On Hold

I’ve been told to write.

 

But write what?

 

I’ve taken a few months off from my blog, from journaling, and from pretty much anything else that is “writing”. The other day I wrote a bio for Camille’s band to put on their website. Today Paul complimented me on it. I’ve barely read anything in the past few weeks… so my goal of reading 104 books by the end of the year seems to be dwindling.

 

I just feel out of practice. And out of touch with what I want to say.

 

What do I want to say?

 

Maybe a better word would be “ask”.

 

It seems to me that most authors have this compulsion to write in order to answer a question: Why do people suffer? Why did our relationship fail? Why don’t we do the fun things we used to? How do I make this life have meaning?

 

Or: what would it be like if I wrote a novel completely wasted? What would happen if I dressed a character in a yellow polka dot dress and never let him change? What if I try to retell this story and I can’t unravel a new, authentic ending for it? Does that mean that I failed?

 

Does it mean that I’ve failed?

 

I ran into one of my writing professors a few months ago now at a fiction contest that Creative Loafing held. She won with this beautifully tragic story about a woman who lost her child. The last time I heard her read it was something funny, had my sides splitting and my eyes watering and I kept thinking, “This woman owns me with her pen.” The night of the Heat reading she owned me again… but I wasn’t laughing… She made several grown men in the room tear up and admit it freely to her. (I heard one say it).

 

After the reading I waited to congratulate her and say hello. She was so genuinely excited to see me I almost cried again.

 

I read these quotes by famous or dead or famously dead authors about the compulsion to write. The bleeding need to put pen to paper everyday or suffer the consequences of feeling stymied and lost. And I’ve never truly identified with that. Maybe I’m delusional but I don’t feel a daily compulsion. Recently I’ve felt a daily guilt that I haven’t been writing… I think about this one idea for a novel that I have on a regular basis. But rather than write it, even an outline or a rough draft, or something, I sit on my bed with my shiny new iPad and play Draw Something or Words with Friends – something inane to pass the time because it doesn’t require so much of me.

 

Writing does. It takes so much bleeding effort. I feel drained at the end, not refreshed. Deflated, not energized. Like I’ve just poured out everything of worth and I have nothing left and the passion and speed with which I’ve written is barely noticeable on the page.

 

And I can type pretty quickly. Mavis Beacon taught me how.

 

I’ve been reading this series of novels featuring a character named Thursday Next. The series is by Jasper Fforde. He’s funny, well, British and funny. The books are a little off kilter. I got Jenna to read them and she’s actually outpaced me now.

Thursday can jump into fiction. Fiction is all stored in The Great Library. The curator is the Cheshire Cat (or the Cat formerly known as Cheshire, depending on the book). The bottom-most level of The Great Library is called The Well of Lost Plots. It’s the place baby novels, ones barely in their inception reside, either waiting for the author to come into being and actually write them down or, usually, just finish the manuscript. The characters in the Well have a special brand of insecurity: they live under the constant threat of being dismantled for use in another plot by some other author. It almost makes you feel bad for them.

 

I feel bad for mine. I’m not sure I’ll ever have the courage to completely commit them to paper. I’m constantly afraid of what that might mean.

 

I don’t know.

 

All I know is that I was told to write. So, I’ll write. I’ll be faithful in the writing. And maybe that will be something. Maybe that will be enough.

postcards from my bed

a regular day of blogging via Instagram

 

I do a lot of blogging, writing, and reading from my bed. It is very, very comfortable. I still live at home and so this space (that I attempt to keep organized) is the only part of the house that’s really just mine. On any given day or night you could find at least two books, a journal, my MacBook, and my iPhone on my bed with me. It’s a double, so there’s enough space for all of us.

I found myself pondering a couple days ago whether this might be impacting my relationships in any way. Not that I’m in any particular hurry to share my bed (and call me old-fashioned, but there a are a few steps that need to be taken first), but the thought briefly crossed my mind that there’s a lot of stuff in the way if I were ready to share my bed.

In the early days of a new year many people find themselves making resolutions and life decisions. I haven’t really hammered all of mine out, yet. But there is something that has been steadily rising up in my awareness. I want to invest more in the relationships around me and spend less time in my bed.

This is a weird thing to put into words in just the right way. I am very proud of the identity I’ve begun to create for myself as a writer/reader. However, in an effort to bring some of this back into balance I am going to make a more concerted effort to do things and be with people.

A rich interior life is only one part of a whole life.

Shortly after this thought entered my brain the other day I read that one of my favourite blogs is shutting down after 2.5 years. It’s been a source of great inspiration to me for the past 8 months visually, aurally, as well as in blogging and writing. I’ll miss it, but the farewell and ambition to grow are just more inspiration I can add to the list.

So this year I will be out more. Possibly still with the security blankets of a book and my journal. But out I will be, living in the moment, instead of merely thinking how best to archive it in my memory. (Or where I should actually put commas).

ill fitting cardigan

  Names are a funny thing. Some people put them on and take them off easy as a cardigan. For some they are a root system that connect them to ages past. There’s a line in the Avett Brothers’  Murder in the City

Always remember there was nothing worth sharing like the love that lets us share our name.

 It’s a great little line, so full of sentimental feeling. This morning it was, for me, food for thought. See there’s a story behind each of my names. One name became mine by biological default and the past few years I’ve spent growing into it. Another of my names served as a hyphen for a few years and was a name chosen. But those are just the surnames I have.

  There are also my first and middle names. When I was a small child I really wondered how my name would sound when I was a grown up. Now two weeks shy of turning 25 I still catch myself wondering that and then I realize it’s not very different. It’s strange how names can do that. If you meet a boy of 4 or 5 named Alfred his name may seem to big for him and a woman of 65 named Dee seems barely contained by her name. I think I lucked out though. Noel works for my whole life. Plus, upon meeting me the ice is instantly broken since most people sing The First Noel to me. (I’m still holding out for an original person that will sing Deck the Halls or some other Christmas carol and then ask me if I hear that all the time.)

  Last year some close friends of mine caught a glimpse of my driver’s license and subsequently freaked out! One even claimed that she felt she didn’t really know me… that I had been an imposter this whole time. It’s the curse of “going by” your middle name, everyone feels so betrayed when they realize you have a first name they’ve never known. (As an aside: no one feels this sense of betrayal when middle names are revealed, more a sense of camaraderie over the embarrassment of whatever that name is.) Other close friends admitted that they thought my twitter handle (@snoelr) was just a quirky thing I made up and didn’t realize it was my first initial, middle name, and last initial. I defended myself by saying I’d never kept it a secret, they’d just never asked. That defense didn’t fly very well.

  Maybe it’s because even still I feel like my name is a cardigan that’s too big for me made up of a sort of hodge-podge of fabrics. I’ve been trying to grow into it. Seana Noel still sounds elusive to me, but maybe  it will make a great name for an authoress.

some poetry

Yesterday the weather was quite cruddy. It was the perfect sort of day for drinking tea and reading poetry. That feeling has sort of carried over for me today. So, here’s some poetry by W.H. Auden, a dude I’ve been reading a bit of in the last week.

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.

The More Loving One, W.H. Auden

Listen to it here.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, 
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, 
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum 
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. 

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead 
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'. 
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, 
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. 

He was my North, my South, my East and West, 
My working week and my Sunday rest, 
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; 
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. 

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, 
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, 
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood; 
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Funeral Blues, W.H. Auden

You probably recognize the second one from the movie Four Weddings & A Funeral. 

Time will say nothing but I told you so, 
Time only knows the price we have to pay; 
If I could tell you I would let you know. 

If we should weep when clowns put on their show, 
If we should stumble when musicians play, 
Time will say nothing but I told you so. 

There are no fortunes to be told, although, 
Because I love you more than I can say, 
If I could tell you I would let you know. 

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow, 
There must be reasons why the leaves decay; 
Time will say nothing but I told you so. 

Perhaps the roses really want to grow, 
The vision seriously intends to stay; 
If I could tell you I would let you know. 

Suppose all the lions get up and go, 
And all the brooks and soldiers run away; 
Will Time say nothing but I told you so? 
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If I Could Tell You, W.H. Auden

And one more by modern day poets Modest Mouse

Alright already we’ll all float on.
Alright already we’ll all float on.
Alright don’t worry even if things end up a bit too heavy.
We’ll all float on…alright. Already we’ll all float on.
Alright already we’ll all float on, ok.
Don’t worry we’ll all float on.
Even if things get heavy, we’ll all float on.

Float On, by Modest Mouse

Happy Monday.

slice, pull, breathe

I swim a lot for my job. Not as much as I should, but it is the only exercise I really enjoy. There’s something about the weightless feeling of your body combined with the sheer power of your muscles propelling you through the water. I’m not quite sure I can harness the feeling in a few words. It’s rhythmical, almost poetic.

In the early days of my lifeguarding I wasn’t a very strong swimmer. I think they were low on interest that summer so they just pushed be through the class. But I would sit on the stand almost mesmerised by the lap swimmers. I could not figure out how they did what they did. Lap after lap of constant movement without choking, gasping for breath, or climbing out of the pool and vomiting. I hear a lot of people new to swimming as an exercise express the same things. It’s a sport that doesn’t make much physical sense. And contrary to popular belief it is not about how long you can hold your breath. It’s about getting into a pattern. Breathe out for four, turn, breathe in, lather, rinse, repeat…

I got into a yoga kick a couple years ago. In it I learned about the importance of breathing in physical activity. During yoga poses you are challenged to push your lungs to new capacities. This exercise greatly increased my endurance in swimming. It was crazy how strong I felt knowing I could breathe out for six counts, that I wouldn’t be gasping for breath every stroke.

Don’t get me wrong. I still have a bad work out sometimes. My breathing will be off and I’ll start to panic a bit, swallow a little bit of water, start hacking instead of breathing, and then I feel like a doofus.

This morning as I was driving to work I was thinking about the rhythm of swimming. The patterns. How strong I feel when I swim. And I thought about the metaphors swimming has provided. My pastor friend Bobby talked about how hard it was to learn to breathe in one of his sermons. In an episode of Mad Men Don Draper talks about the freedom and weightlessness provided by swimming. My daily life is confronted with the realities of swimming, practicing, learning, preventing drowning, and so on. I’m drawn to the water and the peace I find as the water blocks everything else out. There’s something to focusing your whole body on your breathing. Sometimes it’s the most worshipful I feel.

Right now I’m waiting to hear back on an opportunity I’m quite excited about. I feel like I’ve been holding my breath for a week. Every once in awhile I take a big breath and try to calm myself down. The not knowing is difficult. But I’ll keep breathing. And swimming. And moving forward.

A Breeze and a Song

Today is a sad day. It’s a morning for praise music and quietness. I have a whole schedule planned out for the next three weeks of this blog. But life has invaded this week.

Yesterday morning at church a friend handed my dad two of those rubber bracelets. They were meant to serve as a reminder to pray for a member of our church family struggling with very aggressive cancer. Just after he handed the bracelets to us my mom lead the band in the song Fail Us Not by 1000 Generations. These words hit me in the gut every time they sing them. In light of what is happening with our friends the Coles and in our own family this week this song has become something of a safety blanket for me. If you’re the praying kind I know our family and the Cole family would greatly appreciate your prayers.

Fail Us Not

Failure doesn’t phase you.
Worry doesn’t win.
Loss doesn’t leave you afraid to start again.
Our sin doesn’t shock you.
Our shame doesn’t shame you at all.
Mistakes do not move you.
Terror doesn’t tame.
Death doesn’t doom you to life in the grave.
Our suffering doesn’t scare you.
Our secrets won’t surprise you at all.
At all.

There is nothing above you.
There is nothing beyond you.
There is nothing that you can’t do.
There is no one beside you.
There is no one that’s like you.
There is nothing that you can’t do.
Whatever will come, we’ll rise above.
You fail us not, You fail us not.
No matter the war, our hope is secure.
You fail us not, You fail us not.
You fail us not.

Hatred doesn’t hide you.
Evil doesn’t ail.
Despair can’t disguise you and tell you that you fail.
Our doubt doesn’t daunt you.
Our darkness won’t defeat you at all.
At all.

There is nothing above you.
There is nothing beyond you.
There is nothing that you can’t do.
Whatever will come, we’ll rise above.
You fail us not, You fail us not.
No matter the war, our hope is secure.
You fail us not, You fail us not.
Whatever will come, we’ll rise above.
You fail us not, You fail us not.
No, You fail us not.
You fail us not.

You fail us not.

story development

A few weeks ago a friend of mine asked me if I believed “things happen for a reason.”  I gave him a sort of convoluted answer that I wasn’t too pleased with myself, but we continued the conversation anyway. Fast-forward to today and I’m sitting here wondering if this is the correct question.

I may have mentioned this before, but when I was a kid I used to race my dad to figure out the plot-twists in TV shows and movies. As an avid reader, I’m constantly looking for the foreshadowing details and plot devices to figure out what’s going to happen in the last few pages. Sometimes it’s alluded that this is a bad habit and I’ve been working on suspending it so that I can immerse myself into works of art and just enjoy them. (It’s a difficult practice, but I’m getting better.)

Anyway, I know I’ve mentioned before that I like to think of life in story format. Personally, I believe that God is the author for my life. Though sometimes I wrench the pen (or writing utensil of His choice) from His hands and try to scratch out a few lines on my own. They’re usually not very good.

Here’s what ties this all together, at least for me. I think we as humans feel this need to figure things out, assign meaning and purpose to things. We remember our past through a dramatic lens and connect events that may not really be connected in order to give the events more meaning. I’m fairly guilty of this when explaining the events of the last three years of my life. We cast ourselves as the hero, martyr, winner and brush over our own flaws unless they provide a good piece of the plot development.

Sometimes, though, things just happen in an off-handed manner. A throw away comment in your eyes can be a world-perspective changer for someone else. A truth that has become old-hat to you may rock someone else to the core of their foundation. Quick words said in frustration can have the effect of quickly touching a hot stove. The pain spasms through your hand and is gone, but a scar remains, the skin forever changed by its encounter with the heat.

The story goes on, characters changed forever by some small piece. Reconciliation is possible, sure. But once it’s out there… how do you take it back? It’s happened… and someday in the future it will be assigned a reason.