Why Bookstores Frustrate Me December 30, 2009

I’ve always been in awe of book stores. My mom used to take me to a smallish bookstore in town and I would seat myself on the floor between rows of books and read the spines and backs of hundreds of books until she told me it was time to leave. When we visited Barnes and Noble I would find several books and one of the large leather chairs and hide myself there for hours. I usually finished a book or two in the cozy confines of this book sanctuary.

Today I went to Borders with my friend Pam for the specific purpose of buying a Paperchase journal. I started getting these journals 4 or 5 years ago and absolutely love them. We ended up meandering around the store for a couple hours. I was making a shallow attempt to find novelty books and whatnot knick-knacks because I am currently very broke, thus unable to afford anything in Borders.

I walked around bouncing a pink India rubber High Bounce ball, occasionally picking up a book to peruse it’s “about me” section. I finally landed in the Literature section. And I felt this sense of frustration rising. I found around 5 or 6 books based as spin-offs of classic Jane Austen literature. I know that this has recently hit big with Pride & Prejudice & Zombies and the like, but c’mon people… get your own freakin’ story! Don’t “borrow” her characters and attempt to re-write, continue, and re-cast them. They are not your characters.

There’s writing an homage to great story lines and genius characters… and then there is riding the coattails of someone else’s fame. Attaching yourself to Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett just seems cheap and lazy. This frustrates me.

In a forward to one of his books Ray Bradbury describes the feeling he had when walking into a library when he started his writing career. He would see the names of famous authors on the shelves and hope not to become like them, titans of literature that they were, he hoped to be a lapdog, nipping at the their heels, effectively chasing genius to create his own fame. Now, you may not think he’s on par in a literature sense with Miss Austen, but I feel the magic in his words, he moves me and inspires me to read and write. And here’s the clincher: find my own voice and shout into the megaphone of print.      There are hundreds of thousands of books unloaded in bookstores large and small all over the world everyday and a million more words added to blogs everyday. So many words written it’s probably hardly quantifiable in a way that would make sense to the average human mind, so I don’t think notoriety is the goal. Topping the New York Times’ Best-Seller list hardly seems noteworthy anymore… I’d rather spark someone’s soul. I’d love to be the gateway drug to the world of literature for some lost soul forced to read something for a school project rather than the newest show dog for a chain bookstore.

I can (and will) write a lot of small things. Mostly anecdotes of my life and experiences. And hopefully one great work (maybe not heartbreaking) but hopefully of staggering genius that will rock someone’s world, challenge them, and inspire them. I think I may be coming across as righteous, opinionated, maybe even cocky, generally I’m not, but today, when getting published seems easily possible I hate to see so much space taken up with work that is less than worthy. And that there’s such a large market for it. <end rant>

The Writer, writeth December 24, 2009

“Oh, daughter that art the writer-eth,” yes my mom really talks like this, “I need you to ‘Noel’ these narrations for me.” So, Christmas Eve is here, and we’re blasting Christmas music through the house and making goodies and tons of food for the myriad of people that will be coming in and out of the house over the next two days.
Since I was little Christmas Eve has been a blustery, flustered, busy day. A few years ago my mom and I were both on staff of different churches and had to attend certain services every year. Which meant I went to one Christmas Eve service by myself usually after the one my parents put together at their church. This year I’m attending two of my own volition.

And Christmas is finally here. I’m excited about this. Even though money has been tight for me I managed to make/give some pretty rock-awesome Christmas gifts. And we’re back to my favorite part for this season.

I think Eugene Peterson says it best:
John 1:14
The Word became flesh and blood,
and moved into the neighborhood.
We saw the glory with our own eyes,
the one-of-a-kind glory,
like Father, like Son,
Generous inside and out,
true from start to finish.

You know I’m obsessed with words, the life they bring, the inspiration they create, the worlds made possible by stringing a few together. But this Word, this Story of redeeming love, glory come to earth, salvation, hope… NOTHING trumps this. He was born to die, so that I might truly live, see the world for the beauty it was created to be, and people as whole.
I’m grateful that in all the ways I was created in Your image that you gave me a gift for words. And an outlet for them. Let Your words be my words, and my words be Your words, and let us remember that You are the Real Author.

the Muse is melancholy tonight December 23, 2009

So, I give you the words of another weaver of words. I won’t make you suffer through my juvenile attempts at lovelorn poetry.

“Yes,” I answered you last night;

“No,” this morning, Sir, I say.

Colours seen by candlelight,

Will not look the same by day.

When the viols played their best,

Lamps above, and laughs below—

Love me sounded like a jest,

Fit for Yes or fit for No.

Call me false, or call me free—

Vow, whatever light may shine,

No man on your face shall see

Any grief for change on mine.

Yet the sin is on us both—

Time to dance is not to woo—

Wooer light makes fickle troth—

Scorn of me recoils on you.

Learn to win a lady’s faith

Nobly, as the thing is high;

Bravely, as for life and death—

With a loyal gravity.

Lead her from the festive boards,

Point her to the starry skies,

Guard her, by your truthful words,

Pure from courtship’s flatteries.

By your truth she shall be true—

Ever true, as wives of yore—

And her Yes, once said to you,

SHALL be Yes for evermore.

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Henry December 19, 2009

Uncle Oscar used to call me Henry. This confused me because I’m a girl. And I wasn’t very good at sarcasm until I was much older.

This was back in the days that I used to try to wander around in the woods like an “Indian” without making a sound and looking forward to when I would finally be able to drive the three-wheeler. I was young and fascinated (and a little terrified) by the woods behind my grandparents house. We had a little garden and grew carrots and my little sister ate them right out of the ground.

So, I was Henry. An awkward little girl that would imagine the woods as a magical playground made just for her, who loved playing outside, and thought swinging was the closest you could get to flying.

Henry… When I was sixteen my parents bought a car from some of our friends. My first car. He was a 1987 325is BMW. Made the same year as me… heh. Our friend bought it brand new in 1987 and owned it all the way up until we became the new owners. He asked that whatever we did with him that I keep his name the same: Heinrich. I was new to the idea of naming things, but I agreed and called him Henry for short.

So we were the Henrys. And we had some adventures. And I think about all these memories… these people I’ve been and could be… names I’ve had and will have. And this is what keeps me grounded.

These Gloomy Winter Days December 18, 2009

These gloomy winter days make me depressed. 

Sitting in a summer garden in the winter I hear a train’s melancholy call. “All Aboard!” it screams, but no one moves. I see that days like this go on forever. I carry the incalculable weight of the grey clouds on my shoulders. Even my sunshine can’t break the clouds. 

This is the season for Salvation Army bell ringers. I passed one today who told me the wellies I’m wearing are happy boots. They have large lime green and hot pink dots and were the subject of ridicule by our tour guide in England last March. They grab people’s attention. When I wear them I feel like I’m going places. 

But I feel out of place today. Too bright in the gloom. As if I’ve been invited to a funeral and wore a bright yellow dress. Everything around me seems to be trying to convey a certain mood. I almost bought into it. 

But I don’t have to be gloomy just because some weather and dead plant stalks try to evoke this in me. I can and will be sunny. I’ll take the train and escape this dreary setting. This is a weekend of celebrations. My melancholy mood can wait. 

Excerpt December 15, 2009

For a few days I’ve been collecting my thoughts in an odd assortment of paragraphs. Maybe it’ll be something that I work towards getting published. Maybe it will only ever be manifested here, online. Until that day comes here is an excerpt of something I wrote today. Don’t steal it please.

Hair

When I was young I couldn’t imagine how I would ever convince people that Noel was an adult name. I think that might have been why I forced my parents to call my Amanda for a couple months. It was a long name, sounded serious, exotic even. Then I started school. Jessica and Amanda were the most popular names of my generation. And now I’m grateful for my name… even though sometimes I still think it’s hard to convince people it’s a grown-up name.

Anyway, I had this very specific image in mind when I would imagine what I looked like as an adult. As a little girl I had brown hair that had a myriad of other colors in it: red, grey, blonde when I spent a lot of time in the sun. And as I got older I started highlighting my hair and now it’s mostly varying shades of blonde. Long by most standards, straight, blonde hair. It’s beautiful, but…

THIS is not what I imagined. I imagined myself with curly hair as a grown up. This may be rooted in the fact that my mom permed her hair for most of my young life. So, I associated adult-ness with curly hair. I’ve always wanted curly hair. The whole “grass is greener” idea. But my hair, cruel tease that it is, won’t even hold a wave…. Even when I try the beachy, casual, tousled locks look… it’s a fight to get a little bend… and then I really just look like I forgot to brush my hair and am sort of slobby.

So, I’ve gotten a little rebellious about my hair recently. All summer I threatened to make my hair dreadlocks. I felt it would be fitting for the job I had over the summer and the persona I wanted to invoke. (Part in parcel with the whole long-boarding thing). I still think I could rock them, and people would be impressed. But I’ll never actually do it. Unless I get marooned on a desert island or end up serving in a mission field, then it’s so happening.

For Halloween I decided (mostly influenced by the movie Whip It!) to be a roller derby girl. My costume was lacking some essentials, like roller skates, but I looked the part. Even down to authentically dying my hair a crazy color combo. My big sister graciously added fuchsia streaks to my long blonde hair that would last for a month and give me the appearance of being WAY COOLER than I actually am. A lot of people in my life were fans of the pink hair. And I promise it will come back at some point. But with a job hunt looming on my horizon and my sister’s wedding right around the corner I decided to look a little more respectable for the time being.

So much of my identity is held in the mass of follicle that extends from the top of my head to my shoulder blades. I feel insecure when I think about cutting any of it off. When I’m having a rough hair day my whole day gets thrown, I should be able to get over something so superficial but am generally incapable of doing so. But when it looks good? When it looks good, I’m unstoppable. The world is mine to conquer. And conquer I will… because we all know it’s true: Gentlemen prefer blondes.

Potential December 7, 2009

So, for the past year I’ve been obsessed with the idea that I’m not fulfilling my destiny. That I used up all my potential in the glory days of high school and will never hit such heights of greatness again.

Earlier last week I discovered some stories that have helped me become less concerned that this is the case and regain some hope that I will redeem this wasted year with industrious decades to come.

I read on RELEVANT Magazine’s website (the article is originally from 2005) an article entitled In Pursuit of Your Passion an interesting breakdown of what each decade in your life can be like:

“One of my mentors said in your 20s, you think you’re good at everything, so you try everything,” McLaren said. “In your 30s, you find out you’re not good at some things. In your 40s, you try to get out of the things you’re not good at so you can concentrate on the areas where your best gifts lie. In your 50s, you actually try to thrive in your areas of gift and strength.”

They’re quoting Brian McLaren here. I don’t know much about him, and obviously I cannot state the above as FACT in my life… because I’ve not yet even reached the halfway point of my 20s…. but I sort of hope that it is the case. At least it’s given me a new perspective on what each decade may mean in my life.

Then there’s this book I’ve been reading about the Guinness family (the beer brewing ones, not the guy that started the world record book… you can read about him here.) It’s offered me a strange sort of comfort because from the founding father Arthur Guinness down through his sons the stories all begin to get really interesting when they hit about the age of 30. Some of them even later in life. Of course, before they either took over the brewery, or found some other profession that called to them, they apprenticed for years.

I love the idea of apprenticeship. And the connection this has to the theory of 10,000 hours. I first read about this idea in a book called Outliers. In it, Malcolm Gladwell explains that the process of becoming a master, expert, or top in any given field is directly affected by the amount of practice spent in that area. Proving true the old adage, “How do you get to Carnegie Hall? Practice, Practice, Practice.” Literally, once you’ve spent 10,000 hours doing something… you’re the best at it. So, these Guinness sons became experts in brewing the best port in the world because they spent a lot of time involved (to varying degrees) in the process of brewing said port.

For me, it proves that life is not over even though I have not published a book by 15 years old, gotten engaged by 20, married by 21 and started working on kids. Admirable though that may be in the lives of others… it’s not a competition standard for me. I can spend this time in my 20s trying different things, becoming comfortable with the things I’m not good at and honing the skills of the things I am. Life goes on and I have a lot of it to live.

As an addendum:

It’s taken me about three tries to finally get this whole blog post out. I started it on my iPhone the other night at work. And handy as those things may be… sometimes the technology glitches. So, here it is. I’ve finally gotten it all out. Chuck full of hyperlinks for you to peruse. And hopefully some inspiration. Here’s to our futures!

part of a family December 1, 2009

Well, we’ve entered the home-stretch of The Holidays. Last weekend I got to spend time with some family members that I only see every couple of years for a few days. We had some really awesome God-filled moments… impromptu worship sets, sharing what’s been going on in our lives, celebration that we were all able to be together (minus a few family members) considering the events of our last year. It was interesting; a moment when I discovered how much I really do have in common with my family.

At one point, when several of us were on my aunt and uncle’s front porch singing praise songs with family members and friends gathered round, a friend of my aunt’s leaned over and said, “I wish I’d been born into your family.”

My grandfather was Jere. He had four children. Over the years they’ve spread out all over and had children of their own. Since my grandfather’s lifetime we’ve been through a lot. Stories that a wonderful and stories that would break your heart. Sometimes, it seems like we’ve had more of the latter. Without getting into all of it, we’re literally lucky that certain people in my family are alive.

When my aunt told me about her friend saying that to her, it brought to mind this song by Shane & Shane. It’s about Rack, Shack, and Benny (these guys in the Bible… their names are hard to spell so I go for the Veggie Tales version). Long story short, I think my family falls into this concept… here are the words:

There were three
Before the king
There were three who wouldn’t bow to him
For when you heard
The music play
And you were standing you would burn.
They looked at him and said…

Burn us up! Burn us up! Burn us up!
Oh king won’t you burn us in the furnace of
Your desire
We give up! We give up! We give up!
Oh king won’t you burn us in the furnace of
Your desire!
Won’t you throw us in the fire!

The king enraged
At what they said
Sent the three away to find their death
The palace stopped in unbelief
When the guilty raised their hands to sing
They looked at him and said…

You are able to deliver from the fire of affliction
It’s the declaration of my Lord
You’re not an image of gold
You’re the God of old
You have made us
Come and save us
We are Yours
But even if You don’t, we will burn!

Burn Us Up, Shane & Shane

to live November 26, 2009

Death tugs at my ear and says, “Live, I am coming.” 
-Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr., poet, novelist, essayist, and physician (1809-1894)

What is the meaning of life? To find a purpose? To fall in love? To create something to leave behind?

How do you measure a successful life? By age reached before death? Possessions accumulated? Relationships built, broken, maintained, restored?

Is the whole point to live so that once we no longer live people will remember us?

I could be a hermit. Find an artsy friend with property and go all Thoreau on the world. Write another Walden. Hang out with nature.

I could travel. Become a rubber tramp, or maybe find a profession that supports road-tripping. Go all Kerouac. Meet whoever the road leads me to.

Or I could do what I do best. People-watch. Live vicariously through the lives of people I know, love, interact with.
I read something yesterday about a good novel making you live several lives while reading it. I realized that is my motive for reading, watching movies/tv shows, and searching for music. I want to live through it.

Sometimes when I longboard (which I’m slowly getting better at) I close my eyes, hold my arms out, and pretend I’m floating. I want to feel like that every day, in everything I’m doing.

payphones and vinyl November 20, 2009

I don’t think I’ve ever legitimately used a payphone in my life. I remember seeing a lot of them when I was a kid. And I knew people that had pagers (which now makes me think of Dennis Duffy a la 30 Rock). But with the cell-phone revolution payphones are virtually non-existent in our world now.

The one time I can remember using a payphone was in Dublin, Ireland. And it cost something like 5 euro to call home. It was a short conversation… on a Sunday afternoon. My dad and I called my mom who was still in Florida to tell her quickly about all that we’d done so far and find out how she and my little sister were. I don’t know if the crackling I remember was added by my imagination or if the phone really was crackly.

Last night I had dinner with my friend and two of our other friends stopped by to watch us eat and polish off the cheesecake we ordered. At one point all of us had our cell-phones up answering texts, playing video games, or just joining in to be obnoxiousness of it all. My friend suggested we have the waitress take our picture and title it “The Decline of Civilization”. We all laughed and slowly put our phones away.

I recently became obsessed with starting a record collection. I love music so much and am constantly looking for a new band or new style, diving through the old collection to feel the old feelings, and looking for new ways to experience  music.

My friend Pam has a record player named Hermes that I’ve been envious of for quite some time. So, I asked my family to keep their eyes open for a record player. A few weeks later I became the proud owner of a turntable. I have yet to purchase a record and figure out how to hook it up to a system… (it’s missing a needle so I can’t really play anything until I get that anyway) but I’m so looking forward to the first moment I hear Abbey Road or the White Album the way it was meant to be heard with all the crackles and pops. I can’t wait to relive an old Boston record with my dad, enjoy some Ella Fitzgerald with my mom, and show my little sister Kings of Leon or Anberlin on vinyl.

The thing is, whether vinyl or payphones I think of how we’ve moved forward with technology and lost something in our relationships. Ironic as it may be to blog about this phenomena, it’s what was on my mind today. There’s a line in a Jimmy Eat World song (Dizzy) where he says, “I tried, but it rang and rang, I called all night. On a payphone, remember those from another life?” That line echoes in my head on days like this.

So, we chat, text, network, tweet, and blog. Maybe all we need for connection is to dust off a vinyl or find an old payphone, remember the other life.