It has been a few weeks since I last wrote about my desire to write and publish a work of fiction. In that time, I had the pleasure of visitng a bookstore and looking over its literature section. I was on a date with my husband, and we had had a lovely dinner, so I was in the uncommon state of being able to think for minutes at a time. I was struck, as I have been at times in the past, just how there is not ambition, not even writing, that will ever truly satisfy me. I felt nudged by the Holy Spirit once again to be grateful for what is real and true and good in my life, namely, my family and being a fully-present mother and wife for them. All these books on the shelves... they had the smell of vanity and death to them. So much of what they contain offers nothing useful or true or inspiring. Yes, I can love literature. Yes, I can find it transforming. But more often, what passes as "literature" anymore is depressing. I found freedom from the idea that being published would somehow "prove" I have something worth saying, since it is clear from what is published that that is not always the case. I found freedom from the idea that to be published would be my greatest achievement. I have known before it would not be, but I needed to be reminded. What is it to have a book on a shelf in a bookstore, even one that can transform lives for the better, if I have traded hours with my children to attain that? So again I was comforted and urged by God's generous spirit that this can wait... I have all I need for a sense of happiness and accomplishment in the family He has given me. Oh, I do treasure these days with the five children growing up together. These are the pinnacle years of our family in some ways. I hope we will have many happy memories together. Tonight my oldest son left his bedroom to be with Geni and me as I read her bedtime stories. He laid down on the floor next to her and put his head up against her. She snuggled into him. He is so sweet to the two little ones. I am often charmed.
I've been sick since yesterday with some kind of bug--giving me a bad pain in my stomach and back, becoming a mild fever with aches and sleepiness today (Sunday). When I am sick I realize just how much our health is a blessing. I was pondering that on Saturday even before I got sick, yet there's nothing like a bout of illness to drive it home. I just want to let rest any ambitions and annoyances and be glad we all have our health. It is so good. Since I study Medical Transcription, I come into contact with all kinds of diseases, surgeries and such. I find it fascinating, but I also find it making me want to steward my health even more. I look forward to more time for working out and swimming and long hikes. Maybe I'll get into horseback-riding again; it was always a surprising workout.
I continued reading the library book by Iris Murdoch today. I understand from my dad that she writes on similar themes in her novels. I'm not sure where she's going exactly in this book (The Sea, The Sea), and I'm more than halfway through it (skipped some sections) but it deals with mental illness, to some degree, with unrequited love, with abusive marriage. It is somewhat disturbing, as so much literature often is. I can only take so much of that. I am glad I can create a home where my children can find safety and love and customized care. They will be brushing up against the "horrors" in this world more and more as they mature. Just as I am glad I can put a disturbing book down and go make a hearty soup for my family or put fresh sheets on their beds, so I am glad they can come home from a sordid and selfish world to a place where they are dearly cared for. There is no better use for my time.
P.S. I don't want it to sound as though I think the world is all bad. Quite the contrary. I very much enjoy getting out to do fun and interesting things. I long to share more of that with them as my time is freed up, and I am excited for their futures, for where they will go and what they will do apart from our family. At the same time, however, I am very aware that lives can take a dramatic turn, that we are not in total control. Some of us lose our health, or suffer in other ways. I am not morbid, just realistic. So there is today, and what we can do with it is all we have. I need to keep my focus on the positives I can be a part of here, today, and trust my God for what tomorrow will bring.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
Sunday, August 16, 2009
I am her Favorite Mom
Geni is getting easier to understand at age 2-and-a-half. There is still much that she says I don't understand, but this morning as I stood at the kitchen sink, Timothy standing with his arms around my leg, Geni said to him with a scolding tone, "that's my favorite mom." Karl was standing there and mentioned it first, confirming what I thought I'd heard. So cute.
More from Iris Murdoch
I came home from a get-together and couldn't wait to read more from Iris Murdoch, so I went to amazon.com and pulled up pages from her first novel, Under the Net, published in 1954 (I am really ignoring my messy household, and besides, hubby made popcorn). Three pages into it, and I laughed at a phrase that is very much like one I found in the first book I read by her just the other day, a novelette called Something Special. The phase here is "Women give me heart disease." The phrase in the novelette was, "This place gives me heart disease." I wonder how many other authors, either knowingly or not, repeat themselves like that. Here's an excerpt from p. 3 that I really liked:
Here we were, sitting in Earls Court Road on a dusty sunny July morning on two suitcases, and where were we to go next? This was what always happened. I would be at pains to put my universe in order and set it ticking, when suddenly it would burst again into a mess of the same poor pieces, and Finn and I would be on the run. I say my universe, not ours, because I sometimes feel that Finn has very little inner life. I mean no disrespect to him in saying this; some have and some haven't. I connect this too with his truthfulness. Subtle people, like myself, can see too much ever to give a straight answer. Aspects have always been my trouble. And I connect it with his aptness to make objective statements when these are the last things that one wants, like a bright light on one's headache. It may be, though, that Finn misses his inner life, and that is why he follows me about, as I have a complex one and highly differentiated. Anyhow, I count Finn as an inhabitant of my universe, and cannot conceive that he has one containing me; and this arrangement seems restful to both of us.
Here we were, sitting in Earls Court Road on a dusty sunny July morning on two suitcases, and where were we to go next? This was what always happened. I would be at pains to put my universe in order and set it ticking, when suddenly it would burst again into a mess of the same poor pieces, and Finn and I would be on the run. I say my universe, not ours, because I sometimes feel that Finn has very little inner life. I mean no disrespect to him in saying this; some have and some haven't. I connect this too with his truthfulness. Subtle people, like myself, can see too much ever to give a straight answer. Aspects have always been my trouble. And I connect it with his aptness to make objective statements when these are the last things that one wants, like a bright light on one's headache. It may be, though, that Finn misses his inner life, and that is why he follows me about, as I have a complex one and highly differentiated. Anyhow, I count Finn as an inhabitant of my universe, and cannot conceive that he has one containing me; and this arrangement seems restful to both of us.
To Write is to Follow Truth
One reason I'm anxious to write fiction is because of the tremendous power it can release in both the author and the reader to arrive at truth. In two discussions I've had with friends this week, the topic of novels came up. In one, we two mothers were sharing concerns over how to parent our children in their choice of novels to read. We both share a similar philosophy about mothering, and we both agreed on this matter too: basically, as a child grows in maturity, it's okay that s/he encounters difficult, even ugly, matters in fiction. The way I came to that reasoning is part and parcel of what drives me as an aspiring author: these difficult matters exist. Depravity and injustices exist! They are part of this universe. They grip us, tear into us and threaten to contort our whole outlook. Often, we shun any thought of them. Yet, they are out there. They make up truth. We tell our children that God is Truth. We go about our religious activities as if God is bigger than anything. That He is deserving of our whole self, our whole life, in worship and service. So therefore, He is bigger than anything that is known to man. Therefore, our fiction cannot deal in just what is trivial. (Of course it can, but that is less than all it can be.) The fiction I want to write will stretch clear out to the end of known pain and disgust, and also stretch clear out to the farthest understanding of hope and fulfillment, yet not be hokey or far-fetched. That is a tall order! What's more, I desire to be artful. I desire to write with amazing insight and clarity. I desire to be poetic. I desire to be quirky and witty. I desire to make characters that are unpredictable and very realistic. I cannot even find the words to describe this, but I can perhaps quote other authors whose writing I see as artful. Consider classic literature, the kind we were made to read in our high school English classes. Did not all of it contain something dreadful? Something dark and evil? And did they not also contain the human reaction to that and the sorting out of the pain and consequences? I remember that they did! On the subject of artfulness, Charlotte Bronte comes to mind, and her character, Mr. Rochester from Jane Eyre. He is rough, uncouth, absurd, demanding, and unpredictable, yet so lovable. And Jane herself is one of my favorite heroines. I will have to find quotes from that book another day....
I have begun reading Iris Murdoch out of curiosity. My dad was reading a biography about her and shared a little, and that piqued my interest. I also read about her on widipedia. I am very pleased with her writing style so far. I am not very far in her 1978 novel, The Sea, The Sea, but this I found quickly as an example of her writing that I admire. There may be better but I will not delay:
I can scarcely remember a time when I did not know Hartley. I went to a school for boys only, but the girls' school was nearby next door and we saw the girls all the time. As there were a lot of Marys around in those days she was always known as 'Hartley' and that was somehow very much her name. We paired off early on, but merrily, childishly, and without any deep shaking emotions, as far as I can remember, in those earliest days. When we were about twelve the emotions began. They puzzled us, amazed us. They shook us as terriers shake rats. To say we were 'in love', that vague weakened phrase, cannot express it. We loved each other, we lived in each other, through each other, by each other. We were each other. Why was it such pure unadulterated pain?
It is odd that I now write down (and will not change) the word 'pain', for of course what it was was pure joy. Perhaps the point is that whatever it was it was extreme and pure. (I am told that a blindfolded man cannot distinguish severe burning from severe freezing.) Or perhaps at that age emotions tend to be felt as pains because they are not lightened by reflection. Everything becomes dread and fear, and the more wonderful and the more joyful, the more dread and the more fear. But let me repeat that this was not reflection, not thought. I did not harbour intelligent doubts about whether Hartley would go on loving me, naturally I knew that she was mine forever. But as we closed our eyes upon tears of joy there was cosmic dread.
I just love the truth in those last lines, especially! Murdoch is both artful and insightful. Fiction can reach us in ways an essay attempting to pass along the same truth cannot. I find it an incredible challenge and a heady joy.
I have begun reading Iris Murdoch out of curiosity. My dad was reading a biography about her and shared a little, and that piqued my interest. I also read about her on widipedia. I am very pleased with her writing style so far. I am not very far in her 1978 novel, The Sea, The Sea, but this I found quickly as an example of her writing that I admire. There may be better but I will not delay:
I can scarcely remember a time when I did not know Hartley. I went to a school for boys only, but the girls' school was nearby next door and we saw the girls all the time. As there were a lot of Marys around in those days she was always known as 'Hartley' and that was somehow very much her name. We paired off early on, but merrily, childishly, and without any deep shaking emotions, as far as I can remember, in those earliest days. When we were about twelve the emotions began. They puzzled us, amazed us. They shook us as terriers shake rats. To say we were 'in love', that vague weakened phrase, cannot express it. We loved each other, we lived in each other, through each other, by each other. We were each other. Why was it such pure unadulterated pain?
It is odd that I now write down (and will not change) the word 'pain', for of course what it was was pure joy. Perhaps the point is that whatever it was it was extreme and pure. (I am told that a blindfolded man cannot distinguish severe burning from severe freezing.) Or perhaps at that age emotions tend to be felt as pains because they are not lightened by reflection. Everything becomes dread and fear, and the more wonderful and the more joyful, the more dread and the more fear. But let me repeat that this was not reflection, not thought. I did not harbour intelligent doubts about whether Hartley would go on loving me, naturally I knew that she was mine forever. But as we closed our eyes upon tears of joy there was cosmic dread.
I just love the truth in those last lines, especially! Murdoch is both artful and insightful. Fiction can reach us in ways an essay attempting to pass along the same truth cannot. I find it an incredible challenge and a heady joy.
Longing to Write, to Publish
The fever is rising in me again, but I don't think I should do much about it. It seems like as soon as my babies hit the 1-year mark, I begin to see past the immediate and out to the broader world. I rent movies I've missed that year (or many years hence), start listening to new bands on CD, call up old friends, and begin reading fiction.... a little bit. The one thing I can't let myself do, however, is write fiction. If I were to do that, I'd be lost to my household. There'd be so much bickering between the children if I checked out in the way that would require. There'd be nothing for dinner but hot dogs. Writing the way I want to, the way I feel is worthy, takes all of me. There just aren't enough consecutive moments each day to get to that place.
Telling some of this to my long-time friend Rena in an overdue and wonderful telephone conversation last night, she commiserated and encouraged me to blog. I had to agree that there is merit to that idea. In blog writing, I'm not totally immersing myself in my subject, but I still have the opportunity to work out complex thoughts. And by blogging, I am overcoming some of my shyness, which I realize is a stumbling-block to me ever seeking out publication. Getting published is a life-goal, so I'm going to have to get comfy with my work going out for anyone to read. I just never feel that my brain is up to the task these days. My babies stole my brain.... Nonetheless, I should just get writing. It won't be my best. It may be uninteresting to everyone but me. That's okay for this medium. We'll see if I can keep it up much, though... if I can blog once a week that would be decent. I really have to put my MT studies before this, and they're already tough to fit in.
Telling some of this to my long-time friend Rena in an overdue and wonderful telephone conversation last night, she commiserated and encouraged me to blog. I had to agree that there is merit to that idea. In blog writing, I'm not totally immersing myself in my subject, but I still have the opportunity to work out complex thoughts. And by blogging, I am overcoming some of my shyness, which I realize is a stumbling-block to me ever seeking out publication. Getting published is a life-goal, so I'm going to have to get comfy with my work going out for anyone to read. I just never feel that my brain is up to the task these days. My babies stole my brain.... Nonetheless, I should just get writing. It won't be my best. It may be uninteresting to everyone but me. That's okay for this medium. We'll see if I can keep it up much, though... if I can blog once a week that would be decent. I really have to put my MT studies before this, and they're already tough to fit in.
Friday, August 14, 2009
A Year Has Passed!
It has been a year since my last post! Our family has been treated to a fabulous new human being, our baby boy, born last August. He is mellow and sweet, handsome and smiles easily, and his smiles come with dimples! He's altogether a dream come true.
I am very busy with online studies to learn medical transcription. The work is interesting, and I find motivation through a forum of other students who are all doing the same program.
I let my garden go this year, after planting a few perennials and vegetables. My cucumber and cantaloupe vines have run amuck, but the cukes at least are producing. We returned from a 5-day vacation to find 8 good-sized cucumbers! I gave 3 to a friend I visited yesterday.
Life is very full, to overwhelming at times. My goals for the year are to complete my MT studies, potty-train my 2 yo, branch out to new Christian fellowships, spend meaningful time with each of my children, sleep, exercise regularly, re-ignite the romance in my marriage, and lastly, somehow make time to read literature and attempt writing a little bit. That leaves out much time for posting for fun, so I probably won't be posting often. I haven't invited many people to this blog so I don't expect I'm letting anyone down. :)
I am very busy with online studies to learn medical transcription. The work is interesting, and I find motivation through a forum of other students who are all doing the same program.
I let my garden go this year, after planting a few perennials and vegetables. My cucumber and cantaloupe vines have run amuck, but the cukes at least are producing. We returned from a 5-day vacation to find 8 good-sized cucumbers! I gave 3 to a friend I visited yesterday.
Life is very full, to overwhelming at times. My goals for the year are to complete my MT studies, potty-train my 2 yo, branch out to new Christian fellowships, spend meaningful time with each of my children, sleep, exercise regularly, re-ignite the romance in my marriage, and lastly, somehow make time to read literature and attempt writing a little bit. That leaves out much time for posting for fun, so I probably won't be posting often. I haven't invited many people to this blog so I don't expect I'm letting anyone down. :)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
