Why, hello, there.
I french braided my hair today and it looks funny. French braids really only work in twos, I think. Skunk-style, straight down the back of my head, makes me look odd. Not even a headband can really help. Oh well. No matter. No one's going to see me today, anyway.
I wanted to write a Christmas post. It was going to have a list of all the best Christmas things. Movies, books, traditions. But, seeing as how Joshua and I spent 40% of our holiday traveling, 10% of the time sleeping, and the other 50% seeing our families, it all got away from me.
So, here's the abbreviated version:
1. The Best Christmas Pageant Ever.
2. It's a Wonderful Life.
3. Oranges and walnuts on Christmas morning.
4. Elf (the movie, and the one that sits in the Christmas tree).
5. Mistletoe.
6. "Hark the Herald Angels Sing."
7. Meaningful gifts that don't require lots of money.
That's something I definitely learned this Christmas season. Money is the root of all evil. Feeling like you have to get everyone on your list something PERFECT and EXPENSIVE is an extension of it. My favorite two gifts of Christmas 2010 were from my mother and my mother-in-law. The former gave me a Peanuts block calendar for my eventual desk (I've been in love with Snoopy ever since I played him in the eighth grade), and the latter, a beautiful notebook with a girl wearing fairy wings on the cover. Both were incredibly simple gifts, but they meant the world to me because they showed that the gift-givers truly understood things about me. That's all I need. [That's also not to say that we don't appreciate the bigger things, too. It's just that the simple gifts tug at my heart the most.] Gifts are accessories to love, not proof of love. Bigger and better gifts don't equal bigger and better love. If anything, they boil down to emptier and less secure love. Like, I'm not sure you know how I feel about you, so I'm going to give you a diamond-studded BMW to prove something. Or whatever. Why don't you just have an honest relationship with that person? I am so blessed to have honest relationships with my family.
Anyway, that's all I have to say about that. For now. It makes me think A LOT about what I want Christmas to be like for my own children. Will we even bother with Santa Claus? Author Kiersten White wrote this hysterical post about him. I'm grateful that when I was a kid, my parents and grandparents told me that Santa was symbolic of the spirit of generosity. That way, when I figured out that he wasn't actually squeezing down the chimney every year, I didn't get my feelings hurt or feel like I'd been lied to. I can't explain it. I know that "Santa," as we project him, is a commercial ploy masquerading as whimsy. But the REAL spirit of Christmas? Of tradition and family and celebrating the gift of Christ? Not to sound pagan, but these are the things that encapsulate the "spirit of generosity" I was raised to identify with Santa. The good things. I wish we didn't call him "Santa," though. I prefer St. Nick or Father Christmas, greatly.
I hate the commercial(s) where Santa/the elves are frantically putting together last-minute gifts. I don't even think I need to explain why.
So, what's wrong with this world? I don't think I ever want to tell my kids that Santa is "real," or that the Wise Men were there the night Jesus was born, or that December 25th was his actual birthday--because none of those things are true! I was SHOCKED to find out that Jesus was born in the spring, and that the three Wise Men didn't get to Jesus until he was a toddler. These things upset me more than the truth about Santa Claus! I think it's important, as a Christian, to KNOW the history behind the holiday, to KNOW how it came to be held on December 25th, and to be okay with it. I do definitely believe that it was all in the sovereignty of God that it ended up where it is, but it would be foolish and dangerous to put more faith in the traditions of the holiday than the purpose of the holiday.
So, I guess I just wrote a Christmas post. An everything-that's-wrong-with-Christmas post. Believe me, I could go on. But I'll spare you. Also, this is my only day off before the new year, so it's high time I moved onto something else. I have every intention of posting again before 2011, but who knows if that will really happen?
To everyone going to the New Year's retreat at Loucon, I love you and I will miss you unbelievably. But Loucon will still be there in 2011, and I will still be me in 2011, and even though I absolutely treasure ringing in the new year there, I know it's okay to let go and give you all a chance to treasure it, now, too.
When did I get so old?
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
adventures with lu, my pesky internal editor. also, david mead! who, unlike lu, is an actual person.
Back to posting from the library = back to normal.
Somewhat normal.
At least, back to feeling like I could easily play normal.
And with this thought comes an entirely unrelated confession: I let my mom read the giant spider story.
It was a moment of weakness and confusion, riding in the car with my parents to Cocoa Beach, still reeling from all the people I'd met and the stories I'd heard. I opened my computer and wanted to write so badly, but felt too mentally and emotionally spent to do anything about it. I could have just put the computer away and gone on listening to whatever was on the iPod. Instead I said, "Here, Mommy, do you want to read my story?" and passed her the laptop before I could stop myself.
I don't know why it's any different. I'd let my friend Becca read it, without the slightest second thought. Then again, Becca is 16, and I wrote the story with her age group in mind. My mom is almost 60, and the second after I put it in her hands, I wished I hadn't. My mom HATES spiders. My mom does not do scary or sad or creepy. I usually don't, either, which is another reason I was afraid to let her read it.
What if she thinks I'm unstable? What if she says, "Where did this come from?" Or, worse, "What's wrong with you?" I mean, that's what I would have said. Giant spiders? Really? A), that's lame, and B), disgusting. You can do better than that.
Those are the things I would have said to myself. All leftovers from how I felt in creative writing classes at Union. "There's no such thing as [insert whatever I had made up here]." I know. I know there's no such thing. So... why am I writing about it? Am I... Am I not fit to write about grown-up things? Non-pretend things?
It was all food for my internal editor. I've only recently learned to turn her off, usually by saying: "No one else is going to read it, Lu, so chill out." Lu was okay with this. Lu has let me get a lot of writing done in the past four months, all under the conjecture that it was for our eyes only. And Joshua's, but he counts as one of us, too.
You can imagine Lu's tirade against my peace of mind while my mom read the story.
"She hates it she hates it. She thinks you're insane. It's bad enough her son has problems, now her daughter is writing stories about monsters eating people."
You can, therefore, also imagine my surprise when my mom turned around and said, "I really like it!"
Naturally, I tried to squeeze from her that she was only saying that, that it was actually really twisted, that it embarrassed her that I had written it, but NO. She genuinely enjoyed it.
I said, "But you hate spiders!"
She said, "I know, but I liked the story."
I said, "Becca liked it, but she's 16. I didn't think someone your age would like it."
She said that was silly. She said that it was just like hearing me telling a story out loud, which isn't something I had thought of. She said that was a good thing.
Now, don't go taking this the wrong way. Regardless of the warm feelings flying around here, the story is not where I want it. And I strongly feel that anyone who is not my teenage friend or my own mother (or my husband) would sort of laugh at it. And that's okay, because it's goofy. And it's not a priority, which is incredibly liberating. I'm in no rush AT ALL. I'm only enjoying the ride. And I'm learning that maybe Lu is crazy. Lu needs a hot bath and some chocolate chip cookies. Lu needs to take up some other hobbies. Something meticulous, like cross-stitch, so she'll leave me alone.
Funny how letting my mother read my writing brought about such a break-through for me. Remember my whole, "It's all fun and games until someone I know reads what I wrote," debacle? Well, maybe it's not that bad. If my mom can read my story, a wacky blob that came out of my own head, and not run away screaming... then what's to stop me?
It's like graduating from writers' kindergarten. Let's all go get some ice cream. Actually, no, it's too cold for that*. Let's go for a peppermint mocha. Yum.
*commences celebration*
Speaking of Yum, has anyone here listened to David Mead? Yes, the David Mead from the title. Go do that, if you don't mind. His album Almost And Always is my Current Favorite Music On Earth. Every time I listen to it, I can't help but say, "Soooo pretty!" over and over again. "Twenty Girls Ago" is my favorite song, thought it's difficult to choose just one.
And check out the cool (if slightly creepy) cover!
Well, gang, that's all from me today. I like this blogging thing. I should do more of it. Over and out.
*I say "It's too cold for that," because I feel that's what I ought to say. Truth is, I had gelato last week when there was snow on the ground, and I do not regret it at all.
Somewhat normal.
At least, back to feeling like I could easily play normal.
And with this thought comes an entirely unrelated confession: I let my mom read the giant spider story.
It was a moment of weakness and confusion, riding in the car with my parents to Cocoa Beach, still reeling from all the people I'd met and the stories I'd heard. I opened my computer and wanted to write so badly, but felt too mentally and emotionally spent to do anything about it. I could have just put the computer away and gone on listening to whatever was on the iPod. Instead I said, "Here, Mommy, do you want to read my story?" and passed her the laptop before I could stop myself.
I don't know why it's any different. I'd let my friend Becca read it, without the slightest second thought. Then again, Becca is 16, and I wrote the story with her age group in mind. My mom is almost 60, and the second after I put it in her hands, I wished I hadn't. My mom HATES spiders. My mom does not do scary or sad or creepy. I usually don't, either, which is another reason I was afraid to let her read it.
What if she thinks I'm unstable? What if she says, "Where did this come from?" Or, worse, "What's wrong with you?" I mean, that's what I would have said. Giant spiders? Really? A), that's lame, and B), disgusting. You can do better than that.
Those are the things I would have said to myself. All leftovers from how I felt in creative writing classes at Union. "There's no such thing as [insert whatever I had made up here]." I know. I know there's no such thing. So... why am I writing about it? Am I... Am I not fit to write about grown-up things? Non-pretend things?
It was all food for my internal editor. I've only recently learned to turn her off, usually by saying: "No one else is going to read it, Lu, so chill out." Lu was okay with this. Lu has let me get a lot of writing done in the past four months, all under the conjecture that it was for our eyes only. And Joshua's, but he counts as one of us, too.
You can imagine Lu's tirade against my peace of mind while my mom read the story.
"She hates it she hates it. She thinks you're insane. It's bad enough her son has problems, now her daughter is writing stories about monsters eating people."
You can, therefore, also imagine my surprise when my mom turned around and said, "I really like it!"
Naturally, I tried to squeeze from her that she was only saying that, that it was actually really twisted, that it embarrassed her that I had written it, but NO. She genuinely enjoyed it.
I said, "But you hate spiders!"
She said, "I know, but I liked the story."
I said, "Becca liked it, but she's 16. I didn't think someone your age would like it."
She said that was silly. She said that it was just like hearing me telling a story out loud, which isn't something I had thought of. She said that was a good thing.
Now, don't go taking this the wrong way. Regardless of the warm feelings flying around here, the story is not where I want it. And I strongly feel that anyone who is not my teenage friend or my own mother (or my husband) would sort of laugh at it. And that's okay, because it's goofy. And it's not a priority, which is incredibly liberating. I'm in no rush AT ALL. I'm only enjoying the ride. And I'm learning that maybe Lu is crazy. Lu needs a hot bath and some chocolate chip cookies. Lu needs to take up some other hobbies. Something meticulous, like cross-stitch, so she'll leave me alone.
Funny how letting my mother read my writing brought about such a break-through for me. Remember my whole, "It's all fun and games until someone I know reads what I wrote," debacle? Well, maybe it's not that bad. If my mom can read my story, a wacky blob that came out of my own head, and not run away screaming... then what's to stop me?
It's like graduating from writers' kindergarten. Let's all go get some ice cream. Actually, no, it's too cold for that*. Let's go for a peppermint mocha. Yum.
*commences celebration*
Speaking of Yum, has anyone here listened to David Mead? Yes, the David Mead from the title. Go do that, if you don't mind. His album Almost And Always is my Current Favorite Music On Earth. Every time I listen to it, I can't help but say, "Soooo pretty!" over and over again. "Twenty Girls Ago" is my favorite song, thought it's difficult to choose just one.
And check out the cool (if slightly creepy) cover!
 |
| I like it. I think. |
*I say "It's too cold for that," because I feel that's what I ought to say. Truth is, I had gelato last week when there was snow on the ground, and I do not regret it at all.
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