Forced Lent

Lent is generally a season where you give up something comforting in order to get the real comfort given by the death and resurrection of Christ. Not coming from a very orthodox variety of Christianity, I never gave up anything for Lent. However, in the past few years, I have decided to give it a go and give up things like TV, potato chips (my most serious self-deprivation to date), and Facebook. Now looking back, I don't exactly remember that I found any huge jewels at the end of that scavenger hunt, at least nothing more than any other mild pursuit of God that I have ventured before.

Just a few moments ago, however, it just dawned on me (after listening to some podcasts about lent and wilderness for my creative writing group) that, this year, God has chosen my Lenten sacrifice for me. No, I don't think God has snatched away something of value from me in order to teach me a lesson, but, I do believe that since life is a journey of suffering, He is able to magnify the times of pointed wilderness-wandering and remind us of the beauty in suffering and what is on the other side. In times of intense pain, whether self-inflicted or simply the result of the brokenness of life, the promise that God will show up feels all the more poignant.

As we await the diagnosis of the cause of our son's hallucinations (so far we have a possible diagnosis of epilepsy caused by either a malformation or a tumor in his brain), I feel the intense dryness of the unknown, the hopeless futility of walking in circles and the panic of being left alone. But, I think I can handle all of this if, along this wild and painful path, I also get a glimpse of God's back — a brief moment when the light comes on and I see Beauty so much clearer because it has been cast so closely next to Darkness. The promise that God draws us into the wilderness in order whisper his unfailing love to us is a comfort, and I even dare to say, an appealing proposition.

Though I know this is not the Lent I would have chosen for myself or my family, I trust in the God who tasted the full suffering of this life, drank from the cup of death and overcame. Of course, I am looking forward to that last part the most.

God versus the Spiders

Atticus is still seeing things. Since our initial hypothesis (my overdosing of my baby) has for the most part been proven false, we are in the throws of trying to figure out what is causing the hallucinations. Our current hypothesis is that his asthma/allergy medication, Singulair, is the culprit, or possibly the combo of Singulair and Zyrtec. His last dosage was last Thursday night and we are hoping the medicine will be completely out of his body within a week. He slept through the night last night with no visits by spiders (Thank you, Jesus.). Though, this morning he abruptly stopped watching a cartoon to sit at the kitchen table to finish his cereal. I did not ask about it, but assume the spinning-light-thingys that he is seeing were bothering him again.

Friday night, he experienced three terror-stricken hours of hallucinating spiders slowly crawly toward him. His eyes, locked wide onto these invisible terrors, caused physical pain in my chest as Dave and I held him and whispered urgent truth to him. "Those aren't real. The medicine is playing tricks on your eyes. They cannot hurt you. You are safe." After several minutes of battling these lying apparitions, we were able to convince Atticus to close his eyes and tell us about all the things he is thankful for. His list was long. His ability to move so quickly from a place of darkness to his love for skateboarding and his thankfulness for all his friends was remarkable.

All of that was extremely painful to watch, but the worst was hearing him recount his "unanswered" prayer. "Mom, I asked God to make it stop. Why didn't he answer me?" This is the cry of every person who lives and yet hearing my child's plea for mercy sliced my heart. How many times just this year have I wondered the same thing. Where are you God and why aren't you making this better?

And yet, seeing this play out in the 5 year-old-version has helped me see the answer a bit clearer. Why didn't the hallucinations stop when Atticus prayed for help? If it is true that the medicine is effecting his body this way, he will continue to have them until his body has been detoxified. That is just the reality of our broken bodies and a broken medical system. There is suffering in the world. Does this alone mean that God is being apathetic to our pain, because he does not relieve it? Where was God while Atticus was suffering? I believe he was with me and Dave, broken-hearted watching him and moving toward him to ease it. God was present in the love we had to offer Atticus, the wisdom Dave had in giving clear direction to Atticus (Close your eyes. Listen to us), the relief he brings every morning when the sun comes up. The sun made the spiders go away and I know who commands the sun.

How painful and exhausting it is to see your children suffer. Even more painful is watching them work out their faith. I know this will be a life long journey for him. I can speak in, but I am not in control. I want him to believe, to trust in God's love for him, but I also want God to make it easier for him. I see my own wrestling while I watch my five year old wrestle. I want to believe that when I call, he will answer.

From the safety of my bed and a well-timed Xanax

Lately, I have been struggling with panic attacks. It's a new thing for me, considering I have always seen myself as a rather care-free person, not prone to anxiety. I am generally less cautious than most. I love a good adventure. I don't wash my hands often. I sit on public toilet seats. I am a risk taker at-large.

Last night, however, the risk I took was accidental and at the expense of my five year old son: I overdosed him on allergy medication. We are fairly certain that is what happened as the evidence piles up against me. Atticus spent the entire night awake hallucinating spinning spiders. We initially thought he was having a nightmare. He seemed relatively lucid, but after an hour of paranoid shifty eyes, we began to worry. Dave ended up sleeping on the couch with him, though he never really slept. He sat in a chair shooting looks around the room with dialated eyes, talking of invisible spiders that don't hurt you but are everywhere, especially in beds.

Oh God, I am a horrible mother.

Not only did I inadvertantly (I must add that adverb to continue to ease my guilt) O.D. my son, I had a panic attack while trying to care for him. I think it was when he asked me, "What is time?" that triggered me. My feet started to sweat, cold waves attached themselves to my limbs and my ears started buzzing. I slowly set Atticus on the floor and hastily grabbed a half of a Xanax. Though I have only taken one once before and I am trying to implement self-talk in times of panic, I was certain I needed one immediately.

Atticus begged to go to school, presumably to escape the potential spiders of his drug-induced wig out. After a quick call to our family nurse, we feel comforted that he does not need immediate medical attention (though, feel free to give your take on what to do if you are a trained professional). He seemed like his paranoia was lessening as he ate his pancakes and talked of giving his teacher a picture of a catfish he drew between 1 and 4am.

My husband's role in life continues to be affirmed as the pyschological care-giver of our little roving band of schizos. As he left for work, he leaned over the bed, kissed me and left me with one last bit of comfort: "I hope you feel better. Atticus is going to be fine and I only judge you a little." What more could a girl ask for, really?

Snackeriffic!

I have a weird appetite. I can't eat breakfast, but when I do, it's usually cold spaghetti. I crave salted meats. I love chips and dip. Fried foods? Yes, Ma'am! But, I also love veggies. I get in these cycles of cravings. For one month, I'll eat the same thing everyday for lunch, like a spinach salad with Goddess dressing. My current craving is FAGE, the greek style yogurt. OMG. It's snackeriffic. I drizzle honey on top. Law, its delish. I get it at Trader Joe's, but I have also bought it at the Not-So-Dirty-Now Kroger in Franklin on Hillsboro Road. They even had the kind that was pre-mixed with honey. Oh my, that was nice. Actually, I must thank Anna Hyatt Nicolades for the introduction. Maybe she felt an ethnic duty to promote the product since she married a Greek man. Whatever her motives, I thank her. It's been my lunch for the past two months. I don't know how long this will last though, cause my work bag is all sticky from carrying around my honey bear.

Panic Attacks: A Counseling Case Study (Part 1) | CCEF

Panic Attacks: A Counseling Case Study (Part 1) | CCEF

Posted using ShareThis

Dave and I listened to this podcast the other night. Really engaging. I absolutely adore David Powilson and wish he were my grandpa. I took a course from him at Westminster. He really is as kind as he sounds.

Being in counseling this year with a therapist who uses a different model than the "Three Trees" has been a real lesson in learning how to integrate things I already know or have been exposed to with new paradigms. It has sent my brain reeling more than once, but I think its a beneficial experience for me.

Hope you enjoy the podcast...its about 30 minutes long.

Hope for Sociopaths

What if my daughter is a sociopath? After watching last week's episode of House, entitled Remorse, that question peek-a-boo'd it's head right out from behind my laptop and scared the begeezus out of me. In the episode, House's team of diagnostic doctors were baffled by a patient's symptoms. Per the requirement of the formula of all episodes, the patient gets a lot worse before getting better. However, what interests House the most is not the puzzle of the her symptoms, but her apparent lack of emotion. Acccording to a brain scan, the woman proves to be entirely lacking in any conscience, empathy or love.

House is drawn to the woman and questions her. She sees right through his questioning and aims the arrow with accuracy directly at his jugular. "So, if you know your conscience is just an animal instinct, then you know you don't need to follow it. That's why you are talking to me." This is House's fear. What if I am so completely self-interested that I never choose what is best for others, only myself? Or worse. What if I am without a conscience completely? What if I am a sociopath?

Lucky for me, I have other close people in my life I can be critical of. Instead of examining my own lack of interest in others' feelings, I have a perfectly self-absorbed creature I can analyze, right here in my own home. She is 9 years old and I will leave out her name to protect the innocent. She scares me with her lack of empathy.

I immediately started flipping through my files of memories, trying to find evidence that she indeed has a conscience. Like House, there was very little proof in my files. Before completely panicking though, I remembered that I have a recent theory. We are all on the disorder continuum.

My Disorder Continuum Theory is as follows: Due to the fall and our inherent brokenness, we are all suffering from mental disorders, to some degree or another. Though I have not, nor has Ellie (yet), been diagnosed with Sociopathic Personality Disorder, we all suffer from at least a small form of it. To support my theory, lets ask this question: Who has NOT exhibited antisocial behavior or behavior that would suggest a lack of conscience? Or better yet: Who has ALWAYS considered the needs of others before their own needs?

How is my theory helpful, you might ask. The way I see it, if we are all suffering from some sort of mental illness, we shouldn't be surprised if evidence of one or several show up (like depression, anxiety, etc.). However, we should expect some. And, like Dr. House, the most important quest, needs to be finding the hope of redemption and change. Nothing is incurable. Not for House nor for God, anyway.

God, in his continued presence in our lives, works and is working (and has completed his work) for this healing. The most reassuring truth I cling to these days is this: God does not want me (or Ellie) to have a mental illness. And though I may experience panic attacks and depression or have a child who is cruel to her BFF and ruins said BFF's birthday, we have a God who is working to restore to us all our sanity. Our stories are not finished. We have hope because we have a Healer. We are being changed. We are being made sain and true sanity is the ability to receive love and give love without restraint.

By the end of the episode, Gregory House and his sociopathic patient both experience the evidence of change. For House and for us, there is no disorder, no disease, no brokenness that is without a cure. And, for a Monday morning, that is some really relieving news.

An Uncertain Guide to the Ancient Voices

I could be your guide.

Where are we going, you ask?

To Jacob’s Ladder.

We will climb down to where the Ancient Voices speak.

Have I been there?

Oh, no.

Well, maybe.

I’m still not certain.

But, I know you must go under.

Enter at your own risk, though.

We have to swim to get there.

Me?

No, I’m still learning to float.

I hold my breath, let go and lean back.

But, here, in these waters, you have to breathe.

Slowly, under your ribs.

There you go! You got it!

In and out.

If you forget to breathe?

No problem.

There’s a built in safety-feature.

Scary?

Oh, hell yes!

All those ropes that tie you down?

Keeping you from floating away?

From losing yourself?

They don’t work in these waters.

You could get lost in here.

There are many voices.

But, you can listen to mine at first.

And if you lose your way?

There’s always a Voice to guide you home.

How fast?

Hmmm. I don’t know.

It might take awhile.

But you're strong, you’ll make it.

I could be wrong, but its like whiskey, I think.

Like a magical brew that slows your thoughts,

clouds your mind, and then amplifies the Others.

At first, they might rattle, like old men’s breathing.

They might just ask you a lot of questions.

They may try to reason with you.

Most likely, they are angry.

They are tired and hungry from wailing so long.

They may all come at once.

They will drag you out to deeper waters,

Where your feet can’t touch.

Where the Great Mystery will cut your skin like ice water,

And clench your throat.

Your chest will get tight.

Now, don’t forget to breath.

And then, the voices will pull you under.

They do not look for revenge,

but only for the truth of things.

And these voices will lead you to Those Voices.

But, its time to leave.

We’ve been wrapped in our cocoon of clanging symbols long enough.

Search the skies.

It’s a sign.

There’s nothing left here.

Only fleeting platitudes and a grating cadence.

Wait, Another Way?

No, I don’t think so.

The path we’ve already tried?

No, it doesn’t lead there, remember?

We bought that whole load once.

We just kept walking and walking and walking,

but we never even heard

a Whisper.

Come on, now. Let’s go.

The Ancient Voices are speaking.

Where they have always been speaking.

You will recognize them. You heard them once before.

Before you were born.

Are you ready?

One. Two. Three…

image: Between Two Waves, Makoto Fujimura

MFA Statement of Purpose: “Writing as Human Connection and Divine Calling"

All the MFA programs I am applying to require a "statement of purpose." The best advice I got was to write it with three things in mind: 1. your past as a writer. 2. your current experience as a writer. 3. your future hopes as a writer. This was my attempt (we'll see in a couple of months if it worked):

Hearing the Call.

This is it. The voice in my head was the loudest it had ever been. In fact, I am not really sure if I had ever heard it before that moment. This is it. It came quickly and with so much clarity; I paused from my performance to look to see if anyone else heard it. I was reading a story aloud to my 5^th grade peers. A story I had written. The boys and girls were in rapt silence, a silence broken only by a burst of laughter at my brilliant punch line.

This had never happened before. Did I mention that? I, the awkward incessant talker, loved being around other kids, but never quite found a bridge that connected us. I was neither attractive, nor athletic. I was bright, but that did not do much for my social standing. I tried to make friends, but I could always tell I made others uncomfortable. Maybe I was too loud. Maybe I pointed out our differences too quickly: “Isn’t is strange how much bigger you are than me? I think it’s cool that you could probably throw me pretty far.” But, in this moment, all the students in Miss Frink’s language arts class had their eyes fixed on me with…What was it? Ah, yes, attention and admiration. When I finished, my friends applauded. I got several congratulatory smiles the rest of the day. They were all impressed with my story. I was impressed with my story.

Defining the Call.

Fast-forward twenty-five years: Teaching English to immigrants and refugees in the public school system and, more recently, at the university level, has provided me with ample audiences for my stories. Using humor and personal anecdotes has always been, for me, a successful methodology in creating a safe environment for English Language Learners. They laugh at my clumsy mistakes in life and, in return, they allow me to correct their silly language mishaps. But mostly, my stories permit them the freedom to fall down, get up and try again, a context that engages them in authentic dialogue.

Choosing my undergraduate major was difficult. I was between a fine arts degree and a teaching one. Until recently, I have valued service-oriented work over the creative kind. My life has been filled with adopting cross-racially, serving the poor in third world countries, living in the inner city, and educating and advocating for the marginalized and under-served. I sacrificed any formal pursuit of art in order to answer—what my actions, not my belief system revealed—a “higher calling.”

Years of being a voracious reader, a doubtful believer and an intent observer of others’ lives and cultures, have shown me that communicating honestly and creatively is the highest of callings. Stories that reveal our true condition connect us and help us understand the world around us. The art of storytelling is a means of grace that brings hope. John L’Heureux writes:

A short story is a writer’s way of thinking through experience… Journalism aims at accuracy, but fiction’s aim is truth. The writer distorts reality in the interest of a larger truth.

Whether writing about my neighborhood, Hard Bargain, the first and only African-American owned subdivision in Franklin, Tennessee, or describing being propositioned by a one-armed elderly man, I am called to be honest, and this call is worthy of ordination. Barry Lopez, an award-winning writer and frequent lecturer at the Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, translates the word for storyteller in the Inuit language as “the person who creates the atmosphere in which wisdom reveals itself.” Writing is a sacred work, an industry that gets and gives wisdom.

Answering the Call.

Lately, I have had more time and attention to give to this industry due to my children both attending elementary school. Blogging, writing curriculum for Vanderbilt’s English Language Center and writing a column for a local community online resource have fueled my desire to tell stories. Although I did not begin writing seriously until the summer of 2009, my commitment to communicating truth through storytelling has been chronicled by my joining several local writing groups and my pursuit of writing mentors. I have grown already by exchanging criticism with other writers. But, my stories, like my kids and students, need time in a structured, nurturing and accountable environment.

The MFA program at _______ offers just that environment. I have so much to learn about my craft and I am anxious to glean all I can from the faculty there. The low-residency program meets my unique needs as my husband’s photography business is based in Nashville, Tennessee. I believe that the demands of the MFA program will help me become the writer and storyteller I would like to be, and I am more than ready to meet them.

After earning a degree in creative writing, I hope to be able to write stories that continue to connect me with others in our attempt to understand life. I want a mastery over my art so that my stories are able to convey a piece of the human experience that others will immediately connect with. It’s the reciprocity I hope to achieve between me and the world. We are all experiencing the confusion of human existence, and we need one another to sort it all out. We need mirrors held up in front of ourselves so we can see ourselves clearly. That seeing is true wisdom, and I look forward to a time when my art will create an atmosphere for wisdom reveal itself. Doesn’t that sound divine?

Live a Better Story

The beginning of my pursuit of writing began last year. I started reading a book recommended by a creative writing professor at Vanderbilt called Writing Fiction, a Guide to Narrative Craft, by Janet Burroway. Writing Fiction is a text that walks the reader through the many elements and qualities of a compelling story and provocative writing. Like Donald Miller in his new book A Million Miles in a Thousand Years, I have gotten excited as I connect the components of what it takes to write a good story to what it takes to LIVE a good story. Story is a theme I am thinking about daily. How do we live out this narrative we experience as life and how does it connect to the larger Meta-Narrative? These questions have reinforced for me anew my hope in the Christian story laid out in the Bible and have pushed me to ask myself how my personal story fits in that larger mystery.

Guided by Donald Miller's latest blog entry, Living a Good Story, An Alternative to New Year's Resolutions, I have decided to apply the elements of writing a good story to living a better story. As outlined in his post, instead of New Years Resolutions, I am going to "think in narrative rather than goals. The goals get met in the journey of the story."

To start, a story begins with a character who wants something enough to endure conflict and suffering to get it.

"...in order to engage our attention and sympathy, the protagonist must want, and want intensely. The thing that the character wants need not be violent or spectacular; it is the intensity of the wanting that introduces an element of danger."- pg. 33, Burroway.

So, here's question number 1. at the start of 2010: What do I want? Though I have several desires for this year, I think I will only focus on a few to be intense about. :) The "intensity" thing wears me out a bit. I'm not sure how much danger I want. Though, if I look at it that way, I can always avoid danger by choosing several TV shows to really be into this year. I could make sure to catch every episode, sacrificing all that comes in my way. But, I remember quickly, that doesn't make a good story. And who wants to look back at the end of 2010 and say they had a great year keeping up with what happens to Quinn Fabray's baby (not saying that a healthy obsession with the love triangle of Quinn, Finn and Puck is wrong, it just isnt very soul-fulfilling, in the end.)

One of the things I do want is to grow as a writer. I am willing to give up some things: mainly money (MFA programs are no joke). I will battle the fear that I am wasting our families financial resources. (They could be used to send Ellie to camp or get Atticus stellar drum lessons, or even more guilt: to buy Dave professional photography equipment that will grow his business! O the guilt!) I also have to let go of my deeply imbedded bad theology that leads me to believe that "nurturing my creative self" is selfish and, honestly, a bit new-agey. (Yes, I KNOW that God is Creator and by creating I am "imaging" him. But knowing something and believing it are two completely different things altogether!)

Another component that makes a good story, as outlined beautifully by Mr. Miller, is the "climactic scene". Writers know a story always leads to the pivotal scene. All of the action is leading up to that one event.

"They know their entire movie is heading toward that scene where Frodo throws the ring into the fire. And they write the movie to get him there."

That leads to Question #2: What scene am I headed for? What is my climactic scene? I am currently applying for grad schools. Its fairly exhausting work. I had to study for the GRE and suffer the pain of having my intelligence quantified by that stupid left-brain dominated exam (My boss told me to stop ripping the scab off that wound, but clearly I enjoy watching the blood letting!) I also had to write twenty-five pages for a writing sample. I have to still write a critical analysis of a literary work, and so on. However, this IS all headed somewhere: To my first "Writers in Residence" experience! I am applying for low-residency MFA programs that will include 7-10 days on campus going to workshops, writing, dialoguing, and editing my and others' pieces. In effect, I get to spend a whole week taking my creative self seriously! I get to call myself a writer!

I picture myself in a group of the cool kids (or, to be more realistic, a weirdo ecclectic group of socially awkward, potentially introverted, writer-types) discussing the political, social and spiritual problems of the world and then inspiring one another to write about them creatively (all while eating our lunch from a plastic tray from the university's dining hall). The scene includes my sitting underneath a tree on the university lawn writing til my hand falls off, sitting in an auditorium taking extensive notes from a lecture given by one of my favorite writers...Donald Miller, perhaps?

Don advises that, "Once you have that climactic scene in mind, you’ll know the scenes it takes to get there. Also, write this stuff down. Even if you just throw it away, write down what that climactic scene looks like, smells like and feels like. It will get in your brain and like a good protagonist in a great movie, you’ll wake every day knowing what you are supposed to do with your time."

Characters don't want to change. We really don't like it. We fight against it. We sit on our couches and watch too much hulu.com because we like comfort. Characters in a story need INCITEMENT, something that forces them to change. "An inciting incident is the event in a movie that causes upheaval in the protagonist life. The protagonist, then, naturally seeks to return to stability. And in order to do that, he HAS to solve his new problem. In Taken, Liam Neeson’s daughter is kidnapped and he MUST find her."

Question 3: What will force me to do this? Well, first of all, embarrassment. I have just told the blogging world my goal. If I don't do it, if I flake on my deadlines and don't get into any school, I have to admit it. Bringing people into my story has helped. Melinda Franklin (as previously defined as my Editor) and my other writing partner, Leslie Mitchell, have read my short story, spent time editing it, and care what I do with it. I will let them down if I don't follow through. They will have wasted their time. I do not want to let them down! Telling people my deadlines, for example, is another way to incite me to action. January 15th and March 1. All the schools I am applying to are due around then. Now, see there, I HAVE to turn them in on time because some of you are going to ask me about it. And, again, I do not want to fail you. :)

I will also need to make some extra dough for it to happen, and I think that fits in the "overcoming conflict bit", but I will try to figure out the inciting incident that will force me to make the money to pay for tuition. I'll need more time to think of that one. I'm not really motivated easily there. Any suggestions?

As I continue to pursue being a better writer, and the small hilly obstacles on the horizon get closer, I see that they are not actually hills, but mountains. Maybe Donald Miller's conference in Portland will inspire me! Don directly applies literary concepts and techniques that he has learned at various conferences about how to write a better story to how to life a better life.  Do you wanna go with me?


Check out the conference link here: www.donmilleris.com/conference or watch his video add for his conference:

Living a Better Story Seminar from All Things Converge Podcast on Vimeo.

New Year's Resolution: Live a Better Story, Part 1

Last year was a good year. I had a few goals: rest and get healthy. We had just moved back from Philadelphia were we had spent the past five years. Dave was in seminary at Westminster, we helped in leadership at a multi-site church plant in the city—Dave led music at 3 of the sites, we led a community group in our home once a week all five years, we lived communally with another family, I taught part-time at the University of Pennsylvania, we had a very active social life with mostly single friends—how I discovered Quizzo and my love for the tequila shots at Xochit, and oh yeah, we adopted our second child, Benjamin Atticus. Honestly, if the only thing on that list was parenting our first child Ellie Susanna, I would need the rest. But, all the activity over the past five years, in the city AND in the North, left me worn thin. I needed to regroup.

Looking back though, I see that in 2009, I lived a fairly good story from where I started. I had a few simple goals and I was able to achieve much more:

1. I ran a half marathon. In the hopes of avoiding medication, I chose to start exercising more. I ran weekly with a running group, I lost zero pounds, and barely finished after my friend who WALKED the damn thing—Laura Benge does have seriously long legs, though—but, I did it. I accomplished something I never would have thought possible. (Here's proof! I'm in the slideshow...You can join them this year to raise money for New Hope Academy like I did.) And I learned that it is okay that I do not enjoy running. It's a blood-type thing. Ask Micah Puncochar. I so do not get O+ people!

2. I had weekly dates with myself. I learned how to be alone. I realized that, in an attempt to outrun my depression, I used relationships and activity to avoid being alone. Once I started listening to my own thoughts and acknowledged that I let my mood determine my choices, I was able to begin enjoying my own company. ( I must point out the antidepressants and therapy were a huge help with this.)

3. I wrote my first short story. Two trips were the catalyst of my story. The first one was San Francisco, where I helped Dave shoot a friend's wedding. On that trip, I was talking to Dave about getting my Master's. I was looking at a program that would further the education I already had, like something in education, cross-cultural relations or community development. But, Dave, in his all discerning wisdom, told me I should not think about it so pragmatically. He said I should spend time studying something that would light my fire. This sent me into a temporary panic. What lights my fire??! It wasn't long after that that I decided to pursue creative writing.

Then there was Mexico. I spent the last few months working on putting that near-death experience into writing. It is to be my writing sample for my grad school application. I am so proud of myself for writing twenty-five pages, editing it several times, sharing it with my "Editor" Melinda Franklin (I have found this year that if you call something by an official name, you actually take yourself and your art more seriously. Melinda encouraged me to start calling my story "my manuscript". It made it sound so much more valuable. Its such a great trick, you should try it. Like, "Oh, sorry. I can't clean the kitchen right now, I am editing my writing." AKA: "I'm spell checking my facebook post." See how great that works?)

So, before I start making my New Year's Resolutions, I had to look back. 2009 started off low but ended high. Its a great place to start. There's a better view from here.

Photos: Yelapa, Mexico; Leslie Mitchell at our "Writer's Retreat"