A Continual Loop

I cannot get this song by Spoon out of my head.

I also can't get "I'm Not Gonna Teach Your Boyfriend How to Dance with You" by The Black Kids out of my head either. (There's a lot going on in my head, trust me.) There are parts of this song that remind me so much of the beginning of a New Order song or something... can't quite remember. Probably why I like it.

Recipe for a Great Weekend

Three best friends.*
One Honda Civic.
Gorgeous weather.
Biggest private home in the U.S.
Mix together and hit the road.

*Note: Must let friendships marinate for more than a decade for weekend to be truly perfect.

The Box of Him

In a fit of insanity, I decided to participate in my homeowner association’s fall carport sale tomorrow. Forgetting I had dumped two loads of junk at Goodwill the last time I moved, I’ve been rummaging in the depths of our attic to search for saleable items that will yield enough profits to meet my goal of buying a new pair of shoes.

On Tuesday night, sweating under the stark glow of a single light bulb, I started opening the boxes that have been with me since college – the ones I never open but simply move from place to place because someday I’ll have time to sort through and arrange all those memories in some sort of visually pleasing way.

And as I reached into one particular box, I found another, smaller one at the bottom, one that had not been opened since February 1996, which was when my fiancé and I stepped off the train that was leading to marriage and crashed rather spectacularly into the shrubbery alongside the track. I have a vivid memory of walking through my apartment and grabbing everything associated with him – presents, jewelry, photos, letters, and the wedding planning binder – and dumping it all in this box.

Looking at the pictures, I found myself wanting to go back in time to talk to the girl in them. I wanted to tell her it would all be okay, that it really was for the best. I wanted to reach out across the years and give her a huge hug and let her know that there were incredible adventures awaiting her and this was only the beginning of a better plan.

And then I realized it was getting late, I still had to iron my khakis and pack my lunch for tomorrow, and if I moved quickly I might have time to read some more of that book before I needed to get to bed. So I shoved everything back into the box and taped it up and left it in the attic.

I can’t feel the pain anymore from that very dark year, but I need the box to remember the lessons learned.

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future. Then you will call upon me and come and pray to me, and I will listen to you. You will seek me and find me when you seek me with all your heart. I will be found by you,” declares the Lord, “and will bring you back from captivity.” –Jeremiah 28:11-14a

An Unwelcome Guest

Revising this novel has been like walking through molasses. Keeping momentum is difficult, and when I’m not working quickly I can’t outrun my Inner Critic.* Unfortunately, he has moved in and set up camp.

He is now ensconced in a recliner chair in the corner, booted feet crossed, smoking a pipe. With one lift of a sardonic eyebrow, he shoots me questions and comments.

Who are you to plot an entire novel? I can completely see who did it the first time you introduce that person. Why set it in Scotland? You’re not Scottish. So what makes you think you can write a Scottish character? Your Scottish friends will laugh their heads off. You’re spending a lot of time writing this, and it probably won’t come to anything anyway. I mean, most writers don’t get published until at least their fourth book, if that. Probably best to stick this in the bin.

And so on and forth. He needs a firm eviction notice.



*Inner Critic is not to be confused with Inner Editor, who is a firm but kindly soul.

Seismic Disturbance

I’ve moved 28 times. I attended four different elementary schools, three different junior highs, and two different high schools. I can accept change. As the daughter of a Navy sailor, I had to.

I can feel changes coming – the ground shifting, the familiar sensitivity that I’m not satisfied with the status quo in my life. It’s a restlessness that bites at me and refuses to leave me in peace. The last time I felt it, I ended up in Scotland doing mission work. This time, though, I don’t think it has anything to do with a change of vocation or location. It’s something in me that’s turning over and over.

I just haven’t figured out what it is yet.