Stress of a Single Dollar Job

Sometimes, the things that are most funny are truths that you don't realize until someone else points them out. This paragraph from Blue Like Jazz, by Donald Miller made me laugh every time I read it (at least three time). Because it pertains to writing (and just because it's funny), I wish to share it:

Writers don't make any money at all. We make about a dollar. It is terrible. But then again we don't work either. We sit around in our underwear until noon then go downstairs and make coffee, fry some eggs, read the paper, read part of a book, smell the book, wonder if perhaps we ourselves should work on our book, smell the book again, throw the book across the room because we are quite jealous that any other person wrote a book, feel terribly guilty about throwing the schmuck's book across the room because we secretly wonder if God in heaven noticed our evil jealousy, or worse, our laziness. We then lie across the couch facedown and mumble to God to forgive us because we are secretly afraid He is going to dry up all our words because we envied another man's stupid words. And for this, as I said before, we are paid a dollar. We are worth so much more.

And again, I find myself laughing...

Moonset

I saw my first ever moonset this morning.

After a short night and cruel alarm clock, I rose at 7am (I'm a bit of a pansy). I looked out my window in hopes of seeing flaming sky and pink-paintbrush clouds. Home always has the best sunrises.


The picture above came from several years ago on a summer morning. It's what I hoped to find this morning. No luck, though I should count myself blessed that I saw the mountain at all. Usually, the winter blizzard attempts to steal our window scenes in flurries of white.

I took a cold shower, not because I'm tough, immune to chill, or a she-man, but because the water pipes are partial to my mother who pursued a "clean and shiny" state at the same moment I did. Our water pipes abandoned me. If I were a water pipe, I'd probably do the same.
Two and a half minutes later, I dressed in all things fuzzy and warm, turned on the kettle, and looked across the valley. That's when the moonset caught my eye. Enormous, half-hidden, and "good morning" yellow, the moon was sinking itself to sleep.

Watching the moon set is quite a different experience than watching it rise. When rising, the moon is a strong laughing beacon against the blackdrop. When setting, not only is it on the wrong side of the mountains, but it's also a sleepy ivory yawn, sinking into sky feather-clouds.

Being home with family for the holiday, the demands of minimal packing forced me to leave my beautiful camera at home. Today, as I squeeze into my mom's boots and run into the 17 degree weather, I regret that choice immensely. Mom's tiny black hand-held camera has amazing skill in turning everything blurry. I resist throwing it into the snow and content myself with a memory picture.

The moon set in about four minutes--a treasure now buried in time. I hope someone else saw it. Before trudging inside, my eyes strayed to our hay-happy horses and a ball of obligation forms in my stomach. My little sister (the usual horse feeder) is practically crippled from pursuing Olympic figure skating and my mom (the back-up horse feeder) is in the shower (bitter...bitter...bitter). So I pretend, for a moment, that I'm a horse person and speak to them in a high-pitched baby voice as hay flies in my face. I lose the act rather quickly and jog back to the house. My now-frozen hair bounces against my skull, clicking together like beaded icicles. I enter the house to a screaming kettle.
Oops.
At least I know the water's hot.

With a steaming Vanilla Cappuccino in my hands and cream-cheese toast awaiting consummage, I let out a sigh and can't help but thank my Father for the beautiful and adventurous morning.

Adventures of a Haircut

I finally had enough money to get a haircut.
My hair is like a weed--it grows approximately an inch every month and a half (weeds may be a little faster). So, I saved up and scheduled an appointment at a snazzy-looking, students-get-a-discount, pretty music, Christmas lights type of place. They have giant nutcrackers outside the front door...

..

I walk in and it's pretty much like a Christmas-wonderland, which should be illegal since we still have to get through Thanksgiving, but I let it off the hook this time. It looks glorious.
I'm handed a clipboard (because I'm new) by a receptionist who has a perfect haircut. She asks if I'd like water or coffee or something.

"Anything hot and sweet," I say, shivering. It's chilly out today and hot coffee with an overload on sugar while I get pampered sounds too good to pass up.

The hairstylist assigned to me takes me back with a smile. She has a long strand of red in her waist-length dark locks. I kind of like it. I explain as best I can (without knowing hair-cut lingo) that I want my hair shorter, layered, not poofy, with fringe. She listens.
Perhaps this seems "well, duh" to you. Of course she listens! But I can't tell you how many times I've walked into a salon and the sleek, pointy-haired stylist gives me a sleek, pointy-haircut before I can scream "HALT, intruder!".
My stylist (yes, I refer to her as "my" stylist, now) actually listened and asked questions to clarify. I'll mail her a round of applause.

She's speedy--snip here, snip there, I make a suggestion, she follows through. My coffee tastes delicious until I start sipping pieces of my own hair.

Suddenly she's blow drying. "Um, did you already do the layers?" I ask, squinting into the mirror (as if that'll help me see them better).
"Yup, blended them in," she says, blowing loose hairs into the air like organic confetti.

Suddenly, my faith plummets into skepticism. I didn't see her do layers. I don't even see the layers. She pulls one "layered" strand up. "See?"
It's too long--longer than I would have liked. But maybe I'll keep trusting her.

Next, she performs the stylist's secret move and spins the chair so I can't see myself. This is when a stylist sprays tar into your hair and uses special combs that look like torture devices to turn you into their version of "sexy".
The hairspray smells like sticky alcohol, which inevitably means it's professional and expensive. She starts some sort of ratting where she foofs the hair the wrong way to add volume. I usually avoid anything with a name that refers to disease-infested rodents, but I grit my teeth and bear it.

More hair-tar and some knot-combing later, I'm swiveled to meet my reflection. The practiced response of, "It's perfect! I love it!" leaps from my lips. I tend to program this reaction into my reflexes no matter what my reflection resembles. It makes the stylist happy.

Well, it was a new me. A poofy me.

Have you ever looked in the mirror and suddenly reminded yourself of someone else? It's a weird experience. Today, I reminded myself of a girl at school. I don't know her, but yesterday she wore hot pink leggings, a black and white checkered coat, heels, and has short, bleached, poofy hair.
It sounds bizarre and almost grotesque, but this girl can pull it off like nobody's business. She would look weird in jeans and a T.
Well, my hair reminds me of her. Almost messy, too poofy, my-bathroom-is-filled-with-special-products, hairstyle.

I leave the salon, carrying its cloying scent in my bee-hive. When I get home, I pull out the brush, mirror, and (don't scream) scissors. A minute and a half later, the beast on my head is tamed and, I must say, I like it.

Despite the poofiness, I'm keeping my stylist. But I may have to confiscate the hair-tar.

Rainbow Traps

I found a rainbow trapped in a tree several days ago.


I, myself, am not a rainbow catcher; so I could not have freed it if I wanted to. But seeing this sight brought me to the sharp realization that rainbow traps are everywhere. For some reason, we've fallen into the belief that rainbows only exist in the sky--but those sights are when rainbows are free. They proclaim their freedom through the colorful arch of refracted and dispersed sunlight. When trapped they're harder to see, but when you find one, that makes it all the more beautiful.


What makes a rainbow beautiful? Is it the knowledge that a rainbow holds every single color painting the earth? Is it the fact that we can't touch it, but it touches our souls? Or is it the fact it's a promise?


We often forget the promise-side of a rainbow. As many colors as are in the rainbow, those are the promises of God. Everyone loves promises, but most of all, everyone loves promises that are kept. And a rainbow is the beautiful sign of a promise kept by God (never to flood the Earth again) to this day. Every time we see that rainbow, we can remember that He's still keeping that promise.


Now I return to my rainbow trapped in the tree. I'll admit, I went up to it and asked if I could free it. It said to pluck away some of the leaves. If I loosen the trap, it may be able to escape by wintertime. So I did as it suggested--I plucked a few leaves off here and there. Hopefully it's enough for the rainbow to escape, but personally I hope it remains trapped for several more days. I enjoy seeing it every time I drive into my apartment parking lot.

After I picked the leaves, I kept them--spreading a bit of rainbow into my apartment. I had no idea one tree could hold so many different colors at one time. They must be heavy:



The only color really missing is blue. But I think, if I looked closely enough between the branches, I could find it...



Eye photos retrieved on 11/12/10 from: http://eye-ris.org/name
Galaxy photo retrieved on 11/12/10 from: http://photojournal.jpl.nasa.gov/gallery/universe?subselect=Mission:Hubble+Space+Telescope+%28HST%29:
All other photos taken by Nadine Shea on 11/12/10

Now That It's Not So Crowded

Dear Pain,
You knocked so lightly, I almost didn't hear you, but you let yourself in like you usually do. You always come at just the right times, you'll never desert me. You have such a good memory and never forget a thing. My, what a painter you are! You paint such vivid pictures, I feel like I'm inside them, and you give them to me for free.
Such a faithful companion, you even sing me to sleep and whisper stories in my ear on my pillow. Sometimes you even hold me close and vow you'll never leave--you'll never let me go, and you insist I shouldn't worry.

Dear Fear,
We've gotten close lately, I see you everywhere. You hold my hand when I'm alone or when it's dark. You are so observant and always make sure I'm alert--pointing out things to be wary of.
You hug me and hold me and tuck the covers around me. You kiss my dreams and turn out the lights and reassure me that you're by my side. I see your face in the mirror or on the wall. You like to play hide and seek, but you always win. You always find me.

Dear God,
I want to invite you to dinner, but my friends Pain and Fear are a little shy. They say You don't know them. They think You don't like them. Whenever you come over, they go away. Sometimes I miss them; sometimes I don't even notice their absence. When we all have dinner together, Fear won't sit next to You and Pain turns sickly and weak. Perhaps it's best if they take a break while You're here. They don't like to fight for a spot by my side or to hold my hand. They don't like standing behind You in line. And You're bigger than they are--I think You intimidate them.
Sometimes they worry You do a better job at keeping me company than they do. I assured them that You three have very different jobs, so they don't need to worry. But I think there's a recession. I've been reading a book You wrote and it says that that employment opportunities are scarce for Pain and Fear. I suggested they start looking elsewhere because I'm running out of food for them. I can't afford to put them up much longer. But when they've gone, I might get lonely. Will You come around more often? You're always welcome to stay...now that it's not so crowded.

Sincerely,
Nadine

The Inevitable Bio

My life is summed up in a nutshell.
I'm the nut.
And I have many shells.

The shell I pull out today is that of a writer. I love to write. I need to write. And I want the world to read it.

I can't exactly pinpoint the date or origin of my writing-impulse. Perhaps it stems from my upbringing in a school that taught us to write with fountain pens, or that my Mom read to me all through my childhood, or that (despite repeated scoldings and discipline) I persisted in drawing/writing all over the walls of my house. But I secretly believe part of the desire emerged from the "one-year diary" my grandparents bought me, Christmas of 1996.
The first diary entry of my life is as follows:

December 23, 1996
"Dear Diary,
It is Christmas at Omy and Opa's house on Dec. 23. I got a diary and some beutiful clothes. Now it is Christmas night at Grandy's, I c...."

I never finished the entry. Stamina-wise, I didn't seem cut out to be a writer. Entry number two didn't show much promise either:

January 1, 1997
"Dear Diary,
it is Reubens birthday, He is turning six! Were going boling and having a huge turkey, well by!
Hello I am back. I got 2nd place on bowling. We had a huge turky diner with beans and patatos. well see ya later!"

Thankfully, my spelling improved over the years; however, it took quite a few journals until I wrote about more than just food and the day's events. Today, I still journal--a habit that became a necessity. I am currently on journal number 17 (don't ask where I keep the old ones. My lips are sealed and their pages are super-duper-glued). To process, some girls talk until their lungs collapse. I just write until my fingers shrivel up. Saves oxygen.

All this is to say I write and I can't stop. And so begins this blog. I already have one blog, called The Quest for Good Writing--a blog to aid young readers and their parents in identifying decent adventure/fantasy novels to read, through the help of detailed and Christian-based reviews (yes, this is sneaky promoting). But that blog limits me--I can only write about teen and young adult fantasy novels (or something similar to reading and that area of writing).

My dearest mother encouraged me to see what I already knew, but didn't grasp. I need a blog to just...write--to write about how I almost ran over a guy with my bike yesterday. To write about how a sunrise lasts for a maximum of 10 minutes and I can see it straight from my bedroom window. To write about how I sacrificed my own finger and blood to make the most delicious pumpkin pie this past October has ever tasted.

So here is that blog, cracking open the writing nutshell. Throughout my posts, it is inevitable that you--my beloved reader--will learn more about me. But for now you know my writing fetish. If you choose to follow my impulsive blurbs, I pray that you will have a fresh view of joy, laughter, creation, and the little things of life.

Like seeing the world through newly polished gas-station sunglasses.