Writer's Prayer

May I always approach writing with a stillness, a gentle contentment so fragile that it might whoosh away at any moment, carried away by the passion of my characters. May I always remember to laugh and to have them laugh too; to glory in the ridiculous as well as the joyful. May I never forget that what I do is beautiful, that I pull design from the nether, and weave it into something that can be enjoyed. May I always treasure every laugh that is brought by my words, every tear that is wrung from another's eye. May I infuse every letter with yearning, the yearning to be understood, to feel what I am feeling, and to thrust my hand into my reader's chest and pull out a still-beating heart.

May I always appreciate every day that I am alive, because it is another day that I have a chance to make something beautiful.

Cluttered Mind

So I haven't written in a while. In the meantime, the ideas has been taking up space in my mind, stacked in piles that are starting to impinge on one another. They keep getting mixed up, and I know I need to get them out. I've been trying to finish the novel, so I haven't had time to write about them. I'm going to list them down, so I can get back to them when I get a chance. And to give me a little breathing room!

• Why are people attracted to brokenness?
• Why do I find myself inexplicably attracted to characters with an unflinchingly lawful good alignment, even those who have traded any modicum of rationality to be true to that morality? I am reminded of the fate of Rorschach, and I worry that there is no truth in them.
• Why is it that my husband can have a far more practical view of humanity than I, and while I don't feel repulsed by that in him, I feel like my entire existence would cease if I allowed myself to believe the same?
• Why do people want unequal love? Am I the only one who sees that the yearning, pining bullshit that people perceive as love is really nothing of the kind? And if they do realize it's not love, then what is it that people want when they submerge themselves in that fantasy?

Okay, just some food for thought for now. During my writing process, my mind is always going a million miles an hour, analyzing, thinking about not only my characters but the entire world upon which they are based. What things give them resonance, what things give them truth? That's what I'd like to know.

Only in Dreams

Last night I dreamed I was in China again. I was so happy.

To My Sister on Her Birthday

Dear Rylee Jane,

Twelve years ago today you were born. I remember the first time I ever met you, not only because you were purple and squishy and looked like an alien, but also because I had waited for you from the time I was old enough to understand what a sister was. I don't remember who else was there, what Mom looked like, or even where she had you. I just remember looking at your giant forehead and thinking my life would never be the same.

I remember when Mom first brought you home. Sometimes you would wake up crying in the middle of the night, and since I was the lightest sleeper in the house, I would go and get you and put you in bed with me. I slept so lightly because I was terrified of crushing you, but it was like my body wouldn't let me. Every time you moved I woke up and then went back to sleep. And it never bothered me to lose that sleep, because I was just happy you were finally here.

Eventually your face took on a normal shape and you morphed into the cutest thing I or anyone else had ever seen. There was really no chance of you not growing up spoiled, being as cute as you were. I know that Matt and I did not stand a chance. Since the time you were born, we were all yours. We still are, and I think at twelve wise years old, you know it. You have always known more than a child should know. You are definitely an old soul. An devious old soul, but an old soul nonetheless.

Rylee Jane, you are everything that I have ever wanted to be. You are effortlessly beautiful, you are good at everything you try to do. You have Matt's graceful athleticism, my ability to laugh at myself, and Mom's compassion. You are bold and courageous and outspoken and righteous. Sometimes I think of the world you are coming into and I am a little afraid-- for them. You are going to take this place by storm, and anyone who gets in your way should beware.

I  just wanted you to know that you are loved more than any little sister could ever be. When I think of you it makes me want to be an amazing person, a role model you can look up to and be proud of. I want to forge a path for you in this world that makes you believe that you can do anything. I want you to believe in magic and miracles and beauty. I want to make this place something that you will love. And I want you to be happy.

I know that you will be, because you are much too smart to let anyone get in the way of being who you are. You're an exceedingly brave girl, and that's why you are a perfect storybook heroine as well. I know that when the rest of the world meets you through my book, they will love you just as much as I do.

Dear Rylee, I hope you have a good birthday today. I hope you know you are loved and that you have people that think about you all the time. If you ever need anything, all you have to do is call. And if anyone ever hurts you, they better run and hide. Because I'm not sure who they should fear more-- the small army of family ready to destroy them, or the wrath of you.

I love you little sister! Happy birthday!

Your older sister.


9.9.10

Lost Time

Is there anything more frustrating than putting hours of work into writing and then losing it? I don't think so. And I just lost a week.


So so so fucking pissed.

My Brain

is full of ambient music and underwater breathing. It is swimming and searching and curling and unfurling. It is lifting and soaring as drops of water curve downward and splash in an ocean of sparkling jade. It is surrounded by wind as I am lifted inexorably upward, supported by graceful hands. If joy were magic it would breathe under my skin. My brain is glistening with broken fragments of memories that are not mine, all drawn into the vortex at the center: the storm where I am suspended by everything that is arrestingly lovely and I reach my hand out to grasp the hurtling pieces as they fall and I see that they are right. They are that which has lived before and that I let live again within me. My brain is magical; the hand that holds this world is magical.

Why I Have a New Tattoo

After my first tattoo, I never thought I would get another one. I've always had strong feelings about them; for me it was impossible to consider getting one that didn't have substantial meaning. My first choice of tattoo was a pair of wings, something I'd always wanted. When I try to explain it to people, I don't always have the courage to tell them the full reason. I have wings and the words "Sola Fide" in between. It means "Only Faith." The reason that I got this message paired with the angel wings was because I wanted to remind myself that I was capable of anything-- capable of the impossible, as long as I had faith in myself.

I have been haunted by dreams of flying all my life, dreams that are more like memories than some afterimages my subconscious baked up. I'm not trying to be new-agey, but I believe my dreams are significant, especially the ones that play like movies and have elements with no bearing on the waking world. My dreams are where I straddle the line between reality and the world from whence my stories come. They are truly special, and my tattoo symbolizes that secret part of me that I will hopefully reveal in time. I never thought I would get another tattoo.

But then my brother came to me and wanted to get something together. I fought with the idea a bit, not knowing if I could find something that encompasses me the way that my wings do. It might be silly to put so much serious thought into something like a tattoo, but I do have to have it forever. I guess it's not too much to ask that it be significant and eternal.

The more I thought about it, the more scared and nervous I became. Would I choose the right thing? Would I regret my decision? How would I do with the pain I vividly remembered being enough to make me never want to go through it again? I was nervous all the way up until the day we were to get them, and then I had a thought.

On the drive on the way there, I thought about my relationship with my brother. Not everyone is lucky to have such a bond with their sibling. This is not to say that my brother and I didn't fight or still don't-- we did and still do. But I think the difference is that I always knew the value of my brother, even when we were children.

I wasn't one of those kids that wished to be an only child. I loved my brother, even when he was small and cute and everyone thought he was cuter than me. I'm sure I had my jealous outbursts, but I honestly adored him as much as everyone else did, so that made it easier to forgive him when we fought. From the very beginning, we were partners in crime; adventurers who walked the same forest paths and children who faced the same nightmares. I always thought it was odd that my friends didn't see their siblings the same way. Didn't they know a brother is like a built-in best friend?

My brother was my playmate, and because he was a boy I had to learn to play baseball and football and wrestling. Who else was he going to practice on? In return, he tolerated my plays and music video directing as patiently as possible. We had a good arrangement, and even though we didn't always see eye to eye, we knew it was better make up and have someone to play with.

But I have to mention, even though it is difficult, that I have always thought the main reason we appreciated each other so much was because of what we did not have. There were times when people in our lives were not dependable, and that's when having him counted the most. I knew that even when my life was chaotic, I could always depend on my brother to be there and to understand. I have said before that there is no one that knows what it is like to be me the way he does. He has seen the same ugliness as me, and has tried like me to find something positive in it.

When we were older we made the pact that we would always support each other to our family, even if we secretly disagreed with each other's choices. This has come in handy more than you could guess. Knowing that there is always someone there to get your back-- that is true love. My relationship with my brother was the first time I really understood what "unconditional" meant.

My brother is a great person, and thinking about how much we have been through convinced me that this tattoo wasn't a bad idea. Every time I see it I feel like it represents what we have gone through together, and what we have won. I like to think that we are successes; that like our mother we exceeded people's expectations.

I don't mind having that idea memorialized in ink forever. Not one bit.

Tubthumping

One of my favorite themes in writing is the redemption of the human race. I have seen this done well and done poorly, and each time it adds to the mulch that I move around in my brain, contemplating as I strive to find meaning in writing and also in my own life. I think everyone has their own search for identity, and for me it has a lot to do with who we are as a species. Terrible acts are committed every day, and I am not exempt from acting out of cowardice or jealousy or any manner of petty emotions. But the thing that gives me hope is the belief that we are reedemable, not through any act of divinity, but through our actions.

It's interesting to bring this subject up because at the outset I sound pretty religious. It makes me feel funny and small because I know that I am not the only one who has asked themselves if we deserve to live, to survive, to subjugate and to save. Obviously we have several religions that cover that ground. And for awhile, I counted myself as part of that machine. I didn't believe in God because I felt a need to feel larger, I believed because I agreed with what he had to say most of the time. But as must happen to anyone who consciously goes about their existence,  I eventually came to an impasse with my beliefs. It may sound egotistical, but the one thing I couldn't agree on (and I suppose I can thank Ayn Rand for this) was that I was born with original sin. You see, the entire premise of Christianity is that we are born sinners. We were evil to begin with and we needed God to redeem us and make us whole again. I just couldn't consent to the idea that I was born evil. I felt tied to Christianity because I felt that I was worth something, but not because someone else gave it to me.

Now I am the worst kind of sinner because I believe that I was born a hero, that I am capable of great heroic deeds, and that no one can give that to me, or take it away. I am redeemed, because my aim is to do great things, to be a positive force, and to love those around me the best way possible. Sometimes, I fail, and sometimes I fail even more. But I was never destined to fail. It was always my choice, and I always have another choice to bring me back to where I want to be.

So now that those beliefs are out of the picture, where do I turn to in order to find answers? I find them everywhere, in little things, tiny segments broken up over the span of space and time, that add up together to one whole. Sections of conversation and interaction, snippets of songs and stories. My belief is quilted together with pieces that shouldn't fit together but somehow do. I believe in myself, and I believe in our species because of a million little things I have witnessed. We are not born good or bad, but we can choose to be great or terrible. I choose greatness.

The whole thing might sound egotistical but I am used to people thinking that about me. I am privy to the same insecurities as the rest of you. The difference is that I believe I was made to fit a mold of greatness, and every day I aspire to change and evolve until I can fit it completely. It's not the model of a God, but of the best possible person I can be. I will work my whole life to fill that space, but I will do it willingly, and joyfully.

And mostly, I believe in us because of what we tell ourselves when we are not paying attention. Lyrics to cheesy songs that are easily dismissed:

I get knocked down, but I get up again. You're never going to keep me down.

Silly I know. But think about it. This is exactly what makes humans so great. We fail. Some of us fail and then we're done. But many of us get up and try again. We try and try and hammer away until we get it right. We've been doing it for thousands of years and we will continue to do it for thousands of years. We fail, but we try again. We'll try again until we get it right. We are all trying for greatness, yearning and searching and reaching for it. It's lovely, and it's why I love being alive.

My Thoughts for the Week

A Dream Deferred

by Langston Hughes




What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?

Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?



Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.



Or does it explode?

Going Through the Stacks

It seems like life is so frenzied right now. I know Gabe feels the same way because he asked me the other day, "Is there a weekend when we don't have something planned?" I know exactly how he feels because ever since we were married, moved house, came down with plague-pneumonia for a month and then were hurtled into the summer holidays (Graduations/Father's Day/ Class Reunions/BBQs/ & Birthday Parties) it seems like every moment is filled. I came up with a plan to have my story finished by the end of July and already I am sooo far behind.

Our house is filled with crap. We moved that kind of way where you just throw things in boxes and then they stay in boxes until you are like, where the hell is that ____? Then there's a mad search in which you come up with several other things that are not what you were looking for, but are nice to have around anyway. Our furniture just arrived and is sitting in neatly stacked boxes waiting to be assembled. And in the meantime, I have my writing, sorted into neat piles, waiting for me to give it the full time and love it needs.

I had a moment when I went through my desk and notes and organized all of my stories into neat little stacks, all lined up on the floor of my bedroom. Besides the obvious fire hazard and lack of real organization, this gave me the delightful experience of seeing that I've come up with not just one but at least four or five different novels over the last ten years, and countless little short stories and essays. It was good to see that even though I have produced nothing, my brain is still working away, creating little storylines that lay dormant until I have the chance to pick them up again.

It doesn't help that I'm now obsessed with Doctor Who. Gabe and I both seperately joke that we have our own TARDIS in our heart-- he because he is constantly producing outrageous heat-energy and me because I am able to travel anywhere in my mind and in my stories. I wish I did have a real TARDIS though-- then there'd be no more spending the majority of my time doing something completely unrelated to my life-goals. When I think about how much of my time, the raw percentage, that is spent in such activities I kind of want to scream. Even though I wish the solution was stepping into the Police Box and being whisked away, really it's going to come down to me. What kind of time can I carve out for myself, steal for myself among the unimportant and mundane? That's what it's going to come down to. Me fighting for every moment in which I can possibly be creating, and instead of spending that time to relax and vegetate (which is what I want to do most of the time).

Here's to fighting for every moment. I wish, Jonathan Coulton, that living every day like it counts was as easy as it sounds.

This is It

And that was it-- the moment when I realized this is all the time I have; the moment when I simply refused to go in the same direction any more. It's time for a change.

I just realized that pain can be good. If it galvanizes me to action, makes me take leaps toward the frightening unknown that I've avoided-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize the importance of trying as hard as I can, without fear, without self-destructive criticism-- then it can be good. If it makes me realize that my life will never change unless I take it upon myself to be the catalyst-- then it can be good.

Pain is good if you use it as a weapon. Not to strike down others, but to make something better of yourself. That's the only thing that's changed. But it's so much. This is it.

Don't live another day unless you make it count
There's someone else that you're supposed to be--
There's something deep inside of you that still wants out
And shame on you if you don't set it free. ~Jonathan Coulton

Time to Fall

There is only one place, which is the place that is mine. It is the Obelisk, which I built with the spray of the stars and the air of the oceans-- is the undefinable, the untouchable, and the transcendant. It is the place I found that cannot be touched by any other, where no troubles may follow, and where I am always alone.

The Obelisk is black. It is its definition, a pillar with a top like an beacon pulling fragments of reality down to its base. It is slightly taller than myself, and its corners are smooth so that my hand as it grazes across the surface never comes to an end. It is this motion, my hand on its flowing planes, that wakes it and causes it to create.

There is no limit to that which it might bring into being. The last time I was there, I sought peace from an illness that wouldn't give me a moment's rest. I went to the Obelisk, I touched it and it brought me the wilderness that I could not bring myself to visit. It brought me the thoughtful, gently swaying trees, rippling the sunlight into glass patterns on the ground. It brought me the long grass which is always a home to me, the gentle ocean of movement that comes up to my waist and engulfs me in the familiar. It brought me the green-green smell, freshness personified. It brought me the sun at its best-- not stifling or sweaty but simply warm, comfortable and right. It brought me the scenes of my childhood, the eternal and boundless; impossibly young nature which knows nothing but good. I touched the Obelisk and it brought me to my home. At last, I breathed easy and fell asleep.

The place where the Obelisk lies is not always a place of nature. Sometimes it is a place of science, sometimes an entire world where my children play. It is ever changing and unknowable, and in my fiercest heart I hope that it will never die. But I know it will only last as I do, and the time for both of us grows ever shorter....

The Happy Ending

The sixtyone is my writing tool. I always turn it on and let it cycle through songs without words, because these are the kinds of songs that help me when I'm trying to write. They can be typical classical style songs, or fast-paced and hard hitting, or new age trancey. What they can't have is lyrics, because that distracts me from the words that I want to write. What I listen to gives me a mood or a feeling, and when I feel that mood I can see what's happening in my world.

But something surprising happened to me as I listened. My song list connects to other songs of similar quality, and so I ended up, inextricably, with a cover of Mad World. I have always really loved this song, because it is beautiful and haunting, but I have never loved its irredeemably sad lyrics. It is not in me to be melancholy, or to wallow in the feeling that nothing I do in life will ever matter. My nature is firmly set to the opposite, so you can see where my contradictory feelings for this song come in. I don't believe in liking a song despite its lyrics, yet I do. It's a beautiful song, but do I really believe the world is unable to change for the better? Do I think it's best to just give up, give in, and surrender to the thought that a world without me in it is a better one? Absolutely not. So I have always limited my listening of this song.

But then- the surprise factor. Whoever had covered this song had changed it considerably. I heard the song played out, thought the same thoughts I always do, and heard its final note with something akin to relief. Then! The magic. The song continued.

I looked up from my work.

The song continued, but not in the same predictable way. Whomever had covered this song had added something considerable to it- a happy ending. As the sounds fluttered up I felt the hope in the quickness of tempo, the great sweep of the orchestra. It was hope, hope infused into a song completely and shamefully devoid of it. I experienced the thing Mr. Hardebeck told me in the 9th grade that all artists were trying to achieve: the moment of complete and total communication. Taking an idea or feeling and transferring it directly to another person without being with them. Telepathy of the heart.

Whoever had covered this song, loved this song the way I do. But they also love this world, love the feeling of happiness they feel in their everyday life, and could not content themselves to love something so devoid of hope. So they added it in, their own little postscript. I laughed. Because that's exactly what I want to do too.

Hope, my own little postscript.