I have cried every day for the past three. Though I am admittedly an "emotional" person (*side note: I do think that the label or diagnosis of "emotional" is somewhat of a misnomer because everyone is susceptible to riptides spurred by emotions), this daily waterworks show is irrational. I will go ahead and say NO, reader, it has nothing to do with hormones. It has everything to do with exhaustion. When I am exhausted, I usually start to simmer, work my way up to angry over the course of a day, and come to the big bang with a whopping, smoking, spewing, firey cry around the time I should be going to bed. What is that?? This is one of the things I hate most about myself because it is so totally over the top. I think that by now I should be able to handle my emotions, be they positive or negative, with collected cool. This is not the case.
Mark and I returned from Young Life camp, where we hung out with tons of high school kids for a week, on Sunday morning at 6:00 am. That means that we spent the six hours preceding 6:00 am on a bus, and the four hours before that "galaxy" bowling. This experience taught me two things: bowling is not so bad, and I am not a teenager anymore. For the past few years, in my early twenties, I could hang with high school girls and be okay. But now that the mid-twenties have officially commenced, it is as if I suddenly inherited a walker and a heart splint, and my knees just aren't what they used to be. This is quite sad. I will continue to pretend, though.
We had an incredible week. We hiked a mountain, we blobbed, we swung from the giant free-fall trapeze swing, we played rounds and rounds of frisbee golf, we went to Young Life club with four hundred kids every day, we ate tons of food, we woke up early, we went to bed late, we marched through a swarm of bees and got stung, we swam in the pool, we played in a volleyball tournament, we did the zipline, the blob, the ropes course and the Quantum Leap. (Don't ask). We had a blast hanging out with the high school friends we have made over the past few years as Young Life leaders at Forsyth Country Day School.
Most of all, though, we heard our speaker, Sid, talk about Jesus-- he told us the whole story, how "Long ago, at many times and in many ways, God spoke to our fathers by the prophets; but in these last days he has spoken to us by his Son, whom he appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world." (Ref Hebrews 1:1-2). I know this already, this is the foundation of everything that we believe most closely to our hearts, that Jesus is the breath of God, but for some reason it was new this week. There were moments I felt like a camper again, hearing the gospel with unbroken ears, and it was a sweet, sweet thing. I want to hold tight to the Word, the words, and let them be reborn in me every morning. And although I cannot seem to get a lasso on these emotions that keep slinging me around in circles, the exhaustion is a small price to pay for the golden gift of watching my friends hear about the Jesus I know for the first time. That will preach.
Now, back in the day-to-day of worklaundrydinneruptoolatewakingupearlydogwalkingphonetalkingbillsetc., part of me wants to march all the way back to Jasper, Georgia and live at camp where it is not so hard to remember that the gospel is new every day, that I am loved by my Father in heaven, and that I cannot earn his favor. But we are walking back down the mountain, and that is good.
Pictures to come. Peace.
7.19.2011
7.08.2011
Tomorrow Mark and I leave for Sharp Top Cove, Young Life's summer camp in Jasper, Georgia, to spend another week with high school kids. This is our third summer taking the trip, and we've spent the week making runs to the Dollar Store to buy cheap costumes and candy, packing up our suitcases, calling kids to tell them to BE PUMPED, and going to bed early, as if I can stock pile energy.
It's been a while since I've posted, mostly because we have been running around so much this month and the only times when there is are a few moments to breathe (or write a blogpost) we are at home where there is no internet. Kind of annoying. Also a dang good excuse. There is this one podcast I kind of like produced by NPR, called Culturetopia. At the end of the one hour show, the hosts all do this little blurb called "What's Making You Happy This Week." There are three or four of them, and they each get to say one. Since there is only one of me, I'm going to say three things making me happy this week.
1. Remembering and soaking up the memory of the blissful relaxation that was our vacation to Punta Cana.
2. Seeing a bunch of friends in Harrisonburg last weekend for the celebration of the Purks wedding, especially THIS ONE:
3. My nephews, Jonathan and William, who came for July 4th...
Off to Georgia in the morning...
It's been a while since I've posted, mostly because we have been running around so much this month and the only times when there is are a few moments to breathe (or write a blogpost) we are at home where there is no internet. Kind of annoying. Also a dang good excuse. There is this one podcast I kind of like produced by NPR, called Culturetopia. At the end of the one hour show, the hosts all do this little blurb called "What's Making You Happy This Week." There are three or four of them, and they each get to say one. Since there is only one of me, I'm going to say three things making me happy this week.
1. Remembering and soaking up the memory of the blissful relaxation that was our vacation to Punta Cana.
2. Seeing a bunch of friends in Harrisonburg last weekend for the celebration of the Purks wedding, especially THIS ONE:
3. My nephews, Jonathan and William, who came for July 4th...
Off to Georgia in the morning...
6.09.2011
draining the reservoir.
For my birthday, Mark, and many members of my family and a few dear friends threw some money into a pot to send me away on a writing trip. When he presented me with this sum, along with the freedom to choose where and when I would take this retreat, I felt two things primarily: gratitude and fear. The gratitude is obvious. The fear comes from the bottom of my gut, the place from which all of my fears are born, and that is a reservoir of insecurity. What if I don't write anything worthwhile? What if I have writer's block the entire time? What if I never sell a book, and am therefore never actualized in my craft by the public, and therefore spend thousands of hours working on something that never earns a penny when I could have had a full-time job making a steady income with benefits and a 401K, and everyone that knows me and loves me thinks I am a big, fat failure?
Sounds pretty beat up to me when I write it down. Perhaps this is the therapy of writing. I articulated some of this sentiment to my sister that afternoon, and she laughed and shook her pretty head, and assured me that everyone who gave money to the writing trip gave because I love to write, and they wanted to provide me with the joy of four un-interrupted days doing the thing that I enjoy most on the earth. There is no choking collar of expectation that I need to wear, and in fact, it would do everyone a great disservice to know that I was wearing a collar on the trip at all. Phew. After that conversation, the fear magically evaporated, and was replaced by anticipation.
The next day I booked 4 days and 3 nights at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville, North Carolina in October. The thought of four days with Dora and my own big bed with a box spring that does not groan and screech whenever anyone moves slightly, and a view of the North Carolina mountains in October as they are molting from summer clothes to winter, is thrilling.
To explain further, the idea of a writing trip came about a few months ago during an exasperated conversation with Mark. It was probably close to eight o'clock and I was cooking dinner, waving my chopping knife around, explaining the frustrations of writing: The loneliness. The ebb and flow of thinking the project is excellent, and the next day wretched, and never really knowing. The time it takes to get from one page to another. The frustration when someone asks how it's going, which is a perfectly valid question, but never knowing what the hell to say. The only living being who doesn't ask is Sidney, and it is because she does not care about what I'm doing, only that she gets to snooze beside my desk, and there is great comfort in that. But anyway, then we got to the frustration of interruptions. That took us down a whole separate rabbit trail, and I was griping about being distracted and came to this hollering rant about how I NEED TO JUST GET AWAY, TO SOME REMOTE PLACE WHERE NO ONE KNOWS ME, AND BE THAT CRAZY PERSON WHO IS JUST BY HERSELF, WRITING A BOOK.
If you know anything about Mark, you know he is the best at giving thoughtful, planned gifts. (If you don't know him, believe me, he is the most worth knowing person I have ever met, and maybe if you get to know him well enough, you'll get in on the gift thing). Low and behold, he decided right then and there, as I brandished the blade within five inches of his face, to make the writing trip happen.
And now I can't wait.
And here is something that I'm working on figuring out in the meantime: contentment in the fact that there is only one thing that defines me, and that's the fact that I have Jesus; I'm his, and He is mine. Whether or not I write does not ultimately matter, though I do believe that writing stories is my calling. I'm betting that most of the writing process, with is really just a long course of refinement, like life, is because it's how He is making me different and more like him all the time. I'm working on a short story right now with such a bad case of writer's block it gives me a headache every day around five, and I keep waiting for the Muse to return, my lucky Irishman, but I am trying to simply enjoy it. After all, the real fun of writing is wrestling with the sentences, the paragraphs, the dialogues, filling them with words that are occasionally and miraculously perfect. It is the fun of creating a story, the beginning, the drama, the end. The characters, how they change and get better - I guess it is all very circular.
Sounds pretty beat up to me when I write it down. Perhaps this is the therapy of writing. I articulated some of this sentiment to my sister that afternoon, and she laughed and shook her pretty head, and assured me that everyone who gave money to the writing trip gave because I love to write, and they wanted to provide me with the joy of four un-interrupted days doing the thing that I enjoy most on the earth. There is no choking collar of expectation that I need to wear, and in fact, it would do everyone a great disservice to know that I was wearing a collar on the trip at all. Phew. After that conversation, the fear magically evaporated, and was replaced by anticipation.
The next day I booked 4 days and 3 nights at the Grove Park Inn in Asheville, North Carolina in October. The thought of four days with Dora and my own big bed with a box spring that does not groan and screech whenever anyone moves slightly, and a view of the North Carolina mountains in October as they are molting from summer clothes to winter, is thrilling.
To explain further, the idea of a writing trip came about a few months ago during an exasperated conversation with Mark. It was probably close to eight o'clock and I was cooking dinner, waving my chopping knife around, explaining the frustrations of writing: The loneliness. The ebb and flow of thinking the project is excellent, and the next day wretched, and never really knowing. The time it takes to get from one page to another. The frustration when someone asks how it's going, which is a perfectly valid question, but never knowing what the hell to say. The only living being who doesn't ask is Sidney, and it is because she does not care about what I'm doing, only that she gets to snooze beside my desk, and there is great comfort in that. But anyway, then we got to the frustration of interruptions. That took us down a whole separate rabbit trail, and I was griping about being distracted and came to this hollering rant about how I NEED TO JUST GET AWAY, TO SOME REMOTE PLACE WHERE NO ONE KNOWS ME, AND BE THAT CRAZY PERSON WHO IS JUST BY HERSELF, WRITING A BOOK.
If you know anything about Mark, you know he is the best at giving thoughtful, planned gifts. (If you don't know him, believe me, he is the most worth knowing person I have ever met, and maybe if you get to know him well enough, you'll get in on the gift thing). Low and behold, he decided right then and there, as I brandished the blade within five inches of his face, to make the writing trip happen.
And now I can't wait.
And here is something that I'm working on figuring out in the meantime: contentment in the fact that there is only one thing that defines me, and that's the fact that I have Jesus; I'm his, and He is mine. Whether or not I write does not ultimately matter, though I do believe that writing stories is my calling. I'm betting that most of the writing process, with is really just a long course of refinement, like life, is because it's how He is making me different and more like him all the time. I'm working on a short story right now with such a bad case of writer's block it gives me a headache every day around five, and I keep waiting for the Muse to return, my lucky Irishman, but I am trying to simply enjoy it. After all, the real fun of writing is wrestling with the sentences, the paragraphs, the dialogues, filling them with words that are occasionally and miraculously perfect. It is the fun of creating a story, the beginning, the drama, the end. The characters, how they change and get better - I guess it is all very circular.
6.03.2011
twenty-five and tardy.
I promised to post this yesterday, but I didn't get around to it. Apologies.
In honor of my twenty-fifth birthday, here is a lengthy post about my twenty-five favorite books. It's kind of long, so read at your own volition. People ask me all the time for book recommendations, so consider the following my reccs:
1. East of Eden by John Steinbeck. While the rest of the list will not follow in descending order, this is my all-time favorite novel. Everything I have read of Steinbeck is written as nearly to perfection as I imagine fictional writing can be, but this story in particular captured me the first time. I have read it again and again, and each time it is simultaneously new and familiar. The theme that runs throughout is the story of Cain and Abel, but it is explored in the intertwined lives of a few families in the Salinas Valley in California. My favorite written character in all of fiction so far is Samuel Hamilton, who exists in this book. The narration is brilliant, the dialogue is accurate and the discussions are rich. The story is gut-wrenching and satisfyingly lengthy. It’s a bit daunting to look at because it is really thick, but once I was into it, I kept hoping that it would never end.
2. Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It was a fluke that I even brought this book home from Borders several months ago, but I picked it up because the cover is catchy, and read the first pages—a bird’s eye view of New York City on one particular morning, with the focus eventually narrowing in on a tightrope walker making his way across his thread plank between the World Trade Center towers. Again, it was the narration that got me. The book is a weave of vignettes, similar to the movies Crash or Love Actually, where the focus changes with each chapter, and the background characters move to the foreground, and visa versa. It is a brilliant, brilliant book. When I finished, I sat there just staring at the back cover for a long time. McCann is an Irish writer, and his Irish-ness comes through in the book. Irish lit is probably my favorite genre.
3. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. A.L. is hilarious. Everything she writes—from her memoirs in Traveling Mercies to her fiction, and back again to this book, an instruction manual for writers—is doused in humor. Every thing I have ever read of hers has made me laugh the whole way through. In college I took a writing course where the professor had us read a chapter from Bird by Bird called “Shitty First Drafts.” Later, I “borrowed” this book from a dear friend’s parents’ library, and admittedly never returned it because a. I moved away from that area and never went back to their house and b. I didn’t want to give it up. (I did admit this to Susannah later, volunteering guiltily to mail the book back to her folks, but she assured me they wouldn’t miss it…) The great thing about A.L.’s work, aside from her way with humor, is that it is strung together with great understanding and emotion. This was the first book I read about the craft and process of writing, and it filled me up because I realized that I am not the only person who thinks the way I think, who watches the world and stores up observations for plot ideas in the future. She has some pretty interesting thoughts on Jesus too, which I appreciate.
4. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. If you ask my sister what my biggest gripe with writing is, she’ll tell you it is dialogue. I cannot stand dialogue that would never actually be said, and I am my own biggest dialogue critic. I spend more time reading my written dialogues aloud during the editing process than any other thing because if dialogue is bad, then the whole book is rotten. Bad dialogue pulls you out of the story and reminds you that you’re just reading a book. Dialogue should immerse you into the story and make it MORE REAL. This book has great dialogue! That’s not why I love it, though. Plenty of books have great dialogue. I loved this novel because the story was so creative and colorful, it was so fun to read, it was the perfect balance of love story and other story. It’s about a traveling circus in the 1930s, and the details are so far out, so interesting, and so well-written. (As a disclaimer, I read this book long before there was mention of a movie and loved it then. I have not seen the movie yet, but I’m going to go when it comes to the $2.50 movie theater this week… I heard the movie was OK. The book is way better than that. Great beach read, but not in the brainless-blonde-romance kind of way.)
5. Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling. I.adore.every.single.one. There is really no need for me to go into great detail, since you all probably know, but I will say this: When Mark and I got married, he had never read the books. I spent months 1-15 of our marriage reading each and every book to him aloud, and we both fell in love with the series, for me, the third time. It was so fun, and we capped it all off with a trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter last fall. If you haven’t given in, just do it. Even if you’re thirty years old you will love it. Just got my sister in law to read the series, and she loved it. Books three and five are my favorite I think.
6. Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas. A biography of the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who lived through the Nazi occupation of Germany during the second World War. Bonhoeffer had dedicated his life to studying the life of Jesus, teaching and studying theology, but could not turn a blind eye to the rise of Hitler in Germany. Along with a band of others, Bonhoeffer was part of one of the assassination plots to bring down the Third Reich, a plot which was ultimately unsuccessful and which led to his death in a concentration camp. The story is unbelievably inspiring, to see someone who followed Jesus so closely, who clung to the Beatitudes fiercely, and who lived a radical life. This book stirred my soul so deeply, and I would recommend it to anyone.
7. The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. One of Bonhoeffer’s theological works. One of the first books I read in high school that really challenged me on what it means to follow Jesus. Probably my favorite book on the Christian life.
8. Dubliners by James Joyce. A collection of short stories that take place in the city of Dublin, Ireland. I read this book in high school for AP English and gobbled it up. The brevity of each story line is refreshing and allowed me to digest the stories one by one. The writing, again, is probably why I love it so, and the fact that I read at the beginning of my love of literature. I have since tried to enjoy Joyce, Portrait of the Artist, Ulysses, but I just couldn’t get into those books. But Dubliners… that’s a different story.
9. 95 Poems by e.e. cummings. I am not hugely invested in the world of poetry, but I do enjoy about a fourth of that which I run across, and in college I loved the poetry classes I took—both to study and to write it. However, (this is a huge however), I adore the poetry of e.e. cummings. I enjoy every single one of his poems, even if I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about, which does happen more often than I care to admit. My brother and sister in law gave me the complete works of e.e. cummings a few years ago for my birthday, and it is a centerpiece on my desk, but my first anthology was 95 Poems. I read and re-read and pulled apart every one of those ninety-five poems, and loved every second. Kaili read i love you much(most beautiful darling) in my wedding (#45), and I have memorized more lines from the poems of that anthology than perhaps any other book other than the Bible. These poems are PERFECT.
10. A Voice in the Wind (series) by Francine Rivers. I do not read Christian fiction often, except on a strong recommendation. My mom read this series a long time ago, and I finally read it the summer before I went off to college. It is a three-book series that takes place in the thirty years after Jesus’s death, in Israel. It is a fictional story about the persecution of the early church, the relationships between different people groups, the Romans, the nation of Israel, the Christians… what could have taken place, based on historical documentation of what did take place. It is SO good. Especially books 1 & 2.
11. The Glass Castle by Jeanette Wall. This memoir of Jeanette Wall’s bizarre life is incredible. I read it on a sail boat in the Virgin Islands last summer and it captivated me wholly. She is the oldest of three children in a family where the parents just didn’t quite know how to parent. There is humor and so much feeling, and the story is so triumphant, while also realistic. Whenever I read a true story of a real person’s great triumph, it blows me away. READ THIS BOOK if you haven’t.
12. Stern Men by Elizabeth Gilbert. Eat, Pray, Love obviously got a lot of press, and it seems like it was one of those books that you either love or you hate. I know a lot of people that hated it. I happened to love it, mostly because the third of it when she is in Italy was SO fun for me to read, having been in Italy myself, and re-living all of those weird Italy-isms along with this narrator that made me feel like I was back there. That pizza—somehow she nailed it. I went to see Elizabeth Gilbert speak in Winston-Salem about two years ago, and her presentation moved me so deeply, and encouraged me to continue writing. And she talked about this book, Stern Men, and how it was re-released after E,P,L because obviously at that point it would sell better. I bought it and LOVED IT. It is a down-to-earth, somewhat fantastical, humorous, quirky, lovely story about lobster fishing islands off the coast of Maine. Sounds strange, but she actually moved up there for a time to study and learn the trade, the lingo, the people. It’s brilliant.
13. On Writing by Stephen King. This book, like Lamott’s BbyB, is a book about the art of writing, but it is peppered with tons of anecdotes from Stephen King’s own life and process getting to his height of fame as a writer. Granted, not a lot of writers become bajillionaires like Stephen King, but this book was so life giving for me. It was another case of “Wow, somebody feels how I feel, knows what it’s like to edit, knows the emotions, knows the disappointment and exhaustion of being rejected time and time again.” The best part of this book is how he describes his first acceptances for publication. I keep saying this word, but it was wholly INSPIRING.
14. Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. A while ago, maybe two or three years, I read The Hobbit. I liked it a lot. Maybe not top 25, but it was really enjoyable. Of course I have seen the movie trilogy, but never felt inspired to read the series. Well a friend of mine said that he had a friend who had read the series something like sixty times, and I thought, “Well, hot dang. I guess I ought to try.” I did, from about October to December of last year, and enjoyed it so much. I became so immersed in those books that I thought about them often even when I was not reading. The books are quite different from the movies in many ways, which made it more fun to read. I love the stories for the writing, for the allegorical quality and for the way they bring you into a world that we’ll never live in, but which I wish we could.
15. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. This series has to follow the last, since it is also an allegory of the Bible and God’s love for humanity, and was (as I am sure you all know, but I have to say it anyway) written while Tolkien was writing about the battle for Middle Earth, the two men being great friends and contemporaries in the world of literature of that time in the mid-1900s. My mom read the series aloud to my sister and me when we were kids, and then I re-read the series in college, and it meant just as much to me then as it did when I was a child, only in a different way. I think I ought to read the series once a year, but seeing as there are too many books in the world, I might need to spread it out a little further.
16. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. My long-time mentor Mrs. Brennan, my high school AP English teacher, gave me a copy of this book when I graduated from high school and said, “I think you will love it.” She was right. It is about a preacher who takes his family of four girls to the Congo to be missionaries and “convert the natives.” The story is told alternately from the perspectives of the four daughters and the mother as they watch their father descend on a people he knows nothing about to “convert them,” all the while forgetting about his family. The story is brilliant and thrilling and heart-wrenching, and it is so memorable to me even now. As I write this, I realize I need to read it again ☺
17. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. He is just the best. This book, although not quite as beloved to me as EofE, is a beautiful saga of the Joad family, traveling to California during the Dust Bowl to try and find work for their family. The perseverance and camaraderie of the family is both heartening and tragic, and, as usual, the writing is so vivid with words perfectly selected. This book is a good Steinbeck intro—it is a bit shorter than EofE.
18. The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. Much like Bird by Bird and On Writing, so I don’t want to re-iterate. I can’t help it, I just adore good books on writing. I love reading people who feel how I feel because it is actualizing. Here is a quote: “One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better.” As Clyde always says, “That will preach.”
19. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Talk about a daunting book. I stared at this baby for months and months before I finally decided to crack it. It took me several months, which is not usually my manner of reading, but it is so dense. Every chapter is sort of a story on it's own. When I finished it was incredible satisfaction. Sometimes I read classic literature as a duty, and it is painstaking. This, however, was a lot like EofE. The story of Jean Valjean transforming from a thief to a heroic beacon of light is beautiful, and it is no wonder this is considered a classic. Although it is a little overwhelming, I encourage anyone to try it. You can do it! And then, hopefully we can all take a little trip up to NYC and see it on Broadway!
20. The Firm by John Grisham. I usually try to mix up the genres of books I read, and occasionally a CIA or government intrigue novel gets in there, and I love it. I enjoyed this book SO much when I read it the first time, and I’m sure if I started it again, I would love it again. I have read several of Grisham's books, but The Firm is one of my favorite books ever. Another one I could not put down. I could never write literature like this, but I sure do love to read it.
21. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. This is the story of Francie, a little girl growing up poor in Brooklyn, NY. It is not full of drama, or a big event, or travel or important people, but it is the story of one wonderful, interesting, tragic, sweet, dysfunctional family. The brother-sister relationship is excellently described, and I love this book because I could not put it down, which supports the belief I cling to that everyone has a story, and likewise, every life is a brilliant story. Beautiful, perfect words.
22. The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus. A good friend gave me this book one year for my birthday. I put off reading it until one day when I didn’t have anything else. It didn’t really seem like my kind of book, until I started reading. It’s the story of a nanny in New York City, working for a wealthy family to take care of their children, run their errands and basically help manage their lives. It is written by former nannies, and the stories and events of the novel are unbelievable in their audacity, humor, and over-the-topness. This book was so entertaining, and also surprisingly deep. It is one of those stories that goes opens the closed doors of families with a great deal of money and power to show the relational family dynamics that are never seen in public.
23. The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. One of the best. Maybe number two or three on my list. The story is utterly captivating, and the characters are developed so richly, so fully I felt like they could have been my siblings. The story flips between the present day and the wild, lawless childhood of Savannah, Tom (the narrator) and the oldest brother Luke. The whole book points to one terribly tragic event that happened when they were children, and the rest of the narrative builds toward the revelation. I devoured every single page, although there were a few pretty terrible scenes. This book was incredible. However, I did read another Pat Conroy book a little while after, and didn’t like it nearly as much…
24. The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis. It's Lewis's idea of what purgatory, or hell if you stay for good, could be like. The narrator finds himself there, and encounters several people he has known on earth. He also encounters George MacDonald, who Lewis has said was the most influential person in his own writing life. In the end, the narrator wakes up to realize it was a dream. This book was very interesting, very thought-provoking in the way some things are, not directly challenging or stating, but showing the ideas through story and allegory. Such an interesting read, just like everything Lewis wrote.
25. Lost Lily by me. I know, it's cheap. Plus, you can't go out and get it to read this summer. But here's the thing, I LOVE THIS BOOK. It may never be published, but it's still one of my favorites. It's about this girl, Elena, who travels to Siena to study abroad during her senior year of college. Before she leaves she finds out that her deceased mother, Lily, also spent time in Siena and while she is there, she begins to trace her mother. The end is good, good good, with a plot twist that gives me chills whenever I read it. It's my second book, but sort of my first real one. I just like it, I'm allowed.
So, there you have it.
Now, on my summer list:
Bel Canto
Sarah's Key
The History of Love
Zorro
Any other ideas? I only want the good stuff...
In honor of my twenty-fifth birthday, here is a lengthy post about my twenty-five favorite books. It's kind of long, so read at your own volition. People ask me all the time for book recommendations, so consider the following my reccs:
1. East of Eden by John Steinbeck. While the rest of the list will not follow in descending order, this is my all-time favorite novel. Everything I have read of Steinbeck is written as nearly to perfection as I imagine fictional writing can be, but this story in particular captured me the first time. I have read it again and again, and each time it is simultaneously new and familiar. The theme that runs throughout is the story of Cain and Abel, but it is explored in the intertwined lives of a few families in the Salinas Valley in California. My favorite written character in all of fiction so far is Samuel Hamilton, who exists in this book. The narration is brilliant, the dialogue is accurate and the discussions are rich. The story is gut-wrenching and satisfyingly lengthy. It’s a bit daunting to look at because it is really thick, but once I was into it, I kept hoping that it would never end.
2. Let the Great World Spin by Colum McCann. It was a fluke that I even brought this book home from Borders several months ago, but I picked it up because the cover is catchy, and read the first pages—a bird’s eye view of New York City on one particular morning, with the focus eventually narrowing in on a tightrope walker making his way across his thread plank between the World Trade Center towers. Again, it was the narration that got me. The book is a weave of vignettes, similar to the movies Crash or Love Actually, where the focus changes with each chapter, and the background characters move to the foreground, and visa versa. It is a brilliant, brilliant book. When I finished, I sat there just staring at the back cover for a long time. McCann is an Irish writer, and his Irish-ness comes through in the book. Irish lit is probably my favorite genre.
3. Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. A.L. is hilarious. Everything she writes—from her memoirs in Traveling Mercies to her fiction, and back again to this book, an instruction manual for writers—is doused in humor. Every thing I have ever read of hers has made me laugh the whole way through. In college I took a writing course where the professor had us read a chapter from Bird by Bird called “Shitty First Drafts.” Later, I “borrowed” this book from a dear friend’s parents’ library, and admittedly never returned it because a. I moved away from that area and never went back to their house and b. I didn’t want to give it up. (I did admit this to Susannah later, volunteering guiltily to mail the book back to her folks, but she assured me they wouldn’t miss it…) The great thing about A.L.’s work, aside from her way with humor, is that it is strung together with great understanding and emotion. This was the first book I read about the craft and process of writing, and it filled me up because I realized that I am not the only person who thinks the way I think, who watches the world and stores up observations for plot ideas in the future. She has some pretty interesting thoughts on Jesus too, which I appreciate.
4. Water for Elephants by Sara Gruen. If you ask my sister what my biggest gripe with writing is, she’ll tell you it is dialogue. I cannot stand dialogue that would never actually be said, and I am my own biggest dialogue critic. I spend more time reading my written dialogues aloud during the editing process than any other thing because if dialogue is bad, then the whole book is rotten. Bad dialogue pulls you out of the story and reminds you that you’re just reading a book. Dialogue should immerse you into the story and make it MORE REAL. This book has great dialogue! That’s not why I love it, though. Plenty of books have great dialogue. I loved this novel because the story was so creative and colorful, it was so fun to read, it was the perfect balance of love story and other story. It’s about a traveling circus in the 1930s, and the details are so far out, so interesting, and so well-written. (As a disclaimer, I read this book long before there was mention of a movie and loved it then. I have not seen the movie yet, but I’m going to go when it comes to the $2.50 movie theater this week… I heard the movie was OK. The book is way better than that. Great beach read, but not in the brainless-blonde-romance kind of way.)
5. Harry Potter Series by J.K. Rowling. I.adore.every.single.one. There is really no need for me to go into great detail, since you all probably know, but I will say this: When Mark and I got married, he had never read the books. I spent months 1-15 of our marriage reading each and every book to him aloud, and we both fell in love with the series, for me, the third time. It was so fun, and we capped it all off with a trip to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter last fall. If you haven’t given in, just do it. Even if you’re thirty years old you will love it. Just got my sister in law to read the series, and she loved it. Books three and five are my favorite I think.
6. Bonhoeffer by Eric Metaxas. A biography of the German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who lived through the Nazi occupation of Germany during the second World War. Bonhoeffer had dedicated his life to studying the life of Jesus, teaching and studying theology, but could not turn a blind eye to the rise of Hitler in Germany. Along with a band of others, Bonhoeffer was part of one of the assassination plots to bring down the Third Reich, a plot which was ultimately unsuccessful and which led to his death in a concentration camp. The story is unbelievably inspiring, to see someone who followed Jesus so closely, who clung to the Beatitudes fiercely, and who lived a radical life. This book stirred my soul so deeply, and I would recommend it to anyone.
7. The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. One of Bonhoeffer’s theological works. One of the first books I read in high school that really challenged me on what it means to follow Jesus. Probably my favorite book on the Christian life.
8. Dubliners by James Joyce. A collection of short stories that take place in the city of Dublin, Ireland. I read this book in high school for AP English and gobbled it up. The brevity of each story line is refreshing and allowed me to digest the stories one by one. The writing, again, is probably why I love it so, and the fact that I read at the beginning of my love of literature. I have since tried to enjoy Joyce, Portrait of the Artist, Ulysses, but I just couldn’t get into those books. But Dubliners… that’s a different story.
9. 95 Poems by e.e. cummings. I am not hugely invested in the world of poetry, but I do enjoy about a fourth of that which I run across, and in college I loved the poetry classes I took—both to study and to write it. However, (this is a huge however), I adore the poetry of e.e. cummings. I enjoy every single one of his poems, even if I have no idea what the hell he’s talking about, which does happen more often than I care to admit. My brother and sister in law gave me the complete works of e.e. cummings a few years ago for my birthday, and it is a centerpiece on my desk, but my first anthology was 95 Poems. I read and re-read and pulled apart every one of those ninety-five poems, and loved every second. Kaili read i love you much(most beautiful darling) in my wedding (#45), and I have memorized more lines from the poems of that anthology than perhaps any other book other than the Bible. These poems are PERFECT.
10. A Voice in the Wind (series) by Francine Rivers. I do not read Christian fiction often, except on a strong recommendation. My mom read this series a long time ago, and I finally read it the summer before I went off to college. It is a three-book series that takes place in the thirty years after Jesus’s death, in Israel. It is a fictional story about the persecution of the early church, the relationships between different people groups, the Romans, the nation of Israel, the Christians… what could have taken place, based on historical documentation of what did take place. It is SO good. Especially books 1 & 2.
11. The Glass Castle by Jeanette Wall. This memoir of Jeanette Wall’s bizarre life is incredible. I read it on a sail boat in the Virgin Islands last summer and it captivated me wholly. She is the oldest of three children in a family where the parents just didn’t quite know how to parent. There is humor and so much feeling, and the story is so triumphant, while also realistic. Whenever I read a true story of a real person’s great triumph, it blows me away. READ THIS BOOK if you haven’t.
12. Stern Men by Elizabeth Gilbert. Eat, Pray, Love obviously got a lot of press, and it seems like it was one of those books that you either love or you hate. I know a lot of people that hated it. I happened to love it, mostly because the third of it when she is in Italy was SO fun for me to read, having been in Italy myself, and re-living all of those weird Italy-isms along with this narrator that made me feel like I was back there. That pizza—somehow she nailed it. I went to see Elizabeth Gilbert speak in Winston-Salem about two years ago, and her presentation moved me so deeply, and encouraged me to continue writing. And she talked about this book, Stern Men, and how it was re-released after E,P,L because obviously at that point it would sell better. I bought it and LOVED IT. It is a down-to-earth, somewhat fantastical, humorous, quirky, lovely story about lobster fishing islands off the coast of Maine. Sounds strange, but she actually moved up there for a time to study and learn the trade, the lingo, the people. It’s brilliant.
13. On Writing by Stephen King. This book, like Lamott’s BbyB, is a book about the art of writing, but it is peppered with tons of anecdotes from Stephen King’s own life and process getting to his height of fame as a writer. Granted, not a lot of writers become bajillionaires like Stephen King, but this book was so life giving for me. It was another case of “Wow, somebody feels how I feel, knows what it’s like to edit, knows the emotions, knows the disappointment and exhaustion of being rejected time and time again.” The best part of this book is how he describes his first acceptances for publication. I keep saying this word, but it was wholly INSPIRING.
14. Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien. A while ago, maybe two or three years, I read The Hobbit. I liked it a lot. Maybe not top 25, but it was really enjoyable. Of course I have seen the movie trilogy, but never felt inspired to read the series. Well a friend of mine said that he had a friend who had read the series something like sixty times, and I thought, “Well, hot dang. I guess I ought to try.” I did, from about October to December of last year, and enjoyed it so much. I became so immersed in those books that I thought about them often even when I was not reading. The books are quite different from the movies in many ways, which made it more fun to read. I love the stories for the writing, for the allegorical quality and for the way they bring you into a world that we’ll never live in, but which I wish we could.
15. The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis. This series has to follow the last, since it is also an allegory of the Bible and God’s love for humanity, and was (as I am sure you all know, but I have to say it anyway) written while Tolkien was writing about the battle for Middle Earth, the two men being great friends and contemporaries in the world of literature of that time in the mid-1900s. My mom read the series aloud to my sister and me when we were kids, and then I re-read the series in college, and it meant just as much to me then as it did when I was a child, only in a different way. I think I ought to read the series once a year, but seeing as there are too many books in the world, I might need to spread it out a little further.
16. The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver. My long-time mentor Mrs. Brennan, my high school AP English teacher, gave me a copy of this book when I graduated from high school and said, “I think you will love it.” She was right. It is about a preacher who takes his family of four girls to the Congo to be missionaries and “convert the natives.” The story is told alternately from the perspectives of the four daughters and the mother as they watch their father descend on a people he knows nothing about to “convert them,” all the while forgetting about his family. The story is brilliant and thrilling and heart-wrenching, and it is so memorable to me even now. As I write this, I realize I need to read it again ☺
17. The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. He is just the best. This book, although not quite as beloved to me as EofE, is a beautiful saga of the Joad family, traveling to California during the Dust Bowl to try and find work for their family. The perseverance and camaraderie of the family is both heartening and tragic, and, as usual, the writing is so vivid with words perfectly selected. This book is a good Steinbeck intro—it is a bit shorter than EofE.
18. The Writing Life by Annie Dillard. Much like Bird by Bird and On Writing, so I don’t want to re-iterate. I can’t help it, I just adore good books on writing. I love reading people who feel how I feel because it is actualizing. Here is a quote: “One of the few things I know about writing is this: spend it all, shoot it, play it, lose it, all, right away, every time. Do not hoard what seems good for a later place in the book, or for another book; give it, give it all, give it now. The impulse to save something good for a better place later is the signal to spend it now. Something more will arise for later, something better.” As Clyde always says, “That will preach.”
19. Les Miserables by Victor Hugo. Talk about a daunting book. I stared at this baby for months and months before I finally decided to crack it. It took me several months, which is not usually my manner of reading, but it is so dense. Every chapter is sort of a story on it's own. When I finished it was incredible satisfaction. Sometimes I read classic literature as a duty, and it is painstaking. This, however, was a lot like EofE. The story of Jean Valjean transforming from a thief to a heroic beacon of light is beautiful, and it is no wonder this is considered a classic. Although it is a little overwhelming, I encourage anyone to try it. You can do it! And then, hopefully we can all take a little trip up to NYC and see it on Broadway!
20. The Firm by John Grisham. I usually try to mix up the genres of books I read, and occasionally a CIA or government intrigue novel gets in there, and I love it. I enjoyed this book SO much when I read it the first time, and I’m sure if I started it again, I would love it again. I have read several of Grisham's books, but The Firm is one of my favorite books ever. Another one I could not put down. I could never write literature like this, but I sure do love to read it.
21. A Tree Grows in Brooklyn by Betty Smith. This is the story of Francie, a little girl growing up poor in Brooklyn, NY. It is not full of drama, or a big event, or travel or important people, but it is the story of one wonderful, interesting, tragic, sweet, dysfunctional family. The brother-sister relationship is excellently described, and I love this book because I could not put it down, which supports the belief I cling to that everyone has a story, and likewise, every life is a brilliant story. Beautiful, perfect words.
22. The Nanny Diaries by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus. A good friend gave me this book one year for my birthday. I put off reading it until one day when I didn’t have anything else. It didn’t really seem like my kind of book, until I started reading. It’s the story of a nanny in New York City, working for a wealthy family to take care of their children, run their errands and basically help manage their lives. It is written by former nannies, and the stories and events of the novel are unbelievable in their audacity, humor, and over-the-topness. This book was so entertaining, and also surprisingly deep. It is one of those stories that goes opens the closed doors of families with a great deal of money and power to show the relational family dynamics that are never seen in public.
23. The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy. One of the best. Maybe number two or three on my list. The story is utterly captivating, and the characters are developed so richly, so fully I felt like they could have been my siblings. The story flips between the present day and the wild, lawless childhood of Savannah, Tom (the narrator) and the oldest brother Luke. The whole book points to one terribly tragic event that happened when they were children, and the rest of the narrative builds toward the revelation. I devoured every single page, although there were a few pretty terrible scenes. This book was incredible. However, I did read another Pat Conroy book a little while after, and didn’t like it nearly as much…
24. The Great Divorce by C.S. Lewis. It's Lewis's idea of what purgatory, or hell if you stay for good, could be like. The narrator finds himself there, and encounters several people he has known on earth. He also encounters George MacDonald, who Lewis has said was the most influential person in his own writing life. In the end, the narrator wakes up to realize it was a dream. This book was very interesting, very thought-provoking in the way some things are, not directly challenging or stating, but showing the ideas through story and allegory. Such an interesting read, just like everything Lewis wrote.
25. Lost Lily by me. I know, it's cheap. Plus, you can't go out and get it to read this summer. But here's the thing, I LOVE THIS BOOK. It may never be published, but it's still one of my favorites. It's about this girl, Elena, who travels to Siena to study abroad during her senior year of college. Before she leaves she finds out that her deceased mother, Lily, also spent time in Siena and while she is there, she begins to trace her mother. The end is good, good good, with a plot twist that gives me chills whenever I read it. It's my second book, but sort of my first real one. I just like it, I'm allowed.
So, there you have it.
Now, on my summer list:
Bel Canto
Sarah's Key
The History of Love
Zorro
Any other ideas? I only want the good stuff...
5.18.2011
segway.
Yesterday I wrote a pretty good post, full of descriptive detail and hilarious dialogue (true dialogue) from this sketchy interaction I had at Aldi last week. A glitch in the blogosphere deleted this carefully crafted piece of writing, and I did not feel like, nor did I have the time for, re-writing. It was about this seventyish-year-old man that hit on me so blatantly I could have scooped up the pickup lines with a shovel. Sick. Also pretty funny.
On June 2, I turn twenty-five, which in case you are not into elementary math, is a quarter (1/4) of a century. That's significant. I am working on a lengthy blog post that I believe will be pretty enjoyable, even useful. I may not post until then... we shall see how the wind blows.
On June 2, I turn twenty-five, which in case you are not into elementary math, is a quarter (1/4) of a century. That's significant. I am working on a lengthy blog post that I believe will be pretty enjoyable, even useful. I may not post until then... we shall see how the wind blows.
5.02.2011
two years in.
On Friday morning, I returned from an early (too early) cycling class at the gym at 7:00, and plopped down Indian style on the floor in front of the TV to watch Prince William and Princess Kate's recessional and presentation. When Mark got back from walking Sidney he found me there, sweaty and Indian style, and shook his head, laughed a little. He watched for a few minutes, then went to get ready for work. As we showered, drank coffee, read Bibles, we kept an eye on the royal parade through London, all the way up to the kiss on the balcony of Buckingham Palace. Mark was back in the guest room getting dressed, and I came in.
"Want to know something ridiculous?" I asked, leaning up against the door jam.
"What?" He was tucking in his shirt.
"Watching the wedding makes me feel really happy, like we are living in a world that still has fairy tales. But it also makes me sort of sad because I'm not a princess."
He laughed, gave me a kiss, and said, "You are."
When I got home from work after a very busy day, Mark was in the living room fixing a neon green wheel chair. I was rushing, because we were leaving soon thereafter to head to Wild Dunes near Charleston for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary. I ran into the kitchen to deposit my lunch tupperware, keys, etc. and sitting on the counter was a beautiful bunch of gerber daisies and a pink rose, a sparkly wand, a bag of my favorite candy, and a HUGE card in a pink envelope. I opened it, and it was a Disney princess card, and on the inside said something like, "Who the heck cares about lousy old Kate. YOU are my princess!!"
It's kind of silly, but I nearly choked up because he knows me, and he understands my nuances and my childlike heart, and the fact that when I said that about the wedding earlier in the morning, even though it was borderline absurd, I meant it.
We headed out for the beach around three, and got in around nine after about an hour and a half of nasty Charlotte traffic and a stop for dinner at Panera in North Charleston. Dear friends lent us their condo at Wild Dunes for the weekend, free of charge, and it was a dream. We stayed up real late Friday night, consuming this:
Woke up early, walked, read, drank coffee, laughed, ran around the huge condo like a couple of twelve year olds, watched NHL highlights, lazed around on the beach, and made pancakes. I read Water for Elephants, cover to cover, for the second time because I never remember the details of books (embarrassing, as I write them.)
On Saturday night we went into the city of Charleston, saw one my oldest friends and consumed an unbelievable seafood dinner at Coast, thanks to the anniversary gift of my parents. For the occasion, Mark bought me these:
Thanks to a couple generous anniversary gift donations, most of our trip--the gas, the food, the extras--was paid for. It was an unbelievable surprise to be able to get away, to the beach no less, without stress - a weekend that was planned and drawn up on Thursday! Two days of unclouded sunshine, the familiar comfort of crashing waves, and uninterrupted facetime with my boyfriend was the perfect way to usher us into today...
May 2nd, 2011. Two year anniversary!
"Want to know something ridiculous?" I asked, leaning up against the door jam.
"What?" He was tucking in his shirt.
"Watching the wedding makes me feel really happy, like we are living in a world that still has fairy tales. But it also makes me sort of sad because I'm not a princess."
He laughed, gave me a kiss, and said, "You are."
When I got home from work after a very busy day, Mark was in the living room fixing a neon green wheel chair. I was rushing, because we were leaving soon thereafter to head to Wild Dunes near Charleston for the weekend to celebrate our anniversary. I ran into the kitchen to deposit my lunch tupperware, keys, etc. and sitting on the counter was a beautiful bunch of gerber daisies and a pink rose, a sparkly wand, a bag of my favorite candy, and a HUGE card in a pink envelope. I opened it, and it was a Disney princess card, and on the inside said something like, "Who the heck cares about lousy old Kate. YOU are my princess!!"
It's kind of silly, but I nearly choked up because he knows me, and he understands my nuances and my childlike heart, and the fact that when I said that about the wedding earlier in the morning, even though it was borderline absurd, I meant it.
We headed out for the beach around three, and got in around nine after about an hour and a half of nasty Charlotte traffic and a stop for dinner at Panera in North Charleston. Dear friends lent us their condo at Wild Dunes for the weekend, free of charge, and it was a dream. We stayed up real late Friday night, consuming this:
Woke up early, walked, read, drank coffee, laughed, ran around the huge condo like a couple of twelve year olds, watched NHL highlights, lazed around on the beach, and made pancakes. I read Water for Elephants, cover to cover, for the second time because I never remember the details of books (embarrassing, as I write them.)
On Saturday night we went into the city of Charleston, saw one my oldest friends and consumed an unbelievable seafood dinner at Coast, thanks to the anniversary gift of my parents. For the occasion, Mark bought me these:
Thanks to a couple generous anniversary gift donations, most of our trip--the gas, the food, the extras--was paid for. It was an unbelievable surprise to be able to get away, to the beach no less, without stress - a weekend that was planned and drawn up on Thursday! Two days of unclouded sunshine, the familiar comfort of crashing waves, and uninterrupted facetime with my boyfriend was the perfect way to usher us into today...
May 2nd, 2011. Two year anniversary!
4.11.2011
thanks.
August of 2008 does not seem like that long ago--a few months after I graduated college, living in Greensboro, NC with my pregnant (for the first time) sister, engaged, working at a coffee shop. That was the month I started this blog, and it recently struck me that that was nearly THREE years ago! Time feels suspended, and I don't feel like I have aged at all, much less three years. But I have, and it is real to me most lucidly in the more easy going, less insecure, meeker, hopefully more refined quality of my heart. A wine that has aged a few years is better. If it ages several dozen years and is kept well, it can be exquisite. Hope for the future.
But when I realized that n2sh.blogspot has been around for that long, I was overcome with thankfulness for those that read it. As much as I hate to admit it, much of my courage in writing comes from feedback, rather than self-assurance. Recently, I have been given the gift (perhaps in response for my desperate prayers for SOME KIND OF ENCOURAGEMENT GOOD GRIEF) of a few n2sh readers mentioning that they read this blog. It is irrational the vote of confidence this is, like hearing that someone loves your singing voice after they overhear you in church and you suddenly wonder if you could go somewhere with it. But to know that people visit once, and then return is unbelievable to me! Why?? I don't imagine anyone actually typing the URL into their browser, but I guess you must (Yes, YOU) unless it's a link you have clicked or, I can hardly imagine, is a tab or a favorite (unless you're my sister, because I know she's tabbed me).
Anyway, I wanted to say thanks. Especially recently, hearing through the grapevine, or hearing to my ears, some votes of confidence. I really, really appreciate it.
Tomorrow night I am going to see the author Emily Giffin present at Wake Forest University (of which she is a graduate) on her book series beginning with Something Borrowed. I don't typically read chick lit, but picked up the book at the used bookshop for three bucks. I'm excited because my current book project, Roma Roma, is something that I am VERY excited about, and is a muted form of chick lit. I'm double crossing my fingers that I get to meet her and, more importantly her agent (Theresa Park). Please, please send prayers up for me tomorrow!
But when I realized that n2sh.blogspot has been around for that long, I was overcome with thankfulness for those that read it. As much as I hate to admit it, much of my courage in writing comes from feedback, rather than self-assurance. Recently, I have been given the gift (perhaps in response for my desperate prayers for SOME KIND OF ENCOURAGEMENT GOOD GRIEF) of a few n2sh readers mentioning that they read this blog. It is irrational the vote of confidence this is, like hearing that someone loves your singing voice after they overhear you in church and you suddenly wonder if you could go somewhere with it. But to know that people visit once, and then return is unbelievable to me! Why?? I don't imagine anyone actually typing the URL into their browser, but I guess you must (Yes, YOU) unless it's a link you have clicked or, I can hardly imagine, is a tab or a favorite (unless you're my sister, because I know she's tabbed me).
Anyway, I wanted to say thanks. Especially recently, hearing through the grapevine, or hearing to my ears, some votes of confidence. I really, really appreciate it.
Tomorrow night I am going to see the author Emily Giffin present at Wake Forest University (of which she is a graduate) on her book series beginning with Something Borrowed. I don't typically read chick lit, but picked up the book at the used bookshop for three bucks. I'm excited because my current book project, Roma Roma, is something that I am VERY excited about, and is a muted form of chick lit. I'm double crossing my fingers that I get to meet her and, more importantly her agent (Theresa Park). Please, please send prayers up for me tomorrow!
4.06.2011
just in case you wanted to be inspired...
You should read my sister, Hannah's, blog. She is level-headed, straightforward, honest, tender and bright. She has absolutely the cutest family in the United States of America, and she posts lots of great pictures.
www.hansdigginin.blogspot.com
The latest post is about her new son, William, and the beginning of a 3-year journey to correct a foot problem he was born with. Forrest Gump style...
www.hansdigginin.blogspot.com
The latest post is about her new son, William, and the beginning of a 3-year journey to correct a foot problem he was born with. Forrest Gump style...
4.02.2011
sweet, sleepy saturday
It is a perfect Saturday. This morning the forecast said rain, but that didn’t happen. It’s gorgeous and windy outside, the kind of day that looks warm from the cozy inside of your house, with the sun creating lovely mirrored reflections on the hoods of cars parked out on the street. There is a muffled buzz created by the lawn manicurist a few doors down, edging the yard of the house with the lime green door that is for sale by owner. He has been out there all day, but I don’t think that sounds terrible on a day like this.
Here, inside, it is quiet but for these sounds: the tick-tock of the grandfather clock that hangs on the wall in the living room, the wind moving the great, heavy branches of the pine tree in the front yard that looks a lot like the Christmas Tree in Who-Ville—the one the Grinch takes down. There is also the sound of wind chimes from my neighbor’s front porch, a sound that I love and I imagine the quiet neighbor also loves, although I rarely see him. There is now the sound of my fingers clicking the white keys of this laptop. It is gloriously quiet, and yet there is this soft symphony of sounds.
I’ve painted my nails, and am reading a book called I Don’t Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson. Two days ago I picked up The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle from Ed McKay’s, the used book store, which was strangely placed on the Free Books shelf. When I asked why, the clerk said it was because they don’t keep hardback copies of books published more than 2 years ago. This book is in mint condition, except for the big black X slashed in sharpee on the paper jacket (which is a kind of sickening, tragic practice in my opinion—give the book away, fine, but don’t slash the hell out of it). This is a book I have had great intentions of reading because it is so highly acclaimed as a work of great and epic fiction, so I opened it nobly. However, I just finished re-reading my favorite book, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, which is, again in my opinion, the greatest novel ever written, but which is also very deep, heavy, and powerful. And long. I realized that I wanted some easy-to-digest, enjoyable literature that made me laugh. So I dropped Edgar in the clean laundry basket, and picked up Person’s novel. I’m loving it, and it’s in the same style as my current project, Roma Roma. Great inspiration, great camaraderie.
Usually I can’t enjoy a day like this—it’s like I’ve got a motor that doesn’t turn off, only idles. But lately I’ve been on the go a lot. Today it feels good to sit here in my little brick house with my big dog and napping husband and read under the windows.
Here, inside, it is quiet but for these sounds: the tick-tock of the grandfather clock that hangs on the wall in the living room, the wind moving the great, heavy branches of the pine tree in the front yard that looks a lot like the Christmas Tree in Who-Ville—the one the Grinch takes down. There is also the sound of wind chimes from my neighbor’s front porch, a sound that I love and I imagine the quiet neighbor also loves, although I rarely see him. There is now the sound of my fingers clicking the white keys of this laptop. It is gloriously quiet, and yet there is this soft symphony of sounds.
I’ve painted my nails, and am reading a book called I Don’t Know How She Does It by Allison Pearson. Two days ago I picked up The Story Of Edgar Sawtelle from Ed McKay’s, the used book store, which was strangely placed on the Free Books shelf. When I asked why, the clerk said it was because they don’t keep hardback copies of books published more than 2 years ago. This book is in mint condition, except for the big black X slashed in sharpee on the paper jacket (which is a kind of sickening, tragic practice in my opinion—give the book away, fine, but don’t slash the hell out of it). This is a book I have had great intentions of reading because it is so highly acclaimed as a work of great and epic fiction, so I opened it nobly. However, I just finished re-reading my favorite book, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, which is, again in my opinion, the greatest novel ever written, but which is also very deep, heavy, and powerful. And long. I realized that I wanted some easy-to-digest, enjoyable literature that made me laugh. So I dropped Edgar in the clean laundry basket, and picked up Person’s novel. I’m loving it, and it’s in the same style as my current project, Roma Roma. Great inspiration, great camaraderie.
Usually I can’t enjoy a day like this—it’s like I’ve got a motor that doesn’t turn off, only idles. But lately I’ve been on the go a lot. Today it feels good to sit here in my little brick house with my big dog and napping husband and read under the windows.
3.27.2011
whoa month.
This has been the whoa month. From the love seat in my dear friend K.’s apartment in the Mission district of San Francisco, I am listening to footsteps over my head and cars just out of the window. We spent the day in the de Young museum, looking at dresses in the Balenciaga exhibit, traipsing through Golden Gate park and walking down near the Ferry building all the way to Fisherman's Wharf and Ghirardelli Square, took a hike out to a great little Mexican place, and are getting ready to head out for a little more fun. This coveted five-day weekend in S.F. comes on the heels of a 24 hour trip to Baltimore to see my Grampa’s 90th birthday speech, a weekend of digging up our front and back yards to plant spring grass, which most people swear will be a failure, and my sister’s second successful baby delivery! And that is a story…
Early the morning of March 13, Hannah and Josh went to the hospital because H. was fairly certain it was the baby hour. They sat for a while, and when they were finally admitted, sent a text saying today is the day. By noon, Mark and I (plus Kyle) were there, along with my ma and J., waiting for labor. Ma and I planned to be present for the halo moment, and obviously the boys planned to flee far, far away. By half past three there was no "progress" (let's keep this PG) so M., K. and I left to run back to H&J's house to grab some things. While at the house gathering the requested materials, we received a text from J. saying that she was about to begin "pushing." We flew like three bats out of the mouth of hell to the car, and drove 30 mph over the speed limit to get back to the hospital. Silence in the car--no radio. Watching for cops, me praying that I would not miss this monumental event.
They dropped me off at the front door, where I jumped before the car even came to a full and complete stop, and ran into the hospital. Of course I had no idea where to go, and frantically reading all of the signs, sort of shouted at this little nurse pushing a cart, "Babies?!" She looked at me blankly-- "Where are the babies?!" She pointed down a hall, through which I began a sprint. I blew past several people, who all stared at me, and turned a corner with a screech (in cowboy boots) where a security guard was standing. Bad alignment of circumstances. He shouted, "Ma'am, please walk!" To which I replied, "MY SISTER IS HAVING A BABY!" To which he replied, "You still need to walk." At this point, I'm buzzing the little intercom thing that lets you into the birthing unit. "Room number?" "168." "I'm sorry, but the woman in that room is in labor." "I UNDERSTAND THAT. I'M HER SISTER! I'M SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE!" (Capitalization denotes shouting) Door buzzes and I take of running. Hear the security guard somewhere behind me yelling for me to SLOW DOWN, which I do, for a few paces, and then take off at a sprint again, hear him coming after me, screech around the corner and fly into Hannah's room like a psychopath. I walk in, labor is HAPPENING, and the doc looks at me and says, "Were you running?"
And then William Kyle was born... Good job, sissy :)
Early the morning of March 13, Hannah and Josh went to the hospital because H. was fairly certain it was the baby hour. They sat for a while, and when they were finally admitted, sent a text saying today is the day. By noon, Mark and I (plus Kyle) were there, along with my ma and J., waiting for labor. Ma and I planned to be present for the halo moment, and obviously the boys planned to flee far, far away. By half past three there was no "progress" (let's keep this PG) so M., K. and I left to run back to H&J's house to grab some things. While at the house gathering the requested materials, we received a text from J. saying that she was about to begin "pushing." We flew like three bats out of the mouth of hell to the car, and drove 30 mph over the speed limit to get back to the hospital. Silence in the car--no radio. Watching for cops, me praying that I would not miss this monumental event.
They dropped me off at the front door, where I jumped before the car even came to a full and complete stop, and ran into the hospital. Of course I had no idea where to go, and frantically reading all of the signs, sort of shouted at this little nurse pushing a cart, "Babies?!" She looked at me blankly-- "Where are the babies?!" She pointed down a hall, through which I began a sprint. I blew past several people, who all stared at me, and turned a corner with a screech (in cowboy boots) where a security guard was standing. Bad alignment of circumstances. He shouted, "Ma'am, please walk!" To which I replied, "MY SISTER IS HAVING A BABY!" To which he replied, "You still need to walk." At this point, I'm buzzing the little intercom thing that lets you into the birthing unit. "Room number?" "168." "I'm sorry, but the woman in that room is in labor." "I UNDERSTAND THAT. I'M HER SISTER! I'M SUPPOSED TO BE IN THERE!" (Capitalization denotes shouting) Door buzzes and I take of running. Hear the security guard somewhere behind me yelling for me to SLOW DOWN, which I do, for a few paces, and then take off at a sprint again, hear him coming after me, screech around the corner and fly into Hannah's room like a psychopath. I walk in, labor is HAPPENING, and the doc looks at me and says, "Were you running?"
And then William Kyle was born... Good job, sissy :)
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