Sometimes a lack of posting means I will give birth to a novel in a month.

After perusing my blog stats, I've realized that my readership has dropped down to virtually zero. For the one reader who still checks this blog, (or possibly two? Are you a reader out there, person from Romania?), I wish to send out this apology:

I'm sorry.

You see, I've been a little occupied this month. I was in Colorado for some of it, during which time I accessed the internet only once and realized my unread emails had accrued enough mass to collapse into a supermassive black hole that is even now sucking in the entire internet, and from which I only just managed to escape with my life.

Also, there was that whole Thanksgiving thing, which involved a massive amount of time and energy. Energy which was expended on corralling and entertaining a tornado of children (I believe that's the official phrase for 'a group of children,' isn't it?), consuming vast quantities of turkey and pie (not together, just so you know), and playing fiercely competitive domino games with the adult family members (and one niece, who is even more competitive than the grownups).

In short, it has been a wholly awesome month.

However, there has been one more thing that has kept me from blogging, namely NaNoWriMo, which required all of the writing juice I could squeeze out of myself. (Writing juice is a lovely deep caramel color, with sweetness like honey and just a faint hint of lemon zest. And sometimes garlic.) So, you see, I had pretty much nothing left at the end of the day to squirt into the blogosphere. (That...that actually sounds pretty disgusting. Eugh.)

But now, behold, I have returned. And what's more, I have returned...

A WINNER!

Behold the mighty winner's trophy for those who vanquish the terrible NaNoWriMo beast and...

*Ahem.*

Sorry. Got a little carried away, there.

Naturally, my novel is nowhere close to being actually finished, although I crossed the NaNo finish line at rather an exciting point in the story, so I'm pretty confident I'll see this thing through to the end. (Unlike my last NaNo novel, which has been gathering virtual dust in a corner of my computer for the past three years.)

So, my blogging should be back on schedule, now. (That is, I'll blog when I darn well feel like it, and not before.)

And also, HUZZAH! For I have won! And maybe, maybe someday, I may actually be able to hold the novel in my hands, coo at it a little, and read it aloud as a punishment to misbehaving children.

And I will love it, and squeeze it, and call it My Debut Novel

Those of you who know me (basically pretty much anyone who reads this blog on a regular basis) may know that I am, for the second time in my life, participating in the annual 30-days-of-madness that is the NaNoWriMo experience.

I got involved for the first time back in 2006, when I was working full time and contemplating a future career as a librarian (which I am still contemplating, by the way--I'm just contemplating with an MLS in-hand nowadays).

I took on the challenge of writing 50,000 words in 30 days (it works out to an entirely doable 1,667 words per day, which is roughly 6 pages (give or take, depending on how much dialogue you put in versus dense descriptive passages) of double-spaced text in a word processing document.

Not bad, and as I mentioned, totally doable. However, I avoided getting involved in 2007, and the November of 2008 was possibly the most intense semester I had while getting my Master's degree. So you'll understand why I didn't feel that any textual creation that was not directly linked to how to create a storytelling kit out of felt and rhymes about monkeys was going to be beneficial to me.

And I got all 'A's that semester, as I recall. So the novel-that-might-have-been was sacrificed on the alter of the GPA gods.

But.

This year I am free from (almost) all constraints. I have no job. (Which is still making me tremble with terror every time I remember that loan repayment is steadily marching toward me, but I manage to avoid the remembrance as much as possible.) Well, I have no job aside from some writing work I'm doing for my bro-in-law (thanks, nameless B-in-L!). But it's not such intense work that I can't take the time (particularly during my peak writing hours from about midnight to 2 or 3am) to pound out a few pages of novel every day.

So I'm doing it again. That's what I'm saying. (In an admittedly (and typical) roundabout and pointless fashion.)

And I'm rather wholly excited at this point. The first day, I wasn't sure I would even start the thing, although I had an idea that I had worked out a few weeks in advance.

The second day, I despised what I had written (aside from the first two pages--those were pretty good) the way an advanced alien culture despises war-torn Earthlings in science fiction plots.

The third day, and the fourth, and fifth and now sixth, I have found that what I'm writing has some good bits. Some honest-to-goodness fine bits of prose, mishmashed together of course with a bunch of really crappy prose. But there are, nonetheless, pieces to be proud of. And the writing of the thing gets easier every time I sit down.

I even find myself thinking about the plot on the toilet. Surely that is the sign of a dedicated novelist!

So last night, I discovered that the fine folks at CreateSpace have donated their resources to the foolhardy souls who undertake the NaNoWriMo challenge. They have offered to, for free, print up a proof copy of the finished book of all NaNoWriMo winners (who sign up for an account, of course, and put together a pdf file of the finished (or pseudo-finished?) novel).

Which just. Blew my mind a little.

So, I can not only write a fabulous, earth-shatteringly, (cliche-ridden) amazing first novel, but I can also get a copy of it. Printed. To hold. In my hands. And lend to relatives who will read the first chapter and kindly suggest that I look harder for a librarian job. And try to sell to others on Amazon.com.

I know it's self-publishing. I know it would not really make me a for-real published author. But, oh, my dear soul. There is something so appealing about the thought of holding my own book in my hands.

So much so, that I think I'll finish this year's NaNoWriMo too. 40,000 words to go, baby.

When I see them letters on the page, I just know I've done something good with my life.

I love the act of writing.

Now some of you may have misunderstood that last sentence. (It is not your fault of course; it's really due to the inherent ambiguity of language, in which words can mean more than one thing, or can have wide variations within one meaning.)

You probably thought I meant 'writing' as in the act of forming words into coherent sentences which then can be heard, read, or otherwise ingested by other persons nearby (or far away), who then decode the structure of the sentence and the definitions of the words in order to come up with some meaning (which the author may or may not have intended).

But I didn't mean that. (Thus, the decoding process failed. Silly you.) Although, I do admit that I enjoy forming sentences for decoding. It's one of my hobbies.

Nevertheless, the 'writing' to which I refer is the act of forming words on a page using a pen, pencil, stylus, paintbrush, or a particularly grubby finger. I love watching letters form in swoops and dashes as my hand moves, just touching the page there to dot the i, lifting the pen there to finish of the r, making a great loop to form the y.

There's something so satisfying about forming letters. And I'm not sure why. Although here is what I suspect:

Forming shapes is fun at any time, but forming shapes that mean something plugs, I believe, into our ancient human tradition of creating words from permanent marks made in clay or on papyrus. I think every time we cross a T or form a bold downward stroke for a D, we're reconnecting with those who first invented writing by tapping cuneiform script into clay, or with the ancient Egyptians, whose written language resembled art more than anything, or the Chinese with their countless characters, or the Greeks, or the Romans, or every other human who has held an instrument in hand and marked something so that their influence could be felt far from their immediate presence. We declare ourselves part of that tradition. Part of this ancient human family.

When I write by hand, I can also feel the passage of time more acutely. Time moves us along the atom-thin knife-edge of now, unstoppable as the future moves from far to near to now to past, all inexorably, and so so swiftly. For the most part, we ignore it, or at least, always facing forward into the immediate future as we are, we tend not to focus on the rushing-pastness of time. We're like passengers on a train (not an original image by any means, but apt) as it rushes endlessly forward. Normally, we peer forward at the track, or sometimes behind us at the things we've already seen. But the act of writing is like turning your head to look out the side window while the world whips past at an unbelievable pace. Forming letters, you see that once was blank page is now covered in marks. Marks you've made. And you're still making them, a stroke here, a dot there, a loop, all in motion, all churning the way from future to past.

Eh. Anyway. I haven't quite captured the sense of this, at least the way I feel it. But that's what writing is like. (The other kind of writing. Codification. You know.)

And why am I going on at length about something so inconsequential (sort of)? Because I have written approximately 15 mailing labels for the boxes I will ship out tomorrow. I wrote them with a sharpie. And I enjoyed it.

And that is all.

A breath of awesomeness

Okay, so it's time to arise from the dust (a little) and post about something that doesn't have to do with ill health. (Although, I must mention that my dad's doing better, and that you all are awesome for helping with your prayers and good vibrations, etc. Thanks, yo.)

Also, I don't know if it's just librarian/book folks who will think the following vid is awesome, but...I don't care. Because I think it's awesome, and I want to save it for posterity (i.e. Future Me).

Be forewarned: it's nearly 17 minutes, so if you don't have time for Tomie dePaola with a paintbrush in his teeth, then wait until you do. Seriously. It's worth it.


BOOK BY BOOK: the making of a monkey man from Jarrett Krosoczka on Vimeo.

Resurgence

Shall I post about why I haven't blogged in over a month?

Shall I write about this past semester and its joys, worries, hardships and my unaccountable desire to reread Asimov's entire Foundation series?

Shall I spend time profusely apologizing for being ineffably boring and neglectful by not providing my faithful readership with new and fascinating, periodically updated reading material?

I probably will. Soonish. But, having turned in my last assignment this morning, I believe I'm scheduled for a recovery period. Which means sleeping. Lots.

A little, tiny review.

The best of Robin McKinley’s books pour into the reader a sense of unfolding mysteries, like the lingering taste of some unknowable sweetness on the tongue, or the languid unfurling of the dense petals at the heart of a rose. Slowly, slowly the bud opens, revealing the glorious, beautiful design of the whole.

Chalice is one of these books.

Read it. If you possibly can.

(Oh, and also, check out Johnathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. Seriously. Do it now.)

This is me.

Read here.

Goes so well with the previous post, doesn't it?

Incomprehensible

I think sometimes that I am not a very understanding person.

I mean, I try to be understanding. And really, I can understand things like people feeling sad or lonely, or feeling frustrated with traffic or with crowded subway trains, or how it feels when the hot weather finally breaks and you get one perfect day.

I can understand that.

But I have a hard time understanding other things. Things like, for instance, why some people don't care for books. This one has me flummoxed. Well, granted, I can understand that if someone has a reading problem like dyslexia or similar somethings, reading would not be a pleasant experience exactly. (But hey--books on tape are always a fantastic option! Braille! Etc.!)

But people who don't find themselves thinking about characters while they're walking around on the sidewalk? Who don't automatically reach for some tattered paperback or thick-and-heavy leather-bound classic edition or yeesh--even a magazine or something, whenever they have a spare minute or ten? Who don't relish that mingle of climax, loss, and joy, a joy with a flavor unlike anything else--like something unbearably delicious that dissolves almost as soon as you taste it, as if to linger any longer on your tongue would cause you to spin into giddy delirium--that comes when you read the last sentence of an excellent book, close it, rub the cover a little and smiling, sigh to yourself?

I sometimes fear that I can have nothing to share with such people.

I'm sure there would be some things we could agree on, that it's easier to see when there is sufficient light, that couches are generally preferable to stone benches, that blankets are good when it is cold, but there would always be this deep inner part of me that would remain untouched, bewildered, uncomprehending.

So, I'm afraid my sympathetic powers are limited. I may never fully understand another human being unless they're somewhat bookish, like me.

Because, my dears, I am incontrovertibly and deliriously and giddily bookish. And I revel in it.

Why, oh why don't all people long to be librarians?

Miscellany

Man. I just wrote most of a lengthy post that was meant to be all introspective and thought provoking... And I found that my heart just wasn't in it. So. No pontification today, people.

So sorry.

But here's the good bits that I rescued from said post (the good bits being the parts that weren't all full of philosophizing junk):

Guys, I had such a good day today.

I spent a great deal of it (probably too much) puzzling over the concepts in Brian Greene's The Elegant Universe, and some of it (probably not enough) puzzling over how I'm going to teach Elder D. Todd Christofferson's article: "Justification and Sanctification" (which, just so you know, is amazing and wonderful, even though it took me two read-throughs (the second time with heavy use of colored pencil) to even start to feel like I understood it) tomorrow in Relief Society.

Also, I went up to the church this afternoon to help out with the Relief Society booth at the open house we (the singles wards) hosted. There weren't a ton of people who showed up, but I did get to have some interesting conversations with folks. So, hurrah for that.

And...that's about it!

Also, I now have a picture of my sister and niece up on my computer as my desktop background. It's so gosh-darned adorable that I just kind of have to share:


Yeah. Her expression in this picture is possibly the best thing EVER. Love that googly-eyed look. (P.S. The sister holding the baby is NOT the mother of said baby. No, indeed. Although she (the sister, that is) does have two lovely children of her own. This baby belongs to another sister. A sister not in the picture. Yes. That sister. All clear? Good.)

Unless I suddenly learn to speed-read...

A year ago I started keeping track of all the books I was reading. It was more an exercise in memory assistance than anything else; it seems impossible for me to remember exactly what I've read, particularly when people come up and ask me, "I'm looking for something to read. So, what have you read lately?" I find this lack of memory on my part highly reprehensible, mostly because I aim to be a librarian, and librarians are always supposed to have lists of books handy at a moment's notice. Aren't they?

Anyway.

So, I came up with this list so I could read back through it, say, "Oh, yes. I remember that book. The characters weren't fully developed, but the plot was intriguing." Or, "Dude--that one was full of lame dialogue," or "I have never encountered an author so playful in her use of language. That one was an absolute delight."

(These are, of course, phrases I keep handy in a little drawer in my room. Just in case anyone asks me to be a reviewer of books. You know. Someday. In the future.)

So, in case you all are curious about what I've been reading, and you haven't been keeping track on that handy little list off in my blog's sidebar, here's all the books I've read (or nearly read) since last July.

(I was really hoping to get to 100 in a year, but so far I've only got 90, and I think it unlikely that I'll read 10 more books in the next week.)

By the way, if you want my opinion on any of them, feel free to ask. Otherwise, just browse for yourself and enjoy the process of discovery.

************************************************************

1. The Gift, Peter Dickinson
2. Tears of the Salamander, Peter Dickinson
3. Time of the Ghost, Diana Wynne Jones
4. Aunt Maria, Diana Wynne Jones
5. Hero’s Song, Edith Pattou
6. The Lion Tamer’s Daughter and Other Stories, Peter Dickinson
7. Waifs and Strays, Charles de Lint
8. Fire Arrow, Edith Pattou
9. Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, J. K. Rowling
10. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, J. K. Rowling
11. Austenland, Shannon Hale
12. The Blue Hawk, Peter Dickinson
13. The Golden Compass, Philip Pullman
14. The Subtle Knife, Philip Pullman
15. The Amber Spyglass, Philip Pullman
16. Nicholas Nickleby, Charles Dickens
17. The Name of the Wind, Patrick Rothfuss
18. Magic or Not?, Edward Eager
19. Reave the Just and Other Tales, Stephen R. Donaldson
20. Magic Kingdom for Sale – Sold!, Terry Brooks
21. Fire Watch, Connie Willis
22. Impossible Things, Connie Willis
23. Inside Job, Connie Willis
24. The Tenant of Wildfell Hall, Anne Brontë
25. Some Deaths Before Dying, Peter Dickinson
26. A Morbid Taste for Bones, Ellis Peters
27. The Birthday Room, Kevin Henkes
28. Fragile Things, Neil Gaiman
29. Green Boy, Susan Cooper (only read part)
30. Wizards, edited by Jack Dann & Gardner Dozois
31. American Gods, Neil Gaiman
32. Anansi Boys, Neil Gaiman
33. Stardust, Neil Gaiman
34. Queen’s Own Fool, Jane Yolen & Robert J. Harris
35. Dragon Slippers, Jessica Day George
36. Dragonhaven, Robin McKinley
37. The Dispossessed, Ursula K. Le Guin
38. Angels & Demons, Dan Brown
39. The Left Hand of Darkness, Ursula K. Le Guin
40. The Da Vinci Code, Dan Brown
41. Rocannon’s World, Ursula K. Le Guin
42. Planet of Exile, Ursula K. Le Guin
43. City of Illusions, Ursula K. Le Guin
44. The Word for World is Forest, Ursula K. Le Guin
45. The Astonishing Life of Octavian Nothing, Traitor to the Nation, Vol. 1: The Pox Party, M. T. Anderson
46. The Eye of the Heron, Ursula K. Le Guin
47. A Fisherman of the Inland Sea, Ursula K. Le Guin
48. Four Ways to Forgiveness, Ursula K. Le Guin
49. The Telling, Ursula K. Le Guin
50. Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen
51. Mansfield Park, Jane Austen
52. Lady Susan, Jane Austen
53. Phoenix and Ashes, Mercedes Lackey
54. Wizard of London, Mercedes Lackey
55. The Serpent’s Shadow, Mercedes Lackey
56. Seventeenth Summer, Maureen Daly
57. Forever, Judy Blume
58. Gates of Sleep, Mercedes Lackey
59. Fever 1793, Laurie Halse Anderson
60. A Great and Terrible Beauty, Libba Bray
61. The Arrival, Shaun Tan
62. Bronx Masquerade, Nikki Grimes
63. Just Listen, Sarah Dessen
64. Unexpected Magic: Collected Stories, Diana Wynne Jones
65. Endless Universe: Beyond the Big Bang, Paul J. Steinhardt & Neil Turok
66. Book of a Thousand Days, Shannon Hale
67. Rebel Angels, Libba Bray
68. The Sweet Far Thing, Libba Bray
69. Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, Rachel Cohn & David Levithan
70. Born Confused, Tanuja Desai Hidier
71. Weetzie Bat, Francesca Lia Block
72. Boy Meets Boy, David Levithan
73. The Changeover, Margaret Mahy
74. A Hero Ain’t Nothin But a Sandwich, Alice Childress
75. The Ghosts of Now, Joan Lowery Nixon
76. King of the Mild Frontier: An Ill-Advised Autobiography, Chris Crutcher
77. Monster, Walter Dean Myers
78. How I Live Now, Meg Rosoff
79. Gossip Girl, Cecily von Ziegesar
80. A School for Sorcery, E. Rose Sabin
81. When Jeff Comes Home, Catherine Atkins
82. Magicians of Quality, Caroline Stevermer & Patricia C. Wrede
83. The Invention of Hugo Cabret, Brian Selznick
84. Uglies, Scott Westerfield
85. The Mislaid Magician or Ten Years Later, Caroline Stevermer & Patricia C. Wrede
86. Rules, Cynthia Lord
87. The Lightning Thief, Rick Riordan
88. The Audacity of Hope, Barack Obama
89. Scholarly Magics, Caroline Stevermer
90. The Eyre Affair, Jasper Fforde

Two things:

First, have you noticed how the way people write and the way people talk don't always coincide? I mean, I think of myself and see the way I put words together while speaking to someone face to face, and I so often stumble and backtrack and hesitate. While, for some reason, when I sit down to write something, I'm usually able to at least approximate how I feel. I wonder why it's so different. I wonder how I can have these two different voices that are both somehow mine; it makes me wonder which is my real voice.

The second thing is this: it doesn't matter how often you're reminded that wishing for something doesn't change reality; there's always something convincing about the power of longing when it comes over you, as though it should bend the world around you until it's shaped to the form you wish it. You become convinced that there's something to it, that all that power must change some corner of the world and surpise you with goodness.

Once, when I was very young, I drew a picture of a fantastical animal. I named it, and wrote the name beneath the drawing. I became convinced within myself that if I just remembered to put the picture into our mailbox on my birthday, that animal would become real, and would come to me and be my own forever and ever. Of course, when my birthday came, I forgot about the drawing amidst all the festivities of the day. And afterwards I always wondered what would have happened if I had left the drawing in the mailbox.

Longing is like that; it convinces you that reality must somehow conform itself to the shape of your hope. And then it doesn't. And you remember that you really are just one solitary human being, whose feelings, though powerful and real to you, are confined wholly within your own frame, that others cannot sense them, and that the world must function according to its own rules, and cannot change itself for one individual.

What a selfish thing it is to have these feelings. What a selfish and foolish and vain and wonderful thing.

And I still can't help hoping that I'll walk around the corner someday and see that strange and beautiful and completely make-believe animal waiting just for me. I know I never will, but it doesn't change the longing. Not even a little.

Don't you love having jokes with yourself?

I do it all the time. I'll be walking along, and then I'll think something, and then joke about it to myself, and then laugh, all internally.

I really am my own best friend!

Like today:

Ever since reading it at the elementary school library where I volunteer weekly, I've wanted to add The Shrinking of Treehorn to my Amazon wishlist, but kept forgetting. Like, every single blasted week. I'd come across it while shelving and think, "BLAST! There's The Shrinking of Treehorn. I still haven't added it to my wishlist." Then today, oh joy of joys, I remembered it, simply because I was looking up pictures by Edward Gorey (he was the illustrator for The Shrinking of Treehorn) to add to a presentation on the mystery genre.

So, I sent myself the following email:

To: LizardbreathMcGee@loveslibrarystuff.com
From: LizardbreathMcGee@loveslibrarystuff.com
Subject: Treehorn!

The Shrinking of Treehorn!

I REMEMBERED! I REMEMBERED!

This is, of course, a reference to the classic Sesame Street segment, "A loaf of bread." Which you can watch here, because I'm generous like that.



Yeah. So, the jokeness of this doesn't seem so funny now that I've written it all down. But at least you'll understand me if I sometimes murmur to myself, "A loaf of bread, a container of milk, and a stick of butter." That thing will be in my head for always. (Also, I love that you can find almost anything on YouTube.)

Some things I love:

I love the feeling you get right after you've washed the last dish after doing some intense cooking. It's the satisfaction of completion, of finishing, of being able to sit on your bed and put your feet up for a while.

I love long intellectual conversations with my roommate, about theology and love lives and why being kind to people just makes good sense.

I love a book I just checked out from the library: The Arrival. I'd been curious about it for some time, but hadn't yet had an opportunity to look at a copy. It's an immigrant story, done entirely by pictures, so it's more of a graphic novel than anything. It's beautiful and strangely moving. I also love what the author Shaun Tan has to say about it.

I love finding out that I'm an aunt all over again, and seeing pictures of this very small person who, although I've never met her, is already so dear to me.

There are, indeed, so many things to love.

My very own (highly unconscious) writing guidelines:

Firstly, I must confess two things, neither of which will be delinated as writing guidelines per se, but may be interpreted as such by those who wish to amuse themselves by supposing that a thing done is a thing intended to be done by the doer of it, neglecting to realize that such a thing as intent rarely exists in this writer's bosom.

And also I have been reading too much Jane Austen.

But in any case, my explanations and apologies are these: first, that I do not always consider myself a writer of the highest caliber and thus felt some considerable surprise (though pleasurable) at being recommended by Lindsay as one who writes well. My gratitude thus being mingled with some degree of distress, I have, second, procrastinated the production of my response to no small degree. I must, therefore, have some sincere cause of mortification if any person seeking authorly wisdom has thus fled to my blog in glad expectation, thereafter being sadly repulsed by perusal of such uninteresting topics as jackhammers in the early hours of the morning.

However, meaning to rectify my faults and demonstrate a willingness to oblige all who might wish to know them, I therefore will now outline the rules by which I write:

First: The key, I think, is to write. This is perhaps my greatest fault as a writer, in that I am too often not a writer. Or rather, that I think of myself as one who enjoys writing and who would write if only she could find the time, and am then forced to acknowledge my own negligence when I realize that as soon as I get a little time I spend it on reading, or on viewing the amusing capers of caption-strewn cats. Indeed, one cannot be considered a writer unless she writes, therefore all other recommendations and guidelines must be encompassed in this very simple one: If you want to be a writer, then write. Nothing else will do. Nothing.

Second: Be real. And for this I have to drop the wicked awful Jane Austen impression. (My most sincere and humble apologies to Miss Jane for tainting her most exquisite style with my sad imitation.) When I write a blog post, or am working on a work of fiction, I want the emotion to be as near reality as possible. Readers know when things are insincere. You yourself know when a character is being unrealistic or when his or her emotions are out of alignment with the events going on. They seem ridiculous, right? So keep it real. Don't force emotion on your characters. First, feel what they're feeling, and then write what you feel from the heart. Deal with pain and deal with happiness. In short, deal with all the wonderful, convoluted, tortuous maze of the human heart. Your readers will connect to what you write; they've got a heart themselves, you know.

Third: In keeping with my first principle, I've got to say that while writing is absolutely critical to being a writer, reading is nearly as much so. Don't neglect your writing to read, but be sure to take time to read anyway. Reading helps you to get a sense of the writing styles you enjoy, and it helps you to understand how a story flows and can be put together. More importantly, read critically. Read as a writer, not just a reader. Read and ask yourself why the author included that detail, why she made that plot decision, why he had a character say that instead of something else. And then maybe you'll start to ask yourself, "Okay. How would I have written this?"

So.

There are my rules, as little as I stick by them.

And, as much as I hate to break the chain, I really, really, really can't pick my favorite blogging authors simply because I have too many of them. In short, if you're on that list on my sidebar, you're a favorite. And some of you not on the sidebar are favorites too. So don't fret. (Good grief, people.) So...

No. I just can't. I just, just just can't.

But those of you who, secretly, are acknowledging that in your very darkest, most supressed, heart of hearts, you know that I would have picked your blog as one of the top three, well.

Yeah. You're pretty much right.

Now.

GET WRITING!

What's lacking in my writing:

OH my goodness.

So, I found out today that someone has searched my blog for the term 'nephew.' (Have I ever mentioned how much I love reviewing my sitemeter stats? (Which, incidentally, has led to the discovery that most people who come across my blog randomly find it by searching for pictures of Olympus Mons and gallbladders. Which. Okay. I feel a little weird about. But whatever.))

Anyway.

But the 'nephew' search made me think of all the things you might find or not find by searching my blog for certain terms.

Terms like 'cow.' Which shows that I write "Holy Cow" a heck of a lot.

Or 'monkey.'

Or 'poop.'

But it made me realize that there are some glaring omissions in my use of words.

I, for instance, have never written about gnomes. Or grease. Or gravity.

Er.

Maybe I have a thing against words starting with 'g.'

In any case, at least it's given me some topics to ponder, perchance to write. Perchance.

I wonder what would come up if I searched for 'perchance.'

Let's see, shall we?

Why I read:

There's this moment I get, when I've just finished an excellent book, that I get caught up in the last sentence or word of the story and, involuntarily, give the smallest of sobs, or maybe more a sigh with some unshed tears in it.

It's beautiful.

It's a moment of realization that there are things great and good and human to be told that are told, and told beautifully, that there is a connection between us all, and things like love and hope and compassion somehow still have the power to move in us and with us and through us, making us all more like each other, and more like God, more like the way God really is.

I can't describe it, of course, (and when I try, it only sounds cheesy and not really moving at all), but I think it's that moment, that moment of universal connection to the human experience, that makes up part of who I am, that makes me a person who loves books.

This is no thaw! This is spring!

Okay. So it's not really spring.

But. Yeah. 60 degree weather?

No coat?

All freaking day?

And also, tonight, even with my window wide open and the curtain tied up, I'm still rolling up the pant-legs on my pajamas and contemplating going to bed dressed only in me skivvies.

With the air conditioning running.

Is it just me, or is Aslan on the move?

And I inspire people so rarely

Remember that 'yon candied maid' phrase? The one that popped randomly into my head a week or so ago?

Well, my friend Pat has done some awesome things with it. Well done, Pat. Well done.

And also, I'm still thinking of a way to make up for those two nights of no sleep, Pat.

Hmmmm...

(Oh, and also--I made it to Utah safe and sound, despite the fear of sudden death by turbulence on the way into the SLC airport. Pretty fun stuff, lemme tell ya.)

Expletivatively

I've started using a new expletive.

And it's not what you're thinking.

Um. At least.

I don't really know what you're thinking I'm using, but it's probably not what you are thinking, because what I have been using is kind of unusual.

Unless you're Charlie Brown maybe?

But even good ol' Chuck didn't quite use it the way I do.

I mean, I'll say, "Good Grief!" as part of my lexicon, but I've also (for no good reason that I'm aware of) started saying things like, "Oh, my Grief!" and just plain ol' "Grief!" when I desire to throw something into a sentence that really gets that old expletive feeling out there, or when I desire to express my frustration with, say, the recalcitrance of certain objects like, say, wireless cards in computers that, while you yell at them, just kind of sit there with bland expressions on their anthropomorphic faces, then glance briefly down at the floor, then look up at your face and say, "So sorry; I was listening to something on my iPod. Were you saying something?"

Great Screaming Grief!

But, then, it's really just a tag-word of sorts, the kind I've used before. And I'm sure it'll drop out of fashion eventually. But, in the meantime, I may manage to eke out a couple of odd glances from coworkers, and glean a bit of weirded-out irritation from my roommates.

More because I can't help myself than anything else

Um.

So, I just finished Dragonhaven, which is Robin McKinley's most recently published book. (And yes, it was really good. And also, just different than stuff I've read by her before. And also (again) really good.)

And so in a fit of slavering fandom, I went to her official website where I found a link to her blog. Her BLOG. That she had written in TODAY. And suddenly it was like I realized that I had a roomful of chocolate that A: Would not make me sick to my stomach, B: Would not make me fat and C: Would also possibly improve my mind.

And I just kind of don't want to do anything else for a few hours than sit and read up on her life in rural England and think about how much I admire her work and also that I am Unworthy.

This is what slavering fandom will do to you.

And it will also make you wish you really could sit down for hours perusing your favorite author's blog and just leave those dishes and that institute class and that working till 1am to rot in some little garbage heap in the back of something. Or maybe not to rot, but at least to sit quietly and patiently for you until you're really quite ready for them.

Alas that they do not.