Denying Distractions

Yesterday, I spent most of the day with my eyes closed and covered, trying to fend off the worst of a migraine.  I sat in my chair listening to podcasts and folding paper airplanes (much to my cats’ amusement) and longed for sunset so I could return to my usual pursuits—that, or at least go to bed.

This week, the city is repaving the roads in my neighborhood.  I can’t park where I usually do, so I’m resorting to pulling onto the lawn, a tight squeeze between my roommate’s struggling hydrangea and the telephone pole.  Every time I inch the car into place, I mutter and grumble about when I’ll be able to pull in without thinking about it again.

I’ve been meaning to schedule a doctor’s appointment and purchase new tires for the car for several weeks now.  I forgot, again, to dig out a timer that I was supposed to bring to work.  My cat is rubbing against my ankles, reminding me that in a moment I should go and feed her.  Maybe it’s just me, but I find myself most bothered by the things that require my attention when I don’t feel that they deserve it.  

I dream of the days when I’ll be able to lose myself in my writing, when jobs and bills and smaller obligations will sort themselves out.  But this is just a study in denial.  There will always be something to distract me from daydreams—for one thing, if I really do mean to make writing my career, I will have to put some work into selling those daydreams on an actual market.  For another, I don’t think this cat is going anywhere anytime soon.

Life is messy, and it demands our attention.  Once things get back to “normal”, something else happens to upset the status quo.  And I need to teach myself to be grateful for these interruptions, for without them, my own life would vanish under the fog of dreams.  How else would I come up with anything to write about here?

Every Four Years

I turn thirty this month.  It’s not something that bothers me—I’m proud of my years—but it has made me rather introspective in the past few days.  This is not the only milestone I will hit this month, either, as I step into a new role in my work life.  New beginnings and their accompanying endings always make me think back over the time that’s passed, and I’ve come to a realization.  Ever since I was fourteen, there has been some big change in my life every four years: high school, college, first job, second job, and now this change.  So now I’m wondering what characterized each of those periods in my life, and what I learned about myself in each one.

I was very quiet and awkward in high school.  I knew for the most part what I wanted to do with my life, but I was also absolutely unsure of how to do it.  Writing was my focus and my passion, but it didn’t come easily—I remember a few heartbreaking moments of computer failure where a novel vanished into the ether, and my one chance to give my writing to a professional resulted in his scornful tirade against my chosen genre.  My social life was all but nonexistent.  I think the most important lesson I learned in those years was the comfort that can be found in music—I sang in two choirs, learned piano, and ended every school day in the refuge of the band room.  Music was what got me through.

My college years, however, were an explosion of joy and transformation.  Though for a while I remained quiet and awkward, soon I learned a bit of my own self-worth and formed friendships that last to this day.  I expanded my mind and started to look more carefully at people around me, seeing their troubles and concerns and not just how they impacted my own life.  I traveled to Europe, climbed mountains, and continued to sing.  Most importantly, I found joy in writing, both in poetry and prose.  It was during those years that I built a foundation of understanding my own craft that would serve me well later on.

The years post-graduation were off to a rocky start, as the only job I could get was waiting tables.  There was a lot to dislike about serving, but it did force me to manage uncomfortable situations and really learn how to talk to strangers (something other people maybe learn much earlier, but not one of my skills at that point).  I also learned the hard way how to be an adult—managing finances, keeping my apartment clean, finding my own happiness.  I remember this time as a time of struggle and worry, but it was in these years that I met the friends who have been the closest and most loyal ever since, and I also started on the first novel project that I really believed might be successful someday.

Almost four years ago now, my restaurant shut down, and I moved instead to a small local business as a manager.  These last four years have been happier, but they’ve had their own troubles, most of those coming from my relationships (or lack thereof) with specific people.  This period of my life has been the first that I’ve really encountered anyone I couldn’t reconcile our differences or get away from.  I’ve been fortunate (?) enough to deal with two such people long-term in these years, and I’m learning (because I don’t think I’ve fully internalized the lesson yet) that you can’t please everyone.  I have a lot of faith in people, but there comes a time that for the sake of your own well-being, you have to draw a boundary and say, “Enough.”  Fortunately, I have that opportunity now.  Meanwhile these four years have taught me to look inside myself to really understand why I do what I do.  I’ve accepted my own limitations and found ways around them, and I feel more confident than ever.  Maybe that’s a gift from those difficult people, who forced me to think a little more before I spoke and consider how I wanted to respond to them.

Looking forward, I’m taking on a role with more responsibility and independence than ever before.  I’m excited rather than nervous, although I’m certain that the nerves will come.  I feel sure, however, that I will be able to establish a good atmosphere and make my workplace a positive, friendly place.  And once it begins to feel normal, I’m hopeful that I can turn to my writing again in a way I haven’t been able to in the turmoil of the last few months.  With an established routine and a tranquil spirit, I am optimistic that I will be able to build on the crumbs of success I’ve received so far.

At almost thirty, I’m still awkward, but not really quiet anymore.  I know what I have to say and how best to say it for maximum effect.  I call myself a writer and don’t feel like I’m lying.  I comfort myself with music and with poetry.  I’m learning more about the world every day, seeking out new knowledge and new perspectives.  And I know that the world is struggling right now and that nothing can be certain, but I think that these next four years will have good things for me, or at least good things to teach me.  So I’m looking forward to revisiting this idea in 2024, to see what changes will come in the next phase of my life.

An Angel's Perspective on Pandemic

Writing is how I figure out what I'm thinking.  Whenever I have a confusing problem or I don't know what to believe, I reach for a pen or turn on the computer.  Not only does it calm me to see the words taking form on the paper, but the process of getting them there helps me untangle my thoughts.

COVID-19 is one of those gnarly problems for me.  Should I be worried?  Should I be upset?  Is the physical danger more important, or the financial one?  If I'm not worried, am I a bad person?  If I choose the wrong thing to be worried about, am I a bad person?  What can I do to make things better?

For myself, I don't quite have the answers yet--I'm really just going with the flow at this point, reserving my judgment and my panic for a later date.  But I did think that someone else might have something to say about this.  Asa'el, my angelic narrator of Tales of the Stolen Earth, weighs in with the advice he was given and the wisdom he has chosen to follow in the days to come.  Check it out in Silver Linings.

A Sobering Realization

Those who know me may or may not be surprised to know that I have anxiety.  It’s never been diagnosed (outside help? in this economy?) but I feel that I’ve done enough research on my own and, you know, lived my life long enough to know what I’m dealing with.  And I’ve always taken pride in and been relieved that whatever is going on in my head is not enough to keep me from living my life.  Now I’m not so sure about that.

I had a long conversation with a coworker today.  This conversation has been coming for a while and was one of those times when everything that has been bottled up for too long comes out.  We went over all the ways we’ve clashed in the past months and tried to explain our very different viewpoints.  I admit that I went into the conversation thinking I was the only wounded party, but I hope I’ve moved all the way past that now.  But even as I was trying to defend myself without excusing myself, I realized that my explanations for my actions all went back to anxiety.

I don’t communicate well with others because it makes me anxious if I think someone is upset or angry with me.  I imply that I don’t trust others because I really don’t trust myself.  I do things myself because it’s easier than asking someone else to do it and maybe having to confront them.  All these things—most of my failings at work, in fact—come out of my attempts to protect myself from that sick feeling in my stomach, from the tightness in my chest, from the frantic racing of my thoughts.  And it makes me wonder what else in my personality is formed by the fear that is never far from my mind.  Do I write letters because it’s the easiest way to reach out to others?  Am I so eager to make it as a writer because the only safe job seems like one in which I can stay home?

It’s a hard thing.  Everyone wants to think that they’re in control of themselves, if not of their whole life.  And it’s miles easier to blame others than yourself for your problems.  But I can read over my arguments in the texts—and yes, this conversation happened over text, which is also telling—and I can see the repetition for myself.  Everywhere that there was a problem, it came back to just one thing.

It’s disheartening, and it scares me a little bit.  I do think that good things come out of my anxiety—it makes me sensitive to others, and it teaches me to be careful.  Too careful?  Too sensitive?  Maybe so, though I never thought so before.  But what worries me most is, does having so much of myself built by a weakness, make me weak, too? 

I hope not.  I’m learning as I get older that the more one knows oneself, the more positive of an impact one can have on the world.  I’m hoping that this is just one more step in my education about myself.  I’m hoping that having seen the faults in my own personality, I can tread more carefully and work around them.

I have a prayer for this that I’ve been repeating more and more as time goes by.  It’s very simple: “Let my words and actions be governed by wisdom, not weakness.”  And it has helped me, a few times, to do the right thing when it would have been easier not to.  I still have a long way to go, of course, but maybe if I keep at it, I can build up a part of myself that isn’t touched by fear.

Reflections on 2019 and 2020

The turn of the year is always strange to me, and this one has been stranger than most.  Between stress from changes at work and a few other factors, I never did feel very festive over the holiday.  I kept waiting to be excited for Christmas—though I can be somewhat of a Grinch in the weeks between Halloween and Christmas, usually my mood has turned by the time the shopping is done.  That didn’t happen this year.  All the way up to Christmas itself I remained tightly wound and wishing it would all be done.  Even on Christmas Day I was ambivalent.  I take from this a lesson not to let myself get too worried about Christmas traditions—cards and gifts are all very well, but not worth the sacrifice of my peace of mind. 

As for New Year’s, I was a little wiser, and chose rest over my traditional trip to Richmond to visit friends.  I did stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve, but not to watch the ball drop or to celebrate—I only knew the new year had come by a glance at the clock from my reading chair.  And now 2020 is here, and only now am I beginning to feel thoughtful.  What will this new year—and this new decade—bring?

Normally I take a searching look at the previous year around this time, and perhaps I’ll do that again, but this year I don’t quite feel up to it.  2019 was fairly innocuous.  I’m not ashamed of the fact that I spent most of the year at home reading books.  I’ve set myself a solid reading regimen that I have kept to faithfully, and I use it to educate myself both in general, with books about society and history and psychology, as well as in my craft with classics and bestselling works in my genre.  Allow me to take this moment to strongly recommend Ann Leckie’s Ancillary Justice, as well as Illuminae by Amie Kaufman and Jay Kristoff, both excellent and beautifully complex science fiction stories.  In addition, I completed my own science fiction epic, the Youngest series, which I hope to push hard towards publication this year.  And speaking of publication, small pieces of my own work were featured in “From the Depths” out of Haunted Waters Press, as well as on Typishly.  It’s a small start, but a start nonetheless.  For all that, I would gladly trade several adventure opportunities.

I did get out of Roanoke a few times, mostly at the end of the summer.  I took a road trip to Syracuse and Boston in August, and at the end of the same month I went to my cousin’s wedding in Nashville.  And music keeps me busy almost as much as the written word—the Roanoke Symphony Orchestra performed first a concert of Russian classics, then its typical holiday Pops concert, which continues to grow in both size and extravagance.  I’m also ever more proud of my children’s choir, further proof of my deep appreciation of small things.

I write all this mostly as a way of keeping record, so that someday I can have it for reference.  In this way I suppose that my looking back is a way of looking forward.  Usually that’s the only kind of looking forward I do at the new year, but I find myself thinking more and more about what’s to come.  2020 is, after all, the year I will turn thirty, so I suppose it’s natural that I should expect some big changes this year.  But I hope I can remember not to be disappointed in myself if those changes don’t come.  I’m happy with my lot, and more and more I’m learning not to compare my life to that of others.  I have my own timeline to follow, and no one knows it but me.

With that in mind, I continue on with my day and my month and my year.  Time continues on, fast and slow all at once, and we can only follow.  Happy 2020, everyone.

A Picture of Quiet

The house is quiet.  My roommate is out of town, so her room is dark, the spinning chairs empty—or at least they would be, except she uses one of them to hold things like laundry between dryer and drawer, or books that she’s reviewing.  The other chair is overflowing with so many cushions and blankets that I’m a bit amazed that she can fit in there, too, regardless of how small she may be.

The kitchen is quiet, too.  There are a few dishes in the sink I haven’t gotten to yet, and I’m not sure that I will today.  Stranger things have happened, I suppose.  I also need to refill the sugar bowl.  I’m more likely to do that, especially if I make myself a cuppa this afternoon.  The floor is slightly sticky in places from where I overflowed water and lemon juice the other day, trying to descale the tea kettle.

Since both windows are open in the living room, it’s not quite as quiet.  The rush of cars on the street, the faint buzz of someone mowing their lawn, the distant hum of an airplane overhead, all are made welcome in this space.  Still, the noises make themselves at home in the concept of quiet.  The sunshine has moved away from the books on the back of the sofa and now shines on the covers of the books that wait on the arm of my reading chair.  A small gray and white cat sits in the corner of that red chair, glancing up every time I go by. 

My bedroom is the least quiet, but I still wouldn’t call it loud.  The pattering of my fingers on the keys is nothing that would disturb anyone.  The music that plays from behind my word processor shifts from cool saxophones to deep-voiced storytellers to Hotel California.  Perched over a tealight, the wax cubes I got for my birthday melt silently into puddles and let off the scents of oakmoss, yuzu, and ambitious plots.  I take a quick break to google ‘yuzu’: a Japanese citrus fruit.  Condensation beads on the side of my water bottle.  My hair is almost dry.  I have one entry in my journal already on the page I use to track my writing, and it’s only one o’clock. 

Madeleine L'Engle's Mrs. Whatsit declares that wild nights are her glory.  Quiet days are mine.  In the quiet, my books hold their stories in wait for me, while I spin my own across a white screen.  In the quiet, I am at home.

All I Ever Wanted

I just got back from “vacation” this week.  (I’ll explain the quotation marks in a minute.)  It was one of those just-because things: I had wanted to go and visit my friend in Boston sometime this summer, and it just so happened to work out the best that I come and see her right after her job ended and bring her back to our hometown so she could spend some time with her family.  I also took the opportunity to run up and see my sister and—equally as important—meet my niece-cat and nephew-cat.  So it was a week of visits, board games, lots of driving, and me finding ways to entertain myself while my hosts were busy.  For some reason, I find it hard to call this a vacation.

It fits the definition—“an extended period of leisure and recreation, especially one spent away from home or in traveling” (which Google tells me is from the OED).  I was away from home, and I was at my leisure most of the time.  But when I think of vacation, I think of glamorous, exciting places—white sandy beaches or gleaming snowy slopes, or else cobblestone streets and ancient monuments and people walking by speaking other languages.  I think of it as a time to move out of what I know of the world and get a different perspective.  The amount of time I sat in my sister’s house, doing exactly what I would have done in my own, seems to serve as a disqualifier.

But “leisure” in the above definition only touches lightly on something that I think every good vacation needs: rest.  Yes, it is good to go new places and learn new things, but what good does it really do to leave the daily grind only to beat yourself into a frenzy trying to get from place to place?  My mind may not have been particularly expanded by this past week, but my spirit felt the benefit of it.  I had time to have a good long talk with my sister, to sit with a purring cat in my lap, to sing through musicals with my friend, to write and to sleep in and to read.  In short, I could do precisely what I wanted to do, and that was truly a delight to me.

Maybe my next vacation will be an education to me, and maybe it won’t.  Either way, no matter how ‘lame’ it may seem to have spent so much of my vacation in my pajamas, I was very glad to have it.  And if I get the chance to have another restful week like this, I will definitely take it.

I'm Too Tired to Come Up with a Catchy Title

I am finding a new intimacy with weariness.

Sorry, I just had to be poetic for a minute.  But seriously.  I’m tired.

I saw something once online where someone called themselves not an early bird or a night owl but “some kind of permanently exhausted pigeon.”  It seems apt enough to me.  Today I woke up at five, as I always do on Mondays so I can go meet the truck deliveries for the restaurant.  I don’t mind working early in the morning—it leaves my afternoons and evenings free, which suits me just fine.  But those very early shifts are a drag, and this morning was one of the worst.  Even as I drove into work, I was dreaming about the nap I would take this afternoon.  And that nap, which was supposed to take only half an hour, stretched almost into two.

Today’s an atypical day in that respect.  Usually I don’t nap, unless one counts five minutes of closing my eyes over a book in the afternoon.  And I don’t usually feel the weight of exhaustion behind my eyes and in my limbs the way I did today.  But tiredness is a familiar feeling.  I realized several years ago that my go-to conversation starter is “Man, I’m tired.”  I think I did that because not only is it often true for me, but it’s true for most other people as well.

What is it about adulthood that wears us out so much?  For me, I know that part of it is a failure to manage my own sleep well enough.  I have an alarm on my phone that tells me when I should go to bed, but I rarely follow it.  Usually by the time it goes off, I’m not as tired as I was in the afternoon (thanks, circadian rhythms).  Even if my body is ready to let go, my mind still clings to its to-do list, the stories it wanted to explore and the tasks it wanted to accomplish.  Sleep does not weigh as heavy in the balance as all that—though as I get older and more tired, it’s growing in significance.  And while I know that there are other factors that add to my fatigue, diet, exercise, and hormonal patterns being among them, I’ve never taken the time to really look into them.  I am not a good custodian of my own body.

There is just so much I want to do.  There are so many books to read and shows to watch and things to learn.  I want to learn sign language and Korean, and I want to finish War and Peace before it’s due back at the library (unlikely—this is one book I will have to renew), and I want to find a good agent for my novel, and I want to get new music for the children’s choir, and I want to write haiku and read manga and whittle down my list of shows to watch and ponder the existence of love in the world and plan out my vacation.  And, oh yeah, I should probably eat something and shower tonight.  Who has time for sleep?

The problem would seem to be that my mind has far greater reserves of energy than my body does.  But as I grow more intimate with fatigue, I recognize that I wear down mentally and emotionally as well as physically.  As an introvert, I have to ration out my socializing—any week that has more than two social engagements in it makes me tired just to look at it in my calendar.  It’s a tricky business, though, with various considerations to rule in—meeting up at home with one of my friends, for example, takes very little out of me, but attending a church event sometimes takes days of mental preparation, and heaven forbid someone invites me to a party.  So managing my schedule is a delicate business, and sometimes the social anxiety weighs in the balance.  Imagine having to explain to someone that, however much I may love them, I can’t spend too much time in their company because their presence exhausts me.  How do I say it without offending them?

Still, I’m realizing that I’m better off now than I was ten years ago.  Though my body is not quite as resilient as it was (I definitely won’t claim to be aged yet, but I definitely notice a difference!), I am more aware of what makes me tired and what doesn’t.  In finding a new intimacy with weariness, I also have found a new intimacy with myself.

Here is my conclusion: life is exhausting.  The key to managing that is finding what gives you rest—physically, emotionally, and mentally—and doing that.  That’s harder than you might think, because trust me, the world has a lot of advice on how to do it.  Supplements and medicines, meditation, apps and wearable technology, habits to take up and habits to avoid—the list goes on and on.  But in the end, you have to find what works for you, and stick to it.

It’s an ongoing process, because I fully expect to be as different at thirty-eight as I am now from my eighteen-year-old self.  But I’m learning.  And in one respect, in the matter of my confidence that I know what is right for me, I am sure that the world will not wear me down.  I will follow my own advice, and sleep better for it. 

Our Lady, Burning: A Response to the Fire at Notre Dame Cathedral

A fire has broken out at the famous Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris.  The roof structure, built in the 13th century and called 'the forest', is lost, and the spire has fallen.  I've been following live updates on CNN with a heavy heart, and I wanted to share my thoughts on this sad event.

Our Lady, Burning

She is many things, and one.
Every eye that rests on her tranquil face
brings something new,
someone loved.
I bring frosted glass and opaque eyes,
age-softened hands and an abrupt laugh
and a faith I never felt
but which has a claim on me nevertheless.
I also bring a source of story and song,
a familiar edifice against a sunset of dreams,
glinting glass roses and stony whispering air
and the bells, bells, bells.
Ours.  Always she is 'ours'
and yet unclaimed, unpossessed.

Today she is on the pyre.

There is a silence across the river
that I can hear across the ocean.
I can see the tears falling
from eyes that cannot look away.
The smoke that shrouds the city of lights--
I can taste it.
I was but one set of shuffling footsteps,
one child searching her shadows,
and yet I am a part of her,
and as her forest falls
and her prayers are drowned by alarms,
I, too, grieve.

But the hand raised against her--
be it careless fate or cruel faithlessness--
will not change her,
for hymns will rise higher than the smoke.
Though we mourn--oh, how we mourn!--
voices are already lifting in hope,
saying words such as 'rebuild' and 'faith'
and 'together.'
Our lady's face remains tranquil,
for she is many things still, and still one.
To lose part of the many does not diminish her,
and love burns more fiercely than any flame.

Labor of Love

This weekend was kind of a big deal.  For about six years now, I have been working on one single enormous project: my novel series of four books, titled (for now) Release, Renewal, Revelation, and Relief.  That is over now, as I finally finished writing the last book on Saturday. 

Pause for effect.

It’s a bewildering thing.  I’m proud of my work—while it needs polishing, I know that it is strong, especially the ending.  And yet, I feel a little hollow.  At first, I thought it was grief for the story that has lingered at the back of my mind for half a decade, or else for those characters who didn’t make it to that strong ending.  But that’s the thing about books—whatever may happen, the story never really ends, and a character still is, even after death.  Both remain rooted in the present—you just have to turn the pages back to find them again.  I should be glad that they are all now real for more than just me.

Ay, there’s the rub.  To give this story and these characters substance in the real world cost me a bit.  I used to be able to dive into their world in my mind, to test and try on plots, to taste their words in my mouth.  It used to be an escape for me, somewhere I could go to be someone else for a while.  Now, however, that door is closed.  The story is on paper, all its possibilities solidified, and there’s no way in anymore except by the words on the page.  And while I have other stories into which I can flee, this one has been my chosen destination for so long.  I will miss spending time there.

Still, I’m glad that I did it.  The hours of work, the years of thought—I don’t regret a minute.  These characters have given me so much, and I owed it to them.  Now even if they go no further, still they are in the world.  They are real.  And I could not ask for more than that.

Anticipation

I am a member of a young church.  This particular congregation has been meeting for only about a dozen years, and only now do we have a church building under construction.  I drive by the work site every day on my way home from work, and today they were putting the roof on the tower.  I was very excited to see it, particularly since the work has been on hold the past week or so due to bad weather.  

Our pastor was talking on Sunday about how he is getting used to the new tour guide role he takes on, showing people around the work-in-progress.  As I was thinking about the possibility of stopping for a tour today, I thought about what a strange tour it would be.  With most buildings, what is notable about them is the things that have happened inside, the history they have witnessed and the beauty that has been put into them.  But in this case, the points of interest are future events—here is where we will hold worship, here is where the children will meet for Sunday school, here is where we will store fourteen different crockpots before a church picnic.

It’s an odd difference, but also exciting.  Anything is possible, and that is physically visible now in the unpainted walls and the unfinished floors.  The whole building is a blank canvas onto which our community will be able to make our mark.

It’s also an excellent metaphor for faith.  It’s not the looking back that matters in religion, but looking forward to what good is to come, be it in this life or the next.  What we need to focus on is the future—what can be built and what can be changed for the better.  I can only hope that we can hold on to that thought once the building is no longer unfinished.

True Horror

I’ve never been much of a fan of horror.  I tend to avoid scary movies and spooky books, because I never could understand why someone would choose to terrify themselves.  I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of wide-awake dread, that breathless waiting for something to leap out of the darkness, the trembling weakness that comes through the body in anticipation of violence.  Maybe some people do like those sensations, and if so, great.  More for them.

But I’m learning that there are many different kinds of horror, because there are many different kinds of fear.  Danger comes in all shapes and sizes, particularly now in our safe, apparently civilized world.  And some fears, while less striking than the bloody-thing-jumping-out-of-the-shadows kind, are more real and more familiar to me.

This is on my mind because I am currently reading through my Christmas books, one of which was a gift from my roommate.  She knows that I love “Welcome to Night Vale”, the creepy-wonderful podcast by Jeffrey Cranor and Joseph Fink.  Night Vale, by the way, is a very mild kind of creepy—I wouldn’t even class it as horror, myself, more bizarre humor with a side of sharp satire.  But Joseph Fink also has a book out now unrelated to Night Vale called Alice Isn’t Dead, which is the book that my roommate found and the story that inspired this post.  It is about a woman who, after seeing her dead wife staring at her from a news report, drops everything and goes off to search for her in an eighteen-wheeler.  On the road, in the places where many people pass and no one stays, Keisha finds something that can truly be called horrible.  Allow me to share the passage that made me want to write this afternoon.

At around four in the morning she heard haphazard, arrhythmic clapping.  Adrenaline seized through her, but she stood and with shaking legs left her bedroom.  She crept down the stairs.  Slap slap came the sound.  There was a flickering in her living room.  Slap slap.  The TV was on and muted, showing a local weather-woman describing a hurricane that would never come anywhere near the area Keisha lived.  Against this weather report, Keisha saw a blurred reflection.  A strange bent shape, swinging loosely back and forth.  Slap slap.  She smelled tilled earth, and she smelled her own sweat, and she smelled cleaning chemicals and the sharp funk of a gas station bathroom. 

“WOOP,” the shape said.  “WOOOOOP.”  Slap slap.  Slap slap. 

She leaned around the living room door with as little of herself visible as possible.  A Thistle Man, not the one she had first met, and not the one she had followed to the town, and not the one from her neighbors’ deck, but another one still.  He was bent horribly backward, like his spine was broken, and he was loosely swinging his arms back and forth in a circle so that they slapped his chest and back.  Slap slap.  Slap.  He gurgled.  “WOOOP!” he shouted.  “WOOOOOOOOOP!”  (Fink, 91-92)

First of all, I have to say how beautifully this is written, even this strange and disturbing description.  Well done, Mr. Fink.  And what talent he has with the detail, revealing the creature slowly, its strangeness coming one chilling element at a time.  But that isn’t what brought me to the keyboard.  I am here, as ever, to figure out what is going on in my head: in this case, why this image will not leave my head.  It is not particularly scary.  Small spoiler: this weird monster does nothing any more dangerous than this.  Keisha runs back to her bedroom, and he doesn’t follow, and the next day he is gone.  And yet it is frightening to me.  Out of all the terrible things that these Thistle Men do in the book, this is the image that keeps coming back, the monster entertaining itself in a darkened house.

To me, this is horror on a deeper level, and one that I can appreciate.  Anyone can jump out of a dark shadow and scare someone—I’ve done it myself, more than once.  There is no artistry in that.  But that slapping, swinging monster is chilling on a deeper level because there is a mystery to him.  We don’t know why he is doing this.  It’s never explained, at least not at the point in the book I’ve reached so far.  I don’t think it will be explained, either; it is just a strangeness, something included to make clear just how not human these creatures are.  And that is the kind of horror that this book is built upon—the mystery, and the unexplained, and the things that are very not human, and yet very real and very clever and very dangerous.  Fink reaches into the dark corners of the world with this story, dragging out grimy things like what you find in the sink drain or that corner behind the stove that never gets cleaned.  He brings those things to light, where they do not belong, and it is terrifying.

This book, and books like it, are an exploration of the darkness that lives in the world.  We like to pretend we don’t have the dark, but it is there, like those apps you can’t uninstall from your phone.  There is darkness in the world, and there is darkness in every human soul, and try as we might, we can’t always know what is hiding there.  That is why strange stories like these are scary, but also why it is important.  Because every story about things hiding in the dark needs someone who goes after them, who asks questions, who tries to find out what they are and how to defeat them.  We need to be able to look into the shadows, despite the horror they raise, and accept the realities that live there.  True horror stories are practice for looking into the dark and dealing with what is there, and something tells me that we will need that practice.

Fallow Year

Well.  It has been almost a year since I visited this site.  Through most of this year, this place in my mind has lain fallow, undisturbed by any attempt at growing life.  This is good for a farmer’s field—is it as good for a creative activity?  Or is this rather like a muscle that will atrophy if not exercised?

I have to admit, I do not like to write about my life.  There is a reason that I am a science fiction and fantasy writer—or rather, there are many reasons, but the one that is most relevant here is that my own life often bores me.  I get up, I go to work, I come home, I read a book, I go to bed.  The next day I do it all over again.  Why would anyone have any interest in what I do, if I don’t?  And often I don’t.  Viewed from outside my own head, I am a very dull creature.

This is not to say that I am unhappy.  I like my job, and I do not regret the time I spend reading or writing.  I fill my days with thought and story and music, and I am content with that.  But that kind of thing is hard to put into essay form.  That is why this blog is filled with my reflections on my life, rather than reports on my activity.  And even that has fallen silent this year.

I think that is because I have become comfortable with being my own master.  I started this blog because I was advised to do so by a writer I interviewed in college, and I’ve kept it going out of a sense of obligation.  But why, I wonder, should I spend so much time chipping away at telling my own story when I am so eager to tell others?  My time and my creative energy are so precious, and I have learned by now that my writing is much better when I let it flow, rather than when I try to force it.  And so this year I have devoted my time to angels and to artificial intelligence, and occasionally to demons and magic mirrors and space pirates.  I have thrown myself into the joy of writing and tried not to guilt myself too much about what I "should" be doing.

I see the wisdom, of course, in working in several different styles of writing.  Variety is the spice of life.  And so I will try to keep posting here, though there will likely be long stretches in between updates.  But I am to the point that I know my craft, and more importantly, I know myself.  I will write what needs to be written and let the rest come as it may.

Chance of Showers

My sister is getting married this year.  This has resulted in a lot of planning and talking and arranging, as weddings usually do.  It seems to me—and I may be wrong, having never been married—that it is more like planning a military maneuver than preparing for a ceremony.  You have to position your troops carefully, arrange for sustenance, worry about the weather…it’s a lot to think about.  While I’m looking forward to being married, I don’t think I will like the wedding much—or at least, not until the day it actually arrives.

Another thing that weddings come along with is tradition.  We had her bridal shower last week, and one of the topics of conversation was where all the wedding traditions came from.  Why are there groomsmen and bridesmaids at all?  Why does the bride wear white?  Why should you save all the bows from the presents at the bridal shower?  And what about the shower itself?  Is it really just an excuse to get presents from people who may or may not be at the wedding?  I mean, nice work if you can get it, but there’s got to be a better reason.

I got a clue to that answer close to the end of the shower, when one of the women suggested the married guests (most of them) give a bit of advice on married life.  Their warm and loving suggestions held a lot of wisdom, and a lot more love for my sister and her future husband.  Where is a single woman supposed to learn how to be married, after all?  Part of it, I imagine, has to be learned on the fly, because every couple is different.  But the support and advice of older women is vital, and a community of women can be the most uplifting company one can find.  The shower, then, is a symbol of that support, the acceptance of a young woman into the next stage of her life.

What does this mean, then, for a woman like me, who is single and without likely prospect for a husband?  Am I excluded from that community?  The opposite was made clear to me at the shower—nearly every one of those women had a bit of advice for me as well.  They assured me that I had plenty of time and that they would put together a shower for me, too, when it was my turn.  One or two even told me that I didn’t need a man to be happy—shocking thought!  But however it was worded, I felt their support and love, and I was grateful for it.

I think a lot of women my age and in my situation are just waiting—for marriage, for children, or even just until they can afford a better way of life.  I know that I am waiting: I certainly don’t want to stay where I am forever.  I am trying, however, to live as much and as richly as I can while I’m waiting, and I am content to wait.  Every day I do a little something more to get to where I want to be, and eventually the right person will come along or an opportunity will appear or one of my plans will turn out the way I hope.  And I know that however and whenever I become ready to take the next big step, I will find the same wisdom and care that was “showered” on my sister.  As I’ve said, a community of loving women is a blessing, and I have no doubt that mine will be there for me when it’s time.

2017 In Retrospect

Here we are again in that strange limbo space between Christmas and New Year’s.  This is one of the strangest times of year, times in which we look backward and forward, but never seem to see what’s right in front of us.  These days are neither one thing nor the other.  Maybe we need that odd in-between stage to make us appreciate the moments when our feet are more firmly planted.  Looking back on this year, nothing immediately springs to mind that was all that spectacular.  It’s only when we look at the details, when we take a closer look, that life springs up in the cracks.

I started January in a state of anxiety—my boss was going to be out of town for much of the month, and for the first time I would be running things.  I remember I kept telling myself that I was ready, but I still didn’t feel that I fit in on a personal level.  Thankfully the days went quietly without disaster, though it would be some time before I really felt a part of the business.  In another part of my life, however, friendships and kindness opened up to me as I truly began to integrate with my church family.

February and March were peaceful.  I went to see a marvelous play written by my good friend Meredith Levy, “She Made Space,” a one-woman show about finding one’s place in the world and in culture.  If you have the chance to see it, I highly recommend it.  In what is becoming a tradition, I took my sister to the movies for her birthday.  She already has her selection picked out for next year. 

April was full of friendships—breakfast with girlfriends (and a baby!) one day, dinner the next.  We watched Doctor Who together when it reappeared, always a noble pursuit.  There was music this month, too, as I sang Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with the Roanoke Symphony Orchestra.  It was an extraordinary opportunity, particularly the performance we gave at Liberty University in their new concert hall.  There is a moment in the fourth movement of the piece, when the orchestra reduces down to the deepest instruments—the upright bass in particular, a dear favorite of mine—playing the main theme as softly as possible, and it was exquisite.  Then, when the choir entered, and the bass voices rang out in triumph to the vaulted ceiling…I can try, but there are no words for how beautiful it was. 

At the end of April, our church broke ground on our new church building, and May saw the beginning of site prep at our property.  I was delighted that the property lies along my route to work, and all this year I have been watching the place that will be a home and a haven to me take shape.  (We have roof panels now!)  May was also a month of graduation for two dear friends, one from her undergrad program, the other from master’s.  I was and am so proud of them both.

I spent a portion of June housesitting for a family I often help in this way.  They have horses, so it’s harder to find someone who can take care of the place.  Would it be called farmsitting, then?  I always enjoy it; it’s like a vacation, in a way.  Then, at the end of the month, I took a long weekend and drove up to Washington, DC and Baltimore.  I took some time in DC to play the tourist and visit with my uncles in Alexandria, which was simply a delight.  After that it was onward to Baltimore, where I spent a few days celebrating the wedding of a friend.  Have you ever noticed that true friendships are the ones you can sink back into, like into a warm bath, and find that nothing has changed?  I am grateful for that.

July, my birthday month, was hot and wonderful.  I was celebrated first with roller coasters at King’s Dominion, then with Taming of the Shrew at the Blackfriars, the Shakespeare theatre in Staunton, VA.  The Blackfriars is one of my very favorite places, and the shows performed there by the American Shakespeare Center are marvelous.  Less marvelous was the moment when I bid farewell to a dear friend of mine, who set off for Boston for a year.  I have missed seeing her regularly as I used to.

Midway through July, a friend talked me into taking a trip out to Utah in August, so with far less planning than I normally put into trips, I flew out with her to Salt Lake City.  The Rocky Mountains are beautiful—I couldn’t take my eyes off them for the whole first day.  We went hiking up one of them to a gorgeous waterfall.  It’s strange how when you have exerted yourself for such a view, it seems more wonderful than it would have if you had driven up to it.  You have earned it, somehow.  We also went to a Shakespeare festival in Cedar City and saw the stark beauty of the red rock canyons on the way back.  Much of the rest of the trip was spent in hanging out with friends, which I think should take up more time on vacations then it usually does.  After all, what is the point of any vacation if you don’t get any rest?  My one regret was that I missed the performance of the Mormon Tabernacle Choir.  The three of us shared a stomach bug during the week we were there, and that was my day to be sick.  Another time, maybe.

In early September my sister came into town with my mother, and we three went dress shopping for her wedding this spring.  She found a beautiful dress in the first shop we went into, and they even managed to scrounge up a dress for me, as well.  Later in the month I made a (very) humble dinner for a friend’s birthday, and we started watching “Outlander” weekly, which is a brilliant show filled with drama and Scotsmen.

I celebrated Sukkot with friends in October, the festival of waving branches and building Jew forts.  I mean no disrespect, of course—it was a fascinating evening, and the music played there was some of the loveliest I’ve heard.  October was also the month that I selflessly offered to help a friend in her new business, becoming one of her massage clients.  I haven’t regretted it—she is gracious and very good at what she does, and it allows me to keep in touch with her.  At the end of the month the RSO took hold of me again, and I sang with the choir in a concert celebrating the 500th anniversary of the Reformation.  Lots of German in that program, and some truly beautiful music.  More music happened in November with the same choir’s performance of selections from Handel’s Messiah, a piece that is truly unique and wonderful.

December, as ever, was devoured by Christmas, although I did everything I could to avoid the music (it took three audiobooks to get me through the season).  Performing Christmas music, of course, is different from hearing it ad nauseum on the radio.  I enjoyed the RSO’s holiday performances very much.  At the yearly Pops performance in the Salem Civic Center, a monster of a concert, the Virginia Tech sousaphone players joined us for a delightful show called “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Hokie.”  Imagine a kickline of people playing instruments about the size of cars.  It was beautiful.  Just as wonderful, though not as well-advertised, was the first performance of my own little children’s choir on the second Sunday in Advent.  It was their idea to sing, not mine, and I was so proud of them for doing it and doing it well.  After that, there was nothing to do but find Christmas presents for my loved ones and celebrate the reason for the season.

Now here I am, gifted and grateful, my heart warm and my toes cold.  In this drafty little house, my home of more than two years now, I am content.  What will come in 2018, I do not know, but I refuse to be afraid of it.  Today was a good day, and I hope for many more to come.  I hope that for you, as well.  See you next year.

Spirited Silence

This is the time of year when everything stands on its head.  Christmas is the only holiday that takes over an entire month—December no longer has any identity separate from Christmas.  Everything that we do and see seems different in the light of Christmas.  Being a Christian, I should approve of this.  I don’t.

This is not to say that I don’t enjoy Christmas.  I do—when it arrives.  But it seems to me it hasn’t gotten here yet, and I don’t quite like the consumer culture dragging it onto center stage before it’s time.  I do what I can to avoid it all until I’m ready to feel the so-called “Christmas spirit”: I get audiobooks for my car to protect me from the all-too-repetitive Christmas music, I try to spread out my Christmas shopping throughout the year, and I leave any decorating until a week or so before the holiday. 

To me, Christmas appears in the silent moments.  That warm and kindly feeling doesn’t come surrounded by colored lights and someone blaring “Winter Wonderland” from a speaker.  To me, Christmas is white lights on a tree in the distance.  It’s that muffled quality of sound coming through falling snow.  It’s the work I put into gifts on my own, imagining the smiles on my loved ones’ faces.

It’s strange that what is usually accomplished for me by music and song should require silence to happen now.  But then, this is Christmastime, and everything is different.  So don’t try to get me into the spirit—I need to get there myself.  Let Christmas come slowly, when the time is right.  Isn’t it worth the wait?

The Price of Justice, and the Gift of Grace

When it comes to books, I’m not all that adventurous.  I don’t like to waste my time on things I don’t think I’ll like, and so I usually stick to genres I’m familiar with—wizards and unicorns, as my father used to say.  But I do also try to educate myself to inform my writing, and sometimes my writing informs my reading.  For example, having been working on a blog from the viewpoint of an angel for over a year now, I’ve started to pick up anything that has to do with angels.  I’ve dug more deeply into the bible, kept pamphlets that Jehovah’s Witnesses push under my door, and found myself reading fluffy articles written by spiritual people on the internet.  And at the library the other day, when I saw a book called The Trial of Fallen Angels, I picked it up.

I was a bit disappointed not to find a Miltonian novel about Lucifer and his followers receiving judgment, but my disappointment did not last long.  Written by James Kimmel, Jr., this book is a story about a woman seeking justice, and finding something else entirely.  At the beginning of the story, Brek Cuttler, a young lawyer and mother, finds herself on the platform of a train station.  She is naked, covere din blook, and though she tries for several chapters to deny it, she is dead.  But her quest is not to find out what has happened.  Rather, she has been charged with the task of representing the dead in the trials that will decide their eternal fate.  Divine justice is not what she expected, and what Brek will have to do is the hardest thing she has ever done, for her very first client is the man who killed her.

Kimmel’s portrayal of life after death is original and imaginative, relying not on any one tradition but instead presenting a new image of beauty and strangeness, of the impossible made possible.  Despite this imagery, it was a bit hard for me to get into the book—I usually don’t have a lot of patience for suspense or withheld information, and there was a fair bit of it.  But Kimmel does an excellent job drawing in his reader, so before you know it you are in the thick of the story.  Each new character introduced in this supernatural courtroom drama has something to add to the story, until you realize that all of them are drawn together into an intricate and complex history, full of family and tragedy and the importance of justice.

It is justice that is the driving force of the book.  Brek herself has always sought justice, from the time of her childhood.  It frustrates her, therefore, that justice in the afterlife seems hurried, careless, blind to aspects of the truth.  She resolves to bring true justice to this place, but instead she learns a deeper truth that cut me to the heart.  Kimmel’s own words are best to describe it:

Terror and murder are the way of justice, not the way of love.  Every war waged, and every harm inflicted, has been for the sake of justice. … He who seeks justice is harmed, not healed, because to obtain justice one must do that which is unjust. … Not to seek justice is to love those who harm us and become victors.  Love is not passive or submissive.  It is the determined application of opposite force to hatred and fear, demanding the highest effort and skill.” (Kimmel 353)

To me, this was one of those passages that make you put down the book and close your eyes to absorb what you’ve just read.  It had never occurred to me before to see justice and love as opposites.  But it’s true that “justice” is the harsh cry that precedes some of the worst things mankind can inflict on one another.  We demand blood, hardship, and cruelty in the name of justice.  Justice calls for punishment, and it leaves no room for love.

In church on Sunday the pastor was talking about debts and how they must be repaid.  He said that when wrong is done, someone has to bear the cost of it.  Even if the debt is forgiven, that doesn’t erase the wrong, and forgiveness means that the one who was harmed bears the cost.  Forgiveness is not justice; it is grace, a gift that we do not deserve.  It is love, pure and simple.

This was one of those books that put into words something I’ve always felt.  This was one of those passages that made me realize something I’ve always known.  I highly recommend this book, whether you are someone who loves easily or someone who has cried out for justice in your life.  It shows you that there are two sides to every story and many sides to every person, and sometimes justice demands that both opponents must suffer.  But in the end, of the book and of our own lives, it is love that must carry the day.

Quiet Nonsense

Today I choose not to fill the silence with music.  Somehow the quiet makes the breeze cooler, the sunlight brighter.  I don’t know why my senses choose to cooperate in this way, but I wish they would always do so.

Today I find peace bound in leather, soft and fragrant over the boards that protect the pages that hold the thoughts I had not so very long ago.  Those thoughts bring to life new ones, and isn’t it strange that I can find satisfaction and accomplishment simply by having new thoughts?

Today the river is calling me, but whenever I answer that call, I am filled with ideas and words that call me right back here, so that I can catch them before they fly away.  

Today I wonder about inspiration, about the way stories progress, about the difference--and the similarity--between story and meaning.  I wonder what meaning is.  I wonder how I can find it, and if I can someday create it.  Sometimes I wonder if I already have.

Today I do not question where I should be, or who I should be, or how I am failing, or how I am succeeding.  I just am, and there is something wonderful in that.

To Make a Hero

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of fantasy books.  My dad used to say that I would never read anything that didn’t have wizards or unicorns in it.  While that’s not strictly accurate—I loved books with dragons and prophecies too—fantasy has been far and away my favorite genre for my entire life.  And being a writer, I spend a lot of time thinking about fantasy tropes and common plot elements.  On my mind today is the typical fantasy hero or heroine, specifically their history or their backstory.  I’ve noticed that often there has to be some form of drama with the protagonist’s family.  Either they are an orphan, or raised by unkind people who are not their parents (or in the case of Harry Potter, both).  Maybe they have lost one parent and the other is incapable of taking care of them, as with Artemis Fowl and Katniss Everdeen.  Maybe their real parents are not who they thought—take Richard Cypher or Prince Cor of Archenland or the wildmage Daine or Lirael of the Clayr (this is a pretty popular form).  Or maybe they never knew who their parents were, or even thought that they had parents, as with Maximum Ride or Septimus Heap.  Maybe their parents or guardians had secrets that are only discovered after their death, as with Jacob Portman or the Baudelaire children.  Whatever the case, it’s nearly a requirement in a fantasy story for the main character to have some shadows in their past.

Archetypes only become archetypes because they work, so what is it that makes this parental mystery so fascinating?  Maybe it’s because we all, in real life, have a fascination with our family history.  Nearly everyone I’ve ever talked to about this has some story about how their parents met, how they came together, what made their relationship unique and interesting.  It’s not just our parents, either.  We look for interesting stories in the past because we feel that those stories reflect well on us.  If we come from somewhere special, that makes us special, too, right?

Of course, there are stories that avoid this.  Only one of the five young heroes of The Dark is Rising series has a mystical background, and Candy Quackenbush could not possibly get more ordinary.  They become special of their own volition, through their responses to the problems that are thrust upon them.  In the end, all of those other heroes I have mentioned do the same.  Often, their magical or mysterious or interesting beginnings are not help but hindrance to them, making them afraid or guarded, or giving them enemies and setting obstacles in their paths.

What I am trying to say is it’s all well and good to be a “chosen one”, to have something mystical or tragic about you from an early age, some destiny that is just waiting to snatch you into an adventure.  But a hero—read, a good, well-rounded, and capable human being—can be raised in an ordinary, loving home, too.  It is not our beginnings that define us, but what we make of what we have been given.  In the end, we must all make our own greatness.  (Dumbledore said something like that at some point, didn’t he?)

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go write a story in which someone extraordinary is fascinated by the lives of ordinary people.  Because, in the end, it’s the ordinary things which are the most wonderful.


In order of mention, the books referenced above are: Harry Potter by J.K. Rowling, Artemis Fowl by Eoin Colfer, The Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins, The Sword of Truth series by Terry Goodkind, The Horse and His Boy by C.S. Lewis, Wild Magic by Tamora Pierce, Lirael by Garth Nix, Maximum Ride by James Patterson, Magyk by Angie Sage, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children by Ransom Riggs, A Series of Unfortunate Events by Lemony Snicket, The Dark is Rising by Susan Cooper, and Abarat by Clive Barker.  All are personal favorites of mine, and I highly recommend them.

Once Upon a Happily Ever After

I’ve always been a sucker for a happy ending.  In fact I cannot remember one story that I have loved that didn’t have some kind of a happy ending.  Of course there are marvelous books whose endings could never be called happy, but they don’t live on my shelves.  The books that I own, that I read over and over again, all have some kind of happy at the end—the beginning of healing, a small consolation prize for the main character, or even just a line that indicates that the character will still be able to move on—“Tomorrow’s another day” and all that.

I don’t think I’m the only one.  We all love a good “happily ever after.”  So much, I think, that we’ve begun to look for them in our own lives.  We’re all trying to get somewhere, to crest the hill from which point we can look out at the sunrise and smile, and the screen can fade neatly to black.  Maybe that destination is a lifestyle you want (be it white picket fence and 2.5 kids, or the day you can retire and get an RV to travel the country).  Maybe it’s that new job that you’ve had our eyes on for years.  Maybe it’s when your book will be published or when you’ll finally meet The One.  Maybe it’s just the end of the year and a fresh start on a new one.  Whatever it may be, we’re all trying to get there, but when we do, often we find that there’s just another hill to climb after that.

But the thing is, a story never encompasses an entire life.  What book have you ever read that began on the day a person was born and ended the day they died, leaving absolutely nothing out in between?  What book contains all the falling over and bathroom breaks and sick days and staring at the ceiling that we do?  Not to mention all the time we’re asleep (and not dreaming: just drooling into the pillow).  If there were such a book, I guarantee no one would read it all the way through.  It would come across as disjointed, distracting, and just dull.

No, every story has a point, or a moral, or a theme, and whatever is in the story is leading it to that destination.  The happy ending doesn’t just happen; it was constructed by a biased author who picks and chooses what details will help get there.  Trust me, I’ve been there—I spend weeks at a time trying to figure out which sentences and scenes lead to the ending I want.

So when the ending happens depends on what kind of story you’re telling.  If you’re telling a fairy tale, the ending might be a wedding.  If a tragedy, it might well end with your darkest moment, regardless of whether you ever get out of that darkness.  If it’s a story about a journey, then you might have the ending standing beneath the waterfall roaring down from the rocks, or it might be when you’ve caught the stomach bug and miss out on a concert you were looking forward to, or it might end with you sinking back into your easy chair at home.  (All of those things can and have happened on the same vacation.)  

The point to this story (because this is a story, of a sort, and there is a point, to which I’ve carefully led you) is not to worry about whether or not you’ve reached your happy ending.  There are many, many stories in every lifetime, and so at any given moment you are simultaneously living your happily ever after and waiting for the story to begin.  And take it from a writer who hates nothing so much as the middle of a story: both of those positions are good places to be.