I bought another planner today.
And by 'another', I don't mean my other one ran out and I had to get a new one; I mean there is still a month until school starts and I've bought three planners trying to find the perfect one. One had sweet "word of the day" features and quotes from books, but no monthly spreads. The second had the layout, but was perfect bound. The newest one is just right: fun colors, monthly spreads, spiral bound, even little tabs so you know what month you're looking at. It's exactly what I wanted.
But for some unknown reason I kept buying ones I wasn't even sure I wanted. I settled. I decided it was good enough, even though it didn't meet all my requirements.
8.07.2009
8.04.2009
What Do I Know of Holy?
I got up this morning determined to find God again. I had breakfast, sent some e-mails, put in a load of laundry, took care of everything that needed taken care of. When all of that was done I went to my room, lit a candle, and piled up pillows on my bed. On my computer I found my Starfield albums and set them to play all. Skimming my bookshelf I grabbed the books I would need - Rob Bell's Velvet Elvis, Anne Lamott's Plan B: Further Thoughts on Faith, and Brennen Manning's The Ragamuffin Gospel. Add to that my Bible and a notebook, and I had everything I needed.
7.08.2009
Another First Date
Below is a scene I wrote recently. It's part of a larger storyline inspired by a commercial I saw which may someday evolve into a novel, I don't know. For some reason I usually write in a weird form of past tense, but I changed this to present. Sorry if I missed anything and it sounds out of place.
7.06.2009
Experience
I was helping my parents with yardwork the other day when my father told me - yet again - that what we were doing was something I needed to write about. "This is definitely an experience," I said. "You don't know what an experience is yet," he told me. I wanted to argue, but as I thought about it, he's right. I'm only 22 years old, the most exciting things that have happened to me are a couple of school trips overseas. In his lifetime he's been married twice, gone through multiple jobs, raised three kids, lost his parents ... in comparison, my life is uneventful.
Many non-fictionists write about things they've done or places they've been, like the examples in Robert Root's book (The Nonfictionist's Guide: On Reading and Writing Creative Nonfiction) about the seafarer in Antarctica or seeing someone ready a copy of his novel on the subway. Root himself talked about all the writing he did while on a writer's wilderness retreat. I'm an average college student with a limited disposable income. I can't afford to go on excursions just to stimulate my writing. How can I compete with authors taking a year to go to Madrid or some other exotic destination and write about their observations?
But even as I say that I am reminded of Garrison Keillor's article in a recent issue of National Geographic. It was beautifully written and engaging, and was about county fairs of all things. If you're a good enough writer you can make anything exciting. Maybe if I tried I could even make my summer doing nothing exciting. I could talk about the fresh vegetables we char on the grill for dinner, the young deer flicking their tails in the backyard as they lick the salt block, or the sun beating down as we watch my niece's t-ball game. I can't imagine there is a lot of people who would want to read about all that, though.
Many non-fictionists write about things they've done or places they've been, like the examples in Robert Root's book (The Nonfictionist's Guide: On Reading and Writing Creative Nonfiction) about the seafarer in Antarctica or seeing someone ready a copy of his novel on the subway. Root himself talked about all the writing he did while on a writer's wilderness retreat. I'm an average college student with a limited disposable income. I can't afford to go on excursions just to stimulate my writing. How can I compete with authors taking a year to go to Madrid or some other exotic destination and write about their observations?
But even as I say that I am reminded of Garrison Keillor's article in a recent issue of National Geographic. It was beautifully written and engaging, and was about county fairs of all things. If you're a good enough writer you can make anything exciting. Maybe if I tried I could even make my summer doing nothing exciting. I could talk about the fresh vegetables we char on the grill for dinner, the young deer flicking their tails in the backyard as they lick the salt block, or the sun beating down as we watch my niece's t-ball game. I can't imagine there is a lot of people who would want to read about all that, though.
6.29.2009
Dear ol' Dad
My father is convinced that he is book material.
I became an English major in the fall of 2005, and since then my dad has decided that it is my fate to write a best-selling novel – about him – and make lots of money so that I can provide for him and Mom in their old age. Mom just rolls her eyes at him and says things like, “She doesn’t want to write about us, you twit! Who would want to read it?” And he, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question might answer “Me!” and grin goofily with a flutter of his eyelashes as if this were the most ingenious comeback of all time.
In fact, he believes this so wholeheartedly that I am going to write this famous book that every time something funny happens he’ll say, “There you go, Wessy. Chapter fourteen. Write that down.” Obviously it is not my writing skills that are going to sell this book, but his witty remarks and crazy antics. The whole family just sighs. All we need is for the whole world to be exposed to the weirdness that goes on in the Mowry household. But the thing is, as we all know and refuse to let on, Dean Mowry really is book material. He’s quite a character, at the very least.
* * * * *
One of my earliest memories of Dad includes him a full leg cast. My little sister Whitneigh was born when I was two, and our parents were exhausted from having to work full time and raise two young kids. The same week Mom went back after maternity leave Dad fell asleep at the wheel on his way home from work, and his car drifted into the cement beam of an overpass. No one else was hurt, but the crash shattered his eyeglasses, leaving awkward cuts on his face, and left him with a broken leg. For the next few weeks he was at home, bandaged leg up on the couch, taking care of me and the baby while Mom was at work. I was immediately enlisted as Daddy’s Little Helper, and was sent to do things since I could get there faster than he could on crutches. I would get bottles of Whitneigh’s milk out of the fridge, put it in the microwave, hit all the proper buttons, and deliver it. I was also sent after diapers and had a special stepstool to reach the red wall mounted telephone when it rang. I felt immensely important for being allowed to answer the real telephone. Usually it was one of my grandmothers calling – they would always know it was me and give me a message to pass on to Dad. Anyone else, though, wouldn’t realize I was there and Dad would have to hobble out to the kitchen to talk to them anyway. We spent our days together, the three of us, sitting on the avacado shag carpet in the living room, Dad with his white cast leg sticking out stiffly, the baby lying on her back on a blanket on the floor, me playing with them and running errands. We were quite a bunch. Mom cites this period of Dad’s medical leave as the reason why Whitneigh is so spoiled. Looking back, I realize that this must have been when I was ingrained with the ‘love language’ of servanthood. At only two years old I knew I loved my father and sister, and would gladly do whatever they needed, even if it meant talking to strangers on the red phone.
I became an English major in the fall of 2005, and since then my dad has decided that it is my fate to write a best-selling novel – about him – and make lots of money so that I can provide for him and Mom in their old age. Mom just rolls her eyes at him and says things like, “She doesn’t want to write about us, you twit! Who would want to read it?” And he, ignoring the rhetorical nature of the question might answer “Me!” and grin goofily with a flutter of his eyelashes as if this were the most ingenious comeback of all time.
In fact, he believes this so wholeheartedly that I am going to write this famous book that every time something funny happens he’ll say, “There you go, Wessy. Chapter fourteen. Write that down.” Obviously it is not my writing skills that are going to sell this book, but his witty remarks and crazy antics. The whole family just sighs. All we need is for the whole world to be exposed to the weirdness that goes on in the Mowry household. But the thing is, as we all know and refuse to let on, Dean Mowry really is book material. He’s quite a character, at the very least.
* * * * *
One of my earliest memories of Dad includes him a full leg cast. My little sister Whitneigh was born when I was two, and our parents were exhausted from having to work full time and raise two young kids. The same week Mom went back after maternity leave Dad fell asleep at the wheel on his way home from work, and his car drifted into the cement beam of an overpass. No one else was hurt, but the crash shattered his eyeglasses, leaving awkward cuts on his face, and left him with a broken leg. For the next few weeks he was at home, bandaged leg up on the couch, taking care of me and the baby while Mom was at work. I was immediately enlisted as Daddy’s Little Helper, and was sent to do things since I could get there faster than he could on crutches. I would get bottles of Whitneigh’s milk out of the fridge, put it in the microwave, hit all the proper buttons, and deliver it. I was also sent after diapers and had a special stepstool to reach the red wall mounted telephone when it rang. I felt immensely important for being allowed to answer the real telephone. Usually it was one of my grandmothers calling – they would always know it was me and give me a message to pass on to Dad. Anyone else, though, wouldn’t realize I was there and Dad would have to hobble out to the kitchen to talk to them anyway. We spent our days together, the three of us, sitting on the avacado shag carpet in the living room, Dad with his white cast leg sticking out stiffly, the baby lying on her back on a blanket on the floor, me playing with them and running errands. We were quite a bunch. Mom cites this period of Dad’s medical leave as the reason why Whitneigh is so spoiled. Looking back, I realize that this must have been when I was ingrained with the ‘love language’ of servanthood. At only two years old I knew I loved my father and sister, and would gladly do whatever they needed, even if it meant talking to strangers on the red phone.
