Spumoni

So if you haven't seen my latest freak-out on Facebook (other than the one where I freaked out because I'M ENGAGED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), you won't know that I'm being published! I submit short essays to a website, and one of them was selected to be published in the site's upcoming book! For pay - I get 1% of the overall profits! It comes out in April, so I'll post details on Facebook and here when I learn them!

I'M AN AUTHOR!!!!!!!!!!!!!

My ultimate goal is to write a book, but that's harder than it actually sounds. You would think that, as a writer, I have plenty of ideas floating around in my head just waiting to be jotted down in consecutive and make-sense-ical order whenever I find the free time, but it's much more difficult than that. I found a graphic on Pinterest that sums up what writing a book really looks like. I've attached it below:

The hardest part about saying "I want to write a book" is coming up with an idea that you actually want to write a whole book about. People say, "Write what you know," but I know lots of things. I know that putting up Christmas decorations always lasts longer than taking them down, but it's so much more fun to put them up. I know that a Chevy Silverado doesn't fit into places as easily as a Dodge Nitro (I still have a chunk of that curly-haired kid's taillight after I crunched it off with the bumper of my Chevy pickup). I know that regular Coke tastes better than Diet Coke, but the diet lemon-lime generic soda they have in the break room at work tastes exactly the same as the regular kind. I know that Corelle dishes won't break until you say "Look, they don't break" and Frisbee one across the room.

See? I know lots of things.

But how do you turn all of those insignificant gobbets into a book? And that's not the only problem: how do you turn shit like that into a book that people will actually read?

I've overthought the idea of writing a book since I was little, when I was eight years old and typed out a short story in Microsoft WordPad about a little mushroom named Mort who was kidnapped by evil eggs. (Or maybe they were pickles. I don't remember.) To me, before you start writing, you need to have a clear idea of where you're going. It's like going on a road trip: hardly anyone starts out on a journey without a map and a clear destination.

Unless you're a hipster trying to "find yourself." And have unlimited gas money.

The other thing about writing is that I constantly keep my audience in mind. Rare are the moments when I type something just for me. I've kept a handwritten journal since I was in high school, and it's between those leather (faux leather - calm down) covers that the true "me" can be found. I don't live in fear, like I did when I was little, that someone would come in and read my journal. I know, even if I leave it out on the kitchen table (to my mother's chagrin), nobody will sneak it into the bathroom and skim over my inked-out ramblings. But when I sit down at my computer and start typing, it's usually for an email or a blog or something that requires me to remember who I'm writing to and why I'm writing it. And when I start typing, I censor myself and say, "Nope, can't write that because ____ is going to read it."

Hence why you'll rarely find swear words in my blogs. My journal is full of "fucks" and "shits," but because I'm friends with pastors and all manner of sensitive people, I keep those out of my online posts.

The best writing I do is found in my journals where I know no one else will see what's there. And the idea of putting that writing - the most unadulterated version of myself - out for the world to read is daunting. To throw those most delicate areas of my mind before the masses for inquiry and critique terrifies me - not because I am afraid to hear what people say about my work, but because for once I will be laid out bluntly before them. For once I will be seen for who I really am, not as I present myself.

Now that you're wondering if I'm a psychopath or worse, I promise that's not it: I don't know how voodoo dolls work, and I don't have anything dead boarded up in my walls. But I've been told that I see the world differently. And for years I've harbored a secret dread of being found "odd" - that complex courtesy of the brat from Girl Scouts who creeps into my mind when I let myself be me and calls me "weird."

Maybe that's the next part about writing. I read a quote by Sarah Jio that says, "Write what scares you. Everyone tells you to write what you know. It's the tried-and-true advice every writer hears at some point in her career. But to take my writing to a deeper level, I've found that a better practice is to simply write what frightens you, haunts you, even...I now keep a sign on the bulletin board in my office that reads: 'Write What Scares You.' I've learned that tapping into the hard stuff - whether it's the fear of loss or a boogeyman lurking in childhood memories - is what ultimately gives a story the power to leap off the page and grab you by the collar."

I'm terrified to let people into the mind in which I live.

So...welcome.

Love

What is love?

The boys in my German class said it was a plea to "don't hurt me, don't hurt me no more." "Sweet Home Alabama" taught me that it meant that "I can kiss you any time I want." Pinterest says it's "friendship set on fire."

The man who has my heart wrote in a letter that it is agapé: affection, goodwill, benevolence, brotherly love. For the longest time he was the one I felt those words most for but had only heard whispered and returned once, and he set aside the Greek word to put in a letter to the one he swore he'd marry one of these days. We reserved the words "I love you" until the day he asked me to marry him, which was this past Wednesday. And they are made so much more special for that reason.

I wonder if the writer of the "love is" section meant the "is" to mean "means." (Confused yet?) The way they have it set up makes it sound like these things are characteristics of love. What if it's actually supposed to be, "Love MEANS TO BE kind, love MEANS TO BE patient. Love doesn't keep track of who didn't empty the dishwasher or who forgot the other's birthday. Love means not being focused on what you can get, but being more interested in what you can give. Love doesn't begrudge a hug to the hurting, keeps its head up even when the chips are down, isn't afraid to stand strong under pressure, doesn't fight to make itself look better." When you give it this twist, it makes it much less limited in the relationships that can be defined by "love;" it's not just the person you could marry. I love only one man in the sense that Pinterest means it, and I am so happy that now I can finally say it to him. But I extend the actions of what love MEANS not only to him but to others on a daily basis without interest in romance or reciprocity.

Valentine's Day gets a nasty reputation in single communities because of the romantic overtones it has been associated with. But it doesn't have to be reserved for soul mates and lovers. Give it a new twist. Make today a chance for you to show what love MEANS rather than what love IS.

Falls

I'm probably supposed to say something about the Super Bowl, but I can't say much more than "I didn't watch it." Sorry.

This past week Joe came for his weekend, and it was a blast. I forget when I'm away from him for so long how much fun I have with him when we're together. We didn't do anything spectacular: we watched movies and went to breakfast with a friend of mine from work and walked around an antique's mall and went to a show with my family. But we laughed a lot, talked a lot, and, for a few days, got to have the "normal dating relationship" that we miss out on most of the time since we live so far apart.

He was supposed to fly in on Wednesday morning, and, being an employee of the airline, he gets to fly for free if he flies stand-by. Basically he gets whatever seat is left over on a flight, if there's a seat to be had. Otherwise he gets bumped back to the next flight if they have a seat available. It's all very up-in-the-air. No pun intended. :) Well, if you were paying attention to the news early last week, you'll remember the hubbub that was made over "White Death" that would knock out civilization as we knew it all along the Eastern US. The National Guard was called in to keep the looters at bay when New York City was expecting seventy-four feet of snow, whole states went into "emergency mode," and the rest of the country waited in nail-biting silence to see what was left after the storm wreaked its havoc.

I exaggerate, but hey, so did the weathermen.

While the devastation wasn't nearly as bad as the news made it out to be, the precautions at the airport where Joe works - and was supposed to leave from on Wednesday - meant cancelling flights and bumping Tuesday flights back to Wednesday, potentially filling all the available seats that he could use. I woke up on Tuesday to a text from him that said he wasn't saying he wouldn't make it, but he was saying it wasn't likely. But we both agreed to ask for God's will in this situation, as we had every other time he flew on stand-by.

I could say that I was the "gallant girlfriend" and was strong for my guy, putting on the stiff upper lip and saying through a genuine smile, "God will take care of this in His time and way." I was encouraging in my texts to him; I didn't want him to feel bad, and I certainly didn't want him to think I was disappointed in him. Because I wasn't - what's reliable where the weather is concerned? But when I got to work that afternoon, I was explaining the situation to a friend of mine, and she wrapped me in a hug because she could tell I was disappointed. I hadn't seen him in two months, and I had been so excited to be with him again, and the thought of putting off seeing him for another two weeks sucked. Granted, nothing was set in stone at that point: he said that he would know for sure some time that evening. But I am a champion worrier. We could go as far as to say I am a pessimist. And I take "expecting the worst" to a whole new level as I act like the worst has already happened. But after I moped around for a little while, I remembered that our God had made our visits happen up to that point. The last time his flights were delayed so long that we were driving to the airport at midnight to pick him up. But they happened. And we believed that, if God wanted us to happen, He would make it happen.

Long story short, the flights did work out, and he actually made it to Dayton a few hours earlier than we had originally expected. And we praised our God that His will had worked out in our favor.

His journey home turned into a seventeen-hour commute after he wasn't able to get on one flight, flew to a different airport than he originally expected, had to sit around an airport for four hours, took a two-hour shuttle ride, and drove half an hour until he was finally home - all the while both of us praying for God's will to be done. And, though I think we both secretly hoped that His will would play out in Joe's favor, God's will was done. And at the end of it, we were both reminded of His power, the reliability of His plan - regardless of weather and desires and game plans.

We've been talking a lot about logistics of our relationship, specifically with "we can't keep living eleven hours apart if we want to take this any further." And while we talk through the different options and create hypothetical scenarios and say, "Well, this would be the best plan," we forget that there already is a plan. I don't necessarily believe that God orders every single thing that happens to us, like what you'll have for lunch or if you'll take your umbrella on what turns out to be the rainiest day of the year. But I believe that everything works out in a way that ultimately wraps into the story that God is telling about and through the human experience. Everything that happens to us, I think, is an opportunity for us to learn about the way our God works, and how, even in a world riddled by disaster and evil and disappointment, He is showing His power to us in a way that turns our praise and our attention back to Him.

Shit happens. Weather complicates things. People frustrate us. But things work out. And when they do, it's our responsibility to see them not as our own victories, but our God's foresight and ordering.

Edge

Yesterday when I got home from work I found a large envelope on my kitchen table. (I don't think I've ever gotten a more official-looking piece of mail. My dad even had to sign for it.) And when I pulled away the cardboard tab, I was staring down at a letter of congratulations, a three-page transcript, and the most expensive piece of paper I will ever own: my college diploma.

The letter went on and on about how the university hoped my time at college was "a memorable one" and how I was to be congratulated on finishing such a monumental task and how they sent "best wishes" for my future. And I sort of rolled my eyes. If you've kept up with my blogs throughout college, you'll know that the last four years have been a roller coaster - to say the very least. While I did decently academically and made plenty of friends and had tons of amazing experiences, the past four years have been mostly characterized by pacing, by figuring out, by sorting through what I believe and where I fit and whether or not I want to worry about "fitting in" with a larger group that I don't like so much. Secret: I never felt like I belonged to the overall crowd at school. I always saw myself on the outskirts with the other open-minded thinkers who chose not to fit. I always felt like I fit somewhere, I never felt like a loner. But the people with whom I chose to spend my time were part of the hidden underground that made me and everyone else who joined their ranks feel free to express themselves how they wished, to be OK with not being part of the smiling, guitar-playing majority.

College was a time of being proud of what I could do and not being too hard on myself about my shortcomings. I graduated with a 3.15 GPA, which was never enough to gain back the $8,000-a-year scholarship I lost freshman year. For the past three years I've seen myself as somewhat of a failure because, no matter how hard I worked in my classes, I was always just a hair short of where I needed to be. But the experience of working hard toward a goal, working with some of the kindest people I've ever met in my jobs with enrollment and custodial services (when I think my job at Kroger is bad, I think, "Hey, you could be back cleaning showers in a girls' dorm."), learning how to be frugal with saving money and preparing for the $xx,xxx of debt that I have waiting for me at the beginning of the summer, working hard to dig myself out of a hole into which I threw myself five years ago, and ultimately patting myself on the shoulder and saying, "You did your best, and that's enough," was more beneficial to me than getting back to the right GPA.

My diploma says "Bachelor of Arts." Nowhere does it say anything about education or English or "used to be a history major." So ultimately, unless I go for a job that actually requires an English education degree (unlikely), it doesn't matter what my degree is in, as long as I have a degree. Why it's called a "bachelor's degree," I'm really not sure; but I have one. I am a college graduate - the third (I think) from either side of my family. And that, my friends, is something to be proud of.

My family and I went back to my school the other day to see my sister's last performance in a college play ("Fiddler on the Roof," I would highly recommend you go see it), and I said "no" when my dad asked if I missed being at school. Because I don't - I don't miss getting up early to sit through classes where I really don't want to be, or coming out of the cafeteria smelling like grease for hours afterward, or spending six hours at night working on homework that I don't want to do. But when my brother's girlfriend said that college was supposed to be the best four years of a person's life, I somewhat agreed with that. I'm not going to lie, college was tough - academically, mentally, spiritually. But I've come out on the other side as an intelligent, mature (at least, more mature), more-responsible-than-I-was-four-years-ago adult, loaded down with experiences and friendships that I will never forget, because they have shaped that person who I have become. Overall it was difficult; but college is an experience that I will never regret.