on writing

I sat down last night with my personal essay haunting my every procrastinating move. I've been brooding over the essay for about a month now, and all I managed to squeeze out was 3 spliced pages. (Actually, this was better than I originally hoped for, but still.) The assignment required outside research of some sort, so we could practice creating nonfiction works that were based on more than just a memory of an 8th birthday party.

I read about spiders.

I chose this topic based on a Carly Simon song I used to dance to with my dad. (Yes, my father dances occasionally. And sometimes it even happens in public.) It's called "Itsy Bitsy Spider," and it's essentially the children's song intermixed with a chorus about lost love. I loved that song as a little girl, because I though it meant that my seemingly foolish interests as a kid weren't so foolish because a big bad grown-up was singing the same song.

So I sit down to write this highly symbolic essay using the analogy of my dad being a brown recluse spider. And a strange thing happened: it turned out to be about my mom. I've heard of this happening to writers before, that a story or character drives its own plot whether that's where you wanted it to go or not. I'd sort of viewed this phenomenon as a cop-out for writers who didn't want to talk about the tough themes that emerged from their work. But I get it now. I wanted to write about myself, but I realized that it would turn out to be more of a "feel sorry for my screwed up family" piece than an actual lyrical narrative. So I wrote about my mother instead. Somehow making her the victim doesn't seem as harsh, as self-serving. She has suffered so much more in her 59 years than I have in a meager 20. (God, my mom is getting old.) I still don't know how I feel about where the piece is going. But at least now I understand that it's not always in my control. Writing is art; it's not a formula or some sort of imposition of your values on a reader through a cleverly weaved plot. It has a mind of its own.

rest: an active verb

I meant to write this entry over a week ago, when it was actually applicable to my life. But nevertheless, it's still a valuable chunk of food for thought.

Before reading Anne Lamott, I had never really seen the psychological value in silence. Sure I knew that 8 hours of sleep was important so you didn't pass out in 2nd hour and I knew that taking a 30-second water break in the middle of a race is a generally encouraged resting point. But I had never considered the benefits of rest, of stillness, just because. Anne Lamott (who if you haven't read are missing out possibly the best nonfiction writer of the 21st century) talks a lot about the value of scheduling rest. No TV, no music, just laying flat on your back and breathing in the silence of life. I had always assumed that this sort of rest was synonymous with napping. Well, let the myth be shattered, my friends. Napping leaves you, while slightly rested, usually more groggy than when you started and in my case leaves awkward lines all over one side of my face. But a few Saturdays ago, I had the day free of homework, a boyfriend, and the majority of any other distractions. I layed on my bed, flat on my back, with my eyes closed. I slowly let my brain drain itself of the gunk that I too often let get clogged in the pipes of my mental sanity.

For that 30 minutes or so, I experienced a calm that has been missing from my life for quite some time. It was an act of prayer, without words. I just let myself be. I let the stillness wrap itself around me like an old shawl and I took time to just not take time for anything. And now, as my head gets gunky again and my life starts to spin itself into events rushing at me like bullets from a machine gun, I try to draw on that shawl to protect me from the deadly penetration of being rushed.

Why I worked at summer camp

I realize that it's November, and I finished my summer job almost exactly 3 months ago. Honestly, it felt like a different lifetime. But I haven't ever really talked about camp, in a comprehensive "this is what I did with my summer" sort of way. So here goes.

Deciding to work at Lutherhaven was probably the hardest decision I've ever made, but at the same time the most validating. My family was pretty set against me going. My bank account was pretty much set against me going. I was pretty set against me going. Sure, I've camped before. But I'm not what you call a "nature" person. I enjoy walking through a park or just sitting on a porch and listening to the wind, but I want that porch to be attached to my house with a car parked out front and my cell phone fully charged. I was not excited about living in the dirt in Idaho for three months, let alone doing it with little connection to the real world. But for some reason (and a lot of prodding from Sarah), I made the jump. I took the financial, emotional and personal risk of doing something I'd always wanted to do but never had the courage to.

It was more worth it than I could have ever imagined.

I hadn't realized before what living with a purpose meant. Sure I'd worked in jobs or groups that had goals, and I was passionate about those goals. But there is something transforming about living an entire week for the sole purpose of making the life of someone else a little better. I would get my girls on Sunday afternoon, and usually by Tuesday night I was saying to myself "they aren't getting it," "they think I'm weird," "I'm not the right person for this job." And with the exception of a few girls, by Friday afternoon I could not believe how blessed I was to have the privilege of working with that group for the short time we were together. Whether that blessing came in a huge hug as they left or the simple joy of watching a shy and self-conscious teenager bloom, it was always evident to me that something greater than myself was at work.

I even got to the point that I enjoyed cleaning. I mean, really cleaning, like getting down on my hands and knees with bleach and a sponge for two hours. The satisfaction from pouring yourself into something for no benefit to yourself was motivation enough. Sure I griped all the time about minuscule tasks and a large portion of my co-workers who I thought had no business working with children, but in the end I wouldn't trade it for the larger paychecks and comfortable showers I could have had all summer. Not to mention that I made some of the best friends I've ever had, and miss them all to the point of physical pain sometimes. I know it sounds cliche, but seriously, those women were my salvation.

Not to mention that Glory, the camp cook, made the best 7-layer bar I've ever tasted.

Everything I need to know about college I learned in AP Lit

The idea behind Advanced Placement (AP) classes is that you get a taste of a college workload and experience in order to test the waters, so to speak. This is why you get college credits for the majority of AP classes in which you score at a certain level on their respective tests. Granted, I got credit for 3s that now require at least a 4 to even be considered for credit. Thank you AP Biology. But honestly, half of the AP classes I took were no different from high school classes I was taking simultaneously, the only difference being that they were essentially over by the second week of May.

This was not the case for AP Literature, thanks to Mrs. Stairet. She taught her class in almost an identical way to the literature courses I've had at Whitworth so far, and in some cases I think she did it better than some of my professors here have, at times. Especially for someone who went into studying English, that class gave me an incredible advantage in college classes, especially in the areas of critical theory. I came into Reading Lit with a working knowledge of at least 5 different approaches to literature, while the majority of my classmates were still analyzing plot development as the "rising action."

And in light of my evening that has been spent cranking out a 10-page literary analysis paper, Mrs. Stairet was right on target. She trained me in how to write an independent thesis without having someone spoon-feed me ideas. She gave me the close reading tools to be able to annotate a novel as I go, even before I know my writing topic. And logistically, I can now write lengthy papers at high quality in one sitting, or at least a decent first draft. I appreciate high school teachers who teach to prepare, rather than teach to meet a template lesson plan.

Why I want to move to the other side of the country

Two weeks ago, I went on a school-sponsored trip to Washington D.C. for a national student media conference (the Whitworthian took 3rd in our category for best of show, just to brag a little.) This was my second visit to the city in a year, and my third overall. I don't really count my first trip as a valid source of data, considering I was like 9 and it was balls hot and at the time I could have cared less about anything labeled "Smithsonian." After my return adventures, however, I think it's safe to say I've caught what they refer to as "Potomac Fever." It's a common phenomenon that describes a person's love affair with the city and surrounding area. Here are just a few of my motivating symptoms:

-D.C. is its own organism. The city is alive, it has a pulse you can feel in the air and see on the streets. There are people of all countries and creeds mingling together toward a common goal of democracy and optimism. Don't get me wrong: I'm sure more debates and disagreements happen there than almost anywhere else in the United States. But it's the very idea that so many different people have the opportunity to argue in the first place that creates such a rhythm and vivacity to the city.

-It has freaking delicious food. Pot Belly's, Fudruckers, Murky Coffee, Cosi, and many more restaurants and cafes offer a wide variety of non-greased, non-processed and preserved foods that just make you feel better about eating them.

-Who doesn't want to be able to sit in a 24-hour Starbucks in Chinatown?

-Sitting on the steps of the U.S. Capitol and watching a girl get her quincinera photos, while an Indian family stands just farther in front of you, observing the whole thing. That will never get old.

-Kelly Clarkson did a show there. Enough said.

-I discovered this story about "captial scandal." It's the icing on the cake.
http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2007/11/08/AR2007110800645.html?hpid%3Dartslot&sub=AR

dreaming away the early morning

When I was younger, my nightmares would usually occur in the middle of the night, so even once I woke up I was still stuck in a dark room by myself. But as I've gotten older, my dreams have tended to congregate right around the time before I wake up for good in the morning. I think most of this is due to the fact that it takes me approximately an hour and 3-4 alarms to get out of bed these days.

So now, instead of waking up, petrified, in the dark, I wake up groggy and confused as to my location or even state of citizenship in some cases. This morning's adventure dealt with a fascist regime coming in and taking overWhitworth. It ended with James, Katie and I bolting out of the meeting where we were about to be forced into taping statements of loyalty to the university. I should really just start getting up to my first alarm.

I'm back in the game

So as the woman formally known as the blog police, I should have arrested myself with no chance of bail. I apologize to those of you who are still with me, especially *cough cough* those of who overseas. For the past month I have pretty much isolated myself, with the exception of working on the Whitworthian, homework, or my relationship. Don't get me wrong, all three are fantastic and I love every minute (except when I find a name misspelled at 4 a.m.)

But I'm realizing that social networks are not just for show. They aren't just friends on the fringe who I happen to have things in common with. They're my lifelines. No one but Alyssa and Andrew can truly understand the frustrations of working on a newspaper. No one but Sarah gets it when I just need someone to look me in the eye and tell me to get over it. I need you, all. I need you to be a part of my life. And to do that, I have to make my life available.

I know we're all getting to the point where it's easier to just say "see you at Christmas." But at least this way, we can stay connected about the little things. And who knows, maybe the big things will make their way to the drawing table as well.

My goal is to post at least every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, starting this week. Even if it's a short "here's my thoughts about cottage cheese," I'll try to stay consistent. Just hang in there, we'll get back on track.