Living More

Since uprooting and traveling across half the country from my beloved Oklahoma to the unknown coast (which I still have not gone to see the ocean; I should get on that), starting my first ever paying full time job, and slowly unpacking the numerous boxes in my room...I feel like I do a lot more living.

I come home tired and so ready to be home. But when I think of all that's happened in the day, and then what I can still do after dinner (tea party with my niece, perhaps, or emptying several more boxes and tidying my fantastic room, or cleaning, or a Doctor Who marathon to name a few possibilities), the feeling is a not-quite-formed word of a good thing.

I think it could be... a little less defined by Other.

Obviously some days are more difficult, and sometimes I wonder why on earth I'm on the path I've chosen. At least those are good for reality checks. Yes, I am where I want to be. No, it's not perfect, but...

I'm becoming more myself.

That's what I needed.

I'm exploring. And that's something I've wanted to do for years and years, even before I could imagine having the determination and the guts to actually, positively, this is no longer in my imagination only step out. I'm exploring the world around me, including my new city. I'm exploring the friendships I have, and getting to know new people. I'm exploring who I am. And I believe that this will lead me toward exploring who God is.

But that is a step for another time. For now, this babe out of the womb just needs to know how far her fingers stretch.

I feel more actively involved in life. I don't entirely like being gone from the house for such a long stretch of the day, nor having limited time and energy to pursue my other interests and desires (sigh, writing fiction). But I do like trying on this purpose, the service I provide.

I meet a lot of people every day. People are different. Each one. They are Not Me. And I am Other Than Them. As it should be. And this is teaching me.

And I feel involved in life.

Isn't that a good thing?

One of Many

I look forward to discovering the rest.

I grew up dreaming of how I would some day set up my own house, dreaming of qualities I wanted in my family, things I wanted us to do together, how our evenings might look. I dreamed of music in the home. I dreamed that we would have a piano, that my husband would play an instrument, that hopefully our children would enjoy music so that they also played instruments of their choice. I wanted variety. I hoped for family gatherings of singing, playing music, and warm drinks.

For so long I have put my thoughts toward what my someday could be and what I wanted it to be that I missed something.

Sunday night, I realized I have what I've dreamed for, longed for, hoped for.

Sunday night's sunset was gorgeous. As I drove to my good friends' house, looking at that sunset, I felt the love of God. And it brought tears to my eyes. I hope I feel like that every time I contemplate how deep and strong and powerful His love is.

When I arrived at the house, I partook of a light meal and much joy with dear friends. I went caroling with dear friends, old friends refound, new friends. Once we arrived back at the house to warm up with some cider and more songs around a piano, I finally realized...this is the home I've been longing for. It's one part anyway.

Faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more. Just like in the song. It's been another year since the last caroling party, and it took me until last night to realize that what I've been longing for isn't, for now at least, to be found in my own little property with four walls and a roof. I'm not a homeowner; I'm not married; I don't have kids. But these aren't reasons for me to not have this home and family that I've yearned for. I have it now.

Sunday night, I realized yet one more way in which God has given me a wonderful gift. I had thought I would have to wait for an unknown, painfully long time before I could have the house filled with loved ones and song that I've dreamed of. But God's gift is that I don't have to wait. I simply have to see what He has put before me.

photo used with permission

And my heart has found a home.

One of many.

I look forward to discovering the rest.

 

The War of Art - A Compass

Ah hah.

Like a magnetized needle floating on a surface of oil, Resistance will unfailingly point to true North--meaning that calling or action it most wants to stop us from doing.

We can use this. We can use it as a compass. We can navigate by Resistance, letting it guide us to that calling or action that we must follow before all others.

Rule of thumb: The more important a call or action is to our soul's evolution, the more Resistance we will feel toward pursuing it.

            The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, page 12

This is a handy book when I need a boost or reminder in those times when the writing I want to do or another goal I dream of seems nigh on slipping through my fingers (or more accurately, like I'll never sit down to work on it). Filled with brief, sweet, and poignant explanations and wisdom regarding the artist's life. So far I'm in Book 1, all about Resistance, my enemy and apparently my guide.

Sensei did tell me to "Persevere." Here it seems is another tool toward that.

Persevere.

Polly want...more?

You've seen the trick with teaching a parrot the word "four", right?

What's twelve divided by three?
"Four."
What's "quatro" mean?
"Four."
What do golf players yell?
"Fore."

If I ever get a parrot, I'm going to teach it the word "more".

Was that a good snack?
"More!"
How many shows should we watch?
"More!"
How many words should I write?

What I Do is This

Someone explain to me how one person saying I'm courageous + painting a room for an old friend + non-fluffy conversation with that old friend + Inheritance by Christopher Paolini + a hot shower can = knowing what I do (and therefore, in part, who I am).

Seriously. Can you explain that?


Maybe I can try. I'm going to start with courage.

I recently asked my friends, via Facebook, what do they think when they think of me? I got a little variety in the responses. But one in particular, the one that began with "full of courage" (and a few other things) took me by surprise. I thought to myself, What is she talking about? She doesn't know me very well, and she thinks I'm courageous?

It was a pretty insightful response for someone whom I hardly ever see and talk to, so I had to take it seriously. Maybe she knows me better than I think she does. Maybe she's right that I am courageous.

Now, the easy answer is a brush-off (whether sincere or false modesty--one of the things my friend and I talked about while painting). And another easy answer is to say, "But of course." I don't wish to go for the easy this time. Most of the time I do not think I'm courageous at all; I'm pretty chicken...and selfish. But there are a few times where I can recognize that I have been in a situation that took courage and I was able to exercise that courage. But mostly? As a defining characteristic?

I wish I was courageous.

How much bravery does it take to be in my shoes, really? To stay with my parents, fully supported by them, and mix life with writing, chores, doctors, prescription runs, barely keeping up with the dishes (sometimes), dreaming of making my room into a little haven, seeing friends, church, various outings (sometimes brief, sometimes long, sometimes alone, sometimes with Mom)...


I wish I could tell you I was brave enough to write this out. But everything in me is saying not to. It's not a "don't post this" it's a "don't write this." Why? Because I don't want you to know all these details. I don't want to admit my shortcomings. Honestly, I don't want to admit that I live with Mommy and Daddy. And I neither want to project false modesty nor smugness.

::deep breath:: Time to plow through.


I will admit I hate introducing "what I do" when I meet someone new. I let my best friend tell whomever when I can because she can put it in a way that it honestly sounds good. But I think it honestly sounds...well, small, childish perhaps, weak even. What I do is simply this: I write, and I fail at writing; I live with my parents and help my family and particularly my mom at home, and I fail at that too; I spend time with friends and try to grow relationships, and I fail at that as well. I follow Christ, and I fail at that. Everything I do I manage to both do well and to fail at doing well. Positive or negative spinning, either way, this is simply what I do.

When I do try to explain it to people, or mention that I'm not seeking a 9-5 job in order to continue doing what I do, I feel like the uttermost loser in the room. I can't explain it in a way that makes sense to others, I can't even understand why I think my choice is a wise one half the time.

And yet, there I am, painting the wall with a dear old friend and talking about life and anything that comes up, including somehow my writing and lack of income and trying to manage things...and follow my dream, really.

Do I want to support myself and live on my own? Of course I do. But I'm taking a year (1 month down, yikes) to work on my writing. Near the end of the year I will reassess again.


What of Inheritance? Well, in the story, the characters all have a true name, and I was recently reading the part where Eragon tries to and does learn his own. The true name is spoken in the ancient language which has magical properties, and no one can lie when using that tongue. The true name reveals the deepest, most real core being of a character, and with that name one can have complete power and control over the one named.

The true name is not biased. It covers both the good points and the bad. Achievements and shortcomings alike. Personal history, knowledge, and attitude. Anything and everything about a person. It is the fullest answer to the question, "Who am I?"


So, thinking over all these things--courage, painting, the serious conversations, and true names--in the relaxing shower, I realized, what I do is a part of who I am. It's not biased; it just is. I have good qualities and bad. I lack courage (to strike out on my own), and I have courage (to stay where things are not my own, and to imagine that my dream can happen). I am a grown adult, and I live with my parents. I do things, and I fail at them. I keep trying, and I postpone.

It's not exactly pretty. And it's not exactly ugly either. It simply is. It is what I do, a part of who I am. At this point, it's a very large part of who I am.

And, realizing that, I think I can step closer to accepting that. Someday I may even be able to do what I do to it's full advantage.

It's probably not what you do, and it's not who you are. I can be very similar to you, but I will never be you. And you won't ever be me. We simply are who we are. And this is who I am and what I do.


My best friend read this post (trying to help me determine whether or not to post it) and mentioned this verse. I think it fits pretty well.

Not that I have already obtained this or am already perfect, but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Brothers, I do not consider that I have made it my own. But one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the upward call of God in Christ Jesus.  -- Philippians 3:12-14

I don't choose my purpose. I'm given freedom.

Yesterday I held a newborn baby. A tiny person. She is beautiful and precious. Impossibly real. A new heart not yet ready to explore far, but filled with so much potential already that it makes one want to sing. I didn't see her for long, and I held her for less than that (she was hungry, after all, and I haven't got food in me). I'm terribly excited for her and her parents, and I have confidence that they will be just fine. I left as unobtrusively as I could manage to let this beautiful, little, and growing family have peace and time. And on the way home, I cried.

You see, despite my fears of babies (mostly because they're so small, I'm not and tend toward clumsiness, and I don't want to break them or hurt them in any way), there are times I desperately want a child (or more than one) of my own.

I want a small, young, new person to hold and comfort, cuddle and feed, encourage and teach. Someone to whom, down the road, I can say, "Sure, try that slightly dangerous or new and uncertain thing. It'll probably turn out all right." Someone who I can try to help have more courage than I do. And a whole long list of reasons and things I look forward to, should they be granted to me.

And preceding that, I would love to be married. Seriously. There's another list longer than my arm of things I want and hope for wrapped in that.

And these are good things to want, certainly. I'm not likely to stop any second. But I'm also not likely to get married "any day now". And because of that (and a thousand other things, including I've never been career-oriented) I've been down in my heart about my usefulness and my purpose. If I want to raise a person, how is fiction going to help? If I want to marry and partner myself with a man, what use is the obscurity of holing up and pouring my energy into false realms into which no one can truly travel? And if marriage and children are not for me, what is the point of wanting them so deeply? And what is the benefit of my desired and chosen profession anyway?

Those questions are hard to write now, because, for the moment, it's so easy to see how silly they are. But for a couple or so weeks I wrestled with the challenges they brought to mind. The "glut" of fiction and stories haunted me. The longing to do something great and to be a crucial piece in a grand plan that worked for the good of thousands of people made my heart despair that "I could never".

Because, after all, what can one lonely little writer do? Certainly nothing on such a grand and important scale.

But even as I doubted, I knew my doubts were...well, not exactly wrong, but ill-founded. I know that God can do nationally, even globally-scaled works through small people. So, of course my writing could turn out to be something desperately needed. It could turn out that way and I'd never know, or it could turn out that way and I'd be giving my autograph until I wished I'd never become a writer for different reasons.

But that's not even the heart issue. I know God can do huge things with one person if He chooses. I also know He can do "small" yet still highly important things with one person. The fact is, there's not a single person on this earth who doesn't have and fulfill a purpose.

I was struggling with wanting to choose my own purpose, when in reality, it's not my choice. I can choose the purpose of the fictional people I create, but I cannot choose my own. It's not my right. I didn't design myself, nor the people I'm around, nor the world I interact within. No, none of it. Everything I do in a fiction story I did none of for my own life.

It's not mine to question. Oh, sure, I can ask as long as I ask respectfully (how odd would it be if one of my characters were to demand of me that I change him from being a tailor to a taxi driver?), but once asked it's not mine to demand an answer. It is mine to simply accept that God is working and using me in His story as He sees fit. I don't have to know how all the intricacies work. Sure I'd like to. But I'm not my own author. Whoops. I merely play my part, which has importance though I may never know exactly what. I should stay open to the possibility of changes--or growth--of my role at the moment. But that doesn't make who I am, what I love, and what I do now flabbergastingly useless.

I didn't create it, but I have purpose, and really, I can't escape fulfilling a purpose. For God's glory and the good of those who love Him. Which, to put a finger on it, is what I really want.

That doesn't mean I can't choose to do other things, but I'm still unique me no matter what I do and will remain designed for what this unique me is needed. God gave me not only a love of others' stories but also of creating and sharing my own, and though I may sometimes try, I can't run from that. It will always be a part of me. I can grow as a person (please, no taller), expand my skills and knowledge, meet new people, try new things, and generally live life. Actually, I hope to do this. And that will only work to further my God-given purpose. Whether He chooses to reveal it to me at the time, later, or not at all is His call. But I can trust Him to use me for grand things.

It's a mystery. And yet it makes sense.

For now, I think I'll keep writing in re-remembered freedom.

We Love Authors, Do We Not?

Ever been discouraged? Ever think "This is it. This is all there is for me. My life might as well be near its end."?

Me too.

Recently I was talking to my students about the two doors of story (for more on the two doors, read James Scott Bell's Plot and Structure). The first door is The Change that thrusts the character into the story. It's where the story actually begins. Before The Change we simply have introduction...of the main character, of important side characters or villains or love interests—whoever is logically located and important that early in the story, of the setting or world, of the rules of magic or law or ordinariness, and things along those lines. Sometimes the introduction is so brief it is practically a part of The Change. Sometimes there is a lot of setup before The Change.

Sometimes we see the story goal before The Change. But it's often more clearly expressed after The Change. That's when we really understand what the protagonist is trying to achieve or gain. That when the story embarks. It gets underway. It leaves the nest to build its own home. Gandalf marks the door and dwarves show up with a thievery plan. The Ring can no longer stay in the Shire. Bruce Wayne returns to become a symbol for Gotham. Dom Cobb takes one last job so he can return to his children. Echo Sackett arrives in town to collect her inheritance.

That when things get interesting. And complicated.

I was thinking about this, The Change, the first door. And I was thinking about my life. If my life were a story, how far into the tale of events would it be? The end? The introduction? The huge plummet before the resolution? Somewhere else entirely?

If I were writing a character based on myself—an early twenty-someone, aspiring but distracted writer, trying to help take care of her family though she is neither a wife nor mother, waiting for something to turn for the better but unsure if it will because many of her dreams have been crushed or forgotten, who is so confused as to where she is in life that she doesn't know how to navigate anymore—where would I put her in the story?

Actually, I would place her right before The Change, right before the first door where the story starts hopping along. Things would be building and falling into place, and I would set up a large story that she has no idea is about to happen. A grand, life-long adventure that would sweep her off her feet, build her up, break her heart, bring healing and unprecedented joy. She would take some steps that set her in the right direction, and the choices of others would send her on her way.

And I believe that I am a part of a story. A big story. Bigger than I'll ever author. It may not be exactly like I would plan it, but that's okay. That just means it'll be better. And it's far from over.

Did you know that Jesus is described as an author? I've recently been encouraged by Hebrews 6:9-12, 10:35-39, and 11:35-12:2.

Therefore we also, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us lay aside every weight, and the sin which so easily ensnares us, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us, looking unto Jesus, the author and finisher of our faith, who for the joy that was set before Him endured the cross, despising the shame, and has sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.

Hebrews 12:1-2. (NKJ)

If we enjoy a story and think it's worthwhile, we like the author. Or, even if we don't like the author, we at least recognize that we like what they created.

God is The Author, and real life is His story. If I would care enough about a fictional person to give her something good and use her to tell a compelling story, how much more will my Father orchestrate my life to be and to receive blessings that point back to how good of an author He is?

Boggart

In case you haven't read the Harry Potter books (I believe it's introduced in book three, the same year that Lupin enters the story), a boggart is a creature that takes the form of the thing it thinks will frighten you most. And the crafty devil is highly intuitive.

For a long time I've had a hard time putting my finger on what my boggart would be. It's not that I don't have fears (just put a spider in front of me and see if I jump...or avoid it as long as possible, as I've done with the dead crispy one in the light socket above me [fluorescent light inset fixture] instead of cleaning it out and replacing the light bulb). But things like spiders and creepy bugs aren't my worst fears.

Today I was able to put a name to what my worst fear is. And I realized, I've already faced it several times, leaving the encounter scarred but whole. Also, a boggart might have a hard time taking a precise form of my fear, as it is not so much of an object or person as it is a concept.

So, what is it? Well, I'll tell you.
My worst fear is rejection.

It can take scads of forms, and I've seen it several times, some more subtle than others. Before I remembered I'd already faced and fought it for years, and when necessary moved on, it was the thing preventing me from taking actions that would allow me to move forward in the adventure that is life and discover what's next. Why risk rejection when I can simply avoid any possibility of it by standing still (yes, that dead spider is still above me, but if I don't look up....)?

But I've had some pretty tough to take rejections and have been able to learn, heal, and move on from them. Why should I fear what I've already handled? I know what it's like. Of course I don't enjoy it, but I know from experience that I can work though it and move on. So I should.

So, I will, and I'll laugh at that silly boggart until it explodes.

Okay, now I've got to ask: What's your boggart?

Absentminded Woolgathering

I watch and I wait and I try to hold fast. I am a shieldmaiden of the shelter, defender of the home, but not an adventurer or soldier on mission. My assignment is wait, watch, hope.

Essentially, this fellow said it perfectly. I have thoughts like that at times; I often wish for such pivotal life moments. But they don’t always happen the way they’re expected. Sometimes I have a sweet thought of a romantic moment, and suddenly I’m disappointed because I realize it probably won’t happen that way. I’ve “jinxed it,” or rather, God’s plan is always better than mine if mine is other than His, and often He chooses to surprise, so I don’t imagine that my daydreams becoming reality will be His primary method. Sometimes my imaginings are creative, but I have to remember He is more creative than I.

I am a shieldmaiden, so I watch. But when the meeting comes, I will likely be caught off guard, unprepared, and at a loss for words. My first defense is silence. My second, quiet reasoning. It may be agonizing, wishing that I could act, that I could speak, but it will be perfect. It may be shy and sweet, but it will be perfect. It may not seem like the life-changing moment it is, but it will be perfect. It may have movie soundtrack music in the background (though that might be awkward), but it will be perfect.

Perfect because I didn’t plan it; He did.

And that is enough for me.

Failure...or Plot Suspense?

It's not hard for a writer to feel like a failure. If he's not writing, then he's obviously not doing what he's supposed to. If he is writing so much that other responsibilities slide by or he doesn't live in the realm of reality between writing sessions, then he's obsessed and clearly off in the head.


Now, obviously there is a middle ground, but finding that balance between writing and living is remarkably tricky.

I, for one, frequently feel like a failure when it comes to writing. I fall in the first category. I spend so much time taking care of people and trying to maintain a semblance of sanity and cleanliness against a losing battle, that when I have time to write or edit...I sleep in. Maybe I'll pick up a book, one that's already been written and published by someone else, not my own. Oh, no. That takes too much emotional commitment and too much energy.

But I work, too. I co-teach and I tutor, and I love my jobs. Twice a week I get to talk about the workings of story and writing to the next generation, and I get paid for it! It's quite the pick-me-up, and I get excited to work on my stories. But, and there's always a but, when I pack up from the "office" I get sidetracked, distracted, and sometimes guilt-tripped into taking care of something that's more important or urgent (like, you know, people are very important).

So, I'm a caregiver more than a writer right now. Not exactly a "success story" of a writer, but still, I can't stop being a writer. It's part of my core (like phoenix tail, not a canary feather or a frog tongue, was in the core of Harry's wand). That means, that I will always come back to writing. Like this blog post right now. I have to go run some errands (after all, I need sweet tea), but I had a thought, and I needed to write it down.

So, what is one to do? While I can't speak from experience about a writer who does nothing but write, I can speak as one who hardly writes. When I'm not writing, when I'm living in the fantastical realm of reality, I'm gaining experience in the world and understanding of the aspects of it. I'm learning about myself and others (in short, people), and I'm learning about how creation works, and even more about Who created it.

And, later, that will be useful to writing and editing stories.

So, even though I'm not writing much, and I don't feel like a success as a writer right now...

Nothing is wasted. It just adds suspense and anticipation.

Just like in a polished work of fiction.

I need to write more

I stopped writing blog entries for a little bit because I think I was putting too much emphasis on it, or perhaps too much "this is how I will be loved"...in other words, it became something of an idol I had to sacrifice to and daren't skip an offering.

Oops.

So, I quit. Quite purposefully, I simply stopped posting, even stopped writing drafts. But, as long as I can come to it with the right attitude, it's not a sin to write for a blog. So, I'm back. :) And happy to be so. I like writing. I really like writing fiction (though that's draining), but I also like writing creative non-fiction. Even article writing is sometimes fun.

And this is my blog. It can be whatever I want.

So. Let's resume, shall we?

Behind the Goal

A story begins with two things.  It needs four or six things (depending on how you like to count).
1) A protagonist,
2) an antagonist (who can be a villian),
3) directly conflicting goals between the two characters,
4) and motivation for them both.
Here's why.

I recently wrote a short story that went through a lot of revamping and rethinking before I got very far. My main character, Valerie, started out as a bounty hunter almost in a corner, choosing to fight instead of run. But she didn't care if she lived beyond the battle.

Um... No.

That is a weak, inactive protagonist. Not interesting to read (and a pain to write if you want to make the story go anywhere). My flaw was pointed out to me (I'm looking forward to the day I catch on quicker—or just stop making this error), and I rethought.

Okay, so Valerie wasn't who I thought she was. So who was she?

She needed a goal, yes, but she had that. Survival. It just wasn't strong enough. But wait, survival can be a very strong goal. What was missing? Motivation. She needed a reason to want to live. She needed a reason to want to take out the man hunting her.

This was my "Aha" moment. Or, if you prefer.

She needed a motivation behind her goal. That's not something I've heard explained much in my writing classes—at least, not in that wording. But it's one of the most necessary aspects of a protagonist, or any developed character. The why behind the what. And the answer? It had to do with a relationship. Relationships are always on the line in a story, the only question is which one. Then why that one. And, of course, how. Once you answer those questions, you're rolling.

I answered them. I answered the why she needed to survive with two relationships. A boyfriend. And his daughter. (It just became more interesting in your imagination, didn't it?) The answer to why those two relationships and how they're on the line has to do with the antagonist's goal and motivation. See how it all ties together? Before my eyes (...okay, twas all in my planning head) the story was building in strength. I had a goal with motivation for my protagonist and had further developed the direct conflict of goals with my antagonist/villian.

Now the story had heart. There was purpose to Valerie's actions. She had a reason to care enough to pursue her goal, and pursue it she did. Ta da.

So, a story needs...
1) a protagonist
2) with a [strong] goal
3) that's backed up by [deep] motivation,
4) and an antagonist/villian
5) with a [strong] opposing goal
6) that is also backed up by [deep] motivation.
Now you know why.