We couldn't really do the whole 'valentine's day' thing yesterday, so we did it tonight. This was my v-day surprise for Mark...
2.16.2011
valentines day after.
We couldn't really do the whole 'valentine's day' thing yesterday, so we did it tonight. This was my v-day surprise for Mark...
2.08.2011
my baby brother.
Kyle is five years younger than me, six in school years. I asked God for months for a baby brother when I was five, and when he was born I begged God to take him back because I wanted primary access to my mom's lap again. As an elementary and middle school kid, I treated Kyle pretty terribly because I was selfish mostly, and because he was an annoying little brother. And then, mid-way through high school, I realized that he was actually kind of cool. By the time I graduated high school I was downright devastated to leave him. He is 19 now. He is six foot four or five, and he is my dear, dear friend. He is the only person I have that fills this one specific place in my life. I am not sure when he switched from little brother to best pal, but he did. And sometimes, when we are driving from Winston-Salem to Chapel Hill because he slept over on a Saturday night and he has to get back to school, and we are talking about swimming and girls, and marriage and stress, and our family and our dreams, I have a mental about-face and think how uncanny it is to be best friends with your siblings. Both of them.
Kyle is a swimmer for Carolina and this weekend kicked some serious Duke and NCState tail. Here is a video. He is in lane 2--far away from the camera. He won :)
Kyle is a swimmer for Carolina and this weekend kicked some serious Duke and NCState tail. Here is a video. He is in lane 2--far away from the camera. He won :)
1.19.2011
rejection and starting over.
Now that I have come to the end* of the writing and editing process of this novel, re-named Lost Lily, I am in what I like to call the endless winter. The season of searching for an agent, sending letters cold turkey to people who have nice offices with windows overlooking Times Square. At least this is what I picture when I am depressed and generally disenchanted with the search, hopeless, and totally self-effacing about my ability to write anything at all.
People often ask me, "So what happens now? You get it published?" I usually kind of laugh, maybe sigh internally, and say, "Perhaps."
Once you have edited the stew out of your manuscript, taken it to the point of perfection, and then sat down to edit it once again, you may be ready to search for an agent. Once you have secured an agent, he or she has to job of pitching the idea to a publishing company. At this point, I believe I am ready, but I may end up back at the drawing board.
I drafted a query letter as well as a synopsis of the novel. The query is a brief, spirited pitch of my idea. It does not summarize the entire story, but rather gives a summation and a kind of hook. It says, "HERE I AM! This is why my novel is worth reading." Authors often send queries to dozens, if not hundreds of agents before they get a bite. The query letter was the hardest thing for me to write. To sum up my passion and my plot in less than 200 words was a high challenge and I spent about 25 hours working on it. I recently re-read the letter, and I think it stinks. I need to write a new one. So it goes.
A synopsis gives the entire plot, start to finish. It does not tease the reader or keep any secrets hidden. This is the agent's way of quickly reading through the drama to see if the story is any good. This, too, is very short, but also needs to read in some way as the novel reads, needs to contain the spirit of the story.
Each agent has his or her own preferences about how and what they want to read in a query. Everyone wants the letter. Some want the letter and the synopsis. Some want the letter and the first ten pages. Others want the letter, the synopsis, the first 50 pages and the god parent-ship of your firstborn son. Some want e-mail, no attachments please, and others want good old fashioned United States Postal Service, Sir.
To date I have sent approximately 14 query packages. Have heard back from six, I think, all shaking their heads "no" in one way or another. Some of the letters are canned, and they start with "Dear Author semi-colon" One actually said "Dear Virginia," which made my heart skip a beat, but it was also a thanks-but-I-don't-think-your-project-is-what-we're-looking-for letter. I don't have hard feelings, and in a way I even love this part of it, this sweaty uphill climb. And as you read this blog you might feel sorry for me, like this is impressive work, but it really isn't because this is what every novelist does, especially if she has never published anything before. I have to admit, though, last night when I got the DearAuthor letter from an agency I really really liked, I was bummed and did not very much enjoy the episode of NCIS we happened to be watching.
But here is the brightness: Yesterday I stumbled upon a video of a speech made by J.K. Rowling at the Harvard commencement ceremony in 2008. J.K. Rowling is a hero and I listened to that speech and was lifted up! This is what she said, fragmented and patched together, verbatim:
"Poverty is not an enobling experience. Poverty itself is romanticized by fools... Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential... Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I re-built my life...It is impossible to live without failing at something unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all, in which case you fail by default... As is a tale, so is life. Not how long it is, but how good it is is what matters."
Now J.K. Rowling's rock bottom was way far down below sea level and I don't dare begin to compare my life to hers, because my life is pretty rosey, but here is what really struck me: POVERTY IS NOT AN ENOBLING EXPERIENCE. It's true. And in some ways, this writing--this exhausting, passionate, furious work of writing--that amounts to ZERO money (to date) and ZERO credibility feels a little like poverty. And it is not enobling, only pressing to keep on.
But as I digest, this is the gold that is left after it has been panned out of the dirt: I love this. I love to write. It is the only thing I have ever wanted to do. It is my dream, it is my passion, and I am doing it. This is the reason I am doing it! Because I LOVE IT.
J.K. said that when she was totally stripped all she had was a little typewriter and a big idea. Mmm, that's good folks.
On Wednesday I finished the final edits and cried at the end. Not because I was done, but because the ending really moves me. I sent the manuscript to my friend's sweet mom, Jody, who owns a print shop downtown. She prints my stuff for free, because she believes in me, and she tells me every time I swing by to pick up the pages that I can't quit. She printed it for me Wednesday. I went to Target and purchased the prettiest binder I could find. Lost Lily is sitting, bound the cheap way, on my desk. It's sort of my first real, perfected, official novel. Then, after lunch, I started outlining the next one. I have got a big idea and I love to write.
*"the end" can be only loosely applied to this stage of the book process, as I do believe I could continue to edit Lost Lily over and over again until I wore holes in the keyboard of my Mac. This is a transient "end," if even that.
People often ask me, "So what happens now? You get it published?" I usually kind of laugh, maybe sigh internally, and say, "Perhaps."
Once you have edited the stew out of your manuscript, taken it to the point of perfection, and then sat down to edit it once again, you may be ready to search for an agent. Once you have secured an agent, he or she has to job of pitching the idea to a publishing company. At this point, I believe I am ready, but I may end up back at the drawing board.
I drafted a query letter as well as a synopsis of the novel. The query is a brief, spirited pitch of my idea. It does not summarize the entire story, but rather gives a summation and a kind of hook. It says, "HERE I AM! This is why my novel is worth reading." Authors often send queries to dozens, if not hundreds of agents before they get a bite. The query letter was the hardest thing for me to write. To sum up my passion and my plot in less than 200 words was a high challenge and I spent about 25 hours working on it. I recently re-read the letter, and I think it stinks. I need to write a new one. So it goes.
A synopsis gives the entire plot, start to finish. It does not tease the reader or keep any secrets hidden. This is the agent's way of quickly reading through the drama to see if the story is any good. This, too, is very short, but also needs to read in some way as the novel reads, needs to contain the spirit of the story.
Each agent has his or her own preferences about how and what they want to read in a query. Everyone wants the letter. Some want the letter and the synopsis. Some want the letter and the first ten pages. Others want the letter, the synopsis, the first 50 pages and the god parent-ship of your firstborn son. Some want e-mail, no attachments please, and others want good old fashioned United States Postal Service, Sir.
To date I have sent approximately 14 query packages. Have heard back from six, I think, all shaking their heads "no" in one way or another. Some of the letters are canned, and they start with "Dear Author semi-colon" One actually said "Dear Virginia," which made my heart skip a beat, but it was also a thanks-but-I-don't-think-your-project-is-what-we're-looking-for letter. I don't have hard feelings, and in a way I even love this part of it, this sweaty uphill climb. And as you read this blog you might feel sorry for me, like this is impressive work, but it really isn't because this is what every novelist does, especially if she has never published anything before. I have to admit, though, last night when I got the DearAuthor letter from an agency I really really liked, I was bummed and did not very much enjoy the episode of NCIS we happened to be watching.
But here is the brightness: Yesterday I stumbled upon a video of a speech made by J.K. Rowling at the Harvard commencement ceremony in 2008. J.K. Rowling is a hero and I listened to that speech and was lifted up! This is what she said, fragmented and patched together, verbatim:
"Poverty is not an enobling experience. Poverty itself is romanticized by fools... Failure meant a stripping away of the inessential... Rock bottom became the solid foundation on which I re-built my life...It is impossible to live without failing at something unless you live so cautiously that you might as well not have lived at all, in which case you fail by default... As is a tale, so is life. Not how long it is, but how good it is is what matters."
Now J.K. Rowling's rock bottom was way far down below sea level and I don't dare begin to compare my life to hers, because my life is pretty rosey, but here is what really struck me: POVERTY IS NOT AN ENOBLING EXPERIENCE. It's true. And in some ways, this writing--this exhausting, passionate, furious work of writing--that amounts to ZERO money (to date) and ZERO credibility feels a little like poverty. And it is not enobling, only pressing to keep on.
But as I digest, this is the gold that is left after it has been panned out of the dirt: I love this. I love to write. It is the only thing I have ever wanted to do. It is my dream, it is my passion, and I am doing it. This is the reason I am doing it! Because I LOVE IT.
J.K. said that when she was totally stripped all she had was a little typewriter and a big idea. Mmm, that's good folks.
On Wednesday I finished the final edits and cried at the end. Not because I was done, but because the ending really moves me. I sent the manuscript to my friend's sweet mom, Jody, who owns a print shop downtown. She prints my stuff for free, because she believes in me, and she tells me every time I swing by to pick up the pages that I can't quit. She printed it for me Wednesday. I went to Target and purchased the prettiest binder I could find. Lost Lily is sitting, bound the cheap way, on my desk. It's sort of my first real, perfected, official novel. Then, after lunch, I started outlining the next one. I have got a big idea and I love to write.
*"the end" can be only loosely applied to this stage of the book process, as I do believe I could continue to edit Lost Lily over and over again until I wore holes in the keyboard of my Mac. This is a transient "end," if even that.
1.05.2011
desk satisfaction.
I should be editing.
Once when I was roaming the blogosphere I clicked through the posts on this one lady's writing blog and saw one post that I loved. It was a photograph of her desk, followed by a dissection of what was in the picture. For months I have intended to mimic this post, and today, as I procrastinate, it seems like the perfect opportunity.
This may seem inane to some readers, so feel free to move on. No offense taken.
See, this is where I live. The desk itself, of which you can see only the top, is the best gift I've ever been given. It was Mark's wedding gift to me. A white, antique writer's desk. Just what I could not have even manifested in my most perfect dreams. It is slightly tilted, with a sitting space that fits my legs, height and width, to perfection. The drawers stick, but I don't care. I love it.
Camouflaged, my little MacBook (her name is Dora) holds every word I have ever typed since college. Both manuscripts, my entire digital photograph library, my music (the last link, after my iPod was stolen out of my car in the driveway), a variety of "Favorite" tabs of blogs and writing resources I follow, and our budget. Dora and I have spent only God knows how many hours together in silence, and rambling.
The books are my go-tos. The favorites tab of my book collection. The complete works of e.e. cummings. Poet perfect. Stephen King's, Annie Dillard's and Anne Lamott's memoirs on writing, all of which have been of colossal importance to me in my pursuit of a career in the craft. East of Eden, Steinbeck's best, my favorite novel of all time including my favorite character of all time, Samuel Hamilton. The Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, which has been a resource of great value as I tap my relatively shallow barrel of vocabulary trying to write with accuracy and clarity. A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and Writing to Change the World by Mary Pipher.
They are held up by the most beautiful spinning globe bookends, a Christmas gift this year from Mark.
There is a small bud vase with a vine rooted in water, to link me to the outdoors. A photograph of Mark, with his Red Sox hat, old faithful, and a bit of Cannoli cream on his lip, smiling his winning grin with his tilted smile. My favorite picture of him, aside from one on our wedding day that hangs on the wall in the living room. Just in front of the photo is this quote, from EofE:
"I believe a strong woman may be stronger than a man, particularly if she happens to have love in her heart. I guess a loving woman is indestructable."
I love that quote, and I think I believe it.
There is also a photograph of my brother, Kyle, and me when we were kids--he was three or four, I was eight or nine. It's black and white, and we're sitting on this old red checkered sectional sofa surrounded by dozens of stuffed animals and we are laughing.
There is a little pink address book and stamps. Legal envelopes that I use to send out SASE's when I submit my manuscripts to agents. A box of thank-you notes yet to be written. Twenty-two cents. Bert's Bee's Medicated lip balm (because it's winter people). A list of agents, somewhat marked up, with dates and notes on submissions I have sent, and those I have yet to send, querying To Light a Thousand Windows. There is a candle, a paper weight, a Christmas card that says, "It was her opinion that true Merriment required good hot chocolate and extravagant amounts of tinsel." There is a copy of my query letter, an envelope of receipts from 2009 and 2010 (large purchases only) and a pencil sharpener, though I rarely if ever use pencils.
I think that's it, and above the desk is the picture of Emebet, the little girl we sponsor who was born on May 2nd, our wedding day, and lives in Ethiopia. I should have moved the Thesaurus so you could see her.
I considered tidying up a bit before writing this post, but decided not to. I am a writer and this is who I am, clutter and all.
Once when I was roaming the blogosphere I clicked through the posts on this one lady's writing blog and saw one post that I loved. It was a photograph of her desk, followed by a dissection of what was in the picture. For months I have intended to mimic this post, and today, as I procrastinate, it seems like the perfect opportunity.
This may seem inane to some readers, so feel free to move on. No offense taken.
See, this is where I live. The desk itself, of which you can see only the top, is the best gift I've ever been given. It was Mark's wedding gift to me. A white, antique writer's desk. Just what I could not have even manifested in my most perfect dreams. It is slightly tilted, with a sitting space that fits my legs, height and width, to perfection. The drawers stick, but I don't care. I love it.
Camouflaged, my little MacBook (her name is Dora) holds every word I have ever typed since college. Both manuscripts, my entire digital photograph library, my music (the last link, after my iPod was stolen out of my car in the driveway), a variety of "Favorite" tabs of blogs and writing resources I follow, and our budget. Dora and I have spent only God knows how many hours together in silence, and rambling.
The books are my go-tos. The favorites tab of my book collection. The complete works of e.e. cummings. Poet perfect. Stephen King's, Annie Dillard's and Anne Lamott's memoirs on writing, all of which have been of colossal importance to me in my pursuit of a career in the craft. East of Eden, Steinbeck's best, my favorite novel of all time including my favorite character of all time, Samuel Hamilton. The Oxford American Writer's Thesaurus, which has been a resource of great value as I tap my relatively shallow barrel of vocabulary trying to write with accuracy and clarity. A Poetry Handbook by Mary Oliver and Writing to Change the World by Mary Pipher.
They are held up by the most beautiful spinning globe bookends, a Christmas gift this year from Mark.
There is a small bud vase with a vine rooted in water, to link me to the outdoors. A photograph of Mark, with his Red Sox hat, old faithful, and a bit of Cannoli cream on his lip, smiling his winning grin with his tilted smile. My favorite picture of him, aside from one on our wedding day that hangs on the wall in the living room. Just in front of the photo is this quote, from EofE:
"I believe a strong woman may be stronger than a man, particularly if she happens to have love in her heart. I guess a loving woman is indestructable."
I love that quote, and I think I believe it.
There is also a photograph of my brother, Kyle, and me when we were kids--he was three or four, I was eight or nine. It's black and white, and we're sitting on this old red checkered sectional sofa surrounded by dozens of stuffed animals and we are laughing.
There is a little pink address book and stamps. Legal envelopes that I use to send out SASE's when I submit my manuscripts to agents. A box of thank-you notes yet to be written. Twenty-two cents. Bert's Bee's Medicated lip balm (because it's winter people). A list of agents, somewhat marked up, with dates and notes on submissions I have sent, and those I have yet to send, querying To Light a Thousand Windows. There is a candle, a paper weight, a Christmas card that says, "It was her opinion that true Merriment required good hot chocolate and extravagant amounts of tinsel." There is a copy of my query letter, an envelope of receipts from 2009 and 2010 (large purchases only) and a pencil sharpener, though I rarely if ever use pencils.
I think that's it, and above the desk is the picture of Emebet, the little girl we sponsor who was born on May 2nd, our wedding day, and lives in Ethiopia. I should have moved the Thesaurus so you could see her.
I considered tidying up a bit before writing this post, but decided not to. I am a writer and this is who I am, clutter and all.
1.03.2011
a lot of stuff i don't deserve.
Since I didn't get to see my parents during Christmas, I flew down on Thursday to spend New Years with them in Florida. It was a breezy, relaxing, reading, sleeping, eating, running, sunning, chatting kind of time. Glorious, really. Mark stayed up in NC and hosted a bunch of out-of-town friends for the holiday (planned after I booked my flight to FL...) He took care of the dog, gave our bed to our friends and slept on the couch, cooked food, made coffee, did the whole "hostess" thing, only as a host. I was impressed!
Yesterday I flew home. There were some irritating complications with the flight and I should have been home by 3:45. I ended up pulling into our neighborhood at 5:30, generally tired and frustrated. There was a temptation to call Mark and see if he had at least put our sheets in the washing machine, but I resisted, remembering that where he had spent the past week working, cleaning, hosting, etc., I had been laying around reading the biography of Deitrich Bonhoeffer and drinking wine. On Ebert Street, this one house still has all of their Christmas decor up. I thought, "Ugh, if only I didn't have to take down the tree some night this week after work." And dinner... I did not feel like making dinner.
As I neared the house I saw (GASP) the Christmas tree undone and laying on its side on the curb! When I walked inside, the entire house was spotless. Even dust-free. Vaccuumed. Some ornaments were already boxed, while others sat waiting to be sorted and organized. The beds were both made, with clean sheets. The bathroom was clean and there was even a new package of toilet paper!
Mark heard me come in from the back of the house in the kitchen and said, "Hey babe! Watch this." And he showed me how he had taught Sid the Dog how to sit down on command! And stay! Can you believe this??
Of course, I was totally flabbergasted by this extraordinary feat of love. "What would you like me to make for dinner?" I asked, now delighted to do something for him, as he had done SO much for me.
"I already made dinner." He winked.
I stared.
"Salmon! Your favorite."
Yesterday I flew home. There were some irritating complications with the flight and I should have been home by 3:45. I ended up pulling into our neighborhood at 5:30, generally tired and frustrated. There was a temptation to call Mark and see if he had at least put our sheets in the washing machine, but I resisted, remembering that where he had spent the past week working, cleaning, hosting, etc., I had been laying around reading the biography of Deitrich Bonhoeffer and drinking wine. On Ebert Street, this one house still has all of their Christmas decor up. I thought, "Ugh, if only I didn't have to take down the tree some night this week after work." And dinner... I did not feel like making dinner.
As I neared the house I saw (GASP) the Christmas tree undone and laying on its side on the curb! When I walked inside, the entire house was spotless. Even dust-free. Vaccuumed. Some ornaments were already boxed, while others sat waiting to be sorted and organized. The beds were both made, with clean sheets. The bathroom was clean and there was even a new package of toilet paper!
Mark heard me come in from the back of the house in the kitchen and said, "Hey babe! Watch this." And he showed me how he had taught Sid the Dog how to sit down on command! And stay! Can you believe this??
Of course, I was totally flabbergasted by this extraordinary feat of love. "What would you like me to make for dinner?" I asked, now delighted to do something for him, as he had done SO much for me.
"I already made dinner." He winked.
I stared.
"Salmon! Your favorite."
12.24.2010
merry christmas.
Does it feel like Christmas? I’m not sure I know what Christmas feels like. It changes by the year. This year I live in my own house with my own tree and my own nativity. It feels strange. Mark, Sidney and I are in Pittsburgh this year for Christmas, which is something I have never done, been away from the five Fickers and a golden retriever on Christmas morning. It is all very different, but it is Christmas. It is December twenty-fourth. I think maybe the hard part of growing up is figuring out where you fit.
But I have been pondering this “feeling of Christmas,” and it’s coming together.
In college, when I studied abroad, we backpacked in France, Switzerland and Austria. I wore flip flops—leather Rainbows—the whole time. This idiocy resulted in a stress fracture in the lower bone of my second toe on the right foot. It still hurts, especially in the winter. And the toe that I broke kicking the foot of my bed last year also hurts. They flare up in the winter when it’s cold. Our new house is the perfect house. It is old, though, and the floors are this beautiful railway station wood with staple marks. The floors are so cold that my feet are usually white by bed time. Well Mark and I celebrated Christmas with one gift apiece, our dog, and some Christmas music in the background the other night at the foot of our tree. And you know what he did? He got me these unbelievable Eskimo slippers from L.L. Bean. The suede moccasin type, with fur spilling out on the sides and through the stitching at the toe. For the first time, my toes don’t ache in the cold, because they’re warm and the faux fir cushions them. I forget about the little slivers in the bones when I’m wearing the slippers. I think this is the spirit of Christmas.
And we got this dog--as, if you read 2 posts ago, you know was a small step for humanity and a GIANT leap for Ginny--who has surprised me by being perhaps the best thing that has happened to me in a long time. I didn't realize how much I would love the never being alone, even when I'm writing at home in the afternoon and it is so quiet in the house because the heat is resting. Before, I would become so isolated in being alone in the silence of writing that I would have this unbelievable urge to SCREAM. Seriously, I would just want to yell to hear a sound in the house. Ever since Sidney came home, I don't have that because I talk to her periodically. I run ideas by her, tell her about my word choices for dialogue and narrative. She usually looks at me and sort of tilts her little head. She is an active listener and I am never alone now. I think this is the spirit of Christmas.
My iPod got stolen out of my car in October, which is obviously terrible, but my mom loaned me hers so I could listen to Christmas music all December. We had a dinner party on Monday and there was a leftover bottle of Cabernet. My sister got to go see Amy Grant in concert, singing the songs we grew up listening to all our lives for the entire month of December. We got a gorgeous 9-foot Fraser Fir from Food Lion for $29.99. Gift cards to restaurants in Winston-Salem so we can go out to eat! The recent remission of my awful case of post-novel writers block and the return of my muse, who is a small Irish man in my head. Three inches tall--material for another post another day. These are all the spirit of Christmas.
And Immanuel, God with us. That, chiefly, is the spirit of Christmas. Merry Christmas, and may the increase of His peace be with you this Christmas.
12.14.2010
i thought i would never see these grades again...
I am terrible at math. TERRIBLE. And science. And anything left brain oriented, really. Math and science teachers in high school liked me because I was polite, but were generally irritated by my inability to understand concepts. Pre-Calculus was a nightmare and even Nutrition Science, a blow-off Senior year elective, required lab experiments and reports that effected more academic stress than Advanced Placement English Literature with T.B.
It is exam week at the school where I tutor and teach, and last week I tried to help one of my students study for her Pre-Calculus mid-term. She had this big packet with graphs, equations, logarithms, strange runes and cuneiform I swear I have never seen before. We sort of plodded through, consulting Google for help several times, all the while me spouting out fragments of apologies for my great inability to be any help AT ALL.
"Do you have to take math in college?" she asked me suddenly. She wants to be a writer. That's my girl.
I frowned. "Yes. Well, I did. One course. I took Elementary Statistics with S.G. It was a requirement to take one Math course, and Elem. Stat. was reported to be the easiest."
I continued to tell her how I not only took this course, but I came darn close to failing. I used to drag my butt out of bed freshman year, when I still thought I should major in Communications (BAH! That's a laugh) to traipse up the hill by the lake and over to the math building, where I would stop at the vending machine for strawberry pop tarts and then rest my head in my hands, elbows on the desk, and LITERALLY hold my eyelids open with my fingers. Shamelessly.
It is a gift of grace that I passed that course, and in relating this story to C. I decided to e-mail S.G., five years later.
Here is the e-mail I sent:
Dear Mr. G., (Insert: I obviously started out wrong by not referring to him as "Professor Extrordinaire")
You won't remember me, but I took your 8 am Tuesday/Thursday Elementary Statistics course my sophomore year at JMU, in 2005. I struggled MASSIVELY in that course, recieved test scores of 27% and 48% or something awful like that. I was an English Literature major with a concentration in Creative Writing and it was such a struggle for me to understand math.
You passed me in that course with a "C," a grade that I probably (or most definitely) did not deserve. I wanted to say THANK YOU for having grace on me. I am a writer now, working on my second fictional novel, and I most certainly NEVER use math. I also work at a high school teaching and tutoring mostly English and Writing, but occasionally a student will ask for help studying for a Pre-Calc test or something, and I tell them about you and your class and how I bawled when I got that 27%.
It's all in the past, but I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciated you, what a great teacher you are in spite of my idiocy, and that I'll never forget you-
Have a great holiday,
Ginny Evans. (used to be Ginny Ficker)
Later, I recieved this reply:
Hi Ginny,
Thanks for your kind message. Using ecampus I was able to find your photo, although this service for showing photos was not available back in 2004. I almost vaguely recognize you, after seeing your photo. I retrieved your old grades, and your final score was a 72.2%. You had only one absence (9/23/2004), and I slightly bumped your grade up to a 72.5%, which rounds to a 73%, a "C"! Below are your grades, which may remind you of "auto-grade," which I still use in addition to "auto-attendance" and (my new one) "auto-cell-phone" (for keeping records of students who brandish a cell phone during class).
HW1 Ex1 HW2 Ex2 HW3 HW4 Ex3 HW5 HW6 FEx
Maximum 10 100 10 100 10 10 100 10 10 100
Ficker Ginny 7 80 9 80 10 9 46 10 10 69
I looks as though your one bad grade was a 46, but I've seen much worse, and I'm sure you have too. It was good hearing from you, and I hope everything is going well for you.
Best wishes,
S.G.
It made my day. First of all, the fact that he found my entire profile in his gradebook catacombs is historic. Furthermore, the fact that he RECOGNIZED the fuzzy picture is even more hilarious. Yes, probably because I was the kook holding my eyes open. (Sorry, S.G.) Then, add on this sweet, encouraging word. Made me want to e-mail every teacher I have ever known and tell them to follow my blog! Look me up on facebook! LET'S BE FRIENDS NOW THAT I'M AN "ADULT!"
If you have a similar story, I recommend e-mailing. You never know what you're gonna get....
It is exam week at the school where I tutor and teach, and last week I tried to help one of my students study for her Pre-Calculus mid-term. She had this big packet with graphs, equations, logarithms, strange runes and cuneiform I swear I have never seen before. We sort of plodded through, consulting Google for help several times, all the while me spouting out fragments of apologies for my great inability to be any help AT ALL.
"Do you have to take math in college?" she asked me suddenly. She wants to be a writer. That's my girl.
I frowned. "Yes. Well, I did. One course. I took Elementary Statistics with S.G. It was a requirement to take one Math course, and Elem. Stat. was reported to be the easiest."
I continued to tell her how I not only took this course, but I came darn close to failing. I used to drag my butt out of bed freshman year, when I still thought I should major in Communications (BAH! That's a laugh) to traipse up the hill by the lake and over to the math building, where I would stop at the vending machine for strawberry pop tarts and then rest my head in my hands, elbows on the desk, and LITERALLY hold my eyelids open with my fingers. Shamelessly.
It is a gift of grace that I passed that course, and in relating this story to C. I decided to e-mail S.G., five years later.
Here is the e-mail I sent:
Dear Mr. G., (Insert: I obviously started out wrong by not referring to him as "Professor Extrordinaire")
You won't remember me, but I took your 8 am Tuesday/Thursday Elementary Statistics course my sophomore year at JMU, in 2005. I struggled MASSIVELY in that course, recieved test scores of 27% and 48% or something awful like that. I was an English Literature major with a concentration in Creative Writing and it was such a struggle for me to understand math.
You passed me in that course with a "C," a grade that I probably (or most definitely) did not deserve. I wanted to say THANK YOU for having grace on me. I am a writer now, working on my second fictional novel, and I most certainly NEVER use math. I also work at a high school teaching and tutoring mostly English and Writing, but occasionally a student will ask for help studying for a Pre-Calc test or something, and I tell them about you and your class and how I bawled when I got that 27%.
It's all in the past, but I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciated you, what a great teacher you are in spite of my idiocy, and that I'll never forget you-
Have a great holiday,
Ginny Evans. (used to be Ginny Ficker)
Later, I recieved this reply:
Hi Ginny,
Thanks for your kind message. Using ecampus I was able to find your photo, although this service for showing photos was not available back in 2004. I almost vaguely recognize you, after seeing your photo. I retrieved your old grades, and your final score was a 72.2%. You had only one absence (9/23/2004), and I slightly bumped your grade up to a 72.5%, which rounds to a 73%, a "C"! Below are your grades, which may remind you of "auto-grade," which I still use in addition to "auto-attendance" and (my new one) "auto-cell-phone" (for keeping records of students who brandish a cell phone during class).
HW1 Ex1 HW2 Ex2 HW3 HW4 Ex3 HW5 HW6 FEx
Maximum 10 100 10 100 10 10 100 10 10 100
Ficker Ginny 7 80 9 80 10 9 46 10 10 69
I looks as though your one bad grade was a 46, but I've seen much worse, and I'm sure you have too. It was good hearing from you, and I hope everything is going well for you.
Best wishes,
S.G.
It made my day. First of all, the fact that he found my entire profile in his gradebook catacombs is historic. Furthermore, the fact that he RECOGNIZED the fuzzy picture is even more hilarious. Yes, probably because I was the kook holding my eyes open. (Sorry, S.G.) Then, add on this sweet, encouraging word. Made me want to e-mail every teacher I have ever known and tell them to follow my blog! Look me up on facebook! LET'S BE FRIENDS NOW THAT I'M AN "ADULT!"
If you have a similar story, I recommend e-mailing. You never know what you're gonna get....
12.09.2010
i wouldn't say i'm a 'dog person.'
Historically, Mark is the most difficult person to shop for at birthdays and Christmastime because he doesn't want anything. I've tried suggesting things, new clothes, new technology, new music. He is always polite, sort of shrugs and smiles and says, "That's fine." I think maybe the only thing he has ever actually asked for specifically, besides a new pair of football cleats, is a dog. So you can imagine my frustration, being someone who thought I might get away with a dog-free existence when I moved out of my parents' house. I am EASY to shop for and Mark has given me incredible gifts--trips, jewelry, devices and clothes to keep me warm in winter most commonly--so I wanted to be able to do the same.
But I did not want a dog.
Fast forward a year and a half. And meet Sidney.
It had become an issue as much of my not wanting the inconvenience/mess/no sleep effect/DOG HAIR/massive warm body in the little house that could weigh as much as me (God forbid), as an issue of resistance. I realize this now. How juvenile. About three months ago, as I sat on the white rocker on the front porch with my feet tucked up under me, drinking coffee and reading my Bible, it occurred to me that Mark doesn't just want a dog. He needs a dog. A pal to train and take care of, to own and love. He needs a friend to come home to who wants to play, throw a ball, run around the house. This will NEVER be me, thus, the dog. Furthermore, it occurred to me how my introverted husband would be blessed to be loved unconditionally by one who wouldn't ask him details of his day, what he's thinking when he isn't talking, or if he would mind deep cleaning the bathroom, pretty please. The dog doesn't care if there is toothpaste splatter on the mirror.
I wanted an English Golden. He wanted a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog. We went with the Swissy, considering all of the above. The dog would be for him. I specifically remember saying to someone, "I'm sure the dog will hate me and love Mark. I'll probably be so hard on her."
Well, well, well. Not so. I submit to the fact that I was wrong. I have fallen in love.
Wouldn't you? I mean, OH.MY.GOSH. look at that dog. Little Sidney Evans is this incredible, tiny, floppy, clumsy, easy-going foot heater with massive paws that makes me laugh just by looking at her, and I've transformed into a gushy care bear of a human when I'm around her. I promise that I will not become a person who discusses her pet as if she is a child prodigy, nor will my blog become a platform for Sidney worship, but let me take this post to say
THIS DOG MAKES ME SIMPLY BLISSFUL.
(except when she pees on my favorite rug.)
But I did not want a dog.
Fast forward a year and a half. And meet Sidney.
It had become an issue as much of my not wanting the inconvenience/mess/no sleep effect/DOG HAIR/massive warm body in the little house that could weigh as much as me (God forbid), as an issue of resistance. I realize this now. How juvenile. About three months ago, as I sat on the white rocker on the front porch with my feet tucked up under me, drinking coffee and reading my Bible, it occurred to me that Mark doesn't just want a dog. He needs a dog. A pal to train and take care of, to own and love. He needs a friend to come home to who wants to play, throw a ball, run around the house. This will NEVER be me, thus, the dog. Furthermore, it occurred to me how my introverted husband would be blessed to be loved unconditionally by one who wouldn't ask him details of his day, what he's thinking when he isn't talking, or if he would mind deep cleaning the bathroom, pretty please. The dog doesn't care if there is toothpaste splatter on the mirror.
I wanted an English Golden. He wanted a Greater Swiss Mountain Dog. We went with the Swissy, considering all of the above. The dog would be for him. I specifically remember saying to someone, "I'm sure the dog will hate me and love Mark. I'll probably be so hard on her."
Well, well, well. Not so. I submit to the fact that I was wrong. I have fallen in love.
Wouldn't you? I mean, OH.MY.GOSH. look at that dog. Little Sidney Evans is this incredible, tiny, floppy, clumsy, easy-going foot heater with massive paws that makes me laugh just by looking at her, and I've transformed into a gushy care bear of a human when I'm around her. I promise that I will not become a person who discusses her pet as if she is a child prodigy, nor will my blog become a platform for Sidney worship, but let me take this post to say
THIS DOG MAKES ME SIMPLY BLISSFUL.
(except when she pees on my favorite rug.)
11.18.2010
the same.
"The love of our neighbor is the only door out of the dugeon of self, where we mope and mow, striking sparks, and rubbing phosphorescences out of the walls, and blowing our own breath in our own nostrils, instead of issuing to the fair sunlight of God, the sweet winds of the universe."
[#49] George MacDonald: An Anthology of 365 Readings by C.S. Lewis
[#49] George MacDonald: An Anthology of 365 Readings by C.S. Lewis
11.08.2010
an excerpt from draft two of the novel.
Siena is Italy’s forgotten treasure, the trove of rubies and crowns that American tourists overlooked when calendars and post cards glamorized the Ponte Vecchio in Firenze and the charming pressed together row houses sinking into the canals by fractions of millimeters each year in Venezia. The bolded city names on a map of Italy include others, like Roma and Milano, but never Siena. On the map, the medieval city appears to be a mere skosh of a town. But it is not.
The approach to the walled fortress is uphill from all angles. Outside the walls for kilometers small suburbs full of pizzerias and Laundromats blanket the gently rising terrain. There are bus stops along the way, sitting places for small women wearing wool skirts that fall to mid-shin and scarves to cover their short hair. It is dusty in August, hot and dry, and as you approach one of the city gates there is less and less green and more stone. The gates, palatial in their day no doubt, are now simple arched entryways into the wide stone stronghold.
Crossing underneath one of these archways, you are starkly transported to a very “other” place, if you can imagine such a thing. Suddenly medieval, the view is stone on stone on sky, rich, blue sky like the Mediterranean, often cloudless. Stone streets wind inscrutably around corners, connecting to other avenues, invariably stone, all similarly bent and uneven. At once it is a maze of mystery and appeal. Structures, the veins and muscle of the city, rise up from the narrow streets, one continuous system that houses apartments for singles or families, trattorias, small restaurants and markets, churches, hotels, panty shops, stocking shops, wine shops, cigar shops, boutiques, patisseries, tailor shops, ancient meeting places, butchers, pottery stores, gift shops and, more than any other thing, cafés. At just the right time of day, usually late afternoon, every door is swung wide open and the city dwellers bustle in and out like ants on an anthill. Small cars move slowly through the streets, avoiding the surge of pedestrians, with drivers often honking and shouting, “Va!” through the window, crossly pumping their fists in frustration at the traffic caused by careless foot people who believe in walking. A car larger than a shrunken utility truck is an anamolie, and is usually met with dirty looks from grandmothers on foot. The breezeless city streets, blockaded from any sideways air flow, are hot and the sun is bright off of the stone. Women move from shop to shop, filling their baskets with bread and prociutto, while school children play with balls around statues of the wolves Romulus and Remus seven hundred years old.
Everything points toward the city center: The Piazza del Campo. The “Campo,” as everyone refers to it, is one of the most distinguished, beautiful and unique piazzas in the country. Exquisite in it’s grandiose shell shape, the entire floor structure points casually down and inward for the most perfectly-erected drainage system built to service the entire city. Incredibly, the architects of the city created a center for both the practical functioning of the city itself, as well as a center for socialization. There is no place as busy as the Campo at any time of day.
In the evening, the nocturnal old men come to the streets to socialize. Posses of men in caps and slacks stand on corners and against stone walls, speaking with gross animation and waving hands. They smoke pipes and cigarettes, laughing and buzzing in low tones of quick Italian. Oh how they laugh with such an easy delight! It is hard to imagine they have ever seen sorrow, that they were ever anything other than simply content in work, family, city and life. They mingle for a few hours, until at least nine or ten o’clock in the evening. Then they mosey away, bidding each other, “Ciao,” in a nonpartisan tone, until we meet again. Tomorrow. Then they go home, up into apartments above a street where Signora is busy cooking a dinner of at least four impeccable courses.
Though the city appears blithe and placid, the tension of pride and the honor of generations underlies the rhythm of the Sienese in a way that circumvents the eyes of tourists and foreigners. Seventeen contrade constitute the corners of the city, marking Siena with invisible lines of unspeakable allegiance. Each citizen of the city belongs to one: Tower, Caterpillar, Unicorn, Ram, Porcupine, Eagle, Snail, Little Owl, Dragon, Giraffe, Seashell, Goose, Wave, Panther, Forest, Tortoise or She Wolf. Colorful coats of arms are the insignias of each pocket sub-community and one recognizes the street he treads by the flags that hang from sconces, windows and doors...
The approach to the walled fortress is uphill from all angles. Outside the walls for kilometers small suburbs full of pizzerias and Laundromats blanket the gently rising terrain. There are bus stops along the way, sitting places for small women wearing wool skirts that fall to mid-shin and scarves to cover their short hair. It is dusty in August, hot and dry, and as you approach one of the city gates there is less and less green and more stone. The gates, palatial in their day no doubt, are now simple arched entryways into the wide stone stronghold.
Crossing underneath one of these archways, you are starkly transported to a very “other” place, if you can imagine such a thing. Suddenly medieval, the view is stone on stone on sky, rich, blue sky like the Mediterranean, often cloudless. Stone streets wind inscrutably around corners, connecting to other avenues, invariably stone, all similarly bent and uneven. At once it is a maze of mystery and appeal. Structures, the veins and muscle of the city, rise up from the narrow streets, one continuous system that houses apartments for singles or families, trattorias, small restaurants and markets, churches, hotels, panty shops, stocking shops, wine shops, cigar shops, boutiques, patisseries, tailor shops, ancient meeting places, butchers, pottery stores, gift shops and, more than any other thing, cafés. At just the right time of day, usually late afternoon, every door is swung wide open and the city dwellers bustle in and out like ants on an anthill. Small cars move slowly through the streets, avoiding the surge of pedestrians, with drivers often honking and shouting, “Va!” through the window, crossly pumping their fists in frustration at the traffic caused by careless foot people who believe in walking. A car larger than a shrunken utility truck is an anamolie, and is usually met with dirty looks from grandmothers on foot. The breezeless city streets, blockaded from any sideways air flow, are hot and the sun is bright off of the stone. Women move from shop to shop, filling their baskets with bread and prociutto, while school children play with balls around statues of the wolves Romulus and Remus seven hundred years old.
Everything points toward the city center: The Piazza del Campo. The “Campo,” as everyone refers to it, is one of the most distinguished, beautiful and unique piazzas in the country. Exquisite in it’s grandiose shell shape, the entire floor structure points casually down and inward for the most perfectly-erected drainage system built to service the entire city. Incredibly, the architects of the city created a center for both the practical functioning of the city itself, as well as a center for socialization. There is no place as busy as the Campo at any time of day.
In the evening, the nocturnal old men come to the streets to socialize. Posses of men in caps and slacks stand on corners and against stone walls, speaking with gross animation and waving hands. They smoke pipes and cigarettes, laughing and buzzing in low tones of quick Italian. Oh how they laugh with such an easy delight! It is hard to imagine they have ever seen sorrow, that they were ever anything other than simply content in work, family, city and life. They mingle for a few hours, until at least nine or ten o’clock in the evening. Then they mosey away, bidding each other, “Ciao,” in a nonpartisan tone, until we meet again. Tomorrow. Then they go home, up into apartments above a street where Signora is busy cooking a dinner of at least four impeccable courses.
Though the city appears blithe and placid, the tension of pride and the honor of generations underlies the rhythm of the Sienese in a way that circumvents the eyes of tourists and foreigners. Seventeen contrade constitute the corners of the city, marking Siena with invisible lines of unspeakable allegiance. Each citizen of the city belongs to one: Tower, Caterpillar, Unicorn, Ram, Porcupine, Eagle, Snail, Little Owl, Dragon, Giraffe, Seashell, Goose, Wave, Panther, Forest, Tortoise or She Wolf. Colorful coats of arms are the insignias of each pocket sub-community and one recognizes the street he treads by the flags that hang from sconces, windows and doors...
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