I should be grading ceremonial speeches right now so I can hand them back to my students. I should be not eating Tollhouse milk chocolate chips out of a Jiff reduced fat peanut butter jar so I can fit into my wedding dress at my fitting Friday. I should be saving my money instead of investing in some special-request items my fiancee mentioned wanting. I should be...I should not be... Ugh. Conditional modals really stink.
For the greater part of the last nine months, my world has revolved around my jobs, family, and a blossoming relationship with the man of my dreams. I've been working long hours, losing and desperately seeking jobs, planning a wedding, helping my church,...and letting other things slide. While it's probably understandable, and even acceptable, to adjust priorities in the rush of life, I've felt like a piece of me has been missing for a long time--actually, make that a few pieces.
Last year I was on fire. On fire for God as I gained the courage to join a new church for the first time in five years. On fire for female bonding as I found a fantastic group of ladies in a Bible study who, time and time again, have loved on me, listened to me, encouraged me, prayed for me, and put up with my insanity. :) On fire for writing as I finished a novel, went to a national conference, and even had several publishers and an agent give me the nod to submit. It's this last one that's killing me--I let those opportunities slide.
Granted, there were valid reasons why I put off the novel submission. I had realized several stylistic and thematic holes that needed fixing. I knew, as an unpublished author, I needed a fantastic draft to really help me get into the publishing world. So I decided to take the 6-8 weeks offered and work on my book. Problem was, I was working three jobs (teaching 3 classes at one college, 2 at another, and also working part-time in financial aid) and dating a man who consumed nearly every thought I had. It became easier to fall under the stress of the workload and the bumps of a new relationship with every day...and my novel began gathering dust.
Then I decided to break myself out of my months-long dry spell and submit the novel's first few chapters to a national competition. I felt so confident as I sent off my newly-revised baby off to the judges--the style was new and fresh, every mistake had been corrected, and I had managed to weave in more details to really attract a reader. A month later I was emailed back and told, nicely, that the judges didn't really care for my work. Most of them missed the point of my unusual opener and misunderstood what I was trying to do. Some nitpicked (understandably) at details that, to them, were unrealistic when they were actually autobiographical and completely valid and true (I guess truth is too strange to be fiction some days). Feeling as though I had failed, I again shelved the book. I told people I would just work on a more "standard-format" novel in the meantime, that I hadn't given up. Truth is, I gave up a long time ago. When you're facing multiple jobs, financial stress, a looming wedding where I can't seem to make anyone happy, relationship maintenance, and the thousands of changes that occur when you promise to completely change your life...writing just seemed to be a waste of time.
I suppose what hurts the most is that while I miss writing and the passion I had for a creation that was mine and God's alone, I don't really want to do it anymore. Keeping up with blogs, the research...all those things I loved to do just pale in comparison to setting up house and trying to make my future marriage as strong as it can be. Maybe my priorities have shifted. Maybe my passion for writing was a misguided obsession. Maybe I should just not even mourn the loss of a not-really-there skill and just move on with my life. There are more important things than a woman sitting alone at a computer, trying to breathe life into a flat character. Like cleaning the mouse poop out of my kitchen drawers. Like encouraging my fiancee to be creative and explore his passions for the first time in his life. Like making sure I can help put bread on the table and heat in the house. Like finally putting myself in the precarious position as a witness for Christ and daring to reach others.
Right?
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label writing. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Sunday, November 21, 2010
A new baby about to be born...
Being a woman has some great advantages some days. I occasionally get doors opened for me, I can usually wheedle my way into having some guy (even a stranger) carry heavy boxes to my car, and I get all the pretty jewelry. :)
What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.
First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.
My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.
When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.
Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.
Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.
What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )
A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.
Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.
A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?
Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.
Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.
Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.
When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.
What's also neat, at least today, is ruminating over the fact that my gender is the one that gets to carry a child. I think of those verses in Psalms where we are knit together in our mother's womb...and as a writer I find a great parallel to my novels.
Congratulations on your 8-pound bouncing baby novel. Now to nurse...the paper cuts.
First, let's play with that verb. Knitting. I've crocheted for over 22 years (yeah, I'm old) and while it's a bit different than knitting, the symbolism still works. A single strand of thread is twisted, looped, and pulled, over and over again, until a cloth emerges. Depending on how you loop it, where you return to a previously-designed spot, and how loosely you hold the thread, you could end up with a warm scarf, a delicate lace doily, or even a thick blanket big enough to carpet your living room.
Or a rug to cover London, for my British readers.
My one foray into knitting revealed how difficult it is to keep all those loops on those needles at one time...and how consistency is what pays off in the end. My enduring practice with crochet has taught me just how creative you can be with the process.
Although there really should be limits to said creativity.
When writing, you truly are knitting (or crocheting) strands of thought together into a cohesive whole. You have characters, plot lines, a theme (or two), some suspense, perhaps a couple of red herrings, some bad guys, and lots of witty word plays (because writers just can't help themselves). We type in dialogue, rework scenes, play around with time (despite H.G. Well's good warnings), and create a beautiful piece of work out of several disjointed pieces of potential. I suppose that the arts give us as close of a glimpse as possible of what God must have felt like when He created everything--although He had no limits and is completely perfect.
Now let's move on to the idea of giving birth. All mothers may cringe in unison at this point.
To be fair, we'll show Yao Ming in the infamous position. Push, man, push!
Writing, revising, and basically getting a novel ready for publication is all about birthing. There are months of waiting for this child to arrive, whether it be to finally appear on my word processing screen or for the notice from the publishing company that they actually aren't rejecting me. Those months are filled with moments where you couldn't be happier about the new life emerging under your fingertips and moments where you can't wait for this to be over (and claim the whole process is overrated while you throw up for the fifth time that morning). They say that all the pain, drama, struggles, and long waits are forgotten as you hold that precious newborn fresh from the printing presses, your name lovingly scrolled across the cover. I haven't gotten to that point, mostly because my gestation period seems to be more like an African elephant than the average human female, but I'll smile and accept the experiences of others despite knowing that every person's journey is unique, special, and miraculous.
What's really interesting about a writer's gestation, though, is that not only are we almost always carrying mutiples, they tend to be born at different times. I'm just about fully dialated with A Daughter's Heart, ready to push that child into the world in just a month or so, but during the wait I've apparently gotten pregnant again. There's a new novel starting to be knitted together, weaving in more of my own experiences with a lot more research, personality psychology, and even darker themes than my first book. Welcome to conception, Secret Identity, the first of a trilogy exploring the lives of Megan, Areli, and Zivah--three women living in the heart of the Midwest with dangerous foes circling close. Want a peek at my little embryos? (Yes, I know this analogy has long since devolved into creepiness, but deal with it. I like it. :) )
A family killed, a terrorist bomb, a fragile life.
Tragedy has arrived in Clarkston.
Secret Identity.
Megan should be dead. Her whole family is instead.
A trip to visit her younger sister in college ends in an unspeakable tragedy, leaving the young nanny instantly alone. As Megan tries to piece together the lives of the people she should know the best, she stumbles across puzzling secrets powerful enough to kill. Will finding the answers bring her peace—or a matching gravestone?
Secret Betrayal.
Her latest date bombed. Literally.
Areli is the definitive party girl in Tel Aviv, ignoring the war in favor of the next good time. When her search for the ultimate rush lands her in the middle of a Hamas terrorist plot, she runs to Megan’s home in the U.S. Here she learns that the consequences for sin really are death—although with her younger sister Zivah being held hostage, she may not be the only one paying with her life.
Secret Fear.
There are some things she can’t hide from forever.
When Zivah discovers that scars aren’t the only thing she was left with from her harrowing experience with Hamas, she agrees to return to the U.S. and the safety of her old hometown. Clarkston isn't what she remembered, though, and a series of dramatic crimes push her and the town to the edge. As deadlines approach, Zivah must make decisions that will affect the future of this community, an innocent child, and her soul forever.
And we end with Little One swaddled in my only knitted project to date. Cue "awwww" to cover the weird sensations of being far too involved in my reproductive post.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Teaser for "A Daughter's Heart"
Yes, I am still plugging away on final revisions (getting closer!) but I thought I'd post just a snippet to intrigue those of you who might be forgetting how much you want to read this tome of mine:
Tuesday morning had come around too quickly for Karen’s tastes. She had spent most of Monday at home, organizing her books and catching up on laundry, but would be reporting bright and early to the college for in-service hours. She pushed aside her glass of milk to look at the schedule again for today. Assessment practices for a couple of hours, a half-hour break for lunch, then a department-level series of meetings regarding entrance exams and support services. Important issues, but they all added up to a very long day. Nothing got people arguing faster than trying to agree on how tests should be administered and interpreted—a sign of a diverse system of teaching theories. In theory, having such a wide range of opinions was not only appropriate but desired. In practice, however, it meant that nothing got done on time and nobody agreed with any system put in place. Lord, whatever stores of patience you have up in Heaven, I could use about a gallon or two.
When she arrived at the school a half-hour early for the proceedings, a few of her colleagues were already in the shared adjunct office, crowded around the coffee pot and discussing, amiably at the moment, whether the contemporary American literature courses should be restricted to sophomores. It was a nice change from the concerned whispers over the events of the fall semester. The light odor of fresh paint still lingered in the air, enough of a reminder and yet faded enough to keep most memories quiet.
Karen smiled at her colleagues but didn’t join their conversation, electing instead to quickly check her e-mail and registration lists. Turning her back to the room was an effective way to discourage most people from eliciting her support for their arguments. If she was going to make it through the day, she would have to start pacing herself now. When Don called out her name, though, it seemed like her methods weren’t going to work this time.
“Karen, I was going to put this in your mailbox, but I got a little distracted. Someone slipped it into mine by mistake again—they really need to make it clearer that your shelf is above your nameplate, not below.”
She smiled gratefully, thanking him as he passed her the long white envelope. A single piece of paper was inside, the bold black letters comprising the simple message nearly stopping her heart.
“Something wrong?”
Karen glanced back at Don, concern evident in his tone of voice. She quickly smiled to reassured him. “Not at all. I’m just trying to do too many things at once and having trouble concentrating. Let me just check a few things online and I’ll walk with you to the auditorium for the opening session, ok?”
Don nodded and turned back to refilling his coffee thermos. Karen shoved the note back into the envelope and slid it safely out of sight in her coat pocket before turning back to the computer monitor.
A few clicks had the registration lists up, her creative writing seminar on top. Her eyes quickly scanned the last names. Arton, Attison, Becker, DeNalli, Guzman, Kellmann… Her heart slowed as relief washed over her. Ben had dropped the class. If she was lucky, he would be out of her life forever. Moving away and leaving her to a quiet existence would be the kindest thing he could ever do for her—and now, the safest thing for himself. Her focus reacquired, she pulled up her email browser and began sifting through the override requests, questions about textbooks, and notes from the department head about new class proposals for the summer.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Karen turned at Don’s deep voice, curious about the visitor to the office. Her face froze when she recognized the tall man in a dark blue uniform.
“I think I’ve found her, thanks.”
Karen cleared the computer with a short series of keystrokes and grabbed her things. “Sorry, but I have a meeting in just a few moments.”
She tried to brush past him in the small space, but the officer caught her arm. “Karen, we need to talk.”
Her glare was intense. “It’s Professor Edwards to you, and I really don’t have time right now.”
Don wiped the surprised expression off his face as he tapped his debating partner on the shoulder. “Patricia, we’d better be off.” He turned towards Karen, giving her a small smile. “I’ll tell everyone that you’ll be a little late—don’t worry about it. We’ll save you a seat.” He nodded respectfully to Ben and led his colleague out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.
Now that she had a little more room to maneuver in, Karen angrily pushed Ben off her arm and stepped backwards. “Despite what Don—Professor Fulton—said, I really don’t have time for this.”
Ben let her have some space but maneuvered himself closer to the door so she couldn’t escape. “I have no doubt that he’ll make excuses for you.” He grinned a bit sheepishly at his clothing. “The uniform helps.”
Karen closed her eyes, willing her temper under control as she pulled her lips between her teeth. While she really wanted to let him have it, a little voice reminded her that Grandma Susie’s funeral was just a few days ago and it wouldn’t be right to let her temper flare.
“I know you’re upset, but I really need you to look at me.” Karen obeyed, but allowed the simmering anger to prevail in her expression. Ben sighed. “I need to apologize for what I said that night.” Her expression didn’t change. He ran a hand over his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Karen crossed her arms protectively in front of herself. “Ben, no one says things like that unless they want to hurt someone.”
“You know what I mean. It’s just that I didn’t expect you to react like that, and with everything going on, I just lost it. There’s no excuse for it, and I’m sorry I was so cruel.” Karen looked away, staring at the coffeepot for a few moments, biting her lips again. The apology was sincere—that much she could tell. She couldn’t take any more risks, though. She forced her arms to relax.
“I dropped your class this morning.”
Karen glanced back at Ben and nodded, her eyes dropping to her fingers fidgeting with the ring on her right hand. “I know. I appreciate it—things would have been awkward otherwise for both of us after the fight.”
Ben took a step forward, reaching for her shoulder. She allowed the hand to rest gently there, gazing at his long fingers curving over the fabric of her blouse. “Karen, I didn’t drop the class because of the fight. I dropped it because of the kiss.”
She started at bit at his revelation and looked up at him. Focus, Karen. Don’t give him anything, don’t say anything. You have to let him go. You have to make him go, now more than ever. Ben continued speaking.
“When you left, Will told Courtney how upset you were. The two of them tag-teamed me before the service. Courtney told me something that morning: there’s no way that I would have reacted so poorly, let alone kissed you like that, if I didn’t really care about you—not just as my teacher, or even as a friend…but as something more.” Ben paused, looking over her features with obvious caution. “I know there’s a lot going on right now, and you’re probably confused and overwhelmed, but I need you to know that I’m not giving up. I want to be with you, Karen. Can you please forgive me, give us a chance?”
There was real pleading, honest desire in his eyes. He really wanted her. Her eyes closed softly, the familiar prickling sensation behind her lids warning that if she didn’t regain control soon, she might just cry for the first time in years. The pain of rejecting him might destroy her. Her hand rearranged the coat slung over an arm, a slight crinkling of paper accompanying her movements. Her resolve returned. She slowly turned her eyes back onto his face, a hand reaching to cover his still resting on her shoulder.
“I can’t do that, Ben.”
His face fell. “You can’t forgive me?”
“I can forgive you, Ben—and have.” Karen gently pushed his hand from her shoulder, letting it fall to his side. Her sigh was deep but only vaguely audible. She was going to hurt him—there was no way to avoid it. He wouldn’t understand, but she had to give him the truth. “I just can’t trust you.” Her mouth twitched slightly as she fought the urge to say more. Instead, she quietly slipped past him, opened the door, and left him inside the shared office space. Her hand trailed behind on the doorknob after pulling the door shut behind her. The pain in his eyes was killing her, haunting her as she rested against the wall and pulled in a shaky breath. She had to do this. It was the only way to protect herself. The only way to protect him.
The envelope crinkled as she folded her coat neatly over her arm. She pulled it back out, rereading the block-style letters. Talk to the cop again and the blood spilled will be worse. This wasn’t a prank anymore. There was a creep out there who could get to her car, her house, and even her office without being detected. This wasn’t a matter of bored kids or even wannabe gangsters. This was serious. Karen glanced back at the still-closed door to her shared office and sighed. It was better this way, for everyone.
Tuesday morning had come around too quickly for Karen’s tastes. She had spent most of Monday at home, organizing her books and catching up on laundry, but would be reporting bright and early to the college for in-service hours. She pushed aside her glass of milk to look at the schedule again for today. Assessment practices for a couple of hours, a half-hour break for lunch, then a department-level series of meetings regarding entrance exams and support services. Important issues, but they all added up to a very long day. Nothing got people arguing faster than trying to agree on how tests should be administered and interpreted—a sign of a diverse system of teaching theories. In theory, having such a wide range of opinions was not only appropriate but desired. In practice, however, it meant that nothing got done on time and nobody agreed with any system put in place. Lord, whatever stores of patience you have up in Heaven, I could use about a gallon or two.
When she arrived at the school a half-hour early for the proceedings, a few of her colleagues were already in the shared adjunct office, crowded around the coffee pot and discussing, amiably at the moment, whether the contemporary American literature courses should be restricted to sophomores. It was a nice change from the concerned whispers over the events of the fall semester. The light odor of fresh paint still lingered in the air, enough of a reminder and yet faded enough to keep most memories quiet.
Karen smiled at her colleagues but didn’t join their conversation, electing instead to quickly check her e-mail and registration lists. Turning her back to the room was an effective way to discourage most people from eliciting her support for their arguments. If she was going to make it through the day, she would have to start pacing herself now. When Don called out her name, though, it seemed like her methods weren’t going to work this time.
“Karen, I was going to put this in your mailbox, but I got a little distracted. Someone slipped it into mine by mistake again—they really need to make it clearer that your shelf is above your nameplate, not below.”
She smiled gratefully, thanking him as he passed her the long white envelope. A single piece of paper was inside, the bold black letters comprising the simple message nearly stopping her heart.
“Something wrong?”
Karen glanced back at Don, concern evident in his tone of voice. She quickly smiled to reassured him. “Not at all. I’m just trying to do too many things at once and having trouble concentrating. Let me just check a few things online and I’ll walk with you to the auditorium for the opening session, ok?”
Don nodded and turned back to refilling his coffee thermos. Karen shoved the note back into the envelope and slid it safely out of sight in her coat pocket before turning back to the computer monitor.
A few clicks had the registration lists up, her creative writing seminar on top. Her eyes quickly scanned the last names. Arton, Attison, Becker, DeNalli, Guzman, Kellmann… Her heart slowed as relief washed over her. Ben had dropped the class. If she was lucky, he would be out of her life forever. Moving away and leaving her to a quiet existence would be the kindest thing he could ever do for her—and now, the safest thing for himself. Her focus reacquired, she pulled up her email browser and began sifting through the override requests, questions about textbooks, and notes from the department head about new class proposals for the summer.
“Are you looking for someone?”
Karen turned at Don’s deep voice, curious about the visitor to the office. Her face froze when she recognized the tall man in a dark blue uniform.
“I think I’ve found her, thanks.”
Karen cleared the computer with a short series of keystrokes and grabbed her things. “Sorry, but I have a meeting in just a few moments.”
She tried to brush past him in the small space, but the officer caught her arm. “Karen, we need to talk.”
Her glare was intense. “It’s Professor Edwards to you, and I really don’t have time right now.”
Don wiped the surprised expression off his face as he tapped his debating partner on the shoulder. “Patricia, we’d better be off.” He turned towards Karen, giving her a small smile. “I’ll tell everyone that you’ll be a little late—don’t worry about it. We’ll save you a seat.” He nodded respectfully to Ben and led his colleague out into the hallway, closing the door behind them.
Now that she had a little more room to maneuver in, Karen angrily pushed Ben off her arm and stepped backwards. “Despite what Don—Professor Fulton—said, I really don’t have time for this.”
Ben let her have some space but maneuvered himself closer to the door so she couldn’t escape. “I have no doubt that he’ll make excuses for you.” He grinned a bit sheepishly at his clothing. “The uniform helps.”
Karen closed her eyes, willing her temper under control as she pulled her lips between her teeth. While she really wanted to let him have it, a little voice reminded her that Grandma Susie’s funeral was just a few days ago and it wouldn’t be right to let her temper flare.
“I know you’re upset, but I really need you to look at me.” Karen obeyed, but allowed the simmering anger to prevail in her expression. Ben sighed. “I need to apologize for what I said that night.” Her expression didn’t change. He ran a hand over his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Karen crossed her arms protectively in front of herself. “Ben, no one says things like that unless they want to hurt someone.”
“You know what I mean. It’s just that I didn’t expect you to react like that, and with everything going on, I just lost it. There’s no excuse for it, and I’m sorry I was so cruel.” Karen looked away, staring at the coffeepot for a few moments, biting her lips again. The apology was sincere—that much she could tell. She couldn’t take any more risks, though. She forced her arms to relax.
“I dropped your class this morning.”
Karen glanced back at Ben and nodded, her eyes dropping to her fingers fidgeting with the ring on her right hand. “I know. I appreciate it—things would have been awkward otherwise for both of us after the fight.”
Ben took a step forward, reaching for her shoulder. She allowed the hand to rest gently there, gazing at his long fingers curving over the fabric of her blouse. “Karen, I didn’t drop the class because of the fight. I dropped it because of the kiss.”
She started at bit at his revelation and looked up at him. Focus, Karen. Don’t give him anything, don’t say anything. You have to let him go. You have to make him go, now more than ever. Ben continued speaking.
“When you left, Will told Courtney how upset you were. The two of them tag-teamed me before the service. Courtney told me something that morning: there’s no way that I would have reacted so poorly, let alone kissed you like that, if I didn’t really care about you—not just as my teacher, or even as a friend…but as something more.” Ben paused, looking over her features with obvious caution. “I know there’s a lot going on right now, and you’re probably confused and overwhelmed, but I need you to know that I’m not giving up. I want to be with you, Karen. Can you please forgive me, give us a chance?”
There was real pleading, honest desire in his eyes. He really wanted her. Her eyes closed softly, the familiar prickling sensation behind her lids warning that if she didn’t regain control soon, she might just cry for the first time in years. The pain of rejecting him might destroy her. Her hand rearranged the coat slung over an arm, a slight crinkling of paper accompanying her movements. Her resolve returned. She slowly turned her eyes back onto his face, a hand reaching to cover his still resting on her shoulder.
“I can’t do that, Ben.”
His face fell. “You can’t forgive me?”
“I can forgive you, Ben—and have.” Karen gently pushed his hand from her shoulder, letting it fall to his side. Her sigh was deep but only vaguely audible. She was going to hurt him—there was no way to avoid it. He wouldn’t understand, but she had to give him the truth. “I just can’t trust you.” Her mouth twitched slightly as she fought the urge to say more. Instead, she quietly slipped past him, opened the door, and left him inside the shared office space. Her hand trailed behind on the doorknob after pulling the door shut behind her. The pain in his eyes was killing her, haunting her as she rested against the wall and pulled in a shaky breath. She had to do this. It was the only way to protect herself. The only way to protect him.
The envelope crinkled as she folded her coat neatly over her arm. She pulled it back out, rereading the block-style letters. Talk to the cop again and the blood spilled will be worse. This wasn’t a prank anymore. There was a creep out there who could get to her car, her house, and even her office without being detected. This wasn’t a matter of bored kids or even wannabe gangsters. This was serious. Karen glanced back at the still-closed door to her shared office and sighed. It was better this way, for everyone.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Bittersweet Blessings
I'm addicted to Facebook...to a point, anyway. A certain somebody in my life can distract me well from my online pursuits. Ah, well, enough mushy stuff--back to the point. I love Facebook, being able to see pictures of my friends and family, keeping up with status updates, and even being reminded when I've forgotten someone's birthday.
I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).
"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."
"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."
Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.
I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.
I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:
*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.
So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)
I also like creative endeavors on Facebook. I've been known to upload pics and narrate them, leave quirky statuses, and play around with my quotes page. I posted a few statuses (stati?) that reveal two warring issues in my life--and no, I'm not talking about the plethora revealing that I'm having a hard time healing from my oral surgery (more about that drama later).
"I still don't know if I have a job come spring. May find out in a few weeks...or later. This is what I get for praying for patience."
"I wish I could whittle down responsibilities so I could just spend some quality time with the keyboard. I miss writing. I miss editing. I miss creating something that can really touch others."
Now, smart reader, you may already be seeing what the future foretells for this blog entry. I got my answer as far as a job situation: instead of the full-time with benefits job I was praying for, I received a part-time job at the maximum contract hours possible. I am thrilled to have a job and am very pleased with what I received--don't get me wrong. I do wish I could have picked up just one more class and therefore would be living at a much-higher salary and have health insurance. The thing is...look at the other status update. My heart has been longing to write.
I've rejoined the masses at NaNoWriMo again, but I have no delusions that I will ever reach anything close to 50,000 words this month (I have about 3,000 currently). There is just way too much going on in my life for such a project. Come spring, however, with working just one part-time job that only requires me to come into work 2-3 days a week, I'll have plenty of time to write. I'll also have days off to work on some home renovations, strengthening my relationship with my new love, and helping my family. God gave me my desires. I shouldn't be sad that I didn't get everything that I wanted.
I've had a lot of people tell me that things are really looking great for me and that I'm "living the high life." I would look around at my still part-time employment, lack of benefits, solid hit to my budget, and frustrations over stress and health and wonder what on earth they saw. Taking a step back, and having someone actually list things off for me, showed me that I should be counting my blessings. I:
*have a job. Not to be taken for granted in this economy.
*have a job that actually lets me be what I trained to be--a teacher (instead of other master's-level students who are now working at Wal-Mart as cashiers).
*have fairly good health, upgraded once my mouth heals.
*have the ability to pay for most of my doctor's visits, and am on 0% interest plans for the others.
*have a great church family and biological family who love me.
*have lots of extra things not many people can afford, like an iPod and a good cell phone plan with free texting.
*have a car that doesn't break down too often and is usually fixable for under $500.
*have a man who is sweeping me off my feet and loves me even when I'm unlovable.
*have, most of all, a wonderful relationship with Christ. Eternal salvation makes all this other drama and glitter fade to nothing.
So, I'll stop being a little glum and disappointed. I will be smiling and bubbly about the great things in life instead of all the stressors. I will thank God for giving me time to slow down and use the talents He has given me. I will also appreciate 1/2 of the grading, since I never seem to get any of that done anyway. :)
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Little Moments
The clock in the living room ticks and tocks at a slight echo to the one in the kitchen, creating a surround-sound atmosphere of time passing me by. Every second comes, goes, and is never to return. When thinking of time in this slightly off-tempo beat of seconds, it's almost frightening. I'm aging in this chair, my clean skin from my recent shower already compiling oils, my hair acquiring a minute sheen that will end up turning my bouncy curls into somewhat-stringy locks by the end of the night. My watch battery will have lost some of its juice, my stomach will be empty and hungry yet again, and I will have failed to complete everything on my to-do list.
Right now, though, instead of forcing myself out the door to face a hugely-full day of teaching three classes, office hours, and preparing to hand over my third part-time job to a new person, I'm sitting in the most comfortable seat in my house. A cat is curled up alongside my hip and the top of my left leg, snoring softly as he warms my jean-clad thigh. Little One tends to annoy me more often than not. He'll beg to be let out, then run away and hide several times before you can either catch him and throw him out or he decides he's finally ready. He'll steal my food and watch me like a hawk while I'm eating, taking any opportunity presented to swipe some cheese or lick my yogurt. He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom because, after all, I'm just "sitting there" and have plenty of time to pet him. (I'm learning to try to head him off with a well-angled foot and shut the door firmly behind me.) Right now, though, he's being precious. A lap cat to the core, he is taking the chill from the air and telling me he trusts me, wants me, and thinks I'm the most comfortable spot in the house. Considering where all he sleeps, that's a rather nice compliment.
I should be putting on some eyeliner, grabbing something for breakfast, checking my three school e-mail accounts, and heading out the door to start my day. The quiet, punctuated only by half-purred snores and time ticking away, is intoxicating. Comforting. The kind of morning moment I want so much more than the drama that comes with my three jobs. I'm taking the time to write a little, pray, and consider just how much chocolate I will buy today so I can make it through the next week. It's a nice little moment that will end in just a few seconds. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Right now, though, instead of forcing myself out the door to face a hugely-full day of teaching three classes, office hours, and preparing to hand over my third part-time job to a new person, I'm sitting in the most comfortable seat in my house. A cat is curled up alongside my hip and the top of my left leg, snoring softly as he warms my jean-clad thigh. Little One tends to annoy me more often than not. He'll beg to be let out, then run away and hide several times before you can either catch him and throw him out or he decides he's finally ready. He'll steal my food and watch me like a hawk while I'm eating, taking any opportunity presented to swipe some cheese or lick my yogurt. He insists on accompanying me to the bathroom because, after all, I'm just "sitting there" and have plenty of time to pet him. (I'm learning to try to head him off with a well-angled foot and shut the door firmly behind me.) Right now, though, he's being precious. A lap cat to the core, he is taking the chill from the air and telling me he trusts me, wants me, and thinks I'm the most comfortable spot in the house. Considering where all he sleeps, that's a rather nice compliment.
I should be putting on some eyeliner, grabbing something for breakfast, checking my three school e-mail accounts, and heading out the door to start my day. The quiet, punctuated only by half-purred snores and time ticking away, is intoxicating. Comforting. The kind of morning moment I want so much more than the drama that comes with my three jobs. I'm taking the time to write a little, pray, and consider just how much chocolate I will buy today so I can make it through the next week. It's a nice little moment that will end in just a few seconds. I'm going to enjoy it while it lasts.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Run Away...
A week from today, I'll be packing for one of the biggest events of my year--the ACFW conference. I've been to conferences before, some absolutely huge (try MLA--Modern Language Association--for starters). I've presented my writing at the College English Association conference, several local university-based conferences, and even in front of semi-drunk people at a open mic night. I've invested well over a thousand dollars of hard-earned money into this conference. I've lined up roommates for hotel rooms, carpoolers to split fuel costs, and even a few author friends to try to meet up with for lunch sometime. I've done extremely heavy revisions on my novel and I know (by English professor standards) that it's in pretty good shape. It seems like everything is falling into place perfectly.
And I'm terrified.
I do get nervous before big events where I'll be the center or part of the center of attention. This is different. I'm having massive doubts. I look at my novel and think, "You're a nonfictionist. You have no formal training in fiction, at least not at the college level. There's probably still a handful of head-jumping moments in there. The writers or high-level readers you've asked to read the book have never gotten through it. You'll never be able to sell this thing! No one is going to want to read this! Who are you kidding?"
Yeah, pretty brutal. What's worse is that it's partially true. The few people with good writing skills haven't finished the book--although they have also been extraordinarily busy lately. I didn't take any specialized fiction courses in college. I know there are still aspects of fiction that I need to learn, more that I need to read, more that I need to study. I know I don't manage my time nearly well enough to accommodate three jobs, a church family, a boyfriend, my own family, and my writing. With the economy, I know first-time authors are a dime a dozen and my chances are naturally slim. If it wasn't for all the promises I made, arrangements settled, and money invested, I'd be highly tempted to hide out and make excuses for not following through.
A Daughter's Heart is not in perfect condition. I know that. It's probably not the best novel I'll ever write (I think my trilogy in the works already is shaping up better). But it is a good story. It does have real issues with trust and faith to be worked out. It does have good grammar and syntax (I am a professor, after all). It does have great potential. As much as I wish it could be better, I'm also proud of my novel baby. Not everyone actually finishes a novel...and not to toot my own horn, but not everyone can piece a story together well. I'm not saying I'm superb at this, but it's better than a lot of things I've read.
Still the fear and anxiety niggle at me constantly. What if no one likes it? What if no one gives me a chance? What if I get so nervous I pick the wrong words to speak? What if I completely ruin my career as an author before I even start? Is the fact that I have a completed manuscript enough to begin marketing it, or should I wait until I'm more advanced as a fiction writer?
I can hear the twisted logic in my fears and questions, but that doesn't soothe the anxiety much. I want so badly to be published, to start this next chapter in my life (insert pun-groan here). Right now I could use a good dose of courage and strength...the real stuff, not the kind mixed into chocolate and other sugar-happy food that I so depend on.
So I'm off to pray, to hand God my worries and concerns and fears. I'll stop being somewhat of a hypocrite and practice what I preach--God is in control, not me, and it's better off that way.
And I'm terrified.
I do get nervous before big events where I'll be the center or part of the center of attention. This is different. I'm having massive doubts. I look at my novel and think, "You're a nonfictionist. You have no formal training in fiction, at least not at the college level. There's probably still a handful of head-jumping moments in there. The writers or high-level readers you've asked to read the book have never gotten through it. You'll never be able to sell this thing! No one is going to want to read this! Who are you kidding?"
Yeah, pretty brutal. What's worse is that it's partially true. The few people with good writing skills haven't finished the book--although they have also been extraordinarily busy lately. I didn't take any specialized fiction courses in college. I know there are still aspects of fiction that I need to learn, more that I need to read, more that I need to study. I know I don't manage my time nearly well enough to accommodate three jobs, a church family, a boyfriend, my own family, and my writing. With the economy, I know first-time authors are a dime a dozen and my chances are naturally slim. If it wasn't for all the promises I made, arrangements settled, and money invested, I'd be highly tempted to hide out and make excuses for not following through.
Seriously? You can still see me? Dude...need new hiding place, like now!
A Daughter's Heart is not in perfect condition. I know that. It's probably not the best novel I'll ever write (I think my trilogy in the works already is shaping up better). But it is a good story. It does have real issues with trust and faith to be worked out. It does have good grammar and syntax (I am a professor, after all). It does have great potential. As much as I wish it could be better, I'm also proud of my novel baby. Not everyone actually finishes a novel...and not to toot my own horn, but not everyone can piece a story together well. I'm not saying I'm superb at this, but it's better than a lot of things I've read.
Still the fear and anxiety niggle at me constantly. What if no one likes it? What if no one gives me a chance? What if I get so nervous I pick the wrong words to speak? What if I completely ruin my career as an author before I even start? Is the fact that I have a completed manuscript enough to begin marketing it, or should I wait until I'm more advanced as a fiction writer?
If your questions and doubts have gotten so big that not only do they make a fairly comfortable sitting place but you are also hard-pressed to figure out how to get down without twisting an ankle...it's time to do something about it.
I can hear the twisted logic in my fears and questions, but that doesn't soothe the anxiety much. I want so badly to be published, to start this next chapter in my life (insert pun-groan here). Right now I could use a good dose of courage and strength...the real stuff, not the kind mixed into chocolate and other sugar-happy food that I so depend on.
Although there are limits as to how brave chocolate can make you...
So I'm off to pray, to hand God my worries and concerns and fears. I'll stop being somewhat of a hypocrite and practice what I preach--God is in control, not me, and it's better off that way.
Monday, August 9, 2010
Humble
Last Friday, I closed the Word document on my laptop and sighed. The bittersweet moment had come. I was done with the revisions to my novel. All 266 double-spaced pages of it. It was time to party and move on to my next project, but part of me was so sad to leave my work behind, to stamp it as "complete" and not work on it anymore. Then again, this baby was five months in the making (not including the two months it "sat" before I began revising). I am a good writer and editor and had taken that book apart and put it back together multiple times. It was in perfect, tip-top condition.
Then a close friend of mine, also a writer, sent me a message on Facebook. She notified me that she had started reading my book and in the first chapter she had noticed some POV problems. She sounded very apologetic about it, knowing how hard I had worked on the book and unsure of my reaction. The first thing in my mind? I wasn't happy.
My frustration was not at my friend--on the contrary, I love her even more for mentioning something. I was mad at myself. Granted, I haven't written extensively in fiction and POV isn't so much of an issue in creative non-fiction (my specialty), so it made sense that I would still have problems in this area. I still wanted to have the book perfect and ready for publishing.
What I learned is a lesson I teach over and over in my classes...and so I'm living "physician, heal thyself." When we write something, we know what it's supposed to say, the images that are being described, the attitudes and motivations of the characters. Translating that knowledge into written words so someone not in our heads (and how grateful we can be for that!) can be tricky. I tell my students all the time to have someone read their work for them and comment on the issues that the author can't or won't see by him/herself. Instead of progressing to "the next level" of revising, peer editing, I had bypassed it because, after all, I'm an English professor. Surely I wouldn't make such elementary mistakes.
I'm a fallible human--and writing teaches me that fact every day. As much as I'd like to think I could be the next Dee Henderson, I know that without good editors in my life, I'm never going to be as great as I could be. I need to be humble, admit I need help, and accept it graciously.
To be truthful, after my initial irritation with myself faded at my friend's letter, I was relieved. I instantly saw the errors and was so happy my friend had caught them. I love getting her input--and that outside perspective.
And fixing these errors gives me an excuse to hold on to my precious manuscript just a wee bit longer before I'm an empty nester looking to either have another baby novel or deal with the fact that I'm alone for the time being.
Then a close friend of mine, also a writer, sent me a message on Facebook. She notified me that she had started reading my book and in the first chapter she had noticed some POV problems. She sounded very apologetic about it, knowing how hard I had worked on the book and unsure of my reaction. The first thing in my mind? I wasn't happy.
My frustration was not at my friend--on the contrary, I love her even more for mentioning something. I was mad at myself. Granted, I haven't written extensively in fiction and POV isn't so much of an issue in creative non-fiction (my specialty), so it made sense that I would still have problems in this area. I still wanted to have the book perfect and ready for publishing.
What I learned is a lesson I teach over and over in my classes...and so I'm living "physician, heal thyself." When we write something, we know what it's supposed to say, the images that are being described, the attitudes and motivations of the characters. Translating that knowledge into written words so someone not in our heads (and how grateful we can be for that!) can be tricky. I tell my students all the time to have someone read their work for them and comment on the issues that the author can't or won't see by him/herself. Instead of progressing to "the next level" of revising, peer editing, I had bypassed it because, after all, I'm an English professor. Surely I wouldn't make such elementary mistakes.
I'm a fallible human--and writing teaches me that fact every day. As much as I'd like to think I could be the next Dee Henderson, I know that without good editors in my life, I'm never going to be as great as I could be. I need to be humble, admit I need help, and accept it graciously.
To be truthful, after my initial irritation with myself faded at my friend's letter, I was relieved. I instantly saw the errors and was so happy my friend had caught them. I love getting her input--and that outside perspective.
And fixing these errors gives me an excuse to hold on to my precious manuscript just a wee bit longer before I'm an empty nester looking to either have another baby novel or deal with the fact that I'm alone for the time being.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
A request you can't deny
A prayer I pray a lot, especially lately, is "God, show me what you want me to do." Note the word choice there--show me. Yes, I'm from Missouri, which indicates one of two things depending on which story you believe about the origin of our state motto: I am either slow on the uptake and need to be shown everything to understand it, or I want proof before I will act on something. In my prayer life, it's a little of both. I admit to being a bit dense sometimes when it comes to making decisions. For instance, I was battling with a particularly sticky situation when a friend came in and, with common sense, parted the murky waters I was wandering lost in. The light bulb indicating my EUREKA! moments is apparently more of a flickering candle than, say, an incandesent wonder.
So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.
I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.
Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?
I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.
God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.
I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.
This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.
I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.
Not all of us can be like the Centennial light and keep burning nonstop for 109 years...but who wants to be right and wise every single time for that long?
So I keep asking God to show me paths I'm supposed to take. Just show me the way, God, and I'll go. No questions, no hesitations--just go. Big words for a fallible human. You see, I already know a destination God has for me (or at least, I believe it's one). He has laid a particular writing project on my heart. It's not a fiction piece or a really cool poetry project. It's nonfiction. You would think that writing creative non-fiction wouldn't be such a difficult task for me. I specialized in it in college. I love writing in this genre. It's rather what the project is about that has me balking. A year ago, I accepted the charge and knew I was being called to write this massive project. I had already a few small pieces to form a base with. I was strong in my faith and several years past the harrowing sections of my past that would feature in this book. I had perspective. I had praise for a God Who had brought me out of such darkness.
I also had intense fear. My conversations with God were more like desperate arguments than prayers.
Um, I'll write Your book, God. Sure. Just not today.
It's really emotionally intense, God. I'm stressed right now and can't risk it.
I can't publish that. It could keep me from getting published in other arenas.
I can't put my name on that. It'd be linked on my resume.
What college will offer me a full-time position knowing that part of my past?
You've given me a way to minister to people through my current church. If they find out about my dark past, they may not allow me into their lives. I could be ostracized like I was before in different places. Are You wanting me to risk Your will with this book?
I love how I try to point out logical fallacies in God when doing so is so incredibly illogical in and of itself. Fighting God is a completely pointless thing. All I am doing is hurting myself.
A bum hip is only one tragic excuse away...
God knows I need to put this part of my past finally to rest. Writing about it will let me do that, allow me to move from victim to victor. Writing about it will allow me to touch other people who are suffering with the same problems I was, give them hope, let them know that there is light at the end of the tunnel (and it's not a train). Writing about it will allow me to educate others who don't understand the types of darkness that we humans can become so rolled up in that we do things that we would never do otherwise. Writing about it will allow me to see the truth in myself and come to terms that I did make mistakes, I did learn things, and it's ok to be a person who "used to be" severely messed up. I can let go of the anger and the shame by putting words on a page.
I know all of this. I'm still afraid, still ashamed, still trying to protect myself from being so vulnerable.
This is where--did you see it coming?--faith comes in. If God is the One Who gave me this mission, it's not for my destruction. It's for me to have a future, to have hope, to find him (Jeremiah 29:11-14). God's not going to put me on a path, give me a sense of purpose to do something for Him, and then let me be completely ravaged. Yes, I'll face spiritual warfare again. Yes, there will be consequences. I may lose some friends. I may lose some opportunities. I may even lose jobs. In the long run, though, I know God isn't going to abandon me. I know what I do for His glory, to further His kingdom, will be successful. I don't have to worry.
I need to be brave and expose my heart. I need to remember Who is in control and submit to His authority. To do otherwise is to insist I know better than God. I may be crazy, but I'm not that insane.
Americans have given their lives in response to an ad from a fictional character. How can we expect any less from a request from a very real God?
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Decisions
Anticipation tastes like good dark chocolate: complex, a little unexpected, but with sweet rewards at the end. My literary equivalent of 70% Madagascan cacao is currently swirling through my mind as I type. Today the 60% completion mark on in-depth edits is finished. I can see the finish line looming ahead, the knowledge that a read-aloud edit is almost here, and then...it's ready for submission. As much as I love working on this text, I'm ready for it to be out of my hands.
I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?
I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.
I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.
My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.
Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.
While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)
When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.
It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.
All the good things do.
I click down to the next chapter, full of perky blue, yellow, and purple highlights. It's one I marked through my first revision process as needing a lot of work. Some of the edits are easy. I take out unnecessary adverbs, reform passive voice sentences, and fix a few typos. My fingers stall on the keyboard as I look at the next paragraph. What am I going to do with YOU?
I read it over in my mind and spot a head-jump to a different character. I change the description of emotion to a reflective facial expression. It solves the problem, but it's my go-to solution for my problems with popping suddenly from one character's mind to another's. I do it too often and the repetition is annoying even me. I insert dialogue instead. I read it out loud. I change the inflection of my voice and read it again. I groan. It's too interpretable.
I insert a few qualifiers around the quotes, giving some gestural clues. It's better, but seems wordy and clunky. I try using punctuation to show pauses--pauses reflect emotion. Then I remember that ellipses (...) are considered unprofessional. I use them all the time. I substitute em-dashes occasionally where a pause is really needed. Now it looks like a prose version of "Because I could not stop for Death--." I erase some of the dialogue. Now it's stilted and unrealistic. I delete all the dialogue and switch to a play-by-play of the character's thoughts. It's boring and feels like I'm trying too hard. I liven it up. Again, it's stilted and unrealistic. A lesson from a published author flashes through my mind of how suspense scenes, ones that build up action and increase the pace, need shorter sentences--long sentences slow down a reader. I cut down the sentences dramatically. Now it sounds choppy and simplistic. I want to throw my laptop across the room in frustration.
Anger management is a lot easier when you can rationally think about the costs to replace necessary items beforehand...(although with how old this set is, it probably only costs about $20 nowadays).
My novel is my brain child--as much as I love it, I also know it needs a lot of guidance and tough love to stand on its own in the sometimes-cruel world of publishing. Karen, Ben, and even gothic minor character Sunny Daize seem so real to me. I want them to shine in all their fallible brilliance (none of them are "Mary Sue" characters). It seems as much as I am a good writer, I am also a terrible one. I keep thinking with every page I scribble over, "This is going to work. This is going to endear the reader...or maybe not. No one is going to want to read this! No one is going to be unable to put this down!" I'm starting to feel incredibly bipolar.
An author's love-hate relationship with writing brings a whole new definition to two-faced; although, with all the characters living vivid lives in our heads, we already have multiple personality disorder, so being just two-faced is probably a step in the right direction.
Change is never easy. The whole time we're changing, we're constantly second-guessing ourselves. Is it really worth it? This isn't fun or simple. Was my old life really that bad? When we're talking about changes for a Christian, we get compounded with guilt. Guilt that we aren't changing as smoothly as we "should." Guilt that we are resisting the change. Guilt for failing to be successful. Guilt because we can't seem to move on.
While feeling guilty can be both a good and bad thing (a blog entry for another day), the crux of the situation seems to be about acceptance and faith. In order to deal with my failings, I need to remember on a logical, rational level that as long as I am on Earth, I will be a fallible human. I will sin. I will fall. I will try to change and I will have setbacks. It's not an excuse to sin (check out Galations for Paul's opinion on that subject), but it is a fact that I have to accept. Trying to be perfect, or expecting myself to easily conquer my sinful nature, totally diminishes--if not destroys--the need for the cross. If I could do it on my own, what's the point of having Jesus? I can't do it alone. I need faith. I need forgiveness. I need patience--but I know better than to pray for that one. :)
When I turn back to revising during the scant free moments in my schedule today, I need to have the mindset that it's ok to struggle. It's ok that I've rewritten a scene eight times and it's still not flowing right. I may just need to set it aside until I get the idea I need (like it's taken me four months to come up with the perfect name for my antagonist). I may need to wait and ask a fellow writer to help. I may need to just keep trying and appreciate what the struggle is teaching me about the craft. I may need to just pray and depend on my Father's wisdom instead of my own.
It's not easy. It's not simple. It's going to cost.
All the good things do.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Death of a Vice
I was so thrilled and proud of myself. After double-checking page and word counts, it was official. I had finally reached the 33% completion mark on revising my novel. It hadn't been easy trying to squeeze in time between my two jobs, grading, helping out at VBS, softball games, and watching the final Captain Phil episodes of Deadliest Catch (ergo, my new I-need-a-cry series). I had been pulling out the purple binder while sitting on the bench between innings, while students wrote out corrections to their rough drafts in class, while waiting for appointments to show at my outreach office. Hitting the 1/3 mark was incredible...and I wanted to celebrate. I popped onto Facebook and proclaimed my accomplishment in my status update, adding "Who's going to buy me dark chocolate pomegranate candy to celebrate?"
A friend congratulated me, then added this juicy bit to her comment. "Oh, and I heard that there is, on average, about 8 insect legs in every bar of chocolate. I'm not sure if that's true, but I figured you would know."
Oh. My.
You know God has a sense of humor when he orchestrates things so I'm currently munching on said beloved candies when I read this little notice. Bugs. In chocolate. That was completely disturbing.
I mean, bugs are nasty. They carry diseases. Their legs have little feelers on them that would tickle the roof of my mouth as I chew. I used to catch grasshoppers and crickets to feed to salamanders when I was a young teen. Those bites on my palms, but instead alongside my tongue...it's completely nauseating and gag-worthy, to say the least.
Of course I drop my celebratory candies and sweep them into a drawer. "I am a reformed chocoholic," I proclaim to the room and to the world of Facebook, sure that with that sort of visual image, I won't be able to consume the sugar-milk-cacao mixture ever again. Ever. I've seen the errors of my mass-produced consuming ways.
Until later that night when I give in to temptation and munch happily through an offered Reese's cup. It's not a chocolate bar...therefore no bugs, right? I cling to my huge logical fallacy and enjoy the heaven that comes from every woman's best friend. Before too long, I'm back at my drawer, digging for the fruit-laced goodies, and hold a belated celebration for my writing prowess.
Eating chocolate isn't the only bad habit I have that has some fairly vicious potential undercurrents. Pushing myself so hard that I end up exhausted can lead to me falling asleep at the wheel, becoming apathetic, or lowering my immune system so I get sick more often. Forgetting to spend daily time with God makes me more vulnerable to Satan's attacks, taking my focus off my Heavenly Father and letting me be overwhelmed by the world's problems and selfishness. Those bug legs aren't restricted to being harrowing experiences...they can be incredibly harmful, potentially lethal. I can pretend all I want that there are no side effects to my actions, that everything will be ok simply through the force of my stubborn will. It's not going to change the fact that eventually I will have to come to terms that I am not in control of the world and there are always consequences for actions (or lack of them).
Psyching myself out of my love affair with the melty good stuff isn't the answer. Understanding my limits is. Am I really ok with the knowledge that there are probably a few ground up fly skulls in the chocolate chips, or maybe should I turn to the strawberries I washed clean for my sweet treat of the day? Am I really ok with adding yet another project to my to-do list, or maybe should I let someone else help serve who isn't juggling so much? Am I really supposed to watch Season One of NCIS for the fourth time instead of really studying, say, Genesis?
In the end, it's going to take more than just a close encounter with a thorax to get serious results--mindsets and habits are really hard to change. Baby steps are still steps in the right direction. So, maybe I'll start just buying one dose of chocolate goodness every two or three weeks instead of whenever I'm "in the mood." I'm thinking these babies might help me wait for several days before I want anything sweet again....
If you want to try some, ask me when I first open the bag. I may not share if there's only a couple left.... :)
A friend congratulated me, then added this juicy bit to her comment. "Oh, and I heard that there is, on average, about 8 insect legs in every bar of chocolate. I'm not sure if that's true, but I figured you would know."
Oh. My.
You know God has a sense of humor when he orchestrates things so I'm currently munching on said beloved candies when I read this little notice. Bugs. In chocolate. That was completely disturbing.
The only non-disturbing option to Bugs in chocolate.
I mean, bugs are nasty. They carry diseases. Their legs have little feelers on them that would tickle the roof of my mouth as I chew. I used to catch grasshoppers and crickets to feed to salamanders when I was a young teen. Those bites on my palms, but instead alongside my tongue...it's completely nauseating and gag-worthy, to say the least.
If you find this spread appetizing, I am *NEVER* eating at your place.
Of course I drop my celebratory candies and sweep them into a drawer. "I am a reformed chocoholic," I proclaim to the room and to the world of Facebook, sure that with that sort of visual image, I won't be able to consume the sugar-milk-cacao mixture ever again. Ever. I've seen the errors of my mass-produced consuming ways.
Until later that night when I give in to temptation and munch happily through an offered Reese's cup. It's not a chocolate bar...therefore no bugs, right? I cling to my huge logical fallacy and enjoy the heaven that comes from every woman's best friend. Before too long, I'm back at my drawer, digging for the fruit-laced goodies, and hold a belated celebration for my writing prowess.
Eating chocolate isn't the only bad habit I have that has some fairly vicious potential undercurrents. Pushing myself so hard that I end up exhausted can lead to me falling asleep at the wheel, becoming apathetic, or lowering my immune system so I get sick more often. Forgetting to spend daily time with God makes me more vulnerable to Satan's attacks, taking my focus off my Heavenly Father and letting me be overwhelmed by the world's problems and selfishness. Those bug legs aren't restricted to being harrowing experiences...they can be incredibly harmful, potentially lethal. I can pretend all I want that there are no side effects to my actions, that everything will be ok simply through the force of my stubborn will. It's not going to change the fact that eventually I will have to come to terms that I am not in control of the world and there are always consequences for actions (or lack of them).
Psyching myself out of my love affair with the melty good stuff isn't the answer. Understanding my limits is. Am I really ok with the knowledge that there are probably a few ground up fly skulls in the chocolate chips, or maybe should I turn to the strawberries I washed clean for my sweet treat of the day? Am I really ok with adding yet another project to my to-do list, or maybe should I let someone else help serve who isn't juggling so much? Am I really supposed to watch Season One of NCIS for the fourth time instead of really studying, say, Genesis?
In the end, it's going to take more than just a close encounter with a thorax to get serious results--mindsets and habits are really hard to change. Baby steps are still steps in the right direction. So, maybe I'll start just buying one dose of chocolate goodness every two or three weeks instead of whenever I'm "in the mood." I'm thinking these babies might help me wait for several days before I want anything sweet again....
Vile maggots that melt in your mouth, not while nested in your hand. How comforting.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Erasing Poetry
Ok, ok. So not everyone likes poetry. I can't really blame them too much--I used to be one of them. I mean, I wrote the sing-songy, uber-rhyming, cliche-ridden poems in high school like many teenage girls, but when it came to good poetry, I really didn't like it. I was even an English major for years and still didn't like it. My poetic problems weren't so much an issue with what I was reading but rather how I was reading it.
Poetry, in truth, was not at all like how it had been presented to me throughout my early years of public education. I had been taught to read the lines and figure out what exactly it was supposed to mean, usually because there was a written response or a multiple-choice question involved. There were right and wrong answers to the symbolism, theme, and meter of poetry, just like there were right and wrong answers to the chemical formula for photosynthesis and subject/verb agreement for "she went to the store." It wasn't until I reached graduate school (yes, my sixth year of English studies) that I learned to appreciate poetry...through a class on how to teach poetry to students. The biggest thing I had to learn was that poetry is subjective by its very nature...and that's ok.
Once I let go of my right/wrong attitude and adopted the better founded/unsubstantiated stance, poetry became intriguing and almost addictive to me. While there were some meanings that wouldn't make sense simply because they couldn't be logically connected to the poem's imagery (and yes, imagery and sound are two of the most important parts of many poems...so much so that the words themselves can be meaningless--just their sounds matter), as long as you could find some sort of decent (hopefully strong) connection, it fit. After all, no one really knows what the author was thinking/feeling/meaning 100% of the time...sometimes not even the author him/herself.
Still...putting words on paper in poetic form was difficult. There were formulas for sonnets and haiku that helped, but to just let go of meaning and enjoy the nonsensical abstractness of words, images, and sounds (especially just disjointed ones) was extremely difficult. Enter a new muse: Mary Ruefle. I met the well-known poet in person once as part of a conference, and while I didn't connect with her personally, I adored a small book of hers. A Little White Shadow. It was the first I had ever seen of erasure-style poetry, a twist on found poetry but more raw and semi-artistic (The hard-to-find Humument by Tom Phillips is extremely artistic and more intense as it attempts to be its own story-within-a-story). The point of erasure poetry was to find prose, even really bad prose, and locate the gems of disjointed words that, when brought together through erasing all that was around them, created new thoughts and ideas. Sometimes erasures are completely silly images or statements. Sometimes they end up profound. The challenge of using only words already printed on the page, and then figuring out how to work with their existing order, was like the ultimate word-search puzzle with hidden prizes under the ink.
I was wanting to play around with this new composing form, so I picked up a 25-cent paperback copy of The Horse Without A Head from a sorority's booksale fundraiser on campus. It had some good words that popped out at me while I flipped through pages, the copyright had to be nearly up if I ever decided to publish my reworking of the text, and the original children's mystery was...horrible. Even the worst erasure of the text would be an improvement. For the next few days, I carried the conveniently-sized book in my purse, along with a purple pen, and began outlining the text I would keep. Over the next few months, I experimented with different types of white-out, acrylic paint, and correction fluids to banish the unworthy words from the page. I rather liked the non-uniformity of the erasing, with some pages glossy with white and others hosting cracked strips of eggshell tape. It was a wonderfully freeing exercise...and the creativity born in erasure poetry not only spurned wonderful poetic images that I wove into my prose, but eventually led to a few freeverse poems that I'm actually rather proud of.
My retitled collection of erasure poems, He With A Head, includes nearly two hundred pages of good, great, and uh-oh bad erasures. Most are to be taken individually, a single moment to be considered, perhaps savored, and then either stored away for future musings or tossed aside like an amusing but meaningless status update on Facebook. Not being able to draw a straight line meant some words were accidentally erased too much...and it was more of a playbook than a truly careful endeavor, so I wasn't super-obsessive about neatness. It's a little messy...kind of like me. Erasure lets me do that.
So to look at the title poem for my rediscovered text..."He with a head should pay dearly for it." What does it mean? Maybe it means that those who have the awareness of decision also have the awareness of consequences. Maybe it means that men who think logically will suffer for it (especially when they're around PMSing women). Maybe it means that being able to think is such a precious thing, a costly thing, something that should be valued much more than it is (the intellect versus, say, braun). Maybe it means that this guy is about to have one huge headache and needs to take an Excedrin. It could mean any of these. It could mean none of them. Ultimately, erasure is about taking away...in order to give. What meaning will you give this piece?
Or this one?
Poetry, in truth, was not at all like how it had been presented to me throughout my early years of public education. I had been taught to read the lines and figure out what exactly it was supposed to mean, usually because there was a written response or a multiple-choice question involved. There were right and wrong answers to the symbolism, theme, and meter of poetry, just like there were right and wrong answers to the chemical formula for photosynthesis and subject/verb agreement for "she went to the store." It wasn't until I reached graduate school (yes, my sixth year of English studies) that I learned to appreciate poetry...through a class on how to teach poetry to students. The biggest thing I had to learn was that poetry is subjective by its very nature...and that's ok.
Once I let go of my right/wrong attitude and adopted the better founded/unsubstantiated stance, poetry became intriguing and almost addictive to me. While there were some meanings that wouldn't make sense simply because they couldn't be logically connected to the poem's imagery (and yes, imagery and sound are two of the most important parts of many poems...so much so that the words themselves can be meaningless--just their sounds matter), as long as you could find some sort of decent (hopefully strong) connection, it fit. After all, no one really knows what the author was thinking/feeling/meaning 100% of the time...sometimes not even the author him/herself.
Still...putting words on paper in poetic form was difficult. There were formulas for sonnets and haiku that helped, but to just let go of meaning and enjoy the nonsensical abstractness of words, images, and sounds (especially just disjointed ones) was extremely difficult. Enter a new muse: Mary Ruefle. I met the well-known poet in person once as part of a conference, and while I didn't connect with her personally, I adored a small book of hers. A Little White Shadow. It was the first I had ever seen of erasure-style poetry, a twist on found poetry but more raw and semi-artistic (The hard-to-find Humument by Tom Phillips is extremely artistic and more intense as it attempts to be its own story-within-a-story). The point of erasure poetry was to find prose, even really bad prose, and locate the gems of disjointed words that, when brought together through erasing all that was around them, created new thoughts and ideas. Sometimes erasures are completely silly images or statements. Sometimes they end up profound. The challenge of using only words already printed on the page, and then figuring out how to work with their existing order, was like the ultimate word-search puzzle with hidden prizes under the ink.
I was wanting to play around with this new composing form, so I picked up a 25-cent paperback copy of The Horse Without A Head from a sorority's booksale fundraiser on campus. It had some good words that popped out at me while I flipped through pages, the copyright had to be nearly up if I ever decided to publish my reworking of the text, and the original children's mystery was...horrible. Even the worst erasure of the text would be an improvement. For the next few days, I carried the conveniently-sized book in my purse, along with a purple pen, and began outlining the text I would keep. Over the next few months, I experimented with different types of white-out, acrylic paint, and correction fluids to banish the unworthy words from the page. I rather liked the non-uniformity of the erasing, with some pages glossy with white and others hosting cracked strips of eggshell tape. It was a wonderfully freeing exercise...and the creativity born in erasure poetry not only spurned wonderful poetic images that I wove into my prose, but eventually led to a few freeverse poems that I'm actually rather proud of.
My retitled collection of erasure poems, He With A Head, includes nearly two hundred pages of good, great, and uh-oh bad erasures. Most are to be taken individually, a single moment to be considered, perhaps savored, and then either stored away for future musings or tossed aside like an amusing but meaningless status update on Facebook. Not being able to draw a straight line meant some words were accidentally erased too much...and it was more of a playbook than a truly careful endeavor, so I wasn't super-obsessive about neatness. It's a little messy...kind of like me. Erasure lets me do that.
So to look at the title poem for my rediscovered text..."He with a head should pay dearly for it." What does it mean? Maybe it means that those who have the awareness of decision also have the awareness of consequences. Maybe it means that men who think logically will suffer for it (especially when they're around PMSing women). Maybe it means that being able to think is such a precious thing, a costly thing, something that should be valued much more than it is (the intellect versus, say, braun). Maybe it means that this guy is about to have one huge headache and needs to take an Excedrin. It could mean any of these. It could mean none of them. Ultimately, erasure is about taking away...in order to give. What meaning will you give this piece?
Or this one?
Saturday, April 24, 2010
A Wake-Up Call....without the hotel bill.
It's been nearly a year. Wow. Talk about not following through. :) It'd be ridiculous for me to try to post an entire year's worth of news, musings, and revelations. That's something I can use to fill in future days when I feel I have nothing/little to say (and those who live around me...know that is never really true).
How do I restart a part of my life so obviously abandoned? With the truth.
I was recently prompted (read: coerced) into going to the doctor. I had ignored a persistent fever and a myraid of other symptoms for two weeks...and some of the people I love were worried, especially my boyfriend. Wait--scratch that. He was not worried. He was concerned. Learned that distinction.
The sinus infection was a new deal, but not wholly unexpected. The other news...dropped me like a wobbly water balloon down five stories onto the college freshman-littered sidewalk below. My blood pressure was sky-high. Granted, I had excuses. I've been sick for two weeks. I had only two hours of sleep the night previous. It's the most stressful time of the year for me--approaching finals. Didn't matter to the doctor. He gave me an ultimatum: start taking care of myself and get on a medication for the problem, or end up having a heart attack/stroke at the ripe old age of 25. I got the prescription filled within the hour.
God (and many other people--maybe He was speaking through them, maybe it was just that obvious) has been trying to get through my stubborn, willful, self-sacrificing head for a long time that I am doing way too much. I'll argue the point until...well...I have a heart attack. I've always worked multiple jobs, sometimes two or three while going to school full-time. I'm used to having lots of committments, using the stress to get me through the long hours of the day. I thrive on being needed, being wanted--and what better way to constantly feel needed/wanted than to put your hand in as many projects as possible? This, however, is not God's plan. At least, it's not for me. Facing the very real prospect of an impending premature death rather emphasizes this.
I've been worried about losing half of my teaching contract this fall, not finding a full-time with benefits job teaching at a college, trying to deal with the insecurities of a long-distance relationship. What God has been waiting, much more patiently than I ever could, for is for me to stop and really sit and listen to him. Instead of burning my candle at both ends and six different places along the middle, He wants me to be a steady, strong light to others. He has given me gifts for teaching, writing, ministering, creating, loving. I can't use any of these to the best of my abilities if I don't follow His plan for them.
So here's a step in the right direction. I'm going to keep up with my blog, using this platform to minister to others who are involved in academia, are writers, both, or neither. I'm going to stop fussing internally about money and trust that God will provide (and that I really don't need to overspend like I tend to do). I'm going to enact more self-discipline to make myself more dependent on God and independent of the world. It's going to be a long road, but I'm anxious to start walking.
Well, maybe not at 12:30am. Perhaps I should start another positive habit, getting enough sleep each night, and discuss some the particulars...later. :)
Take care, all, and welcome to a new chapter.
How do I restart a part of my life so obviously abandoned? With the truth.
I was recently prompted (read: coerced) into going to the doctor. I had ignored a persistent fever and a myraid of other symptoms for two weeks...and some of the people I love were worried, especially my boyfriend. Wait--scratch that. He was not worried. He was concerned. Learned that distinction.
The sinus infection was a new deal, but not wholly unexpected. The other news...dropped me like a wobbly water balloon down five stories onto the college freshman-littered sidewalk below. My blood pressure was sky-high. Granted, I had excuses. I've been sick for two weeks. I had only two hours of sleep the night previous. It's the most stressful time of the year for me--approaching finals. Didn't matter to the doctor. He gave me an ultimatum: start taking care of myself and get on a medication for the problem, or end up having a heart attack/stroke at the ripe old age of 25. I got the prescription filled within the hour.
God (and many other people--maybe He was speaking through them, maybe it was just that obvious) has been trying to get through my stubborn, willful, self-sacrificing head for a long time that I am doing way too much. I'll argue the point until...well...I have a heart attack. I've always worked multiple jobs, sometimes two or three while going to school full-time. I'm used to having lots of committments, using the stress to get me through the long hours of the day. I thrive on being needed, being wanted--and what better way to constantly feel needed/wanted than to put your hand in as many projects as possible? This, however, is not God's plan. At least, it's not for me. Facing the very real prospect of an impending premature death rather emphasizes this.
I've been worried about losing half of my teaching contract this fall, not finding a full-time with benefits job teaching at a college, trying to deal with the insecurities of a long-distance relationship. What God has been waiting, much more patiently than I ever could, for is for me to stop and really sit and listen to him. Instead of burning my candle at both ends and six different places along the middle, He wants me to be a steady, strong light to others. He has given me gifts for teaching, writing, ministering, creating, loving. I can't use any of these to the best of my abilities if I don't follow His plan for them.
So here's a step in the right direction. I'm going to keep up with my blog, using this platform to minister to others who are involved in academia, are writers, both, or neither. I'm going to stop fussing internally about money and trust that God will provide (and that I really don't need to overspend like I tend to do). I'm going to enact more self-discipline to make myself more dependent on God and independent of the world. It's going to be a long road, but I'm anxious to start walking.
Well, maybe not at 12:30am. Perhaps I should start another positive habit, getting enough sleep each night, and discuss some the particulars...later. :)
Take care, all, and welcome to a new chapter.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Golden Age
"We’ve got a bingo over here!”
I wasn’t sure who was more excited—-Mrs. Harey that she finally won a game or me for being able to collect her prize for her. I picked up a blemish-free banana from the tray of goodies, eagerly eyeing the fun-sized candies that my charge couldn’t have with her diabetes. The activities director, Donna, mouthed “later” in my direction before pulling a new stamped ball out of the gold cage.
“B 7!”
I handed the fruit prize to Mrs. Harey, clearing her card with one hand while hurriedly scanning the card belonging to the ever-silent Mr. Trent. No luck for him.
“What’s your name again, dearie?”
“Ann.”
“I have a grandson about your age. Haven’t seen him in forever.”
“O 62!” I placed another marker on Mr. Trent’s card, smiling happily at him before remembering that his opaque eyes couldn’t see me.
“Are you going to be coming back on Thursday?”
“Yup. I’m here for every bingo game. Dad told the bus to drop me off here after school those days so I can help.”
“How nice—you’re such a sweet girl. I like talking to you.”
“You, too, Mrs. Harey.”
“B 11!”
“Bingo! Bingo for Mr. Trent! You won!”
Two days later I practically skipped into the nursing home, anxious to start knocking on doors and inviting people to bingo. Maybe I’d get to push a wheelchair or two this time—-that was always fun. My first stop was Mrs. Harey’s room, but when I got there, Dad was just leaving, carrying two large trash sacks of gaudy polyester clothing.
“Mrs. Harey’s not here anymore, Ann. Go on and find Mr. Trent, ok?”
“Where’d she go?”
My dad sighed. “She had to--go home.”
“Ok. Can I put my schoolbag in the workshop downstairs first? He always jerks on it as we walk down the hall.”
The tall man squatted a little and pulled the backpack off my shoulders. His name tag was heavily smudged with water stains and grease, his name and position of “Maintenance Supervisor” barely legible anymore.
“I’ll take it down for you. Have a good time, sweetie.”
~
It seemed appropriate that my first job at fifteen would be at the nursing home. As a dietary aide (kitchen help), I was given the pleasure of serving dinner to thirty to forty elderly men and women in each dining area. With all these residents placed under my care, it is a wonder that I was ever able to remember names, let alone establish relationships with them. There was a handful that I always knew well, a few for the irrational demands they made, others just because of who they are--bored older people with a need for attention and love. They have bad days sometimes, leaving staff frustrated, exhausted, and occasionally in sympathetic tears. Residents have likes and dislikes, fond memories and nightmares, cherished pictures, and days or months without visits from loved and not-so-loved ones. That never matters, though. Residents have “lived their lives.” Facing the inevitable downhill slide into death while virtually locked inside the brick and mortar building, they have to watch their caretakers grumble about sore feet, PTA meetings and dinner plans. There’s a special kind of jealousy in nursing homes, residents eyeing me from the windows of a public institution as I collect car keys to go to my private home. I drive by now, having left over five years ago, and still see faces watching me as they’ve watched the previous hundred cars, wondering who, where, why…and remembering.
~
“Don’t step there!”
I jerked my foot back behind the heavy steel cart laden with half-empty metal tins of ground gravy-smothered beef, canned carrots, and liquefying Jell-o. I raised my eyebrows at the charge nurse scurrying away after a woman with mountains of long white hair gathered in a messy bun put-putting down the hall. Sarah, the LPN, came up behind me.
“Ever hear of granny farts?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Alma’s got granny splurts.”
My eyes glanced at the puddle of gravy inches from my foot, a dozen more trailing to where the tall woman stood with her walker jammed against her room’s doorknob. It didn’t dawn on me until I noticed wadded white cloth that was definitely not a bib under the woman’s abandoned dining chair and flecks of green that were a day too early to appear in the meaty sauce.
“Who cleans that up?”
The nurse gave an eerie cackle worthy of an elderly witch as she pulled me by the hand to the service closet, my cart gaining momentum and crashing resoundingly into the water fountain.
~
You don’t just learn about biohazard spills as a nursing home employee. You learn about routine, about people who might be considered humans with rights—-some other day, some other place. What is “right” or “appropriate” fades under the weight of state regulations and the emotional strain. It would then often seem cruel that the community television is left tuned to the Lifetime channel, although compared to the CMT marathons the nurses like to watch, anything would be an improvement. There the female residents will sit, twirling wedding rings that connect them to long-dead husbands, blankly staring at a screen that shows the best, and worst, of a woman’s life. While the movies about abusive and homicidal exes seem just ludicrous enough not to be taken seriously, there is a serious mood change when the comedies begin to play. For these women, there is nothing left to laugh at. Every lighthearted moment reminds them of what they no longer have to offer, no longer can experience.
Unlike the utopia of The Golden Girls, most haven’t sought out and maintained close female friendships. Having made no alternate plans, blindly assuming they would stay married or live with their unwilling children forever, these women are trapped in an institution. It doesn’t matter how many times they stop us and say with the most innocent of Rose’s expressions, “Back home I didn’t have to wait this long for dinner. Back home I didn’t have to eat things I didn’t want. Back home I didn’t have to be ignored like this…” Our inner Dorothy gets frustrated quickly, wants to yell that this isn’t St. Olaf—-get in touch with reality already! They chose to be here, isolated and alone in a sea of the forgotten, by not looking ahead to these unavoidable days, preparing something-—anything. We can’t understand how they didn’t see this obvious turn of events coming. They can’t either.
~
Esther won a place in my heart, proving daily that I was a valuable employee. Cranky to the core, this lonely and depressed woman insisted, loudly, that no one cared for or loved her. She would sit, staring blankly with blind eyes at the stained ceiling tiles while lamenting her situation, resisting any attempt by the nurses to get her to take medication, move to the dining room, or wait patiently for her dinner. Before much of any shift had gone by, a page over the intercom would inevitably summon me to Esther’s side to “talk some sense into that crazy old bat.” I would sit next to her. Rub her hunched shoulders and rounded back. Assure her that I cared. As she was diabetic I would slip her sugar-free cookies I hoarded in the store room during snack time and find some textured pillow or quilt for her to trace her fingers over. This would quiet her until dinner. I made sure to deliver her tray personally to set up her favorite mashed potatoes without gravy and coffee with five sweeteners stirred gently in, knowing she would listen closely to the liquid sloshing in the cup. I was the only employee who had the “magic touch” with her. She was the only resident who would ever call me by name.
When Esther died, I came home from college for her funeral. She was hardly recognizable in the make-up and beautiful strands of pearls, surrounded by tearful family who had never visited her until now. I wondered if she knew all along that the next time she got “gussied up” and saw her loved ones would be while in a casket. I wondered if she truly enjoyed the last eight years of her life eating hydrated mashed potato flakes and sugarless cookies. Drinking coffee that was never “quite right.” I wondered why it was that she died unexpectedly just a week after I had quit—-and stopped. I couldn’t think that. I still can’t.
~
Not everyone is alone here. There are the odd married couples who were able to convince Medicare that staying together was worth the cost, but concerns about staff members accidentally interrupting a possible sex life sometimes keep these couples from living in the same room. After all, old people don’t need sex, no matter what Blanche might claim in her high Southern voice. They apparently don’t need that daily intimacy that carried them through their thirty, forty, fifty years of marriage, to feel their shared history carrying them together through the hard transition to institutional living. According to the administration, what they need are children to visit, bringing cards, flowers, candy, and the occasional new sweater or box of quilting supplies. A novel or two. Birdseed for the feeders hung outside windows. Intimacy exists only as a word in the manual regarding resident abuse—-something to be avoided at all costs. If a resident is lucky, perhaps her daughter or son will come regularly and take an active role in making sure more “wants” are met, desires granted—-to a point.
~
Purdy’s daughter. This woman was the chigger bite that put the itch in witch. She showed up precisely on time for every meal, her Chanel suit glinting in the minimum wage air. Nurses ignored her, grateful for one less mouth to feed, but the kitchen staff had to deal with her barrage of nonstop complaints. I would pull out the labeled containers from under the thick layer of circular ice chips: chocolate pudding, pureed pears, pureed beets, and a milk-soaked sugar cookie. Everything had to be labeled, scooped, and selected just right. Purdy’s daughter was not above a lavish temper tantrum full of insults and curses if even one container wasn’t the right color or had a sloppily-labeled cover. I had heard my share of tirades. So had Mrs. Purdy.
Smart black heels clacked on the waxed floor as she trotted back to her ever-silent mother, the nearly comatose woman rarely even blinking in acknowledgement of the temperature-specific meal or her daughter’s gossipy banter attacking every person they knew. I had been told that Mrs. Purdy had been a great philanthropist and community volunteer in her day. A woman who served in preschools with a firm yet loving hand. I wondered if somehow after months of having every meal served with a dose of verbal arsenic that Mrs. Purdy didn’t wish she could raise her atrophied hand and smack the Maybelline right off that Botox-perfect face. But she didn’t. Mrs. Purdy understood something about feeling helpless—-being a vegetable would do that to you. Her daughter was just as powerless, reluctantly aware that demanding chocolate pudding instead of lemon or vanilla meant nothing. Every spoonful of barley cereal dribbling from silent lips proclaimed that “health and wellbeing” was a subjective term, that money couldn’t soothe the ache in her heart. The aged hand laid ever still, comforting the daughter silently crying under the cover of hatred.
~
I first met Ruthie when I was six years old, walking hand-in-hand with my father to see his new workplace at the local nursing home. Upon spotting my father, Ruthie cried out, “There’s my husband! Did you bring my little boy with you?” Dad told me not to mind her and kept walking. That night when I returned home, my mother got an earful. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy has another wife at work and she thinks I’m her son!” I was too young to understand dementia, so my mother said that she was crazy--her standard term for any behavior from making meringue from scratch to doing the Macarena. When I started to work at the nursing home, however, I realized that Ruthie’s behavior couldn’t be summed up as “crazy.”
Many nurses told me that Ruthie had gone insane after teaching kindergarten for forty years. I figured it was just a fantastical sort of Alzheimer’s. She called everyone taller than five feet her husband and any children were immediately claimed as her son. She played the piano sometimes, usually jazzy scales and peppy versions of “Yankee Doodle” that she had taught in her younger years, but as time went on she seemed oblivious that the piano had never moved from the corner and instead mimed her masterpieces on the tabletop. Addicted to mashed potatoes, gravy, and bananas, Ruthie would mush them together, eat most of the mess and fling the rest at whoever was currently annoying her (usually Esther). Ruthie’s biggest quirk, however, was her husband. While no one truly knew what happened to the man, she insisted repeatedly every day that she had killed him. New families would come to visit their recently admitted grandparent, walk by Ruthie, and be told by a woman with this Silence of the Lambs grin, “I killed my husband.”
Although she was certain that she was a murderess, Ruthie was quite confused on how she did it. Her methods changed nearly hourly, drawing from the same fifteen scenarios: she put him through the meat grinder, knocked him down the well, beheaded him with a nail file, stabbed him in the stomach, threw him off a mountain, strangled him with his tie, hung him from the ceiling fan, ground him in the meat grinder then threw the pieces down the well, poisoned his mashed potatoes, ran him over with a truck, shot him in the head, shot him in the back, clubbed him with the shotgun after shooting him, had her lover dispose of him, or fed him to the dog/bear/bobcat/goldfish. She pulled out the goldfish story most often when she was playing unknown games with an incomplete deck of cards while a staff member nervously fed the tank of giant goldfish in the corner. It was hardly professional, but I couldn’t help but laugh at her antics and the disquieted visitors scurrying frantically in the opposite direction.
~
Not everyone can handle family even under the best of circumstances. While I feel angry for those who were left behind, forgotten amid a plethora of job responsibilities, little league games, and homework assignments, I can’t really blame families for wanting to avoid this place. I can’t blame the residents who try to escape one way or another. There were many days when if I hadn’t had to come, I wouldn’t have.
After quitting the job at the nursing home, I would avoid that brick building like the plague. It is mortality at its worst. It is the last resort. It is just as bad as Sophia feared, her Shady Pines. The eventual breaking down of personalities under the stresses of being locked up 24/7 for having committed no other crime than just living beyond usefulness never stays entertaining for long. Under the sheen of craziness lurks the sort of depression that is avoidable yet ignored—-that couldn’t possibly happen to me. But it will. The aging process will take its toll on my parents and on myself. We will, someday, be Esther. Mrs. Purdy. Alma. Ruthie. The difference will be only that we have all agreed that none of us will ever be placed in a nursing home. We will find friends, family, somebody to share our last years, care for us as we care for them. We will be prepared. That choice alone will save us.
***Essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
I wasn’t sure who was more excited—-Mrs. Harey that she finally won a game or me for being able to collect her prize for her. I picked up a blemish-free banana from the tray of goodies, eagerly eyeing the fun-sized candies that my charge couldn’t have with her diabetes. The activities director, Donna, mouthed “later” in my direction before pulling a new stamped ball out of the gold cage.
“B 7!”
I handed the fruit prize to Mrs. Harey, clearing her card with one hand while hurriedly scanning the card belonging to the ever-silent Mr. Trent. No luck for him.
“What’s your name again, dearie?”
“Ann.”
“I have a grandson about your age. Haven’t seen him in forever.”
“O 62!” I placed another marker on Mr. Trent’s card, smiling happily at him before remembering that his opaque eyes couldn’t see me.
“Are you going to be coming back on Thursday?”
“Yup. I’m here for every bingo game. Dad told the bus to drop me off here after school those days so I can help.”
“How nice—you’re such a sweet girl. I like talking to you.”
“You, too, Mrs. Harey.”
“B 11!”
“Bingo! Bingo for Mr. Trent! You won!”
Two days later I practically skipped into the nursing home, anxious to start knocking on doors and inviting people to bingo. Maybe I’d get to push a wheelchair or two this time—-that was always fun. My first stop was Mrs. Harey’s room, but when I got there, Dad was just leaving, carrying two large trash sacks of gaudy polyester clothing.
“Mrs. Harey’s not here anymore, Ann. Go on and find Mr. Trent, ok?”
“Where’d she go?”
My dad sighed. “She had to--go home.”
“Ok. Can I put my schoolbag in the workshop downstairs first? He always jerks on it as we walk down the hall.”
The tall man squatted a little and pulled the backpack off my shoulders. His name tag was heavily smudged with water stains and grease, his name and position of “Maintenance Supervisor” barely legible anymore.
“I’ll take it down for you. Have a good time, sweetie.”
~
It seemed appropriate that my first job at fifteen would be at the nursing home. As a dietary aide (kitchen help), I was given the pleasure of serving dinner to thirty to forty elderly men and women in each dining area. With all these residents placed under my care, it is a wonder that I was ever able to remember names, let alone establish relationships with them. There was a handful that I always knew well, a few for the irrational demands they made, others just because of who they are--bored older people with a need for attention and love. They have bad days sometimes, leaving staff frustrated, exhausted, and occasionally in sympathetic tears. Residents have likes and dislikes, fond memories and nightmares, cherished pictures, and days or months without visits from loved and not-so-loved ones. That never matters, though. Residents have “lived their lives.” Facing the inevitable downhill slide into death while virtually locked inside the brick and mortar building, they have to watch their caretakers grumble about sore feet, PTA meetings and dinner plans. There’s a special kind of jealousy in nursing homes, residents eyeing me from the windows of a public institution as I collect car keys to go to my private home. I drive by now, having left over five years ago, and still see faces watching me as they’ve watched the previous hundred cars, wondering who, where, why…and remembering.
~
“Don’t step there!”
I jerked my foot back behind the heavy steel cart laden with half-empty metal tins of ground gravy-smothered beef, canned carrots, and liquefying Jell-o. I raised my eyebrows at the charge nurse scurrying away after a woman with mountains of long white hair gathered in a messy bun put-putting down the hall. Sarah, the LPN, came up behind me.
“Ever hear of granny farts?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Alma’s got granny splurts.”
My eyes glanced at the puddle of gravy inches from my foot, a dozen more trailing to where the tall woman stood with her walker jammed against her room’s doorknob. It didn’t dawn on me until I noticed wadded white cloth that was definitely not a bib under the woman’s abandoned dining chair and flecks of green that were a day too early to appear in the meaty sauce.
“Who cleans that up?”
The nurse gave an eerie cackle worthy of an elderly witch as she pulled me by the hand to the service closet, my cart gaining momentum and crashing resoundingly into the water fountain.
~
You don’t just learn about biohazard spills as a nursing home employee. You learn about routine, about people who might be considered humans with rights—-some other day, some other place. What is “right” or “appropriate” fades under the weight of state regulations and the emotional strain. It would then often seem cruel that the community television is left tuned to the Lifetime channel, although compared to the CMT marathons the nurses like to watch, anything would be an improvement. There the female residents will sit, twirling wedding rings that connect them to long-dead husbands, blankly staring at a screen that shows the best, and worst, of a woman’s life. While the movies about abusive and homicidal exes seem just ludicrous enough not to be taken seriously, there is a serious mood change when the comedies begin to play. For these women, there is nothing left to laugh at. Every lighthearted moment reminds them of what they no longer have to offer, no longer can experience.
Unlike the utopia of The Golden Girls, most haven’t sought out and maintained close female friendships. Having made no alternate plans, blindly assuming they would stay married or live with their unwilling children forever, these women are trapped in an institution. It doesn’t matter how many times they stop us and say with the most innocent of Rose’s expressions, “Back home I didn’t have to wait this long for dinner. Back home I didn’t have to eat things I didn’t want. Back home I didn’t have to be ignored like this…” Our inner Dorothy gets frustrated quickly, wants to yell that this isn’t St. Olaf—-get in touch with reality already! They chose to be here, isolated and alone in a sea of the forgotten, by not looking ahead to these unavoidable days, preparing something-—anything. We can’t understand how they didn’t see this obvious turn of events coming. They can’t either.
~
Esther won a place in my heart, proving daily that I was a valuable employee. Cranky to the core, this lonely and depressed woman insisted, loudly, that no one cared for or loved her. She would sit, staring blankly with blind eyes at the stained ceiling tiles while lamenting her situation, resisting any attempt by the nurses to get her to take medication, move to the dining room, or wait patiently for her dinner. Before much of any shift had gone by, a page over the intercom would inevitably summon me to Esther’s side to “talk some sense into that crazy old bat.” I would sit next to her. Rub her hunched shoulders and rounded back. Assure her that I cared. As she was diabetic I would slip her sugar-free cookies I hoarded in the store room during snack time and find some textured pillow or quilt for her to trace her fingers over. This would quiet her until dinner. I made sure to deliver her tray personally to set up her favorite mashed potatoes without gravy and coffee with five sweeteners stirred gently in, knowing she would listen closely to the liquid sloshing in the cup. I was the only employee who had the “magic touch” with her. She was the only resident who would ever call me by name.
When Esther died, I came home from college for her funeral. She was hardly recognizable in the make-up and beautiful strands of pearls, surrounded by tearful family who had never visited her until now. I wondered if she knew all along that the next time she got “gussied up” and saw her loved ones would be while in a casket. I wondered if she truly enjoyed the last eight years of her life eating hydrated mashed potato flakes and sugarless cookies. Drinking coffee that was never “quite right.” I wondered why it was that she died unexpectedly just a week after I had quit—-and stopped. I couldn’t think that. I still can’t.
~
Not everyone is alone here. There are the odd married couples who were able to convince Medicare that staying together was worth the cost, but concerns about staff members accidentally interrupting a possible sex life sometimes keep these couples from living in the same room. After all, old people don’t need sex, no matter what Blanche might claim in her high Southern voice. They apparently don’t need that daily intimacy that carried them through their thirty, forty, fifty years of marriage, to feel their shared history carrying them together through the hard transition to institutional living. According to the administration, what they need are children to visit, bringing cards, flowers, candy, and the occasional new sweater or box of quilting supplies. A novel or two. Birdseed for the feeders hung outside windows. Intimacy exists only as a word in the manual regarding resident abuse—-something to be avoided at all costs. If a resident is lucky, perhaps her daughter or son will come regularly and take an active role in making sure more “wants” are met, desires granted—-to a point.
~
Purdy’s daughter. This woman was the chigger bite that put the itch in witch. She showed up precisely on time for every meal, her Chanel suit glinting in the minimum wage air. Nurses ignored her, grateful for one less mouth to feed, but the kitchen staff had to deal with her barrage of nonstop complaints. I would pull out the labeled containers from under the thick layer of circular ice chips: chocolate pudding, pureed pears, pureed beets, and a milk-soaked sugar cookie. Everything had to be labeled, scooped, and selected just right. Purdy’s daughter was not above a lavish temper tantrum full of insults and curses if even one container wasn’t the right color or had a sloppily-labeled cover. I had heard my share of tirades. So had Mrs. Purdy.
Smart black heels clacked on the waxed floor as she trotted back to her ever-silent mother, the nearly comatose woman rarely even blinking in acknowledgement of the temperature-specific meal or her daughter’s gossipy banter attacking every person they knew. I had been told that Mrs. Purdy had been a great philanthropist and community volunteer in her day. A woman who served in preschools with a firm yet loving hand. I wondered if somehow after months of having every meal served with a dose of verbal arsenic that Mrs. Purdy didn’t wish she could raise her atrophied hand and smack the Maybelline right off that Botox-perfect face. But she didn’t. Mrs. Purdy understood something about feeling helpless—-being a vegetable would do that to you. Her daughter was just as powerless, reluctantly aware that demanding chocolate pudding instead of lemon or vanilla meant nothing. Every spoonful of barley cereal dribbling from silent lips proclaimed that “health and wellbeing” was a subjective term, that money couldn’t soothe the ache in her heart. The aged hand laid ever still, comforting the daughter silently crying under the cover of hatred.
~
I first met Ruthie when I was six years old, walking hand-in-hand with my father to see his new workplace at the local nursing home. Upon spotting my father, Ruthie cried out, “There’s my husband! Did you bring my little boy with you?” Dad told me not to mind her and kept walking. That night when I returned home, my mother got an earful. “Mommy, Mommy! Daddy has another wife at work and she thinks I’m her son!” I was too young to understand dementia, so my mother said that she was crazy--her standard term for any behavior from making meringue from scratch to doing the Macarena. When I started to work at the nursing home, however, I realized that Ruthie’s behavior couldn’t be summed up as “crazy.”
Many nurses told me that Ruthie had gone insane after teaching kindergarten for forty years. I figured it was just a fantastical sort of Alzheimer’s. She called everyone taller than five feet her husband and any children were immediately claimed as her son. She played the piano sometimes, usually jazzy scales and peppy versions of “Yankee Doodle” that she had taught in her younger years, but as time went on she seemed oblivious that the piano had never moved from the corner and instead mimed her masterpieces on the tabletop. Addicted to mashed potatoes, gravy, and bananas, Ruthie would mush them together, eat most of the mess and fling the rest at whoever was currently annoying her (usually Esther). Ruthie’s biggest quirk, however, was her husband. While no one truly knew what happened to the man, she insisted repeatedly every day that she had killed him. New families would come to visit their recently admitted grandparent, walk by Ruthie, and be told by a woman with this Silence of the Lambs grin, “I killed my husband.”
Although she was certain that she was a murderess, Ruthie was quite confused on how she did it. Her methods changed nearly hourly, drawing from the same fifteen scenarios: she put him through the meat grinder, knocked him down the well, beheaded him with a nail file, stabbed him in the stomach, threw him off a mountain, strangled him with his tie, hung him from the ceiling fan, ground him in the meat grinder then threw the pieces down the well, poisoned his mashed potatoes, ran him over with a truck, shot him in the head, shot him in the back, clubbed him with the shotgun after shooting him, had her lover dispose of him, or fed him to the dog/bear/bobcat/goldfish. She pulled out the goldfish story most often when she was playing unknown games with an incomplete deck of cards while a staff member nervously fed the tank of giant goldfish in the corner. It was hardly professional, but I couldn’t help but laugh at her antics and the disquieted visitors scurrying frantically in the opposite direction.
~
Not everyone can handle family even under the best of circumstances. While I feel angry for those who were left behind, forgotten amid a plethora of job responsibilities, little league games, and homework assignments, I can’t really blame families for wanting to avoid this place. I can’t blame the residents who try to escape one way or another. There were many days when if I hadn’t had to come, I wouldn’t have.
After quitting the job at the nursing home, I would avoid that brick building like the plague. It is mortality at its worst. It is the last resort. It is just as bad as Sophia feared, her Shady Pines. The eventual breaking down of personalities under the stresses of being locked up 24/7 for having committed no other crime than just living beyond usefulness never stays entertaining for long. Under the sheen of craziness lurks the sort of depression that is avoidable yet ignored—-that couldn’t possibly happen to me. But it will. The aging process will take its toll on my parents and on myself. We will, someday, be Esther. Mrs. Purdy. Alma. Ruthie. The difference will be only that we have all agreed that none of us will ever be placed in a nursing home. We will find friends, family, somebody to share our last years, care for us as we care for them. We will be prepared. That choice alone will save us.
***Essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
The Casualties of Happy Marriages
My fingernails had been methodically breaking the thin pizza crust into dusty particles for over half an hour, the pile of massacred overbaked dough reaching three inches high before my dining companion realized that she had to leave for work. After scowling at me for paying for her meal while she was in the bathroom, she gave me a quick hug before turning to run down the cracked sidewalk.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you!”
The endearment took me completely off guard.
“Um, ‘love you’?”
“Yeah! Didn’t anyone explain this to you? (Shake head.) You’re my sister in Christ and therefore family, right? (Nod.) Well, family members say they love each other, right? (Nod.) Well, I love you like a sister, and therefore I can say I love you and vice versa, okay?”
She flounced off down the sidewalk, leaving me surrounded by our shattered boundary. I had been a Christian for nearly two decades and while the term “sibling-in-Christ” had been thrown around more than the incessant pleas for tithes, the magnitude of what exactly this entailed had never crossed my mind. There was nothing quite like going from being the younger of two sisters to one of thousands, possibly millions. I eventually adjusted to that change in the definition of “family.” Now I was expected, or at least allowed, to declare my deep affection for all of them at every good-bye.
“I love you.” Prior to this luncheon that had been a phrase reserved for just a few people: Mom and Dad, my biological sister, Grandma on our annual visit, and a few scattered aunts and uncles. Now I’d been pulled into an apparently more affectionate family, with female Christian friends added onto my list of loved ones. At first glance it isn’t that bad of a deal – all the sentiment with none of the germ transmission or genetics. After all, they are family, right?
Just like any family with children, though, sibling rivalry takes a toll on our relationship. The big problem with spiritual sisters comes when these sisters of mine start attaching themselves to my brothers-in-Christ and I end up with brothers-in-Christ-in-law. It’s a peculiar form of incest that doesn’t truly seem to bother anyone. “Marry your brother-in-Christ, you say? Well, how wonderful! Do you need a blender? Cake pan? Laundry basket filled with cleaning supplies?” (No gender role assignment there.)
When the little metal loop slides onto that fateful finger, this sister who loved me morphs into a distracted semi-friend with no time for affection anymore. The second I jumped into the “I love you” pool, everyone else bailed out. Married Christian women in their early twenties is quickly becoming a clique that will bring you back to junior high faster than those horrible fashions find their way back onto the shelves. It was bad enough being told that at the ripe old age of eighteen, I was the only remaining member of my graduating high school class who was a virgin and did not have a husband, lover, or illegitimate child. Now the God-fearing ladies from my liberal-arts college, who encouraged me to develop my personality and interests, are “finally” waving farewell to the tempestuous land of singledom. Their abandonment of me is apparently justified by pointing out that I, single, “don’t understand anymore.” Exactly my point, ladies, exactly my point.
I fully admit that there are many things I don’t understand about married women. I don’t understand why having a belching, farting man grinning with morning breath strong enough to peel the paint off your precious four-poster bed means you no longer want to have sleepovers. I don’t understand that pesky little “down-there” infection you got over your honeymoon that still makes you nervous on the fourth night in a row. I don’t understand the joys and annoyances of having to fold his underwear only to find you’ve cleaned the same pair twice without him wearing them once. Of course you can’t come over for dinner. Leave that man alone long enough and he’ll look at Bertie the Beta fish thinking “sushi.” There are no more calls at two a.m. when you can’t sleep and want someone to help you talk out the thing that’s bugging you. It’s so much easier just to kick him in the side and make him listen. I used to curl up with you on the couch, braid your hair, and remark on your great choices in shampoo and perfume. There was skipping around the square and nearly killing ourselves tripping in the flip-flops that were such a bargain. You’re right, I don’t understand. I’m an old maid in my mid-twenties and you have “moved on.”
I look around at the scattered remains of our loving sisterhood and wonder out loud, “What happened to you?” The answer is actually quite simple. I see it when I consider the first girl to tell me she loved me, now my filing-jointly-on-her-tax-forms semi-friend. Her soul is meshed, bonded, a part of his, no longer just her own. They are one, and for her it’s not the loneliest number. With togetherness does come conflict—-little disagreements and differences in opinion between husband and wife hurt more than most people realize…well, us “single people.” Married folk have to sacrifice everything: privacy, secrets, those little habits that she never noticed before but which annoy her partner to no end. She can’t hold things to herself for long in a marriage without causing big problems. She can't just ignore the guy for a few days, hoping he’ll never contact her again or “get the hint.” She probably has “house-training” to add on to her already huge to-do list unless he had sisters and a fairly non-neurotic mother to lay down the groundwork. It’s like having a puppy around, only bigger, hungrier, and hopefully much sexier. I’m the Persian rug that was oh-so-valuable, now stashed in the closet until the little dog is no longer around. We just don’t mix.
When the husband is away, however, the yin to the yang gets lonely. Her memory bombards her with fuzzy pictures of laughing faces, late-night talks, and bonding that had nothing to do with romantic love. For the past few months (or years) she has been concerned with retirement funds, birth control, cooking for two, and budgeting—-not exactly compatible with my extensive student loans, DVD collection, celibacy, and adventurous spirit. Still, I agree when a voice echoes nostalgically over the line. “You want to do something tonight? My hubby's gone and...I just want to hang out.”
I head over with a few movie rentals and a bag of homemade goodies. Standing back to look at the woman I haven’t seen in a few seasons, it hits me with a jolt that while she is still my spiritual sister, the chasm of the flower-bedecked aisle is just too great and permanent to be crossed. I barely even recognize her. I put on a happy face to save her feelings as she tries to entertain me with stories of housework that bore me and hints at sexual escapades that teeter between embarrassing and nauseating. Next are the stresses of struggling to budget money for both food and insurance, arguments over past loves coming over to visit, tales of the in-laws, and having to ask before spending money on new shoes she wanted “just because.” It’s here on an uncomfortable second-hand couch in a cluttered living room that I realize a bigger force separating us. Pity. I look at her loss of freedom, financial difficulties, and adjustments to constant teamwork much the way she looks at my uncertain future plans, longing for love, and loneliness. One’s cure is the other’s curse.
My brother-in-Christ-in-law returns home the next day. I call after a week of silence only to find the housewife reluctant to leave her love. She’s busy. It’s their date night. He needs her. She’s tired. Months stretch on and I give up on another casualty of the Lord of the diamond-chip rings. With her mate and nuclear family back in place, she is reminded of her responsibilities to her own-—that it is immature for a married woman to be laughing a little too loud with unmarried friends, watching cheesy 90s television on DVD, and eating handfuls of gooey treats that will surely expand her waistline. I know she has other married friends who are probably better company for her as they do understand the status-specific issues, but I still feel left out as if this was the line-up for kickball and once again nobody wants me on their team.
Flashbacks don’t help this emotional confusion. Being the only person stag at my junior prom. Faking migraines to get out of “third wheel” moments. Knowing the only man waiting for me in my bed tonight is five years old, covered with fur and has Meow Mix breath. As much as I would hate losing much of my independence and my individual identity, I still want what she has. Someone to dance with me. Someone to massage my feet after a very long day at work. Someone to hold me and stroke my hair when I’m needing comfort. Someone to curl up with during a movie fest. Someone to tell me that I’m beautiful. Someone to blame the latest blast of flatulence on besides the cat. Someone to go on double dates with me and my married sisters-in-Christ.
I toed the cracks in the sidewalk, taking my time walking to my car as the lackluster pizza slowly dissolved in a churning stomach. This hesitation to say such a tiny phrase didn’t make sense. Was it a spiritual thing? No, because Christ did tell everyone that He loved them, especially the church—He even died for everyone. Why was I having such difficulties uttering three simple words like every stereotypical non-committal man? Perhaps my heart knew that when I allowed the creation of the emotional bond that comes with those honestly-spoken words, it would hurt even worse when her engagement turned into marriage later that year. Perhaps it knew that my sister/lover-in-Christ would be just like all the others who forget what it was like to be “single and waiting” much like parents forget what it was like to be “teenaged and hormonal.” Perhaps it knew that a year later I would be sitting in that booth, alone, writing in my journal and crumbling dry, floury crust into a funeral mound built for two.
***This essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
“I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Love you!”
The endearment took me completely off guard.
“Um, ‘love you’?”
“Yeah! Didn’t anyone explain this to you? (Shake head.) You’re my sister in Christ and therefore family, right? (Nod.) Well, family members say they love each other, right? (Nod.) Well, I love you like a sister, and therefore I can say I love you and vice versa, okay?”
She flounced off down the sidewalk, leaving me surrounded by our shattered boundary. I had been a Christian for nearly two decades and while the term “sibling-in-Christ” had been thrown around more than the incessant pleas for tithes, the magnitude of what exactly this entailed had never crossed my mind. There was nothing quite like going from being the younger of two sisters to one of thousands, possibly millions. I eventually adjusted to that change in the definition of “family.” Now I was expected, or at least allowed, to declare my deep affection for all of them at every good-bye.
“I love you.” Prior to this luncheon that had been a phrase reserved for just a few people: Mom and Dad, my biological sister, Grandma on our annual visit, and a few scattered aunts and uncles. Now I’d been pulled into an apparently more affectionate family, with female Christian friends added onto my list of loved ones. At first glance it isn’t that bad of a deal – all the sentiment with none of the germ transmission or genetics. After all, they are family, right?
Just like any family with children, though, sibling rivalry takes a toll on our relationship. The big problem with spiritual sisters comes when these sisters of mine start attaching themselves to my brothers-in-Christ and I end up with brothers-in-Christ-in-law. It’s a peculiar form of incest that doesn’t truly seem to bother anyone. “Marry your brother-in-Christ, you say? Well, how wonderful! Do you need a blender? Cake pan? Laundry basket filled with cleaning supplies?” (No gender role assignment there.)
When the little metal loop slides onto that fateful finger, this sister who loved me morphs into a distracted semi-friend with no time for affection anymore. The second I jumped into the “I love you” pool, everyone else bailed out. Married Christian women in their early twenties is quickly becoming a clique that will bring you back to junior high faster than those horrible fashions find their way back onto the shelves. It was bad enough being told that at the ripe old age of eighteen, I was the only remaining member of my graduating high school class who was a virgin and did not have a husband, lover, or illegitimate child. Now the God-fearing ladies from my liberal-arts college, who encouraged me to develop my personality and interests, are “finally” waving farewell to the tempestuous land of singledom. Their abandonment of me is apparently justified by pointing out that I, single, “don’t understand anymore.” Exactly my point, ladies, exactly my point.
I fully admit that there are many things I don’t understand about married women. I don’t understand why having a belching, farting man grinning with morning breath strong enough to peel the paint off your precious four-poster bed means you no longer want to have sleepovers. I don’t understand that pesky little “down-there” infection you got over your honeymoon that still makes you nervous on the fourth night in a row. I don’t understand the joys and annoyances of having to fold his underwear only to find you’ve cleaned the same pair twice without him wearing them once. Of course you can’t come over for dinner. Leave that man alone long enough and he’ll look at Bertie the Beta fish thinking “sushi.” There are no more calls at two a.m. when you can’t sleep and want someone to help you talk out the thing that’s bugging you. It’s so much easier just to kick him in the side and make him listen. I used to curl up with you on the couch, braid your hair, and remark on your great choices in shampoo and perfume. There was skipping around the square and nearly killing ourselves tripping in the flip-flops that were such a bargain. You’re right, I don’t understand. I’m an old maid in my mid-twenties and you have “moved on.”
I look around at the scattered remains of our loving sisterhood and wonder out loud, “What happened to you?” The answer is actually quite simple. I see it when I consider the first girl to tell me she loved me, now my filing-jointly-on-her-tax-forms semi-friend. Her soul is meshed, bonded, a part of his, no longer just her own. They are one, and for her it’s not the loneliest number. With togetherness does come conflict—-little disagreements and differences in opinion between husband and wife hurt more than most people realize…well, us “single people.” Married folk have to sacrifice everything: privacy, secrets, those little habits that she never noticed before but which annoy her partner to no end. She can’t hold things to herself for long in a marriage without causing big problems. She can't just ignore the guy for a few days, hoping he’ll never contact her again or “get the hint.” She probably has “house-training” to add on to her already huge to-do list unless he had sisters and a fairly non-neurotic mother to lay down the groundwork. It’s like having a puppy around, only bigger, hungrier, and hopefully much sexier. I’m the Persian rug that was oh-so-valuable, now stashed in the closet until the little dog is no longer around. We just don’t mix.
When the husband is away, however, the yin to the yang gets lonely. Her memory bombards her with fuzzy pictures of laughing faces, late-night talks, and bonding that had nothing to do with romantic love. For the past few months (or years) she has been concerned with retirement funds, birth control, cooking for two, and budgeting—-not exactly compatible with my extensive student loans, DVD collection, celibacy, and adventurous spirit. Still, I agree when a voice echoes nostalgically over the line. “You want to do something tonight? My hubby's gone and...I just want to hang out.”
I head over with a few movie rentals and a bag of homemade goodies. Standing back to look at the woman I haven’t seen in a few seasons, it hits me with a jolt that while she is still my spiritual sister, the chasm of the flower-bedecked aisle is just too great and permanent to be crossed. I barely even recognize her. I put on a happy face to save her feelings as she tries to entertain me with stories of housework that bore me and hints at sexual escapades that teeter between embarrassing and nauseating. Next are the stresses of struggling to budget money for both food and insurance, arguments over past loves coming over to visit, tales of the in-laws, and having to ask before spending money on new shoes she wanted “just because.” It’s here on an uncomfortable second-hand couch in a cluttered living room that I realize a bigger force separating us. Pity. I look at her loss of freedom, financial difficulties, and adjustments to constant teamwork much the way she looks at my uncertain future plans, longing for love, and loneliness. One’s cure is the other’s curse.
My brother-in-Christ-in-law returns home the next day. I call after a week of silence only to find the housewife reluctant to leave her love. She’s busy. It’s their date night. He needs her. She’s tired. Months stretch on and I give up on another casualty of the Lord of the diamond-chip rings. With her mate and nuclear family back in place, she is reminded of her responsibilities to her own-—that it is immature for a married woman to be laughing a little too loud with unmarried friends, watching cheesy 90s television on DVD, and eating handfuls of gooey treats that will surely expand her waistline. I know she has other married friends who are probably better company for her as they do understand the status-specific issues, but I still feel left out as if this was the line-up for kickball and once again nobody wants me on their team.
Flashbacks don’t help this emotional confusion. Being the only person stag at my junior prom. Faking migraines to get out of “third wheel” moments. Knowing the only man waiting for me in my bed tonight is five years old, covered with fur and has Meow Mix breath. As much as I would hate losing much of my independence and my individual identity, I still want what she has. Someone to dance with me. Someone to massage my feet after a very long day at work. Someone to hold me and stroke my hair when I’m needing comfort. Someone to curl up with during a movie fest. Someone to tell me that I’m beautiful. Someone to blame the latest blast of flatulence on besides the cat. Someone to go on double dates with me and my married sisters-in-Christ.
I toed the cracks in the sidewalk, taking my time walking to my car as the lackluster pizza slowly dissolved in a churning stomach. This hesitation to say such a tiny phrase didn’t make sense. Was it a spiritual thing? No, because Christ did tell everyone that He loved them, especially the church—He even died for everyone. Why was I having such difficulties uttering three simple words like every stereotypical non-committal man? Perhaps my heart knew that when I allowed the creation of the emotional bond that comes with those honestly-spoken words, it would hurt even worse when her engagement turned into marriage later that year. Perhaps it knew that my sister/lover-in-Christ would be just like all the others who forget what it was like to be “single and waiting” much like parents forget what it was like to be “teenaged and hormonal.” Perhaps it knew that a year later I would be sitting in that booth, alone, writing in my journal and crumbling dry, floury crust into a funeral mound built for two.
***This essay is the property of the author. Please respect my rights to my work.
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