Last night, sometime hard to describe and intense happened to me. It was as though, in my heart, Christ did exactly what this verse said He would do:
"The Spirit of the Lord God is upon me, because the Lord has anointed and qualified me to preach the Gospel of good tidings to the meek, the poor, and afflicted; He has sent me to bind up and heal the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the [physical and spiritual] captives and the opening of the prison and of the eyes to those who are bound..."
Isaiah 61:1
Last night I was recognizing and mourning all my wounds. I saw how captive my spirit had been, how heavy and burdened. He gave me a voice and a safe passage for the intense anger I held toward what had held me captive.
Almost I could thank Him for the depth of my wounds, because, through them, I can experience the depth of His tenderness.
So. Yesterday I read the gospel of Matthew. Jesus is brusque in that gospel!
Eventually, I got exceedingly nervous. I thought, if He ever talked to me like that, I would curl up in a tiny little ball and die. I got more and more tense as I read along.
I thought, I'd better stop asking all these questions. Maybe I'm being like Nicodemus, who asked questions to avoid the truth he already was on the verge of grasping.
Or maybe Jesus is just going to lose all patience with me and ask me, "Do you still not understand? How is it that you still don't understand this? Are you being willfully stupid?"
This is a horrible thing to worry about. It is this sort of morbid thought, and worse, that used to pervade my Christianity when I was younger. I expected nothing but anger, judgment, impatience, unending demands and exasperation.
Eventually, I had to stop the whole reading. I couldn't take the fear anymore. So then Christ said over and over again to me a whole succession of thoughts.
First, that He spoke to different people in different ways, in ways that related to who they were, and that He would never speak to me in the same way that He would speak to a rough and tumble fisherman and a grown man. He reminded me that a bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not put out.
I never thought about that possibility before, that He might have spoken to people in different ways. I considered it. I realized that, for example, the way He spoke to the sinful woman who washed His feet with her hair was different from the way He spoke to Zacchaeus, for example.
It seems obvious now that I think about it, because He's a personal God and He relates to each of us right where we are, in the language of our hearts.
But I said, give me a verse to reassure me that You're not losing patience with my pestering You. I want a verse.
So He said, "I'll tell you a story. There once was a corrupt Judge..."
I laughed out loud. My love for Him came bursting up out of me like a fountain. I knew that story. He only had to say the first line, and I knew exactly what He was saying to me.
Of course, the widow was pestering for justice, and I'm pestering for understanding, but the principle is the same: constant pestering is rewarded.
We are like gifts to Christ, I realized yesterday. We're given to Him and He delights in us. He heals the wounds we received from living in an imperfect world and He brings us into the fullness of what He wishes us to be. He does it patiently and lovingly and creatively, over the entire course of our life.
He came to us, not when we were perfect or acceptible, but in our sin, and in our pain and imperfection, He comes. Even our anger won't frighten Him away. The language of our hearts that even we have no words for, He understands perfectly.
It is like this:
The Lord is my Shepherd [to feed, guide, and shield me], I shall not lack.
He makes me lie down in [fresh, tender] green pastures; He leads me beside the still and restful waters.
He refreshes and restores my life (my self); He leads me in the paths of righteousness [uprightness and right standing with Him--not for my earning it, but] for His name's sake.
Yes, though I walk through the [deep, sunless] valley of the shadow of death, I will fear or dread no evil, for You are with me; Your rod [to protect] and Your staff [to guide], they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies. You anoint my head with [a]oil; my [brimming] cup runs over.
Surely or only goodness, mercy, and unfailing love shall follow me all the days of my life, and through the length of my days the house of the Lord [and His presence] shall be my dwelling place.
Psalm 23
Friday, September 30, 2011
Thursday, September 29, 2011
September 29th
I'm coming back to earth, bit by bit. I keep thinking about how much and how I can put into words everything that I feel.
I went to WalMart to pick up a ready to bake pizza. Every thing looked new to me, as though I were seeing it for the first time. I was in awe of the colors and the movement.
And it was like I was in two parts.
And one part of me was just noticing people. People were everywhere. They came in all shapes and sizes and ages and attitudes. The mother behind me was frazzled, her child persistent. The man in front of me was thin and stooped and buying stuff for tacos. The guy at the cash register was frustrated and harried.
I was in awe of these people, of their reality, their bewildering uniqueness. I thought, it was people like these that crushed Christ on every side as He walked through their town, or followed Him out to the barren places. Real, normal, day to day people. These people, His people.
He loves them, not from a distance, or in theory, but exactly right where they are, as they are dressed, in the attitudes that they have, with all that they are.
But there was another part of me. And that part of me was religiously judgmental of everything that I saw, and arrogant. And every time I felt this arrogance lift its head in me, I felt horror and embarrassment.
I thought, here I am, in the very presence of Christ, and a part of me is wanting to religiously judge people and lift myself above them. The bitter irony of it just grieved me and horrified me.
Every time I felt this awful arrogance, I threw myself down before Him and cried to Him to take it away from me and to forgive me. But mostly, for the love of God, to take it away from me. And I would yield myself over and into Him and I would feel the weight of it come off me.
But it happened over and over again.
In the night, I lay siege to Him with my questions. I like the night, the quietness of the night. All my attention and inner ear are open. I pester Him incessantly and keep myself up. I am like a giddy four year old at a sleep over.
Then I began to understand why I was feeling that way and where it was coming from. But still I asked Him, why won't you take it away? It's so unsightly. He brought to mind an old remembered verse about how we are gradually being made into His image, and immediately I was comforted, even though I couldn't remember that verse very well.
So this morning, I looked the verse up. This is it in the Message:
Whenever, though, they turn to face God as Moses did, God removes the veil and there they are—face-to-face! They suddenly recognize that God is a living, personal presence, not a piece of chiseled stone. And when God is personally present, a living Spirit, that old, constricting legislation is recognized as obsolete. We're free of it! All of us! Nothing between us and God, our faces shining with the brightness of his face. And so we are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him.
2 Corinthians 3:16-18
Astounding, yes? Here it is in the Amplified Bible:
But whenever a person turns [in repentance] to the Lord, the veil is stripped off and taken away.
Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty (emancipation from bondage, freedom).
And all of us, as with unveiled face, [because we] continued to behold [in the Word of God] as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are constantly being transfigured into His very own image in ever increasing splendor and from one degree of glory to another; [for this comes] from the Lord [Who is] the Spirit.
2 Corinthians 3:16-18
He is so elegantly, perfectly articulate. He is so on point, as it were.
After a while, I had read all of Mark and Luke and John. So I decided, why not venture a little outwards? So I read I John.
I was astounded to realize that all John was saying was everything that Jesus had said to John. This is such an elementary thing; of course that's true. I just never realized it before.
But there were some weird things in I John that I didn't understand. When I came across them, I was all, what the heck is he saying? What could he possibly mean by that? I didn't understand them in any version.
But I had learned something earlier. After I wrote the blog about how He carried His own words for me, I thought, how do I know if that's true? I don't know that there's any Biblical context for that. That's a weird thing to say He's doing.
Then I got all worried, like, I was expected to know and understand everything all at once. I used to believe that, of all things. Poor me. No wonder my Christianity was crushing the life out of me.
So, in the morning, I got up and eventually finished reading whatever Gospel it was that I was in the middle of at the time. (It was Luke) And it was at the part where Christ had already risen from the dead and met the two disciples as they were walking along the road. And He explained the scriptures to them, and joins them for dinner and then vanishes.
And they say to each other, why didn't we know it was Him? Didn't our hearts burn within us as He opened up the scriptures to us?"
And I just stared at the phrase and felt wonder all through me. If He chooses to leave some scriptures closed to me, that's His business. I don't have to worry about it.
In fact, it's like this:
"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."
Matthew 11:28-30, The Message
I went to WalMart to pick up a ready to bake pizza. Every thing looked new to me, as though I were seeing it for the first time. I was in awe of the colors and the movement.
And it was like I was in two parts.
And one part of me was just noticing people. People were everywhere. They came in all shapes and sizes and ages and attitudes. The mother behind me was frazzled, her child persistent. The man in front of me was thin and stooped and buying stuff for tacos. The guy at the cash register was frustrated and harried.
I was in awe of these people, of their reality, their bewildering uniqueness. I thought, it was people like these that crushed Christ on every side as He walked through their town, or followed Him out to the barren places. Real, normal, day to day people. These people, His people.
He loves them, not from a distance, or in theory, but exactly right where they are, as they are dressed, in the attitudes that they have, with all that they are.
But there was another part of me. And that part of me was religiously judgmental of everything that I saw, and arrogant. And every time I felt this arrogance lift its head in me, I felt horror and embarrassment.
I thought, here I am, in the very presence of Christ, and a part of me is wanting to religiously judge people and lift myself above them. The bitter irony of it just grieved me and horrified me.
Every time I felt this awful arrogance, I threw myself down before Him and cried to Him to take it away from me and to forgive me. But mostly, for the love of God, to take it away from me. And I would yield myself over and into Him and I would feel the weight of it come off me.
But it happened over and over again.
In the night, I lay siege to Him with my questions. I like the night, the quietness of the night. All my attention and inner ear are open. I pester Him incessantly and keep myself up. I am like a giddy four year old at a sleep over.
Then I began to understand why I was feeling that way and where it was coming from. But still I asked Him, why won't you take it away? It's so unsightly. He brought to mind an old remembered verse about how we are gradually being made into His image, and immediately I was comforted, even though I couldn't remember that verse very well.
So this morning, I looked the verse up. This is it in the Message:
Whenever, though, they turn to face God as Moses did, God removes the veil and there they are—face-to-face! They suddenly recognize that God is a living, personal presence, not a piece of chiseled stone. And when God is personally present, a living Spirit, that old, constricting legislation is recognized as obsolete. We're free of it! All of us! Nothing between us and God, our faces shining with the brightness of his face. And so we are transfigured much like the Messiah, our lives gradually becoming brighter and more beautiful as God enters our lives and we become like him.
2 Corinthians 3:16-18
Astounding, yes? Here it is in the Amplified Bible:
But whenever a person turns [in repentance] to the Lord, the veil is stripped off and taken away.
Now the Lord is the Spirit, and where the Spirit of the Lord is, there is liberty (emancipation from bondage, freedom).
And all of us, as with unveiled face, [because we] continued to behold [in the Word of God] as in a mirror the glory of the Lord, are constantly being transfigured into His very own image in ever increasing splendor and from one degree of glory to another; [for this comes] from the Lord [Who is] the Spirit.
2 Corinthians 3:16-18
He is so elegantly, perfectly articulate. He is so on point, as it were.
After a while, I had read all of Mark and Luke and John. So I decided, why not venture a little outwards? So I read I John.
I was astounded to realize that all John was saying was everything that Jesus had said to John. This is such an elementary thing; of course that's true. I just never realized it before.
But there were some weird things in I John that I didn't understand. When I came across them, I was all, what the heck is he saying? What could he possibly mean by that? I didn't understand them in any version.
But I had learned something earlier. After I wrote the blog about how He carried His own words for me, I thought, how do I know if that's true? I don't know that there's any Biblical context for that. That's a weird thing to say He's doing.
Then I got all worried, like, I was expected to know and understand everything all at once. I used to believe that, of all things. Poor me. No wonder my Christianity was crushing the life out of me.
So, in the morning, I got up and eventually finished reading whatever Gospel it was that I was in the middle of at the time. (It was Luke) And it was at the part where Christ had already risen from the dead and met the two disciples as they were walking along the road. And He explained the scriptures to them, and joins them for dinner and then vanishes.
And they say to each other, why didn't we know it was Him? Didn't our hearts burn within us as He opened up the scriptures to us?"
And I just stared at the phrase and felt wonder all through me. If He chooses to leave some scriptures closed to me, that's His business. I don't have to worry about it.
In fact, it's like this:
"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."
Matthew 11:28-30, The Message
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
September 28th
I had an extraordinary experience yesterday.
In the morning, I started using the BibleGateway to look up verses about the early church, and I found some interesting things. However, it was exhausting me and the whole time, I wanted to forget it and just read the gospel of John.
For many years, that was the only part of the Bible I could ever read at all. In fact, sometimes I could only read the one chapter about the Good Shepherd.
Finally, I was all, forget this. I'm going to go spend some time with Christ.
And oh my. First I read John in The Message version of the Bible, which was beautiful. For example:
"Every person the Father gives me eventually comes running to me. And once that person is with me, I hold on and don't let go. I came down from heaven not to follow my own whim but to accomplish the will of the One who sent me.
"This, in a nutshell, is that will: that everything handed over to me by the Father be completed—not a single detail missed—and at the wrap-up of time I have everything and everyone put together, upright and whole. This is what my Father wants: that anyone who sees the Son and trusts who he is and what he does and then aligns with him will enter real life, eternal life. My part is to put them on their feet alive and whole at the completion of time."
John 6:37-40
Right, yes? Beautiful. So, then I read it over again, with the Amplified version of the Bible:
All whom My Father gives (entrusts) to Me will come to Me; and the one who comes to Me I will most certainly not cast out [I will never, no never, reject one of them who comes to Me].
For I have come down from heaven not to do My own will and purpose but to do the will and purpose of Him Who sent Me.
And this is the will of Him Who sent Me, that I should not lose any of all that He has given Me, but that I should give new life and raise [them all] up at the last day.
For this is My Father's will and His purpose, that everyone who sees the Son and believes in and cleaves to and trusts in and relies on Him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up [from the dead] at the last day.
John 6:37-40
So then I was captivated. I kept putting my hands over my face, like, oh my goodness! He's so full of emotion. He was angry and tender and loving and frustrated and anguished. Sometimes He's bitingly intelligent and I stand amazed at His wit. Sometimes He seems weird and absentminded, like when He's drawing in the dust, or making a paste out saliva.
Lots of times I can't understand Him. Why would He make the poor, innocent fig tree wither? Could it help that it didn't have any figs? But a god you could completely understand wouldn't be God at all.
I just keep getting blown away by what I was seeing. I kept thinking, that was God. God said that. God felt that. They said that to God.
Like this:
They said, "Where is this so-called Father of yours?"
Jesus said, "You're looking right at me and you don't see me. How do you expect to see the Father? If you knew me, you would at the same time know the Father."
-John 8:15
The Message is the only version that translates it this way, but it broke my heart. I saw Christ in the temple, with His arms wide, saying, "I'm right here. I AM. I am your God, your creator, standing here in front of you and you don't see Me."
I wanted to be in the crowd, so I could go running to Him and throw myself into His arms and I say, I see You! I see You! I belong to You! I'm Yours!
I don't think I ever realized that Jesus prayed before He was taken away. I read it, and I was blown away. My skin was tingling. He was interceding for us; I heard His very words. He prayed for me.
"And now I am coming to You; I say these things while I am still in the world, so that My joy may be made full and complete and perfect in them [that they may experience My delight fulfilled in them, that My enjoyment may be perfected in their own souls, that they may have My gladness within them, filling their hearts].
I have given and delivered to them Your word (message) and the world has hated them, because they are not of the world [do not belong to the world], just as I am not of the world.
I do not ask that You will take them out of the world, but that You will keep and protect them from the evil one.
And so for their sake and on their behalf I sanctify (dedicate, consecrate) Myself, that they also may be sanctified (dedicated, consecrated, made holy) in the Truth.
Neither for these alone do I pray [it is not for their sake only that I make this request], but also for all those who will ever come to believe in (trust in, cling to, rely on) Me through their word and teaching,
That they all may be one, [just] as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, that they also may be one in Us, so that the world may believe and be convinced that You have sent Me.
John 17:13-15, 19-21
I got jealous a lot. I want to be like the disciple that was reclining with his head on Christ's shoulder at the last supper. I wanted to be able to tip my head up and whisper a question in His ear and have Him answer me.
Except that frequently, I do. Anyone can. Well, not in the flesh like that. But I can lean my whole self into Him and whisper a question and He does answer me.
Sometimes His answer is a loving silence that I can't translate very well in words. Like, He's saying, you'll have to leave the answer to that in Me for now; I'll guide you into that further on down the road, but I love that you wonder about it.
Sometimes it's an actual answer. Like, He speaks to me.
I was dancing around the kitchen on tiptoes as I made spaghetti. I loved all over my husband as soon as he got in the door. The man didn't know what to do with me.
I kept waking up last night with this feeling of warm delight all through me and then I would remember again. God was with me. Christ was in me, and I in Him. He was present and available. I have my being through Him.
We can't love Christ in the flesh, because His body isn't down here anymore. Obviously. Instead or because of, or simultaneously, we love the people around us here, and loving them is loving Him. Anyway, that's the conclusion I came to. Our acts of service to each other are really acts of service to Him. Or they can be.
I used to read the Gospel and hear nothing but condemnation. Even when Christ spoke directly to the Pharisees, I thought He must be talking about me, and my sinful heart, which was full of decay while the outward part of me looked deceptively attractive.
I thought, I am a miserable creature and cannot come close to Him. I told myself it is a terrible covetous sin that I wish to be.
How bound up I was in self hatred! No wonder I couldn't read the Bible. It was nothing but a lash for my soul.
Come to think of it, I don't even know how it was that I got free of that. I still read things that cut, but instead of hurting myself with them, I give them over to Him.
Sometimes, He explains them to me. Sometimes I then put the explanation right out of mind, because I can't accept His grace.
Other times, He doesn't explain them, but there is a peaceful rest, because He is carrying His own words for me, if that makes sense. He's holding on to them, until I can understand them.
I'm so grateful that I'm alive, that I exist, so that I can know Him. The fact that God is as He is, and that He made me as I am, is astounding to me. His love of us is beyond understanding.
In the morning, I started using the BibleGateway to look up verses about the early church, and I found some interesting things. However, it was exhausting me and the whole time, I wanted to forget it and just read the gospel of John.
For many years, that was the only part of the Bible I could ever read at all. In fact, sometimes I could only read the one chapter about the Good Shepherd.
Finally, I was all, forget this. I'm going to go spend some time with Christ.
And oh my. First I read John in The Message version of the Bible, which was beautiful. For example:
"Every person the Father gives me eventually comes running to me. And once that person is with me, I hold on and don't let go. I came down from heaven not to follow my own whim but to accomplish the will of the One who sent me.
"This, in a nutshell, is that will: that everything handed over to me by the Father be completed—not a single detail missed—and at the wrap-up of time I have everything and everyone put together, upright and whole. This is what my Father wants: that anyone who sees the Son and trusts who he is and what he does and then aligns with him will enter real life, eternal life. My part is to put them on their feet alive and whole at the completion of time."
John 6:37-40
Right, yes? Beautiful. So, then I read it over again, with the Amplified version of the Bible:
All whom My Father gives (entrusts) to Me will come to Me; and the one who comes to Me I will most certainly not cast out [I will never, no never, reject one of them who comes to Me].
For I have come down from heaven not to do My own will and purpose but to do the will and purpose of Him Who sent Me.
And this is the will of Him Who sent Me, that I should not lose any of all that He has given Me, but that I should give new life and raise [them all] up at the last day.
For this is My Father's will and His purpose, that everyone who sees the Son and believes in and cleaves to and trusts in and relies on Him should have eternal life, and I will raise him up [from the dead] at the last day.
John 6:37-40
So then I was captivated. I kept putting my hands over my face, like, oh my goodness! He's so full of emotion. He was angry and tender and loving and frustrated and anguished. Sometimes He's bitingly intelligent and I stand amazed at His wit. Sometimes He seems weird and absentminded, like when He's drawing in the dust, or making a paste out saliva.
Lots of times I can't understand Him. Why would He make the poor, innocent fig tree wither? Could it help that it didn't have any figs? But a god you could completely understand wouldn't be God at all.
I just keep getting blown away by what I was seeing. I kept thinking, that was God. God said that. God felt that. They said that to God.
Like this:
They said, "Where is this so-called Father of yours?"
Jesus said, "You're looking right at me and you don't see me. How do you expect to see the Father? If you knew me, you would at the same time know the Father."
-John 8:15
The Message is the only version that translates it this way, but it broke my heart. I saw Christ in the temple, with His arms wide, saying, "I'm right here. I AM. I am your God, your creator, standing here in front of you and you don't see Me."
I wanted to be in the crowd, so I could go running to Him and throw myself into His arms and I say, I see You! I see You! I belong to You! I'm Yours!
I don't think I ever realized that Jesus prayed before He was taken away. I read it, and I was blown away. My skin was tingling. He was interceding for us; I heard His very words. He prayed for me.
"And now I am coming to You; I say these things while I am still in the world, so that My joy may be made full and complete and perfect in them [that they may experience My delight fulfilled in them, that My enjoyment may be perfected in their own souls, that they may have My gladness within them, filling their hearts].
I have given and delivered to them Your word (message) and the world has hated them, because they are not of the world [do not belong to the world], just as I am not of the world.
I do not ask that You will take them out of the world, but that You will keep and protect them from the evil one.
And so for their sake and on their behalf I sanctify (dedicate, consecrate) Myself, that they also may be sanctified (dedicated, consecrated, made holy) in the Truth.
Neither for these alone do I pray [it is not for their sake only that I make this request], but also for all those who will ever come to believe in (trust in, cling to, rely on) Me through their word and teaching,
That they all may be one, [just] as You, Father, are in Me and I in You, that they also may be one in Us, so that the world may believe and be convinced that You have sent Me.
John 17:13-15, 19-21
I got jealous a lot. I want to be like the disciple that was reclining with his head on Christ's shoulder at the last supper. I wanted to be able to tip my head up and whisper a question in His ear and have Him answer me.
Except that frequently, I do. Anyone can. Well, not in the flesh like that. But I can lean my whole self into Him and whisper a question and He does answer me.
Sometimes His answer is a loving silence that I can't translate very well in words. Like, He's saying, you'll have to leave the answer to that in Me for now; I'll guide you into that further on down the road, but I love that you wonder about it.
Sometimes it's an actual answer. Like, He speaks to me.
I was dancing around the kitchen on tiptoes as I made spaghetti. I loved all over my husband as soon as he got in the door. The man didn't know what to do with me.
I kept waking up last night with this feeling of warm delight all through me and then I would remember again. God was with me. Christ was in me, and I in Him. He was present and available. I have my being through Him.
We can't love Christ in the flesh, because His body isn't down here anymore. Obviously. Instead or because of, or simultaneously, we love the people around us here, and loving them is loving Him. Anyway, that's the conclusion I came to. Our acts of service to each other are really acts of service to Him. Or they can be.
I used to read the Gospel and hear nothing but condemnation. Even when Christ spoke directly to the Pharisees, I thought He must be talking about me, and my sinful heart, which was full of decay while the outward part of me looked deceptively attractive.
I thought, I am a miserable creature and cannot come close to Him. I told myself it is a terrible covetous sin that I wish to be.
How bound up I was in self hatred! No wonder I couldn't read the Bible. It was nothing but a lash for my soul.
Come to think of it, I don't even know how it was that I got free of that. I still read things that cut, but instead of hurting myself with them, I give them over to Him.
Sometimes, He explains them to me. Sometimes I then put the explanation right out of mind, because I can't accept His grace.
Other times, He doesn't explain them, but there is a peaceful rest, because He is carrying His own words for me, if that makes sense. He's holding on to them, until I can understand them.
I'm so grateful that I'm alive, that I exist, so that I can know Him. The fact that God is as He is, and that He made me as I am, is astounding to me. His love of us is beyond understanding.
Monday, September 26, 2011
September 26th
I feel very blah today.
I was reading this blog about a woman that's been on the infertility journey for almost seven years. Pretty much her entire thirties. They tried everything., including a surrogate mother. That pregnancy didn't take either.
Then, the couple tried to adopt, and the local police chief in Vietnam refuses to sign the papers releasing the children. So, this couple, along with other couples who've adopted children from that orphanage, have been stuck in limbo for almost three years. Their son was seven months when he was matched to them, he was 36 months at the last blog post of hers that I read.
Can you imagine that woman's pain? Holy crap. But she sounds tough and resilient and uses humor a lot to stay sane.
We went to Denny's instead of to church yesterday. I'm trying to get some clarity on why it is I want to attend a church anyway, before trying another one. Despite the weirdness of the small Baptist church, I liked being recognized there. I felt like I was part of a community.
I think that's why I want to go to church, despite my very hermit-ish tendencies. But my developing religious and spiritual philosophies do not fly well within the traditional church environment. It takes me right to the crux of my confusion.
I have powerful internal voices telling me that I'm sinful, back slidden and unacceptable. These voices gain power within the church, because so frequently, the church's message agrees with the voices.
Simultaneously, those old and inbred voices are telling me that I can't understand God outside the context of religious authority. The very idea that I could is blasphemous, ridiculous, laughable.
Then I have another voice reminding me that what I'm feeling isn't conviction, it's condemnation; it's an ancient condemnation that I'll never placate by any action of mine.
I keep getting the feeling that the church wants me to be in submission to it- to its pastor and its unique group dynamics. It feels like the church wants to play three important roles in my life: to be a direct pipeline to God, to be a translation for His voice and to verify that my actions are acceptable.
The problem is, I grow increasingly jealous of those roles; I want them for Christ. I think that He, not the church, is my pipeline to God. I think that He is the Word, and I think that through Him my life and my actions are redeemed. He is the one that teaches me how to live my life.
When I attend church, I participate in a set emotional ritual. I should come to church feeling good that I have presented my physical person properly to the church, with the acceptable and necessary equipment. I can feel especially good about myself if I attended my small/life group earlier.
Once church begins, I should feel bad that I have sinned during the week and that I have not prayed enough, read my Bible enough, or gone to the Wednesday prayer/study group. Or, if I did, that I did not pray out loud or that I did not read the assigned section in my study book, or that I had doubts or questions that I knew were unacceptable.
During worship service, I should repent and go with the emotional flow. I must work myself up, using the lights and the sounds, to reach the acceptable fever pitch.
Then, before the emotions have a chance to wear off, they pass around the offering/tithes plate/bag and I give tithes but I feel guilty because I haven't given an offering. Or, I don't give the full tithes and I know that I'm sinning big time.
However, I get a burst of pride and accomplishment when I put my envelope in the bag. No else knows what I'm giving, but they can see that I do. In the eyes of the church, I'm acceptable.
Then I prepare to humbly take in what the pastor is teaching me. I busily scribble notes in my study guide. I look up the verses in my Bible. I Participate.
At the alter call, I feel how miserable is my state and how far I have yet to go, and how infrequently I feel the presence of God in my daily life, which is full of HGTV, loading the dishwasher and early morning commutes to work.
I repent, but I'm not brave enough to go up to the front of the church. I feel bad, but I pour out my heart as best I can on my own.
Or maybe I'm desperate enough that I do go down to the front. I'm deeply humbled and yet exulted. I'm a dear daughter of the church. I say that I want to receive more of God. I receive the laying on of hands and lots of impassioned prayer.
Then I walk out. I feel emptied, clear and sparkling like a goblet washed with Cascade. By that evening, however, already I feel the film of the world shifting down over me. I read an extra chapter of the Bible to try and desperately hold on to it.
Maybe I pray longer. Maybe I skip my favorite show. Maybe I get addicted to denying myself things in order to feel good about myself. I go on religious purges like other people go on diets. Maybe I'm immune to all this and I just go to church because I always have.
Church is like a club. It has membership dues, initiation rites, and ceremonies. It has standards for membership and a vertical authority system. Some rites are for members only, others are open to guests as well. We look up over the backs of every one's heads up to the pastor, who is the only one who can look us in the face.
When I attend church, I'm directly engaging these old, powerful patterns of belief and behavior. It's exhausting and it's stressful. It's frightening to live in the question, instead of leap at the answer.
But how weak is Christ, anyway? Is He so weak that the people who question church slip right out of His grasp? Is He chained to the pulpit like a dog on a leash? Is He so obtuse that He can't talk to people's hearts without the church's official translation?
Is the devil so powerful that he can pretend to be Christ, and speak lies into people's hearts, and Christ just stands there off to the side, wringing His scarred hands in consternation, unable to free His son or daughter from deception, because that person isn't in church?
I think not. I think it's terrible to believe so. I think the real church is vast and invisibile to the world. The world doesn't recognize it, because it's organized according to people's hearts. It doesn't have political sway or a collection plate or a dress code. It's made up of all those bruised and broken hearts that hunger after Christ where ever they happen to be, inside or outside of a church building.
I was reading this blog about a woman that's been on the infertility journey for almost seven years. Pretty much her entire thirties. They tried everything., including a surrogate mother. That pregnancy didn't take either.
Then, the couple tried to adopt, and the local police chief in Vietnam refuses to sign the papers releasing the children. So, this couple, along with other couples who've adopted children from that orphanage, have been stuck in limbo for almost three years. Their son was seven months when he was matched to them, he was 36 months at the last blog post of hers that I read.
Can you imagine that woman's pain? Holy crap. But she sounds tough and resilient and uses humor a lot to stay sane.
We went to Denny's instead of to church yesterday. I'm trying to get some clarity on why it is I want to attend a church anyway, before trying another one. Despite the weirdness of the small Baptist church, I liked being recognized there. I felt like I was part of a community.
I think that's why I want to go to church, despite my very hermit-ish tendencies. But my developing religious and spiritual philosophies do not fly well within the traditional church environment. It takes me right to the crux of my confusion.
I have powerful internal voices telling me that I'm sinful, back slidden and unacceptable. These voices gain power within the church, because so frequently, the church's message agrees with the voices.
Simultaneously, those old and inbred voices are telling me that I can't understand God outside the context of religious authority. The very idea that I could is blasphemous, ridiculous, laughable.
Then I have another voice reminding me that what I'm feeling isn't conviction, it's condemnation; it's an ancient condemnation that I'll never placate by any action of mine.
I keep getting the feeling that the church wants me to be in submission to it- to its pastor and its unique group dynamics. It feels like the church wants to play three important roles in my life: to be a direct pipeline to God, to be a translation for His voice and to verify that my actions are acceptable.
The problem is, I grow increasingly jealous of those roles; I want them for Christ. I think that He, not the church, is my pipeline to God. I think that He is the Word, and I think that through Him my life and my actions are redeemed. He is the one that teaches me how to live my life.
When I attend church, I participate in a set emotional ritual. I should come to church feeling good that I have presented my physical person properly to the church, with the acceptable and necessary equipment. I can feel especially good about myself if I attended my small/life group earlier.
Once church begins, I should feel bad that I have sinned during the week and that I have not prayed enough, read my Bible enough, or gone to the Wednesday prayer/study group. Or, if I did, that I did not pray out loud or that I did not read the assigned section in my study book, or that I had doubts or questions that I knew were unacceptable.
During worship service, I should repent and go with the emotional flow. I must work myself up, using the lights and the sounds, to reach the acceptable fever pitch.
Then, before the emotions have a chance to wear off, they pass around the offering/tithes plate/bag and I give tithes but I feel guilty because I haven't given an offering. Or, I don't give the full tithes and I know that I'm sinning big time.
However, I get a burst of pride and accomplishment when I put my envelope in the bag. No else knows what I'm giving, but they can see that I do. In the eyes of the church, I'm acceptable.
Then I prepare to humbly take in what the pastor is teaching me. I busily scribble notes in my study guide. I look up the verses in my Bible. I Participate.
At the alter call, I feel how miserable is my state and how far I have yet to go, and how infrequently I feel the presence of God in my daily life, which is full of HGTV, loading the dishwasher and early morning commutes to work.
I repent, but I'm not brave enough to go up to the front of the church. I feel bad, but I pour out my heart as best I can on my own.
Or maybe I'm desperate enough that I do go down to the front. I'm deeply humbled and yet exulted. I'm a dear daughter of the church. I say that I want to receive more of God. I receive the laying on of hands and lots of impassioned prayer.
Then I walk out. I feel emptied, clear and sparkling like a goblet washed with Cascade. By that evening, however, already I feel the film of the world shifting down over me. I read an extra chapter of the Bible to try and desperately hold on to it.
Maybe I pray longer. Maybe I skip my favorite show. Maybe I get addicted to denying myself things in order to feel good about myself. I go on religious purges like other people go on diets. Maybe I'm immune to all this and I just go to church because I always have.
Church is like a club. It has membership dues, initiation rites, and ceremonies. It has standards for membership and a vertical authority system. Some rites are for members only, others are open to guests as well. We look up over the backs of every one's heads up to the pastor, who is the only one who can look us in the face.
When I attend church, I'm directly engaging these old, powerful patterns of belief and behavior. It's exhausting and it's stressful. It's frightening to live in the question, instead of leap at the answer.
But how weak is Christ, anyway? Is He so weak that the people who question church slip right out of His grasp? Is He chained to the pulpit like a dog on a leash? Is He so obtuse that He can't talk to people's hearts without the church's official translation?
Is the devil so powerful that he can pretend to be Christ, and speak lies into people's hearts, and Christ just stands there off to the side, wringing His scarred hands in consternation, unable to free His son or daughter from deception, because that person isn't in church?
I think not. I think it's terrible to believe so. I think the real church is vast and invisibile to the world. The world doesn't recognize it, because it's organized according to people's hearts. It doesn't have political sway or a collection plate or a dress code. It's made up of all those bruised and broken hearts that hunger after Christ where ever they happen to be, inside or outside of a church building.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
September 22nd
How can it be this close to the end of this month? I thought it just began.
Also, when the hell is it ever going to become cool? I mean, less than scorching hot is always welcome, but when the hell are we going to see cool temperatures down here?
It's still freakin' hot and humid during the day. Long into the evening, when one is trying to get to sleep, one is panting like a dog and refusing to turn on the A/C, because it's mid September, for god's sake. And the electricity rates are still doubled. I'd rather sweat into the sheets than be taken to the cleaners.
Wait... wait... I think I just felt a cool breeze.
Ok, so, I've been watching a fair amount of truly crappy anime. That's because I ran out of the ten percent that's worth watching and keep venturing out into venues I normally avoid, like high school dramas and let's ride in the large mechanical war machines and save earth from the other political faction that no one understands because its too freakin' complicated to follow, all while we're still thirteen years old, with pink hair.
Therefore, I feel equipped to make a list of the top absolutely necessary character types for any anime. It doesn't matter if this is set in ancient Japan or deepest space- any anime worth its salt must have these characters.
Naive guy/girl-
This is the star of the show. Typically, they are built small, especially if they are a guy. Slight, doe eyed, sometimes downright bony naifs lead the plot by their good natured or down right ignorant passions. "Let's save the village!" "My dad didn't lie about his space career!" "Let's bring our mother back from the dead using forbidden magic!"
Slowly, their innocence is ripped from them as they face increasingly trying times, like having their bodies ripped apart, forcing them to wear mechanical suits, or searching out magic beads before the demons find them and become uber demons or watching their mentor/father/sibling/village die.
Jaded guy-
This is the other type of hero, the anti hero. He has hair that looks like a neon paint splatter, or it's just straight black. He typically dresses as though he came from a 1980's music video. If fact, in between being uncaring and laid back, he sometimes actually does play the guitar.
Sometimes he's a detective. Other times, he's the bastard son of the king of the vampires and a human woman and rides a mechanical horse. Or he's a whip skinny, remarkably agile guy in a tuxedo suit that comes fully equipped with insta-guns. Don't be fooled, though, because he actually does care. Children will usually make this evident.
Oversexed, older woman-
(And by older, I mean, she might be all of twenty.) This character is easily recognizable by her size double G bosoms. They are always very much on display and may even come with their own sound effects. Her moral compass is usually a little skewed, probably from carrying around all that weight up front.
She either tells it like it is, and gets off on beating up smaller guys, or she's a complete idiot and runs into things, like walls or other characters. Fortunately, she's got lots of padding.
Even though she's the most obviously sexy and mature character, she will almost never fall in love. If she does, it usually ends badly, usually by her trying to kill her lover, or being rejected by him, as he chooses the doe eyed naif over her more ample attractions.
Grey haired guy-
Every anime has one of these, but he can be tricky to pin down. The hair can be long or short. In rare cases, it might be blue or white.
He might be the sneaky, suave, sadistic bad guy who smiles ever so slightly as someone dies. He could be the sentient data life form that's moving through the internet, when he isn't animating grey haired humanoid clones.
He could be the full fledged dog demon with one arm and a mysterious furry ruff over his shoulder who wanders around seemingly aimlessly with a servile toad at his ankles. In this case, he will have a sword that can bring people back from the dead, but he won't use it, because he's mean that way.
Sometimes naif guy has grey hair, which can throw a person off. I could go on and on. Which ever way it goes, you can be fairly certain that grey haired guy isn't going to talk much, won't explain his history and will probably be deadly. He may even die.
Child-
Animes have them, usually to try and convince you that the hero/heroine really isn't a child, by contrasting them to someone who's six. Yes, compared to six, twelve does seem old. Almost always, this is a girl child and she's ultra cute.
She has the whole doe eyed thing down, in fact, her eyes take up a full third of her face. She's all dressed in ruffles and her voice is so high pitched that it can break glass. Or, she hardly talks at all. Sometimes she likes to cook, with mixed results. Often, she's an orphan.
The following are a few events you can almost always look forward to enjoying while watching anime:
-A glimpse of some poor girl's panties. No matter how much running, jumping, sitting, killing or kicking they know they're going to do, they never change out of their six inch, pleated skirt.
-Somebody dying, but not really. Oh wait, no. Really. They're dead. Wait... Maybe not.
-Girls playing volleyball in swimsuit bottoms and sweatshirt tops.
-Pink pony tails.
-The completely unnecessary shower scene.
-The never ending panorama of easily disposable bad guys so the group can practise their skills before taking on the undead sorcerer, greedy politician, monster demon, zombie laden science lab or ultra advanced mech suit.
If it's a samurai anime, then be prepared to watch seppuku. Also, at some point, some one's arm will be cut off with a spray of gore.
Also, be prepared for there to be no romance at all. If anyone is falling in love with anyone else in a samurai anime, no one is admitting to it.
There will probably be some key, romantic scene which will be the trigger for the rest of the anime, and you will be guaranteed to miss it completely, because all they did was stand on the same veranda together for a moment while the cicadas chirped.
Unless it's Ninja Scroll. But that's ninjas, which is a whole different category of anime.
Ah, anime. I make fun of it, but a person can clearly see how it's influenced my writing. I remember the first time I saw one. I was at my aunt and uncle's house and they had cable- specifically, they had the Cartoon Network.
Someone had left it on one morning, and I was just in time to watch an episode with a blue haired, cool and removed character pull his girl into his arms and kiss her deeply before tossing her into the escape capsule and hitting the button without getting in himself.
Oh, the drama! I was hooked, I tell you, hooked. I was entranced as I watched the girl press her face to the glass as the escape capsule slid away. Blue haired guy just stood there, composed, removed, implacable. Then the space station blew up.
I still don't know what anime that was, or what happened in the end. But it remains forever enshrined in my memory; time has not taken away the thrill of that kiss.
Also, when the hell is it ever going to become cool? I mean, less than scorching hot is always welcome, but when the hell are we going to see cool temperatures down here?
It's still freakin' hot and humid during the day. Long into the evening, when one is trying to get to sleep, one is panting like a dog and refusing to turn on the A/C, because it's mid September, for god's sake. And the electricity rates are still doubled. I'd rather sweat into the sheets than be taken to the cleaners.
Wait... wait... I think I just felt a cool breeze.
Ok, so, I've been watching a fair amount of truly crappy anime. That's because I ran out of the ten percent that's worth watching and keep venturing out into venues I normally avoid, like high school dramas and let's ride in the large mechanical war machines and save earth from the other political faction that no one understands because its too freakin' complicated to follow, all while we're still thirteen years old, with pink hair.
Therefore, I feel equipped to make a list of the top absolutely necessary character types for any anime. It doesn't matter if this is set in ancient Japan or deepest space- any anime worth its salt must have these characters.
Naive guy/girl-
This is the star of the show. Typically, they are built small, especially if they are a guy. Slight, doe eyed, sometimes downright bony naifs lead the plot by their good natured or down right ignorant passions. "Let's save the village!" "My dad didn't lie about his space career!" "Let's bring our mother back from the dead using forbidden magic!"
Slowly, their innocence is ripped from them as they face increasingly trying times, like having their bodies ripped apart, forcing them to wear mechanical suits, or searching out magic beads before the demons find them and become uber demons or watching their mentor/father/sibling/village die.
Jaded guy-
This is the other type of hero, the anti hero. He has hair that looks like a neon paint splatter, or it's just straight black. He typically dresses as though he came from a 1980's music video. If fact, in between being uncaring and laid back, he sometimes actually does play the guitar.
Sometimes he's a detective. Other times, he's the bastard son of the king of the vampires and a human woman and rides a mechanical horse. Or he's a whip skinny, remarkably agile guy in a tuxedo suit that comes fully equipped with insta-guns. Don't be fooled, though, because he actually does care. Children will usually make this evident.
Oversexed, older woman-
(And by older, I mean, she might be all of twenty.) This character is easily recognizable by her size double G bosoms. They are always very much on display and may even come with their own sound effects. Her moral compass is usually a little skewed, probably from carrying around all that weight up front.
She either tells it like it is, and gets off on beating up smaller guys, or she's a complete idiot and runs into things, like walls or other characters. Fortunately, she's got lots of padding.
Even though she's the most obviously sexy and mature character, she will almost never fall in love. If she does, it usually ends badly, usually by her trying to kill her lover, or being rejected by him, as he chooses the doe eyed naif over her more ample attractions.
Grey haired guy-
Every anime has one of these, but he can be tricky to pin down. The hair can be long or short. In rare cases, it might be blue or white.
He might be the sneaky, suave, sadistic bad guy who smiles ever so slightly as someone dies. He could be the sentient data life form that's moving through the internet, when he isn't animating grey haired humanoid clones.
He could be the full fledged dog demon with one arm and a mysterious furry ruff over his shoulder who wanders around seemingly aimlessly with a servile toad at his ankles. In this case, he will have a sword that can bring people back from the dead, but he won't use it, because he's mean that way.
Sometimes naif guy has grey hair, which can throw a person off. I could go on and on. Which ever way it goes, you can be fairly certain that grey haired guy isn't going to talk much, won't explain his history and will probably be deadly. He may even die.
Child-
Animes have them, usually to try and convince you that the hero/heroine really isn't a child, by contrasting them to someone who's six. Yes, compared to six, twelve does seem old. Almost always, this is a girl child and she's ultra cute.
She has the whole doe eyed thing down, in fact, her eyes take up a full third of her face. She's all dressed in ruffles and her voice is so high pitched that it can break glass. Or, she hardly talks at all. Sometimes she likes to cook, with mixed results. Often, she's an orphan.
The following are a few events you can almost always look forward to enjoying while watching anime:
-A glimpse of some poor girl's panties. No matter how much running, jumping, sitting, killing or kicking they know they're going to do, they never change out of their six inch, pleated skirt.
-Somebody dying, but not really. Oh wait, no. Really. They're dead. Wait... Maybe not.
-Girls playing volleyball in swimsuit bottoms and sweatshirt tops.
-Pink pony tails.
-The completely unnecessary shower scene.
-The never ending panorama of easily disposable bad guys so the group can practise their skills before taking on the undead sorcerer, greedy politician, monster demon, zombie laden science lab or ultra advanced mech suit.
If it's a samurai anime, then be prepared to watch seppuku. Also, at some point, some one's arm will be cut off with a spray of gore.
Also, be prepared for there to be no romance at all. If anyone is falling in love with anyone else in a samurai anime, no one is admitting to it.
There will probably be some key, romantic scene which will be the trigger for the rest of the anime, and you will be guaranteed to miss it completely, because all they did was stand on the same veranda together for a moment while the cicadas chirped.
Unless it's Ninja Scroll. But that's ninjas, which is a whole different category of anime.
Ah, anime. I make fun of it, but a person can clearly see how it's influenced my writing. I remember the first time I saw one. I was at my aunt and uncle's house and they had cable- specifically, they had the Cartoon Network.
Someone had left it on one morning, and I was just in time to watch an episode with a blue haired, cool and removed character pull his girl into his arms and kiss her deeply before tossing her into the escape capsule and hitting the button without getting in himself.
Oh, the drama! I was hooked, I tell you, hooked. I was entranced as I watched the girl press her face to the glass as the escape capsule slid away. Blue haired guy just stood there, composed, removed, implacable. Then the space station blew up.
I still don't know what anime that was, or what happened in the end. But it remains forever enshrined in my memory; time has not taken away the thrill of that kiss.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
September 21st
It's so bad that I give writing advice and yet have never been published. Heh.
But, for what it's worth, here are a few more tips I've found helpful.
Keep a style sheet. My editor friend turned me on to this. Just keep a running list of mistakes you find yourself making over and over again. Post it somewhere where you can see it. It helps you become more aware of them.
If you are stuck, here is a list of possible things to unblock you, from least severe to total writer's block.
1. Stop writing and check facebook. Just don't get stuck there for hours- I know that's easier said than done.
2. Stop writing and move around. I wash the dishes, or switch the laundry.
3. Change the music. Sometimes music in a different mood calls up a new inspiration.
4. Stop and reread what you've written so far. If that doesn't work, go back further. Start at the very beginning. Bring to mind your vision for the story, the thing you want to convey above all, the thing you love the most about it.
5. Open up a brand new sheet and start hammering out the plot, or arrange what you already have by plot points.
6. Blog about it or bounce ideas off someone.
7. If you are really well and truly stuck, like I was when I was wrestling with the stupid road, stop writing altogether for a day or so. Just push it right out of your mind. Have faith in your subconscious. It will be hard at work, bubbling away back there.
Sooner or later, it will spit an idea out at you. But you have to leave it alone for a while for it to do it's thing. So watch a movie or read a book or do your homework or whatever. Just stop thinking about it for a little while.
8. If you've done this for a couple of days, and still nothing, open a new sheet and just do stream of consciousness writing. Just write whatever the hell the comes into your head. Or start a brand new story. The point is to keep writing. Never stop writing out of sheer discouragement.
I've gotten my rewrite up to the library. It's such a massive jigsaw puzzle. I'm constantly moving around bits of the original dialogue and description into new settings. I like the results, though. I think it's much better this way.
Before, the story was a narrow, sometimes illogical or unnatural channel as I drove it mercilessly from start to finish. Now I can take that original channel and reroute and widen it.
It's that time of the month, and boy, are the hormones savage. Women's bodies are at the mercy of such a messy chemistry.
Today I feel like crying for no reason. Yesterday, when Keith spent a hundred and fifty dollars more than anticipated, it was a very close thing before I could restrain myself from throwing something at him.
He looked over at my face and recoiled. He gave a little nervous laugh. "I shouldn't be afraid of you!" he insisted.
Poor guy. He should not be. Though, I wonder if all men are just a little bit scared of their wives during this time of the month... Anyhow, I threw over the anger instead and crawled up on the couch with him.
I still think spending that much money was completely unnecessary, but that's one of those topics of conversations that will, for the sake of marriage, remain closed indefinitely.
Last night, I had a whole series of dreams, but I only remember parts of the last of them.
In that dream, I was conceiving children, but they had mortal abnormalities that caused them to die before they were born. It was something to do with their hearts; their hearts weren't strong enough to keep them alive.
Then I conceived three children, and the doctor told me that two would actually live, but the third would not. She was excited for me, because of the two that would live.
I could see them, and as I watched, the third one increasingly struggled to breathe until finally, he had no more strength and died. It happened so slowly. There was nothing I could do.
I still felt incredible joy at the fact that the other two were living. I kept touching them to make sure they were alive.
I'll bet that dream is why I felt like crying this morning.
But, for what it's worth, here are a few more tips I've found helpful.
Keep a style sheet. My editor friend turned me on to this. Just keep a running list of mistakes you find yourself making over and over again. Post it somewhere where you can see it. It helps you become more aware of them.
If you are stuck, here is a list of possible things to unblock you, from least severe to total writer's block.
1. Stop writing and check facebook. Just don't get stuck there for hours- I know that's easier said than done.
2. Stop writing and move around. I wash the dishes, or switch the laundry.
3. Change the music. Sometimes music in a different mood calls up a new inspiration.
4. Stop and reread what you've written so far. If that doesn't work, go back further. Start at the very beginning. Bring to mind your vision for the story, the thing you want to convey above all, the thing you love the most about it.
5. Open up a brand new sheet and start hammering out the plot, or arrange what you already have by plot points.
6. Blog about it or bounce ideas off someone.
7. If you are really well and truly stuck, like I was when I was wrestling with the stupid road, stop writing altogether for a day or so. Just push it right out of your mind. Have faith in your subconscious. It will be hard at work, bubbling away back there.
Sooner or later, it will spit an idea out at you. But you have to leave it alone for a while for it to do it's thing. So watch a movie or read a book or do your homework or whatever. Just stop thinking about it for a little while.
8. If you've done this for a couple of days, and still nothing, open a new sheet and just do stream of consciousness writing. Just write whatever the hell the comes into your head. Or start a brand new story. The point is to keep writing. Never stop writing out of sheer discouragement.
I've gotten my rewrite up to the library. It's such a massive jigsaw puzzle. I'm constantly moving around bits of the original dialogue and description into new settings. I like the results, though. I think it's much better this way.
Before, the story was a narrow, sometimes illogical or unnatural channel as I drove it mercilessly from start to finish. Now I can take that original channel and reroute and widen it.
It's that time of the month, and boy, are the hormones savage. Women's bodies are at the mercy of such a messy chemistry.
Today I feel like crying for no reason. Yesterday, when Keith spent a hundred and fifty dollars more than anticipated, it was a very close thing before I could restrain myself from throwing something at him.
He looked over at my face and recoiled. He gave a little nervous laugh. "I shouldn't be afraid of you!" he insisted.
Poor guy. He should not be. Though, I wonder if all men are just a little bit scared of their wives during this time of the month... Anyhow, I threw over the anger instead and crawled up on the couch with him.
I still think spending that much money was completely unnecessary, but that's one of those topics of conversations that will, for the sake of marriage, remain closed indefinitely.
Last night, I had a whole series of dreams, but I only remember parts of the last of them.
In that dream, I was conceiving children, but they had mortal abnormalities that caused them to die before they were born. It was something to do with their hearts; their hearts weren't strong enough to keep them alive.
Then I conceived three children, and the doctor told me that two would actually live, but the third would not. She was excited for me, because of the two that would live.
I could see them, and as I watched, the third one increasingly struggled to breathe until finally, he had no more strength and died. It happened so slowly. There was nothing I could do.
I still felt incredible joy at the fact that the other two were living. I kept touching them to make sure they were alive.
I'll bet that dream is why I felt like crying this morning.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
September 20th
I was reading some writing blogs yesterday and boy, do those things make me anxious, especially when I'm in the middle of completely restructuring my own story.
I guess I keep expecting them to say, "Hey! You! Yeah, you! You suck. You can't write and here's why." Or maybe I worry they'll just make it completely obvious that I'm going about the whole thing wrong.
I am, actually. One really is supposed to plan out one's plot and setting before writing; it saves one a lot of work.
I've been wrestling with this idea for as long as I've been writing, but lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about it. Naturally.
The thing is, I'm just not a formula writer, I'm an intuitive writer. If I plot things out in advance, it's just a big waste of time, because the act of writing is what shows me where I'm going.
The only story I ever really plotted out in advance, I stopped writing after not even the first chapter. It was dead on arrival.
If I had just taken the one scene that I wrote because I had to write it, and then followed that scene and that character out and into the rest of the story, I bet it would have stayed alive.
I think this is because, for me, plotting in advance is like trying to draw a map of a territory you haven't laid eyes on yet.
It's like that quote-
"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware."
-Martin Buber
Only, of course, it should read, "All stories have secret destinations of which the writer is unaware."
If you, like me, struggle with a lack of formula, I have a word of hard won advice for you- be fearless.
Namely, be fearless in two things.
The first thing is to be fearless in searching out your instinctive reason for writing. Write out your gut. That's what the first draft is for. It's to get past the flotsam and jetsam and right to the heart of the thing that makes you write in the first place, the things that gets you, the thing that won't let you rest until you've pinned it down to the paper in words like a net, and then it's yours.
In the first draft, style be damned. Who cares how you are writing; you won't be able to see it anyway. Just write. The more you write, the more clearly you will be able to see your style and the most conscious control you'll have over it. But that comes with experience, and is never the point of the first draft.
Secondly, be fearless in deleting. That's what the second draft is for. Slash and burn. If it's really painful, you can do as I do and put it into another file, thereby saving your ego. You might even use it again somewhere. But if it's not necessary to the story, then it must go, no matter how good it may be.
This gets easier after a while, because you begin to understand that you can always write more of the same. There is no piece of your writing so charming, so descriptive, or so humorous, that you can't replicate it, if need be.
Basically, find the thing that drives you to write and than pare the story down to that one thing. It's an inexact and painful science, but it will get you to the heart of your story. Eventually.
Now I will stop talking about writing and actually write. Or try to.
I guess I keep expecting them to say, "Hey! You! Yeah, you! You suck. You can't write and here's why." Or maybe I worry they'll just make it completely obvious that I'm going about the whole thing wrong.
I am, actually. One really is supposed to plan out one's plot and setting before writing; it saves one a lot of work.
I've been wrestling with this idea for as long as I've been writing, but lately I've been doing a lot of thinking about it. Naturally.
The thing is, I'm just not a formula writer, I'm an intuitive writer. If I plot things out in advance, it's just a big waste of time, because the act of writing is what shows me where I'm going.
The only story I ever really plotted out in advance, I stopped writing after not even the first chapter. It was dead on arrival.
If I had just taken the one scene that I wrote because I had to write it, and then followed that scene and that character out and into the rest of the story, I bet it would have stayed alive.
I think this is because, for me, plotting in advance is like trying to draw a map of a territory you haven't laid eyes on yet.
It's like that quote-
"All journeys have secret destinations of which the traveler is unaware."
-Martin Buber
Only, of course, it should read, "All stories have secret destinations of which the writer is unaware."
If you, like me, struggle with a lack of formula, I have a word of hard won advice for you- be fearless.
Namely, be fearless in two things.
The first thing is to be fearless in searching out your instinctive reason for writing. Write out your gut. That's what the first draft is for. It's to get past the flotsam and jetsam and right to the heart of the thing that makes you write in the first place, the things that gets you, the thing that won't let you rest until you've pinned it down to the paper in words like a net, and then it's yours.
In the first draft, style be damned. Who cares how you are writing; you won't be able to see it anyway. Just write. The more you write, the more clearly you will be able to see your style and the most conscious control you'll have over it. But that comes with experience, and is never the point of the first draft.
Secondly, be fearless in deleting. That's what the second draft is for. Slash and burn. If it's really painful, you can do as I do and put it into another file, thereby saving your ego. You might even use it again somewhere. But if it's not necessary to the story, then it must go, no matter how good it may be.
This gets easier after a while, because you begin to understand that you can always write more of the same. There is no piece of your writing so charming, so descriptive, or so humorous, that you can't replicate it, if need be.
Basically, find the thing that drives you to write and than pare the story down to that one thing. It's an inexact and painful science, but it will get you to the heart of your story. Eventually.
Now I will stop talking about writing and actually write. Or try to.
Monday, September 19, 2011
September 19th
I figured out what I have to do with my story- I have to completely re write it.
I have to change a fundamental principle of the way in which the spirit realm functions, and then manage all of the changes that occur as a result.
Previously, I had imagined there being some kind of mist that separated the two regions of the spirit realm. However, now I think that's a poorly thought out idea. I don't need a clearly delineated and yet vaguely defined and poorly understood boundary.
Making this change eliminates the need for the continent of Antarctica to be connected to the southern most point of the Touzainanboku mountains, as I had envisioned earlier, as a gateway into the Kagamihara.
This eliminates the need for an encircling land route, as people can access the Kagamihara and the ocean at any point along the coast, the occasional cliffs not withstanding.
This means that there will no longer be travel across Antarctica at all, since ships setting out from Minami City will merely sail around it and into the Indian ocean.
And that, in its turn, means that every single scene with the Krigmerk will go.
Sigh.
I have to go with this. It works in every way that I need it to work, and it's logical, congruent and simple. No more stupid road, no more far fetched travel ideas.
So, the Nishi mountains will have a rice farming town high up in the foothills, with terraced rice paddies, as I have already written in, as well as a fishing community down on the coast, with a road connecting them, where the sea faring daemon will live.
This works better than the sea faring daemon living "somewhere out in the middle of the ocean," which constituted my previous idea on that point.
The road connecting the fishing and farming communities will see a lot of foot traffic, which is going to be the most popular form of overland travel by far. Your occasional samurai in service to some organization or city might have a horse, but they're rare, and they won't enter my story.
Not many will travel at all. Even sea faring daemon will usually do only coastal fishing. Anyone who must travel a long distance will do so by ship.
So. Gone are like, six characters and I don't even know how many pages of writing. None of it was truly vital to the story, except Pidguyok. He's vital. So, he stays.
But he will be met in the lower Minami City, where Gilly will mistake him for a normal dog, and he will join them from there.
Fushi will not join them. There's no point; he can't fit on the ship, and almost the entire journey will be by ship.
He'll meet them at the Minami shrine, as before, but for advice and moral support, not as a companion. Any roles that he played, Pidguyok can fill.
This is going to be a hell of a lot of work, and countless scenes will die and be folded away carefully into the discard file, never to be seen or used again.
I'm also massively changing Minami City. It will be comprised of two levels. The lower level with be a shipping port and market. The middle will be residencial and toward the top of the mountain will be the official offices, library and court, etc. At the very top will be the shrine itself.
Tenshio and Gilly will arrive by small fishing boat- maybe, maybe not- anyway, they'll arrive by some kind of boat and meet Pidguyok. He may or may not accompany them up the mountain. They may just meet him again on the way down... No, I think he comes up with them.
They journey up the mountain to the library by rickshaw, which will be used in such large cities as Minami. I have to completely change the library. It must be larger and Osamu is too young to be the master librarian. He'll have to be a junior librarian, one up from apprentice.
Tenshio will have to meet formally with the master librarian, as good manners dictates, and then meet more informally with his friend, Pidguyok and Gilly in tow. (That will be interesting.)
After their stay at the shrine, they will return to lower Minami City and book passage on Captain Kaito's schooner. They'll sail past the icy coasts of Antarctica and out into the central oceans of the Kagamihara.
When they get to Tenjiku, I must almost completely rewrite those scenes, as I only rapidly sketched my way through them. I must write the scene at the Ishii no Torii, since I simply skipped that entire scene earlier.
End of part one.
Begin part two.
I must write in scene in Minami City when Aiko has her betrothal ceremony, so the readers understands what the looks like and the implications, so they can contrast that to Gilly's relationship to Tenshio. Otherwise, they won't understand the emotional framework, or the daemon marriage rituals.
I must figure out when, why and where exactly Tenshio goes, when he goes into the Kagamihara.
I must draw out a time line so I can weave in Katashi's actions with Gilly's story, so the readers get the strong sense of something threatening building somewhere out there, in the background.
Then I have to decide if I'm going to keep Gilly's parent's story, or drop it completely.
Then I have to actually write the end of the story.
Then I have to read it through all over again, to see how well any of this worked.
Phew.
Hopefully after all this is done, when the reader enters the story, they will be able to sense the ways in which the world is smoothly functioning around them, in mysterious and yet congruent ways. Hopefully, they will be drawn irrevocably up in its strong emotional current with no jarring distractions.
One thing at a time, and the first thing is a hell of a lot of deleting.
I have to change a fundamental principle of the way in which the spirit realm functions, and then manage all of the changes that occur as a result.
Previously, I had imagined there being some kind of mist that separated the two regions of the spirit realm. However, now I think that's a poorly thought out idea. I don't need a clearly delineated and yet vaguely defined and poorly understood boundary.
Making this change eliminates the need for the continent of Antarctica to be connected to the southern most point of the Touzainanboku mountains, as I had envisioned earlier, as a gateway into the Kagamihara.
This eliminates the need for an encircling land route, as people can access the Kagamihara and the ocean at any point along the coast, the occasional cliffs not withstanding.
This means that there will no longer be travel across Antarctica at all, since ships setting out from Minami City will merely sail around it and into the Indian ocean.
And that, in its turn, means that every single scene with the Krigmerk will go.
Sigh.
I have to go with this. It works in every way that I need it to work, and it's logical, congruent and simple. No more stupid road, no more far fetched travel ideas.
So, the Nishi mountains will have a rice farming town high up in the foothills, with terraced rice paddies, as I have already written in, as well as a fishing community down on the coast, with a road connecting them, where the sea faring daemon will live.
This works better than the sea faring daemon living "somewhere out in the middle of the ocean," which constituted my previous idea on that point.
The road connecting the fishing and farming communities will see a lot of foot traffic, which is going to be the most popular form of overland travel by far. Your occasional samurai in service to some organization or city might have a horse, but they're rare, and they won't enter my story.
Not many will travel at all. Even sea faring daemon will usually do only coastal fishing. Anyone who must travel a long distance will do so by ship.
So. Gone are like, six characters and I don't even know how many pages of writing. None of it was truly vital to the story, except Pidguyok. He's vital. So, he stays.
But he will be met in the lower Minami City, where Gilly will mistake him for a normal dog, and he will join them from there.
Fushi will not join them. There's no point; he can't fit on the ship, and almost the entire journey will be by ship.
He'll meet them at the Minami shrine, as before, but for advice and moral support, not as a companion. Any roles that he played, Pidguyok can fill.
This is going to be a hell of a lot of work, and countless scenes will die and be folded away carefully into the discard file, never to be seen or used again.
I'm also massively changing Minami City. It will be comprised of two levels. The lower level with be a shipping port and market. The middle will be residencial and toward the top of the mountain will be the official offices, library and court, etc. At the very top will be the shrine itself.
Tenshio and Gilly will arrive by small fishing boat- maybe, maybe not- anyway, they'll arrive by some kind of boat and meet Pidguyok. He may or may not accompany them up the mountain. They may just meet him again on the way down... No, I think he comes up with them.
They journey up the mountain to the library by rickshaw, which will be used in such large cities as Minami. I have to completely change the library. It must be larger and Osamu is too young to be the master librarian. He'll have to be a junior librarian, one up from apprentice.
Tenshio will have to meet formally with the master librarian, as good manners dictates, and then meet more informally with his friend, Pidguyok and Gilly in tow. (That will be interesting.)
After their stay at the shrine, they will return to lower Minami City and book passage on Captain Kaito's schooner. They'll sail past the icy coasts of Antarctica and out into the central oceans of the Kagamihara.
When they get to Tenjiku, I must almost completely rewrite those scenes, as I only rapidly sketched my way through them. I must write the scene at the Ishii no Torii, since I simply skipped that entire scene earlier.
End of part one.
Begin part two.
I must write in scene in Minami City when Aiko has her betrothal ceremony, so the readers understands what the looks like and the implications, so they can contrast that to Gilly's relationship to Tenshio. Otherwise, they won't understand the emotional framework, or the daemon marriage rituals.
I must figure out when, why and where exactly Tenshio goes, when he goes into the Kagamihara.
I must draw out a time line so I can weave in Katashi's actions with Gilly's story, so the readers get the strong sense of something threatening building somewhere out there, in the background.
Then I have to decide if I'm going to keep Gilly's parent's story, or drop it completely.
Then I have to actually write the end of the story.
Then I have to read it through all over again, to see how well any of this worked.
Phew.
Hopefully after all this is done, when the reader enters the story, they will be able to sense the ways in which the world is smoothly functioning around them, in mysterious and yet congruent ways. Hopefully, they will be drawn irrevocably up in its strong emotional current with no jarring distractions.
One thing at a time, and the first thing is a hell of a lot of deleting.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
September 18th
I have beef stew simmering. I coated the beef lightly in flour, salt and pepper and then seared it in butter, about five tablespoon's worth.
It smells divine. It's got onions, green peppers, carrots and potatoes, sage, marjoram, black pepper and garlic in there, as well as a dash of barbecue sauce.
The last time I made it, Keith did not even add ketchup, that's how good it is.
I have a pumpkin spice candle lit and some cheesecake cooling in the fridge, and soon I will dig through the boxes and find my fall decorating stuff.
"We are church hoppers," Keith said sadly. He mentioned this earlier today, as we pulled out of our church parking lot. We both knew that would be the last time we attended that church.
I feel like such a heretic. It turns out that church is Pentecostal, which isn't something they advertised clearly. Or maybe they did, and I didn't pick up on it. The problem is that, in a Pentecostal church, if you do not, from time to time, lift your arms and/or sway to the music, it appears as though you are blocking the work of the Holy Spirit.
So then you seem to have three choices. The first is simply to pretend. That's easy enough, but I can't sustain it. It just feels so awful, like such a huge step backward.
The second is decide that some sin in your life is holding you back from experiencing the Presence of God, as evidenced by said raising of hands, and to then examine, repent, rinse and repeat each Sunday.
Thus begins a vicious cycle of shame, since there will always be something you are not doing right, enough or in the right way, and there will always be someone who appears to be experiencing more of the Presence of God than you are. The worship team, for example.
Of course, the third is to just stand there rigid, wishing that your ears were not being blasted by the music, and wondering what the phrase "God, give us an open heaven," really means, while trying to manage your unreasonable panic by repeating the Lord's Prayer to yourself over and over again, slowly.
Clearly, I chose option three, when I can.
To be fair, I have had several good experiences at that church. Sunday before last, they unexpectedly played the hymn, Jesus Paid It All. Where I heard it, and saw the words, my heart was poured out.
The pastor's sermon on Christ washing the feet of the disciplines was wonderful, even if the love and humility of Christ demonstrated in that story always makes me squirm.
However, you know you're in the wrong church when you find yourself praying, "Please don't let my distaste affect whatever work You're doing here- Your will be done," frequently.
Oh my goodness. I just wanted to run away. Today, the pastor starting shouting, and went on shouting, as though he were trying to whip the congregation up to some kind of fever pitch. Eventually, a few would clap, or thrust their fist into the air, or shout something.
"If you have your Bible, lift it in the air. I want to see who brought their Bible," he said.
"If you want more of Christ, come to the front of the church."
And when not enough went, he stopped the entire thing, including the music, and declared that there was a feeling of pridefulness in the church and we had to search our hearts for the pride and sin that was holding us back from an acceptable response. After that, more people went up, but I felt vaguely ill.
"If you want more of Christ, lift your arms to open your heart."
"If you need your heart restored from pride or sin or unforgivemess, just lift your arms."
"This is a new beginning. Some of you will feel the power of God poured out on your life."
And some of you won't. Some of you are Bible-less, hard hearted, unforgiving, back slidden, prideful pew fillers like the couple from Indiana over there in the back row.
Actually, I had my Bible, so... But still.
And they play those songs over and over and over and over and over again. I can't sustain my original, organic emotional response for ten minutes of endless repeat.
Then I get to feeling like I must be just the most carnal, shallow person for just standing there, feeling my hips ache and wondering when will they let us out of the dark room already and would they please, please stop singing.
Before the sermon was officially over, Keith leaned down to me and asked if I was ready to go. He'd been restless the entire time, leaning forward with his head down, or playing with the offering envelopes. He took my hand and walked grimly outside with a long stride, looking straight ahead.
I was ready; we escaped together. I'm sure we looked like jerks for leaving before the twentieth repetition of whatever chant it was.
Outside, through the wall mounted speakers, we could still hear the quavering, sobbing utterances of the pastor as he paced the stage before the worship group, invoking the presence of God, of heaven, and power.
Keith fished his chew out of the pocket of his cargo pants and slapped it against the palm of his other hand. Once he had a chew in, he got his car keys out. It was a bright sunny day. I was relieved to remember that Christ lives in me, and I in Him.
It's a very simple and completely miraculous arrangement, and it's unchanging. It doesn't need electric guitars, projection screens, arm raising, curtained windows or shouting to be made more real.
Though, of course, there's nothing wrong with those things, that I know of.
It smells divine. It's got onions, green peppers, carrots and potatoes, sage, marjoram, black pepper and garlic in there, as well as a dash of barbecue sauce.
The last time I made it, Keith did not even add ketchup, that's how good it is.
I have a pumpkin spice candle lit and some cheesecake cooling in the fridge, and soon I will dig through the boxes and find my fall decorating stuff.
"We are church hoppers," Keith said sadly. He mentioned this earlier today, as we pulled out of our church parking lot. We both knew that would be the last time we attended that church.
I feel like such a heretic. It turns out that church is Pentecostal, which isn't something they advertised clearly. Or maybe they did, and I didn't pick up on it. The problem is that, in a Pentecostal church, if you do not, from time to time, lift your arms and/or sway to the music, it appears as though you are blocking the work of the Holy Spirit.
So then you seem to have three choices. The first is simply to pretend. That's easy enough, but I can't sustain it. It just feels so awful, like such a huge step backward.
The second is decide that some sin in your life is holding you back from experiencing the Presence of God, as evidenced by said raising of hands, and to then examine, repent, rinse and repeat each Sunday.
Thus begins a vicious cycle of shame, since there will always be something you are not doing right, enough or in the right way, and there will always be someone who appears to be experiencing more of the Presence of God than you are. The worship team, for example.
Of course, the third is to just stand there rigid, wishing that your ears were not being blasted by the music, and wondering what the phrase "God, give us an open heaven," really means, while trying to manage your unreasonable panic by repeating the Lord's Prayer to yourself over and over again, slowly.
Clearly, I chose option three, when I can.
To be fair, I have had several good experiences at that church. Sunday before last, they unexpectedly played the hymn, Jesus Paid It All. Where I heard it, and saw the words, my heart was poured out.
The pastor's sermon on Christ washing the feet of the disciplines was wonderful, even if the love and humility of Christ demonstrated in that story always makes me squirm.
However, you know you're in the wrong church when you find yourself praying, "Please don't let my distaste affect whatever work You're doing here- Your will be done," frequently.
Oh my goodness. I just wanted to run away. Today, the pastor starting shouting, and went on shouting, as though he were trying to whip the congregation up to some kind of fever pitch. Eventually, a few would clap, or thrust their fist into the air, or shout something.
"If you have your Bible, lift it in the air. I want to see who brought their Bible," he said.
"If you want more of Christ, come to the front of the church."
And when not enough went, he stopped the entire thing, including the music, and declared that there was a feeling of pridefulness in the church and we had to search our hearts for the pride and sin that was holding us back from an acceptable response. After that, more people went up, but I felt vaguely ill.
"If you want more of Christ, lift your arms to open your heart."
"If you need your heart restored from pride or sin or unforgivemess, just lift your arms."
"This is a new beginning. Some of you will feel the power of God poured out on your life."
And some of you won't. Some of you are Bible-less, hard hearted, unforgiving, back slidden, prideful pew fillers like the couple from Indiana over there in the back row.
Actually, I had my Bible, so... But still.
And they play those songs over and over and over and over and over again. I can't sustain my original, organic emotional response for ten minutes of endless repeat.
Then I get to feeling like I must be just the most carnal, shallow person for just standing there, feeling my hips ache and wondering when will they let us out of the dark room already and would they please, please stop singing.
Before the sermon was officially over, Keith leaned down to me and asked if I was ready to go. He'd been restless the entire time, leaning forward with his head down, or playing with the offering envelopes. He took my hand and walked grimly outside with a long stride, looking straight ahead.
I was ready; we escaped together. I'm sure we looked like jerks for leaving before the twentieth repetition of whatever chant it was.
Outside, through the wall mounted speakers, we could still hear the quavering, sobbing utterances of the pastor as he paced the stage before the worship group, invoking the presence of God, of heaven, and power.
Keith fished his chew out of the pocket of his cargo pants and slapped it against the palm of his other hand. Once he had a chew in, he got his car keys out. It was a bright sunny day. I was relieved to remember that Christ lives in me, and I in Him.
It's a very simple and completely miraculous arrangement, and it's unchanging. It doesn't need electric guitars, projection screens, arm raising, curtained windows or shouting to be made more real.
Though, of course, there's nothing wrong with those things, that I know of.
Friday, September 16, 2011
September 16th
I am turning thirty four this winter.
When I mentioned this to Keith, he was stunned. "Are you really?" he asked, in disbelief.
I love that man.
Last night, the thought of my birthday had me in the grip of a cold fear, though I'm ashamed to admit it. I saw how short life is.
It doesn't seem so bad right now, in the morning, after I've had some coffee. But it still stuns me- just how fast our lives go by.
Now I'm wrestling with a much more important matter- how on earth do daemons travel the long distances between towns?
My entire re write is hung up on this question, much as the entire second half was hung up before I could figure out who sailed the ship to Tenjiku.
So far I have two ideas, but both of them have the same significant problem- that of being too childish.
The first is a lacquered carriage drawn by the sable coated sika deer of Japan, and driven by the same grinning, pointed eared Tanuki creatures that have a ramen stand high up in the Nishimachi mountains.
The second is a coal powered train, staffed by the aforementioned Tanuki.
I'm not writing a children's book, but it sure as hell feels like it, at the moment.
At first, I was able to ignore this whole question because T'ien-lung personally carried them to Minami City. Now I realize that this won't work. It's illogical. T'ien-lung and Tenshio cannot both leave the shrine at the same time.
Tenshio is not going to call down the wind just to catch a ride into the city either. Besides, I decided that it won't carry passengers; it will only carry the person sealed to it.
Besides, it's not like your typical daemon is going to have a celestial dragon available to them for their every travel need; there must be some other, more pedestrian mode of transportation available to the general public.
Horseback? Maybe the Nishiyama town keeps horses stabled at the bottom of the rice paddies and there's a system in place that's kind of like the Pony Express.
But I'm tired of writing about horses. Ceallach is nothing more than one long journey by horseback. I'm horsebacked out.
Sea journey? The daemon do fish the coastal waters around the Touzainanboku mountains, though they don't venture out into the deep waters of the Kagamihara unless they're true, ocean faring daemon.
But that just seems so tiresome. Though, actually, it does make the most sense. It would be the fastest way of travel, by far, because it could cut across the distance, instead of following the coast the long way around.
But no. That just makes the whole culture too sea faring by far. I want the average mountain daemon to be terrified of the ocean and subject to bouts of seasickness, as Tenshio is.
To tell the truth, I want like hell to make it a train. I want there to be a train and I don't want to explain how that's possible. I want it just to be- just throw it out there, logic be damned.
Just be all- Yeah, that's a train, you got a problem with that? You want to know why they don't use that technology elsewhere, if they have it here? You want to know where they mine the coal from, how they get it to the train, who works the mines, all that crap? Well, I'm not telling you. So there.
Sigh.
I'm not going to make it a train. I make it a train and boom! I'm writing a children's book. Everyone knows that, it's clear. Every story from the Polar Express to Hogwarts to Narnia has a train. I can't put a damn train in my story. I already have a dragon and a talking dog, for god's sake.
That leaves me with the carriage. It's not a bad idea and having it drawn by deer is pretty interesting, though not entirely original, of course. I think I can describe that in a fairly adult way, but then the story gets this strange, pseudo-British flavor.
The Japanese did have coaches, but they were way, way back in the Heian era, and they were actually very slow and uncomfortable ox carts. The imperial family still uses horse drawn carriages, but they look suspiciously British, upon close review.
The Japanese nobility did have peasants run them around by foot in these little dangling, ornate boxes, but that's just ridiculous.
Maybe horseback is best. Tenshio can dress up like a samurai and it can be all shades of Shogun and Ran.
Bonzaiiiii!
I hate this crap.
Wait. Maybe it should be completely British. After all, I have an English convent center stage in the second half of the story. Why not add one more of the same element, and just have the stage coach be completely British, with all the trappings, like muddy leather boots and luggage. It'll still driven by the Tanuki, much as the convent is for daemon in the full regalia of Catholic nuns.
That's more bizarre and yet less childish than the other options, and it's balanced. I can even throw in a stone ale house/inns as way stations, and English pastures/farms where the horses are stabled and bred.
Hm. I like it. I think I'm going with it.
When I mentioned this to Keith, he was stunned. "Are you really?" he asked, in disbelief.
I love that man.
Last night, the thought of my birthday had me in the grip of a cold fear, though I'm ashamed to admit it. I saw how short life is.
It doesn't seem so bad right now, in the morning, after I've had some coffee. But it still stuns me- just how fast our lives go by.
Now I'm wrestling with a much more important matter- how on earth do daemons travel the long distances between towns?
My entire re write is hung up on this question, much as the entire second half was hung up before I could figure out who sailed the ship to Tenjiku.
So far I have two ideas, but both of them have the same significant problem- that of being too childish.
The first is a lacquered carriage drawn by the sable coated sika deer of Japan, and driven by the same grinning, pointed eared Tanuki creatures that have a ramen stand high up in the Nishimachi mountains.
The second is a coal powered train, staffed by the aforementioned Tanuki.
I'm not writing a children's book, but it sure as hell feels like it, at the moment.
At first, I was able to ignore this whole question because T'ien-lung personally carried them to Minami City. Now I realize that this won't work. It's illogical. T'ien-lung and Tenshio cannot both leave the shrine at the same time.
Tenshio is not going to call down the wind just to catch a ride into the city either. Besides, I decided that it won't carry passengers; it will only carry the person sealed to it.
Besides, it's not like your typical daemon is going to have a celestial dragon available to them for their every travel need; there must be some other, more pedestrian mode of transportation available to the general public.
Horseback? Maybe the Nishiyama town keeps horses stabled at the bottom of the rice paddies and there's a system in place that's kind of like the Pony Express.
But I'm tired of writing about horses. Ceallach is nothing more than one long journey by horseback. I'm horsebacked out.
Sea journey? The daemon do fish the coastal waters around the Touzainanboku mountains, though they don't venture out into the deep waters of the Kagamihara unless they're true, ocean faring daemon.
But that just seems so tiresome. Though, actually, it does make the most sense. It would be the fastest way of travel, by far, because it could cut across the distance, instead of following the coast the long way around.
But no. That just makes the whole culture too sea faring by far. I want the average mountain daemon to be terrified of the ocean and subject to bouts of seasickness, as Tenshio is.
To tell the truth, I want like hell to make it a train. I want there to be a train and I don't want to explain how that's possible. I want it just to be- just throw it out there, logic be damned.
Just be all- Yeah, that's a train, you got a problem with that? You want to know why they don't use that technology elsewhere, if they have it here? You want to know where they mine the coal from, how they get it to the train, who works the mines, all that crap? Well, I'm not telling you. So there.
Sigh.
I'm not going to make it a train. I make it a train and boom! I'm writing a children's book. Everyone knows that, it's clear. Every story from the Polar Express to Hogwarts to Narnia has a train. I can't put a damn train in my story. I already have a dragon and a talking dog, for god's sake.
That leaves me with the carriage. It's not a bad idea and having it drawn by deer is pretty interesting, though not entirely original, of course. I think I can describe that in a fairly adult way, but then the story gets this strange, pseudo-British flavor.
The Japanese did have coaches, but they were way, way back in the Heian era, and they were actually very slow and uncomfortable ox carts. The imperial family still uses horse drawn carriages, but they look suspiciously British, upon close review.
The Japanese nobility did have peasants run them around by foot in these little dangling, ornate boxes, but that's just ridiculous.
Maybe horseback is best. Tenshio can dress up like a samurai and it can be all shades of Shogun and Ran.
Bonzaiiiii!
I hate this crap.
Wait. Maybe it should be completely British. After all, I have an English convent center stage in the second half of the story. Why not add one more of the same element, and just have the stage coach be completely British, with all the trappings, like muddy leather boots and luggage. It'll still driven by the Tanuki, much as the convent is for daemon in the full regalia of Catholic nuns.
That's more bizarre and yet less childish than the other options, and it's balanced. I can even throw in a stone ale house/inns as way stations, and English pastures/farms where the horses are stabled and bred.
Hm. I like it. I think I'm going with it.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
September 14th
I hate that those long, awful moments, just before I start writing, when I think, What the hell am I doing? Who the hell do I think I am? I can't write. This is crazy. I should go mop the floor, or something. At least that has actual practical value.
I'm telling you what, writing is not really about talent at all. It's about sheer, grinding persistence. No one would do this unless they were driven to it by their very nature.
It's a long shot- a stupid bet. You're betting that all those hundreds of hours, and every bit of yourself that you put into your writing will pay off with nothing more than the chance to see your words printed on someone else's paper.
Actually, that's not true. That's not the bet. If that was the bet, no one would do it.
The bet is, if you can do it right, you can impact someone else's life, by letting them live in the world your words created.
Enough whining from me. But here's a great quote:
"If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word."
-Margaret Atwood
I'm telling you what, writing is not really about talent at all. It's about sheer, grinding persistence. No one would do this unless they were driven to it by their very nature.
It's a long shot- a stupid bet. You're betting that all those hundreds of hours, and every bit of yourself that you put into your writing will pay off with nothing more than the chance to see your words printed on someone else's paper.
Actually, that's not true. That's not the bet. If that was the bet, no one would do it.
The bet is, if you can do it right, you can impact someone else's life, by letting them live in the world your words created.
Enough whining from me. But here's a great quote:
"If I waited for perfection, I would never write a word."
-Margaret Atwood
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
September 13th
I've gotten pretty much to the point where I can't write the ending of Torii without going back and cleaning up all that rumble in the earlier sections.
I'm kind of scared to do it, so I'm not. I'm just fiddling around the edges, waiting for things to settle and thinking about what I'll do next.
I'm not going to try and get Torii published right away. It's not like Ceallach; I can't just throw it out there. It's too ridiculously personal. Besides, some of the concepts in Torii need work. I want to give it time enough for all the ideas in that story to develop. I want it to live up to its potential, if you know what I mean.
I think I'm going to try and submit short stories to magazines so I can get a publishing record. I've found three magazines and I have made a little list with word count requirements.
Then I'm just going to write. I'm going to write whatever the hell I feel like writing, until I stumble across the next good idea and then I'll start shaping it to fit the word count, if I can.
That way, maybe I can develop a little following of people who enjoy my work, in addition to you guys. :)
Actually, the response to my last excerpt was really good. In fact, whenever I post an excerpt, I get a lot more activity, a lot more quickly than usual. It was partly what got me thinking down this line. I must have hooked some of you, is what I realized. You must be interested in the story.
I thought, gosh, if I can do that with very small excerpts, I'll bet I can do that with short stories. I'll bet I can write colorful, original and interesting short stories that are full of drama and human emotion and my usual dialogue.
We'll see.
I'm kind of scared to do it, so I'm not. I'm just fiddling around the edges, waiting for things to settle and thinking about what I'll do next.
I'm not going to try and get Torii published right away. It's not like Ceallach; I can't just throw it out there. It's too ridiculously personal. Besides, some of the concepts in Torii need work. I want to give it time enough for all the ideas in that story to develop. I want it to live up to its potential, if you know what I mean.
I think I'm going to try and submit short stories to magazines so I can get a publishing record. I've found three magazines and I have made a little list with word count requirements.
Then I'm just going to write. I'm going to write whatever the hell I feel like writing, until I stumble across the next good idea and then I'll start shaping it to fit the word count, if I can.
That way, maybe I can develop a little following of people who enjoy my work, in addition to you guys. :)
Actually, the response to my last excerpt was really good. In fact, whenever I post an excerpt, I get a lot more activity, a lot more quickly than usual. It was partly what got me thinking down this line. I must have hooked some of you, is what I realized. You must be interested in the story.
I thought, gosh, if I can do that with very small excerpts, I'll bet I can do that with short stories. I'll bet I can write colorful, original and interesting short stories that are full of drama and human emotion and my usual dialogue.
We'll see.
Monday, September 12, 2011
September 12th Excerpts
Variations on a Theme:
“Master Tenshio!” she said slowly, the reality dawning on her.
“Yes, Gilly?”
“Master Tenshio!” she repeated, drawing away from him. She drew her hands up under her chin and looked at his face. Her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes wide and flashing. “You kissed me!”
He laughed. “Indeed. How reassured I am, to see that it didn’t escape your notice."
Her mouth dropped. “Master Tenshio,” she repeated, dismayed.
“It is no longer necessary for you to use my title, Gilly. Please address me simply by my name. If you wish to address me as Master Tenshio in public, that would be perfectly appropriate. But do not call me that when we are alone.”
Gilly’s astonishment turned unexpectedly to indignation. “That’s not fair!” she objected. “You can’t just change the rules like that!”
Tenshio had a hard time trying not to laugh. "I didn’t make those rules," he said, after a moment. "I obey them as much as you do.”
.......
“And you have been calling me Master. You can’t keep doing that,” Tenshio continued.
Gilly rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s entirely your own fault, Master Tenshio,” she said, pointed out. “I can’t help it if I am an excellent student.”
“Very well, I’ll just have to teach you a new lesson.” He straightened up and put his hands behind his back. “Please repeat after me: Tenshio.”
A joyful laugh escaped Gilly; it broke up the last of the tension that had been in her body. She looked at him with dancing eyes. “I can’t!” she protested. “Really, I can’t. It’s too much.”
“Ten-shi-o,” repeated Tenshio, with careful enunciation. He waited expectantly. “My mother calls me that all the time, as you know. I’m sure it will be easy for you.”
The giggles took hold of Gilly; she clasped her hand over her mouth and shook her head emphatically.
“And here I thought you were a good student,” he teased her. “I assure you, you don’t wish to fail my class. Please concentrate.”
“Master Tenshio!” Gilly laughed.
“No, no,” he said, with mock sternness. “That is all wrong.”
“Oh, please,” gasped Gilly. “Stop making me laugh!”
“Very well. I will give you an extension. But I do expect excellent results during the next lesson.”
.......
"Tell me what you think it means.”
Gilly groaned. “Why must you do this to me? I know perfectly well that you already know what it means.”
“It’s a more valuable experience for you if you think it through yourself.”
“Yes, Master Tenshio,” Gilly replied, her eyes twinkling.
His arms tightened in response. “I gave up being your master,” he whispered. He put his face against hers. “You are the master now.”
“No!” cried Gilly, appalled. She pulled her head away from his and looked at him with wide eyes.
Tenshio laughed softly. “Oh, Gilly. How deeply I have offended your sensibilities. I love you.”
“Don’t play,” Gilly pleaded, yielding to his embrace once more. “I can’t get used to it.”
“Very well,” he said gently, resting his head against the top of hers. “I won’t tease.”
.....
Her sleep had been deep and untroubled and when she sat up, she was still groggy. She blinked at him in wonder and then looked around the kitchen in growing disbelief.
“Good morning, Gilly,” Tenshio whispered.
“Good morning,” she said shyly. She pushed away the strands of hair that had fallen over her face. “We did sleep in the kitchen!”
“Yes. And unless you wish to discover exactly what my mother would say under these circumstances, I suggest we return to our usual beds.”
Gilly gave him a broad and sleepy smile. “One day, we’ll tell her, and find out.”
“Anytime you wish. Are you going to drop the use of my title today, Gilly?”
A quiet sound from the eastern room came to his attention; it was better than a cold shower. Immediately his mind was crystal clear.
“My mother,” he whispered, urgently. “Go, go, go.”
.......
Gilly blushed. “Thank you for pointing that out, Master Tenshio,” she murmured with pointed and defensive sarcasm.
“I see you are going to use that title indefinitely,” he remarked, his eyes dancing. “Even perhaps fifty or so years from now, when we are in bed together, you will use it.”
“I will use it whenever I have need of it,” she replied loftily and then giggled despite herself. “Anyway, won’t you be?”
“Won’t I be what?” Tenshio asked warily.
“The master in bed?” she replied, shaking with the giggles.
“I doubt that very much,” he remarked dryly. “I have a feeling that title will go to you.”
“Really?” asked Gilly, her interest piqued. “Why do you think that?”
“Oh, those lessons are much further ahead of where you are now,” he said. “For the moment, you should concentrate on coming a little closer.”
“There’s no room!” she objected.
“That’s the point,” Tenshio explained.
.....
“You look very disheveled, Master Tenshio,” she said demurely. “Whatever have you been doing?"
“I’ve been making love to my wife, as a matter of fact."
“What a lucky woman,” Gilly murmured. “I hope she takes good care of you.”
"Oh, she does," he assured her. "In fact, she esteems me so greatly that, even now, she persists in using my title."
She laughed, and put her forehead against his. "Tenshio," she said tenderly. "Tenshio, I love you. Now put me down and let's go have breakfast."
“Master Tenshio!” she said slowly, the reality dawning on her.
“Yes, Gilly?”
“Master Tenshio!” she repeated, drawing away from him. She drew her hands up under her chin and looked at his face. Her cheeks were flushed with color, her eyes wide and flashing. “You kissed me!”
He laughed. “Indeed. How reassured I am, to see that it didn’t escape your notice."
Her mouth dropped. “Master Tenshio,” she repeated, dismayed.
“It is no longer necessary for you to use my title, Gilly. Please address me simply by my name. If you wish to address me as Master Tenshio in public, that would be perfectly appropriate. But do not call me that when we are alone.”
Gilly’s astonishment turned unexpectedly to indignation. “That’s not fair!” she objected. “You can’t just change the rules like that!”
Tenshio had a hard time trying not to laugh. "I didn’t make those rules," he said, after a moment. "I obey them as much as you do.”
.......
“And you have been calling me Master. You can’t keep doing that,” Tenshio continued.
Gilly rolled her eyes. “Well, that’s entirely your own fault, Master Tenshio,” she said, pointed out. “I can’t help it if I am an excellent student.”
“Very well, I’ll just have to teach you a new lesson.” He straightened up and put his hands behind his back. “Please repeat after me: Tenshio.”
A joyful laugh escaped Gilly; it broke up the last of the tension that had been in her body. She looked at him with dancing eyes. “I can’t!” she protested. “Really, I can’t. It’s too much.”
“Ten-shi-o,” repeated Tenshio, with careful enunciation. He waited expectantly. “My mother calls me that all the time, as you know. I’m sure it will be easy for you.”
The giggles took hold of Gilly; she clasped her hand over her mouth and shook her head emphatically.
“And here I thought you were a good student,” he teased her. “I assure you, you don’t wish to fail my class. Please concentrate.”
“Master Tenshio!” Gilly laughed.
“No, no,” he said, with mock sternness. “That is all wrong.”
“Oh, please,” gasped Gilly. “Stop making me laugh!”
“Very well. I will give you an extension. But I do expect excellent results during the next lesson.”
.......
"Tell me what you think it means.”
Gilly groaned. “Why must you do this to me? I know perfectly well that you already know what it means.”
“It’s a more valuable experience for you if you think it through yourself.”
“Yes, Master Tenshio,” Gilly replied, her eyes twinkling.
His arms tightened in response. “I gave up being your master,” he whispered. He put his face against hers. “You are the master now.”
“No!” cried Gilly, appalled. She pulled her head away from his and looked at him with wide eyes.
Tenshio laughed softly. “Oh, Gilly. How deeply I have offended your sensibilities. I love you.”
“Don’t play,” Gilly pleaded, yielding to his embrace once more. “I can’t get used to it.”
“Very well,” he said gently, resting his head against the top of hers. “I won’t tease.”
.....
Her sleep had been deep and untroubled and when she sat up, she was still groggy. She blinked at him in wonder and then looked around the kitchen in growing disbelief.
“Good morning, Gilly,” Tenshio whispered.
“Good morning,” she said shyly. She pushed away the strands of hair that had fallen over her face. “We did sleep in the kitchen!”
“Yes. And unless you wish to discover exactly what my mother would say under these circumstances, I suggest we return to our usual beds.”
Gilly gave him a broad and sleepy smile. “One day, we’ll tell her, and find out.”
“Anytime you wish. Are you going to drop the use of my title today, Gilly?”
A quiet sound from the eastern room came to his attention; it was better than a cold shower. Immediately his mind was crystal clear.
“My mother,” he whispered, urgently. “Go, go, go.”
.......
Gilly blushed. “Thank you for pointing that out, Master Tenshio,” she murmured with pointed and defensive sarcasm.
“I see you are going to use that title indefinitely,” he remarked, his eyes dancing. “Even perhaps fifty or so years from now, when we are in bed together, you will use it.”
“I will use it whenever I have need of it,” she replied loftily and then giggled despite herself. “Anyway, won’t you be?”
“Won’t I be what?” Tenshio asked warily.
“The master in bed?” she replied, shaking with the giggles.
“I doubt that very much,” he remarked dryly. “I have a feeling that title will go to you.”
“Really?” asked Gilly, her interest piqued. “Why do you think that?”
“Oh, those lessons are much further ahead of where you are now,” he said. “For the moment, you should concentrate on coming a little closer.”
“There’s no room!” she objected.
“That’s the point,” Tenshio explained.
.....
“You look very disheveled, Master Tenshio,” she said demurely. “Whatever have you been doing?"
“I’ve been making love to my wife, as a matter of fact."
“What a lucky woman,” Gilly murmured. “I hope she takes good care of you.”
"Oh, she does," he assured her. "In fact, she esteems me so greatly that, even now, she persists in using my title."
She laughed, and put her forehead against his. "Tenshio," she said tenderly. "Tenshio, I love you. Now put me down and let's go have breakfast."
Saturday, September 10, 2011
September 10th
So, as you can probably tell from my slinging all those excerpts at you, I have been writing like a freaking son of a gun. Only those pieces are old now- I'm much further ahead. I usually let things simmer for a good while before I feel confident putting them out, and even then, they get changed later.
I added about ten thousand words in the last five days or so- I took it from fifty thousand to sixty thousand. I would have written more except that Keith keeps wanting me to interact with him.
I know, right? Who does he think he is, my husband or something? Heh.
So, I end up writing late into the night, and when I get up, I'm almost afraid to read what I did the night before.
Which is the reason why I'm writing this post, as a matter of fact.
I completely deconstructed Tenshio. It's so ironic. It was supposed to be Gilly that got deconstructed. What I didn't realize, but should have known, is that, for Gilly, that already happened. That's the first half of the book.
The second half of the book is about Gilly getting put back together over a slow process of twelve years and huge amount of investment from Tenshio. The natural result of this is that it's he and not Gilly that gets torn apart at the end of the second half.
I broke him down, and I mean, I broke him right the hell down. He has nothing left. I tore off layer after layer of his self possession, calm reserve and strength.
I'm not sure I'm going to keep it this way. It feels so wrong. I feel so bad for the guy. He's taking over my damn story.
Also, the third section of my story is now larger than the first and second combined. Which means that they will be combined- the story will be in two parts, not three. Of course, the first part needs some major and massive revisions, which will help balance everything out.
Oh, I love getting to the end! I love the view. It's stunning.
Oh my goodness, people. This story. When I brought Gilly back up to the Nishiyama shrine, the story just dropped out from under me, like the view from a glass bottomed boat. The depth this story contains! It's extraordinary.
There's vast physical distances, and there's vast amounts of emotional history and there's a large span of time that the reader lives through. And because they live through it, it's as though they themselves can remember what Gilly remembers.
I've given the reader memory within the story. It's astounding. Like, it's not like just meeting a character and he's mourning for something past, and the author describes to you what that was, and you feel for the character, because you can imagine how that feels.
Instead, it's like the reader goes back to a place they themselves have been to, so that they and Gilly feel the same way automatically.
And what's better, is that the first time the reader is at the shrine, Gilly is a child, so they see it through a child's eyes.
Nothing is explained. Gilly has magical thinking, she doesn't wonder about how Tenshio lives his life, or cooks his food, or passes the time. The reader has no idea how things happen, or why, or what context to place Tenshio into. At that time, his inhumanity is striking.
The second time they come, Gilly is a young woman. She sees the shrine, and Tenshio, as she did as a child, but now also as an adult, having been raised amid the daemon for over a decade. There's still mystery, but there's also perspective. The reader understands everything, context, purpose, and history. At this time, it almost comes as a shock that Tenshio isn't human.
At least, it seems that way to me.
I tell you what, it just keeps getting deeper and better, each story I write. I'm petrified of the next story, of the possibility that there might not be anything left in me to write about.
I added about ten thousand words in the last five days or so- I took it from fifty thousand to sixty thousand. I would have written more except that Keith keeps wanting me to interact with him.
I know, right? Who does he think he is, my husband or something? Heh.
So, I end up writing late into the night, and when I get up, I'm almost afraid to read what I did the night before.
Which is the reason why I'm writing this post, as a matter of fact.
I completely deconstructed Tenshio. It's so ironic. It was supposed to be Gilly that got deconstructed. What I didn't realize, but should have known, is that, for Gilly, that already happened. That's the first half of the book.
The second half of the book is about Gilly getting put back together over a slow process of twelve years and huge amount of investment from Tenshio. The natural result of this is that it's he and not Gilly that gets torn apart at the end of the second half.
I broke him down, and I mean, I broke him right the hell down. He has nothing left. I tore off layer after layer of his self possession, calm reserve and strength.
I'm not sure I'm going to keep it this way. It feels so wrong. I feel so bad for the guy. He's taking over my damn story.
Also, the third section of my story is now larger than the first and second combined. Which means that they will be combined- the story will be in two parts, not three. Of course, the first part needs some major and massive revisions, which will help balance everything out.
Oh, I love getting to the end! I love the view. It's stunning.
Oh my goodness, people. This story. When I brought Gilly back up to the Nishiyama shrine, the story just dropped out from under me, like the view from a glass bottomed boat. The depth this story contains! It's extraordinary.
There's vast physical distances, and there's vast amounts of emotional history and there's a large span of time that the reader lives through. And because they live through it, it's as though they themselves can remember what Gilly remembers.
I've given the reader memory within the story. It's astounding. Like, it's not like just meeting a character and he's mourning for something past, and the author describes to you what that was, and you feel for the character, because you can imagine how that feels.
Instead, it's like the reader goes back to a place they themselves have been to, so that they and Gilly feel the same way automatically.
And what's better, is that the first time the reader is at the shrine, Gilly is a child, so they see it through a child's eyes.
Nothing is explained. Gilly has magical thinking, she doesn't wonder about how Tenshio lives his life, or cooks his food, or passes the time. The reader has no idea how things happen, or why, or what context to place Tenshio into. At that time, his inhumanity is striking.
The second time they come, Gilly is a young woman. She sees the shrine, and Tenshio, as she did as a child, but now also as an adult, having been raised amid the daemon for over a decade. There's still mystery, but there's also perspective. The reader understands everything, context, purpose, and history. At this time, it almost comes as a shock that Tenshio isn't human.
At least, it seems that way to me.
I tell you what, it just keeps getting deeper and better, each story I write. I'm petrified of the next story, of the possibility that there might not be anything left in me to write about.
Friday, September 9, 2011
September 9th Excerpt
This captured Gilly’s imagination. She was lost in thought for a moment, considering this. Then she looked at Tenshio, a certain realization dawning in her eyes.
“How do you always know the exact right thing to say to me?” she asked him slowly. “My whole life… you always have the perfect thing to offer me.”
“Gilly,” he said humbly, “that’s very reassuring to hear. I myself feel as if I’ve been bumbling from one mistake to another. But for what’s worth, I try and prepare for you.”
“You prepare for me?” Gilly asked, beginning to smile. “As though I were a test?”
“You’re not like a test, Gilly,” he earnestly explained. “And I would be a poor mate if I hadn’t taken the time given me and learned the best way of supporting your healing. Besides, as Daitoku, I was already very familiar with human injuries and human healing, because of the way they affect the Kagamihara.”
“So, all along, you’ve been planning in advance for… me?”
“It is like a game of Shogi,” Tenshio explained, his eyes lighting up. “I can plot out the course far in advance, by calculating what pieces you have in your possession and where they lie on the board. Usually, this works.
“However, just when I have become complacent, thinking that I have arranged all my pieces exactly as they should be, you frequently drop onto the playing field a piece I had not previously even known existed, and I must rethink my entire strategy.”
“I must be a formidable player, then,” she said, trying not to let her laughter escape.
“Very,” Tenshio replied, his voice serious.
Gilly remembered all those times he had sat amid papers and maps, a cup of tea or sake by his elbow, lost in research. He had been plotting out the best course for them to take. She realized then that he had never stopped; he had been doing that all her life.
When she couldn’t walk on her own, he had carried her. When she had gained a little strength, he had walked beside her. When she didn’t know what to say, he had taught her the words. When she was imprisoned in a cage of her own making, he had shown her how to dismantle it from the inside out.
Gilly felt a rush of love for him such as she had never felt before. For a moment, she felt it so acutely that she was frozen in one spot. Then she was released from it; she went swiftly across to Tenshio and threw her arms around him.
“I love you,” she breathed.
“I love you,” he replied, taken by surprise. He enfolded her in his arms and patted her back gently.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Sorry for what?” he asked, bending his head to hers.
“For complaining about childish things, like romance,” she answered passionately.
“You don’t have to apologize, Gilly. If it’s important to you, I can try to provide you with some,” he said earnestly. “But to be honest, I’m not quite sure I know what that is.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Gilly said fiercely. “That’s nothing. I don’t know what it is either. Something like meeting in a tea house where no one knows you and holding hands under the table.”
“We might have some difficulty with that. I don't know any tea houses where we won't immediately be recognized."
"You think it might be difficult for the Daitoku and his living human wife to go incognito, is that what you're saying?" Gilly asked, her eyes dancing. "Maybe we'll have to go all the way back into the Kagamihara."
"I'm not entirely convinced that romance is worth that level of dedication. Besides, doesn't romance have something to do with flowers? I seem to remember hearing that somewhere..."
“How do you always know the exact right thing to say to me?” she asked him slowly. “My whole life… you always have the perfect thing to offer me.”
“Gilly,” he said humbly, “that’s very reassuring to hear. I myself feel as if I’ve been bumbling from one mistake to another. But for what’s worth, I try and prepare for you.”
“You prepare for me?” Gilly asked, beginning to smile. “As though I were a test?”
“You’re not like a test, Gilly,” he earnestly explained. “And I would be a poor mate if I hadn’t taken the time given me and learned the best way of supporting your healing. Besides, as Daitoku, I was already very familiar with human injuries and human healing, because of the way they affect the Kagamihara.”
“So, all along, you’ve been planning in advance for… me?”
“It is like a game of Shogi,” Tenshio explained, his eyes lighting up. “I can plot out the course far in advance, by calculating what pieces you have in your possession and where they lie on the board. Usually, this works.
“However, just when I have become complacent, thinking that I have arranged all my pieces exactly as they should be, you frequently drop onto the playing field a piece I had not previously even known existed, and I must rethink my entire strategy.”
“I must be a formidable player, then,” she said, trying not to let her laughter escape.
“Very,” Tenshio replied, his voice serious.
Gilly remembered all those times he had sat amid papers and maps, a cup of tea or sake by his elbow, lost in research. He had been plotting out the best course for them to take. She realized then that he had never stopped; he had been doing that all her life.
When she couldn’t walk on her own, he had carried her. When she had gained a little strength, he had walked beside her. When she didn’t know what to say, he had taught her the words. When she was imprisoned in a cage of her own making, he had shown her how to dismantle it from the inside out.
Gilly felt a rush of love for him such as she had never felt before. For a moment, she felt it so acutely that she was frozen in one spot. Then she was released from it; she went swiftly across to Tenshio and threw her arms around him.
“I love you,” she breathed.
“I love you,” he replied, taken by surprise. He enfolded her in his arms and patted her back gently.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Sorry for what?” he asked, bending his head to hers.
“For complaining about childish things, like romance,” she answered passionately.
“You don’t have to apologize, Gilly. If it’s important to you, I can try to provide you with some,” he said earnestly. “But to be honest, I’m not quite sure I know what that is.”
“That doesn’t matter,” Gilly said fiercely. “That’s nothing. I don’t know what it is either. Something like meeting in a tea house where no one knows you and holding hands under the table.”
“We might have some difficulty with that. I don't know any tea houses where we won't immediately be recognized."
"You think it might be difficult for the Daitoku and his living human wife to go incognito, is that what you're saying?" Gilly asked, her eyes dancing. "Maybe we'll have to go all the way back into the Kagamihara."
"I'm not entirely convinced that romance is worth that level of dedication. Besides, doesn't romance have something to do with flowers? I seem to remember hearing that somewhere..."
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
September 7th Excerpt
When Gilly met Tenshio at the convent gate at the end of the next week, it was a bright, chill day and the sun brought out the burnished copper of the fallen leaves that moldered away on the grass. There was the smell of snow in the air.
“Please excuse me, Master Tenshio,” said Aiko in her gay voice, as she bowed to him. “I must go to the village to post a letter; you and Gilly please go ahead.”
“Of course,” said Tenshio pleasantly. “Good afternoon, Gilly. How was your first week back?”
“It was busy, Master Tenshio,” she replied, not quite meeting his eyes. “It seems but a short time now until graduation.”
“I am sure. Time passes quickly.”
“Yes, Master Tenshio, it does.”
Gilly walked along beside him quietly. Over her shoulders, she wore a shawl his mother had given her for her eighteenth birthday. The bright scarlet and cream silk brightened up the dull gray of her dress.
Her spirit was muted and subdued. It was as though she were weighed down by something, some fear or sorrow. It frightened Tenshio, all of a sudden. Ever since he had returned from his last trip to the Kagamihara, it was as though his own, well known Gilly had been lost somewhere.
He looked down at her in concern. “Did something happen at school this week?” he asked.
“Why no, Master Tenshio,” Gilly replied.
“Are you worried about leaving the school that you have known so well?”
“No, Master Tenshio. I’m sad, of course, to leave. But everything must come to an end.”
He stopped in the path and took her elbow in his hand.
“Gilly,” said Tenshio quietly. “Gilly, please tell me what is troubling you.”
Gilly’s heart was pounding in her chest, and for a moment, she could not speak at all. “I’m very sorry to have worried you, Master Tenshio,” she said in a low voice. “I assure you, I am well.”
Tenshio looked at her in disbelief, his golden eyes narrowing for a moment, almost in anger. “Gilly, to whom do you think you are speaking?” he asked crisply. “I can see with perfect clarity that you are not well.”
“I am very sorry to have troubled you,” Gilly repeated. “Please don’t concern yourself with me. I’m simply in a poor mood. It will pass.”
He looked at her face in bewilderment. “Gilly, we must have walked this path together a hundred times, but lately I feel as though I am walking beside a stranger. Why won't you talk to me? Where have you gone? I miss your company.”
“Master Tenshio, I’m right here,” she said in surprise.
“No. No, you’re not,” he replied, taking her by the elbows. “Frankly, I’d rather you yelled at me than say one more pleasant phrase. Now, tell me what happened.”
Gilly clasped her hands together tightly; she took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Master Tenshio,” she breathed.
“Sorry for what?” he asked, in growing disquiet, when she did not speak further.
“I am very sorry that it was your fate to be sealed to me by the Sacred Realm,” she whispered.
Tenshio’s eyes went wide in dismay. “What are you saying, Gilly?” he asked, his voice deepened.
“You didn’t have a chance to choose the person you will spend your life with. You must take me out of obedience to the Sacred Realm, and I’m not a fit mate for you. You should have been given a graceful, lovely daemon girl with poise and beauty, but I’m… marred and… spoiled…”
“Stop,” said Tenshio, his voice rough and deep. “Stop it at once; stop saying those things.”
“But you know that it’s true,” Gilly insisted, with perfect sincerity. “I know that you do not love me, not as a woman. I know you’ll be kind to me and we’ll have a good life together. I will do my very best for you. I just wish that you could have chosen someone that you truly loved.”
“Please excuse me, Master Tenshio,” said Aiko in her gay voice, as she bowed to him. “I must go to the village to post a letter; you and Gilly please go ahead.”
“Of course,” said Tenshio pleasantly. “Good afternoon, Gilly. How was your first week back?”
“It was busy, Master Tenshio,” she replied, not quite meeting his eyes. “It seems but a short time now until graduation.”
“I am sure. Time passes quickly.”
“Yes, Master Tenshio, it does.”
Gilly walked along beside him quietly. Over her shoulders, she wore a shawl his mother had given her for her eighteenth birthday. The bright scarlet and cream silk brightened up the dull gray of her dress.
Her spirit was muted and subdued. It was as though she were weighed down by something, some fear or sorrow. It frightened Tenshio, all of a sudden. Ever since he had returned from his last trip to the Kagamihara, it was as though his own, well known Gilly had been lost somewhere.
He looked down at her in concern. “Did something happen at school this week?” he asked.
“Why no, Master Tenshio,” Gilly replied.
“Are you worried about leaving the school that you have known so well?”
“No, Master Tenshio. I’m sad, of course, to leave. But everything must come to an end.”
He stopped in the path and took her elbow in his hand.
“Gilly,” said Tenshio quietly. “Gilly, please tell me what is troubling you.”
Gilly’s heart was pounding in her chest, and for a moment, she could not speak at all. “I’m very sorry to have worried you, Master Tenshio,” she said in a low voice. “I assure you, I am well.”
Tenshio looked at her in disbelief, his golden eyes narrowing for a moment, almost in anger. “Gilly, to whom do you think you are speaking?” he asked crisply. “I can see with perfect clarity that you are not well.”
“I am very sorry to have troubled you,” Gilly repeated. “Please don’t concern yourself with me. I’m simply in a poor mood. It will pass.”
He looked at her face in bewilderment. “Gilly, we must have walked this path together a hundred times, but lately I feel as though I am walking beside a stranger. Why won't you talk to me? Where have you gone? I miss your company.”
“Master Tenshio, I’m right here,” she said in surprise.
“No. No, you’re not,” he replied, taking her by the elbows. “Frankly, I’d rather you yelled at me than say one more pleasant phrase. Now, tell me what happened.”
Gilly clasped her hands together tightly; she took a deep breath. “I’m so sorry, Master Tenshio,” she breathed.
“Sorry for what?” he asked, in growing disquiet, when she did not speak further.
“I am very sorry that it was your fate to be sealed to me by the Sacred Realm,” she whispered.
Tenshio’s eyes went wide in dismay. “What are you saying, Gilly?” he asked, his voice deepened.
“You didn’t have a chance to choose the person you will spend your life with. You must take me out of obedience to the Sacred Realm, and I’m not a fit mate for you. You should have been given a graceful, lovely daemon girl with poise and beauty, but I’m… marred and… spoiled…”
“Stop,” said Tenshio, his voice rough and deep. “Stop it at once; stop saying those things.”
“But you know that it’s true,” Gilly insisted, with perfect sincerity. “I know that you do not love me, not as a woman. I know you’ll be kind to me and we’ll have a good life together. I will do my very best for you. I just wish that you could have chosen someone that you truly loved.”
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
September 6th Excerpt
They began walking toward home, Gilly swinging the closed umbrella along beside her. The drops of water felt good on her face, refreshing and cold. She thought it was a beautiful day after all and wondered what was for dinner.
“How is your new school year? I was sorry to miss your first day of school,” Tenshio asked, after a bit.
“Your father was there.”
“Are you enjoying being a senior?”
“Well, yes, but…” Gilly paused, her mind racing. She’d been wondering about this for some time, but had been too afraid of the answer to ask it. "We never discussed where I would take my two year apprenticeship,” she reminded him, at last.
“Did you have some place in mind?”
“Did you?” She looked up at him, an unspoken hope in her eyes.
“I had been considering Minami City,” he said calmly. “I heard from Master Yuudai that Miss Aiko will be apprenticing herself there. I thought you might like to be near her.”
“Miniami City?” Gilly said, horrified. “That far away?”
“It’s not that far,” Tenshio objected. “I thought you would like to go there. You’ve visited there often, and are close to Aiko’s family.”
“Do you want me to go there?” she asked.
“That choice is yours to make,” he said, looking down at her puzzlement. “If you did, it would be perfectly suitable.”
Her heart sunk at this second disappointment. “Well, if you think it would be the most suitable thing,” she said, discouraged.
“Gilly, if you had some other plan in mind, you can certainly pursue that,” Tenshio said, wondering why she looked so cast down. “Please tell me, if you do.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll just go to Minami city.”
“Gillian,” said Tenshio, standing still on the path. They stood at the out edge of his father’s garden, looking bedraggled by the rain and the ravages of autumn. “It does matter, if you wish to do something else. Did you have some other plan in mind?”
“No!” Gilly said firmly. “I didn’t.”
He looked at her suspiciously, knowing that she was hiding something from him. However, she was clearly unwilling to talk to him about it. He felt a strange reluctance to pry, as he looked down at her. She wasn’t a child anymore; she had a right to keep her own counsel.
“There is no need to decide until winter break,” Tenshio said at last. “So we will not make any concrete plans until then.”
“Very well, Master Tenshio,” she murmured.
He looked at her, his expression concerned. “Do you remember what I said to you when I returned from the Ishii no Torii?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” Gilly said in amazement, her heart beginning to pound.
“The Eiheisama did not tell me exactly what role you would have to play in the fate of the Spirit Realm, only that it would be vital. I can’t help but think, Gilly, with all this disturbance, that your role might come sooner rather than later.”
“Oh,” breathed Gilly, trying to manage her disappointment. That was not exactly the part of that conversation that she remembered best.
“I wish I knew more, so that I could better prepare you,” Tenshio said, half to himself. He looked at her; her face looked a little pale to him. “Please don’t worry, Gilly,” he said kindly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “It is in the hands of the Sacred Realm.”
“Yes, Master Tenshio,” Gilly said softly, her head down.
“How is your new school year? I was sorry to miss your first day of school,” Tenshio asked, after a bit.
“Your father was there.”
“Are you enjoying being a senior?”
“Well, yes, but…” Gilly paused, her mind racing. She’d been wondering about this for some time, but had been too afraid of the answer to ask it. "We never discussed where I would take my two year apprenticeship,” she reminded him, at last.
“Did you have some place in mind?”
“Did you?” She looked up at him, an unspoken hope in her eyes.
“I had been considering Minami City,” he said calmly. “I heard from Master Yuudai that Miss Aiko will be apprenticing herself there. I thought you might like to be near her.”
“Miniami City?” Gilly said, horrified. “That far away?”
“It’s not that far,” Tenshio objected. “I thought you would like to go there. You’ve visited there often, and are close to Aiko’s family.”
“Do you want me to go there?” she asked.
“That choice is yours to make,” he said, looking down at her puzzlement. “If you did, it would be perfectly suitable.”
Her heart sunk at this second disappointment. “Well, if you think it would be the most suitable thing,” she said, discouraged.
“Gilly, if you had some other plan in mind, you can certainly pursue that,” Tenshio said, wondering why she looked so cast down. “Please tell me, if you do.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll just go to Minami city.”
“Gillian,” said Tenshio, standing still on the path. They stood at the out edge of his father’s garden, looking bedraggled by the rain and the ravages of autumn. “It does matter, if you wish to do something else. Did you have some other plan in mind?”
“No!” Gilly said firmly. “I didn’t.”
He looked at her suspiciously, knowing that she was hiding something from him. However, she was clearly unwilling to talk to him about it. He felt a strange reluctance to pry, as he looked down at her. She wasn’t a child anymore; she had a right to keep her own counsel.
“There is no need to decide until winter break,” Tenshio said at last. “So we will not make any concrete plans until then.”
“Very well, Master Tenshio,” she murmured.
He looked at her, his expression concerned. “Do you remember what I said to you when I returned from the Ishii no Torii?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” Gilly said in amazement, her heart beginning to pound.
“The Eiheisama did not tell me exactly what role you would have to play in the fate of the Spirit Realm, only that it would be vital. I can’t help but think, Gilly, with all this disturbance, that your role might come sooner rather than later.”
“Oh,” breathed Gilly, trying to manage her disappointment. That was not exactly the part of that conversation that she remembered best.
“I wish I knew more, so that I could better prepare you,” Tenshio said, half to himself. He looked at her; her face looked a little pale to him. “Please don’t worry, Gilly,” he said kindly, putting his hand on her shoulder. “It is in the hands of the Sacred Realm.”
“Yes, Master Tenshio,” Gilly said softly, her head down.
Monday, September 5, 2011
September 5th
Ha! I figured out how to download videos onto my blog. Here's one example of what I listen to when I'm sitting for hours in front of the computer.
I listen to a great deal of Kitaro. Naturally. The reason why will become obvious when you hear it. I am highly indebted to him for the entire third section of my story. (This is the short version of this song.)
His music has many other moods, but they almost all have this quality of movement. Almost as soon as I hear his stuff, I'm hunched over the keyboard, muttering to myself, "Let's do this!" And then the flurry of typing overtakes the dulcet tones of his music and I come to myself five hours later, and remember that I was supposed to mail the rent check.
I listen to a great deal of Kitaro. Naturally. The reason why will become obvious when you hear it. I am highly indebted to him for the entire third section of my story. (This is the short version of this song.)
Sunday, September 4, 2011
September 4th
I was searching through my discard file last night, trying to find a little scrap of description I wanted to use, and ended up reading the whole darn thing.
Tenshio used to be a very different character; he used to be much more... feral, I think would be the word. That was back when it was going to be a very different story.
I kind of like him the original way. It's too bad that it didn't work. Those scenes have this raw, textural quality that's fascinating and darker than most of what I write.
I've started in on the end scenes of the story. Now that I've gotten there, I think I was wrong about Tenshio being broken; I think he will be.
That certainly wasn't my intent- he's not the main character, he's a supporting character. He's not meant to have a massive crisis. But he turns out to be playing a much larger role in everything than what I had first thought. He's almost more human than Gilly is, and even my father is moved by him.
All he must do is act his part through the series of events that my plot dictates for him. Now I think that in the course of doing this, it will end up breaking his faith. He's too much invested.
I think though, in light of this, I must give him some greater part to play than just pacing the beach. I'm thinking of having Katashi survive the blast and return to kill the stupid human girl that just ruined all his plans. That will give Tenshio some outlet for his frustration and rage.
After all, he's not really a priest at all; not like an Anglican priest. He's an expert in the spiritual martial arts who's been scripted into the service of the Sacred Realm. He may be the epitome of self discipline, but that just makes him all the more lethal, and he may be unfailingly formal, but those are just good manners.
It's only right that I give the poor guy the chance to kill his enemy. I think it's a more well rounded and satisfying ending, as it allows both my characters to face and finish off their enemies.
Tenshio used to be a very different character; he used to be much more... feral, I think would be the word. That was back when it was going to be a very different story.
I kind of like him the original way. It's too bad that it didn't work. Those scenes have this raw, textural quality that's fascinating and darker than most of what I write.
I've started in on the end scenes of the story. Now that I've gotten there, I think I was wrong about Tenshio being broken; I think he will be.
That certainly wasn't my intent- he's not the main character, he's a supporting character. He's not meant to have a massive crisis. But he turns out to be playing a much larger role in everything than what I had first thought. He's almost more human than Gilly is, and even my father is moved by him.
All he must do is act his part through the series of events that my plot dictates for him. Now I think that in the course of doing this, it will end up breaking his faith. He's too much invested.
I think though, in light of this, I must give him some greater part to play than just pacing the beach. I'm thinking of having Katashi survive the blast and return to kill the stupid human girl that just ruined all his plans. That will give Tenshio some outlet for his frustration and rage.
After all, he's not really a priest at all; not like an Anglican priest. He's an expert in the spiritual martial arts who's been scripted into the service of the Sacred Realm. He may be the epitome of self discipline, but that just makes him all the more lethal, and he may be unfailingly formal, but those are just good manners.
It's only right that I give the poor guy the chance to kill his enemy. I think it's a more well rounded and satisfying ending, as it allows both my characters to face and finish off their enemies.
Friday, September 2, 2011
September 2nd
There was a little four month old boy sitting calmly on my couch last night. His father left him in his car seat there while the rest of his family went swimming.
This boy seemed to find me very amusing. I couldn't figure out what it was. Was it my glasses? My face? Whatever it was, he kept chuckling and grinning and grabbing at his bare toes.
I explained to him very earnestly that I did not know much about babies, and so if he found communicating with me a frustrating business, I understood.
Keith graduated yesterday. I didn't go, because not only the class, but the graduation was, as my husband would say, all jacked up, and he just wanted to get it over with.
He called me and said one of his classmates had a flight that didn't leave until the next day and had no car and nothing to do and could he spend the night at the house?
That was fine, but you know how it goes. One guest quickly became six. Three of them were children. These children were like little elves; they moved so quickly and spoke so softly that sometimes I thought I only imagined them.
Their mother wore no make up and had her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. I shook her hand while holding a dripping wooden spoon in the air; I had been making mac n' cheese. Basically I was cooking whatever I had left in my pantry.
After dinner, the children mysteriously decided that I was an interesting person, and so frequently waylaid me with important information, such as the loss of a tooth, or a somersault.
The little girl kept coming into the kitchen with the Barbies from my box of stuff and requesting their names from me.
When I told her they could be anything she wanted them to be, the idea seemed to hold too much of a vastness for her; her eyes grew wide. She looked at me in wonder and slipped away.
Shortly thereafer, she returned to inquire again, with a hopeful look. I took pity on her and named one "Brenda" and the other "Karen." Nice, solid names. Delighted, she offered them to me again, so I could repeat the names. Whispering the names to herself, she scampered off to play with them.
After that, she could be found drifting around the house, dolls in hand, whispering intently to herself. She was completely lost in her own world, and would sometimes bump up against things in surprise, like the edge of the counter, or my knees. I couldn't understand what she was saying, but it sounded very serious.
Her older brother came into the kitchen and asked me if I had a box of boy toys, like the box of girl toys his sister had. Sadly, I had to explain to him that I did not, as those toys originated from my own childhood as a little girl.
He took it well; he returned with grim determination to the Barbie box, knowing there was nothing else for it.
Their mother came and found me in the kitchen as well. When I told her she had delightful children, she then began a conversation that did not end until the family left. My only part in this conversation was to make the corresponding small sounds and remarks that indicated I was still alert and listening.
This was marvelous. I am very good at listening. Never once did I have to worry about picking up my end of the conversation. It was quite relaxing.
When they left, the little girl drifted over to me and put her fingers lightly on my knees. She said nothing, she just looked at me. I returned her solemn gaze.
"It was very nice to meet you," I told her. Then she smiled; her smile began in her eyes and spread slowly out over the rest of her face. She ducked her head and disappeared.
Sometimes I forget that one of the first things I knew with certainty about myself, was that I am good with children. That used to be the best thing about me, that certainty. Now, it seems the older I get, continuing infertile, that knowledge gets shakier and harder to believe.
I begin to doubt all my instincts. Surely they must be all wrong, if I'm not being given my own children.
I keep thinking about how it will feel when we have adopted, and have brought one or two children into the house, and they are our own children that are drifting around, discovering the parameters of their own world. But I can't really imagine it, because each time I try, my heart threatens to crack from sheer longing.
Keith and the remaining guest stayed up until 3am, celebrating the end of class with gusto. My staff sergeant is still suffering from the effects of this revelry. He is prostrate on the couch and will probably remain there until much later in the day.
I myself do not feel so well; the sounds of their movie kept me awake until about 1 am, and then I was woken again at 3 am when Keith came to bed and then woke again at 5 am in order to drive our guest to the airport.
I think it safe to say that tonight will be an early night for the Indiana household.
This boy seemed to find me very amusing. I couldn't figure out what it was. Was it my glasses? My face? Whatever it was, he kept chuckling and grinning and grabbing at his bare toes.
I explained to him very earnestly that I did not know much about babies, and so if he found communicating with me a frustrating business, I understood.
Keith graduated yesterday. I didn't go, because not only the class, but the graduation was, as my husband would say, all jacked up, and he just wanted to get it over with.
He called me and said one of his classmates had a flight that didn't leave until the next day and had no car and nothing to do and could he spend the night at the house?
That was fine, but you know how it goes. One guest quickly became six. Three of them were children. These children were like little elves; they moved so quickly and spoke so softly that sometimes I thought I only imagined them.
Their mother wore no make up and had her long hair pulled back in a ponytail. I shook her hand while holding a dripping wooden spoon in the air; I had been making mac n' cheese. Basically I was cooking whatever I had left in my pantry.
After dinner, the children mysteriously decided that I was an interesting person, and so frequently waylaid me with important information, such as the loss of a tooth, or a somersault.
The little girl kept coming into the kitchen with the Barbies from my box of stuff and requesting their names from me.
When I told her they could be anything she wanted them to be, the idea seemed to hold too much of a vastness for her; her eyes grew wide. She looked at me in wonder and slipped away.
Shortly thereafer, she returned to inquire again, with a hopeful look. I took pity on her and named one "Brenda" and the other "Karen." Nice, solid names. Delighted, she offered them to me again, so I could repeat the names. Whispering the names to herself, she scampered off to play with them.
After that, she could be found drifting around the house, dolls in hand, whispering intently to herself. She was completely lost in her own world, and would sometimes bump up against things in surprise, like the edge of the counter, or my knees. I couldn't understand what she was saying, but it sounded very serious.
Her older brother came into the kitchen and asked me if I had a box of boy toys, like the box of girl toys his sister had. Sadly, I had to explain to him that I did not, as those toys originated from my own childhood as a little girl.
He took it well; he returned with grim determination to the Barbie box, knowing there was nothing else for it.
Their mother came and found me in the kitchen as well. When I told her she had delightful children, she then began a conversation that did not end until the family left. My only part in this conversation was to make the corresponding small sounds and remarks that indicated I was still alert and listening.
This was marvelous. I am very good at listening. Never once did I have to worry about picking up my end of the conversation. It was quite relaxing.
When they left, the little girl drifted over to me and put her fingers lightly on my knees. She said nothing, she just looked at me. I returned her solemn gaze.
"It was very nice to meet you," I told her. Then she smiled; her smile began in her eyes and spread slowly out over the rest of her face. She ducked her head and disappeared.
Sometimes I forget that one of the first things I knew with certainty about myself, was that I am good with children. That used to be the best thing about me, that certainty. Now, it seems the older I get, continuing infertile, that knowledge gets shakier and harder to believe.
I begin to doubt all my instincts. Surely they must be all wrong, if I'm not being given my own children.
I keep thinking about how it will feel when we have adopted, and have brought one or two children into the house, and they are our own children that are drifting around, discovering the parameters of their own world. But I can't really imagine it, because each time I try, my heart threatens to crack from sheer longing.
Keith and the remaining guest stayed up until 3am, celebrating the end of class with gusto. My staff sergeant is still suffering from the effects of this revelry. He is prostrate on the couch and will probably remain there until much later in the day.
I myself do not feel so well; the sounds of their movie kept me awake until about 1 am, and then I was woken again at 3 am when Keith came to bed and then woke again at 5 am in order to drive our guest to the airport.
I think it safe to say that tonight will be an early night for the Indiana household.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
September 1st
Dad shared my last post on facebook (with my permission), so now a lot of people can see just how crazy I really am! *grin*
Oh lord. I'm making myself talk more on facebook. It's one thing to be silent because one chooses to- it's another to do so out of fear. That's not freedom.
Last night I dreamed there were children playing on a woodpile. As I watched, a log on top fell down onto the little boy.
His father ambled over, but instead of picking up that log, or moving the other children who were still on the pile, he began randomly shifting the logs here and there.
As he did, the other children started to fall down into the woodpile, as gaps opened up and then were closed again by the slipping, rolling logs.
It happened all so quickly, with this kind of silent horror that just got worse and worse. Eventually, all I could see of the children were pieces of their clothing or a hand or a foot between the logs.
The little girl that I had loved the best had fallen all the way to the bottom of the pile and the entire weight of the rest of the logs was crushing her.
Then the dream changed, and I saw with relief that all the children were alive. They were all physically crippled in some way. They were subdued and quiet and tramatized.
I continue to wonder, am I dreaming about my hopes for children, or about my writing?
Oh lord. I'm making myself talk more on facebook. It's one thing to be silent because one chooses to- it's another to do so out of fear. That's not freedom.
Last night I dreamed there were children playing on a woodpile. As I watched, a log on top fell down onto the little boy.
His father ambled over, but instead of picking up that log, or moving the other children who were still on the pile, he began randomly shifting the logs here and there.
As he did, the other children started to fall down into the woodpile, as gaps opened up and then were closed again by the slipping, rolling logs.
It happened all so quickly, with this kind of silent horror that just got worse and worse. Eventually, all I could see of the children were pieces of their clothing or a hand or a foot between the logs.
The little girl that I had loved the best had fallen all the way to the bottom of the pile and the entire weight of the rest of the logs was crushing her.
Then the dream changed, and I saw with relief that all the children were alive. They were all physically crippled in some way. They were subdued and quiet and tramatized.
I continue to wonder, am I dreaming about my hopes for children, or about my writing?
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