Slipperless

I read a man's view of his future wife once. He likened her to Cinderella--perfect, innocent, understanding, sweet, and exquisitely gorgeous. I guess that is a male's false perception of the opposite gender. The woman's view is the "knight in shining armor"--tall, dark, handsome, strong, confident, and able to read her soul. ;)


There is no room for 'almost'. An almost perfect man--the prince without the charming or the knight without the steed. An almost perfect woman--the Cinderella still missing a slipper or the Snow White without the white. No room for the ones still trying their hardest. No matter how hard we Almosts try, we'll never reach perfect. We'll all fall short of the dreamy desire of our significant other.

Here's the catch: our significant other is an Almost as well...we all are. So let's wake up and realize that. No more mental criteria. God has already set aside the Almost who is perfect for each of us. He pairs the off-white with the uniquely average and the rusty with the slipperless. Why? because He has the missing slippers. He has the armor polish. He has the groomed, trained steeds. And when we join Him in heaven someday, we'll be slipperless no more.

The State of Your Mustard

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"...if you have faith as a mustard seed, you will say to this mountain, 'Move from here to there,' and it will move; and nothing will be impossible for you." (Matthew 17:20)

This is a verse that nearly every church-raised child hears. Sometimes the Sunday School teacher even brings in props (aka. 2 millimeter mustard seeds) to show the students how very tiny a mustard seed is (aka. how tiny our faith will always be). Then, at some age, we come to the realization that none of us have the faith of an atom nucleus, let alone a mustard seed. I don't know about you, but when I stand outside and demand that the Grand Teton throw itself into the sea, it just growls and grows a little taller...and greyer.


I wondered about the size of my faith when God left a sticky note on my mental chalkboard this morning.

"I have a task for you. Gird up your faith-loins."

What size are my faith-loins? I'm pretty sure I'm teetering between super-duper-extra-small and extremely-super-duper-extra-small. Either way, I get to girding. I'm one sentence in to the unpleasant letter I must write and resort (once more) to prayer. ("Must I do this?" "How do I word it?" "Help!") In an act of either postponement or further knowledge, I flip to the book of Matthew (after looking up the mustard reference) and then pull up Wikipedia.

Did you know that mustard never grows old, mold, mildew, or creates harmful bacteria?
I think that if you believe Jesus is Lord, faith never grows old, mold, or harmful bacteria. It's always with us and can't go bad.

Did you know that mustard can last indefinitely, though it may dry out, lose flavor, or go brown?
I believe that, if we don't exercise our faith, it can dry out and lose its flavor (but still last indefinitely). Don't let your faith go brown.

Did you know that mixing in a small amount of wine or vinegar will revitalize dried mustard?
"For this is My blood of the new covenant which is shed for many for the remission of sins."
When we allow Christ to pour His love and Himself back into us (after shutting Him out), our faith is revitalized.

Who would have thought all this significant mustard really linked us back to Christ? What's the state of your mustard? Brown? Weak? Strong and pungent? If I were filled with mustard, I would pick Grey Poupon. It already has wine...white wine. "...though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be as white as snow..." How about, "...though your mustard is like tar..." I know I take the "snow" verse out of context, but because of it I have grown more fond of the idea of white wine in my faith-mustard. I'll never look at Grey Poupon the same way again.


Now if only I had a mini mustard seed of faith inside my extremely-super-duper-extra-small faith-loins...

The Big-Toe of Busyness

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I used to believe I had deadline issues, but now I realize I actually have priority issues.


When I see a deadline, I automatically think, "I can! I can! I can!" Nothing can stop me--not the clock, not the hospital, not even a handsome car salesman (or so I think). I am and have always been the Little Engine That Thought She Could. I'll shove over the conductor and head toward the gigantic hill of deadlines at full speed. The problem is, I forget to stock the furnace with coal, my wheels are a little rusted, and the train track isn't even built yet.

Recently (meaning tonight at 11:30pm), I've realized I need to take the shaver to the hairs of my Big-Toe of Busyness, but which hairs to shave? The easiest time-consumers to ditch are the ones I love most--reading, writing, and snowboarding. Naturally, my selfish nature screams, "Don't you dare!" and I attempt to reason with myself ("It's Christmas break, you know"). Never try to reason yourself out of being unreasonable--you don't have unbiased reasoning available to even put to use (I'm already confused).

Back to shaving...(I recommend the Mach 3).

Where are my priorities? I must start with this. I think they're in the back pocket of my overalls with a paperclip, rusty nail, and lip gloss--three things I never use. They must be pulled out and organized.

("But it's Christmas break!")

No no, this must be done. What comes first? The Christmas play? Writing my novel? Editing someone else's novel? Cramming in pleasure-reading? Working at the coffee shop? Stocking the fireplace woodbox? Spending time with siblings? Sending out already-late Christmas cards?

I shove the priorities back into the pocket (the lip gloss protests) and I force myself to face facts: Straightened-priorities or not, shaved toes or not, those deadlines will still be missed and I'll feel guilty. But if I face that fact, perhaps the guilt will subside and maybe--just maybe--my train will find the extra coal, the rust will fall from my wheels, and I'll allow the Conductor to take charge again...

...while I rebuild that track.





Comic retrieved on 12/18/10 from http://www.cartoonstock.com/directory/t/the_little_engine_that_could.asp
Track picture retrieved on 12/18/10 from http://www.ehow.com/how_7377877_make-kid_s-wooden-train-track.html

First Class on the Ground

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Airport.

When I hear this term, a slot machine of associated words click into my subconscious. Words like tile, uniform, and echo. As I step from the car and enter the human processor (aka. terminal), I leave behind a kind friend and an hour and a half of refreshing, delightful conversation--you know the type; afterward, you feel like a better, smarter, happier human being. Just the simple, honest interaction that reminds you of the depth inside people, the joy of openness, and God's original version of "hanging out" intended for His family. It's...refreshing. Like the crunch of watermelon.



The terminal feels unexpectedly happy today--or maybe the residue of my pleasant ride here is still affecting my view of life and people. At the self check-in kiosk, I pick the seats I want, check in a bag (praying it weighs less than 50 pounds), and wait for my tickets. Instead, I receive a couple food vouchers and a receipt. Not bad for airport luck, but something inside me (possibly the fact I don't believe in luck) sends its unwelcome opinion (unwelcome because I know it's right).

"Food vouchers = trouble."

Three attendants, two more vouchers, and one shuttle bus later, I find myself at the Hilton hotel. My flight is delayed until 6:10 tomorrow morning so the airport puts me up for the night with $26 of airport money to feed me. I don't mind one bit. Maybe I'm just in a particularly flexible mood or the idea of a comfy bed sounds more appealing than 6 hours of traveling, but events like this--the ones out of your control that surprise you like a bald eagle in your city backyard--are adventures. Everything I experience from this moment onward is something I would have missed if everything were in my control. I will cherish every minute.

The evening pans out like first-class on the ground. My flight is rescheduled, I take a nice shuttle to my hotel (the driver loads my bags for me), I arrive at the Hilton, and receive the room of my request (floor 2 or above...I'm not picky). The Hilton is beautiful. I enter to Christmas trees bedecked with both ornaments and dangling gifts that match the interior sweeps of carpet. Fairy-lights line the walls of the restaurant and the hotel lighting is butterscotch yellow--the type that makes you feel warm and relaxed.

I inevitably snatch my camera from my suitcase and snap away, imagining how lovely these pictures will match this post. Mid-snap (a Christmas tree at the end of a long hall of chandeliers), my lounging memory leaps to its feet and informs me it encountered a moment of extra-faultiness today. It forgot my camera cord. The pride I formerly held at remembering to grab the charger, the extra batteries, the case, and even the camera itself fades into nonexistence. I won't have the cord again until mid-January.

*shrug* Such is life.

I treat myself to a delicious Hilton dinner, starting with a Caesar salad. The first bite tastes...Caribbean-classy. It's a bit of pina-colada memories, the crunch of field-fresh greens, and soft-beach music drifting on my salty nostalgia-senses. Homemade croutons and thin dressing.
Delicious.
As I move on to the "main course" (Diablo chicken--it tastes very Italian), an older gentleman in a suit with a navy pin on his lapel enters and requests, "A glass of Cabernet." Behind him stand two handle-bar mustache hicks. I wonder if they're on my flight tomorrow. They look like Wyoming people. They order two beers. I don't see them on my flight the next morning. They must be flying to Idaho.

I have a three-hour layover in Salt Lake, but I can't hold it against Delta. They treated me like the only customer using their airline yesterday. Though their baggage prices may be inflated and infuriating, I gladly say this:

"Delta, you done good."

I still have some food vouchers left over and get some kung-pao chicken for breakfast (no chicken, but lots of pao). Coffee is next on the list. I say this with no intention of actually buying or drinking coffee. "Coffee" for me is like "Coke" for people who live in the south.

"I'd like a Coke."
"What type?"
"Sprite, please."

With me, "coffee" just means I'm going to Starbucks and I'll probably get a chai latte. But, until I finish my kung-pao, I return to the excitement of a 3-hour-layover spent thinking of the many joys that have and will arrive with this year's Christmas season. I think God's favorite seasonal decoration is "joy"--He pulls garlands off the Earth's summer and fall decorations, adds a bit of winter flavor, and twirls them around the December calendar of my heart. The best part is, they never come down.

I've always loved garlands.

Desperate Cooking

When approaching finals week, a student is faced with an unpleasant adjustment of eating habits. This means inhaling a bowl of cereal (whether fresh or left over from last night's studying) without allowing it to pass over the taste buds (takes too much time) in order to make it to class. After class is finished, homework screams bloody murder and you suddenly remember that paper that was due yesterday. Lunch is nothing more than a luxury forgotten around 3pm. Once home, dinner looms. Do you have time to pre-heat the stove and throw in a pot-pie? Or do you settle for cereal again?


Being a graduate student myself with my own kitchen, I've resisted some of these forced adjustments, but only to an extent. Tonight I find myself working on my take-home final that is due tomorrow (I thought I had an extra week. Lucky me). I realize it's 6pm and I'm trying to remember if I had lunch...or breakfast. Dirty dishes on my homework desk tell me "yes".

I open the fridge. Nothing looks appealing. I open the cupboard. Tomato sauce and some cream of chicken soup. Hm...what if I just made a casserole of sorts? That's usually just eggs, milk, and some sort of meat, right? And it's always good over rice.

Rice.

I fling open the cupboard above the stove. There's about a tablespoon of rice in a rolled up bag. That'll do. No where's the pot? Dirty? Hm.....I'll just mix the rice with the casserole and hope it cooks. I scoop the rice into a glass loaf-pan. Eggs come next. I only have one egg left in the carton and it expired exactly one month ago. Crack. Smells fine, so it joins the rice.




Chicken? I don't have time to cook it. Instead, I pull out a can of tuna--it's pretty much the same, right? Add a dash of milk (aka. whatever's left in the carton), a handful of grated cheese, and stir. Shouldn't there be vegetables? I pull out the half-used carton of mushrooms. They are black and squishy. Okay, no vegetables. The oven is preheated, I toss in half a can of cream-of-chicken and shove it in the oven.

Once it is done, it looks a bit like a loaf of tuna-bread with bits of uncooked rice in it. I scoop half onto my plate with the plastic, I-may-snap-in-half-any-day serving spoon. I try a cheesy forkful. It's absolutely scrumptrulescent (a college word for "exactly what my stomach didn't realize it needed").

Who would have thought?

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First Winner

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I won my first contest.

I say this only because, in my exuberant joy, I can't recall ever winning any other contest before. Not one that I desperately wanted to win. Sure, I've won a few inconsequential "contests" here and there: a packet of sponges in Bingo, a baby-blue plastic hat in a work-out gym raffle (it ended up being too big ), and a school sweatshirt that looked better on my friend who now has it for good. The biggest prize I ever won was the "jackpot" graduation raffle--school ring, graduation announcements, cap and gown, and diploma frame.
Of course, I won this after I'd purchased all these items. Refund? Certainly not! But I digress...

I am the first place winner of the ACFW-Ohio "Hook Me" Contest.


I know you've all heard of it, who hasn't? It's famous. I don't even need to explain because you are sitting on your side of the computer exclaiming in awed "ooh"s and "wow"s, right?
No?
What a shock. Alright, I shall indulge you this once, but don't you ever forget the ACFW-Ohio "Hook Me" Contest after this.

Essentially, the contest focuses on the opening of one's book. In the world of writing, authors must grab the attention of editors/agents/bookstore browsers (etc) in the first five minutes and persuade them to keep reading. In "Hook Me", us authors-to-be *giggle* send in our first 1,000 words and a back-cover blurb (that juicy snippet on the back of a book screaming for you to open its pages). Three professional judges take a look at your chunk of work and give it a score out of 60 (following a list of intense criteria, of course). After this, your two highest scores are taken and averaged.

So I sent in the 1,000 words from my most recent novel and waited anxiously for an entire month (oh, the drama). The e-mail arrived. My breath caught. I double clicked and these bright red words met my nervous gaze:

CONGRATULATIONS!!! YOU ARE OUR 1ST PLACE WINNER

I read the word "1st" about a hundred times before I allowed myself to squeak, dance, laugh out loud, and throw my hands in the air. None of that is an exaggeration. I believe I may have even allowed myself an on-the-spot rap about "I can't believe I won" (this, coming from a girl who doesn't even listen to rap).
Then I looked at the number of contestants (41) and calculated my chances of winning. With atrocious math skills and six failed attempts, I came up with the approximate number: 2.5% chance of dominance. Two percent. And I won. My score? 60. Double the shock.

Do I sound prideful yet? None of this is written with the intent to brag. It is written in pure, ecstatic joy. I'm shocked, amazed, befuddled, in awe, and forever thankful to my best friend, Christ, who gave me the opportunity to join this contest, and who gave me the words to write. He won the contest and then laughed and let me think it was me.

The significance of this contest is not in the prize money, not in the title, and not in the certificates. It is in the fact I won a contest that judged what I love to do. It judged my writing--something in which I pursue perfection more frequently than breathing. After the smoke cleared, I was told that I'm "up-to-par". Hope and motivation are renewed with fresh vigor.

In a day when "Who Wants to be a Millionaire" is the contest-to-win, I am perfectly content with my yellow and fluorescent-blue print-it-yourself certificate.



And my $50 Amazon gift card might as well be the world.

,

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.