the Nature of "Goodbyes"
It's raining pleasantly outside while I give a little thought to the Nature of Things. After a conversation with Deb about their nearing departure for Ukraine (next week), I was pondering the nature of goodbyes and how everyone seems to have their own way of dealing with them. Deb said that she didn't even want to say the word, and couldn't let herself think about leaving at all, but simply has to focus on the moment she's in.
I think that's a gift, because I don't seem to be able to control my mind that way. "Goodbyes" often loom over me like a mountain you approach from a distance, clouding my view of the present. I can't hide from it, but I really don't want to, either. I want to grip that dreaded word, shove it out of the closet, and lay everything out on the table. When it's my turn to go to Ukraine, you can guarantee I'll be goodbying for weeks before hand, driving you all crazy with sentimental speeches about possibly never seeing you again.
If I don't say goodbye, I feel like I'm denying the truth. Of course we say we'll meet again, but what if we don't? It's all fine and well to say "au revoir" and all that, sure, but I've got to face up to the fact that one chapter is closing and another chapter is opening. Closure. It would be like writing a book that moves straight through without breaking up into chapters and parts. And chances are, they wouldn't give it an ending, either. It would just leave you hanging there. And that's bad writing.
I'm not really sure if this has to do with liking to write, or if it's just my personality. But, for the sake of writing, I've delveloped a contemplative, observatory nature that insists on processing every detail of my life. Often in a journal, sometimes orally in a long-suffering ear. I've become an emotional glutton who wants to feel every emotion (even sadness) to its uttermost. It may be kind of a bother, but it is rather helpful when writing poetry about human nature.
So, even though Deb doesn't want to discuss it, they are leaving soon. On Sunday, after Bruce preached and Pastor Bo talked about them a little and there were those last songs on the piano, I really felt bereaved a little that they were leaving. I would be heartbroken, I think, except that I am pretty positive I'm going to see them in about three months. But I'll miss them during that time too.
All this is really just a bunch of psychogoobldegop. Bruce's message on Sunday really encouraged me in having an eternal perspective. The Crowes may be leaving Longview, and yes, there are people they will never see again. I will leave too, and even though I only plan to be gone a year or so, I don't know where further adventures will take me. My friends are growing up and leaving, just like I am.
Change gives me the creeps, but I wouldn't be happy without it. In the end, after all the psychoanalizing, I'm glad to know that it really doesn't matter at all. This life is just a freakish delay at the airport while we wait for our Flight Home. Like Keith Wheeler says, "Get supper ready, Jesus, I'm comin' home!" And when that happens, I probably won't remember to say goodbye.
I think that's a gift, because I don't seem to be able to control my mind that way. "Goodbyes" often loom over me like a mountain you approach from a distance, clouding my view of the present. I can't hide from it, but I really don't want to, either. I want to grip that dreaded word, shove it out of the closet, and lay everything out on the table. When it's my turn to go to Ukraine, you can guarantee I'll be goodbying for weeks before hand, driving you all crazy with sentimental speeches about possibly never seeing you again.
If I don't say goodbye, I feel like I'm denying the truth. Of course we say we'll meet again, but what if we don't? It's all fine and well to say "au revoir" and all that, sure, but I've got to face up to the fact that one chapter is closing and another chapter is opening. Closure. It would be like writing a book that moves straight through without breaking up into chapters and parts. And chances are, they wouldn't give it an ending, either. It would just leave you hanging there. And that's bad writing.
I'm not really sure if this has to do with liking to write, or if it's just my personality. But, for the sake of writing, I've delveloped a contemplative, observatory nature that insists on processing every detail of my life. Often in a journal, sometimes orally in a long-suffering ear. I've become an emotional glutton who wants to feel every emotion (even sadness) to its uttermost. It may be kind of a bother, but it is rather helpful when writing poetry about human nature.
So, even though Deb doesn't want to discuss it, they are leaving soon. On Sunday, after Bruce preached and Pastor Bo talked about them a little and there were those last songs on the piano, I really felt bereaved a little that they were leaving. I would be heartbroken, I think, except that I am pretty positive I'm going to see them in about three months. But I'll miss them during that time too.
All this is really just a bunch of psychogoobldegop. Bruce's message on Sunday really encouraged me in having an eternal perspective. The Crowes may be leaving Longview, and yes, there are people they will never see again. I will leave too, and even though I only plan to be gone a year or so, I don't know where further adventures will take me. My friends are growing up and leaving, just like I am.
Change gives me the creeps, but I wouldn't be happy without it. In the end, after all the psychoanalizing, I'm glad to know that it really doesn't matter at all. This life is just a freakish delay at the airport while we wait for our Flight Home. Like Keith Wheeler says, "Get supper ready, Jesus, I'm comin' home!" And when that happens, I probably won't remember to say goodbye.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
They tell me I'm a Winner...
I did it! I officially reached 50,000 words...or 50,236 to be exact, as I only dreamed of doing a month ago. I'm so glad to know...just to know that I COULD. Now, finishing the "novel," as they so flatteringly call in on the Nano website, is going to be another challenge that feels completely out of my league. I think I'm going to take a few days off and relax, ponder, and...pray.
And now I can get back to blogging! :)
And now I can get back to blogging! :)
Saturday, November 24, 2007
A Little Disallusionment
I woke up this morning to a delicious freezing grey wetness outside my window, a roaring fire in the stove, and coffee brewing in the kitchen. I'm marvelling over having two Saturdays in a row (yesterday felt like a Saturday, and lo and behold, I wake up to another one today!) Wow. Wow again. I don't know what else to say without writing way too much and irritating my dear brother who really wants to get on this computer in the next half hour.
As for Nano...44,215 words and counting...getting to 50,000 no longer concerns me. It's finishing the story that I'm worried about. It's looking like I'm going to need another couple of weeks to finish...at least one...and as of December first I am sworn to sign my life over to sewing a knight costume for my littlest bro.
The truth is, I'm scared silly of editing, revising, and having to persevere, and I keep writing with a feeling that I'm producing pig slop. I don't even know what I'm trying to write in the story...I can't figure out any reasonable motives my characters would have for their actions, and I feel like I've built a completely idiotic story on a sand dune...and the tide is coming in very rapidly. Sure, I'm making my 50,000 word goal, but I was hoping to have something decent to show for it. Hmm. I'll have to just keep pressing on and see what happens. Perhaps I will kidnap an unsuspecting friend, lock them in the dungeon (er, my closet) and make them read it and tell me honestly what in the world to do with the stupid citizens of this stupid city, why a music box should be magical and what magical qualities it ought to have, and why a wicked shiekh would really want to kidnap a bunch of little kids. Sorrows.
Well, praise the Lord it is raining, because that definitely helps the writing mood. If it were all humid and sticky and droopy out, I think I would chunk my lap top and move into the refigerator with the leftover pumpkin pie.
Cheerio!
As for Nano...44,215 words and counting...getting to 50,000 no longer concerns me. It's finishing the story that I'm worried about. It's looking like I'm going to need another couple of weeks to finish...at least one...and as of December first I am sworn to sign my life over to sewing a knight costume for my littlest bro.
The truth is, I'm scared silly of editing, revising, and having to persevere, and I keep writing with a feeling that I'm producing pig slop. I don't even know what I'm trying to write in the story...I can't figure out any reasonable motives my characters would have for their actions, and I feel like I've built a completely idiotic story on a sand dune...and the tide is coming in very rapidly. Sure, I'm making my 50,000 word goal, but I was hoping to have something decent to show for it. Hmm. I'll have to just keep pressing on and see what happens. Perhaps I will kidnap an unsuspecting friend, lock them in the dungeon (er, my closet) and make them read it and tell me honestly what in the world to do with the stupid citizens of this stupid city, why a music box should be magical and what magical qualities it ought to have, and why a wicked shiekh would really want to kidnap a bunch of little kids. Sorrows.
Well, praise the Lord it is raining, because that definitely helps the writing mood. If it were all humid and sticky and droopy out, I think I would chunk my lap top and move into the refigerator with the leftover pumpkin pie.
Cheerio!
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Half Way Point
Half way done. 25,000!!!
True, Mrs. Connie, no time for blogging...if I mean to be with people and lead a healthy life. It's not just nano...babysitting, unusual upsets, and the "weight of a thousand disasters"...no, not really, I just like quoting Pinocchio :) A lot of unexpected things this week.
Yes, Nano will come to an end. And it's going pretty well, although it got a little into the stirring-cold-molasses category last week. When I met up with the green genie...well, that's when things got better.
Must go...
True, Mrs. Connie, no time for blogging...if I mean to be with people and lead a healthy life. It's not just nano...babysitting, unusual upsets, and the "weight of a thousand disasters"...no, not really, I just like quoting Pinocchio :) A lot of unexpected things this week.
Yes, Nano will come to an end. And it's going pretty well, although it got a little into the stirring-cold-molasses category last week. When I met up with the green genie...well, that's when things got better.
Must go...
Friday, November 9, 2007
In Which I Insanely Haul the 500 lb. Turkey Down the Hill
My arms are incredibly sore this morning. There's a good reason for it...or maybe a bad reason, depending on how you look at it. No, it's not from typing (I'm not the most muscle-endowed person I know, but I can type.
Yesterday I hauled a 500 pound turkey 700 feet down the hill from my grandparents house to our house. No kidding, I know it was five hundred pounds! This back-breaking labor was not a form of cruel and unusual punishment, nor was it penance or anything of that nature...it was merely a result of the sheer stupidity and stubborn determination of a Nano-crazed girl.
It was like this...I came home from taking Mattie to piano lessons when it was close to supper time, ready to write. As I drove in, Dad, who was outside sowing grass seed in our barren yard, stopped and asked me to drive up to Grammie's and fetch the turkey she wanted to give us. Well, that was fine. I was planning to come straight home and doctor my Nano wordcount a little before supper, but getting the turkey was not too big of a deal. I drove up, parked the car, and went to the door. After knocking for quite a while to no avail, I got impatient, and seeing that there was no car in the driveway, went back home. I told Mom about it.
"Oh, she's gone somewhere, and Paw Paw's in the back. I think she just wanted you to walk in and get it. It's on the counter."
Ok. I climbed back into the car and drove up again. Sure enough, the door was unlocked, so I went right in to pillage the turkey. The bird was enormous. It was adorned in trappings of tin foil, and sat in a shallow roasting pan full of greasy bird juice. I hefted it off the counter and started for the door. I had to set it down in order to open the door, and as I did so, the drippings sloshed mildly. Well, that wasn't so bad, but what was going to happen when I put it in the van? I could just picture Dad's face when he saw the trunk of his van painted in abstract turkey juice. No way.
By this time, my arms were sagging with the turkey's weight, and I frantically searched for somewhere to make an emergency landing before I dropped the thing and sent cooked turkey hurtling into next Thanksgiving. (The drive where I had parked was sharply slanted.) After I had set down the turkey, I employed my best Cassie-logic and took stock of my options.
1. Drive home and find someone to help me, which would probably result in a catastrophic turkey mess anyway.
2. Find an old towel (which would probably get ruined) to line everything with. (That,too, could be a very messy ordeal.)
I completely forgot that we had a truck I could have used.
So, I wasn't thinking so clearly. I had been pretty emotional all day, and was feeling unreasonably distressed, helpless, and close to tears over the wretched turkey. I was really only thinking about one thing: How I could get home in the least amount of time WITH the turkey and WITHOUT the mess, and tackle that novel. The seconds were ticking away, and I knew deep down that it was too late for pre-supper writing anyway. But at that moment, some fearsome force of super-human bullheaded strength took over my frail and helpless person, and, banishing all reason from my mind, I strode over to the 500 pound turkey and lifted it with my own two arms. Then I set off down the hill, bearing the onerous piece of poultry in its pool of oily drippings.
By this time, anger, desperation, and a host of other emotions were driving me down the hill, arms trembling.
"Dumb turkey! Dumb turkey! Dumb turkey" (I didn't say this aloud, because, after all, the bird was so big it was bound to have feelings lodged in there somewhere, even if he was cooked. Besides, I'm not sure I'm aloud to say "dumb.") Then, in a split second, as I had landed the turkey in the grass to briefly relieve my aching arms, I remembered "I'm supposed to be thankful for this turkey, aren't I?" Deb and I had been discussing thankfulness, and thanks to her I had been practicing at it here and there all afternoon. I heaved the turkey up again.
"Thank you Lord, for the turkey...thank you Lord for the turkey...thank you for this dumb turkey, Lord!" And so on. I only prayed my cousins wouldn't happen to walk down their driveway at that moment to see their demented relative speeding for home with a hulking turkey in her arms.
A note to all those planning to shoplift their Thanksgiving turkey: I would just go with spam this year.
Anyway, I had nearly made it to the Little Woods (adjoining our yard,) when my arms really began shaking and quivering and showing signs of betrayal, and the bird became somewhat endangered. Just about 20 yards to go...and there was my Dad, still sowing his seed like a good farmer. And I started thinking to myself, "What is Dad going to say when he sees his daughter carting home this ridiculous hateful overgrown turkey?" The ridiculousness of my own actions was dawning on me as the temporary cloud of insanity began to lift. I could just go ask Dad for some help, but no! I was determined to get that bird home myself!
After another quick break, I summoned all my strength and pride and moral courage and tromped through the short patch of forest at breakneck pace, accelerating as the weight grew on me. Just as I emmerged from the trees into the ploughed-up yard I nearly collapsed. I saw Dad and Dad saw me, and I broke into a fit of weak, semi-hysterical laughter. I didn't know how I would have the strength to explain and pull myself together enough to get into the house with the thing. But my Dad, full of chivalry, just came over and took the turkey from me. I didn't want him to lift it...his back was really hurting...but he wasn't about to stand there and let me collapse, and frankly, I didn't at all mind being rescued.
So, Dad took the turkey, and I stood there shaking, my arms floating around like butterflies out of the their cucoons. Then, feeling like a good pilgrim just released from his burden, I turned and went back up the hill to explain to my newly arrived grandmother why the turkey was gone, the van was there, and I was not.
Note: I did end up Nano-ing about a hundred words before supper time, and after supper succeeded in reaching my 2000 words-per-day goal, which rather surprised me considering the day I'd had. Oh, and we had turkey for supper, too.
Yesterday I hauled a 500 pound turkey 700 feet down the hill from my grandparents house to our house. No kidding, I know it was five hundred pounds! This back-breaking labor was not a form of cruel and unusual punishment, nor was it penance or anything of that nature...it was merely a result of the sheer stupidity and stubborn determination of a Nano-crazed girl.
It was like this...I came home from taking Mattie to piano lessons when it was close to supper time, ready to write. As I drove in, Dad, who was outside sowing grass seed in our barren yard, stopped and asked me to drive up to Grammie's and fetch the turkey she wanted to give us. Well, that was fine. I was planning to come straight home and doctor my Nano wordcount a little before supper, but getting the turkey was not too big of a deal. I drove up, parked the car, and went to the door. After knocking for quite a while to no avail, I got impatient, and seeing that there was no car in the driveway, went back home. I told Mom about it.
"Oh, she's gone somewhere, and Paw Paw's in the back. I think she just wanted you to walk in and get it. It's on the counter."
Ok. I climbed back into the car and drove up again. Sure enough, the door was unlocked, so I went right in to pillage the turkey. The bird was enormous. It was adorned in trappings of tin foil, and sat in a shallow roasting pan full of greasy bird juice. I hefted it off the counter and started for the door. I had to set it down in order to open the door, and as I did so, the drippings sloshed mildly. Well, that wasn't so bad, but what was going to happen when I put it in the van? I could just picture Dad's face when he saw the trunk of his van painted in abstract turkey juice. No way.
By this time, my arms were sagging with the turkey's weight, and I frantically searched for somewhere to make an emergency landing before I dropped the thing and sent cooked turkey hurtling into next Thanksgiving. (The drive where I had parked was sharply slanted.) After I had set down the turkey, I employed my best Cassie-logic and took stock of my options.
1. Drive home and find someone to help me, which would probably result in a catastrophic turkey mess anyway.
2. Find an old towel (which would probably get ruined) to line everything with. (That,too, could be a very messy ordeal.)
I completely forgot that we had a truck I could have used.
So, I wasn't thinking so clearly. I had been pretty emotional all day, and was feeling unreasonably distressed, helpless, and close to tears over the wretched turkey. I was really only thinking about one thing: How I could get home in the least amount of time WITH the turkey and WITHOUT the mess, and tackle that novel. The seconds were ticking away, and I knew deep down that it was too late for pre-supper writing anyway. But at that moment, some fearsome force of super-human bullheaded strength took over my frail and helpless person, and, banishing all reason from my mind, I strode over to the 500 pound turkey and lifted it with my own two arms. Then I set off down the hill, bearing the onerous piece of poultry in its pool of oily drippings.
By this time, anger, desperation, and a host of other emotions were driving me down the hill, arms trembling.
"Dumb turkey! Dumb turkey! Dumb turkey" (I didn't say this aloud, because, after all, the bird was so big it was bound to have feelings lodged in there somewhere, even if he was cooked. Besides, I'm not sure I'm aloud to say "dumb.") Then, in a split second, as I had landed the turkey in the grass to briefly relieve my aching arms, I remembered "I'm supposed to be thankful for this turkey, aren't I?" Deb and I had been discussing thankfulness, and thanks to her I had been practicing at it here and there all afternoon. I heaved the turkey up again.
"Thank you Lord, for the turkey...thank you Lord for the turkey...thank you for this dumb turkey, Lord!" And so on. I only prayed my cousins wouldn't happen to walk down their driveway at that moment to see their demented relative speeding for home with a hulking turkey in her arms.
A note to all those planning to shoplift their Thanksgiving turkey: I would just go with spam this year.
Anyway, I had nearly made it to the Little Woods (adjoining our yard,) when my arms really began shaking and quivering and showing signs of betrayal, and the bird became somewhat endangered. Just about 20 yards to go...and there was my Dad, still sowing his seed like a good farmer. And I started thinking to myself, "What is Dad going to say when he sees his daughter carting home this ridiculous hateful overgrown turkey?" The ridiculousness of my own actions was dawning on me as the temporary cloud of insanity began to lift. I could just go ask Dad for some help, but no! I was determined to get that bird home myself!
After another quick break, I summoned all my strength and pride and moral courage and tromped through the short patch of forest at breakneck pace, accelerating as the weight grew on me. Just as I emmerged from the trees into the ploughed-up yard I nearly collapsed. I saw Dad and Dad saw me, and I broke into a fit of weak, semi-hysterical laughter. I didn't know how I would have the strength to explain and pull myself together enough to get into the house with the thing. But my Dad, full of chivalry, just came over and took the turkey from me. I didn't want him to lift it...his back was really hurting...but he wasn't about to stand there and let me collapse, and frankly, I didn't at all mind being rescued.
So, Dad took the turkey, and I stood there shaking, my arms floating around like butterflies out of the their cucoons. Then, feeling like a good pilgrim just released from his burden, I turned and went back up the hill to explain to my newly arrived grandmother why the turkey was gone, the van was there, and I was not.
Note: I did end up Nano-ing about a hundred words before supper time, and after supper succeeded in reaching my 2000 words-per-day goal, which rather surprised me considering the day I'd had. Oh, and we had turkey for supper, too.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
Nano Update
Typing...typing...thinking...typing...
I'm planning to reward myself with a blog post every 10,000 words, and right now the word count is just over 6000. (For National Novel Writing Month) Talking camels rock!
Happy November...
I'm planning to reward myself with a blog post every 10,000 words, and right now the word count is just over 6000. (For National Novel Writing Month) Talking camels rock!
Happy November...
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
All Nano's Eve
It's going to happen...I'm going to start Nanowrimo tomorrow! It's ridiculous, but I am getting butterflies in my tummy! That only happens on Rare and Very Special Occasions, and usually has to do with people, not...words. Especially not 50,000 of them that I haven't written yet!
Stats on the Nanowrimo website show that 58% of the people who sign up don't even start writing! If you simply start, you have a 31% chance of finishing! So, hey, I can start. If I even get, say, 20,000 words, I will probably be pretty impressed with myself. But of course, the goal is 50,000!
My poor blog is probably gonna suffer a bit this next month, but I'll come back, I promise.
*Big Smile*
Stats on the Nanowrimo website show that 58% of the people who sign up don't even start writing! If you simply start, you have a 31% chance of finishing! So, hey, I can start. If I even get, say, 20,000 words, I will probably be pretty impressed with myself. But of course, the goal is 50,000!
My poor blog is probably gonna suffer a bit this next month, but I'll come back, I promise.
*Big Smile*
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Impending Suicide of the Lazy Writer
I'm counting down the days 'til November 1st with a dose of both angst and excitement. For a few years now I've listened wistfully to participants' tales of glory and woe, and this year I'm determined to jump in and join the fray...
I'm going to do NaNoWriMo next month! (National Novel Writing Month), where you try to write 50,000 words in a month. If I take off on Sundays and Thanksgiving, that's somewhere around 2000 words a day. If I carve out the time, I don't think I'll have a problem writing that much, but this will definitely be a huge challenge. I'm not known for great story-finishing fortitude. Or story-starting fortitude, either. I love to write, but I haven't developed much discipline at all. I guess NaNoWriMo excites me because I won't be all alone...there is a goal and a sort of outward motivation to write. I won't be all dithered about subject, motives, time, and this, that, and the other thing. Once I'm in, I'm in.
In my conversations with God concerning NaNo, it was something like this:
"Alright, Lord, if I'm going to do this...if You really want me to commit to this (I really wanted to, but I wasn't sure if He would have me hide away from humanity to write for a month), I need You to give me:
1. A Laptop (which I had already been planning to get at some point, but would have to have if I'm going to be typing up 2000 words a day.)
2. Parental permission and support.
3. An Idea."
It may sound a little demanding of God, but after all, He is God, and I trust that He understood what I meant. I guess He did, because within a few weeks He'd abundantly provided all three. The idea (for a plot) was even kind of a bonus thrown in for good measure...I was willing to just take a leap of faith on that one. Oh, and that's another thing- showers are useful for something besides getting clean...the "Idea" popped right into my head in the solitude of my morning shower. It was so exciting that I layed awake at night thinking about it during the camping trip between starlit trips to the outhouse!
I won't say anything more about "The Idea" right now other than that it involves an eleven year old boy, a music box, and talking camels :) I figure that, right now, writing for kids is my best bet since I'm surrounded by plenty of raw inspiration (though I don't know about the camels...I haven't seen any of those recently!) I'm warning myself that this try at writing "in bulk" is only a practice round anyway.
I'm going to do NaNoWriMo next month! (National Novel Writing Month), where you try to write 50,000 words in a month. If I take off on Sundays and Thanksgiving, that's somewhere around 2000 words a day. If I carve out the time, I don't think I'll have a problem writing that much, but this will definitely be a huge challenge. I'm not known for great story-finishing fortitude. Or story-starting fortitude, either. I love to write, but I haven't developed much discipline at all. I guess NaNoWriMo excites me because I won't be all alone...there is a goal and a sort of outward motivation to write. I won't be all dithered about subject, motives, time, and this, that, and the other thing. Once I'm in, I'm in.
In my conversations with God concerning NaNo, it was something like this:
"Alright, Lord, if I'm going to do this...if You really want me to commit to this (I really wanted to, but I wasn't sure if He would have me hide away from humanity to write for a month), I need You to give me:
1. A Laptop (which I had already been planning to get at some point, but would have to have if I'm going to be typing up 2000 words a day.)
2. Parental permission and support.
3. An Idea."
It may sound a little demanding of God, but after all, He is God, and I trust that He understood what I meant. I guess He did, because within a few weeks He'd abundantly provided all three. The idea (for a plot) was even kind of a bonus thrown in for good measure...I was willing to just take a leap of faith on that one. Oh, and that's another thing- showers are useful for something besides getting clean...the "Idea" popped right into my head in the solitude of my morning shower. It was so exciting that I layed awake at night thinking about it during the camping trip between starlit trips to the outhouse!
I won't say anything more about "The Idea" right now other than that it involves an eleven year old boy, a music box, and talking camels :) I figure that, right now, writing for kids is my best bet since I'm surrounded by plenty of raw inspiration (though I don't know about the camels...I haven't seen any of those recently!) I'm warning myself that this try at writing "in bulk" is only a practice round anyway.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Practice
Well, well, well. I'm starting to want to really write on my blog again, instead of just sticking with the poems.
After the delightful teatime Mrs. Burklin provided for the two of us on Saturday, wherein we talked quite a lot about writing and, as usual, she shared a lot of wisdom with me, I have surmised that I need to practice writing. Practice, practice, practice. Yesterday, on the way home from church, I caught myself exorting Mattie to embrace correction of her piano mistakes so that she can learn more and hone her musical abilities. As soon as I said it I nearly choked, realizing that I'd just preached myself a sermon. It was kind of mortifying and funny at the same time.
So, I have my blog to practice on, and my usual journal, but I also have a new secret (or not so secret any more) weapon...a robust new five section notebook, with a nice, springish green sort of cover, that I'm hoping to fill up before Christmas. Of course, if I use my favorite pens (which bleed through) it will be only half the book that gets filled. But it will be a goal, and it will be practice.
After the delightful teatime Mrs. Burklin provided for the two of us on Saturday, wherein we talked quite a lot about writing and, as usual, she shared a lot of wisdom with me, I have surmised that I need to practice writing. Practice, practice, practice. Yesterday, on the way home from church, I caught myself exorting Mattie to embrace correction of her piano mistakes so that she can learn more and hone her musical abilities. As soon as I said it I nearly choked, realizing that I'd just preached myself a sermon. It was kind of mortifying and funny at the same time.
So, I have my blog to practice on, and my usual journal, but I also have a new secret (or not so secret any more) weapon...a robust new five section notebook, with a nice, springish green sort of cover, that I'm hoping to fill up before Christmas. Of course, if I use my favorite pens (which bleed through) it will be only half the book that gets filled. But it will be a goal, and it will be practice.
Friday, September 7, 2007
A Hmm about Poetry
Options for poem-posting are getting somewhat thin. I've already posted all the ones I readily (or fairly readily) share. Now it's harder; I have to make these decisions.
Do I take a break from posting poems until the weather gets crispier and I can justify posting something like "A Lament for Lost Leaves"? Do I dig out some old stuff to share? Do I make up my mind to share the I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-share-that pieces? Do I heave a deep sigh, dig out a journal, and go about revising the unfinshed scraps of little poem embryos that haven't yet seen the light of day? Ug.
Something in me wants to complete those raw thoughts, but that something feels haggled and crushed by various other commitments. And deep down, I'm just scared of revision, worried about changing things, and horrified at the thought losing the glimpse of beauty and meaning captured in the original phrase. That's why I'm so afraid to edit poems...the meaning feels so fragile that I'm afraid it will die in my hands while I'm handling it.
Butterflies
Spider's webs
Lace
Moonlight
Fragrance
These things are what I view poetry as, and it's always been beyond me how anyone can just decide to sit down and write a poem with specific rhyme, meter, and meaning all at the same time. It reminds me of making pie crust...the more you handle it, the tougher the substance gets, the more it loses taste. In order to create a light, tasty crust, you have to get it right the first time, quickly, with the least possible handling. Hmm. Perhaps this shouldn't be the case with writing. Maybe it's a matter of talent I don't have, or maybe I need to practice poetry writing skills. I know there is a lot of laziness and fear going on here. I want to write poems that are both delicate and powerful, combining beauty with truth. The only beauty I know has been created by God, and the only power in me is the power of the risen Christ. The questions are:
Do I truly believe in Him, and
How does that become poetry?
Do I take a break from posting poems until the weather gets crispier and I can justify posting something like "A Lament for Lost Leaves"? Do I dig out some old stuff to share? Do I make up my mind to share the I'm-not-sure-I-want-to-share-that pieces? Do I heave a deep sigh, dig out a journal, and go about revising the unfinshed scraps of little poem embryos that haven't yet seen the light of day? Ug.
Something in me wants to complete those raw thoughts, but that something feels haggled and crushed by various other commitments. And deep down, I'm just scared of revision, worried about changing things, and horrified at the thought losing the glimpse of beauty and meaning captured in the original phrase. That's why I'm so afraid to edit poems...the meaning feels so fragile that I'm afraid it will die in my hands while I'm handling it.
Butterflies
Spider's webs
Lace
Moonlight
Fragrance
These things are what I view poetry as, and it's always been beyond me how anyone can just decide to sit down and write a poem with specific rhyme, meter, and meaning all at the same time. It reminds me of making pie crust...the more you handle it, the tougher the substance gets, the more it loses taste. In order to create a light, tasty crust, you have to get it right the first time, quickly, with the least possible handling. Hmm. Perhaps this shouldn't be the case with writing. Maybe it's a matter of talent I don't have, or maybe I need to practice poetry writing skills. I know there is a lot of laziness and fear going on here. I want to write poems that are both delicate and powerful, combining beauty with truth. The only beauty I know has been created by God, and the only power in me is the power of the risen Christ. The questions are:
Do I truly believe in Him, and
How does that become poetry?
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Does it matter if I write?
What difference does it make? I urgently need to know. More urgently, I need to know what difference it will make for me to write.
I guess I was born with a passion for words and writing. And if a person is born with an innate drive to do a thing (besides sin!) then I guess it's from God. So far I've only toyed with words...I used to dream up characters and tell myself stories about them (too lazy to write whole stories) and filled up notebooks with doodles and "plans" and paragraphs destined to abandonment. The stories just didn't come out right. The characters were two-dimensional, and words that sparkled so brightly inside were just drab rags on paper. Plus, none of my stories really had a plot. Dismal, but true.
Later I wrote poems, because they just fell out on their own without all that work and were mercifully acceptable without a plot :) I just had to use words, I had to get my thoughts OUT. And I've journaled and journaled (going on 27 I think.) It's a nice outlet, sometimes to the point of addiction :) Somehow, I just keep wondering...what does this have to do with God, with life, with people, with reality? With God's kingdom?
Deep down, I'm craving art, dying to convey something beautiful, significant, and valuble. Painting...Poetry...Music...Lace and Full Moons and Waltzes, played on a piano. Most of all people. Feelings. Why we do what we do and need what we need. How God somehow loves us, and what He did about it. It's a craving for beauty, actually. Beauty God created. Beauty He made me to "recreate," somehow. Whenever I hear the piano played, something wells up in me that wants to spread my fingers along those keys and send out a beautiful song. When I see shadows falling on trees in the woods, or picture something in my head I wish I could look at with physical eyes, I long to put my fingers to the brush...or at least a pen. I've tried, but to no use. I could practice, and learn...but the moment is always gone before I pursue the skill. But when words dance across my mind, and ideas conglomerate and float around like giant bubbles in a lava lamp, and I start pacing the floor and twisting my hair and generally becoming absent from the world for a moment...well, sometimes, just sometimes, I sharpen a pencil, dig out a journal, and write. And something is satisfied. The bursting and swelling inside is abated for a time.
This has happened less often lately. A spring is running low inside. Not dry completely, but low. When the subject of writing comes to mind, I stare at it blankly, confused, sometimes tempted to beat my head on the mental brick wall. I was meant to thread words together, somehow. I was meant to make them beautiful, to communicate beauty and God. I was meant to communicate a story to someone who knows it already, but couldn't put it into words themselves. But I have no plot, no characters, no setting, no history. All I have are these elusive words, phrases, and abstract ideas, trembling mirages that disappear as soon as I reach out to touch them.
Back in the spring, as I wondered how I'd pass the time this summer, I was explaining my flexible plans one day to someone who promptly replied: "You could write a book!" It was kind of a joking suggestion, but it stuck with me because that's precisely what I'd like to do now that I'm free of the demands of highschool. Write. Not a book, really, but something...a story.
If I knew that I could write with purpose, I would be able to write with passion. I'm tired of writing for myself. Scribbling up journals may be a great personal hobby, and a cheap alternative to therapy, maybe :) If the only benefit goes to me, though, what is the real worth of it? I want to write with a nobler vision, but I have no idea how anything I write might that help anyone. Especially poetry. What use is a poem? I mean, it's obviously an issue to consider because a good portion of the population thinks poetry is sentimental and useless anyway. For the rest of us who are somehow captivated by it...why is it worth our attention? Why do we somehow hold poetry up on a pedestal as a thing to be respected. Is it simply because the ancients wrote it that we think it's special? Are we just crazy? When I get to heaven, will it matter if I have written anything? Judging by the urgent tugging inside me, I have to say yes. But I have no idea why.
I guess I was born with a passion for words and writing. And if a person is born with an innate drive to do a thing (besides sin!) then I guess it's from God. So far I've only toyed with words...I used to dream up characters and tell myself stories about them (too lazy to write whole stories) and filled up notebooks with doodles and "plans" and paragraphs destined to abandonment. The stories just didn't come out right. The characters were two-dimensional, and words that sparkled so brightly inside were just drab rags on paper. Plus, none of my stories really had a plot. Dismal, but true.
Later I wrote poems, because they just fell out on their own without all that work and were mercifully acceptable without a plot :) I just had to use words, I had to get my thoughts OUT. And I've journaled and journaled (going on 27 I think.) It's a nice outlet, sometimes to the point of addiction :) Somehow, I just keep wondering...what does this have to do with God, with life, with people, with reality? With God's kingdom?
Deep down, I'm craving art, dying to convey something beautiful, significant, and valuble. Painting...Poetry...Music...Lace and Full Moons and Waltzes, played on a piano. Most of all people. Feelings. Why we do what we do and need what we need. How God somehow loves us, and what He did about it. It's a craving for beauty, actually. Beauty God created. Beauty He made me to "recreate," somehow. Whenever I hear the piano played, something wells up in me that wants to spread my fingers along those keys and send out a beautiful song. When I see shadows falling on trees in the woods, or picture something in my head I wish I could look at with physical eyes, I long to put my fingers to the brush...or at least a pen. I've tried, but to no use. I could practice, and learn...but the moment is always gone before I pursue the skill. But when words dance across my mind, and ideas conglomerate and float around like giant bubbles in a lava lamp, and I start pacing the floor and twisting my hair and generally becoming absent from the world for a moment...well, sometimes, just sometimes, I sharpen a pencil, dig out a journal, and write. And something is satisfied. The bursting and swelling inside is abated for a time.
This has happened less often lately. A spring is running low inside. Not dry completely, but low. When the subject of writing comes to mind, I stare at it blankly, confused, sometimes tempted to beat my head on the mental brick wall. I was meant to thread words together, somehow. I was meant to make them beautiful, to communicate beauty and God. I was meant to communicate a story to someone who knows it already, but couldn't put it into words themselves. But I have no plot, no characters, no setting, no history. All I have are these elusive words, phrases, and abstract ideas, trembling mirages that disappear as soon as I reach out to touch them.
Back in the spring, as I wondered how I'd pass the time this summer, I was explaining my flexible plans one day to someone who promptly replied: "You could write a book!" It was kind of a joking suggestion, but it stuck with me because that's precisely what I'd like to do now that I'm free of the demands of highschool. Write. Not a book, really, but something...a story.
If I knew that I could write with purpose, I would be able to write with passion. I'm tired of writing for myself. Scribbling up journals may be a great personal hobby, and a cheap alternative to therapy, maybe :) If the only benefit goes to me, though, what is the real worth of it? I want to write with a nobler vision, but I have no idea how anything I write might that help anyone. Especially poetry. What use is a poem? I mean, it's obviously an issue to consider because a good portion of the population thinks poetry is sentimental and useless anyway. For the rest of us who are somehow captivated by it...why is it worth our attention? Why do we somehow hold poetry up on a pedestal as a thing to be respected. Is it simply because the ancients wrote it that we think it's special? Are we just crazy? When I get to heaven, will it matter if I have written anything? Judging by the urgent tugging inside me, I have to say yes. But I have no idea why.
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