Courage

As a rule, writers love to write about writer’s block. In every book I’ve read about writing (yes, writers like to read about writing too), there’s a chapter devoted to advice about how to beat it, bear it, or ignore it.

Here are my thoughts on the subject: aaaauuuuurrrrgghghghghghgggggkphx

Sidenote: My writer’s block is not “I have nothing to write!” I have plenty of ideas. I’m still alive, aren’t I? It’s more of the “I suck” variety. 

This is more like it.

This was my week of writer’s block, which, strangely enough, coincided with a week of listlessness, depression, and increased levels of angst. There was even a brief moment in which I considered hanging it all and become a something else that wasn’t a writer. I always liked math, for instance. Then my math education housemate explained something about circles being the answer to everything because prime numbers have a probability π squared over six of being second cousins. Or something.

So it’s back to being a writer for me and my week of angst is over. Finished. Kaput. Writing is writing. Some of it sucks, some of its great and most of the time you have to write 120 pages in order to get 3 good ones. I can now say that from experience.

On the back of my fiction writing syllabus are these encouraging words from a professor:

“This is the life of a writer: you write, you read, you write, you write again, you revise, you throw everything away, you read, and you write. It is, as Flaubert has said, a dog’s life—but for some, it’s the only life worth living. So do not fear it.”

In Which God Pulls a Bait-and-Switch

The more time I spend in the Bible—and as a good Protestant girl, this is a must—the more questions I have. Some of them are stupid (I’m consumed with curiosity about what Jesus’ favorite food, color, and weather was). Some are slightly more worthwhile: What did Sarai think about Abram pretending she was his sister? But most are just baffling.

I'm puzzled. Get it?!

Recently I’ve been wondering which is more important: faith or deeds? Because although it is optimal to have both, it’s impossible to be thinking and doing exactly what God wants you to be thinking and doing at all times. (Forget feeling because “The heart is deceitful above all else and beyond cure. Who can understand it?” Not Me.) So, when you can’t have both right thoughts and right actions, which should you shoot for?

Yes, I can see all my fellow Protestants fervently flipping to James right now so I’ll save you the trouble. Chapter 2, starting in verse 14, James says,

“What good is it, my brothers, if a man claims to have faith but has no deeds? Can such faith save him? ... faith by itself, if it is not accompanied by action, is dead. But someone will say, “You have faith; I have deeds.”

And I say, “Oh good. Finally God is going to explain how I’m supposed to balance my inadequacies!”

But James suddenly takes a hard left, pulling what can only be described as a classic bait-and-switch:

“Show me your faith without deeds, and I will show you my faith by what I do. You believe that there is one God. Good! Even the demons believe that, and shudder.”

Although arguably some of the greatest verses in the Bible, they say nothing about those people who place deeds ahead of faith. Stumped again. But at least I am left with promise:

If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you.

Seek and you will find. Knock and the door will be opened to you.

My Anagnorisis

Intuitively, everyone knows what the anagnorisis is. In the Greek tragedy tradition, it’s when Oedipus realizes he’s killed his father and slept with his mother. In Harry Potter, it’s when Harry finally grasps what Dumbledore had planned for him all along. It’s great in literature. But it sucks in real life: recognizing I’m in the wrong in a heated argument, for instance, crushes me every time (which is cough often cough).

So I recognized—as I stood in the middle of the Brussels slums, having dragged both my suitcase and travel-worn ass around a quarter-mile radius for the last hour, having nowhere to sleep that night but the sidewalk—my own anagnorisis. I had already been stalked by a man who may have been offering taxi services, but hell if I was going to trust an unmarked car with a man leaning out the window shouting at me in Dutch. He was persistent, circling the block a couple times to find me again, but it was easy enough to walk against the flow of traffic that confined him.

I circled the train station. I searched for road signs (why, Europe, why do you always have tiny, invisible street signs?). I asked for directions. I walked past the place where my hostel ought to have been according to my directions four times, but was met only with steel grates and filthy doors.

Interestingly, this little pocket surrounding the Clemenceau metro station is the Arabic section of Brussels. When I realized it—by the many falafel and hala signs and a few turbans—I felt slightly safer, more comfortable. The first man I worked up the courage to ask for help told me he only spoke Arabic and French. But his son figured out my accent when I asked for “Rue Jorez,” and pointed helpfully at the forebodingly unlit street across from us.

Fun.

For another half hour, I played a bizarre form of what I’d like to call Arabic pinball (or ping-pong, I suppose), bouncing around and around, gradually honing in on my hidden hostel. Closer, but still clueless as to the exactly location of No. 12 Grimmauld Place, a man saw that I was lost and offered to help. Untrusting—it was against that night’s policy to accept unsolicited help—but desperate, I held my distance from him and said the name of the hostel. With a smile, he pointed across the street and wished me a pleasant evening.

“God helps those who help themselves.”

It’s so tempting to believe.

Which is more difficult: stillness or action? Silence or arguments? I prefer action; I prefer arguing; I prefer to get my hands dirty and fix the problem. So of course I like to believe that God rewards those who get things done. Doing things my modus operandi.

But I had no control over what happened that night, other than my ill-conceived decision to put myself in the situation in the first place.

God helps those who help themselves get into stupid situations. That’s the whole point. Take that, Benji.

Spain: Forced Relaxation

Less than 48 hours after I had been back in southern Spain, I revisited my old loves of the country. And—typically of Spanish life—all of these things eased me into lazy relaxation: seventy-degree sunshine, a Rosa-homecooked seafood meal, tinto de verano, tapas dinner style, a Spanish beach, cheap and convenient bus rides, a baguette.

Yesterday, however, even armed with the correct keys I wasn’t able to get into the apartment with the groceries. When I was forced—forced!—to stroll in the sun and laze around on a park bench, I thought Spain was taking my spring break a little too seriously. I’ve always been inept with keys, but after fifteen minutes of hopeless fumbling, I had to admit I hadn’t suddenly gained new skills in the art of door opening.

And I realized: Spain may actually receive attention from the sun, as opposed to Grand Rapids, and people here may smile a whole lot less and dress a whole lot nicer, but a place is a place is a place and a person is a person is a person. Even here I still can’t get in the damn door if God doesn’t want me to. Even here, I have a cold. Even here, I battle my addiction to chocolate (and by “battle” I mean “revel in”).

This is my Father’s world and I do rest in that thought.

Maybe that’s why I still want to travel so much: because I can keep having this realization again and again and again.

“Lord, what fools these mortals be!”

Spoils of War

We slaughtered it.

The artichoke, I mean.

One minute it is was lazing in a pile of similarly shaped vegetables, and the next it was tagged and bagged up in plastic and over the counter. We hauled it to the homestead in a creaking blue Oldsmobile and tossed it into the prison, a place of dry cold and expired yogurt. When its time came, we wrenched the head from the sticky corner of the vegetable drawer and cut through its spine with the dullest knife in the drawer. The water boiled, as did the artichoke’s flesh.

When we knew it the end had come, when every centimeter of its flesh had bubbled into mere rubber, at last we drew it from its roiling bath. Hannah suggested throwing it out; Hilary elected for a more damning path. With bare hands, we tore the flesh and dipped it in butter and parmesan.  With eager teeth, we scraped nourishment from its dead carcass. We tasted the limbs with interest, but the heart was pure ecstasy.

Sounding my barbaric GULP!

The last ventricle was consumed, and before us lay a plate of bones, an excavated carcass. Its green and purple skin, piled carelessly atop the gnawed limbs, lay lifeless. We washed our hands and went to bed early.

When the weeks before midterm are upon us, it’s wise to remember the fun times. This little number was written last semester, actually, and Hilary was really cute when she assured us that it wasn’t barbaric to scrape off the artichoke’s flesh with our teeth.

Finally, brothers and sisters, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable if anything is excellent or praiseworthy, think about such things.

Just Do What, Exactly?

Sometimes, when I’m in the car and I’m cold, I turn up the radio instead of the temperature. The blast of sound momentarily shocks my senses into momentary paralysis, and it takes a few seconds before I remember to turn down the radio and up the temperature. It is all very confusing.

What’s even more astonishing, is that I do this in many different scenarios. When I’m thirsty, I often eat, or I try to blow my nose. Or, more noticeably, when I’m bored, I think I’m sleepy. When I actually have free time, I sometimes do work instead of enjoy the time off.  And when I’m done cleaning all the dirty dishes, or wiping down the bathroom, I have the nerve to be surprised and feel betrayed. Now I don’t have time to read! What did you make me do that for?

It’s gotten to the point that free time baffles me a little. When presented with even a little free time, I have to question myself. Do I really want to read this book? Or do I really want to watch a movie? Or do I actually want to go for a run? Too much freedom is problematic.

I might actually have a problem.

It reminds me of the roundabout set of verses in Romans. Paul writes

“I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do, I do not do, but what I hate I do… I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it."

My theory? It’s part of the human condition, this confusion of the senses. What I want to be doing right now is eating brownies with raisins in them and reading a novel. But what I really "want" to be doing is translating three pages of A Midsummer Night's Dream into twelve pages of prose. Guess which desire won out. (I’ll give you a hint: om nom nom)

Shameless Story Stealing

Writers are a nefarious breed. Always pausing and looking vaguely off into the distance with minds who knows where and fingers flying over the keyboard writing who knows what. They’re always watching, always scheming about what their next words will be. Writers are indeed a nefarious breed:

A nefarious breed with a fatal weakness for a good story.

They are drawn in by them, like the smell of home-cooking after a long day. When they walk in the front door, brushing off the snow and the chill, and get that first whiff of struggle, character development, and denouement, Pavlov’s dogs had a better chance of holding back their saliva after they heard the dinner bell.

On that note (get it?!) here are the story tidbits I gathered (re: stole) this week.

Ben’s conversation with the Kenyan “official” wielding an AK-47 ended with him capitulating.

“Fine! Your system is corrupt and it stinks! Take your money and let us go.”

*

An American woman got into the elevator and was closely followed by four Japanese men. They began to speak about her in their native language. Quickly their language became degrading, sexualizing the woman. Before their florr, one of the men turned to her and—in English—spoke kindly.

“You don’t understand Japanese, do you?”

She looked him in the eye and responded in steely, fluent Japanese.

“Every word.”

And she left.

*

            The slide was huge—you could probably have fifteen kids lined up on the ladder up to the top—and in the summer it could burn your buttcheeks off, the metal was so hot. We got twenty minutes for recess and then Mrs. Mattausch blew the whistle. Of course, the kids at the top could slide down, and the rest of us got into line. Well, Anna Hiddenger slid down and ran around and slid down again.

            Her bravery was short-lived.

            Mrs. Mattausch had seen.

*

Sometimes, said Pooh, the smallest things take up the most room in your heart.

Polar Bear Proud

Freshman year was the worst. I stood barefoot on the freezing ice and snow for well over a half hour, waiting for my turn to plunge into the icy depths of Calvin College’s Seminary Pond. With fingers gradually turning 

white, I raised my left hand and placed my right above my heart, reciting the sacred pledge:

We promise to leap into the Sem Pond,
Surrendering ourselves to the icy waters,
And embracing our falleness as creatures.

And when the waters cover our entire body
And our feet are mired in muck,
We will be given the grace
To emerge from the depths
As lifelong members of the Cold Knight Club.

Having attained our reward,
We will serve our fellow humanity
Knowing that we have gone
Where few dare to tread.

All for one,
one for all.

Now, four years later, I have attained my reward: my golden towel. And yes, it feels as good as I knew it would. Or maybe it just felt good to not have to wait in line this time around—fourth-year jumpers get priority—and to have the feeling return to my toes within minutes afterward emerging from the icy depths, rather than a quarter of an hour later.

Do I feel bad for the poor youngsters that had to wait their thirty minutes this year? Not really. And not just because it wasn’t nearly as cold this year and because of a policy change, no one waits on the ice for more than a couple minutes anymore.

The way I figure it, there ought to be some perks for being a senior, perched precariously on the terrifying edge of graduation. Freshman still have that beautiful gift of “all the time in the world” to figure out their major and their career and their hang-ups. They can afford thirty degrees for a half hour.

And since no one’s offering me any more time to figure things out, I’ll settle for a golden towel and priority jumping status.

Life's Desserts

Sometimes when I’m getting ready to go to school I try to see how many different colors I can wear in my outfit. The rules are as follows (“Nothing is only a game. Whatever you play, you must play it properly. There are rules.” – Juliet Marillier):

        1.      Each item of clothing may count as no more than two colors.

        2.      If an item of clothing won’t be seen (socks, hair clips, unmentionables), it doesn’t count.

        3.      Makeup doesn’t count.

        4.      Stitching doesn’t count.

        5.      I must be able to apply deodorant after all articles have been put on.

        6.      I must be able to move after all the articles have been put on.

        7.      The outfit must be contiguous in spirit.

Training

And this is just one of many games I like to play. Two of my favorites are: Who Will Break First and Take the Trash Out? (I always win—best game ever) and Just How Many Cookies Can I Eat in One Sitting without Getting Sick? (classic.)

***Warning: nerd quote approaching

A Terry Goodkind character named Zedd—the Gandalf of the Sword of Truth series—says, “Leading a simple life fosters the urge for occasional flamboyance.” If I remember correctly, he was wearing a large, and very flamboyant, hat at the time. I like to think that living a reasonable life fosters a similar urge to be quirky, and I believe we should all be intentional about enjoying our God-given quirks.

 Life is already big and interesting and epic. It’s the little games we play that give it pizzazz (see? I could have said “flavor” there and we’d all be bored). So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to play How Much Snot Can You Expel in a Single Noseblow? (a lot)

Happy List Item #29

The First Day of School

Plenty of people love the end of a long, boring summer and the termination of a terrible summer job, or simply love seeing old friends again. But that's not why the first day of school makes me improbably happy. I love the first day of school because it's school.

A new subject, a new teacher, a new classroom. Of course, you don’t yet know where that classroom is, so there’s this Urban Amerigo Vespucci feeling as you prowl the corridors looking for room 124? Mrs. Baker? Realy? I always thought this was a bathroom...

And then once you sit down in Mrs. Baker’s class, you get to find out who else is in it with you—which not-quite-friends you’ll be able to rely on for notes or a piece of gum after lunch. Then you meet Mrs. Baker. Is she a hard-ass? or funny? or just adorably devoted to her subject matter? (“Geometry is fascinating, kids! Just wait until we talk about proofs!”)

Then she hands you the syllabus, and you recognize a few of the topics ("Ah, I've been wondering what all the hype of the Palestinian-Israeli conflict was about..." or "Perfect; I meant to read Stephen Crane this summer and never got around to it..."). Even the research projects give you this shivery sort of happy expectation. You don’t really have to take notes because the first half of the period was taken up with “going over the syllabus.” (i.e. sizing up the class) And before you know it, you’re on your way, not minding the first homework assignment, usually something introductory.

Hands down (or raised, if you're one of those people on the first day), one of the best days of the year.