Tomorrow will be June, the month of weddings. It's the month of summer that holds all of its promise with no hint of its brevity.
Let's see, what's been happening in the Indiana household?
I keep wringing pool water out of the end of my braid.
I have the vacuum out, with the expectation that sooner or later I will actually put it to use.
I continue on with both stories. When I become exhausted by Gilly, I can switch to Phillipa. (I must like the double ll in names, though I didn't do that consciously.) Phillipa is much more fun. She is newly endowed with all of Ceallach's (ha! there's another one. I'll have to remember not to do that in my next story) savings, which he left for her to find, and which are ample.
So now, she's well adjusted, pregnant and rich. Who wouldn't want to be her? She's busy restoring Ceallach's three hundred year old, granite, Colonial Georgian house, which includes putting in plumbing and a top of the line, industrial generator so she can have hot water.
She's one powerful dame. And she's got a tan, too.
Gilly, on the other hand... poor Gilly. Actually, poor Tenshio. His attempts to deal with the child range from adorable to ludicrous. He has no idea what he's doing. He thinks God must be punishing him.
Despite his missteps, Gilly is being well cared for and is on the path to healing. Even though right now, it would not appear that way.
I have to take something out of the freezer for dinner.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Saturday, May 28, 2011
May 28th
I couldn't log onto my blog for the past two days. I was starting to get a little panicky there for a bit. It's a weird feeling, not being able to reach the usual seat behind the curtain.
Keith and I are going riding today. We're going to try out a riding park that we have to pay to get in. It makes me long for Colorado, and its miles and miles of free trail that ran along the Rockies.
It rained and the pool turned the most vivid shade of green I've ever seen. The pool company told us it was because of the sulphur in the rain. They dropped some powerful chemicals in there and within hours it was clearing up, but too deadly to swim in.
We were out there til eight thirty last night, which is when the sun finally set behind the tall, stately pines that shield the pool toward the west and north. We sat out there in damp bathing suits, eating brats with forks and our fingers.
I have finished all the re writing that was necessary on Torii and now must take up where I'd left off, start pushing the story forward in its new direction.
Keith's head keeps popping up from behind the couch, revealing his beguiling grin and beckoning finger, so my blogging keeps getting interrupted.
I have three pictures of myself as a little girl propped up on my desk, to help me remember what it's like to be so young. I think that she will be about five when he first comes, and about eight when he returns. Maybe one day I'll write a story which doesn't draw so directly from my own personal experiences, but who knows? When Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who had survived their childhood had enough material to write for the rest of his or her life, he was not kidding.
When I was looking that quote up, I came across this one, which is awesome:
Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
-- E.L. Doctorow
So very true.
My ideas on world construction keep evolving. I think the spirit realm will be flat and ringed by mountains beyond the seas. At the four compass points are the four mouths of the wind. Then, I think the shadow form of the Himalayas, or Mt. Everest to be exact, will be where the Ishi no Torii is, and the gate into the underworld will be in the Mariana trench.
I think maybe using the shadow form of actual geography on the Mirror plains is more interesting and will make for a more varied sort of journey. I can actually chart their journey out and then transform what it truly there into what it would be in the spirit realm. Also, all the daemons can live on the mountain ring.
This is useful to me because I have pretty much decided that Gilly will not be returning to the mortal world. Tenshio will send her to school at a nunnery, a plan Gilly will buck like hell, but that will be to no avail, when the time comes. The Abbess will be a daemon of Tenshio's acquaintance. She'll run a peaceful nunnery in some pastoral mountain valley, where other young daemon girls go to be educated, as well as human ghosts who need to recover from emotional wounds. So it will be a very interesting class composition, and Gilly will like it, after a while.
Keith is up and about. I'd better get ready for our trip. I have a cooler to pack.
Keith and I are going riding today. We're going to try out a riding park that we have to pay to get in. It makes me long for Colorado, and its miles and miles of free trail that ran along the Rockies.
It rained and the pool turned the most vivid shade of green I've ever seen. The pool company told us it was because of the sulphur in the rain. They dropped some powerful chemicals in there and within hours it was clearing up, but too deadly to swim in.
We were out there til eight thirty last night, which is when the sun finally set behind the tall, stately pines that shield the pool toward the west and north. We sat out there in damp bathing suits, eating brats with forks and our fingers.
I have finished all the re writing that was necessary on Torii and now must take up where I'd left off, start pushing the story forward in its new direction.
Keith's head keeps popping up from behind the couch, revealing his beguiling grin and beckoning finger, so my blogging keeps getting interrupted.
I have three pictures of myself as a little girl propped up on my desk, to help me remember what it's like to be so young. I think that she will be about five when he first comes, and about eight when he returns. Maybe one day I'll write a story which doesn't draw so directly from my own personal experiences, but who knows? When Flannery O'Connor said that anyone who had survived their childhood had enough material to write for the rest of his or her life, he was not kidding.
When I was looking that quote up, I came across this one, which is awesome:
Writing a novel is like driving a car at night. You can see only as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
-- E.L. Doctorow
So very true.
My ideas on world construction keep evolving. I think the spirit realm will be flat and ringed by mountains beyond the seas. At the four compass points are the four mouths of the wind. Then, I think the shadow form of the Himalayas, or Mt. Everest to be exact, will be where the Ishi no Torii is, and the gate into the underworld will be in the Mariana trench.
I think maybe using the shadow form of actual geography on the Mirror plains is more interesting and will make for a more varied sort of journey. I can actually chart their journey out and then transform what it truly there into what it would be in the spirit realm. Also, all the daemons can live on the mountain ring.
This is useful to me because I have pretty much decided that Gilly will not be returning to the mortal world. Tenshio will send her to school at a nunnery, a plan Gilly will buck like hell, but that will be to no avail, when the time comes. The Abbess will be a daemon of Tenshio's acquaintance. She'll run a peaceful nunnery in some pastoral mountain valley, where other young daemon girls go to be educated, as well as human ghosts who need to recover from emotional wounds. So it will be a very interesting class composition, and Gilly will like it, after a while.
Keith is up and about. I'd better get ready for our trip. I have a cooler to pack.
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
May 25th
Holy crap, but is it ever hard to write that damned Ishi no Torii. I know that the little girl is being abused, but she doesn't know it. So she's still loving toward the uncle that's abusing her.
I keep wondering who on earth is going to be up for reading a story like this. It really is very dark, and full of haunting images. But then my dad read it and said it was a beautiful story so far, so that was a huge relief. It's probably harder for me to write than for an average person to read.
Torii is the name of those beautiful, tall red wooden gates that stand at the entrance into a Shinto shrine. Ishi no torii means the first of a series of them, the first gate unto sacred ground.
The spirit realm exactly mirrors the mortal realm, and where the north pole would be, there's instead the gateway into the Sacred Realm, or heaven. It's a hidden gate and forbidden ground. That's the Ishi no Torii in my story. And yes, in the south pole, there is a hidden gateway into the underworld, also under lock down.
Tenshio is the guardian of one of four floating mountains. On each mountain is a shrine and from each shrine issues one of the four winds. The winds originate from the Sacred Realm, and are therefore a holy symbol, so the fountain head of the winds are guarded, lest someone come along and try and tap the spiritual energies found there.
The mountains float over the Mirror Planes, which looks exactly like earth, and on which all the spiritual drama acts itself out. There are four groups populating the spirit realm. First, are the daemons. And by daemons, I don't mean demons.
Daemons are originally a Greek concept, they were a race of beings that were just above man and slightly below the angels. But as you can tell from my ramen excerpt, my daemons will take their cue from the Japan, not ancient Greece. In fact, much of the feel of the spirit realm will be drawn from Japanese legend and folk tales.
My daemons are this very cool (I think) combination of priest and samurai. They're priests in that they are responsible for places of importance, such as the floating mountains, and they're samurai in that they are warriors obedient to the death, if absolutely necessary. They serve the Sacred Realm. There aren't many of them.
But they can be good or evil. My story will have some evil daemons, too.
Then there are a whole bunch of human ghosts who are, in one way or another, still tethered to the mortal realm, and can go in and out of the spirit realm at will. They have unfinished business back home that keeps them from ascending to the Sacred Realm. They either haunt someone they love or hate, or linger on because of huge emotional wounds that they are healing from.
So there's going to be like large, beautiful, pastoral nunneries where, for example, ghostly victims of violent murders and sexual abuse heal before finally being able to let go of the trauma and float up into the greater mystery beyond.
Of course, there's the flora and fauna that are native to the spirit realm. Ideas on that are still brewing, but I'm going to fill the entire landscape with things like fireflies that are actually little, living pieces of organic spirit, and the spirit foxes of Japanese mythology, who come out when it's rainy and sunny both, and owls with human faces, etc.
Lastly, there will be the manifestations of human actions in the mortal realm. So, one can assume that in places where the cities are located, there's going to be a maelstrom of caustic clouds, like the storms that swirl around Mars. And evil actions stalking through the wilds and kind actions popping up unexpectedly and other things like small, localized weather patterns.
I think. This is all in flux. I'll know more as I write more.
So, the story so far goes like this: Tenshio is severely wounded in battle, in fact, he loses his right hand. He transforms his loyal man at arms into a statue and throws himself into the mortal realm. His enemy, an evil daemon, can't follow. He gave up that ability in order to seek out more arcane and forbidden powers.
Tenshio ends up somewhere in upper New York state, in at the edge of Gilly's orchard, where he waits, conserving his energy and healing. (I know that technically he should commit seppuku at that point, but this is my story, and he's not really a samurai.)
Gilly finds him there, and cutely, (I believe) washes his savaged right arm in a mixture of peroxide and water, that she took from under the family sink and then binds it up with strips of pastel printed sheets. All this Tenshio mutely endures, much as he would if a ladybug had alighted on his hand.
He leaves, but he is forced to leave the statue of his man with Gilly, which is not ideal, considering that she's eight. But he has no idea how much damage his enemy might have inflicted in his mountain, nor does he have any experiencing being only left handed. He wants to go back alone, first.
When he comes back for the statue (a year, a month later? Maybe six months), Gilly begs him to take her with him. She may not consciously know she's being abused, but unconsciously, she longs for escape. Tenshio wouldn't, it's highly irregular. But he does because he feels obligated, since she took responsibility for one of his people.
He tells her that she can come for just a little while. Unfortunately, he is not well versed in the ways of young mortal children, or how very attractive a living human soul would be to the natives. They are like moths to a lamp. Little glowing chi bob around her, closer and closer and she ends up accidentally a swallowing a chi. (There's more to this story, but I'm not sure if I'm keeping it.)
So, now she's stuck. Which was, of course, the whole point. Tenshio must now take her across the Mirror planes to the Ishi no Torii, to get guidance from the gate keeper on how to send her back home. I will alternate between their journey and flashbacks of Gilly's past, slowly culminating in her realizing what happened to her at the same time that she faces it on the Mirror. I will lighten this by other scenes that hold the same whimsy at a ramen shop in the middle of no where on a floating mountain. I want whimsy to offset the haunting, dark qualities of the story.
I can't decide yet how long their journey will take, in terms of time, or if she returns home or not. I keep exploring both options, they both have interesting emotional ramifications.
Excerpt:
There was a quiet rustle of skirts and trousers as everyone sat down. It was a deeply respectful sound, an expectant, submissive hush as people lifted their shoulders and put their hands in their lap, or if they were men, leaned their arms along the back of an empty chair, or a chair which held a member of their family.
The sermon seemed to last forever. The girl sat on her chair, her hands gripping the sides tightly, her feet dangling. Sometimes she tipped her head up and stared into the round, glowing ceiling lights. Sometimes she stared into the flames that flickered around the straight, black suited legs of the pastor, as he stood in front of the fireplace.
During the concluding prayer, the girl squeezed her eyes shut, watching the blood red and livid orange shapes that danced in the darkness behind her eyelids. They were a welling and fading away of half seen faces with sightless eyes and helpless arms that reached out only to dwindle away.
Her mother grabbed her by the back of her blouse before she could dart away at the last amen.
“Where have you been?” she hissed into the girl’s ear. “Your knees are filthy.”
“I got lost,” the girl whispered, her feet coming back to earth.
That night, she twisted and turned on her narrow bed. The habit of obedience kept her tightly tethered there, though her mind ran rampant. The furniture of her room, the run down, second hand dresser, the battered toy chest and cheap, pink throw rug seemed foreign to her, a world that she had been dropped into by accident, only a subterfuge.
She knelt before the open window that her bed was pushed up against, a slight silhouette against the dim glow along the rim of the sky, where the moon was rising. It was a blood red moon, and its aura swallowed the stars on the eastern horizon. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and she could see the shape of the pear tree far below her on the slope of the hill.
Her sleep that night was deep and dreamless. She lay on the sheets, her face covered in a thin film of sweat, her arms flung out, hands curled. A square of moonlight slid slowly across the walls of her room, and finally narrowed and disappeared in the early morning hours.
The morning released her from her bonds; she came upright with a gasp. Throwing the sheets aside, she pulled on a faded, cotton skirt and a short sleeved blouse. In a desperate, guilty silence, she darted about the house, gathering up the things she thought she might need, stuffing them into a spare pillow case.
Outside in the dawn, the young girl made her careful, determined way down the grassy hill, a bulky pillow case clutched in one arm and a plastic gallon jug of water in the other.
She wondered, when she passed into the mingled shadows of the orchard, if she would really see the creature again. Maybe there would be nothing there but shadows, the ground undisturbed. Maybe she would see the trampled grass, the spreading stain of old blood, and nothing else.
Excerpt:
“Where has my favorite niece been to, this morning?” asked some one, as she came up the gravel drive, between main building and the dairy barns.
Her eyes lit up with a shy joy when she saw it was her uncle. He was a tall, spare man with a narrow, hatched shaped face and murky eyes. His hands were greasy with oil, the same oil that stained his coveralls.
“How’d you get all wet?” he asked, a gleam surfacing in the opaque surface of his eyes. “What secret games have you been playing, down in the woods?”
Guilt and delight vied in the girl’s face. Hanging her head, she twisted her arms around in back of her and kicked at the dirt with her bare foot.
“Does my Gilly girl have a kiss for me this morning?” he asked, with an odd pitiable appeal in his voice.
I keep wondering who on earth is going to be up for reading a story like this. It really is very dark, and full of haunting images. But then my dad read it and said it was a beautiful story so far, so that was a huge relief. It's probably harder for me to write than for an average person to read.
Torii is the name of those beautiful, tall red wooden gates that stand at the entrance into a Shinto shrine. Ishi no torii means the first of a series of them, the first gate unto sacred ground.
The spirit realm exactly mirrors the mortal realm, and where the north pole would be, there's instead the gateway into the Sacred Realm, or heaven. It's a hidden gate and forbidden ground. That's the Ishi no Torii in my story. And yes, in the south pole, there is a hidden gateway into the underworld, also under lock down.
Tenshio is the guardian of one of four floating mountains. On each mountain is a shrine and from each shrine issues one of the four winds. The winds originate from the Sacred Realm, and are therefore a holy symbol, so the fountain head of the winds are guarded, lest someone come along and try and tap the spiritual energies found there.
The mountains float over the Mirror Planes, which looks exactly like earth, and on which all the spiritual drama acts itself out. There are four groups populating the spirit realm. First, are the daemons. And by daemons, I don't mean demons.
Daemons are originally a Greek concept, they were a race of beings that were just above man and slightly below the angels. But as you can tell from my ramen excerpt, my daemons will take their cue from the Japan, not ancient Greece. In fact, much of the feel of the spirit realm will be drawn from Japanese legend and folk tales.
My daemons are this very cool (I think) combination of priest and samurai. They're priests in that they are responsible for places of importance, such as the floating mountains, and they're samurai in that they are warriors obedient to the death, if absolutely necessary. They serve the Sacred Realm. There aren't many of them.
But they can be good or evil. My story will have some evil daemons, too.
Then there are a whole bunch of human ghosts who are, in one way or another, still tethered to the mortal realm, and can go in and out of the spirit realm at will. They have unfinished business back home that keeps them from ascending to the Sacred Realm. They either haunt someone they love or hate, or linger on because of huge emotional wounds that they are healing from.
So there's going to be like large, beautiful, pastoral nunneries where, for example, ghostly victims of violent murders and sexual abuse heal before finally being able to let go of the trauma and float up into the greater mystery beyond.
Of course, there's the flora and fauna that are native to the spirit realm. Ideas on that are still brewing, but I'm going to fill the entire landscape with things like fireflies that are actually little, living pieces of organic spirit, and the spirit foxes of Japanese mythology, who come out when it's rainy and sunny both, and owls with human faces, etc.
Lastly, there will be the manifestations of human actions in the mortal realm. So, one can assume that in places where the cities are located, there's going to be a maelstrom of caustic clouds, like the storms that swirl around Mars. And evil actions stalking through the wilds and kind actions popping up unexpectedly and other things like small, localized weather patterns.
I think. This is all in flux. I'll know more as I write more.
So, the story so far goes like this: Tenshio is severely wounded in battle, in fact, he loses his right hand. He transforms his loyal man at arms into a statue and throws himself into the mortal realm. His enemy, an evil daemon, can't follow. He gave up that ability in order to seek out more arcane and forbidden powers.
Tenshio ends up somewhere in upper New York state, in at the edge of Gilly's orchard, where he waits, conserving his energy and healing. (I know that technically he should commit seppuku at that point, but this is my story, and he's not really a samurai.)
Gilly finds him there, and cutely, (I believe) washes his savaged right arm in a mixture of peroxide and water, that she took from under the family sink and then binds it up with strips of pastel printed sheets. All this Tenshio mutely endures, much as he would if a ladybug had alighted on his hand.
He leaves, but he is forced to leave the statue of his man with Gilly, which is not ideal, considering that she's eight. But he has no idea how much damage his enemy might have inflicted in his mountain, nor does he have any experiencing being only left handed. He wants to go back alone, first.
When he comes back for the statue (a year, a month later? Maybe six months), Gilly begs him to take her with him. She may not consciously know she's being abused, but unconsciously, she longs for escape. Tenshio wouldn't, it's highly irregular. But he does because he feels obligated, since she took responsibility for one of his people.
He tells her that she can come for just a little while. Unfortunately, he is not well versed in the ways of young mortal children, or how very attractive a living human soul would be to the natives. They are like moths to a lamp. Little glowing chi bob around her, closer and closer and she ends up accidentally a swallowing a chi. (There's more to this story, but I'm not sure if I'm keeping it.)
So, now she's stuck. Which was, of course, the whole point. Tenshio must now take her across the Mirror planes to the Ishi no Torii, to get guidance from the gate keeper on how to send her back home. I will alternate between their journey and flashbacks of Gilly's past, slowly culminating in her realizing what happened to her at the same time that she faces it on the Mirror. I will lighten this by other scenes that hold the same whimsy at a ramen shop in the middle of no where on a floating mountain. I want whimsy to offset the haunting, dark qualities of the story.
I can't decide yet how long their journey will take, in terms of time, or if she returns home or not. I keep exploring both options, they both have interesting emotional ramifications.
Excerpt:
There was a quiet rustle of skirts and trousers as everyone sat down. It was a deeply respectful sound, an expectant, submissive hush as people lifted their shoulders and put their hands in their lap, or if they were men, leaned their arms along the back of an empty chair, or a chair which held a member of their family.
The sermon seemed to last forever. The girl sat on her chair, her hands gripping the sides tightly, her feet dangling. Sometimes she tipped her head up and stared into the round, glowing ceiling lights. Sometimes she stared into the flames that flickered around the straight, black suited legs of the pastor, as he stood in front of the fireplace.
During the concluding prayer, the girl squeezed her eyes shut, watching the blood red and livid orange shapes that danced in the darkness behind her eyelids. They were a welling and fading away of half seen faces with sightless eyes and helpless arms that reached out only to dwindle away.
Her mother grabbed her by the back of her blouse before she could dart away at the last amen.
“Where have you been?” she hissed into the girl’s ear. “Your knees are filthy.”
“I got lost,” the girl whispered, her feet coming back to earth.
That night, she twisted and turned on her narrow bed. The habit of obedience kept her tightly tethered there, though her mind ran rampant. The furniture of her room, the run down, second hand dresser, the battered toy chest and cheap, pink throw rug seemed foreign to her, a world that she had been dropped into by accident, only a subterfuge.
She knelt before the open window that her bed was pushed up against, a slight silhouette against the dim glow along the rim of the sky, where the moon was rising. It was a blood red moon, and its aura swallowed the stars on the eastern horizon. Her eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and she could see the shape of the pear tree far below her on the slope of the hill.
Her sleep that night was deep and dreamless. She lay on the sheets, her face covered in a thin film of sweat, her arms flung out, hands curled. A square of moonlight slid slowly across the walls of her room, and finally narrowed and disappeared in the early morning hours.
The morning released her from her bonds; she came upright with a gasp. Throwing the sheets aside, she pulled on a faded, cotton skirt and a short sleeved blouse. In a desperate, guilty silence, she darted about the house, gathering up the things she thought she might need, stuffing them into a spare pillow case.
Outside in the dawn, the young girl made her careful, determined way down the grassy hill, a bulky pillow case clutched in one arm and a plastic gallon jug of water in the other.
She wondered, when she passed into the mingled shadows of the orchard, if she would really see the creature again. Maybe there would be nothing there but shadows, the ground undisturbed. Maybe she would see the trampled grass, the spreading stain of old blood, and nothing else.
Excerpt:
“Where has my favorite niece been to, this morning?” asked some one, as she came up the gravel drive, between main building and the dairy barns.
Her eyes lit up with a shy joy when she saw it was her uncle. He was a tall, spare man with a narrow, hatched shaped face and murky eyes. His hands were greasy with oil, the same oil that stained his coveralls.
“How’d you get all wet?” he asked, a gleam surfacing in the opaque surface of his eyes. “What secret games have you been playing, down in the woods?”
Guilt and delight vied in the girl’s face. Hanging her head, she twisted her arms around in back of her and kicked at the dirt with her bare foot.
“Does my Gilly girl have a kiss for me this morning?” he asked, with an odd pitiable appeal in his voice.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Written May 22nd...
...after church.
I had an interesting dream early this morning. I dreamed that my family and I were staying in an unfamiliar, mid western town. We were at the church center there, to prepare for my marriage to a man I'd never met in person.
I wasn't nervous or anything. I felt serene. I was waiting.
My mother and a cousin or someone were over in one of the rows, going over something when an unknown girl came up to me. She said something that I no longer remember, and I must have answered dismissively or with only half my attention, because she got her hackles up and said something snitty in reply.
Then I focused on her. It was hard to draw myself up from the peaceful abstraction that I was in, but I did it.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I wasn't really listening. I have a tendency to be self absorbed and it's worse than usual right now. Please go ahead; I'm listening now."
She returned to her native friendliness and started chattering on about her ranch and her ex boyfriend, who was a such a good man and still such a good friend. She showed me a picture of her house, that her father had build. I made encouraging comments. She talked about her ex boyfriend with casual possessiveness. Only, as soon as I heard his name, I knew he must be the man I was going to marry. I didn't feel jealous or insecure, I just felt bad about the upcoming awkwardness.
"But anyway, you wouldn't know him," she said, off hand.
"Actually," I said,conversationally, as though we were talking about the weather. "I'm going to marry him in a week."
She was abashed for a moment and then laughed her friendly laugh.
Later, my family and I were done for the day and we were leaving the church center for our hotel rooms. As I passed out of one brightly lit room, someone behind me saw two tall young men through the plate glass window into the hall.
"Hey, it's .......," a cousin said, giving my groom's name.
I tried not to get excited, because he wasn't due in for days, so I thought it couldn't possibly be him. I followed my mom through the door into the hall way. One of the two young men turned around, as though he couldn't contain his curiosity anymore.
I felt really shy, because I wasn't quite sure, right off the bat, if this was the man I was going to marry or not, and I didn't want to be staring at some random young man who wasn't connected to me. I'd only seen him in pictures.
He had a very strong, mid western face; square, with a strong jaw, and his pale skin was covered with freckles. He had pale eyes. He looked like a very self possessed and confident young man. I thought it had to be him, but I wasn't sure until this expression of incredible wonder swept over his face; it was as though he'd been shaken right down to his soul at the sight of me.
Then I knew it must be him. I looked openly at his face, since I knew he was mine, but it was like looking into a bright light. It was hard to sustain. I felt the pressure of so much emotion in my chest that the weight of it made it hard to take a breath.
He smiled at me. We didn't say a word. We turned and began walking side by side out of the church center. Someone suggested that the two of us follow the main group, which we were happy to agree to. The two of us went off on our own way, toward a side door. There was no awkwardness, just joy and confidence. But then we realized that some overzealous church custodian had locked the doors too early and we were stuck in the building.
The group wasn't worried too much, there was the jovial atmosphere remained. Someone cracked a joke, someone else went to go hunt down the keys. The man I was going to marry told me we should go back over to the main group and help them out of the church and I must admit, I was reluctant; I was eager to be alone with him. I wanted to slip out the side door and into the night. I knew the others would find their way out sooner or later.
I had a hundred things I wanted to talk about, I felt like my chest was bursting with thoughts and emotions that I couldn't unburden myself of until we were alone. But he was insistent and I couldn't help but admire his tender concern for my family.
Then I woke up. I know what the dream means; I understood it just now, as I was typing it out. And I know why I had it this morning, too, right before attending church again, which can be a terrifying experience for me. The young man is Christ, of course. The rest is easy to work out.
Then, during church worship service, something else happened. They play modern... I'm not sure what they're called. Songs, I guess, but it's more like chanting. Basically, it's just the same thing over and over again, with very simple melodies. I can't say that I like this, but that's just my own personal taste. I've certainly, from time to time, been deeply moved by such musical arrangements, even though I prefer the structured melodies of old hymns.
Anyhow, the last song came on and I couldn't even sing it the first time around, because I couldn't figure out the melody. That's another thing about hymns; even an idiot like me can read music well enough to anticipate where the next note is going to fall by seeing where it is on the staff. But with these projection screens, it's all a total mystery. I slide up into all the notes, because I have no idea what it's going to be. That's probably why they keep the melodies so simple.
By the second go round, I had figured it out and besides, I loved the words.
Because of who You are, I give You glory
Because of who You are, I give You praise
Because of who You are, I will life my voice and say
Lord I worship You, because of who You are
Lord I worship You, because of who You are
(Repeat)
Jehovah Jireh, my Provider
Jehovah Nissi, Lord You reign in victory
Jehovah Shalom, my Prince of Peace
And I worship You, because of who You are
So, I'm singing this, right. And I feel myself getting swept up into it. And it's been a long since I've publicly adored Christ, and I feel extraordinarily shy. But the words, and my knowledge of Him, just pull me right up from the roots of my soul, so I'm singing my heart right out.
And I think, people are going to think I'm showing off, because my voice has gone all vibrato and rich, and I'm hitting all the notes effortlessly. But I manage to keep this all to the back of my mind until the end of the song, when I'm just swamped with this horrible feeling of self consciousness.
And the basis of it is not necessarily the sound of my voice, but this feeling that I'm not worthy to be experiencing this much intimacy and joy in Christ, because I'm not living my life up to the right standards. I'm like an interloper. And despite all this, here I am, incandescent with the Son of God, all lit up like a paper shade.
This feeling becomes unbearable, as the song is drawing to a close; so much so that I actually cry out to Jesus: "Hide me!" Like, make a little cleft in the rock and put me in there, 'cause I can't bear this anymore; wrap me up in something, so these people can't see me. Like, when I was a virgin, and the thought of going down the isle to face my groom was unbearable and I knew I would have to wear a thick veil, behind which no one could see anything, just to keep my composure. I didn't want anyone to see the naked emotion on my face.
So. I feel Him place His hand on the top of my head. Throughout my life, I've often felt this. It's a marvelous sensation, it always comes with this profound sense of peace. He's saying, I've got you; you're mine, you're covered. Then, I feel Him place His other hand over my eyes. I never felt that before. But I understood in the next moment what He meant. He meant, don't be distracted by what you think is out there. Pour your heart out, because this is between you and I, and I delight in you.
When I sat down in the pew, my body was physically trembling. I felt fragile, as though I'd been hollowed out by all the light that had poured right through me. My hands were shaking. I sat down pressed up against the reassuring bulk of Keith.
I wasn't going to blog about any of this, but I kept feeling like He wants me to. I don't know why. But it's probably the most personal and risky thing I've ever blogged about. Gah.
(Oh. my. gosh. I seriously just hit the publish button by accident. That never happens. Heh. Fine. I get it already. Goodness.)
I had an interesting dream early this morning. I dreamed that my family and I were staying in an unfamiliar, mid western town. We were at the church center there, to prepare for my marriage to a man I'd never met in person.
I wasn't nervous or anything. I felt serene. I was waiting.
My mother and a cousin or someone were over in one of the rows, going over something when an unknown girl came up to me. She said something that I no longer remember, and I must have answered dismissively or with only half my attention, because she got her hackles up and said something snitty in reply.
Then I focused on her. It was hard to draw myself up from the peaceful abstraction that I was in, but I did it.
"I'm sorry," I apologized. "I wasn't really listening. I have a tendency to be self absorbed and it's worse than usual right now. Please go ahead; I'm listening now."
She returned to her native friendliness and started chattering on about her ranch and her ex boyfriend, who was a such a good man and still such a good friend. She showed me a picture of her house, that her father had build. I made encouraging comments. She talked about her ex boyfriend with casual possessiveness. Only, as soon as I heard his name, I knew he must be the man I was going to marry. I didn't feel jealous or insecure, I just felt bad about the upcoming awkwardness.
"But anyway, you wouldn't know him," she said, off hand.
"Actually," I said,conversationally, as though we were talking about the weather. "I'm going to marry him in a week."
She was abashed for a moment and then laughed her friendly laugh.
Later, my family and I were done for the day and we were leaving the church center for our hotel rooms. As I passed out of one brightly lit room, someone behind me saw two tall young men through the plate glass window into the hall.
"Hey, it's .......," a cousin said, giving my groom's name.
I tried not to get excited, because he wasn't due in for days, so I thought it couldn't possibly be him. I followed my mom through the door into the hall way. One of the two young men turned around, as though he couldn't contain his curiosity anymore.
I felt really shy, because I wasn't quite sure, right off the bat, if this was the man I was going to marry or not, and I didn't want to be staring at some random young man who wasn't connected to me. I'd only seen him in pictures.
He had a very strong, mid western face; square, with a strong jaw, and his pale skin was covered with freckles. He had pale eyes. He looked like a very self possessed and confident young man. I thought it had to be him, but I wasn't sure until this expression of incredible wonder swept over his face; it was as though he'd been shaken right down to his soul at the sight of me.
Then I knew it must be him. I looked openly at his face, since I knew he was mine, but it was like looking into a bright light. It was hard to sustain. I felt the pressure of so much emotion in my chest that the weight of it made it hard to take a breath.
He smiled at me. We didn't say a word. We turned and began walking side by side out of the church center. Someone suggested that the two of us follow the main group, which we were happy to agree to. The two of us went off on our own way, toward a side door. There was no awkwardness, just joy and confidence. But then we realized that some overzealous church custodian had locked the doors too early and we were stuck in the building.
The group wasn't worried too much, there was the jovial atmosphere remained. Someone cracked a joke, someone else went to go hunt down the keys. The man I was going to marry told me we should go back over to the main group and help them out of the church and I must admit, I was reluctant; I was eager to be alone with him. I wanted to slip out the side door and into the night. I knew the others would find their way out sooner or later.
I had a hundred things I wanted to talk about, I felt like my chest was bursting with thoughts and emotions that I couldn't unburden myself of until we were alone. But he was insistent and I couldn't help but admire his tender concern for my family.
Then I woke up. I know what the dream means; I understood it just now, as I was typing it out. And I know why I had it this morning, too, right before attending church again, which can be a terrifying experience for me. The young man is Christ, of course. The rest is easy to work out.
Then, during church worship service, something else happened. They play modern... I'm not sure what they're called. Songs, I guess, but it's more like chanting. Basically, it's just the same thing over and over again, with very simple melodies. I can't say that I like this, but that's just my own personal taste. I've certainly, from time to time, been deeply moved by such musical arrangements, even though I prefer the structured melodies of old hymns.
Anyhow, the last song came on and I couldn't even sing it the first time around, because I couldn't figure out the melody. That's another thing about hymns; even an idiot like me can read music well enough to anticipate where the next note is going to fall by seeing where it is on the staff. But with these projection screens, it's all a total mystery. I slide up into all the notes, because I have no idea what it's going to be. That's probably why they keep the melodies so simple.
By the second go round, I had figured it out and besides, I loved the words.
Because of who You are, I give You glory
Because of who You are, I give You praise
Because of who You are, I will life my voice and say
Lord I worship You, because of who You are
Lord I worship You, because of who You are
(Repeat)
Jehovah Jireh, my Provider
Jehovah Nissi, Lord You reign in victory
Jehovah Shalom, my Prince of Peace
And I worship You, because of who You are
So, I'm singing this, right. And I feel myself getting swept up into it. And it's been a long since I've publicly adored Christ, and I feel extraordinarily shy. But the words, and my knowledge of Him, just pull me right up from the roots of my soul, so I'm singing my heart right out.
And I think, people are going to think I'm showing off, because my voice has gone all vibrato and rich, and I'm hitting all the notes effortlessly. But I manage to keep this all to the back of my mind until the end of the song, when I'm just swamped with this horrible feeling of self consciousness.
And the basis of it is not necessarily the sound of my voice, but this feeling that I'm not worthy to be experiencing this much intimacy and joy in Christ, because I'm not living my life up to the right standards. I'm like an interloper. And despite all this, here I am, incandescent with the Son of God, all lit up like a paper shade.
This feeling becomes unbearable, as the song is drawing to a close; so much so that I actually cry out to Jesus: "Hide me!" Like, make a little cleft in the rock and put me in there, 'cause I can't bear this anymore; wrap me up in something, so these people can't see me. Like, when I was a virgin, and the thought of going down the isle to face my groom was unbearable and I knew I would have to wear a thick veil, behind which no one could see anything, just to keep my composure. I didn't want anyone to see the naked emotion on my face.
So. I feel Him place His hand on the top of my head. Throughout my life, I've often felt this. It's a marvelous sensation, it always comes with this profound sense of peace. He's saying, I've got you; you're mine, you're covered. Then, I feel Him place His other hand over my eyes. I never felt that before. But I understood in the next moment what He meant. He meant, don't be distracted by what you think is out there. Pour your heart out, because this is between you and I, and I delight in you.
When I sat down in the pew, my body was physically trembling. I felt fragile, as though I'd been hollowed out by all the light that had poured right through me. My hands were shaking. I sat down pressed up against the reassuring bulk of Keith.
I wasn't going to blog about any of this, but I kept feeling like He wants me to. I don't know why. But it's probably the most personal and risky thing I've ever blogged about. Gah.
(Oh. my. gosh. I seriously just hit the publish button by accident. That never happens. Heh. Fine. I get it already. Goodness.)
Monday, May 23, 2011
May 23rd
I came across this much earlier scene from the Ceallach story while I was taking a break from the other one. I'm almost done restructuring Torii, but I can't work at it steadily, so I go back and forth between it and editing the earlier story.
It's pretty much pure dialogue, which is why I think I like it so much.
Ah, levity.
Excerpt: (Ceallach)
“Come on,” he said, breaking away from me and swinging himself up in the saddle.
“Where?”
“I’m taking you home.”
I looked back then, at the familiar house. It was shaded by two Douglas firs, leaves were scattered across the dark shingles, and there were empty planters on the front steps, waiting for warmer weather. My car sat in the driveway. My bed was unmade upstairs.
“You’ll be able to come back,” Ceallach said, smiling. “I have no plans to sweep you away into another realm, just the next town.”
I took his hand then and was swung up behind him. “Am I going to live with you?”
“I have every intention of it.”
“Maybe I should get my clothes…”
“We can come back for them.”
The horse started off through the woods in his long, easy stride, ears pricked forward.
“Will I still go to college? What about my car?”
“Of course and the car will have to wait at the end of the driveway.”
“You’re going to make me walk all that way, every day?” I teased. “That’s cruel.”
“You’re the one that’s cruel,” he said, holding my hand against his chest. “Making me wait all that time.”
“You don’t know much about girls, do you?”
“You’ve found me out.”
“Well, get used to waiting. A lot.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I felt giddy, drunk. I put my face between his shoulder blades; he smelled deliciously clean.
“Will you meet my parents?”
“Wouldn't it be rude if I didn't?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “They’ll think I’m crazy, taking up with a man with no electricity. How do you do your laundry?”
“Magic.”
“You do not.”
“You’ll have to wait and see, then.”
“Is it because cars have iron, is that why you don’t like them?”
“You’ve been reading up, I see.”
“Some. But it’s contradictory.”
“Their sources are unreliable.”
“So it’s not true, about iron?”
“No, that’s generally true,” he admitted. “Not so much for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve trained myself to work with it.”
“You work with iron?”
“I’m a blacksmith.”
I was taken aback. “Really?”
“I shoed this horse myself.”
“Goodness. Do you still do that sort of thing?“
“Not so much, anymore.”
“How old are you?”
“A very great deal older than you are.”
“Are you immortal?”
“I’ll grant you, I am impressive. But I’m no god.”
“Have you ever taken a woman home before?”
“No, never.” His tone of voice turned serious.
“Never?” I asked, incredulous.
“I thought we already went over the part where I’m inexperienced with women,” he said dryly. “How you do harp on.”
“It just seems lonely.”
“I assure you, that is something I am perfectly well able to tolerate.”
“Do you speak other languages?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess because I was wondering if you’d always lived here.”
“I‘ve spoken many languages. Mostly English.”
“Was Arthur real?”
“Oh, come now. You don’t really think I’m that old.”
“How would I know? You look about fifty.”
“I will drop you right off the hind end of this horse.”
“I‘ve missed you.”
“Well, damn it, you should have come with me the first time I asked.”
“I couldn’t, it was too much for me to take in.”
“I didn’t know how or when to tell you what I was.”
“I know. There's no easy way to break it to a girl that her new boyfriend is a faerie.”
“Sidhe. I myself never expected to fall for a member of the great, unwashed human masses.”
“Hey! We walked on the moon; you guys couldn’t even conquer Ireland.”
He laughed. “That was well before my time; I can’t answer for the idiocy of my ancestors. Besides, I believe your team has yet to find a cure for the common cold, for all your vaunted expeditions into space.”
“We’re working on that,” I said, loftily.
It's pretty much pure dialogue, which is why I think I like it so much.
Ah, levity.
Excerpt: (Ceallach)
“Come on,” he said, breaking away from me and swinging himself up in the saddle.
“Where?”
“I’m taking you home.”
I looked back then, at the familiar house. It was shaded by two Douglas firs, leaves were scattered across the dark shingles, and there were empty planters on the front steps, waiting for warmer weather. My car sat in the driveway. My bed was unmade upstairs.
“You’ll be able to come back,” Ceallach said, smiling. “I have no plans to sweep you away into another realm, just the next town.”
I took his hand then and was swung up behind him. “Am I going to live with you?”
“I have every intention of it.”
“Maybe I should get my clothes…”
“We can come back for them.”
The horse started off through the woods in his long, easy stride, ears pricked forward.
“Will I still go to college? What about my car?”
“Of course and the car will have to wait at the end of the driveway.”
“You’re going to make me walk all that way, every day?” I teased. “That’s cruel.”
“You’re the one that’s cruel,” he said, holding my hand against his chest. “Making me wait all that time.”
“You don’t know much about girls, do you?”
“You’ve found me out.”
“Well, get used to waiting. A lot.”
“We’ll see about that.”
I felt giddy, drunk. I put my face between his shoulder blades; he smelled deliciously clean.
“Will you meet my parents?”
“Wouldn't it be rude if I didn't?”
“I suppose so,” I said. “They’ll think I’m crazy, taking up with a man with no electricity. How do you do your laundry?”
“Magic.”
“You do not.”
“You’ll have to wait and see, then.”
“Is it because cars have iron, is that why you don’t like them?”
“You’ve been reading up, I see.”
“Some. But it’s contradictory.”
“Their sources are unreliable.”
“So it’s not true, about iron?”
“No, that’s generally true,” he admitted. “Not so much for me.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’ve trained myself to work with it.”
“You work with iron?”
“I’m a blacksmith.”
I was taken aback. “Really?”
“I shoed this horse myself.”
“Goodness. Do you still do that sort of thing?“
“Not so much, anymore.”
“How old are you?”
“A very great deal older than you are.”
“Are you immortal?”
“I’ll grant you, I am impressive. But I’m no god.”
“Have you ever taken a woman home before?”
“No, never.” His tone of voice turned serious.
“Never?” I asked, incredulous.
“I thought we already went over the part where I’m inexperienced with women,” he said dryly. “How you do harp on.”
“It just seems lonely.”
“I assure you, that is something I am perfectly well able to tolerate.”
“Do you speak other languages?”
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I guess because I was wondering if you’d always lived here.”
“I‘ve spoken many languages. Mostly English.”
“Was Arthur real?”
“Oh, come now. You don’t really think I’m that old.”
“How would I know? You look about fifty.”
“I will drop you right off the hind end of this horse.”
“I‘ve missed you.”
“Well, damn it, you should have come with me the first time I asked.”
“I couldn’t, it was too much for me to take in.”
“I didn’t know how or when to tell you what I was.”
“I know. There's no easy way to break it to a girl that her new boyfriend is a faerie.”
“Sidhe. I myself never expected to fall for a member of the great, unwashed human masses.”
“Hey! We walked on the moon; you guys couldn’t even conquer Ireland.”
He laughed. “That was well before my time; I can’t answer for the idiocy of my ancestors. Besides, I believe your team has yet to find a cure for the common cold, for all your vaunted expeditions into space.”
“We’re working on that,” I said, loftily.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
May 22nd
I'm listening to Video Killed the Radio Star with headphones. Above my computer monitor are no less than six pages of writing affirmations, not a single one written from myself. I spent yesterday afternoon very close to tears, as I hunted down and collected all the scattered feedback I'd forgotten on purpose.
Seeing it all together fills me with a sense of wonder, and purpose and humility, like I don't know what these people are seeing in my writing. Besides which, I highly suspect some of my readers of praying for me, because I felt unaccountably peaceful last night and this morning. So thank you, whoever you are.
If my goal was to impact another's life in a meaningful way, than I have already accomplished that many times over. Writing that makes me feel like crying all over again. I've already done what I wanted so desperately to be able to do.
The crazy thing is, that people tell me this frequently. I frequently do get the most amazing, humbling feedback on my blog, often at the exact time when I needed it, and yet do I let that sink in? No. I glow from it for about half an hour and then I push it away and decide to go back to living in a spare, cold, challenging place where I'm certain of nothing, least of all my ability.
If only I can do the same thing in my fiction. One of my friends sent me a link to an article by another writer who was wrestling intensely with the absurdity of belief in oneself as an author. It does feel absurd, to state that one is a writer, that one is working on a novel. My soul shrinks from it. It's so grandiose. It's so unbelievable. It's down right embarrassing.
And then I get all caught up in questioning my purpose. I come down all religious on myself. Can God use what I'm writing? Should I try and make it "Christian" in some way, shape or form?
But then Christ reminds me that He works through my humanity, not through my religion. He wants my human heart, so I might as well pour it out on the page. He's always working with imperfection; it's His forte. Isn't He breathtaking? I frequently find Him so.
I don't know when this anxiety is going to go away for good, but I'll just keep doing what I can, around it. I gutted Ishi no Torii and began going in and changing it to what it will be.
Seeing it all together fills me with a sense of wonder, and purpose and humility, like I don't know what these people are seeing in my writing. Besides which, I highly suspect some of my readers of praying for me, because I felt unaccountably peaceful last night and this morning. So thank you, whoever you are.
If my goal was to impact another's life in a meaningful way, than I have already accomplished that many times over. Writing that makes me feel like crying all over again. I've already done what I wanted so desperately to be able to do.
The crazy thing is, that people tell me this frequently. I frequently do get the most amazing, humbling feedback on my blog, often at the exact time when I needed it, and yet do I let that sink in? No. I glow from it for about half an hour and then I push it away and decide to go back to living in a spare, cold, challenging place where I'm certain of nothing, least of all my ability.
If only I can do the same thing in my fiction. One of my friends sent me a link to an article by another writer who was wrestling intensely with the absurdity of belief in oneself as an author. It does feel absurd, to state that one is a writer, that one is working on a novel. My soul shrinks from it. It's so grandiose. It's so unbelievable. It's down right embarrassing.
And then I get all caught up in questioning my purpose. I come down all religious on myself. Can God use what I'm writing? Should I try and make it "Christian" in some way, shape or form?
But then Christ reminds me that He works through my humanity, not through my religion. He wants my human heart, so I might as well pour it out on the page. He's always working with imperfection; it's His forte. Isn't He breathtaking? I frequently find Him so.
I don't know when this anxiety is going to go away for good, but I'll just keep doing what I can, around it. I gutted Ishi no Torii and began going in and changing it to what it will be.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
May 21st
For some reason, my anxiety has just been spiking almost uncontrollably the last week or so. (And it's not because I think the end of the world is coming tonight, at six pm.) It is that time of the month, but usually I'm just moody, not... whatever it is I am now. Largely incapacitated, I guess.
I have a hard time writing and I'm tending to think that what I'm writing is shit. Just pointless, silly prattle with no purpose. And all my actions, in retrospect, whether I spoke to a person, or didn't speak to that person, or how I stood, or turned my head or when I sat down, or when I looked away, all my actions seem stupid, awkward and potentially insulting to the person in question. I haven't been able to keep up with even the small amount of correspondence that I had been able to before.
When the anxiety is at this kind of level, I sometimes think back at some action I took and physically wince. And then, I hear the words, "I hate me," in my head. They're my own words; I'm literally hating on myself.
But it comes and goes. Some days and some hours, I feel fine. Like normal. And then, boom! I'm hating on myself, and everything I do and say and create. And I want to rip everything out by the seams. I feel the urge to get back to playing the Sims, which was a therapeutic tool for me for a while, but that was because I needed to hide from real life while I was processing grief. I don't want to go back to that, I've been enjoying real life. But I feel the unmistakable desire to do so.
Beside, the empty play that the Sims provides is actually elevated in writing. Writing also plays with life, but it's much more demanding, rewarding and personal, as well as infinitely variable.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I feel like I'm on the verge of regressing. I'm really hoping that this is still moving baggage that was packed in on the deepest level, and that a steady jogging routine and the quiet house will air it all out and I'll get back to normal. Because, if not, I might have to go back into therapy for a while. I just can't let myself hate on myself. It's intolerable, and if I need an ally in supporting my inner sense of balance, I'm certainly going to find myself one.
The other thing it might be, but I'm just wondering, is this insidious idea I got concerning Ishi no Torii. For a while now, I've felt that story wanting to go dark. But I didn't let it, I made it run along the usual rails. Then I got what I think is a potentially brilliant and terrible idea, the idea that story wants to work out.
As soon as I starting seriously writing, I wondered when the time would come that I would tap into the sexual abuse as emotional material for a story and maybe it's now. I know pretty much exactly how I have to change the beginning of the story to suit its new focus. It seems like it was tailor made, actually.
I wonder sometimes- I wonder frequently- how much of my writing is conscious and how much is unconscious and which comes first, the idea or the writing. Did the writing spark the idea, or did the unconscious idea direct the writing?
Anyway, maybe I'm not ready to write this idea out. Just because I have the idea doesn't mean I have to write it out. Because as I write it out, I will bring it to life and live in it all over again. I won't lie, a part of me finds this beguiling and powerful. It's another way to conquer the abuse. I will work it like a metal, I'll bend it to my will and in the end, it'll make something stunning. I hope. If I have enough skill and ideas interesting and innovative enough to support it.
Anyway, who knows? Maybe I'll start it and won't be able to finish it for ten years and then I write it brilliantly. That's ok too. I just know this little girl very well and I want to write her into being. I want her to be victorious.
I'm going to make up a layered world, a classic idea in fiction. There's the mortal realm, and under it, the underworld and under that, hell. And above the mortal world is the spirit world and above that, the sacred realm. The middle three are porous. The outer two are permanent places of residence. (My imagination is ever symmetrical.)
One of the interesting things is that children who are abused frequently hide in their imaginations (which partly explains mine) since it may be the only escape and place of control available to them.
Only this girl will actually escape. And at some point, she will be able to physically destroy her abuse. Because, in ways I haven't worked out, in the spirit realm, the spiritual energy of human actions take physical form. She can send it back down to hell. Then maybe return to the mortal realm and confront the person who cast the spirit shadow that she already took down.
The success of the story lies primary in two things, I think. Firstly, I must be able to think through and craft a very compelling spirit realm. I have to think through the consequences of the parameters I put in place and populate it accordingly. Secondly, I have to be able to capture the sexual abuse, its emotional and physical consequences, the atmosphere in which it is done, in a very real way that still is bearable for a reader to process.
If I can't do those two things, then I don't think the story will work. Anyway, thinking this through on a mostly unconscious level is probably contributing to my anxiety. But I think it'll be worth it in the end. I just have to keep telling myself that if I can't capture it yet, I will be able to at some point and there's no rush. It's my story; it'll wait for me.
I think I'm going to do what my Dad recommended and write out a list of writing affirmations and tape them above the computer monitor. I might print out all the lovely comments and compliments I've gotten on my writing over the last few years or so, as encouragement. I've gotten quite a few, but I forget about them on purpose, so I don't get vain and cocky.
In the meantime, the Ceallach story has ironed itself out and is moving along smoothly. I see my way clear to the end, now. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of my writing, a glimpse that is free of the heavy, impenetrable cloud of subjective judgement, and I see that the writing is good, and that it is a good story. It's an old story, but I'm telling it in my own voice. That's the best a writer can do anyway, since there is no such thing as a new story line.
I have a hard time writing and I'm tending to think that what I'm writing is shit. Just pointless, silly prattle with no purpose. And all my actions, in retrospect, whether I spoke to a person, or didn't speak to that person, or how I stood, or turned my head or when I sat down, or when I looked away, all my actions seem stupid, awkward and potentially insulting to the person in question. I haven't been able to keep up with even the small amount of correspondence that I had been able to before.
When the anxiety is at this kind of level, I sometimes think back at some action I took and physically wince. And then, I hear the words, "I hate me," in my head. They're my own words; I'm literally hating on myself.
But it comes and goes. Some days and some hours, I feel fine. Like normal. And then, boom! I'm hating on myself, and everything I do and say and create. And I want to rip everything out by the seams. I feel the urge to get back to playing the Sims, which was a therapeutic tool for me for a while, but that was because I needed to hide from real life while I was processing grief. I don't want to go back to that, I've been enjoying real life. But I feel the unmistakable desire to do so.
Beside, the empty play that the Sims provides is actually elevated in writing. Writing also plays with life, but it's much more demanding, rewarding and personal, as well as infinitely variable.
Anyway, the long and the short of it is that I feel like I'm on the verge of regressing. I'm really hoping that this is still moving baggage that was packed in on the deepest level, and that a steady jogging routine and the quiet house will air it all out and I'll get back to normal. Because, if not, I might have to go back into therapy for a while. I just can't let myself hate on myself. It's intolerable, and if I need an ally in supporting my inner sense of balance, I'm certainly going to find myself one.
The other thing it might be, but I'm just wondering, is this insidious idea I got concerning Ishi no Torii. For a while now, I've felt that story wanting to go dark. But I didn't let it, I made it run along the usual rails. Then I got what I think is a potentially brilliant and terrible idea, the idea that story wants to work out.
As soon as I starting seriously writing, I wondered when the time would come that I would tap into the sexual abuse as emotional material for a story and maybe it's now. I know pretty much exactly how I have to change the beginning of the story to suit its new focus. It seems like it was tailor made, actually.
I wonder sometimes- I wonder frequently- how much of my writing is conscious and how much is unconscious and which comes first, the idea or the writing. Did the writing spark the idea, or did the unconscious idea direct the writing?
Anyway, maybe I'm not ready to write this idea out. Just because I have the idea doesn't mean I have to write it out. Because as I write it out, I will bring it to life and live in it all over again. I won't lie, a part of me finds this beguiling and powerful. It's another way to conquer the abuse. I will work it like a metal, I'll bend it to my will and in the end, it'll make something stunning. I hope. If I have enough skill and ideas interesting and innovative enough to support it.
Anyway, who knows? Maybe I'll start it and won't be able to finish it for ten years and then I write it brilliantly. That's ok too. I just know this little girl very well and I want to write her into being. I want her to be victorious.
I'm going to make up a layered world, a classic idea in fiction. There's the mortal realm, and under it, the underworld and under that, hell. And above the mortal world is the spirit world and above that, the sacred realm. The middle three are porous. The outer two are permanent places of residence. (My imagination is ever symmetrical.)
One of the interesting things is that children who are abused frequently hide in their imaginations (which partly explains mine) since it may be the only escape and place of control available to them.
Only this girl will actually escape. And at some point, she will be able to physically destroy her abuse. Because, in ways I haven't worked out, in the spirit realm, the spiritual energy of human actions take physical form. She can send it back down to hell. Then maybe return to the mortal realm and confront the person who cast the spirit shadow that she already took down.
The success of the story lies primary in two things, I think. Firstly, I must be able to think through and craft a very compelling spirit realm. I have to think through the consequences of the parameters I put in place and populate it accordingly. Secondly, I have to be able to capture the sexual abuse, its emotional and physical consequences, the atmosphere in which it is done, in a very real way that still is bearable for a reader to process.
If I can't do those two things, then I don't think the story will work. Anyway, thinking this through on a mostly unconscious level is probably contributing to my anxiety. But I think it'll be worth it in the end. I just have to keep telling myself that if I can't capture it yet, I will be able to at some point and there's no rush. It's my story; it'll wait for me.
I think I'm going to do what my Dad recommended and write out a list of writing affirmations and tape them above the computer monitor. I might print out all the lovely comments and compliments I've gotten on my writing over the last few years or so, as encouragement. I've gotten quite a few, but I forget about them on purpose, so I don't get vain and cocky.
In the meantime, the Ceallach story has ironed itself out and is moving along smoothly. I see my way clear to the end, now. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of my writing, a glimpse that is free of the heavy, impenetrable cloud of subjective judgement, and I see that the writing is good, and that it is a good story. It's an old story, but I'm telling it in my own voice. That's the best a writer can do anyway, since there is no such thing as a new story line.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
May 18th
I know what I have to do in my story now. I don't like it; I don't want to write it. (Which is why I'm distracting myself with blogging, at the moment.) I keep distracting myself with additional games of spider solitaire. I've brought my win percentage up from the low forties to eighty six.
Still, I manage to keep chipping away at the story, line by line. Phillipa is pregnant. And Ceallach, true to form, will not wait. Not even with the strategy I thought up earlier, to keep him put. He left for Tir na nOg alone, without telling Phillipa. It was the only way it worked.
He can't tell her, because what she knows, Duana knows, since the sorceress found out Phillipa's true name (which is why sometimes my main character is called Grace and sometimes Phillipa. She's called by her middle name in Tir na nOg. But to no avail. Her real name was in her text book.)
It's not as if a sorceress can raise much defense against an ironsmith, since the iron negates her power. Ceallach is like a walking, living dead zone for magic. But she can make things difficult, and he wants things easy, so he can return as soon as possible, since there is no way to know how much time will pass in the human world while a person is in the other realm. The less time he spends there, the better.
And he doesn't want to talk about it, because he has to kill a woman, a thing he finds incredibly distasteful, even if she is an adversary. And anyway, he feels complicit, since he did lead her to believe, ages ago, that he would marry her. His deep seated conscientiousness is frequently his greatest weakness.
And since Phillipa is telling the story, the reader will never see that plot line develop. I went to extraordinary lengths to force Ceallach into taking her with him when he was hunting down his undead grandfather, so that story could be told. (And it turned out very lucky for him that he did.) But he won't be fooled again. I have no more tricks up my sleeve.
So there you have it. I'm trapped by the complexities of my own story. So much for trying to keep it simple.
I should never have made fun of those authors who complained about their characters taking control. It's like saying you will never wipe your child's nose with your hand, or clean their face with your spit, because next thing you know, five years later, there you are, in the isle at Target, furtively wiping some mysterious, sticky substance off your child's face with spit and the palm of your hand.
My characters don't just have control, they are driving me around with sticks, as though I were their personal beast of burden.
Fortunately Ishi no Torii, being in the beginning chapters, provides me with that illusion of freedom that is so pleasurable at that early point. I can still pretend to be in control of that one.
Still, I manage to keep chipping away at the story, line by line. Phillipa is pregnant. And Ceallach, true to form, will not wait. Not even with the strategy I thought up earlier, to keep him put. He left for Tir na nOg alone, without telling Phillipa. It was the only way it worked.
He can't tell her, because what she knows, Duana knows, since the sorceress found out Phillipa's true name (which is why sometimes my main character is called Grace and sometimes Phillipa. She's called by her middle name in Tir na nOg. But to no avail. Her real name was in her text book.)
It's not as if a sorceress can raise much defense against an ironsmith, since the iron negates her power. Ceallach is like a walking, living dead zone for magic. But she can make things difficult, and he wants things easy, so he can return as soon as possible, since there is no way to know how much time will pass in the human world while a person is in the other realm. The less time he spends there, the better.
And he doesn't want to talk about it, because he has to kill a woman, a thing he finds incredibly distasteful, even if she is an adversary. And anyway, he feels complicit, since he did lead her to believe, ages ago, that he would marry her. His deep seated conscientiousness is frequently his greatest weakness.
And since Phillipa is telling the story, the reader will never see that plot line develop. I went to extraordinary lengths to force Ceallach into taking her with him when he was hunting down his undead grandfather, so that story could be told. (And it turned out very lucky for him that he did.) But he won't be fooled again. I have no more tricks up my sleeve.
So there you have it. I'm trapped by the complexities of my own story. So much for trying to keep it simple.
I should never have made fun of those authors who complained about their characters taking control. It's like saying you will never wipe your child's nose with your hand, or clean their face with your spit, because next thing you know, five years later, there you are, in the isle at Target, furtively wiping some mysterious, sticky substance off your child's face with spit and the palm of your hand.
My characters don't just have control, they are driving me around with sticks, as though I were their personal beast of burden.
Fortunately Ishi no Torii, being in the beginning chapters, provides me with that illusion of freedom that is so pleasurable at that early point. I can still pretend to be in control of that one.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
May 17th
Last night, Keith shooed me out of my own kitchen with a dish towel.
"Go away," he told me. "Go sit down; I got this."
About half an hour later, he told me, with grand gestures: "Your dinner is served, m'lady. To the left you will find a plate and fork with your name on it."
He had prepared pizza and cauliflower with cheese sauce and was very proud of himself. It was delicious.
I went jogging this morning and I feel awesome. I have a little route established. I'm back to three stints of jog/walk, but that's ok. It won't be long before I'll be back to my usual level.
I have been having the hardest time with my writing lately.
The Ceallach story has simply sat at this one point for days now, while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on with it. I wrote it forward about three paragraphs, but in a completely different voice from my usual one.
I thought, what the hell, maybe it just needs to end? Maybe I need to completely rethink my fourth plot line?
This points out the futility of trying to plan out a story in advance. It's just pointless. I have no idea what story I'm writing until I'm writing it. I know lots of writers do that, plan it out, and I know it's more efficient. But I can't do it.
Well, I can. But it's just a waste of time. Anyway, what it is, is that I'm in the beginning of the end of the story and the ending of any story is always a quagmire. It's such slow going.
Then, with my other story, I had to sit down and do some research on world construct, in order to know how my characters are going to be able to move around in it. After I did that, it began to move forward again and I wrote this scene.
Excerpt: (Ishi no Torii)
Satoru tied a tightly wrapped white cloth around his wide head, above his eyes and below his pointed ears and began to bustle around the small kitchen area with focused eyes and obvious expertise. With a massive butcher knife in his clawed hand, he sliced green onions and a white and pink roll of naruto, and cut a hunk of blackly roasted meat into paper thin, rosy pink slices.
He dipped noodles into a pot of briskly boiling water, lifted them up to let the water stream off them, and placed them into blue and white ceramic bowls. Over this he gently ladled out a scoop of rich, golden broth, and poured it slowly over the noodles. Lastly, he deftly arranged the things he’d chopped over the top. He arranged these so beautifully that it was as though he were making a delicate landscape in miniature.
It was like gold, Gilly saw, when he placed her bowl in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Tenshio lifted his bowl in his left hand and drank from the rim. She did the same. The aromatic steam rose up into her face and melted her bones. At the taste of the broth, all the stress washed out of her; the skirt of her uniform lost its starch and her eyes took on the soft luminescence of a kerosene lamp.
Tenshio lifted out a pair of wooden chopsticks from a chipped ceramic mug on the counter top. Gilly did the same. She looked at them, and then she looked at Tenshio. He held the long chopsticks mysteriously in his hand with the long, curving claws and with them, was adroitly lifting the noodles from the bowl. The noodles glistened pale and golden in the lamp light, streaming with broth.
Gilly sighed in longing. She rearranged the long thin sticks in her right hand. When she tightened her hand, one stick went flying over the counter and the other into her lap. Grimly, she pulled another pair from the mug. Satoru lifted the lid off of a pot and held it in front of his face, his pointed, black ears visible above the metal rim. Tenshio ignored her.
She tried again. With whitened knuckles and the tip of her tongue showing, she got the chopsticks to stay in her determined hand. But, when she attempted to pull up noodles, all she managed to do was splash broth in a fine, golden spray up unto her face. Carefully, she removed a sliced green onion from one side of her nose, looked at it, popped it into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
When Tenshio had finished eating, he rested his left elbow on the counter and watched her, an amused look on his face. Satoru had lowered the lid, but never let go of it. At first, his shoulders had slumped in dismay, but then the corners of his wide, ferocious mouth began curling up in arabesques of hilarity.
Satoru turned his eyes to Tenshio, as if to ask where he had come across such a creature as the wilted, cross eyed girl covered in broth and clutching chopsticks, one in each hand. She sat hunched over, her face hovering over the bowl. Occasionally, she managed to fish up a few noodles and sucked them into her mouth before they could slip back down into the swirling heart of the broth.
After watching Gilly chase down a slice of fish cake across the counter top with her chopsticks clutched willy-nilly in her fist, and with the burning eyes of obsession, Satoru leaned forward.
“Give it up, little sister,” he whispered. “The chopsticks have won.”
“Never,” Gilly declared, passionately skewering the errant piece of meat with both chopsticks at once. She ducked her head and bit the slice off the sticks, before it could fall.
Tenshio sat up and took the chopsticks, one after the other, from her hands. “Idiot,” he said calmly. “Put out your right hand.”
She held it out. He moved her fingers and slid the chopsticks into them.
“You must use your thumb and forefinger.”
Awkwardly, but with delight, she maneuvered the chopsticks correctly for the first time. Tenshio pulled a clothe napkin from a wooden box and handed it to her. She wiped off her greasy face with her free hand, unwilling to release her new found grasp on the chopsticks.
“Thank you very much,” she said.
Her eating continued a messy business, but she managed to extract almost all the noodles from the bowl. By the time she saw the blue design inked onto the bottom, her fingers were cramped and aching. There was a blister on the inside of her middle finger, but she was replete with the tasty combination of victory and ramen.
“Thank you, please come again,” intoned Satoru, bowing from behind the counter, where he was mopping up the sticky mess Gilly had left behind.
"Go away," he told me. "Go sit down; I got this."
About half an hour later, he told me, with grand gestures: "Your dinner is served, m'lady. To the left you will find a plate and fork with your name on it."
He had prepared pizza and cauliflower with cheese sauce and was very proud of himself. It was delicious.
I went jogging this morning and I feel awesome. I have a little route established. I'm back to three stints of jog/walk, but that's ok. It won't be long before I'll be back to my usual level.
I have been having the hardest time with my writing lately.
The Ceallach story has simply sat at this one point for days now, while I tried to figure out what the hell was going on with it. I wrote it forward about three paragraphs, but in a completely different voice from my usual one.
I thought, what the hell, maybe it just needs to end? Maybe I need to completely rethink my fourth plot line?
This points out the futility of trying to plan out a story in advance. It's just pointless. I have no idea what story I'm writing until I'm writing it. I know lots of writers do that, plan it out, and I know it's more efficient. But I can't do it.
Well, I can. But it's just a waste of time. Anyway, what it is, is that I'm in the beginning of the end of the story and the ending of any story is always a quagmire. It's such slow going.
Then, with my other story, I had to sit down and do some research on world construct, in order to know how my characters are going to be able to move around in it. After I did that, it began to move forward again and I wrote this scene.
Excerpt: (Ishi no Torii)
Satoru tied a tightly wrapped white cloth around his wide head, above his eyes and below his pointed ears and began to bustle around the small kitchen area with focused eyes and obvious expertise. With a massive butcher knife in his clawed hand, he sliced green onions and a white and pink roll of naruto, and cut a hunk of blackly roasted meat into paper thin, rosy pink slices.
He dipped noodles into a pot of briskly boiling water, lifted them up to let the water stream off them, and placed them into blue and white ceramic bowls. Over this he gently ladled out a scoop of rich, golden broth, and poured it slowly over the noodles. Lastly, he deftly arranged the things he’d chopped over the top. He arranged these so beautifully that it was as though he were making a delicate landscape in miniature.
It was like gold, Gilly saw, when he placed her bowl in front of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Tenshio lifted his bowl in his left hand and drank from the rim. She did the same. The aromatic steam rose up into her face and melted her bones. At the taste of the broth, all the stress washed out of her; the skirt of her uniform lost its starch and her eyes took on the soft luminescence of a kerosene lamp.
Tenshio lifted out a pair of wooden chopsticks from a chipped ceramic mug on the counter top. Gilly did the same. She looked at them, and then she looked at Tenshio. He held the long chopsticks mysteriously in his hand with the long, curving claws and with them, was adroitly lifting the noodles from the bowl. The noodles glistened pale and golden in the lamp light, streaming with broth.
Gilly sighed in longing. She rearranged the long thin sticks in her right hand. When she tightened her hand, one stick went flying over the counter and the other into her lap. Grimly, she pulled another pair from the mug. Satoru lifted the lid off of a pot and held it in front of his face, his pointed, black ears visible above the metal rim. Tenshio ignored her.
She tried again. With whitened knuckles and the tip of her tongue showing, she got the chopsticks to stay in her determined hand. But, when she attempted to pull up noodles, all she managed to do was splash broth in a fine, golden spray up unto her face. Carefully, she removed a sliced green onion from one side of her nose, looked at it, popped it into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully.
When Tenshio had finished eating, he rested his left elbow on the counter and watched her, an amused look on his face. Satoru had lowered the lid, but never let go of it. At first, his shoulders had slumped in dismay, but then the corners of his wide, ferocious mouth began curling up in arabesques of hilarity.
Satoru turned his eyes to Tenshio, as if to ask where he had come across such a creature as the wilted, cross eyed girl covered in broth and clutching chopsticks, one in each hand. She sat hunched over, her face hovering over the bowl. Occasionally, she managed to fish up a few noodles and sucked them into her mouth before they could slip back down into the swirling heart of the broth.
After watching Gilly chase down a slice of fish cake across the counter top with her chopsticks clutched willy-nilly in her fist, and with the burning eyes of obsession, Satoru leaned forward.
“Give it up, little sister,” he whispered. “The chopsticks have won.”
“Never,” Gilly declared, passionately skewering the errant piece of meat with both chopsticks at once. She ducked her head and bit the slice off the sticks, before it could fall.
Tenshio sat up and took the chopsticks, one after the other, from her hands. “Idiot,” he said calmly. “Put out your right hand.”
She held it out. He moved her fingers and slid the chopsticks into them.
“You must use your thumb and forefinger.”
Awkwardly, but with delight, she maneuvered the chopsticks correctly for the first time. Tenshio pulled a clothe napkin from a wooden box and handed it to her. She wiped off her greasy face with her free hand, unwilling to release her new found grasp on the chopsticks.
“Thank you very much,” she said.
Her eating continued a messy business, but she managed to extract almost all the noodles from the bowl. By the time she saw the blue design inked onto the bottom, her fingers were cramped and aching. There was a blister on the inside of her middle finger, but she was replete with the tasty combination of victory and ramen.
“Thank you, please come again,” intoned Satoru, bowing from behind the counter, where he was mopping up the sticky mess Gilly had left behind.
Monday, May 16, 2011
May 16th
So, Keith and I tried out a church yesterday. We talked about doing this the entire time we lived in Kentucky and never did. I can't say that I regretted such lengthy procrastination; my experiences with organized Christianity have been, generally speaking, off putting.
The church we ended up attending is this really old, white painted church with stained glass windows five minutes from our house. It served as a hospital for Confederate soldiers during the Civil War and was the church that the plantation and slave owners attended before that. (The pastor's wife told this to me.)
It had a sign with the service time written on it. The name of the church was: "The House of God- and a house of prayer for all nations." That seemed innocuous enough; absolutely nothing to argue with there.
True to form, we were too early for comfort, so we just drove by. There appeared to be only three people in the parking lot. That did not seem auspicious, so we kept driving.
We made a big circle and in the course of ten minutes, passed by four different churches. Two of them seemed deserted and one was too large. We were kind of like the Goldilocks of church hunting: this one is empty! This one has no service time displayed! This one is too popular!
Then we came back around to the original church. It was still, to all intents and purposes, empty. We decided to park anyway; it was a charming little building and we were all dressed up and everything.
If fact, I felt like I'd regressed, gone back in time. I was wearing a sleeveless, rayon polka dot dress with a circle skirt and a gathered bodice and black and white Italian leather heels with a discrete, black ribbon bow over the peep toe. I wore my hair down and when I say down, I mean down. I'm the frequently dismayed owner of a waterfall of dark hair. I was carrying a small, maroon leather bound, King James bible in my un-manicured, but clean and tidy hands. I wore no jewelry, and no make up.
If there's anything my early Christian training has taught me, it's how to look the part. The sleeveless nature of my dress was maybe a chancy thing, depending on the strictness of the unwritten doctrine of the church, but since it wasn't a Baptist church, it was a good bet that my uncovered upper arms would not cause any undue consternation among the dearly beloved.
We went up the steps cautiously; I put my hand on the door handle when suddenly it was swung open with a shriek, a shriek, my friends, of pure delight and I was suddenly enveloped in the strong and slender arms of a woman whom I had never seen before in my entire life. (Am I using "whom" in the previous sentence correctly? I wonder.)
They all but killed the fatted calf for us. I sound sarcastic, and in point of fact, frequently have been, but their warmth and openness really was genuinely moving. We were introduced to everyone in the church, which happened to be four people. By the time the service ended, there were seven people, not counting us.
When the pastor's wife, who had been the lady greeting us, stood to make announcements, and announced that there was a laundry list of announcements, I couldn't help but wonder where could all this wealth of necessary and relevant information be originating from?
It turned out we were part of the announcements. I think we got thanked, by name, first and last, for coming in about four different times. There were two birthdays, a rescheduled prayer meeting and an up coming seminar. When it came time to leave, we had three different flyers in hand.
I noticed the scripture for the service and looked it up, my rusty Bible-chapter-finding skills jumping once more to dim life. Ah, the excitement filled Bible drills of yore. I assisted Keith to locate his scripture with a lightly veiled look of moral smugness.
When I read the text, my eyebrows shot up. I wondered who on earth would plan a sermon around I Corinthians 1:10-17?
10 I appeal to you, brothers, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another so that there may be no divisions among you and that you may be perfectly united in mind and thought.
11 My brothers, some from Chloe's household have informed me that there are quarrels among you. 12 What I mean is this: One of you says, "I follow Paul"; another, "I follow Apollos"; another, "I follow Cephas "; still another, "I follow Christ."
13 Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Were you baptized into the name of Paul? 14 I am thankful that I did not baptize any of you except Crispus and Gaius, 15 so no one can say that you were baptized into my name. 16 (Yes, I also baptized the household of Stephanas; beyond that, I don't remember if I baptized anyone else.)
17 For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel--not with words of human wisdom, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power.
It was a very interesting sermon. It was thought provoking and very reassuring, in the light of my religious past. A church where they preach only the cross of Christ is very much up my alley.
Because there was such a small congregation, there was a large amount of intense eye contact from the passionate pastor, who sometimes thundered his message and sometimes whispered it, all the to the supportive accompanying chorus of his wife's fervent amens.
It was an racially mixed congregation, which is one of the church's founding principles, and another reason why it suits Keith and I so well. If we end up adopting, we want an ethnically and racially diverse church family to support ours.
The church had this feeling, an almost disturbing feeling, of reality. Of human reality, to be exact. Though I'm not quite sure how to describe it. There didn't seem to be any pretense. I hugged the pastor's wife as warmly as if she'd been a friend of mine for years, after the sermon ended.
At the end of the service, the pastor gave a call for anyone to come up, to get saved, to rededicate their life to Christ or to join the church. I wrestled with my in-house guilt, which gets resuscitated instantaneously under those conditions.
"You are a back slider," said the guilt. "Go up and rededicate your life to Christ, amidst humility, shame and feelings of hopeless for the future, which you will surely mess up. But that means we'll just get to have this conversation all over again, at that future date. I look forward to it: it'll be great. I own you. Go up and seal the deal."
Then, thank God, I remembered that my life had been dedicated to Christ years and years ago and I never undid it, and it always belonged to Him and I don't care what the hell it looks like to anyone else, because it's none of their business and my guilt can go to hell.
So then, I lifted my head with this feeling of joy and assurance and took in a deep breath of sweet, undeserving victory. Such is grace.
One pitfall of church avoided. Several more to go, I suspect. Despite this, we'll go again.
The church we ended up attending is this really old, white painted church with stained glass windows five minutes from our house. It served as a hospital for Confederate soldiers during the Civil War and was the church that the plantation and slave owners attended before that. (The pastor's wife told this to me.)
It had a sign with the service time written on it. The name of the church was: "The House of God- and a house of prayer for all nations." That seemed innocuous enough; absolutely nothing to argue with there.
True to form, we were too early for comfort, so we just drove by. There appeared to be only three people in the parking lot. That did not seem auspicious, so we kept driving.
We made a big circle and in the course of ten minutes, passed by four different churches. Two of them seemed deserted and one was too large. We were kind of like the Goldilocks of church hunting: this one is empty! This one has no service time displayed! This one is too popular!
Then we came back around to the original church. It was still, to all intents and purposes, empty. We decided to park anyway; it was a charming little building and we were all dressed up and everything.
If fact, I felt like I'd regressed, gone back in time. I was wearing a sleeveless, rayon polka dot dress with a circle skirt and a gathered bodice and black and white Italian leather heels with a discrete, black ribbon bow over the peep toe. I wore my hair down and when I say down, I mean down. I'm the frequently dismayed owner of a waterfall of dark hair. I was carrying a small, maroon leather bound, King James bible in my un-manicured, but clean and tidy hands. I wore no jewelry, and no make up.
If there's anything my early Christian training has taught me, it's how to look the part. The sleeveless nature of my dress was maybe a chancy thing, depending on the strictness of the unwritten doctrine of the church, but since it wasn't a Baptist church, it was a good bet that my uncovered upper arms would not cause any undue consternation among the dearly beloved.
We went up the steps cautiously; I put my hand on the door handle when suddenly it was swung open with a shriek, a shriek, my friends, of pure delight and I was suddenly enveloped in the strong and slender arms of a woman whom I had never seen before in my entire life. (Am I using "whom" in the previous sentence correctly? I wonder.)
They all but killed the fatted calf for us. I sound sarcastic, and in point of fact, frequently have been, but their warmth and openness really was genuinely moving. We were introduced to everyone in the church, which happened to be four people. By the time the service ended, there were seven people, not counting us.
When the pastor's wife, who had been the lady greeting us, stood to make announcements, and announced that there was a laundry list of announcements, I couldn't help but wonder where could all this wealth of necessary and relevant information be originating from?
It turned out we were part of the announcements. I think we got thanked, by name, first and last, for coming in about four different times. There were two birthdays, a rescheduled prayer meeting and an up coming seminar. When it came time to leave, we had three different flyers in hand.
I noticed the scripture for the service and looked it up, my rusty Bible-chapter-finding skills jumping once more to dim life. Ah, the excitement filled Bible drills of yore. I assisted Keith to locate his scripture with a lightly veiled look of moral smugness.
When I read the text, my eyebrows shot up. I wondered who on earth would plan a sermon around I Corinthians 1:10-17?
10 I appeal to you, brothers, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you agree with one another so that there may be no divisions among you and that you may be perfectly united in mind and thought.
11 My brothers, some from Chloe's household have informed me that there are quarrels among you. 12 What I mean is this: One of you says, "I follow Paul"; another, "I follow Apollos"; another, "I follow Cephas "; still another, "I follow Christ."
13 Is Christ divided? Was Paul crucified for you? Were you baptized into the name of Paul? 14 I am thankful that I did not baptize any of you except Crispus and Gaius, 15 so no one can say that you were baptized into my name. 16 (Yes, I also baptized the household of Stephanas; beyond that, I don't remember if I baptized anyone else.)
17 For Christ did not send me to baptize, but to preach the gospel--not with words of human wisdom, lest the cross of Christ be emptied of its power.
It was a very interesting sermon. It was thought provoking and very reassuring, in the light of my religious past. A church where they preach only the cross of Christ is very much up my alley.
Because there was such a small congregation, there was a large amount of intense eye contact from the passionate pastor, who sometimes thundered his message and sometimes whispered it, all the to the supportive accompanying chorus of his wife's fervent amens.
It was an racially mixed congregation, which is one of the church's founding principles, and another reason why it suits Keith and I so well. If we end up adopting, we want an ethnically and racially diverse church family to support ours.
The church had this feeling, an almost disturbing feeling, of reality. Of human reality, to be exact. Though I'm not quite sure how to describe it. There didn't seem to be any pretense. I hugged the pastor's wife as warmly as if she'd been a friend of mine for years, after the sermon ended.
At the end of the service, the pastor gave a call for anyone to come up, to get saved, to rededicate their life to Christ or to join the church. I wrestled with my in-house guilt, which gets resuscitated instantaneously under those conditions.
"You are a back slider," said the guilt. "Go up and rededicate your life to Christ, amidst humility, shame and feelings of hopeless for the future, which you will surely mess up. But that means we'll just get to have this conversation all over again, at that future date. I look forward to it: it'll be great. I own you. Go up and seal the deal."
Then, thank God, I remembered that my life had been dedicated to Christ years and years ago and I never undid it, and it always belonged to Him and I don't care what the hell it looks like to anyone else, because it's none of their business and my guilt can go to hell.
So then, I lifted my head with this feeling of joy and assurance and took in a deep breath of sweet, undeserving victory. Such is grace.
One pitfall of church avoided. Several more to go, I suspect. Despite this, we'll go again.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
May 14th
I have a pot of chili simmering. Keith is playing war games and I am listening to The Eagles with headphones on. I can still hear the rapid gun fire and wide spread devastation coming from the living room.
I knew it was a chancy thing, setting up my little office in the "den" area. It was always a toss up between nice, little area but no door vs. dark little bedroom with some sound protection. What I didn't count on was Keith working only half days, so I spend much of mine with auditory headgear firmly in place.
Last night another thunderstorm blew through, ripping leaves off by the scores and throwing them into the pool. Keith ran out into the wind whipped patio to turn the hamburgers we had foolishly decided to grill but minutes before the story blew up, with green egg skies and fat drops of flung rain. They were very tasty hamburgers, despite the fact that we have no gutters and the rain water simply sweeps down in sheets from the roof, right onto the top of the grill. There was some added flavor to those hamburgers, that's for sure.
Yesterday, as we waited at the top of the third isle, an hour and a half into our box sale marathon crawl, I tried to decipher the total amount of calories within one, forty four cent packet of potato chips.
"Do you really want to be eating..." (long pause, as my eyes rolled heavenward, mentally counting on fingers) "...over six hundred calories at one go?"
Keith just grinned.
"What?" I asked, knowing that grin. "You aren't smiling at my math skills, are you?"
"I love you, you little kitten," was all he said.
I suspect he was.
I knew it was a chancy thing, setting up my little office in the "den" area. It was always a toss up between nice, little area but no door vs. dark little bedroom with some sound protection. What I didn't count on was Keith working only half days, so I spend much of mine with auditory headgear firmly in place.
Last night another thunderstorm blew through, ripping leaves off by the scores and throwing them into the pool. Keith ran out into the wind whipped patio to turn the hamburgers we had foolishly decided to grill but minutes before the story blew up, with green egg skies and fat drops of flung rain. They were very tasty hamburgers, despite the fact that we have no gutters and the rain water simply sweeps down in sheets from the roof, right onto the top of the grill. There was some added flavor to those hamburgers, that's for sure.
Yesterday, as we waited at the top of the third isle, an hour and a half into our box sale marathon crawl, I tried to decipher the total amount of calories within one, forty four cent packet of potato chips.
"Do you really want to be eating..." (long pause, as my eyes rolled heavenward, mentally counting on fingers) "...over six hundred calories at one go?"
Keith just grinned.
"What?" I asked, knowing that grin. "You aren't smiling at my math skills, are you?"
"I love you, you little kitten," was all he said.
I suspect he was.
Friday, May 13, 2011
May 13th
We went to a box sale today, at the commissary. Or rather, in the commissary parking lot, under a huge white tent. It took two hours. Pretty much we simply stood still, in one massive line, surrounded by cardboard box towers and other, mutely suffering customers.
Every once in a while we would take a step or two forward. Every ten minutes or so, we could reach a new display and possibly toss something into the cart. Every half hour, we reached the end of one isle and began to turn the corner. Ten minutes later, we cleared the corner and were lined for the next isle.
By the time we reached the last isle, workers started coming down the line occasionally handing out stuff and intoning "Thank you for waiting." In this way, we collected a thin, nylon tote bag with the face of Shrek emblazoned on it and a small bottle of water.
The savings were mixed. We ended up buying massive quantities of snack foods, which is definitely a mixed blessing, as they are now available to eat in massive quantities. Other people were collecting food in such quantities that I simply don't know how they were pushing their overloaded carts, or how boxes did not start to slide right off and onto other people's heads.
I don't think we'll go again; I'm not sure it was worth it.
Every once in a while we would take a step or two forward. Every ten minutes or so, we could reach a new display and possibly toss something into the cart. Every half hour, we reached the end of one isle and began to turn the corner. Ten minutes later, we cleared the corner and were lined for the next isle.
By the time we reached the last isle, workers started coming down the line occasionally handing out stuff and intoning "Thank you for waiting." In this way, we collected a thin, nylon tote bag with the face of Shrek emblazoned on it and a small bottle of water.
The savings were mixed. We ended up buying massive quantities of snack foods, which is definitely a mixed blessing, as they are now available to eat in massive quantities. Other people were collecting food in such quantities that I simply don't know how they were pushing their overloaded carts, or how boxes did not start to slide right off and onto other people's heads.
I don't think we'll go again; I'm not sure it was worth it.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
May 11th
My emotions have been all over the place lately.
I think it's because I lost my jogging mo-jo. Ever since we moved here, we've gone jogging only that one time. Each morning, I wake up and think, today you will jog. And then I think of the strange, new neighborhood, even though it's a nice neighborhood, and all the strange people that might be watching, and the cars that might almost run me over because I get caught up, and the fact that I haven't jogged now for two weeks, and so will suck at it, and lots of other things, and I don't go.
Swimming sort of off sets this, but it's just not as steady and disciplined an exercise routine.
But Keith has come up with a solution. When we get reimbursed for our moving expenses and all caught up and all that, we will buy a treadmill or other jogging machine/device and put it out by the pool. That way, I can jog for half an hour in the cool morning air, all by my shy self.
In the meantime, I'm just sloppy with anxiety, the anxiety I normally sweat out and the anxiety left over from moving. It lingers.
I'm still working on all four stories. The Ceallach story is over one hundred thousand words. No kidding. I wrote that. Sometimes I have to sit back and just let it sink in. It's almost three hundred pages long.
I'm not sure how much of it I'll keep though. For instance, Ceallach had a little breakdown in the last scene. I know, right? But what you don't know, because I never share those scenes, is that he's actually a fairly vulnerable and sometimes insecure person, though maybe hints of it comes through, as it should. I don't like cast iron heroes.
For some reason, trauma from his past came up into the present and had to be dealt with. Both of them are dealing with a lot of aftermath. The second and third sections are so intense and the respite from horrible or strange or unpleasant things happening are so short, that they simply don't have time to really process how it's affecting them.
Now, they must. So this forth section is turning out to be chock full of internal conflicts, as opposed to the external conflicts that dominated the rest of the story.
But I like that, about my stories. It annoys me when I read a story that doesn't illuminate what it really feels like to experience something fantastical, something breathtaking, something terrifying. Frequently, I have noticed over the years, in some stories, the characters just adjust- go through some initial identity struggle until they take up their predestined fate and forward they go.
I want to know what it feels like, you know? I want to know the nitty-gritty. So I try to write that stuff out in my own stories, since I'm as much a reader of my own story as anyone else, when I'm first writing it. But this last scene might be a bit much. It might cause the reader to wonder just what genre they're reading; is it a psychological drama, a fantasy adventure, or a romance novel? Like, what the heck?
And just because I know that something is true for a character does not mean that it must be revealed in the story. After all, I could, if I wished, write out their entire lives, but I'm trying to write a story, not a biography.
I think it's because I lost my jogging mo-jo. Ever since we moved here, we've gone jogging only that one time. Each morning, I wake up and think, today you will jog. And then I think of the strange, new neighborhood, even though it's a nice neighborhood, and all the strange people that might be watching, and the cars that might almost run me over because I get caught up, and the fact that I haven't jogged now for two weeks, and so will suck at it, and lots of other things, and I don't go.
Swimming sort of off sets this, but it's just not as steady and disciplined an exercise routine.
But Keith has come up with a solution. When we get reimbursed for our moving expenses and all caught up and all that, we will buy a treadmill or other jogging machine/device and put it out by the pool. That way, I can jog for half an hour in the cool morning air, all by my shy self.
In the meantime, I'm just sloppy with anxiety, the anxiety I normally sweat out and the anxiety left over from moving. It lingers.
I'm still working on all four stories. The Ceallach story is over one hundred thousand words. No kidding. I wrote that. Sometimes I have to sit back and just let it sink in. It's almost three hundred pages long.
I'm not sure how much of it I'll keep though. For instance, Ceallach had a little breakdown in the last scene. I know, right? But what you don't know, because I never share those scenes, is that he's actually a fairly vulnerable and sometimes insecure person, though maybe hints of it comes through, as it should. I don't like cast iron heroes.
For some reason, trauma from his past came up into the present and had to be dealt with. Both of them are dealing with a lot of aftermath. The second and third sections are so intense and the respite from horrible or strange or unpleasant things happening are so short, that they simply don't have time to really process how it's affecting them.
Now, they must. So this forth section is turning out to be chock full of internal conflicts, as opposed to the external conflicts that dominated the rest of the story.
But I like that, about my stories. It annoys me when I read a story that doesn't illuminate what it really feels like to experience something fantastical, something breathtaking, something terrifying. Frequently, I have noticed over the years, in some stories, the characters just adjust- go through some initial identity struggle until they take up their predestined fate and forward they go.
I want to know what it feels like, you know? I want to know the nitty-gritty. So I try to write that stuff out in my own stories, since I'm as much a reader of my own story as anyone else, when I'm first writing it. But this last scene might be a bit much. It might cause the reader to wonder just what genre they're reading; is it a psychological drama, a fantasy adventure, or a romance novel? Like, what the heck?
And just because I know that something is true for a character does not mean that it must be revealed in the story. After all, I could, if I wished, write out their entire lives, but I'm trying to write a story, not a biography.
Monday, May 9, 2011
May 9th, afternoon
Excerpt:
The bar was still open though, and there was one young man that stood outside the red painted door, near the streetlight. He had a scruffy beard and wore a printed tee shirt over cargo shorts. He had been smoking, but the cigarette fell unnoticed from his fingers as his eyes focused on us.
“Mother of god,” he said, with misplaced reverence.
He had to tilt his head far back to take us in, as Cashlin walked toward him with slow, heavy steps. Ceallach drew the war horse in at the edge of the curb, in the no parking space. The street lights glinted in a dark and strange way on the lacquered surface of Ceallach’s armored arms and turned my dangling, dirty bare feet a deep orange color.
“Could you tell us the date, please?” asked Ceallach, politely.
The young man gave a quick, high laugh. “Yeah,” he gasped. “Right: the date. I really gotta stop drinking Jagerbombs.”
“Just tell me what year it is,” repeated Ceallach, gently. Cashlin stamped his heavy foot, his harness jingling.
“Um… god. Gimme a sec… Uh…” His face brightened, as he pulled himself together enough to remember. “2008. Just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Thank you very much,” Ceallach replied, his voice brightening. He turned Cashlin back into the street. The young man stumbled off the curb after us.
“Wait!” he called. “What are you? What’s going on?”
"We're from the Renaissance Festival," I called back, taking pity on him.
He stood in the empty street, his arms at his sides. "What Renaissance Festival?" he asked, half to himself, puzzled.
"That's a killer custume you've got, by the way," I said to Ceallach.
"Ha ha," he answered dryly. "Very funny."
The bar was still open though, and there was one young man that stood outside the red painted door, near the streetlight. He had a scruffy beard and wore a printed tee shirt over cargo shorts. He had been smoking, but the cigarette fell unnoticed from his fingers as his eyes focused on us.
“Mother of god,” he said, with misplaced reverence.
He had to tilt his head far back to take us in, as Cashlin walked toward him with slow, heavy steps. Ceallach drew the war horse in at the edge of the curb, in the no parking space. The street lights glinted in a dark and strange way on the lacquered surface of Ceallach’s armored arms and turned my dangling, dirty bare feet a deep orange color.
“Could you tell us the date, please?” asked Ceallach, politely.
The young man gave a quick, high laugh. “Yeah,” he gasped. “Right: the date. I really gotta stop drinking Jagerbombs.”
“Just tell me what year it is,” repeated Ceallach, gently. Cashlin stamped his heavy foot, his harness jingling.
“Um… god. Gimme a sec… Uh…” His face brightened, as he pulled himself together enough to remember. “2008. Just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Thank you very much,” Ceallach replied, his voice brightening. He turned Cashlin back into the street. The young man stumbled off the curb after us.
“Wait!” he called. “What are you? What’s going on?”
"We're from the Renaissance Festival," I called back, taking pity on him.
He stood in the empty street, his arms at his sides. "What Renaissance Festival?" he asked, half to himself, puzzled.
"That's a killer custume you've got, by the way," I said to Ceallach.
"Ha ha," he answered dryly. "Very funny."
May 9th
I had no idea Mother's Day was getting to me so much, until I read a blog written by an adoptive mother, and how it feels to get through the day when one wishes to be a mother, but is not, somehow, for some reason, achieving that particular state in life.
At that point, when I felt like bawling my eyes out, I realized.
But, I don't want to talk about it. What can be done, anyway? Bah humbug, I say.
Let's see, what else has been happening around the new Indiana household?
Keith folded up, emptied and otherwise removed the last of the boxes that had been left behind and now even the closets are organized.
We have been swimming so much that my arms ache.
I already love Georgia more than I ever loved Kentucky. Though this might change when summer comes. It's hard to remember that it's not summer already. I have that languid, lazy summer feeling.
We're still waiting on:
Our security deposit from the house in Kentucky
Our reimbursement for moving expenses
Our rent check from CO
All that equals having absolutely no money. Hamburger helper tonight!
Putting chapters in a story transforms the editing process. It is a revelation to me, how marvelously the chapter format focuses my attention. I see each scene and the way in which they flow, one to another, in a bright, clear way. Everything stands out to me.
Lately, I've just been scrolling happily up and down, randomly, through my story, finding a chapter beginning, and reading down from there, happily editing as I go.
I have completed section three and am well into section four, when they return. And, my, my my, but that is sheer fun. It's a little bit of work, untangling what I already wrote and no longer fits, and what I already wrote and I no longer like and what I didn't write and now know needs to be in there.
Despite all that, it feels almost effortless. Mostly because it's set in the real world, which I can write about right off the top of my head. When they were in Tir na nOg, I had to come up with bloody everything, all the time.
Also, they're just so darn cute now. They've grown so much. Now they are out from under the pressure cooker. They just have to pick up the pieces of their old life.
And survive Duana. Heh. One last hurdle.
At that point, when I felt like bawling my eyes out, I realized.
But, I don't want to talk about it. What can be done, anyway? Bah humbug, I say.
Let's see, what else has been happening around the new Indiana household?
Keith folded up, emptied and otherwise removed the last of the boxes that had been left behind and now even the closets are organized.
We have been swimming so much that my arms ache.
I already love Georgia more than I ever loved Kentucky. Though this might change when summer comes. It's hard to remember that it's not summer already. I have that languid, lazy summer feeling.
We're still waiting on:
Our security deposit from the house in Kentucky
Our reimbursement for moving expenses
Our rent check from CO
All that equals having absolutely no money. Hamburger helper tonight!
Putting chapters in a story transforms the editing process. It is a revelation to me, how marvelously the chapter format focuses my attention. I see each scene and the way in which they flow, one to another, in a bright, clear way. Everything stands out to me.
Lately, I've just been scrolling happily up and down, randomly, through my story, finding a chapter beginning, and reading down from there, happily editing as I go.
I have completed section three and am well into section four, when they return. And, my, my my, but that is sheer fun. It's a little bit of work, untangling what I already wrote and no longer fits, and what I already wrote and I no longer like and what I didn't write and now know needs to be in there.
Despite all that, it feels almost effortless. Mostly because it's set in the real world, which I can write about right off the top of my head. When they were in Tir na nOg, I had to come up with bloody everything, all the time.
Also, they're just so darn cute now. They've grown so much. Now they are out from under the pressure cooker. They just have to pick up the pieces of their old life.
And survive Duana. Heh. One last hurdle.
Friday, May 6, 2011
May 6th
Hello, my bloggy friends.
I apologize; all my writing energy is going elsewhere and all I have at the moment is black and white narrative. I am going to do nothing more than talk (read: complain) about the mechanics of writing. Forewarned is forearmed.
I have been putting in chapters. They average about ten pages each. I think that's too small.
Chapter breaks are really annoying. They are as annoying as bed bugs or mosquitoes or that rattle somewhere in your dashboard that doesn't go away.
So, I may go back and rewrite them into fifteen pages. Though I've been reading other people's books and one of them did also have ten page chapters.
It doesn't matter. For fiction, the standards for chapter length are non existent. It could be anything I wanted it to be.
So my creative side is at war with my need for symmetry.
Then there's the whole suspense vs. natural break thing. Either you can break the story at a cliff hanger, or the least natural place to break the story and frustrate your reader into turning the page, or you can break the story at the place where it lies down to rest a moment before going on to the next thing, which causes your reader to put the book down, turn out the light, and go to sleep.
Then, there are the section lengths. Part one is what it is. I can't change it; it has become like a legend. My characters hark back to the strange and breathless way in which they fell in love frequently throughout the rest of the story, as a way to ground themselves when things get strange. I can't expand it by slowing down their courtship, besides, then the story loses a huge, quirky piece of what makes it unique.
So I can't undo that.
Part 2 is much, much longer, though not any more detailed or nuanced. It's just longer and the story builds very nicely all through it. It's a very good section. But of course, I put a great deal of time and thought into layering it up into what it is.
Part 3, that I only recently concluded, has a lot more work needed. But, after all, that is the part that sat around, interrupted by the move. I haven't even read it all the way from beginning to end once yet. Poor neglected thing. I'm almost there.
Part 4 is in shambles. The Epilogue does not yet exist.
So, here's the stats:
Prologue: 6 pages
Part I: Spring, New England: 61 pages
Part II: Thirn Ei Rua: 87 pages
Part II: Oth Nara: 86 pages
Part IV: Autumn, New England: ? pages
Epilogue: (If I have one) ? pages
So, if I keep section four to about sixty pages, I should be good. It's ridiculous to want to keep things symmetrical. It's a completely unnecessary waste of my time, but I can't help myself.
Not to mention the fact that some publishers and agents specifically request no chapter breaks in submitted manuals. But I figure I can do all this, and save this copy and then save another copy without them. That way, at least I have a general idea of how the story is laid out.
Anyway, that's what I've been doing with myself lately; rereading the entire story, as it stands. I have completed the massive piece of rewriting that had been sitting in my head like blinker. I wrote in two scenes that I've long known were necessary in Thirn Ei Rua.
I'm almost to the end of Oth Nara, and already put in several things that I realized it needed as I read through it.
All the while, I put in chapter breaks and keep track of their length. I have a little note paper beside me, with columns of messy figures in black ink. There are twenty five chapters already. I think that's just too many chapters.
I really think I'm going to go back and redo the entire thing; make all the chapters average out to fifteen pages. A lot of the books I looked at had chapters that were between fourteen and eighteen pages long.
Lastly, what the hell am I going to call it? I've saved the file name under "Old New England." But that was from over ten years ago, when it was just five pages long and it doesn't make sense any more. I have a while yet before I have to know what to call it, so I'm not too worried. But the fact of the matter is, I have absolutely no idea. Just a complete blank.
I finish each day just exhausted. It is very hard mental work. But so intoxicating; I can't stop. I have to force myself to get off the computer and do things like vacuum or wash dishes or make the bed. Or eat, for that matter.
I apologize; all my writing energy is going elsewhere and all I have at the moment is black and white narrative. I am going to do nothing more than talk (read: complain) about the mechanics of writing. Forewarned is forearmed.
I have been putting in chapters. They average about ten pages each. I think that's too small.
Chapter breaks are really annoying. They are as annoying as bed bugs or mosquitoes or that rattle somewhere in your dashboard that doesn't go away.
So, I may go back and rewrite them into fifteen pages. Though I've been reading other people's books and one of them did also have ten page chapters.
It doesn't matter. For fiction, the standards for chapter length are non existent. It could be anything I wanted it to be.
So my creative side is at war with my need for symmetry.
Then there's the whole suspense vs. natural break thing. Either you can break the story at a cliff hanger, or the least natural place to break the story and frustrate your reader into turning the page, or you can break the story at the place where it lies down to rest a moment before going on to the next thing, which causes your reader to put the book down, turn out the light, and go to sleep.
Then, there are the section lengths. Part one is what it is. I can't change it; it has become like a legend. My characters hark back to the strange and breathless way in which they fell in love frequently throughout the rest of the story, as a way to ground themselves when things get strange. I can't expand it by slowing down their courtship, besides, then the story loses a huge, quirky piece of what makes it unique.
So I can't undo that.
Part 2 is much, much longer, though not any more detailed or nuanced. It's just longer and the story builds very nicely all through it. It's a very good section. But of course, I put a great deal of time and thought into layering it up into what it is.
Part 3, that I only recently concluded, has a lot more work needed. But, after all, that is the part that sat around, interrupted by the move. I haven't even read it all the way from beginning to end once yet. Poor neglected thing. I'm almost there.
Part 4 is in shambles. The Epilogue does not yet exist.
So, here's the stats:
Prologue: 6 pages
Part I: Spring, New England: 61 pages
Part II: Thirn Ei Rua: 87 pages
Part II: Oth Nara: 86 pages
Part IV: Autumn, New England: ? pages
Epilogue: (If I have one) ? pages
So, if I keep section four to about sixty pages, I should be good. It's ridiculous to want to keep things symmetrical. It's a completely unnecessary waste of my time, but I can't help myself.
Not to mention the fact that some publishers and agents specifically request no chapter breaks in submitted manuals. But I figure I can do all this, and save this copy and then save another copy without them. That way, at least I have a general idea of how the story is laid out.
Anyway, that's what I've been doing with myself lately; rereading the entire story, as it stands. I have completed the massive piece of rewriting that had been sitting in my head like blinker. I wrote in two scenes that I've long known were necessary in Thirn Ei Rua.
I'm almost to the end of Oth Nara, and already put in several things that I realized it needed as I read through it.
All the while, I put in chapter breaks and keep track of their length. I have a little note paper beside me, with columns of messy figures in black ink. There are twenty five chapters already. I think that's just too many chapters.
I really think I'm going to go back and redo the entire thing; make all the chapters average out to fifteen pages. A lot of the books I looked at had chapters that were between fourteen and eighteen pages long.
Lastly, what the hell am I going to call it? I've saved the file name under "Old New England." But that was from over ten years ago, when it was just five pages long and it doesn't make sense any more. I have a while yet before I have to know what to call it, so I'm not too worried. But the fact of the matter is, I have absolutely no idea. Just a complete blank.
I finish each day just exhausted. It is very hard mental work. But so intoxicating; I can't stop. I have to force myself to get off the computer and do things like vacuum or wash dishes or make the bed. Or eat, for that matter.
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
May 4th
Last night, Keith fell asleep on the couch at six thirty in the evening. He's been very busy the last few days.
I knew, from lots of experience, that the longer I left him sleeping there, the harder he'd be to wake up. So, after about an hour, I closed up the computer and began the long, arduous process of convincing Keith that, one: he is not in his bed, two: he needs to get into his bed and three: I am his wife.
Hehe.
After, like, ten minutes of pointless cajoling on my part, Keith reached his limit.
"Just take it!" he cried, fending me off with his arm, his face pressed to the back of the couch. "Just take it, I don't care! Just take it, and go. Where's my wife? I want my wife."
I didn't know whether to laugh or pull my hair out. I'm sure laughing now. At the time, I thought he was being sarcastic, but after he really did wake up, he told me that he did think I was a complete stranger, bent on driving him crazy and after something. We'll never know what it was he thought I was after.
I guess an hour of sleep is too long, after all.
I knew, from lots of experience, that the longer I left him sleeping there, the harder he'd be to wake up. So, after about an hour, I closed up the computer and began the long, arduous process of convincing Keith that, one: he is not in his bed, two: he needs to get into his bed and three: I am his wife.
Hehe.
After, like, ten minutes of pointless cajoling on my part, Keith reached his limit.
"Just take it!" he cried, fending me off with his arm, his face pressed to the back of the couch. "Just take it, I don't care! Just take it, and go. Where's my wife? I want my wife."
I didn't know whether to laugh or pull my hair out. I'm sure laughing now. At the time, I thought he was being sarcastic, but after he really did wake up, he told me that he did think I was a complete stranger, bent on driving him crazy and after something. We'll never know what it was he thought I was after.
I guess an hour of sleep is too long, after all.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
May 3rd
I am exhausted. I couldn't sleep for thinking of writing.
I couldn't resist; I had to throw that scene out there into the blogosphere, even though it had just been written and will get changed a lot in rewriting. When I do reread it, I will roll my eyes and be embarrassed that I put such a crummy piece of writing out into public view.
The end is in sight. I just have to wrap up a few loose ends and then section three of the story is finished. Section four now needs to be completely rewritten. That shouldn't take too long. I hope.
At that point, the story will be complete. I'm very excited about this prospect. I know now that the end of the story casts a whole new light on the rest of the story. Writing the end helps make clear everything that truly mattered. I want to know what the end of this story will be like.
My parents are working away at finishing their sections. Poor things. My style of writing is not their usual cup of tea, especially for my dad, who is much more into mystical Christianity and philosophy, at the moment. And chocolate covered Peeps.
However, they assure me that it's good writing, and entertaining. My mom said the flow of the story was especially good, she said it just carried her along. My editor friend told me the same thing, about the faerie tale. (Isn't it cool that I have an editor friend? I think so.)
Now that I'm writing so much, my leitmotifs are showing up. There is always the leaving of the real world, the escape. There is always the search for self identity and self confidence outside of the real world. The search for self actualization always takes place within the context of a love relationship with a much more settled and confident partner.
What a surprise, eh? I'm writing out my twenties, is what I'm doing. I wonder if when I'm forty, I'll be able to capture my thirties. I'm looking forward to watching my writing mature. In the meantime, boy, but I am having fun.
Thank goodness I am writing again. If I cannot write, and I cannot conceive, than my barrenness is overwhelming to me.
I have a hard time believing Osama Bin Laden is dead. It's surreal. I'm glad that he's dead, but it's strange to be happy that someone died.
I couldn't resist; I had to throw that scene out there into the blogosphere, even though it had just been written and will get changed a lot in rewriting. When I do reread it, I will roll my eyes and be embarrassed that I put such a crummy piece of writing out into public view.
The end is in sight. I just have to wrap up a few loose ends and then section three of the story is finished. Section four now needs to be completely rewritten. That shouldn't take too long. I hope.
At that point, the story will be complete. I'm very excited about this prospect. I know now that the end of the story casts a whole new light on the rest of the story. Writing the end helps make clear everything that truly mattered. I want to know what the end of this story will be like.
My parents are working away at finishing their sections. Poor things. My style of writing is not their usual cup of tea, especially for my dad, who is much more into mystical Christianity and philosophy, at the moment. And chocolate covered Peeps.
However, they assure me that it's good writing, and entertaining. My mom said the flow of the story was especially good, she said it just carried her along. My editor friend told me the same thing, about the faerie tale. (Isn't it cool that I have an editor friend? I think so.)
Now that I'm writing so much, my leitmotifs are showing up. There is always the leaving of the real world, the escape. There is always the search for self identity and self confidence outside of the real world. The search for self actualization always takes place within the context of a love relationship with a much more settled and confident partner.
What a surprise, eh? I'm writing out my twenties, is what I'm doing. I wonder if when I'm forty, I'll be able to capture my thirties. I'm looking forward to watching my writing mature. In the meantime, boy, but I am having fun.
Thank goodness I am writing again. If I cannot write, and I cannot conceive, than my barrenness is overwhelming to me.
I have a hard time believing Osama Bin Laden is dead. It's surreal. I'm glad that he's dead, but it's strange to be happy that someone died.
Monday, May 2, 2011
May 2nd
Excerpt:
My vision sharpened, as though seen through the lens of a camera. Everything was beautiful. The green leaves of the oak tree, the copper green of Aimhirghin’s armor, the endless evening sky above the dusty square. The beauty of it all broke my heart.
I was ashamed of my earlier behavior, of how I had broken down as Ceallach had left. I remembered his face, the pale skin of his cheeks, his light filled eyes. I remembered his face as though I could touch it.
I was a greedy girl, wanting more than a human could ask for, wanting everything. Everything had a limit. Everything came to an end, and I realized in that moment that when they do, the things we’ve been given become more than enough. They become a wealth of experience, of sensation, and of pleasure.
My whole life had held so much beauty that it took my breath away, thinking of it. Tears were pouring down my face, as I thought of the sun on the kitchen table in my parent's house, my mother’s soft hands moving through the light. I remembered the smell of cut grass, the sound of radiators hissing, the smell of wet wool drying, the taste of snow, my father's voice, reading.
My eyes focused; the villagers were slowly surrounding Ceallach. I realized, with joy, that we would die together after all. I drew out the long knife from the sash around my waist. I was pleased. I had a part to play; I would play it gladly.
Silently, barefoot, I flew down the stairs, my skirt lifting and billowing around my legs. I passed through the villagers like a leaf before the wind, ignoring them. My last thrust was not for them- they didn’t matter to me.
Aimhirghin turned. He turned very slowly, his eyes growing wide and white. I loved him and I hated him. I flung myself at him, the knife in my hand lifted. I passed through his arms as he raised them, too late. The knife sunk up to the hilt into his throat. It sunk there with all the weight of my momentum.
He fell backward and I fell with him. He was choking in my ear; I tried to breathe for him. We hit the ground with a jarring thump. My hand still gripped the handle of the knife. He twisted, I was twisted under him and then he was lifted away.
I saw a stream of blood pour onto the dust at the foot of the fountain stairs. It was dark, thick blood. It had no gloss and smelled rancid. My stomach started to heave. I felt dizzy and sick. The beautiful clarity was gone; it left me destitute.
I was lifted up, away from the dust and the blood. Ceallach’s hair was all around my face. His arms were holding me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. He was saying something, but I couldn’t focus, all his words blurred together in my head.
He was alive. The fact of this shocked me out of the last of my trance. I felt his armor, felt the wind on my head, I felt the wind pulling at my skirt. I heard the many wondering voices of the villagers.
“Oh, you little lynx,” Ceallach was saying, his voice hoarse and low. “Oh, my crazy, beautiful girl. So you would kill him yourself, would you? My own, my little terror.”
The blood rushed right out of my head. “Did I kill him?” I whispered, trembling.
“Did you kill him?” he murmured, tenderly. “My darling, you skewered him. Oh, god,” he breathed. “You took years away from my life, you beautiful, crazy child.”
“I thought you were going to die,” I said, lifting my head.
He kissed me. I got my arms loose and wound them around his neck; I twisted my fingers up in his hair.
“I was going to die,” he said, lifting his head. He gave me a fierce, dazzling grin. His eyes were brilliant. “I did die; I died a thousand deaths, watching you run through the square. What got into you?”
“I thought we would die together, like we vowed,” I answered simply. “I thought it was a gift.”
My vision sharpened, as though seen through the lens of a camera. Everything was beautiful. The green leaves of the oak tree, the copper green of Aimhirghin’s armor, the endless evening sky above the dusty square. The beauty of it all broke my heart.
I was ashamed of my earlier behavior, of how I had broken down as Ceallach had left. I remembered his face, the pale skin of his cheeks, his light filled eyes. I remembered his face as though I could touch it.
I was a greedy girl, wanting more than a human could ask for, wanting everything. Everything had a limit. Everything came to an end, and I realized in that moment that when they do, the things we’ve been given become more than enough. They become a wealth of experience, of sensation, and of pleasure.
My whole life had held so much beauty that it took my breath away, thinking of it. Tears were pouring down my face, as I thought of the sun on the kitchen table in my parent's house, my mother’s soft hands moving through the light. I remembered the smell of cut grass, the sound of radiators hissing, the smell of wet wool drying, the taste of snow, my father's voice, reading.
My eyes focused; the villagers were slowly surrounding Ceallach. I realized, with joy, that we would die together after all. I drew out the long knife from the sash around my waist. I was pleased. I had a part to play; I would play it gladly.
Silently, barefoot, I flew down the stairs, my skirt lifting and billowing around my legs. I passed through the villagers like a leaf before the wind, ignoring them. My last thrust was not for them- they didn’t matter to me.
Aimhirghin turned. He turned very slowly, his eyes growing wide and white. I loved him and I hated him. I flung myself at him, the knife in my hand lifted. I passed through his arms as he raised them, too late. The knife sunk up to the hilt into his throat. It sunk there with all the weight of my momentum.
He fell backward and I fell with him. He was choking in my ear; I tried to breathe for him. We hit the ground with a jarring thump. My hand still gripped the handle of the knife. He twisted, I was twisted under him and then he was lifted away.
I saw a stream of blood pour onto the dust at the foot of the fountain stairs. It was dark, thick blood. It had no gloss and smelled rancid. My stomach started to heave. I felt dizzy and sick. The beautiful clarity was gone; it left me destitute.
I was lifted up, away from the dust and the blood. Ceallach’s hair was all around my face. His arms were holding me so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. He was saying something, but I couldn’t focus, all his words blurred together in my head.
He was alive. The fact of this shocked me out of the last of my trance. I felt his armor, felt the wind on my head, I felt the wind pulling at my skirt. I heard the many wondering voices of the villagers.
“Oh, you little lynx,” Ceallach was saying, his voice hoarse and low. “Oh, my crazy, beautiful girl. So you would kill him yourself, would you? My own, my little terror.”
The blood rushed right out of my head. “Did I kill him?” I whispered, trembling.
“Did you kill him?” he murmured, tenderly. “My darling, you skewered him. Oh, god,” he breathed. “You took years away from my life, you beautiful, crazy child.”
“I thought you were going to die,” I said, lifting my head.
He kissed me. I got my arms loose and wound them around his neck; I twisted my fingers up in his hair.
“I was going to die,” he said, lifting his head. He gave me a fierce, dazzling grin. His eyes were brilliant. “I did die; I died a thousand deaths, watching you run through the square. What got into you?”
“I thought we would die together, like we vowed,” I answered simply. “I thought it was a gift.”
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