Summer Solstice

It has been a busy week or so with some big events--life events for some of my friends.

My mind has been reeling with so many different thoughts and feelings. There are things that have a hard time taking shape in my mind and so I have a hard time even beginning to express them. It seemed appropriate that on this day, the longest day of the year and first official day of summer, that I try to sort through some of these things.

This past weekend I went to Wisconsin for the wedding of two good friends. The entire trip felt surreal. I now know people who are going to be living in Wisconsin. I know people living in Illinois and I know people all over the place now--even as far as China. At one point during the reception, I was standing towards the back of the tent, watching the dance floor, with a glass (mason jar) of wine in one hand and the other hand firmly planted on my hip in the traditional Schuett stance. It was like I was watching myself, and saw more than felt myself sway a little. I was overwhelmed by the significance of the moment. This would be the last time I would see some of these people for a very long time, and all I could find myself dwelling on was how I wished a certain boy was there with me. So I was having a moment with myself, reflecting on the places life takes us and the turns we don't expect, when a friend caught me--and I'm sure it looked like I was having a moment with the wine...but it was really just a moment of introspection. The spell broke and I was left giggling, despite the serious overtures of my heart moments before.

This boy I was wishing had been there, he's probably the one you were expecting, the one who writes me letter, wasn't the one I was expecting to miss. This last year has been interesting to say the least, and while a part of me still clings to hope that we, the letter writers, will find a way to be near one another, there is still enormous room for doubt. It would be a lie to say there was no one else this year that interested me. I wish I knew the reason behind the unsent letter in my notebook...the one dated June 1, 2013. I wish I knew why it was still there, why I haven't sent it. It's not like it's full of embarrassing things, honestly it's quite hum-drum. But maybe that's why. Because I feel like I'm telling half-truths.

But then I also feel like I'm telling myself half-truths. A friend asked me this week if I was finding a way to be spiritually fed--despite my ever-present loneliness. I told her yes. A half-truth. Some days I do feel incredibly blessed and like I can feel the Hand of God in my life. But most days I feel aimless. It's almost like I'm the small child who desperately wants to be tickled, but doesn't want to be too obvious about that desire. I want that connection, that passion, that drive to learn more, but I don't want to be obvious about the search...and I have a hard time asking for help because I feel like I should be strong enough to push myself. [Lord, give me the grace to realize I am in need of shepherding.]

A couple weekends ago, one of the older gentlemen I work with at the dealership approached my desk. This particular salesman is one of my favorites, he's funny and smart and incredibly nerdy. We have a lot of common interests, and he listens to me babble on about (girly) things. He even asks me questions about how my love-life is going. In fact, he's known all along about the boy who writes me letters...and he knows about the boy I work with. Anyhow, he approached my desk and instead of asking the usual question of who things were going with the young men in my life, he blatantly asked, "Anna, what is wrong with all the men in your life? Are they all idiots that not one of them would be dating you?" I was shocked. I didn't know how to respond...so I laughed and said that I doubted that was the case. I'm still in shock over that situation...and I still don't know how to respond. It's still taking form and shape.

I've also realized that it has been nearly a year since I wrote any poetry. Why is that? Poetry has always been my form of non-fiction, of autobiography. Why am I letting this portion of my life go unmapped? This is a time of discovery, of hope, of new ground. Why am I letting it slip away?

We had writing workshop this week, and it went well. We spent quite a bit of time on my piece, but we had a lot of ground to cover there. I am excited about the story, about the things that are developing and the way characters are revealing themselves to me while I am doing mundane chores (like dishes and laundry and showering and walking the dog).

When did I become a reluctant reader? I have so many books that I want to be reading, but I'm not...I look at them and wonder what they're about, but I'm not actually reading them. I need to be in the structured setting of school again--good thing grad school is just around the corner!

That's all for tonight...there are still uncertainties, and I don't feel like I've answered any questions or resolved any inner turmoil, but at least I've laid them out.



My chest hurts when I breathe tonight...it's wasting me away...wasting me away. [Anberlin, Symphony of Blase]

Man is a giddy thing...

It's been a good week.

I've had to laugh at myself a couple of times. Let's make a list, shall we?

1. I did the dishes--all of them. Now, I know this seems like a menial task, and it is. There's something about it though. The idea of washing dishes really makes me dread going into the kitchen, but once I start and I put the first clean pot on the towel to dry it just feels so purifying. It gives me time to stop thinking about all of the other things that are distracting me and allows me to get right to the heart of me. That personal reflection time is good for my introverted self.

2. On Tuesday, I just couldn't get away from all of the distractions--the tangible ones like the TV and my computer. Do you ever feel that way? Like technology is strapping you down and making you waste time and sucking away your productivity? I do. And it's everywhere. I needed to get some writing, and I wanted to--I needed to unplug and just be with the pen and paper for a while. So...I decided that I was going to soak my feet in the tub. I basically moved my "office" (I don't have an office, who am I kidding?) into the bathroom. For obvious reasons, my computer can't sit with me on the edge of the tub. My iPod did come with me though so I could play some music with its small speaker and cut the silence. It was a strange thing, going to the bathroom to get away from all of the distractions. I just wish it was more comfortable to sit on the edge of the tub....

3. We're having a garage sale! I have a lot of stuff (and a good part of it can just go away). About every summer I try to do a deep clean of my room...Last summer I got about half way done and gave up. So, now with a garage sale date in mind, I've been begun the purge again. I went through my dresser yesterday...and I threw away a multitude of old socks and underpants. Seriously, why do we (maybe it's just me, but I doubt it) horde old socks? It's not like we wear them...they just take up space while the elastic really gets bad. The same with old underpants. Seriously, what do we think is going to happen to them? There isn't a fairy that comes and takes those things away like the tooth fairy...they just sit in the drawers. And most of them don't have pairs anymore either. That's just sad, put them out of their misery.

4. Last night, Daddy came into my room to see the progress...and his one comment was, "You have a lot of stuff...and you've hit your limit for bookshelves in this space." How very true. Three large bookshelves take up a lot of room. My response was, "I have enough stuff for an apartment." I really do...and the idea that "a place of my own" might be in the cards in the next year or so is really exciting. I mean, words cannot describe how fantastic that would be. Granted, I would miss eating with the folks because they do food really well...but I would really like not having to retreat to the bathroom to get some alone time to write.

5. Writing Workshop on Wednesday was wonderful. (Do you like all those w's? I do.) I knew this was going to be different then any writing experience I have had. How did I know this? Because my cousin is part of the group, and I knew she would be asking hard questions about my story. Questions with answers I had never articulated to another person. I also knew that she was going to make me really get into the grit of it--she's a teacher after all. She's used to pushing people to get good stories. This week was no exception. There were a lot of questions, and that is partly because we're getting to the meat of this story. These young women that I'm working with are truly inspirational. I love reading what they've done and sharing with them what I have. Rachel and Kaitlin have been a blessing to me this summer, more than I had anticipated...and I hope that this writing relationship will continue.

6. Rachel asked me how much I thought I would post here...I told her I was hoping for twice a week. Ha. We'll see. So far I'm not doing so hot, but I'll get there. I'm just warming up.

7. I marked all the wedding dates in my calendar, the ones that I have so far. Holy weddings, yo. Every day I get more and more behind my peers in the relationship/wedding/baby scene.... But mostly I'm okay with this. I'm not ready for all of that just yet. There are a lot of things I need to get done independently before all of that happens. Funny how our perceptions of ourselves change.

"The one who's always, and never, alone...does she even know she's the girl with the red balloon?" [The Civil Wars]

Hold Me Fast, I'm a Hopeless Wanderer

I did not forget about my blog, honestly I didn't. I thought about coming here to relieve some of the unbidden stress, and I thought about it often. Sometimes we get going with things and we let other thing move to the back burner...and eventually they fall behind the stove. I didn't forget this was back here, but it would have taken work to move the "stove" and get the "pan" out again. What a mess.

So what has me back here, almost a year after my last post?

Thanks to my beautiful cousin, Kaitlin, I am part of a writing workshop--we should really think of a better name, like Tolkien and Lewis's Inklings. In this writing workshop there are three members: myself, Kaitlin, and Rachel.

This workshop has been just what I needed. Over the last year I've felt the itch to write, to create--the itch never goes away. And over the last year, I'm ignored the tugging, distracting myself with other things that also needed attention. I've been working on Morning Star, and Rachel and Kaitlin have been giving me awesome feedback...and I get to hear their voices as well! The stories they are weaving are important, and I hope they recognize how much I appreciate their honesty in all things.

Kaitlin is also getting married (yay!) and she asked me to be her Maid of Honor. This came as a surprise to me, I was going to be happy if she asked me to be a Bridesmaid. I am so honored and happy to work with her throughout her engagement. (There is a point to this bridal tangent, promise.) I don't think she realizes how blessed I am to take on this responsibility as it distracts from my own loneliness (I'll write more on this at a later date).

My mom and Aunt Deanna wanted to host a Bridal Shower for Kaitlin, which I was very happy to help host. (This gave me an opportunity to create decorations from papercrafting, which I loved.)

So last night we hosted this lovely party that beautiful Rachel and her mother were invited to. After several guests had cleared out, after having a lot of fun, it was mentioned that Rachel has a blog. (Which I was very pleased to receive an invite to read.) She sheepishly smiled and admitted to this blogs existence, so I told her that I also had a blog, but it had fallen into disuse.

When I got home from the party and was able to take a moment for myself, I perused her blog...and then I came back here, to this space. And I thought to myself, You silly girl, move that stupid stove and start writing again. You know you'll feel better when you do. 

So here I am, I'm back, and I sincerely hope I am more faithful to this space. I will do my best.

"How fickle my heart, and how woozy my eyes. I struggle to find any truth in your lies. And now my heart stumbles on things I don't know. My weakness I feel I must finally show." [Mumford and Sons]

Stretching out the fingers...

I should be more prolific.

Somedays I am overwhelmed with creativity.

I sit and sew and sew until my fingers are dry from the textiles and burned from the iron. If I didn't have a job that required me to go to school with the little ones at 7:45 in the morning, I would sew until the hours of the morning when everyone else in the house is sleeping soundly and unaware of the humming of the small machine that has stitched together the pieces of quilts and purses and clothing and pillowcases. And it feels like I just keep the thread running, much like the sentence before that describes it, while my eyes watch the magic of the machine shape usable things.

Or, maybe I'll sit and knit and knit until my thumb is bruised for pushing the needles back and my wrist hurts from the twisting. But I can see the single strand become something strong and useful--something important for the winter chill that is sure to come. Just yesterday, I made two hats that will be gifts on Christmas morning, and I began work on a scarf.

I don't always sit, sometimes I stand and bake until my feet hurt and the house smells like cupcakes or brownies or cookies. These things take little time, and I can watch them rise in the oven. Others may smile as they bite into one even as they reach for another.

These things are my therapy. If I really want to feel better about whatever might be dragging me down, I need to set creation-idle hands to work on a new project. These things I can watch form and see to completion.

I'm still not writing the way I should be. I'm not always making myself present. Because, honestly, most days I get home from the school with the little ones and I just want to sleep or do nothing. I find myself drained of creativity...and I'm not moving forward like I want to be. I can't see the pieces of my own quilt coming together, or all the stitches in my scarf, or the ingredients in my cake to see what flavor I will be. My life feels like it's standing still.

As my life is still, so is my writing. When I create the words come easily, something about the workings of my hands activating the workings of my mind. And then I run into the issue of time.

I should be more prolific.

I say this despite the two unfinished quilts strewn about the living room and the unfinished scarf in my bedroom...and the several unfinished stories on my hard drive.

I should be more prolific and finish these things to make room for new things.

This dusty barren land had given all it could yield...

It was recently pointed out to me *cough*LeAnn*cough* that I haven't blogged in a while. I knew this was true, and I had been meaning too, honestly. My new job has left me exhausted once 3:30 hits, and I've fallen into my old napping pattern... But I keep hoping that my body will adjust to the schedule and that I'll be able to get to bed a little earlier so I can stop napping in the afternoons.

Over the last few months I've noticed that I thrive on hope. I'm sure that most of you already knew this, and it was probably something I knew for a long time but hadn't yet come to realize the entirety of its scope.

This morning it really struck me how deeply this hope runs.
I've been hoping for rain--desperately.
I've been hoping that my cousin would recover from her botched surgery well.
I've been hoping that my other cousin would pull herself together and just be okay.
I've been hoping that this "maybe someday it'll work out" would just work out.
I've been hoping that our little first grader with behavior issues would get the attention she deserves at home so she can grow into the creative girl I see lurking behind the tangled hair and eyes that haven't learned to read yet.
I've been hoping that the writing bug would just take hold of me again and never let me go.
I've been hoping.
Hoping.
Hoping.

I even surround myself with literature that emphasizes the idea of hope and I wrap it around me like a warm security blanket. And I even hope that someday my life would echo those virtues that fictional characters so easily embody: strength, loyalty, nobility, honor, courage and faith.

So it's no surprise when I see small glimmers of these things in real life that I get excited and want to capture the moments. 

I have all of this hope, all of this want, but I'm still content.

Even if the rain comes just as harvest season is about to begin, at least there is moisture.
Even if my cousin had 20 units of blood transfused and got E. coli in a hospital, at least she is alive.
Even if my cousin moved back to the wretched situation that keeps throwing her to the wolves, at least she is talking to me about it and being open about the hardships.
Even if "maybe someday" isn't today, at least I have letter writing to pass the time.
Even if our little first grader was in the office again because of a tantrum, at least she is reaching out and she hugged me later and didn't want me to leave her.
Even if I'm not writing as much as I want, at least I know the story is still alive in me and it's just setting its roots a little deeper.

"Oh, Dear I never saw you coming. Oh my, look what you have done. You're my favorite song, always on the tip of my tongue." [Civil Wars, Tip of my Tongue]

Never would I ever...

I've been struck by the irony in my life this year. Everywhere I turn, and every time I think I've finally turned the bend to leave it behind, irony is right there. And I must admit, we're not really friends. When I'm reading or watching a movie or tv show I don't mind the situational irony because it's funny. That's the thing about irony, it's funny when it isn't you.

Now, I don't want to rehash all of it, but if you read my post about February you have an idea of the kind of thing I'm talking about. I think it's even more frustrating to realize the irony because then you dwell on it...  Sometimes I wonder if God finds irony amusing.

Last semester, Claire and I started regularly attending the local E-Free church, I've mentioned this before. One of the congregation members really likes working with the college group, and so she hosts these meals once a month after the second service. The food she provides is always delicious, and it's just a good ministry to us--the poor and hungry college students.

It is kind of a wonder I ever went back though. The first time meeting these people, and the lady that helps Dawn asked us what we were majoring in. A standard question, easy to answer. When I told her I was an English major with a Creative Writing emphasis, she asked me second question, "What do you plan to do with that?" I explained to her my graduate school plans and that I want to be a professor. She actually, and I kid you not, scoffed and said, "Yeah, that's what my daughter said, she put all her eggs in on basket, and now she works at a car dealership. What a waste."

....

I was shocked and offended and just said that I wasn't going to do that. Wasn't going to do that.

Here I sit this morning, at one of the largest car dealerships in my town, waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for the phone to ring and praying that I get the full time position.

Maybe this is at the root of my frustration with not getting into graduate school. I'm afraid of getting stuck here, afraid of losing my will to go back to school. Then I remember that there's nothing wrong with this part of life. There's nothing wrong with taking some time to stretch your wings and allow some things to heal--the wounds that can only come from academia and dorm life and loans.

It's not a sin to work at a car dealership, like this lady made it sound. The people here are nice. The days are always interesting. The customers sometimes bring their kids, and they are adorable. I see people here. I talk to people. For once I feel like a semi-normal person. (Usually I say that normalcy is overrated, but it's really not.)

So, here's to a standard job. And irony.

"Humor brings insight and tolerance. Irony brings a deeper and less friendly understanding." [Agnes Repplier]

There's still good in this world, and it's worth fighting for...

Well. You've all noticed this already, I'm sure, but I kind of fell off the blogsphere... and after a weekend of feeling wretched (for several reasons, but partially because I wasn't writing--and when I tried it flopped) I decided I needed to pick myself up and get with it. I found a partially started entry that I think I should still share with you...and then finish the thought. 

What was already said:

Oh, where to begin...as I have mentioned before, this semester has been crazy busy. It's been a good and bad kind of busy (I'm getting a lot done, and I don't feel like I'm drowning, but I'm also super behind on letter writing, sorry Danielle). It's been a challenge, that is for sure.

One of the largest challenges I've faced is filling out graduate school applications. Now, because I'm going into writing I have to send in a writing sample. Initially I didn't think this would be an issue at all. I've been working on this story (Morning Star) and feel pretty confident about the first couple chapters. A professor (my boss at the Writing Center) looked over what I thought I would be submitting and told me that grad schools may not even consider an applicant who submits genre fiction. (This is where things got hectic.) After emailing the school I'm looking at, this fear was confirmed. So I frantically found something "literary fiction" that I can submit, but it needs revisions.

While talking to my professor about what the writing workshop world is like, I realized that I was entering in to one of the hardest fights of my life--my academic life. I'm going to have to fight for "my thing." Honestly, the mere idea of this kind of potential confrontation has me shaking with nerves.

And the rest:

This isn't as much of an issue anymore because my applications are all in and I'm just waiting. Waiting, hopefully with some patience, for the word. I'm still nervous, sure. Maybe even a little scared about what the future may hold. But isn't that always the way when turning to a new chapter?

I did something unexpected in the middle of the application process. It didn't occur to me until one night when I was sipping at coffee with Lisa, she asked if I had thought about applying to any literature programs. I hadn't, not really. And then I just did it. I applied for a program that I hadn't really even thought about.

Creative Writing has always been my thing, just as genre fiction has always been my thing. But I can still write (genre fiction) without a Master's degree in it... and if I enter into the literary world maybe I'll be better equipped to fight for it. I only applied to the one literature program. One chance.

So don't think I'm going to stop fighting. I'm not. But I'm maybe going to take the Hobbit position for a while and just see how it all pans out. Then I'll walk to Mordor. And fly back with the Eagles.

Love you all, and I promise I'll post more frequently. :)

I could never save myself...

There's an itch inside me. (I mean this both literally and figuratively.)

Many (if not all) of you know that I was badly sunburned a few weeks ago. Well, it's mostly "faded" now, and the pealing is mostly all gone.... but the itching. The itching will not go away. I'm lucky I have any skin left with how itchy I've been. People will comment on my sunburn (still) and I don't know if it's actually residual red from the burn or from my constant scratching. Maybe both.

Just as the itch on my skin is irritating, so is the itch in my soul. The difference is that I have not been able to scratch away the discomfort therein. Instead, it goes on bothering, becoming more incessant and more irksome everyday. Everyday, another part itches.

I would like to say that the answer to this itchiness would be to write....and I do believe it would help. As I told a dear friend in a note the other day: I have not had time to write, and therefore have not been writing everyday. Perhaps the stagnant waters of my soul started here. I was not moving the waters, becoming still in the routine of the day-to-day. Even now, I think to myself that I should be reading for a class instead of engaging in this potentially cathartic activity.

There are other things.

How do you swallow the words of nights past? Take it all back, let things play out the way they were meant to. Why did you ever open your mouth to begin with? I lack the grace to take these things in stride.

How do you console a friend that has just told you her dad in terminal? That he cannot speak to her the way he used to? She tells you not to cry for her, but these tears have been pushing for days, and this is just the news that wants to send them over the brink. You can spend all the time in the world working on homework for your Death, Dying, and Trauma class, but when those hard questions come up you just may not have the answers. I don't know if my arms are brave enough to help you carry this. 

How do you carry a friend's secret? Carry it wrapped up in your heart, tucked away. Let everything that is negative bounce off your shield, leaving dings and scratches. I don't know if I'm strong to hold up forever.

A friend once told me I had strong arms. Arms that could help one bear their burdens with a simply hug. All I want is for someone with strong arms to hold me. Tonight I couldn't stand the silence of my dorm room, so I slept. I went to work. I got back to the dorm, knowing I would be alone again. So, I decided to go for a drive, thinking it would make my heart feel less heavy in my chest.

I was in a wedding this last weekend. My friend now has a strong set of arms that will hold her through all things--in their vows he mentioned that he would be her shield. It gave me chills.

Now, I sit here, thinking of all the things I need to do, just wishing, praying, for some strong arms. For someone to be my shield. Because in that car ride I realized that when I am in need is when I give the most. I asked the Walmart lady if she was having a better night...only to get a long explanation about how it was worse than the other day. And even though I felt like my heart would burst, I gave her a smile anyway and told her that I hoped things would start looking up soon. I need someone to protect me for this emotional fatigue.

I am so itchy. And I just want it to go away.

"Hold fast, help is on the way." [Casting Crowns]

I ride (write) to find my own meaning...

I've mentioned before (back at the beginning of this blog, ...because they love you) how I feel connected to Eowyn from "The Lord of the Rings." She is perhaps my favorite female character in all the literature I have read thus far. It runs deeper than her relationship with Aragorn (or lack there of) or Faramir (something I long for).

I feel like she is cruelly misunderstood by the general audience. There are two main things I see:

1. People have only seen the movies. Now, I love the Peter Jackson adaptation of the books. However, I think he significantly downplayed Eowyn's character and the real issues she was dealing with (especially in the theatrical version). Viewers get the impression that she was simply love sick--tired of being left behind at home and wanting some adventure. Aragorn was different and definitely a break from the hum-drum of her life.

2. She's a fairly minor character when compared to Gandalf, Aragorn, or Frodo. She has a huge moment, but doesn't come in until the second book, she just doesn't get as much space on the page as some of the other characters. So maybe readers just don't pay her much attention. Or they don't see some of the things about her character because it takes those around her a long time to figure it out--they chalk it up to being lovesick as well.

There's more going on there. [More going on in me.] Now, there are definitely elements of her being lovesick (but there's a cause behind the cause) and she is a minor character (which is part of why she is the way she is!). It's all very intriguing to me, and I wrote a paper on it last semester (and posted it here, I'm preparing you for something great...)... but I'm going to try to paraphrase what I'm feeling right now.

Her biggest issue is finding her place in the world--what her purpose is. Her brother and uncle get to ride off into battle and gain honor and renown--something she yearns for. She doesn't want to be forgotten. So, she's learned how to fight and defend herself. She has honed her skill because she doesn't want to be left behind; the last defense.

Eowyn wants to be remembered for doing something great. For making a difference. She wants to die with honor.

Now, maybe this is just the effects of my "Death, Dying, and Trauma" class coming out, but I want the same thing. I want to use my life for something with purpose. I want to make a difference. And when I die I want it to be with grace and dignity. (That class will make you think about death in a way you would never imagine.)

I don't think I'm the only one. Eowyn's character speaks to something so very human. Nobody wants to be forgotten and left behind. She was struggling deep within herself. Her upbringing was telling her one thing while her heart said something else. Her heart says, "you can be a hero." Her mind says, "you're only a woman."

Sometimes I take on the same mentality. I'm only one person. One young woman. What weight can I bear in this world?


I don't suffer from depression. (Not that I know of, anyway.) And so I can't claim that part of her character to be an echo of myself. She was fighting against social norms, and I do feel like I'm doing that myself, in a different way.

I found a song on iTunes really randomly one day. It's called "Eowyn's Song" and it's beautiful. It captures her character perfectly (while focusing on the Aragorn issue, which is still a big deal, don't get me wrong). Please listen to it. (LeAnn, you've already heard it, but you can always listen again.) This is the song that prompted this post, so it's kind of a big deal. Ha.

There's a line in the song, "I ride to find my own meaning," and I don't think any combination of words could described her situation (in a nutshell) any better. And that is something so deeply ingrained in me. Instead, I don't ride horses (I'll leave that you, Lisa, dear). I find my meaning in my writing (and in the Bible and Christ, but that's a Sunday School answer) because writing is the way I let go of the things that distract me. It's my way of filtering through the turmoil and the joy.

"No one will hear of this tale." This is an interesting comment on the view of history and how it is recorded and retold. (My Ling and Lang senses are tingling.)

"I go with a mind full of death." I'm not suicidal. Not even close. But there is something in this that tugs at me. Something about Eowyn's plight pulls at my heart so strongly... She has a heart of sacrifice, if that is what will get her honor and valor. "Oh, I would have followed you down to the end, my captain, my King. Oh, I would have followed you down to the Paths of the Dead."

"Fire consumes the heart that teaches captain of evil to fall. Desire, as pure as the man that reaches the humble hero in us all." This is my favorite line. Absolute favorite. Because she is the one that teaches the Witch King to fall. She did this from a pure desire. And I think "the man that reaches" is Aragorn, and he taught her to be a hero in a backwards kind of way. He was belittling her, like some might think. Indeed, he pitied her.  He was reaching the humble hero in the hearts of the Hobbits, and he did the same for her.

I'm not articulating this as well as I had hoped I would. But maybe you understand. Maybe you see yourself echoed here. Maybe you, too, worry for the way you will be remembered. The way you will leave your mark on this world.

"...the humble hero in us all."

I'm preparing you for something great...

So, I've been thinking a lot about the character Eowyn this semester... and I have a post I've been working on. But I want to "prime" you for that post because it's going to be kind of a lot if I try to prime as I write it... uh. That makes it sound really daunting. Basically, I want to share with you a paper I wrote last semester on Eowyn as a character. So that's what this is. After you've read this, the next post will make more sense because this is a character analysis--I could write a book on her, for the record, so just know that this is the reigned in version. (ha) I hope you enjoy it...I know it's long, but there are some great quotes sprinkled throughout.

A Character Expose: Eowyn, Shieldmaiden of Rohan

            Tolkien deals with several issues throughout “The Lord of the Rings,” but one that seems out of place in this trilogy about men saving the world is the role of women in society. The reader meets female characters like Goldberry, Arwen, and Galadriel—and they are beautiful and each commanding of respect—but they are all very different from Eowyn. Tolkien devotes special attention to this mortal woman that he did not necessarily pay to those that are ageless. She gets more action time than the other women. Eowyn desires honor, valor and renown mainly—and she is willing to do nearly anything to obtain them. She longs to fight in battle with the men of her household—she does not like being idle. When men come into her life that possess the things she seeks they enthrall her. 

            It is no wonder why Eowyn feels trapped by her situation—she has been living in a house that is corrupted and there is nothing she can do to change it. When we first meet her, she is almost missed in the midst of the “exorcism” of King Theoden, the uncle she has been watching after while he fell deeper and deeper into despair. She gets one paragraph devoted to her, which seems to punctuate that she is forgotten or ignored to a certain extent.

“Grave and thoughtful was her glance, as she looked on the king with cool pity in her eyes. Very fair was her face, and her long hair was like a river of gold. Slender and tall she was in her white robe girt with silver; but strong she seemed and stern as steel, a daughter of kings.” (The King of the Golden Hall)

The first impression we get is that she is beautiful, but full of sorrow and pity. One wonders why she pities the King. There are a few possible reasons for this. Either, she pities him that he has been so disabled or she is looking at him in pity because he has lost some of his honor and dignity. I think that both of these would cause her glance to be grave and thoughtful. Aragorn notices her disposition. He sees her as fair, but cold, “like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood.” (The King of the Golden Hall) She is a young woman, and she is trapped in the winter of despair. Because of this observation, Eowyn appears to be the quintessential damsel-in-distress and Aragorn is the hero that must save her. One could argue that she notices this as well when she sees him.

“And she now was suddenly aware of him: tall heir of kings, wise and with many winters, greycloaked, hiding a power that yet she felt. For a moment still as stone she stood, then turning swiftly she was gone.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

She has identified that he is everything that she wants to be. In real-time, this exchange would have only happened in a few seconds. There is so much energy built up in that one look, it has to be significant. And it is important, but not in the way that I had originally imagined. When I was younger, I read it as a direct sign that they would fall in love, but rather it harkens to the fact that she feels trapped and will do anything to get out of that entrapment. 

            It doesn’t take long for Aragorn to realize that he enamors her, and he is concerned by this quick turn of events, whether that is because he will not love her in return or because he sees something dark in her. Eowyn is presenting a cup of wine to him when he first seems to recognize this phenomenon.

“As she stood before Aragorn she paused suddenly and looked upon him, and her eyes were shining. And he looked down upon her fair face and smiled; but as he took the cup, his hand met hers, and he knew that she trembled at the touch. […] his face now was troubled and he did not smile.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

Now, this could be interpreted in a couple different ways. Aragorn could be concerned that her heart will be broken when he does not love her back. Or, he could have recognized something else that dwells deep within her—he is a man of wisdom and so it is possible to think that he saw the despair and desire for honor in her. It is interesting to me that it is in the touch of a hand that he could have potentially realized so much in her and later we learn that he has the hands of a healer—perhaps he sensed that there was something that needed healing. She seems to become obsessed with him. When she is dubbed Shieldmaiden of Rohan, she says, “’A year shall I endure for every day that passes until your return.’ But as she spoke her eyes went to Aragorn who stood nearby.” (The King of the Golden Hall) This is not a very subtle hint, she’s going to miss him and she doesn’t even know him. But then, she doesn’t want to be left behind, she wants to fight beside these men of renown. As the group leaves Edoras,

“Aragorn looked back as they passed towards the gate. Alone Eowyn stood before the doors of the house at the stair’s head; the sword was set upright before her, and her hands were laid upon the hilt. She was clad now in mail and shone like silver in the sun.”(The King of the Golden Hall)

She is longing to join them, why else would she don the garments of war?  He sees her as a solitary woman, left behind as the last defense Edoras. “Far over the plain Eowyn saw the glitter of their spears, as she stood still, alone before the doors of the silent house.” (The King of the Golden Hall) She is left to be alone and surrounded in silence. This image doesn’t seem to be too terrible at first, but then, when one looks into her future in the books, you see that this could be the start of something else—something far worse. Or maybe, it’s the first sign of life from a seed that has been lying dormant for far too long. 

            The return of Aragorn from the Battle of Helm’s Deep with the Dunedain in “The Return of the King” is the first time the reader sees Eowyn in a long time, and she is all the more eager to join the war after that victory—she wants to be able to take part in that esteem. It is written, “for no mightier men had she seen than the Dunedain and the fair sons of Elrond; but on Aragorn most of all her eyes rested.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) The time and distance did not change her attitude towards him. She absorbs everything they will tell her of the battle with great eagerness. When Aragorn tells her that they will not be staying longer than one night because their road is an urgent one, at first she believes that they came to Edoras because he wanted to see her. He has to tell her, albeit gently, that he has not come to see her, but that his road brings him her way. She is appalled that he means to take the Paths of the Dead. She says to him, “I beg you to remain and ride with my brother; for then all our hearts will be gladdened, and our hope be the brighter.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) She doesn’t seem to understand his path has been appointed, and that he must go by the Paths of the Dead to Minas Tirith. It is interesting, she is concerned that he is riding to his death, but she seems more concerned that he is not riding to an honorable death in battle. She finally lets her desire to fight come to light.

“You are a stern lord and resolute and thus do men win renown. Lord, if you must go, then let me ride in your following. For I am weary of skulking in the hills, and wish to face peril and battle.”(Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

She wants to ride to battle so she can prove her worth. Aragorn reminds her that she has a duty to her people—a responsibility that must be upheld. She finally admits that she does not want to be left behind any longer, she doesn’t want to be protected from war, she grows weary of waiting for the return of the men.

“A time may come soon, when none will return. Then there will be need of valour without renown, for none shall remember the deeds that are done in the last defence of your homes. Yet the deeds will not be less valiant because they are unpraised.”(Aragorn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

 He basically tells her that her place in Edoras is just as noble as one on the battlefield, because when it comes right down to it she will be the one that picks up the pieces should all the warriors fall. He wants her to realize her place in the world is important too. 

            Eowyn’s “place” in the world is her biggest fear—she is a strong woman, but there is one thing that causes her fear.

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honour, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more. But I am of the House of Eorl and not a serving woman. I can ride and wield blade, and I do not fear either pain or death.”(Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)

She is not afraid to fight, she is not afraid to die. This is quite possibly the strongest voice in “The Lord of the Rings” against the oppression of women. It is interesting that it even comes up in such a “boys book.” Tolkien does seem to be saying that it is wrong to just expect women to stay home and do nothing—but he also says that there is honor in that role. Aragorn seems perplexed, or at least curious, by this and asks what she does fear. “A cage. To stay behind bars until use and old age accept them, and all chance of doing great deeds is gone beyond recall or desire.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company)              

          This proclamation finally circles back to her disapproval of Aragorn’s quest to the Paths of the Dead. She says that she only did not wish to see “a thing that is high and excellent cast away needlessly.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) Aragorn tells her that he does not want to see that either, and that is why he implores her to stay. He even tells her she has no errand in the South—which, when you think about it, she really did, it just wasn’t something he could recognize or see at the time. She tells him that the others that go with him have no errand in the South either but that, “They go only because they would not be parted from thee—because they love thee.” (Eowyn, The Passing of the Grey Company) And then she’s gone for the night. All along it has been a combination of her wanting to earn renown and also in loving him. 

            In the morning, she begs him yet again to let her ride with him, and it is with pain that he tells her she cannot. He did not look back as he rode away, “and only those who knew him well and were near to him saw the pain that he bore.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) Aragorn wants to let her come with him, he understands what she wants, but it is not something he can give to her. She is traumatized at this dismissal. Perhaps she thought that he would be the one to give her a chance to earn her title because he is a man of action. “When they were lost to view, she turned, stumbling as one that is blind, and went back to her lodging.” (The Passing of the Grey Company) She is devastated to be left behind again. 

            The arrival of King Theoden and Eomer shows her ready for battle again, perhaps an attempt to cover up how she is really feeling, or perhaps a statement that she will not be left behind again. When Theoden asks her how she is, she says that she is well. Merry gets a different impression though. “…yet it seemed to Merry that her voice belied her, and he would have thought that she had been weeping, if that could be believed of one so stern of face.” (The Muster of Rohan) He isn’t the only one to notice, Theoden mentions that she seems grieved at Aragorn’s passing into the Paths of the Dead. Merry has become an esquire of Rohan, and Aragorn has requested to Eowyn that he be clad for battle. She provides him with all that he will need, and tells him, “Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I.” (Eowyn, The Muster of Rohan) When Merry is told that he will be left behind he too is distraught—he and Eowyn have that in common. She approaches him in the guise of a man, and offers to take him on her horse. Together, they ride to Minas Tirith in secret. For both of them, all of their friends have gone to war and they would not be left behind. 

            Both Merry and Eowyn were doubted, but they were both destined to do something great. Merry doesn’t realize that it is Eowyn he is riding with until they come up against the Witch King. Eowyn is defending King Theoden’s fallen body—she will do anything to prevent the winged-beast from feasting on his flesh—when the Witch King tells her that no living man can hinder him.

“But no living man am I! You look upon a woman. Eowyn I am, Eomund’s daughter. You stand between me and my lord and kin. Begone, if you be not deathless! For living or dark undead, I will smite you, if you touch him.”(Eowyn, The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

 At this speech, Merry realizes that the man he was riding with was in fact the Shieldmaiden, “But the helm of her secrecy had fallen from her, and her bright hair, released from its bonds, gleamed with pale gold upon her shoulders. Her eyes grey as the sea were hard and fell, and yet tears were on her cheek.” (The Battle of the Pelennor Fields) She is finally doing what she has always desired—to die in honor and in battle. Merry rises up to help her, for he does not think that one so beautiful should die alone or unaided. Eowyn manages to kill the winged-beast, and a blow from the Witch King breaks her arm. Merry stabs him in the back of the “leg.” In his moment of distraction, she is able to plunge her sword into what would be his head. And so, Eowyn and Merry slay the Witch King, a mighty foe that no man could kill. She lies near death on the field of battle while Merry is able to talk to Theoden before he dies as well. 

            If one had any doubt of Eomer’s love for his sister, it is put to rest swiftly when he finds her “dead.” As a reader, I felt my heart break for him in that moment. I cannot imagine what I would do if my brother was killed in battle, and I didn’t even know he was there…much stronger would that pain be, I think, for a brother who lost a sister.

“He stood a moment as a man who is pierced in the midst of a cry by an arrow through the heart; and then his face went deathly white, and a cold fury rose in him so that all speech failed him for a while. A fey mood took him.”(The Battle of the Pelennor Fields)

He does not take the loss lightly, and rides off into the thick of battle again, perhaps seeking his own death because of the loss of everything he loved. It is fortunate for him that another looked to his sister and saw that she was not dead, but only near death. 

            Eowyn’s wounds were far deeper than just the bodily wounds she suffered at the hand of the Witch King—there were preexisting wounds. The healers at the Houses of Healing were not able to revive her, though her physical wounds were fairly simple. Gandalf says, “For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House.” (The Houses of Healing) Even Aragorn was troubled by her illness, “Here there is a grievous hurt and a heavy blow.” (Aragorn, The Houses of Healing) It is here that Aragorn tries to identify what the deep-rooted problem is with the help of Gandalf and Eomer. He begins musing over what he had already perceived from her as he spoke to her in the earlier chapters.

“When I first looked on her and perceived her unhappiness, it seemed to me that I saw a white flower standing straight and proud, shapely as a lily, and yet knew that it was hard, as if wrought by elf-wrights out of steel. Or was it, maybe, a frost that had turned its sap to ice, and so it stood, bitter-sweet, still fair to see, but stricken, soon to fall and die? Her malady begins far back before this day, does it not Eomer?”(Aragorn, The Houses of Healing)

Eomer seems to be oblivious to this winter that she was dwelling in. He tells Aragorn and Gandalf that he had not perceived any frost until she saw Aragorn—the man that she wanted to be, essentially. He says that yes, she was distressed about the state of the King, but it was nothing serious enough to cause this kind of malady. Gandalf reminds him that he had other things to do to take his mind off of his uncle,

“…you had horses, and deeds of arms, and the free fields; but she, born in the body of a maid, had a spirit and courage at least the match of yours. Yet she was doomed to wait upon an old man, whom she loved as a father, and watch him falling into a mean dishonoured dotage; and her part seemed to her more ignoble than that of the staff he leaned on. […] But who knows what she spoke to the darkness, alone, in the bitter watches of the night, when all her life seemed shrinking, and the walls of her bower closing in about her, a hutch to trammel some wild thing in?”(Gandalf, The Houses of Healing)

She did not having anything in which to channel her energy. There was nothing for her to distract herself with. Her own self-view was so low that she didn’t think she was worth more than a piece of wood…how sad is that? Gandalf suspects that she felt she was something wild that needed to be caged in, and that all the men around her were causing her to believe this. Aragorn admits to thinking it was more related to himself, “Few other griefs amid the ill chances of this world have more bitterness and shame for a man’s heart than to behold the love of a lady so fair and brave that cannot be returned.” (Aragorn, The Houses of Healing) He was deeply saddened that he could not give her what she sought. He tells Eomer that he pitied her, and feared for her more than anything while he traveled the Paths of the Dead.

“And yet, Eomer, I say to you that she loves you more truly than me; for you she loves and knows; but in me she loves only a shadow and a thought: a hope of glory and great deeds, and lands far from the fields of Rohan. […] But to what she will awake: hope, or forgetfulness, or despair, I do not know. And if to despair, then she will die, unless other healing comes which I cannot bring. Alas! for her deeds have set her among the queens of great renown.”(Aragorn, the Houses of Healing)

Eowyn was in love with him because of what he was and what he stood for, not because of who he was. She is finally what she has always wanted to be—remembered for some great deed. It isn’t until Eomer calls to her that she awakens. They all wait with bated breath to see what she is like now that she is no longer slumbering. Gandalf tells her, “But do not speak yet of war or woe, until you are made whole again. Great gladness it is to see you awake again to health and hope, so valiant a lady!” (The Houses of Healing) Eowyn admits that she is “healthy” again, “But to hope? I do not know.” (Eowyn, The Houses of Healing)  

            It is not until she meets Faramir that she is truly healed from all her maladies. They are both being kept in the Houses of Healing until they are well, and while she thinks that she is well, she is not. Her heart still longs to be doing great deeds. Faramir remarks that they have both been under the Shadow and that the same hand, Aragorn’s, drew them from it. To which she replies, “Shadow lies on me still.” (The Steward and the King) So it seems that she did wake to despair, and waits for other healing. It becomes very obvious right away that Faramir is taken by her. He knows that she is waiting for the return of Aragorn—she has been waiting seven days.

“But think not ill of me, if I say to you: they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed. Eowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found.”(Faramir, The Steward and the King)

 Eowyn is able to be completely honest with him, though she pretends to be baffled by his statement—the reader knows that he has found her and does not wish to lose her. She is able to admit, “I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.” (Eowyn, The Steward and The King) Finally the stroke falls, and it does not seem as though darkness will be able to hold much more of a grip on Middle Earth—Faramir expresses this before kissing her brow. And in that moment the Shadow departs and the Sun is able to shine again. During this time together we learn that she does seek pity, though pity is what she receives from many but not Faramir. He understands her better than she seems to understand herself.

“You desired to have the love of the Lord Aragorn. Because he was high and puissant, and you wished to have renown and glory and to be lifted far above the mean things that crawl on the earth. And as a great captain may to a young soldier he seemed to you admirable. For so he is, a lord among men, the greatest that now it. But when he gave you only understanding and pity, then you desired to have nothing, unless a brave death in battle. […] Do not scorn pity that is a gift of a gentle heart, Eowyn! But I do not offer you my pity. For you are a lady high and valiant and have yourself won renown that shall not be forgotten; and you are a lady beautiful […] And I love you. Once I pitied your sorrow. But now, were you sorrowless, without fear or any lack, were you the blissful Queen of Gondor, still I would love you.”(Faramir, The Steward and the King)

What a speech. Now, if Eowyn had not had a change of heart after that, I doubt she would be one of my personal favorite characters. In that moment, she throws off the Shadow that surrounded her, and she is once again in the Sun. They agree to be married, and Faramir is able to say, “Here is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan, and now she is healed.” (The Steward and the King) She decides to stay in the Houses of Healing for a time and help those that must still remain there, for she finally has hope again. 

            Eowyn is able to be happy, and she has found herself. Tolkien speaks to feminism in an interesting way. Really, he presents both sides. The reader is able to understand why she is the way she is—seeking for something more than to be just a woman of the house. On the other hand, I am also able to see where Aragorn is coming from. No matter what her lot in life, she is important—for all things must be done. In a way, Tolkien is also speaking to the issue of identity crisis. Eowyn didn’t really know who she was, or what she was supposed to be doing. She knew what she wanted, but she didn’t see her own worth. The last thing Aragorn says to Eowyn is, “I have wished you joy ever since I first saw thee. It heals my heart to see thee now in bliss.” (Many Partings) And so the reader watches this transformation of a woman so utterly lost to a woman of complete bliss. She is probably my favorite character because she does overcome her own self-doubts, and in the end she is able to live in peace. 

I hope you all enjoyed it... There are enough quotes throughout, you probably don't need another one at the end of the post.

Heartache to heartache, we stand...

Writing. Again. Yeah, I know, it's the tune of my summer. But my summer is almost over, and I feel like I need a post of cap it all off--not that the process ever ends.

Mostly, I want to talk about the phone calls, skype dates, and house visits with Lisa (and Heidi).

I've written a fair amount about the way a writer speaks to another writer. There's more though. So much more.

As I've worked throughout the summer on this huge project, I've realized that up until this point I've just kind of been wingin' it and hoping it would come out alright. Yes, I had some people read parts of it, but none of them really helped me develop ideas, nor did they give me much feedback. This was fine at the time, because I wasn't ready to hear much about improvement. (If you have read any of "Morning Star" you should feel privileged because I have hold this story near and dear for a long time.)

When I was on the phone with Lisa earlier this week she started out by telling me how she cried while she read a certain scene--and it wasn't the death scene, like I expected, it was the proposal scene I mentioned in an earlier post. Something that had been thrown in kind of last minute before emailing it to her. Good tears. Tears because it moved her--the giving up of part of ones identity that goes along with giving one's life to another. In everything, there is a give and take--I pray there is more giving than taking.

Then, as we worked through the other parts of the chapters I sent her, we came to the conclusion that "There are a lot of characters in this story." It's true, there are. They're not all crucial--though some are becoming more important than I originally thought they would be. Sometimes a book with a lot of characters can be daunting--and at times it is--but there are many characters in my personal story, and in yours. So why should it be that my main character only has one friend? She has many friends, and they have families, and that is okay. I just need to work on giving them faces, so to speak.

I am looking through a kaleidoscope, and through it I view this mythology as it comes to life. As I turn and twist it I see new colors, learn new names, discover new hurts.

My mother is painting out front door red today. There is significance here that is going unnoticed--it is a significance in my own heart. She is painting over something that has been in want of paint for eight years now. I have been finessing a story that has been in want of completion for nearly eight years now. She paints with red, I paint with words. But the end result is the same--notice me. Know that I am what I am. "I am a door." and "I am a book." "I am a way into a home." and "I am a way into a story."

I told Mom I would paint the door green. And if I thought I could get away with it, it would be round. Because my journey as a writer began with a green door and a brass nob right in the middle. All I need is a wizard to knock on our red door, and I'll be set. But maybe I am the wizard of this story? Maybe I am knocking on the heart of the reader and I am saying, "Follow me, I have a story to tell you."

"It had a perfectly round door like a porthole, painted green, with a shiny yell brass knob in the exact middle." [The Hobbit]

Like butter scraped over too much bread...

What am I doing tonight?

On the floor, on my stomach, typing away at Morning Star -- there's an engagement! I'm excited that such an emotional scene last night could evolve into something so expected, but not at that moment. It's all about timing. I'm sipping coffee, writing, and yes, half watching Magnum PI.

And you know what? I have a headache. Normally I'm pretty decent at multitasking, but I'm not tonight. My brain isn't keeping up with what I want to be doing. Part of that is from lack of sleep--I was up rather late last night, writing. The night is still young though, and so I'm looking for ways to keep myself awake. (Hence the decaf coffee. I know, it's decaf, but it's hot.)

I started a new workout program this week, and I'm really excited about it. But it's way more intense than what I had been doing, and so I'm a little sore in the shoulders. And I've been having chronic stomach pain every evening. (Just a general ickyness.)

Then there's the upcoming GRE. That's got me more than just a little stressed out. Last night, a friend reminded me that not all colleges care about this test. In fact, the school I'm most interested in said that it wasn't a requirement, but what recommended. Why am I taking it then? Hopefully I'll do well on it. I need to study. I mean, I really need to buckle down and study. There are so many other things that occupy my mind though... I know that while I'm testing I'll start thinking about Elves and Fantasy worlds... but I should study anyway, and put forth a strong effort.

I also didn't get a letter in the mail on time today. And that upsets me. When did I start slacking with putting letters in the mailbox? That's not even the worst of it, I have letters backed up waiting for responses from the end of June. I should do that. I really should, and I know I should. So why haven't I?

There are pictures that need to be taken. I need to get my Etsy account all squared away with product pictures. Maybe my cousin will be a bag model for me...I'll have to call her sometime soon.

And now I am indescribably thankful that I did not get a job this summer.

Nerd factor of the night: I'm drinking coffee from a Lord of the Rings mug...that I designed. It's pretty sweet, not going to lie.

"You don't even have to talk about what you're talking about. If you know what I mean." [Magnum PI]

You love me in my weakness...

So, I'm writing tonight--shoving another scene in where one didn't exist before. But the space was aching for something so of course I had to close my eyes for a bit while I was showering and think about what was needed.

What came out?

Self-doubt in my lead female.

A voice that has no body. (Two words, folks, not nobody but literally lacks a body. Or does it?)

Frustration.

The waking of a companion.

Strong arms.

Weeping.

An emotionally drained writer. But in a very good way.

You see, there was something building between these two characters--some tension that would need to be addressed at some point anyway.

Really what my lady-character is learning is that she is loved even in her weakness--even when she's a blubbering mess and doesn't have everything put together. Even when she thinks she's going crazy.

But don't we need some encouragement like that took some days?

It's been a while since I cried a good cry. Did you know that crying is healthy? It's good for your emotional state to alleviate some of that pressure. mmhmm. It's not for lack of reason that I haven't cried--it's for lack of strong arms. (Not that I don't think someone would step up if I needed....I just feel rather disconnected right now, and that's my own fault.)

Anyhow, this is basically me saying that I wish I was in my book and able to have a break down and my guy would just hold me until I stopped beating on his chest.... uh........ yeah. Don't misunderstand me, I really am content to just be single right now.

Oh boy. This is why I don't blog casually at 1:06 in the morning... Forgive me for how disjointed this is.

I was going to make an obvious connection and say that of course God is always there to hold me when I'm having a break down. But really, as I started going I realized that I just want a hug. And while God can give me metaphorical hugs, it's not quite the same as a physical friend hug. (And I think He can speak through friend-hugs.)

I should go to bed or go back to writing. Writing it is!

"I fall at Your feet and worship You with tears." [Danny Oertli]

You will find that the world has changed forever...

There is something about the way a poet speaks to another poet. Something about the way a writer can nod and hum to the other writer. There is an understanding that passes between the kindred spirit.

These are our homegrown words. We protect them--we would defend against an army of critics for them. Because they are the pieces of our souls that we don't just let any conversation see.

These are the things that world would scoff at if we said them in the day-to-day. So we hide them. Feed them, nourish them with the scraps we save back. And they grow in secret. We went to show them off because, oh, they grow up so beautifully.

So when you meet another and you can tell in the way they save back words and phrases and ideas. You can tell by the way they live their quiet existence observing, borrowing from the "real" world. But you can see it in their eyes that they aren't full-time residence of the world we call "real." No, their mind is in a world far realer, far fairer to them.

And you may say, "Hello." But what you mean is, "I have a secret, too." Sometimes the trust develops so quickly you're not sure where it began, but you know in your heart, This person understand who I am, who I want to be.


There's something in the way a poet can talk to another poet. Sometimes without words because poetry runs deeper than the words themselves. But even in the silence you understand the struggle of home-grown words.

"I don't speak often cause I don't speak well. Every song I write has a story to tell." [Ginny Owens]

Were hearts made whole just to break?

Rejection. It's been the tune of my summer. And believe me when I say that this has nothing to do with romance, again. No, it's something a little more shallow, but still a bit painful.

I've been filling out job applications like no one's business. To no avail. Either I don't meet the requirements (how do I not make the requirements at a bookstore?) or they aren't hiring (even though they're handing out applications like cheap candy).

Now, I suspect the requirements I'm not making having something to do with going back to school in the Fall. Who would have thought that going to college would cost me job opportunities? Didn't think of that negative. 

Who would have a big sign when you walk into their store: "Pick up your application today!" if they weren't actually hiring? Talk about false hope...

As bitter as I am about this this morning, it has given me a lot to think about. How could the constant "no" be teaching me? What should I be learning from this experience?

Well, when I get to graduate school applications I probably (and by "probably" I mean "definitely wont") get into every school I apply to. And when I am in grad school not everyone will like my writing style or subject matters. When I get to the publishing world, not every agent will like my stuff. And when I have an agent, not every publisher will like my story. When I get a publisher, not every editor will be helpful. When I'm done editing and book is published, not every reader will enjoy my fantasy either. There will always be disappointments.

Perhaps this summer I am learning to handle those issues. I am preparing for my life. Why didn't anyone tell me the start pistol had fired?

I'm going to leave you with a short poem I wrote last night, when I was trying to work out the next seen in Morning Star. It's just a ditty, really, it needs work. But it's a start.


It is not for lack of paper,
That I do not write.
I have drawer upon drawer
Of books waiting to be written.

It is not for lack of heart,
That my voice is silent.
I have tear after tear,
Of love and pain to be heard.

It is for lack of courage,
That I shrivel in fear.

But stand up,
Silent poet,
Be strong.

And I know You are everything to me...

So many things I could write about, and yet nothing.

This heart is bursting at the seams with all manners of stories.

It hears those written by others--I do so enjoy reading for pleasure and not having to analyze every detail, but instead allowing the pieces to slip together. These very pieces slip into my dreams.

It hears the story I write, anxious for me to put the pen to the page. There are voices of character so loud, Why do you fight a war that isn't your own! And then there are those that whisper, and pray that I will hear, I just want someone to share this burden with me... So I try to figure out how the pieces go together, unable to simply be passive and let it happen. I must actively pursue the thoughts so they can take form. And yet I cannot shape them into something they are not. These shadows of forms-to-be also permeate my sleep.

It hears also my story, the one I live day to day. The one that makes less sense than anything else in the world. There are many questions that I may never know the answers to. But those silences allow me to let my faith grow. Indeed, I must as actively pursue that growth as any other thing. There are things that take my attention, but nothing should utterly distract me to kill this thing that is trying to grow wings.

And I hear my own voice echo my characters, Have I lost my own voice? I don't even know my own voice anymore. It is a strange thing, to imagine a character that hears voices in her head, because then you must also, and you already have her voice in your mind, and all of her real friends too. But I have not lost myself because I have not lost the most important voice of all.

So many voices. And still, I hear one that cries out in my noise. It cries in a whisper. A still, small Voice. All these stories, and I can still keep my eyes fixed on the One story that means the world--it means everything.

"So many voices in my head. I need You, oh I need You. I'm not going to walk away. You've got to take my hand today. Would You open my eyes. Would You take me by the hand. When I'm running through the storm, I will trust in You." [Inhabited]

God, I want to dream again, take me where I've never been...

I may not have a job yet, hopefully that will come soon, but I've still been keeping busy. In a sense.

I've done a fair amount of reading--surprisingly enough it's all been young adult fiction, a genre I don't generally enjoy. It's not so much that I dislike it... I dislike what it's doing to young readers... but that's a post for another day. (And I know I'll get a lot of grief for it, so it can wait.) What I want to talk about is my independent study, actually.

I can't remember if I have posted about this directly yet or not... I've certainly thought about it a lot. In this independent study I'm required to write an hour a day (at least) and pick an author I would like to emulate. Which is a word I don't particularly like, I've decided. I don't want to be another author, but I do want to learn from them. Ideally, this would be an author that writes a similar genre to what I'm interested in, but do it differently than I do, or better than I do.

So I've been reading Fantasy. The problem with finding a fantasy writer of whom I am going to read all of their works is that they write a lot. Now, naturally the first author that came to mind was Tolkien. (How did you guess? You know me so well.) However, even he was a prolific writer in that he wrote the entire history of Middle Earth. I'm not ready to tackle all of that in a summer. And besides, I just did a study on him, and if I'm going to learn more then I need to pick someone new.

What have I been reading?

Well, I'm just about to finish reading Graceling by Kristin Cashore. And let me tell you, for this being her debut novel, I'm impressed. She has created this fantasy world with skill, and I can tell she has put a lot of thought into it. I feel bad choosing her though because she's only written one book. But it's a good one. I'm excited to see how it ends.

I've also been reading the Hunger Games trilogy. I just need to read Mockingjay. I'm anxious to see how Suzanne Collins is going to wrap this all up--there are so many questions swirling around in my head. I don't think that I would classify these as strictly fantasy, but more as a fantastical dystopia.

In addition to these books (which mostly only take me a day to read) I've been reading The Books of Pellinor by Allison Crogan. (I think that's how you spell her name.) These are intense. I first read The Naming my summer between my Sophomore and Junior year of high school. And I had started The Riddle shortly after. It's been a book I return to off and on. I was determined to finish it this summer, and the rest of the four book series. These books make me happy, and not because they're particularly joyful--they're not. No, it's something else--they're challenging. Even for me, a senior in college. Yet, they're considered to be YA books because the protagonist is a young adult. But the reading is dense, full of detail and creative devices. And intrigue! I'm being surprised all the time, and I love that I can't necessarily predict it! I love that there are young adults out there reading these books and being actively challenged. I'll have to do some research and see if she's written anything else. I also love her mastery of scenery, something I desperately lack.

Most of all, while I'm writing, I'm beginning to realize that I'm afraid of what this could turn into. My instinct is to just pump the story out--finally finish Morning Star so she won't be a burden anymore. But I've wrapped my identity around this book--what if people don't like her? Each of those characters carries a piece of who I am, or who I want to be. Do I really want to release them out to a world that they may be ridiculed? Am I strong enough to handle that possibility?

And then there's the issue of names. The protagonist of Graceling: Katsa. The protagonist of The Hunger Games: Katniss. Thank goodness that The Books of Pellinor don't have a protagonist who's name starts with 'K.' And then there's Morning Star, who contains a character, one who will be fairly influential even if she doesn't get the book title: Katra. It makes me angry that these other books have come out before I could finish mine... mine that has been in the works for at least seven years. I don't want to be just another female writer with a female character who's name starts with a 'K.'

And am I writing for a young adult audience? That would be ironic, after all. Or am I more like Markus Zusak? Not writing for any particular audience, but telling a story I feel must be told. (Granted, my story doesn't carry as much weight as one about Nazis.) More on this when I talk about Young Adult literature I think.

Do you have any author suggestions?

"Forget the fear, it's just a crutch that tries to hold you back and turn your dreams to dust. All you need to do is just dream." [Fireflight]

This is not my home...

Now, judging by the title of this post, I bet you're thinking, "Oh, she's going to talk about heaven." Wrong. I'm not. And besides, that would be way to literal. Haven't you noticed that most of my blog titles are a bit of a stretch? They make sense to me, but I understand that they won't make sense to everyone. ... and that's okay. Anyway... so, if I'm not talking about heaven then what am I talking about?

My family came to see me yesterday on their way home from a college visit with my brother. We went out to eat and I once again took notice of how my brother is growing, but he still maintains the old habits; such as, eating his food in compartments. He ate all of his coleslaw. Then he ate all of his fries. And then he ate his burger. There is to be no mixing of the food before it enters the stomach. No mixing. That rule never gets broken. I told him that he was a compartmentalist.

It doesn't take much to get my mom going on a rant about habits. Let's just say that my family is full of habits...and when they're disrupted...well...it's bad. She said that at this college visit, whenever they would meet back in the big conference room, my dad and brother would pick the exact same seats. We used to sit in the same seats every Sunday; and if we could still swing it, I'm sure we would now too.

It always makes me laugh when I notice these habitual things in my family.

Today in Language and Linguistics we moved to a different classroom. (I just realized it was for the VCR.) And that was strange for me. I had to sit in a completely different room...and it definitely through of my groove. (Weird, I know.)

Then, I went to Poetry Writing and someone was sitting in my chair! Now, I don't actually care, it wasn't a big deal, but it was still a displacement.

And then it hit me.

I am so my daddy's girl.

I like my routine, and I get flustered when it's disrupted.

At least I don't compartmentalize my food. That would be silly.

"Now's the time for letting go. I surrender all. Can You hear my call, when I'm at the end of myself? Is this where You begin, when I'm caving in." [Remedy Drive]

Why do I do the things I do?

In my Language and Linguistics class we have started talking about grammar. (This is where most people tell me I'm crazy for being and English major. Who likes grammar?) Well, we've been discussing the difference between writing and usage. Most of the time, when someone says, "They have really bad writing skills," they mean the usage, not the writing itself. Someone can be an excellent writer--usually characterized by complete and original thoughts and ideas--but then their usage can be sour--comma use is poor, spelling is bad, sentence structure is lacking, ect.

Now, I've always regarded myself as a decent writer. (Can you see a bit of that confidence coming into play? Really, if you're writing and you think it's worth reading, you have a least a little bit of an ego.) In the middle of class though, I started to have a mental break-down. Am I doing what I'm supposed to be doing? Do my usage skills suck? Should I switch my major? Do all of my colleagues cringed when they read my papers? Did I proof-read that paper for Dr. Ashby very well? What about the one for Dr. Gernant? What would I do if I didn't write? That's the basic idea of what this internal melt-down looked like.

Then I had to go to Poetry Writing. Now, I love that class, it is one of my favorites. I'm normally fairly vocal about my opinions in that class...but yesterday I just couldn't do it. Those feelings of self-doubt, that Ling and Lang instilled in me, were leaking over into my poetry. Now, I did speak a little, but not nearly as much as I normally do...at least it felt like less.

After that I had to work. While I was working I needed to finish a paper for Dr. Thurber, before our meeting. The entire time I was stressing out about how I wasn't using perfect MLA formatting... (I hate formatting, by the way.)

Once I got into his office though, a deep calm seem to rush over me. There's just something about that man that soothes the frayed nerves. We had an excellent conversation about my independent study. He would read to me little bits of what I had written in previous papers and then he would tell me how well I articulated it and would ask me to expound upon what I had said. These are papers I had written at least a month ago, so it was kind of hard to recall exactly I had meant when typing them.

The meeting lasted a half an hour. And when it was all done, Dr. Thurber told me he was very glad to see where I was going with this research into Tolkien's Middle Earth. Deep sigh of relief. I am where I am supposed to be. This is at least part of what I was meant to do. Praise God for gentle reminders.


"If you're a ship and you're lost in the ocean, I'll be the wind in your sails, give you motion. I will guide you home. If you're too far out that you can't see the shore line, I'll be the lighthouse shining in the night time. I will guide you home. I will guide you home. When the night is long, when the storm is strong, I will guide you, I will guide you home." [Remedy Drive]

One of us is big and brave...

I was thinking tonight about how we stereotype people. And in my context, specifically college majors. Or rather, not so much stereotypes, but allowances.

Let's look at the jocks first. (I am not trying to pick on any one group, don't worry, I'll get around to almost all of them.) The jocks are generally allowed to be less motivated at academics. As a society we don't expect them to be super intelligent. If they were, in the case of football, we wouldn't necessarily let them go out and run the risk of having their brains beat out. So, the jocks are allowed to be "stupid meatheads."

The science major. Well, I have a lot of friends in the science department. They are totally allowed to be complete and utter nerds. (To them, that was a compliment.) In fact, society expects them to geek out about the most obscure things at the most random times, look at "Big Bang Theory" for goodness sake. I would say that society takes great entertainment from their intelligence. It's okay for them to be socially awkward at times. "Oh, he's a science major...that explains a lot."

Math majors kind of have the same allowances as the science people.

Art majors. Both of my parents were art majors. ...yeah. Well, artists are allowed to be eccentric and mostly just really weird. They also get pegged as high hippies a lot of the time too. (That is not always the case.) It's okay for an art student to dress different from everyone else. It's okay for them to look like they're totally in their own little world.

Music majors are similar to artists. Only, they get the allowance for huge egos as well. Or, we'll call it confidence.


And then we get to the English major.

{insert awkward pause}

Well, they're kind of the culmination of all the things listed above. The most common response to "I'm an English major" is that glazed look that just screams, "Oh...you're one of those stupid kids that didn't know what they wanted, so you picked the dead-end major with no real options after graduation." It always comes from the grocery store employees too. (I just wonder what they think art majors are going to do, seriously.)

They're also allowed to be nerdy and geek out about literary allusions in pop culture. I always love when that happens, it's like I have an inside joke with the writer. (Half the time, I wonder if the writer actually understands that we made a connection...maybe it was an accident.)

And we're also allowed to be a little weird, a little "high" as it were. And if the English major is going into writing, there comes the ego.

But you know? Just once, I would like to have my own little niche that I fit into instead of having one foot in all of them. You know? I want someone to be able to look at me, without noticing my books or journals, and think, "English major," the way I can do with just about any other major on campus. 

"And one of us is tender-hearted. One of us is tempting fate. And the last, but not least of us, has faith enough for each of us. And I know that I could never go it alone, cause I believe I'd be lost without You here beside me." [Nichole Nordeman]