when life sucks

The first of the following quotes I discovered in Allison's blog. (Thank you, Al!) The second is from a book I recently read and commented on.

Both of these quotes resonate with me in a powerful way--especially because many recent aspects of my life have felt, to put it bluntly, unbearable. That I am

still here
still more than functional
still optimistic

is a testament to the activeness of God

in my life
in my surroundings
in my heart.


Somehow, he keeps me singing.


And, without further ado, the illuminating and encouraging thoughts of other women:

"Never, ever in our wait, is God inactive. NEVER. We have got to trust that if ever he puts a stay on something, if ever he has put a hold on something, if ever he has called us to wait upon Him: SOMETHING is up. Something is happening in the heavenlies. There is someway that things on earth are coming into the will of the things in Heaven. And we have got to trust Him.
"...When we wait upon a person, a thing, an event, we will lose; but if you're waiting on the Lord, you will renew your strength..."
--Beth Moore
"Esther: It's Tough Being a Woman"

"And he said--gently--that they believe when a lot of things start going wrong all at once, it is to protect something big and lovely that is trying to get itself born--and that this something needs for you to be distracted so that it can be born as perfectly as possible.
"I believe this to be true. And I especially believe it when other people's things are breaking down."
--Anne Lamott
"Traveling Mercies"


I, too, believe these things to be true. God in heaven, I believe these things to be true. You haven't given up on me, that much is clear. Neither will I give up on you. This, I swear.

another episode in stream-of-c

Dear Blog,

I had the feeling I've been neglecting you, so I decided to come post something on you. Kind of like writing on a Post-It Note and sticking it to someone's back without their knowledge. But then I checked, and I saw that I actually posted a few things recently. So I guess the neglecting was all in my imagination. Do carry on with whatever blogginess you were engaged in before I so rudely interrupted.

Sincerely,
C.

In other news, apparently I've had fund-raising on the brain of late. Last week, I participated in the Wishing Well Walk. Amy and I walked 2.5 miles, carrying 2 gallons of dirty water apiece, helping raise awareness of the well shortage in Africa. Lest you be overly impressed with our feat, there were many, many people who carried more water than we did. They rocked the Walk, so to speak.
Then, this evening, I drove up to Edmond to attend Heartbeat for Hope's fundraiser at Adora. It was fun, I bought two cute shirts (15% of the proceeds from Adora's sales tonight will go toward Heartbeat for Hope), and I got to hear a really good band named Countdown for Reno, if I recall correctly.

So, yay for helping people. ;o)

Furthermore, I'd just like to state for the record that it's not my fault my cat has a flabby tummy. We throw away about half the food we give her because she won't eat. And we're already giving her half the recommended amount. So I don't know why her tummy sags, unless it's from getting spayed and no longer having taut tummy muscles. But she has a lot of fur--how'm I s'posed to figure out what happened to her six-pack?!

Also, I think there has got to be a more efficient way of picking jurors for trials. A friend of mine got called in for jury duty and is looking at Day 3 of sitting in a courtroom, waiting to get called in for an interview. They might pick him for the jury, or they might not. Nobody knows. So far, two days of sitting, maybe reading, maybe texting, but mostly just sitting. Why can't they just give people appointments so that not all 160 potential jurors have to come in at the same time and sit? Somehow, I doubt it's stimulating the economy very much to have all these people missing work.

In addition, whoever made the decision to cancel "Firefly" is an annoying person.

Not only that, but I've finally started getting my pomegranate obsession out into the open. Oh yes. There has been a quiet pomegranate obsession of late. A quiet, mental, internalized pomegranate obsession. I don't know why. I only know that I've finally drawn a picture of one, and I like it, and I'm going to add pomegranates to the painting that's been in-progress since January. Themes of Hades and Persephone have been drifting in and out of my awareness. It's all very ethereal and amusing. Now that I've started drawing/painting pomegranates, though, it's about to get concrete and amusing. Bam.

And I wrote two poems during the past week. One for slightly-public consumption (meaning I've shared it with a few people), and one not (meaning nobody gets to see it--yet).

Finally, lest I forget--no, no, no, not Gethsemane, whaddaya think this is, a hymn? ;o) --I've also been working on Deren's Story. And I've decided that Deren's Story is definitely for the boys. Except Deren keeps insisting on having all these romantic thoughts about the girl. I know that romantic thoughts and "for the boys" aren't mutually exclusive--but the oy-vey-potential is there, and I've got my work cut out for me in not turning my poor hero into a feminine shadow of his former self. ;oD Just kidding. Deren and I are not that bad off, I'm just acknowledging some potential here. Maybe blogging about it will help my subconscious mind stay where it's supposed to be. Namely on Heinlein-esque perkiness. And that's all I'm gonna say 'bout that, 'cause that's just how I roll.

;oD

Please forgive the crudity of this blopgost. I didn't have the mental energy to write it to scale.

two items of interest (maybe)

First, if you have any interest in language, linguistics, humor, or speaking, you need to read this. Thanks goes to Nate for pointing it out to me and making this linguistics-obsessed cousin's day. ;oD This poem makes me so happy, I could just do the potato wave.

Second, early Thursday afternoon, a cop pulled me over while I was driving north on Penn between Britton and Hefner. My first thought was that I must have been speeding--though I was pretty sure I couldn't have been going more than 36 or 37 in a 35mph zone.

I pulled off at a gas station, and even though I knew I hadn't done anything spectacularly terrible, my heartrate started going up. It only got worse as the officer came to my open car window and asked for my license and registration. As I handed him my license, I realized that my hands were shaking.

Great. I hope he doesn't notice.

That's stupid. He's a cop. Of course he's going to notice.

The trembling only increased when I pulled out the flimsy registration paper, which betrayed me by fluttering madly as I handed it to the cop. It was all I could do not to roll my eyes at myself. *That*, I figured, would not go over well if he misunderstood the gesture.

"Well, Courtney," he said--

--and inwardly, I did a double-take at being addressed by my first name by a Person Of Authority, which would never occur in the formal society I grew up in--

"Well, Courtney, you're not in big trouble today. Just a little trouble."

Oh good. I guess. That's good, right? Does that mean I'm not getting a ticket, I hope?

"You changed lanes kinda fast back there--"

I know. I did it on purpose. I wanted to get in that space before the motorcycle got too close.

"--without signaling--"

I did, too, signal! I just maybe flipped the switch off again before the light actually started blinking. ;o)

"--and in front of that motorcycle."

I knew the bike was there. I was watching him the whole time. I was always aware of exactly where the front and back ends of my car were in relation to the pickup in front of me and the bike behind me.

As the officer spoke, I nodded in what I hoped were the right places and gave him what probably looked like a sheepish smile.***

"I'm sorry," I said. "I thought I signaled..."

Fortunately, his smile and understanding nod saved me from having to elaborate on what I thought I'd done. I trailed off as he handed back my license and registration.

"Just pay better attention, Courtney. And behave yourself."

*gasp* And egad! You know me!!!

"Okay," I said with a laugh that wasn't at all fake in its shakiness.

Zounds! I'm not getting a ticket! How disgawestomely cramazing** is this?!

"Thank you," said I.

"Have a good day," said he, walking back to his cruiser.

He got in and drove away. I grinned like a loon to myself, ignored the residual adrenaline rush, and continued on my merry way to Walmart.

The End.


**Okay, so those weren't my exact words, since those terms had yet to be invented by Your Truly, but I like to think the sentiment was the same.

***For those of you who suspect I might be tempted: No eyelash-batting took place during the course of this incident.

Getting Things Done, and other importantnesses

So, in the interest of bragging, I'd like to direct your attention here, so that you might ooh-aah over How Much I Have Gotten Done since the recent posting of my to-do list.

Yes, I am tooting my own horn, and I am liking it, thank you very much.

*toot*

*toot*

*grin*

I am a geek.

On a more serious note, there is something on that to-do list that I would like to report is now going better. Two somethings, actually. The first is that I have gone running twice a week for the last three weeks. It hasn't been easy--actually, it has been mostly frustrating and demoralizing as I see how much stamina I lost by not running for two months. Six running sessions, and I still can't go as far or as fast as what I was doing when I quit in November.

That's the first time I've called it what it was: quitting. I quit for two months. I hadn't been able to admit that to myself until now.

I soooooooooooooo badly want to get back to what I was doing before I quit. I had been so encouraged by the progress I'd made; it's not easy for a former heart patient to build up the kind of stamina that comes naturally to most people. And by quitting, I sabotaged myself. I tend to do that with a lot of things--too many to go into right now. But I often wonder if I subconsciously believe that I don't deserve for good to come my way, and so I sabotage myself so as to avoid the good I believe I don't deserve?

Possibly. But that is another story and shall be told another time. ;o)

Anyway, the point is that I WANT to work hard and build back up my to pre-November stamina...and then I want to go further. I am competing against no one but myself, which might make my challenge more difficult.

On the other hand, I ***looooooooooooove*** challenge. Bring it on!

The second "to-do" is that I've been listening to God a lot more lately. Things finally came to a head several weekends ago, when I found myself in so much pain--mental and emotional--that I simply had to drop everything and go to God. I'm sorry I let myself go so far that hitting rock-bottom like that was necessary. But hit the bottom I did, and from there, I had nowhere to go but up.

I don't want to go into details, because really, they're not important. What matters is that for about seventeen hours, I couldn't see or talk to anyone (except Ed, since (a) he lives with me and (b) he got to experience the full force of my emotional-fallen-apart-ness). I talked to God a lot, but I couldn't bring myself to go out and see anyone else. It feels a little weird to say, but my need to spend time with God was so great, I couldn't bring myself to attend a Sunday morning worship service. I was so desperate for God, I wanted no other humans with me, not even other Christians. I don't know if that makes any sense at all, but that's how it was.

By Sunday evening, I had regained enough peace to worship with the house church and immerse myself gladly in that fellowship. Since then, I feel as though I've started being a little more aware of God's presence in my life. My relationship with God still isn't anywhere near where it should be--but I think there is healing going on, like a medicine deep inside, working where nobody but God can see. This isn't the first time in my life that I've experienced this healing; one would think I would have remembered that there's a reason he is called the Great Physician.

Hey, remember the song we used to sing when we were kids?

"He's still workin' on me
to make me what I ought to be...
How loving and patient he must be..."

Why do we ever stop singing that song? It's a lot more relevant for adults than it is for children.

latest on the writing life

So, as some of you already know, I finished the second draft of my novel a couple of weeks ago. HUZZAH!!! Currently, my mom is in possession of the only hard copy. Since she is English Teacher and Proofreader Extraordinaire--and also recently re-retired and having more time on her hands (when, that is, she's not dealing with house-building issues, which is Another Story And Shall Be Told Another Time)--I asked her to be my beta reader for the second draft.

What is a beta reader, you might ask? (Or not, as the case might be, but I'm going to tell you anyway.) A beta reader is something of a proofreader--but beta reading goes much further than simply noting typos or punctuation and spelling errors. A beta also checks characterization and story development, looks for plot holes, finds the Places Where This Just Doesn't Read Right, and generally tries to give honest feedback on how the story reads to a reader.

The recipient of said feedback is, of course, the alpha, i.e. the writer of said story--in this case, Yours Writerly. ;o)

I had a non-mom beta reader for my first draft, and I will admit that I was on pins and needles the whole time he had the manuscript. It was like letting a non-parent hold your newborn baby for the first time. I survived the experience but was quite hard-pressed not to pester the beta with continual questions such as "What chapter are you on?"--"What do you think so far?"--"Does Event X fit in well with Subplot L?"--"How does the fifth paragraph on page 124 read to you?"--and so forth. Though I resisted temptation to plague the beta with my questions, I do believe I still made a nuisance of myself.

Believe it or not, this time it's worse.

The baby isn't a baby anymore. Draft Two is just past the toddler stage, moving fairly well on its own, yet still occasionally head-bumping into the edges of tables and open drawers. I can let it out of my sight for a moment or two, yes--but it's just independent enough to wreak havoc in the livingroom while my back is turned. And when it falls down and bonks its noggin, it still needs me to pick it up, cuddle it, and tell it that everything's going to be okay--see? we'll just scrape off this unnecessary dangling participle right here, and you'll be good as new, shhhh, don't cry. And it looks up at me and says "I love you" with those big, beautiful, well-dialogued and character-driven eyes, and my heart melts.

And what have I done? I've sent that beautiful, growing-up little one off to grandma's house for the next month or so.

You parents out there can appreciate my agony. ;o)

I have to resist calling multiple times per day. "Is it okay? Is it eating well? Is it reading well? Does this changed plot line work? Does that character makesensenow? And haveIdoneahideousthinginlettingmychildoutofsightandoutofhouse and howmuchlongercanItakethis???????????"

I want my kid back!!!!! It's not safe with anyone but me!!!!!!

It has nothing to do with the fact that my mom is the one who has my kid in her keeping. I'd feel this way about any beta reader at this point. (I'm finding, also, that I'm leaning more toward calling her the "gamma" reader, since she's the third....)

It's not even that I feel driven to work on the story right now or anything like that. I just feel very protective, very vulnerable, and very jealous that anyone else is getting a look at the product of my creative psyche's inner workings. And yet, at the same time, I'm excited, rejoicing-y, and very much looking forward to discussing the story with my "gamma" reader when she's finished. It's a nutty dichotomy, and I suppose it's pretty much the way a writer's life always goes.

Oh chocolate mousse custard. If it's bad now, with the second draft, how much worse is it going to be with the third? And the possible fourth?

I guess that when I finally do send the manuscript to an agent, I'll be pretty much catatonic. Consider yourselves forewarned. ;o)

One more thing on writing-life current events: In November, I was focused on NaNoWriMo. In December, I was focused on finishing the second draft of my novel. Last week, after it was all over and the kid was well on its way to grandma's house, I told Ed that I felt as though I were waking up from a particularly pleasant dream.

"I've been a little obsessive, haven't I?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said, then shrugged. "But you're a writer. You kind of have to be."

That felt good.

I love my husband. He gets it. :o)

my to-do list

So, this past week, I FINISHED THE SECOND DRAFT OF MY NOVEL.

Let's have a moment of ponderous silence during which to ponder my ponderous accomplishment.

.

.

.

.

.


There, now, don't we all feel better? I thought so. ;o)

YAY AND HUZZAH, I FINISHED THE SECOND DRAFT OF MY NOVEL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Pop the corks and furl the bumbershoots! Switch your flip! Bring out your dead!

*ahem*

In case you can't tell, I'm rather excited.

Now that the 2nd draft is done, there comes a time of rest from noveling. I need to take a few steps back from the story before I start working on the 3rd draft in a month or so. Until then, I have a few projects in mind, many of which I have been putting off for just such a break-from-noveling occasion. They are as follows, and in random order:

* re-organize my closet and give away excess clothing, of which there exists too much
* organize all digital pictures from the last 15 months. uffda.
* and post a kabloollion pictures to Facebook
* finish the first draft of my 2008 NaNoWriMo novel (I did my requisite 50k, but the story itself is incomplete [and yes, I do realize that this would defeat the purpose of taking a break from noveling--but it *is* a different story, after all!].).
* get my book comment blogging up-to-date (I've got at least 10 books to do, probably more)
* buy some canvas and do some painting (which I haven't since August)
* find out how to go about volunteering at the Ronald McDonald House
* clean and re-organize my desk so that it actually fosters creativity instead of quashing it. uffda.
* spend my gift card
* write some people (and I mean the real kind, not fictional)
* update my journal
* answer blog comments
* blog about the writing life
* blog about "resonance"
* fix the problems with my Facebook Notes
* clean out my car (and give Jennifer her stuff)
* re-organize some of the kitchen cabinets and get rid of never-used implements
* get back into regular exercise

*** spend regular time with God--because I have been putting him off. I admit it.

I'll strikethrough each project as I finish it--except for the last two, because they need to be ongoing. :o) I'm sure there are other things I need to get done, or would like to (for instance, investigate the nature of the clattering-about my neighbor does in his kitchen at 11 o'clock every night), but these are the only ones I could think of right now. So, here's my list, and I'll be checking it way more than twice, and there you have it, and now I'm going to bed!

transitional meltdown revisited

Things finally came to a head today. I'd been feeling the malaise (or ennui, if you will) coming on, and I'd been doing various creative, spiritual, and mental/emotional health exercises to stave it (that is, the malaise/ennui) off. But I knew that at some point, something was gonna give. I asked the house church to pray for me yesterday, so I knew that God would get something done, one way or the other.

God seems to answer my prayers in the grocery store a lot. But I'm getting ahead of myself. Sort of.

So this afternoon, I got ready to go to the grocery store. Crest, to be specific. I finally remembered to bring along my cloth bags and Klappkiste (? a foldable plastic box, great for carrying stuff, staple in every German household). I debated taking the cloth bags into Crest with me and asking the bagger simply to bag my purchases in my personal bags. I decided against that, though, figuring it might throw the bagger for too much of a loop.

Because, as you know, friends and neighbors, baggers don't like to be thrown for loops. I didn't know that before this afternoon, but I sure as turkey-at-Thanksgiving know it now. My leaving the cloth bags in the car must have been prophetic. But again, I'm getting ahead of things.

Went to Crest. Shopped for groceries. Couldn't find chicken broth. Found lots of new food for Pippin. Gave up on chicken broth. Chicken broth and catfood not related.

When I arrived at the cash register, I told the bagger that I'd like for him to place all my groceries directly in a cart without bagging them. The bagger in question made an affirmative noise--"Mmhm" or "Okay" or somesuch. I turned my attention to the cashier and the growing total on his screen as he scanned my groceries.

A few moments later, I looked to my right and saw the bagger putting my squash and northern beans into a paper bag.

"Oh, I'd like for the groceries to go into the cart," I said again, thinking maybe he didn't hear me the first time. "I don't want any bags."

He bagged a can of catfood. "Well, I'm really not supposed to let you do that."

Wha....?

My brain tried to process for a second. Didn't succeed. See, this is the part where the cultural transition issues come into play: I couldn't grasp all the implications of what he was saying. It was literally impossible for me to shift gears in my mind. I grabbed onto the first thing that popped into my head, probably chipping off a few mental teeth in the process.

I would love to say that I replied to him with gentle, polite, but firm insistence.

Instead, all that came out was, "What happened to 'the customer is always right'?" And it was rather snippish, too. I was mortified at my own rudeness, but plowed ahead anyway. "I really don't want any bags."

"Well," said he, "we've been having problems with people stealing food."

I felt my mouth drop open. Rationality was making a hasty exit. I looked from him to the open exit door...seven or eight feet away. How would I steal food, going from this register out that door? Do you want to watch me?

Aloud, I said, "I'll be going from here--" pointing at my feet "--to there--" pointing at the doorway close at hand.

He glared at me. At least, it seemed like a glare. It could have been an expression of abject disappointment in the way his day was going. I don't know. He kind of mumbled something. I gestured in the general direction of the shopping cart. "Please just put the groceries in the cart. I really. Don't. Want. Any. Bags."

He began taking catfood, beans, and other items out of the bags and putting them into the cart. As I turned away with a world-weary sigh, he muttered, "All right, but it won't be my fault if you get stopped."

I forbore replying to that. This whole time, the cashier had continued merrily scanning items and sending them in the general direction of the recalcitrant (!) bagger. The total had risen, but I didn't care anymore. I just wanted to get out of there.

I finally got out of there. I told the bagger, "Thank you for your cooperation," and said it with a smile. I pushed my cart the seven or eight feet from the register to the open doorway. I neither stole food, nor did anyone accuse me of any crimes. I drove home and put away the groceries.

Ed walked in the door, and I cried because I hadn't cooked anything and had bought the wrong kind of light bulbs.

"All I wanted," I wailed, "was to do something good for the environment! I wanted to save some trees! I just wanted to shop the German way!"

A big part of why I'm okay now is that I have a husband who listens, who doesn't care that there's no food, who's perfectly happy to make his own supper, and who lets me cry when I need to. He's amazing. God is amazing, for blessing me with Ed.

So there's the most recent story of my cultural transition. We're approaching the one-year mark, and I think I'm doing pretty well. I'm aware of moments like this afternoon, I recognize them for what they are, and I process them. I don't fret about why this is happening to me or about whether or not this is ever going to go away. I know that eventually, because I have God, I'll be fine. No matter what happens. He has brought me through worse than this.

It's funny, though, how my major meltdown moments are connected with stores. This one at Crest, a previous one at Buy-for-Less. A few years ago on furlough, I had one at Wal-Mart, and in Chemnitz, I had one at IKEA (a sofa and a credit card were involved). That just goes to show what an integral part necessities-shopping is in culture.

And that's all I have to say about that. :o)

important kilometerstone

Ten years ago right now, Ed and I were sitting in Chili's (for my German readers: it's a sort of Tex-Mex restaurant), eating supper. We had just left our wedding reception and gone to our hotel, only to realize that we'd had nothing to eat but cake and punch since lunch. (It would be years, however, before we realized that we were poets and didn't know it.) Figuring that the rest of the, er, evening would go better if we had something to eat, we took refuge at Chili's--Ed in his tux, I in my blue evening gown.

It's weird to think that we've been married ten years. I don't feel old enough to have been married ten years! I remember being a teen and thinking that people who'd been married this long seemed really old--not in a decrepit sense, but so much wiser and more sophisticated than I.

I guess I don't feel wise or sophisticated enough to have been married ten years.

Whatever that means. ;o)

It hasn't been ten years of so-called "wedded bliss." I don't believe such a thing exists. We've had our troubles, our infuriatings, our upsets, our hair-rip-outs. There've been times neither of us was happy.

Such is marriage.

Is it worth it?

Beyond doubt, it is.

Last Sunday, Rob preached a sermon about marriage, and he said something that I think might be the most significant statement about human relationships I have ever heard:

God designed marriage not so much to make us happy as to make us holy.

Marriage has taught Ed and me patience, self-sacrifice, respect, mercy, compassion, honor, courage, exhilaration, commitment. Perhaps we could have learned these elsewhere--and perhaps not. Perhaps God knew that we needed each other and our shared experiences in order to learn these things.

And there's more to learn. There are more *new* things to learn (especially if/when we have kids!). We're not finished--we've barely scratched the surface, chipped the tip of the iceberg, shaved the top layer off the cliche. ;o)

Ten years is but a small step (my grandparents celebrated 68 this August!). I hope and pray that God will bless us with at least ten more years of life, so that we can take another step. Another ten after that, another step. I'm thankful that Ed will be at my side for as many steps as God wants us to take.

I love you, honey!

a first something! yay!

So on Saturday, Ed and I were driving south on Penn, when we passed the Village Library. I don't remember what I asked him about it or what he replied, but the end result of the conversation was that we turned around, drove back to the library, parked the car, got out, walked in, spoke to the receptionist...

...and I got my first library card. *Ever*.

Gasp and egad, right? How in the name of all that's Good and True and Writable in this world have I, writer extraordinaire and ultimate bookworm, managed to go thirty-one years without having a library card? It's not as though I've never before patronized a library--it's just that my patronization took place on the Army base, and Daddy was the one with the card. Plus, until recently, I always insisted on owning whatever books struck my fancy instead of simply borrowing them. Ed and I laughed about the fact that of the two of us, *I* am the avid reader, but he's the one who's had a library card in every city he has ever inhabited.

Holy moments of irony, Batman.

So on Saturday, to celebrate my new status as library-card-holder, I checked out John Scalzi's "Old Man's War," which I've been wanting to read because Wil Wheaton made me curious, and Roger Zelazny's "Princes in Amber" series, which I read in high school and have been wanting to re-read for about ten years.

Me happy. Like clam. End proverb.

Currently, I'm reading "The War of the Flowers" by Tad Williams, a copy of which I picked up at Barnes & Noble, where I went on Friday to console myself after Hobby Lobby didn't have the button-making-kit I was looking for.

It doesn't take a lot to make me happy. Really, it doesn't.

Yay, I can haz library bookz! Splendiforous!

writing about writing

I can't promise that the following ruminations (I originally typed "rumniations," which I find rather amusing) will in any way segue (can I use that as a verb? Rule #152. Verbify anything.) into each other in a coherent fashion, but I'm not writing for publication here, so frankly, my dear, I don't give an unmentionable.

I've been wanting to write about my writing for quite some time, but, as other literati have said before me, when one is engaged in active storywriting, one finds oneself reluctant to channel much of that creative energy into blogging. I dunno know why, I just know that's how it works.

Whatever. I do know why. It's because the act of storywriting is such an intense process, there's simply no energy left for other writables (or, sometimes, anything else at all). Weekly, if not daily, I am stocking my creative pond (the pool where we all go down to drink, a la Stephen King, an image I wholly embrace) with creativity for my story, and I am intensely jealous of that creative energy. I want to channel it into the story, not into blopgosts that are, frankly again, not as valuable to me as the story itself.

Which is not to say that I don't care about my blog. Because I do. I'm only setting priorities here. Work with me, people! Gah.

;o)

That said, I give you the following: an excerpt from my journal, in which I expound upon my current noveling status. Please forgive the abbreviations and ellipses--I want to give you the journal excerpt without giving away parts of the story. So, without much ado about anything, an excerpt for your reading pleasure (or not, whichever the case might be):

September 4, 2008

While I ran this morning, I let my mind go over some possibilities for "Triad." Part of me is tempted to scrap the first half and re-write it, simply because the style of writing and the pace of the story are so different from what and how I wrote the second half. [Note: I know this sentence is grammatically horrid, but in my journal, I free-associate without editing, so there ya go.] This is what happens when one spend four years on the first half and four months on the second. ;o)

However, I'm putting the scrap-temptation on hold for now. First, I want to see what I can do with that first half in my second-draft edit, which I'm working on now. I've gone through eleven chapters--all in the second half. I'm reserving final judgment on the first half until I've worked through it again.

But back to the possibilities I was permutating on my run. Liz "Engstrom" Cratty, my Writer's Digest Novel Writing Workshop mentor [three? years ago], suggested I start the story with R.'s and Ch.'s capture... I don't believe that's the best starting point, as so much of the backstory would get lost, and explaining everything later would bog down the rest of it.

However, I wonder if the *argument* between R. and Ch. *would* be a good starting point...

I think I'm coming to the conclusion that my current Chapter One, in which D. and the guys break into the belltower and R. thwarts them, does not a good Chapter One make. *Prologue*, maybe. But for a first chapter, it doesn't get things moving quickly enough. I need a start with more tension...

...and the argument between R. and Ch. might just be it.

Of course, then I'll have to decide whether to make the break-in scene a prologue (in which case, it'll have to be *way* shorter) or toss it. I like the shorter prologue idea. If I toss it [current Chapter One], then Ill have the backstory bogdown again.

So, let's say the break-in is a prologue, and Chapter One begins with the argument. '"_______________!" ___________________________' might be a good opening line. [Hee hee.] Then what? I'd send R. directly to the T.s' (after the argument, of course), which would bypass N.H. entirely; if I didn't bypass her, I'd get into a bog again, interrupting R.'s storming out of the tower. (And what if R. failed to secure the lift before leaving? This could add some tension, because she'd worry about Ch. all the way to the T.s'...)

I've wondered for a long time whether or not I. needs a greater role, and if so, how to give it to her? Well, what if I combined I. and N.H. into one character? Perhaps I.'s mother was from the H. family....Hmmm.....

I'm getting ahead of myself, because these are all things to consider *after* I go through the text and finish my second draft. But it's good to get these ideas on paper. They've been in my subconscious for awhile, so this has helped me gain some clarity. My concentration on the second half will be better now...

< /journal entry >

Since I wrote that, I have gone through several more chapters and have finished a total of seventeen! That means eighteen more to go. When I say "finished," I mean that I have gone through the hard copy pages, marking with colored ink anything that needs changing/improving. When I'm through with this manuscript, every single page will be bleeding pink, purple, blue, or green, depending on which gel pen I used.

Have I mentioned I'm having a blast with this? Please to be noting my quote from a few days ago: "One of the best things about being a writer is that I get to go to work in nothing but my underwear, if I want to." I wrote that. You can quote me on it.

After I've gone through the hard copy pages, I will enter all the changes into the computer document and print it all out--that will be my second draft. Then, I'll begin re-structuring the parts of the story that don't work. *That* will be the hard part....because, as Mr. King teaches (in "On Writing"--a writer's bible, I swear), in order to create a working story, you must "kill your darlings." Meaning: I gotta cut out parts of the story I love but that don't fit.

That's where the other quote from a few days ago comes into play: "Psychologically speaking, writing a book is like getting into a knife fight with yourself in a phone booth" (The Waiter). When I "kill my darlings," I'm going to be fighting myself, and it's not going to be pretty.

You've been warned.

That's all for now. I hope you've enjoyed this look into One Writer's Mind. Metaphors be with you.

transitional ruminations

I feel as though I'm overdue in penning some words about the cultural transition that Ed and I have been going through. To begin, I'd like to grace you with a top ten list that illustrates one of the frustrations that goes along with transitioning, namely, the fact that people often don't know what to say to us. (Please note that I am not angry over these utterances, but frustrated.)

Top Ten Things NOT To Say To Cultural Transitioners And Why
(in random order, though I have a particular dislike for #s 5 and 7)

1. How was your trip?
It wasn't a trip. It wasn't a vacation. It was my life. Please to be noticing the difference, thank you. ;o)

2. We've been praying for you to come back.
I think I know what you mean when you say that, and you might think that's a lovely sentiment. But when you say that, what I hear is that you've been praying for me to be separated from people and places I love. That's neither helpful nor encouraging.

3. You've got a lot of time on your hands now! You could (fill in blank with an activity or a job for which I have expressed no interest).
I didn't come back here with no plan of what I want to do with my life. This was not a spontaneous, frivolous decision. Much thought and prayer and planning went into it. Please don't assume I'm sitting around, bored, with nothing to do, just waiting for you to come rescue me with ideas that would make *you* happy.

4. Oh, you were in XLand? I was in XLand back in the '70s....XLanders are so (fill in the blank with a prejudice you developed while you were over there for two years 30 years ago).
Please don't assume your experiences were my experiences. Also, please refrain from telling me, based on your few months' experience, what the people of my homeland are like. Not to be snotty, but I do believe I know them better than you do.

5. Adjusting? Oh, give it a couple of months, you'll be fine.
I see. And the last time you went through cross-cultural reentry was...? Oh, you've never left your home state? Ah.

6. It's so good to have you back. I don't know why anyone would want to leave here in the first place.
(Okay, so nobody has said these words to me directly....but the implication is all over the place.) Well, probably because God created a whole, huge, interesting planet that I want to know about, not just a single continent.

7. I bet you're proud to be back.
I'm sorry, but I don't even know what that statement means.

8. It's good to have you back.
Why? You've never had more than two or three conversations with me. You don't know me. How could my presence possibly signify in your life one way or the other?
(Note: This truly applies only to those who haven't made an effort to get to know the returnee. If you do know me, and if you have made the effort, it is definitely heart-warming to hear you say that you're thankful for my being here!)

9. Aren't you glad to be back?
Yes. No. Maybe. Sometimes, the answer changes from one hour to the next. If you're not prepared to listen to an answer you don't really want to hear, please don't ask.

10. We're so glad to have you home.
This isn't my home. For one thing, I didn't grow up here. From that perspective, I haven't lived in my "home" for 12 years. For another, I spent the last 6 years building relationships and planting roots somewhere far removed from here. This isn't my home. This is your home. On this earth, I don't have a home. And actually, I'd like it to stay that way.

11. Unspecified.
Open to anyone who wants to share some of their own experiences of being on the receiving end of remarks of this sort, as well as dealing graciously with them. I don't always. Especially when it's stuff like #s 5 and 7. ;o)


Looking over the last 8 months (we have been here over 8 months--that is so weird), I can see a lot of lows, a lot of highs, a few plateaus, and some banged-up knees and elbows as we've tripped and fallen and sprawled flat on our faces and gotten back up again. I say "we" because Ed and I both have dealt with our share of spiritual and emotional scrapes and bruises...but really, I'm talking about my own transition here. Cross-cultural reentry is an intensely personal experience (which is what makes it so difficult to describe to anyone who has never experienced it), so each person's is different.

My lowest point so far was Earlyapril through mid-May. The bathtub incidents kind of set off the depression--but if it hadn't been the bathtub, it would've been something else. But I've had help. Help from a wonderful, loving God, who has sent wonderful, loving people into my life and placed me in loving, wonderful communion with them. I've had help through open, honest, in-depth conversation. I've had help through "The Artist's Way" (by Julia Cameron--THANK YOU, GAIL!!!), which is opening my eyes more and more to what it truly is that God created me to be. I've had help through a loving, wonderful, commiserating husband, who has actively grown with me even as he deals with his own transition issues.

I feel very blessed. I not only feel it, I *am* it, and I live it. I hesitate to say that I am learning to be content, since that is such a huge concept....but I think I am beginning to learn it. I am beginning to know why I am here, I am beginning to know what the next step could look like, and it's an unknown shape, but I'm excited about it instead of terrified. I feel as though I am unpacking my mind here, instead of merely unpacking cardboard boxes. I am beginning to travel light again, instead of schlepping around the misery of not knowing who I am. I am beginning to feel/see/hear reference points, reorient my inner compass, tune my inner self to the resonance of God's universe.

No matter what happens, I always know that eventually, I'll be at peace. Moving over here, finding myself in a low spot of sadness and depression, I knew that eventually I'd be at peace.

It's nice that at-peace is starting to happen again.

anybody like to help me out?

Okay, without going into a long spiel to try talking all and sundry into my plan, here's the deal:

I am in need of an extra $100.00 this month.

Would anyone like to brighten my corner by buying one of my oil paintings or commissioning one for that amount?

If you'd like to buy one, I have about 35 or 40 to choose from.

If you'd like to commission one, I'll need an advance. ;o)

Whoever's interested, let me know here, or email me!

in which i vent my spleen

So, ever since Ed and I got our Oklahoman cell phones (Handys, to my dear German readers), I have gotten heaps of unsolicited phone calls. Ed doesn't seem to get any at all, so I figure he's been blessed with a phone number that has never before been used in this dimension.

My number, however, seems to have had a previous owner who was either up to the nose in debt and on the lam (not lamb, hee hee ;o) from creditors and/or the Mafia, or simply enjoyed giving out the number to all and sundry so that all and sundry could use the number for the purposes of pointless harassment of The Innocent and Unsuspecting.

Namely, me.

I submitted my number to the National Do Not Call Registry (NDNCR), which is probably a misnomer. National We'd Like To Help You But We're Basically Powerless Would You Like a Teddy Bear? Registry would be more apt. The NDNCR is apparently maintained by the Federal Trade Commission, whose website even states that they cannot resolve individual customer complaints. Whoopee. The number of telemarketer calls has dropped since I registered, I'll give them that... But this does not resolve my problem of receiving about 6 calls a day, for five days in a row, approximately every two weeks, from the company HSBC Mortgage Services.

HSBC Mortgage Services is kinda clueless. Were they clueful, they would realize that I have never owned a house and, therefore, have never had a mortgage. Still, they persist on calling me x times per week (see previously noted statistics) VIA COMPUTER. That's right. Not only are they calling me, but they're using a poor, innocent computer to do their dirty work. The computer is voice activated, so it doesn't start talking until it hears a voice on the line.

Namely, mine.

I no longer answer the phone when I see that the display reads 800-395-3489. Sometimes, the computer stays on the line enough to be kicked over to voicemail, in which case I get a message that begins in the middle of a sentence, informs me ominously that "this is an attempt to collect a debt," and asks me to return the call to the aforementioned 800 number. (I never do, of course.)

HSBC called five times yesterday. Six times today. The day is young, yet.

Occasionally, I also receive calls from NCO Financial Systems at 800-477-1827.

As well as multiple calls from "Unknown," which I believe is HSBC cleverly disguising themselves so as to blend in with the wireless foliage of the modern telemarketing jungle.

Bunch of scaly, evil chameleons.

Personally, I think this should be illegal.

Stupid-kenupid telemarketercreditormortagerulemakers.

Blech.

most recent novel-related facebook status updates

March 10, 2008
Courtney is now far enough along in the story to know there will probably be 35 chapters.

March 11, 2008
Courtney finished Chapter 27 today!

March 13, 2008
Courtney has figured out that she MIGHT have the first draft finished IN 10 WEEKS!


And today, I am working on Chapter 23. Note: I am not writing chapters in numerical order. Chapters 1-22 and 27 are completed, but I also have bits and pieces written for 24, 26, 28, 30, 31, and 35. Filling in the blanks is fun! ;o)

Ten weeks till first draft completion is probably an overly optimistic assessment. More realistic would probably be 12 or 13. But we shall see. I have still done more work on the story in the last few months than I have done during the previous two years! YAY!

echoes from the randomness

A Brief History of the Life and Times of the Winsome Wench in Her Weirdness...

I wouldn't say that Ed and I were desperate up until Monday morning. Yes, we were very, very busy, and yes, we had no downtime, and yes, we were rather concerned that we wouldn't have time to get it all done...... But all things considered, I don't think we were desperate. I'd say we weren't even frantic. We were just very, very busy. And tired. Did I mention tired?

But when you compare International Moving Adventure 2007 with International Moving Adventure 2001, the 2007 version is going much more smoothly. In 2001, when we moved to Chemnitz, we had no clue what we were doing. The night before the movers came, we stayed up working in the apartment until 3 a.m. This time, we were in bed at midnight the night before the movers came. Some might think that a 3 hour difference does not great progress show (thank you, Yoda)... But in 2001, we also had an entire room marked "Do Not Enter" while the movers were working, a large room full of stuff that we had to get rid of after they left. This time, in 2007, we had only about half of a medium-sized room of leftovers. Plus, this time, there's our general feeling of preparedness resulting from having started this process 8 months before the move instead of 6 weeks before. ;o)

Anyway....Monday morning, the movers arrived, brought their packing materials upstairs, built some cardboard boxes, and started packing. And suddenly, Ed and I had nothing to do. We weren't allowed to help them pack, because the insurance only covers our belongings if the movers are the ones who packed the boxes. There was nothing more to organize, nothing more to sort, nothing more to throw out. All we could do was sit and watch as these five strangers entered our space, went through our things, put all our things in boxes, and took them away.

I was tired. I was relieved that I didn't have to pack it all myself. I was excited. I was sad. I was amused by the banter of the men as they worked. I was nervous when one dude started packing up my oil paintings. I hovered and made him nervous, so I forced myself to go sit in the living room and let the poor man do his job. I was glad that we were finally getting this step of the process out of the way. I was numb from the back-and-forth motion of this emotional roller coaster.

Tuesday afternoon, when they started taking the last of the boxes downstairs and packing them into the 20-foot container, I thought I was going to cry. We finished up paperwork, tipped the guys, and watched as they drove away. They honked and waved, and we laughed. Then we went back upstairs. I looked around the emptiness of our apartment, and all I wanted to do was get out of there. It didn't feel like home anymore. Later that evening, when we were coming home from Tuesday night Bible study, I started to cry because we couldn't go home and I felt homesick, and all I wanted to do was go home.

Have I mentioned the emotional roller coaster?

The last few days have been more of the same, but much less intense. In Germany, renters are required to paint the apartment before they move out, so we've been working on getting that started. Today was the first real work day, and thanks to multiple helping hands, the stairwell is clean, and three rooms are completely finished. Three down, three to go. The best part is that our landlady intends to have all the carpets but one ripped out, so we only have to worry about protecting the one. We can smear paint all over the rest, which speeds up our work considerably. Yay for practicality.

Since Monday, we've been living over at Karen's (aka KarenCamp). It feels funny to "come home" over here now instead of to our own apartment. Pippin seems to be adjusting well, although she's having difficulty with the Stay Off the Table Rule. She's really enjoying the ground-floor windows. For her sake, it would be nice if we could find a ground-floor place in Oklahoma City. But that's another story for a future time.

I think I've rambled on enough for now. In short, we're busy, we're tired, we're of very mixed emotions, we're enjoying the "last times" we're spending with various people. All of this, of course, is reinforcing in me the knowledge and the sense that I am truly at home nowhere on this earth. My citizenship, my allegiance, my home is heaven. Perhaps God has led me to this rootless, often-moving, TCK life because he knows that I need it; perhaps I need it so that I will know where my true refuge and sanctuary and comfort is.

Check out 2. Corinthians 4:18 and Philippians 3:20. God says it better than I can.

funny foibles and so forth

The following is part of a comment I left on Alisha's blog and considered worth immortalizing here:

I compulsively count stairs. In our stairwell, three of our staircases have nine stairs each, one staircase has ten stairs, and the one leading to the back door has five stairs. That's 42, which is the answer to life, the universe, and everything. I remain, therefore, convinced that counting stairs (and other things) is a worthwhile pastime.

And if I step on a crack in the sidewalk with my left foot, I have to step on a crack with my right foot, too. Otherwise, I feel unbalanced. I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable psychological explanation for this, but I haven't found it yet. ;o)

In other news, I'm working on finishing ETM homework this week, so I might not be able to continue regaling you with tall tales of traveling. Day Three, however, *is* written, so if I can get around to working with the pictures, I'll post that sometime this week.

Generall overall mood: melancholy and lethargic because I have too much to do and have passed the point at which the workload is a motivating challenge. Instead, it has become an overwhelming task of monumental proportions, leaving me feeling drained and nearly unable to concentrate on anything that I actually need to be doing.

Part of the reason I've taken on so much and am procrastinating about it is that the workload and the procrastination are providing an escape from having to think about what's coming ( --> moving).

However, don't feel sorry for me, Gentle Readers. I'll be fine eventually. :o)

lifecasting: not for the faint of heart (i guess)

A couple of days ago, I saw a report on Yahoo! about a phenomenon called "lifecasting": People strap cameras to their heads and broadcast their lives over the Internet 24/7. In a way, this has been done before by those who set up 24-hour webcams in their dorm rooms, office cubicles, refrigerators, what-have-you. The difference here is that lifecasting is mobile; people are broadcasting their lives as they live them, outside of their homes, everywhere they go.

Call me antiquated, but I think this is kind of odd. The word "nutty" comes to mind. Yeah, I'm kind of indulging voyeurism by having a journal that is accessible to the world (see: blog) and by reading other people's blogs. However, I do not record every moment of my private life here, and I don't read every moment of other people's private lives. Lifecasters have no private lives.

The only time this one guy turns his camera off is when he goes into public restrooms, because otherwise he'd be breaking the law. Even when he's having sex with his date, he leaves the camera on, though it's turned toward the wall with the mic off. That's something anyway, I suppose.

Another lifecaster allows her viewers to give her direction on what to do. If they say, "Buy and drink a cappucino," she buys and drinks a cappucino. (She carries her laptop around with her so that she can remain in constant contact with her viewers.) So far, she refuses to obey orders to take off her clothes in front of a mirror, but I wonder how long this resolution will last.

Lifecasting, to me, is just a bizarre phenomenon. It's like "Big Brother" on steroids. I suppose George Orwell would be thrilled.

out-of-office reply

You have reached thegermanygirl.blogspot.com. I am currently unable to take your call. Please leave your name, number, and a short definition of cheese relating to the meaning of life, and I will get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you for calling!

*click!*

this has *not* been one of those weeks...

...and even so, *twice* in the last five days, I have had to stick my hand down a toilet to retrieve an object that shouldn't be flushed. I wish I could turn this into an amusing blopgost about how everything that could go wrong *has* gone wrong...but other than unexpected double-WC-retrieval, I'm having a good week.

So...sorry for the lack of amusing material. Just picture me standing in the bathroom of the church building, wearing nice clothes, while pitching a fit about having to stick my hand down the toilet to retrieve a hapless toilet bowl freshener. For those who know me personally, this should strike you as rather funny.

(The other incident involved a 1 Euro coin. Just FYI.)

TWICE.

*sigh*

ruminations of the sleep-deprived

As I write, it is Saturday morning, 5:04 a.m. Even if you don't know me well, you probably do know that I am rarely awake this early in the day. Even as a new intrepid jogger, I do not get up this early. Just on general principle. Please note that this is 'principle' not 'principal.'

Anyway...so there I was, fast asleep and minding my own business, when I suddenly realized that I was wide awake. Instead of fighting it like I usually do, I decided to give in and get up.

Hear that wailing? That's night owls everywhere screaming, "Noooooooooooooooo!"

;o)

So here I am, blogging just after five in the morning. And rather slowly, too, as I'm sitting at Ed's desk, using his Mac and his Mac keyboard. (Would that be a MacKeyboard?) Just for the record, I love the Mac, but I hate its keyboard. I have to pound each key with something like vehement fury in order to get it to produce anything. I fIjust tyoe the wayI usually do, i get something like this. Oh,a nd didi mention that the keys are space somewhtdifferently than on my laptop?

In case you haven't already noticed, I have no particular reason for blogging at this time. Meaning, I have no particular subject in mind. I am simply awake at 5 a.m. and needed something to do but didn't feel like doing anything that actually needs to be done. Besides, it's Saturday.

I have a zit on my chin, and it hurts. When I was a teenager, I thought that adulthood was supposed to be free of such things. (Zits, that is, not chins.) Well into adulthood now, I have discovered, to my dismay and disappointment, that this is not the case. I feel somewhat hoodwinked by this.

My parents, who are living with us for the month of July, are currently in Greece. Part of their trip is a cruise, and I guess they must be on it now, because yesterday evening, Mama called and left a voicemail: "Hi, we just wanted to call and let you know that we're having fun," etc. I was amused, even through my envy. ;o)

Although I suppose that I shouldn't be too envious......considering that I get to go to Scotland in less than a month! Wahooooooo!!!! I am so excited about this! We were supposed to go with Clint and April when they went last year, but it didn't work out. So Ed gave me this Scotland trip as my Christmas present. Brief and very vague itinerary: One day in London/Corby with our friend Patrick; one day of fellwalking with Patrick in the Lake District (and maybe with Kevin, too???); then head to the Dundee area and see Dundee, Stirling, Edinburgh, St. Andrews, Glasgow?, and hopefully drive to the highlands for a day. And we hope to see our friends Tristan and Leslie in Stirling! I have no clue if this is all possible in a 9-day trip (5-day, if you don't count London/Lake District/travel), but that's our current inkling of a conceptual hypothesis. I haven't had the time or the brains, so far, to study all the travel materials we've collected and look into specifics. However, Ed and I are going to sit down together sometime this coming week and figure it all out, so I'll keep you posted.

Yaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyy, we're going to Scotland!!!!!!

Oh yeah, speaking of voicemail messages... Over the last month or so, Ed and I have received two phone calls to our Skype number in the middle of the night. Both times, neither of us woke up in time to get to the phone--although we *were* woken up--so both calls left messages:

Call #1: 4 a.m. Rustling, music somewhere in the background, then talking as though from a distance. No words distinguishable. More rustling. Then, a new voice talking, but this one sounds like a toy. And it sounds like several toys talking at once, overlapping each other: "I need a hug!" "What are we going to do today?" "(something-something-indistinguishable) hooray!" "I need a hug!" "What are we going to do today?" "(something-something-indistinguishable) hooray!" "I need a hug!" And so forth. More rustling. Then the toy voices start up again. The voicemail message continues in this vein for five minutes before stopping abruptly.

Call #2: 1 a.m. Rustling. Talking in the background. A kid's voice (real, not a toy), or maybe a toddler's. More rustling. An adult's voice, words indistinguishable. Then the adult says what sounds like "No, no, no!" More rustling. End.

Ed and I can't figure out who in the world is leaving these weird messages! The voicemails sound as though the person didn't know they had called, like they'd accidentally dialed the number or something. It's gotta be someone we know, but we can't figure out who it could be. Both times, the computer has been off (which is why our regular phone rang), so we haven't been able to see the number that was calling. It's just all very weird.

The first message reminds me of the time Ed and I (before we were married) used his talking Alf toy to leave a message on my roommate Tamara's voicemail, and she thought she was getting an obscene phone call. ;o)

Okay, it's now 5:45, and I think that's enough for one blopgost. If you read all of this ramblingness, you get a cookie. Enjoy.

Me, I'm gonna give the keyboard a rest from my vehement fury.