My Favorite Books Through the Years

12:24 AM, December 25th. Good morning and Merry Christmas.

It’s my dad’s first Christmas at home in about five years, and the first Christmas that my little nephew has ever experienced. True to form, I procrastinated on my Christmas shopping (though not as much I usually do) and spent much of yesterday thinking about what a suitable gift for a baby’s first Christmas is.

I’ve known ever since I really started thinking about it that a book is the way to go. The right book is welcome before they can read, and is loved for a lifetime to follow. And so I thought, what book should I get for Nephew?

Nowadays, if you ask me what my favorite book is, I’ll tell you it’s The King of Attolia by Megan Whalen Turner. The whole series is fantastic, but that one in particular (the third in the series) stands out to me as a well-thought-out, tightly plotted novel with incredible character development.

And I would tell you The Scorpio Races. There’s so much texture and character on every page, understated and warm, and, again, containing such beautiful character development.

These are my top two. They are books that I have read many times, and will never grow tired of. And they would be terrible Christmas gifts for Nephew.

Nephew doesn’t know the first thing about character development. He couldn’t even tell me the role of conflict in a story. Nephew is just starting to learn to hold his head up on his own.

But these weren’t always my favorite books. I worked my way up to them, as all readers must.

And so, when I was young, what were my favorite books?

I took a look at my shelves, and I found some that I loved as a child. Books that I read over and over again, starting from when I was rather young (six or so), that I still smile thinking of.

Before The King of Attolia, I loved the All the Wrong Questions series by Lemony Snicket. I still think that Daniel Handler has a very distinctive voice, and such a unique grasp on word-choice. It’s a matter of preference for me, and I’m about to give you a spoiler. I don’t like sad endings. End spoiler.

Pride and Prejudice has always been well-loved by me. I’m not sure when I first read it, but it’s always been able to grip my attention; I’ve found that every time I read it, I find more that I’ve never noticed before.

While I wouldn’t say these have ever been my favorites, I’ve always loved the Gregor the Overlander series by Suzanne Collins; and if that name sounds familiar it’s because she wrote The Hunger Games, which I happen to think is an inferior product next to Gregor.

Redwall was my favorite series for a very long matter of time; several years, in fact. Probably from seven to about twelve years old.

This next paragraph I wrote a bit later; I figured if I didn’t turn out the lights and go to sleep lying down, I’d end up doing it sitting up, and then I’d spend Christmas trying to work the crick out of my neck. So now it’s 5:04 PM. The sun is setting and the gifts that we opened this morning are scattered around the house.

But as for Redwall, I devoured it. I read every single book, and today most of them sit on my shelf. Martin the Warrior was my hero, weasels my enemies, and Redwall Abbey my home. I explored that world, the woods and high seas. It was the energy and the adventure that drew me in. There was so much possibilty to explore in the world of Redwall. I haven’t read a Redwall book in probably four years, and I think that’s a shame. I wish I had more time these days to devote to rereading the books that first fed my love of reading.

But while Redwall might have been my greatest obsession as a young reader, it was not my first. That status belongs to the Hardy Boys books. I vividly remember pulling The Twisted Claw off of the shelf that sat behind our sofa, and looking at its cover curiously before opening it up.

I went on to read and reread all of the Hardy Boys books that we owned. I discovered Nancy Drew in my sister’s room and enjoyed them, which isn’t surprising given the similarity in form and content. But there was something about the Hardy Boys that was always more attractive to me. The writing was lighter and funnier; more outrageous in some ways, but less dramatic. It was boyish.

There are other books that stand out to me; standalones that weren’t able to take over my life to quite the same degree, but have settled solidly into place on my favorites list.

Years ago, on one of our long family roadtrips, perhaps to my aunt’s wedding in TX, we listened to the first audiobook that I ever remember listening to. I remember hearing of a woman eavesdropping on the same men who were looking for her, as she hid upstairs in an inn. I remember her realizing that the dirty Jewish peddler is actually her husband. Years later, I borrowed that book from the library. It was, of course, The Scarlet Pimpernel, and it’s one that I return to from time to time to discover with Marguerite the man she really married beneath the facade he hides behind.

The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle was where my addiction to independence met my love of reading. There are few books that have showcased to me so clearly the struggle to be free and the consequences of succeeding. Or the way that the fight to survive can change a person into someone completely different. In so many books, the hero doesn’t understand the choice they’ve made until afterwards. Confessions is stark and thrilling in its simplicity. The setting and the short cast list give plenty of space to see clearly the choices set before her, and the consequences of them. But there would be no enjoyment in the fight, of course, if we couldn’t see what she was fighting for. I didn’t know until Charlotte stood on the top spar of the mainmast, with the wind in her hair and nothing but ocean for miles around, how good freedom tasted.

And so, on this Christmas of 2019, my love affair with books continues. This year I got Stephen King’s On Writing and Greek Philosophical Terms: A Historical Lexicon by F.E. Peters. Neither of these are fiction, but I recently raided a bookstore, so fear not. There are so many stories out there to read, and so many characters to get to know.

But a good book is a good book at any age. Good writing somehow goes beyond the age and the context of the reader to get to something deeper. I learned more about myself from the books I read in my youth than I did from what my friends said about me. I learned what it feels like to open up whole new sections of the world, all at once. And believe me, after writing this post, I have some rereads planned. I’d like to remember that feeling again.

Yet after all this, none of these books were right for Nephew. It’s hard to find a good book for a baby.

When I looked on my shelf last night, I pulled out a book that I used to read often, as evidenced by how beat up its paperback cover is. I wondered how old it was, so I looked inside.

The first surprise was that the book itself was printed either in 1988 or 1992 - probably the latter. I had always thought it was given to me new. I found the second surprise when I opened the book.

Christmas 2005
To Anna - This looked fun!
We love you,
G’pa Tony + Marnie

Not only had I not known who gave this book to me, I hadn’t realized that it was given to me when I was only four years old.

I don’t know how many times I’ve read Mr. Popper’s Penguins. It’s been in my life as long as I can remember. It’s strange and funny and delightfully old-fashioned. And I think it would make the perfect gift for my nephew.

In Which I Acknowledge the People

I happened to drop by my blog today and discovered that for some reason, people have started reading it again.

What the heck is this.

With that in mind, I have two announcements, the second being dependent on the first.

First of all, I'm doing NaNoWriMo again this year.  It's not going splendidly at the moment, but I keep chugging along like a little mule.  I'll give a long retelling of the experience when December comes around.

Or not.  I'll do what I want, because this is my blog.

With that in mind, I'm not doing any other writing this month.  So, as I know six of you people saw my start to a long and thoughtful blog series, this is my explanation that I have taken it down for the time being so that I can put it back up when I'm actually able to complete it.  I don't know when that will be, though, because obviously the holiday season will be on its way in when NaNoWriMo ends.

I can't believe I have to explain my actions on my own blog.  This is criminal.

I suppose I should give the obligatory, "Thank you for reading, it means so much to me," but I'm actually kind of cranky about it.  I thought I would have more time to myself to make things ready for readers.

Oh well, if fame is to be my destiny, fame it is.

It's a gift...and a curse.

(In all seriousness, I wasn't expecting any readers.  But I guess I'm glad that people find my rambling interesting.)

The Necessity of Conflict

I'm really not sure what exactly this post is, whether it's a ramble, or whether I actually have a point in all this.  Stand by, if you will, as I try to remember exactly what the seed is that inspired me to click "New Post" at 12:25 AM on a Wednesday night.

Oh yes.  Conflict.

Picture your perfect day.  What is it to you?

My perfect day consists of peace and warmth.  I'm at home, with mi familia, and we all sit and talk and eat food, and enjoy the beautiful creation God has given to us to enjoy.  There's a fire going, probably, and as evening comes, I sit by the hearth and tend to it.  There's no discomfort, and much laughter.

That's my perfect day.  And it would make a horrible novel.

Why aren't things that we enjoy experiencing enjoyable to read about?  Why do novels have so much conflict and tension between their covers?

Surely it's not because they're realistic?  None of the main events in novels have ever happened to me, certainly.  I've never been accused of murdering my father, or had a very proud man propose to me (or any man, for that matter), or been forced to compete in a competition where I have to kill other kids my age in order to be the last man standing.

At first, when I was thinking about this, I thought, Perhaps it's some kind of escapism.  Perhaps we read to get away from our dull lives. to feel excitement, and fear, and courage; to be warriors, and lovers, and adventurers.

But life isn't dull, is it?  Life is full of conflict.  It's just not merely as glamorous as the conflict in the books.

But sometimes dishwashers break.  Sometimes we get mad and say stupid things to people we love.  Sometimes we're tired, and we said we would go to the gym, but now we don't want to.  Sometimes we can't find any clean socks, and "We're leaving now!"

If it was truly escapism, wouldn't we want to read that book about the girl who spends all day with her family and pulls little stick off big logs to feed to fire while she sips hot chocolate?  Wouldn't that be the goal?

So it must be something else.

But of course!  Seeing heroes defeat their dragons satisfies our craving to defeat our own much more stubborn monsters.  It's therapeutic in some way, to see Katniss outsmart President Snow, and imagine that's us crushing our own weak desire to go home and eat ice cream instead of doing those leg-presses.

But while that's closer, it doesn't really get to the heart of it.  We're not actually thinking about our own inner struggles when we're reading novels.  We're not seeing things in a one-to-one ratio; hero's struggle = my struggle in some metaphorical way.  Sometimes there's not a hero, and we don't know who the villain is.

The point of conflict in novels is not just that that conflict be resolved.  Instead, it's an acknowledgement that there is conflict in this world.  That life is tough.  And while generally, life is too multifaceted and deep-layered and plain complicated to get a handle on that conflict and be able to see it from any point but close-up, novels boil it down and make you stand at a distance.  Novels take grand-scheme ideas and turn them into small-scale plots.

If only all we had to do in order to get happily ever after was to... well, I don't know.  But that's the point.  In novels, they have some idea of what they have to do.  Or even if they don't know, we know.  Or even if we don't know, we know that there is something that they have to do.

Novels distill daily conflict into a highly concentrated form with a highly concentrated resolution.

Because conflict ends too.  In a myriad of different ways here on earth, but ultimately in the second coming of our Lord Jesus Christ.

So why do we enjoy being made uncomfortable by novels, at least those that are good, those that are well-written? 

Because they're true.

On Heroes: An Essay

What is a hero?  And can one truly be found anymore?

The truth is, most people now would like to tell you that everyone is a hero in some way.  In fact, against the backdrop of all the revolutionary wars that that have been fought in recent centuries - particularly the American and French Revolutions - we have gotten to a point where to be considered a hero by no one is out of the ordinary.

The revolutionary spirit carries the hearts of the masses!  All men are equal; all men are great. Our worth is in who we are at the core: humans with hearts, and souls, and voices that must be heard.  To compare is to betray all who would seem inferior in light of such a comparison. It is to undermine the very foundation on which we treat others with respect.

Of course, some among the audience of this little paper will have seen the flaw already.  No one can raise the standard if being better is worse.  Superior, inferior; no one hates those words more than the free man who uses his freedom to bear the name of the former and the actions of the latter.  In democracy’s eyes, better and worse do not exist, nor do superior and inferior, nor do right and wrong.

So society loves the idea that everyone can be a hero.  And oh, we do love our heroes - so long as everyone understands that the man who drags a pregnant woman out of her burning home is no more a hero than the woman who makes strangers happy by smiling at them even when she’d like to cry.  It’s all self-sacrifice, after all. And all are equal.  

There is a reason heroes have gone extinct.

To be a hero is to be brave and self-sacrificial, but it is to be so to an extreme.  It is to stand above the crowd, so high that in their eagerness to look at this man, they will themselves be inspired to climb higher.  It is, in a word, to be superior. Not proud or arrogant, for that is where great men become less great; but unusually giving, or caring, or just.  But to climb above normalcy now is not an invitation to others to join you, but a request to be cut down to the same size as everyone else.

In ancient times, the grounds for heroes to grow out of were fertile and nutritious.  The actions were not easy, but the motivation was there. Heroes received great reward and glory, and often men who found themselves in the lowest of circumstances had need of the greatest of character and feats to escape death or other unpleasant fates.  It was easy to tell who was a hero and who was not, and those who were had thoroughly earned the title. Yet how watered down we have become. In trying to give everyone courage, we have spread it thin and encouraged it to be wasted and discarded.

There is in this world, and particularly in this country, a need for men to stir themselves up to action.  To shake off those shackles of equalness, give their minds to what is good and right, and expect better of mankind than mankind expects of itself.  I do earnestly believe that to be a hero in this day and age would be as difficult, if not more, than it would have been in days past; firstly because when all men lead average lives, it is easier to settle for average than to climb unnecessary heights; and secondly because of the passionate, widespread, selfish jealousy of democracy.

But one thing I cannot deny, thought it might seem contrary to statements I have previously made: men never stop looking for heroes.  Man is made to worship. Man is made to love beauty and holiness and truth and justice. And man is made to reflect these characteristics of the God in whose image we are created.  Why does humanity love heroes? Why do we seek them hungrily and bask in their glow like lizards in the sun? Because they are little glimpses, here in a world of sin, of that perfect Being who alone can feed and warm us.  How lost we all are, and how confused, that we turn our backs on God, and then seek Him where His fullness cannot be found.

Even heroes disappoint.  They rise up, brave and selfless, and then they make mistakes, or they simply die.  Not perfect or immortal are these better humans. But they make us look up expectantly, as though there were something more than ourselves.

A hero without Christ is a reminder that all men were equally created in God’s image, and that even good deeds cannot save.  But a hero, saved and being sanctified, is a reminder of the right order of things; of how this world and the people in it ought to be.

Satan, as usual, takes a little truth and twists it.  All men ought to be heroes, perfect and godly. We ought to be full of courage, faith, truth, and love.  But it is a mistake to think that we ever can be except through Christ Jesus. Who man is, and who he ought to be, can never be separated from who God is.

What a hero is:

Then one of the servants answered and said, “Look, I have seen a son of Jesse the Bethlehemite, who is skillful in playing, a mighty man of valor, a man of war, prudent in speech, and a handsome person; and the LORD is with him.”  1 Samuel 16:18

What a hero does:

“Be of good courage, and let us be strong for our people and for the cities of our God.  And may the LORD do what is good in His sight.” 2 Samuel 10:12

On Heroes: A Rant

Tonight at a football game (we lost) I saw a little girl wearing a shirt that said "GIRLS ARE HEROES."  I sincerely hope she didn't really believe that.

It seemed like it would have been inappropriate, but I really wanted to take her aside, to say, "Some girls are heroes, but most are just normal people.  Just like some boys are heroes, but most are just normal people."

Saying something like "GIRLS ARE HEROES" with no qualifiers, no definitions, is the height of stupidity.  Let's consult some dictionaries, shall we?

Oxford English Dictionary
A person who is admired for their courage, outstanding achievements, or noble qualities.

(in mythology or folklore) a person of superhuman qualities and often semi-divine origin, in particular one whose exploits were the subject of ancient Greek myths

Merriam-Webster
a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or ability

an illustrious warrior

a person admired for achievements and noble qualities

one who shows great courage

Dictionary.com
a person noted for courageous acts or nobility of character

a person who, in the opinion of others, has special achievements, abilities, or personal qualities and is regarded as a role model or ideal

the bread or roll used in making a hero sandwich


Can anyone really say that "girls" in such a broad, general way fit any of these definitions?  The only one I can think of that people could argue for is the last Merriam-Webster one, and that's only naivete on the part of those who would argue that.  No, most girls don't show "great courage."  They might show some courage, and it might be great for them, but objectively, it's not really that big of a deal, especially not if all girls are doing it (which they're not).

I may make some enemies here, but the fact is, some people are better than others.  I know people who are smarter, stronger, and more talented and accomplished than me.  Well, you might say, that doesn't mean they're better than you.

But yes.  It does. 

Obviously, these things aren't going to affect how much God loves me.  And no, there's no difference in terms of rights; I'll have none of that evolution "survival of the fittest" crap.  Yes, the fittest will likely survive.  No, they don't have the right to harm the weak for their own gain.

But it's almost like "better" is a bad word nowadays.  No one is allowed to be better than anyone else.  Just different.

But who really believes that?

Let's come back to girls, because that's where we started.  Teenage girls have a tendency to compare, which can mess with their heads and make them depressed.  People keep affirming them, but these girls keep on comparing.

So I've had an idea.

We as a society have been telling these girls, "You're perfect just the way you are.  You don't need to change."  But they're not perfect.  We're all flawed, and we all know it.  So this is a lie, which doesn't fix anything, glosses over the real problems, and makes them more depressed, because really they know they need to change, they just don't know what or how.

What if, instead, we told them the truth.  "No, you're not perfect.  But you can improve yourself."

And here's where a hero become really important, because heroes aren't people you're comparing yourself with, not really.  They're not people who you're trying to surpass, or can even hope to.  Heroes are people who exemplify good traits in such a powerful way that you're inspired to do your best too.  Heroes are meant to be watched.

But they're not watching back.  They're looking up, just like we do when we look at them.  And I can almost guarantee that heroes are at their most heroic when they're not thinking of themselves as heroes.

We've lost our aim, and we keep telling ourselves that that's what's right.  The problem with telling girls that they're heroes is that that it gives them nothing to aim for but themselves.

And if you're aiming for yourself, you're not going to get anywhere.


NOTE:  This isn't my first time covering the subject of heroes.  I did it in a more formal way a while back.  I'll post that tonight as well.  As soon as you're done here, find that post and read it if you haven't already.  This one is sorely incomplete without it.

Surprised by Mercy

My father loves to say no to me.  He's very good at it.  Ever since I was little, the usual response to anything I ask will be a quick no.  In part I think this is because he finds it fun to say no, but it's also because many times he's not sure; and he would rather happily surprise me with a yes than let me get my hopes up only to crash them.

But there's another reason my dad might tell me no.  Sometimes, I have my heart so set on getting what I want that without it, I'll complain, gripe, and generally be an unhappy person to be around.  When my dad says no, it instantly turns into an argument.

And that's why he does it.

Throughout the years, I've learned to yield.  I've learned to accept his no.  I've learned to be content even without what I want.

But my father also does something really cool.  When I've accepted his no, when we both know that I love and respect him even though he hasn't given me what I want, in so many instances, he surprises me by giving me what I've given up on.

When I was little, he had a rule that when we were eating, we had to stay seated at the table and couldn't get up until we were done.  I've always been a wanderer, so on one particular occasion, I broke this rule.  I couldn't even tell you why except that I didn't want to sit still.  I picked up my cereal and started to walk around.  My dad saw me, and took my bowl away.

I've always been a passionate arguer, so it got ugly fast.  It really wasn't that big of a deal, but it wasn't what I wanted, so it quickly became a big deal.  But if I'm stubborn, I got it from my parents, and my dad finally shut me down.  After a short time of sulking, I finally accepted that he had the right to do what he wanted and had done nothing wrong (I couldn't have put it in those words but that was the gist of it).

And he came to me, and he gave me my cereal back.

Some people would call this cruel or unfair, but some people are stupid wrong shortsighted.  Clearly, my dad has the right.  I had blatantly disobeyed him, and I was in no danger of malnourishment (Anna was a pretty chubby kid).  It taught me to see two things: my lack of control, and my dad's mercy.  If he had said yes every time I wanted him to, I would have assumed that was the way things are supposed to be.  I wouldn't have seen his compassion, and I would have loved him less.

So here I am in 2019, and my heavenly Father has been teaching me the same lessons.

In the past two years, I've had two friendships that were very important to me.  Too important, really.  I clung to them like a cat clings to your nice blankets, and I thought if I could just do the right things, these friendships would go exactly like I wanted them to.

God told me to accept His control, and I sank my claws in deeper.  So He said no, and I fought so hard to keep these friendships.

But God is God.  Proverbs 16:1 says, "The preparations of the heart belong to man, but the answer of the tongue is from the Lord."  And He had said no.

So I lost two friends.  In one case, harsh words were spoken, and everything that had been falling apart imploded in a big way.  In the other, we never said outright that we were done being friends, but we went to lunch one day, acted like there wasn't tension, and then didn't speak again for months.

So I went on my life.

Understand, I don't have many friends; at least not ones that I actually talk to on a regular basis.  So losing two really close ones was like someone had cut a huge chunk of my life out.  I had poured myself into these people, and they were gone.

But it was what it was, and I finally understood that these friendships hadn't been things I could control.  I cried a little bit, and then I felt a peace like I've never known before.  It was stillness.  It was contentment.  I accepted that my life was changed, and that it wouldn't be changing back.

I wrote a lot.  I thought about college.  I spent time with family, and I reevaluated my commitments.

And then, after several months of no contact whatsoever, the first friend texted me to apologize.  I forgave them, and we started being friends again, with more maturity, with more kindness, and with more understanding.

It was a gift that I understood was from God.

And now He's given me my other friend back, in a way that I never expected.  His mercy never ceases to amaze me.  I lose things through my own stupidity, and He gives them back to me because He loves me.

God is good to His children.

The Lord is merciful and gracious,
Slow to anger, and abounding in mercy.
He will not always strive with us, 
Nor will He keep His anger forever.
He has not dealt with us according to our sins,
Nor punished us according to our iniquities.
For as the heavens are high above the earth,
So great is His mercy toward those who fear Him;
As far as the east is from the west,
So far has He removed our transgressions from us.
As a father pities his children,
So the Lord pities those who fear Him.
For He knows our frame;
He remembers that we are dust.

Psalm 103:8-14

More Music for the Masses

I start this post with two songs in mind that I would like to recommend, and no idea of those that will follow.

Follow me, dears.  It will be an adventure.

Traveling Alone - Jason Isbell

There's something so perfect in this song's lyrical composition, all the lovely detail in the verses that pulls you in and gives you a feel for where he is and what he's doing and what he's done.  And then the chorus repeats quite simply, "I've grown tired of traveling alone, won't you ride with me?"  It's filled with artless weariness, and yet the feeling that maybe there's a new beginning in store.  

Another Try - Chris Stapleton

Now, it's no secret that Chris Stapleton has some serious songwriting credits to his name.  He was penning country hits before he ever left the Steeldrivers to become a hit himself in the country world.  I first heard this song when listening to Josh Turner's album, Everything is Fine, and enjoyed it quite a bit.  But it wasn't until the other day that I realized Stapleton wrote this song and had his own recording of it out there.  And it wasn't until I listened to that recording that I realized how the song should be heard.  To be fully appreciated, it needs that more stripped down quality rather than the full country band treatment.  And those harmonies in the second chorus get the song and make it at the same time.  And that's without even Stapleton's vocals.  There's no growl here, folks.  It's all simple sincerity.

***

There's been a break here, not because I couldn't think of what else to say, but because life called.  When I started this post, it was midday and I was fine and fresh.  Now, you have typical tired Anna.  The time is 10:50.

Continuing on.

You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone - Brooks & Dunn with Ashley McBryde

The first song of Ashley's that I remember hearing is "Andy (I Can't Live Without You)".  That's a lovely song, and you should probably listen to it.  She has a very cool style, and has worked very hard at her artistry for years and years, and only recently, thanks to Eric Church, has she become more known in the mainstream.  So, here comes Brooks & Dunn with their Reboot album, where they take their old hits and remake them with current country stars.  "You're Gonna Miss Me When I'm Gone" was already my favorite Brooks & Dunn song.  The chorus is so simple, yet perfectly captures the tension and the mood of the song.  And I knew Ashley's talent.  So I had high hopes for this remake, and I was not disappointed.  The original was country.  The reboot is beautiful country, and those harmonies give it something that it didn't have before.

JOY - Ellie Goulding

The last three songs could easily go on a playlist together.  "JOY" does not belong on that playlist.  I'm typically ambivalent toward Ellie Goulding.  She has some great songs that I don't see anyone else doing anything similar to ("Explosions," anyone?), but in general I find that her production is either too poppy or too overdone for my taste.  "JOY" starts so simply, and builds up.  I do find myself wishing that this little song's climax had been done a little more organically, but it's got such a lovely contrast between verse and chorus, and such a complex taste overall, I'm inclined to overlook that.

Learning How to Bend - Gary Allan

Whew, we're back to the country!  I think when Gary Allan is at his best, he has a very interesting, unique feel to him, something strange and subtle he adds to the song that I can't quite describe.  The songs that I would say show this the best are "Best I Ever Had," "Life Ain't Always Beautiful," and of course, "Learning How to Bend."

The Prayer - Aaron Watson

No, Aaron Watson hasn't started singing in Italian.  You remember when Johnny Cash took "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails and made his own iconic version of it?  Well, Aaron Watson has written a song about Johnny Cash singing "Hurt."  And it's pretty darn good.  When Aaron Watson does something well, he does it really well. 

And on that note, goodnight.

Waiting: A Ramble

Now we come to the part of the show where Anna talks to herself.  But we don't need to pretend that's the oddest thing I've done on this blog.

To be exact, I'm talking to myself about myself in full view of everyone else.  And the thoughts are coming fast, so put on your seatbelt and hold onto the panic handle please.

Waiting is hard.  Even harder is waiting for something that you can see, but just can't have yet.  Harder still?  Waiting for something that you can see, think you might have someday, but just aren't sure of.  And the hardest?  Giving it up to God to do with what He will.

So that's kind of where I am, I guess.  I'm a thinker, so I think about this a lot.  It's hard to think about anything else, in fact.  But I've learned to let go of control over the last few months.  It's still incredibly difficult, but by God's grace, I can do it.

It's hard sitting here, with what's in front of me on my mind and out of reach.  Sometimes I do stupid things because of it.  But the fact is, whatever God will do is already written in stone.  I just have yet to see.

So how can I use this time effectively?  Well, by prayer, by reading God's Word, by learning patience in the face of difficulty.  By accepting that if I never have this thing, my life will be no worse for it.  By choosing to appreciate the things I have already, which are pretty great, and love the people in my life.

Sometimes, I think about what will happen if I do get this thing.  If I do, it will have been worth the waiting, and the aching, and the tears.  And if I don't, the sanctification will be worth the waiting, and the aching, and the tears.

Ultimately, Christ is the fulfillment of all good things that we see on earth.  If I'm not looking up at this thing, and then looking higher to Him, I shouldn't expect to get it, or to ever be really satisfied if I do.

Oh Lord, You are the portion of my inheritance and my cup; 
You maintain my lot.
The lines have fallen to me in pleasant places;
Yes, I have a good inheritance.

I will bless the Lord who has given me counsel;
My heart also instructs me in the night seasons.
I have set the Lord always before me;
Because He is at my right hand I shall not be moved.

Psalm 16:5-8

Head Case: Irregular Song Structure in Action

The time is 12:53 AM, and no reasonable person would be starting a blog post right now.  But here I am, clacking away at the keys, blinking as my contacts dry up on my eyeballs, all because of one little idea, one captivating thought that I could have written about in the morning, but didn't want to.

I didn't really start this post at 12:53, you see.  I started it a few minutes before, when I heard a song called "Red Bandana" for the first time.  Or maybe I started it months ago when the wonder and lonely passion of "Head Case" first met my ears.

This was supposed to be a post about two songs.  I now feel like it should be about one song and one album.

Most songs that you hear have a typical structure, you see.  At its most basic, it goes verse, chorus, verse, chorus, bridge, chorus.  I discovered this structure as a young one by listening to the music of Adele.  I didn't know the names of any of the parts, but I noticed the pattern and the different feelings of each of them.  Sometimes there's a third verse instead of a bridge, sometimes no bridge at all, sometimes it ends with the bridge, you get the point.  There's a reason for the popularity of this structure: it works.  It tends to hold the attention well and is flexible enough to build tension according to the needs of the artist, usually slowly culminating in the bridge.

But sometimes, that structure is thrown out the window by artists who typically use it.  Because sometimes, the song demands something else.  It's too raw, too powerful, to be contained in that useful, yet tame, box.

We'll start with Cody Jinks.

"Head Case"

I do believe I cried when I first heard this song.  It comes right at the end of his album, Lifers, and I had heard it referred to as the best song he's ever recorded.  From what I've heard, that assessment is correct.

The thing about irregular song structure is that it has to be necessary, and it has to be true to the song and to the artist.  Cody Jinks doesn't waste his time on a chorus in this song.  He doesn't care to repeat anything, until the end, when he has nothing more to do but cry the same thing out again and again.  He's getting it all out, and it's one tortured, confessional flood of words.

I know it's hard to find the words so often standing face to face.

Sometimes it takes a thin white sheet to put things into place.

The things that I could never say come flooding out somehow upon these lines.

That's your introduction.  That tells you a little bit about the nature of this song.  And then we go right into it.

I'm still fighting the same battles I've been fighting all these years.

A dream is not a dream unless you're living with the fear.

What they say will be forgotten; all that's left will be for naught,

And why?

The first line brings up an important point: all these years, he says.  Both of the artists I'm talking about tonight have been doing this music thing for years.  They know how to use traditional song structure; but they also know when not to use it and how.  

But what is he talking about here?  A dream?  And who is they?

Singers.  Songwriters.  People like him, who have devoted their lives to music.  He's talking about the fear that what he writes, what he's poured his heart and soul into, will be forgotten and come to nothing.  Why? he asks, and doesn't wait for an answer.

And it's been a long time, Lord, since I sat down and had a cry.

It's sometimes overwhelming, and I can't tell you why,

But I remember Jackson singing 'Doctor, doctor, please, my eyes.'

That last line is a reference to Jackson Browne's song, "Doctor My Eyes".  It's about having looked at all kinds of terrible things without crying or feeling pain about them, thinking at the time that that's good, and then coming to a point where he can't cry, and he asks what's wrong with himself.  I think that Cody is saying, he knows what the consequences of not crying about things are, so he's going to sit down and have a good cry, even though he doesn't quite understand why he's doing it.

Then he dives back in even deeper.

My heroes, they're all dying or they're sitting in a cell

Due to years of medicating minds that hurt so well.

There's a thin line, don't you see, between genius and insanity.

Which am I?

We've all seen what's happened to brilliant musical minds.  Jinks is approaching it from the perspective of someone who's frightened that he's on the same path.

Then we have the real kicker.

One thing that scares the hell in me is living with mortality.

And worryin' that I'm insane, talkin' to a God unseen

Must surely make me crazy; but crazy's what I'll be

'Til I'm gone.

Because you see, Jinks isn't talking to us here, or to himself.  He's talking to God.  And what he's really scared of isn't just insanity.  It's death.  Not just the death of his body, but the death of his memory, and the only way he can come to terms with this is by talking to God.  He can't believe in ultimate death.  He just can't.  Life has to go on, he says, and even if he's crazy for believing that, he's going to continue.

The problem is, he doesn't quite feel like he can reach God.  He talks to him, he believes in him, but God just seems so far right now, and Jinks just feels so alone.

And I'll scream out to the sun and to the moon and to the stars.

I'll scream until my voice finds you no matter where you are.

I'll scream until I've got no breath, and all that's left to take is death,

And I'm done.

Listen to the song for yourself.  Listen to the ending, which I haven't written out here.

There's not really a satisfying conclusion, is there?  He doesn't get answers.  Instead, it ends with his resolution to keep crying out to God even until he dies.  That's the only way to make sense of things.  That's the only way he can cope.

The structure perfectly matches the song, and it hurts a little to listen to, because it's just so true to experience.  So much of the time, we don't get answers.  We just have to keep going.

It's 2:06, and far too late to write the rest of this post.  Someday, I'll follow it up.

Right now, absorb that, and yes, definitely listen to the song.  Then read a few Psalms.  They're inspired, and generally end with the answers.

Separation in Art: A Ramble

At work today, an old man came through the drive thru.  I greeted him with my usual cheery, "Hey, how are you?"  He smiled, shrugged, and said, "Well, I'm still...above ground, so..."

It was one of those strange, amusing moments that make it easier to get through an eight-and-a-half hour workday.  A workday that was made harder by the fact that it was my first time back in over a week.

Why was I gone so long, you might ask?  Good question, Clive. 

Bright and early on Friday morning, I packed up my duffel bag, my orange backpack, and my black backpack and departed for John Denver's source of lasting fame, West Virginia, for camp staff training.  While there, my bonds with the other counselors took on a new strength, as did my cold.

Sunday afternoon, I put my orange backpack, mostly used up now, in the trunk of the Mazda, and we three started to drive back down to the South.  While I was gone to Carolina in my mind, that was not our immediate physical destination.  No, we were headed for her neighbor, Tennessee Ernie Ford. 

And now we're actually getting to the point of this whole post; because after spending the night at Virginia's house and eating lunch with her at a charming German restaurant, we drove ten minutes sideways to Elizabethton, and more importantly, Milligan College, location of the Biblical Worldview Student Conference.

This was my fourth year, and I looked forward to it eagerly.  It really is a fantastic conference.  It's interesting going from the small, intimate all-girls group at camp to two hundred fifty young men and women living on a college campus for a week, but the contrast doesn't make either less enjoyable.  I had solid friendships already in place this year, and tentative ones that I was able to build on, and as far as social activity goes, this year was by far the most comfortable for me.

I don't think it was the best year for speakers that I've had so far, but that has less to do with their individual merits and more to do with the tough task of balancing them against each other in terms of what they covered and what they didn't.  I had gone expecting to like one speaker in particular.  Rebecca's all-time favorite from her years of going, and a friend of the best teacher I've ever had.

And you know what?  I did like him.

Mr. John Hodges spoke on Christianity and music in particular, the arts in general.  His lectures went from good to amazing, and the last in particular was glorious. 

I don't know if I'm really an artist, or if I'm just trying to be.  Whatever the case, I was able to think about it more last week.  And it came to a head on Friday night, during the talent show.

A girl stood up and performed a spoken-word piece entitled "Pride" that she had written.  I am not familiar with this medium, but as far as I could tell it was well-written and well-performed.  Yet I found myself thinking as she spoke, This is not enjoyable.

And very quickly, I found two conflicting opinions colliding in my own mind.  Is art communication, or is it entertainment?

If communication, the poem performed its purpose well.  I well understood that giving over to pride that she described, that self-attack as a response to not being perfect.  But if art is entertainment, this piece was anything but.  I was not entertained.  I was uncomfortable.

Let's look at the song "My Confession" by Josh Groban.  Go ahead: give it a listen if you'd like.

Now I feel myself surrender

Each time I see your face.

I am captured by your beauty,

Your unassuming grace.

And I feel my heart is turning,

falling into place.

I can't hide it.

Now hear my confession.

Try and say those words out loud, straight up, regular-like.  They don't sound nearly as nice.  They're awkward, if not downright creepy.

Yet we set them to music, and suddenly they're beautiful.  Why?

In my thinking, there are two possible reasons.  First, because the music acts as a beautiful distraction, a layer of separation between what the words really mean and what you hear.  Second, because the music is actually part of what we feel and thus the message is incorrectly translated without it.

I've thought a lot about separation in my own writing.  Sometimes I'll write a song, and think, I would never perform this anywhere.  Even I don't like it.  And why?  Because it's too close.  

Too honest.  Too raw.  I feel sometimes like I distract people with enough things that aren't me in a song so that I can drown them in the underlying truth that is all me.

NOTE:  It is midnight.  I am tired.  Pardon me, my three readers, for saying vague things and not explaining them.  If it's any consolation, I'm muddling just as much as you are.

But that's not just music.  You can also distract with words.  Humor, in particular.  It's like hiding the medicine in the peanut butter (I think of dogs as I say this); they eat it for the peanut butter, but they still get the benefits of the medicine.

Maybe we're too proud nowadays to accept that which we have not prepared ourselves for.  Maybe the problem with the spoken-word piece wasn't that it wasn't art.  Maybe it was that it was a different kind of art than we were prepared for.  

I'm more confused now than I was when I started, so maybe I should go to bed now.  It feels like anything else I could say would be too disconnected.

So long, 

Anna

18

Yesterday at church, I asked a small child (eleven years old or so) how old she thought I turned last week. 

"Um...fifteen?" she said. 

"No..." I replied.

She tilted her head to the side.  "Fourteen?"

The fact is, despite my youthful visage, I am eighteen years old as of last Tuesday.  Multiple people have asked me how it feels.  It feels quite a bit like being seventeen, except now I'm allowed to do all kinds of things that I have no interest in, like smoke, talk on the phone while I drive, and join the military.

Oh, and I can vote.  So that's fun.

A Clotted Mind

As usual, I'm starting this post with a general idea of what I want to talk about, but no real plan for how I'm going to accomplish it.  I'll talk myself through it and never doubt that I'll end up, perhaps not where I thought I'd end up, but where I'm content to be.

I'm not sure what my words sound like to you, but to me they're set to the sounds of Gert Taberner radio on Spotify.  This morning, when it was warming up and the world outside was crisp and fresh, I listened to Jewel and baked waffles.  Last night, through a chance comment of mine, I went to the movie theater with people I know and love and watched Avengers: Endgame.

I know this sounds random and discombobulated right now.  But there is a point.

I finished my last high school classes last week.  (That's not the point either.)

I see it beginning to take shape now.  Two halves.

The First Half: Am I Not Entertained?

No.  Not especially.

Sometime recently, I began to notice changes in how I consume art.  Books, movies, music, all of it.  It used to be, I read as a reader.  I watched as a watcher.  I listened as a listener.  Now, when I read, when I watch, when I listen, I do it all as a writer.

I hardly know how it happened.  Once upon a time, I laughed at the jokes and let them be.  Now, even as I laugh, I ask questions.  "What does that joke say about this character at this point in the story?  What does it set him up to say later?"

I suspect the things that I catch are the same things that have always caught me.  But now, I'm conscious, and these things fill my head.  I don't let them simmer on the back burner.  I hover over the pots, I tinker with the recipes, I add a dash of this, a sprinkle of that, hoping perhaps this batch will be edible, perhaps someday I can make it for more than myself.

That's intention.  That's purpose.

So don't think I can't enjoy art anymore.  To the contrary, it now has much more potent meaning for me.  There's a sharp joy in thinking, "Ah, I understand what she did there!  Look how clever that is."

It's much more important than that though.  It's not just the tricks, the little turns that help accomplish the purpose.

It's the purpose itself.  It's looking at a story and brushing aside the the distractions; technique, style, the words themselves, all that can be done away with.  And it's saying, what is the soul of this story?  What is its essence?  If I can do that, if I can look at the vulnerable heart of the story, I can start adding those things back in, because now they're not distractions; they're the vehicle.  They're how the author gets that soul from their head and heart to ours.

I am learning to learn from the examples of others.

The Second Half: Entertaining Myself

I got a smartphone a few months ago, even though I hate the very thought of it.  Unfortunately, there's an app I need for work, and my family wants a way to communicate with me, and it's not practical to carry a flip phone and an iPod everywhere I go.  So I consolidated.

But while it reduces the amount of stuff I carry on me, it seems to multiply the amount of stuff I put into my head.  And when I'm consuming, I'm not producing.

I had been thinking until the other day, "I'm learning to learn from what I consume.  Consumption is good because now I can use this stuff."  But to my frustration, I wasn't using it.  My writing ideas, captured in snippets and seconds, were growing.  But I wasn't sitting down and writing.  I would think about it, but somehow I would stare at the page, then either pick up a book and read or watch a show.

Inspiration comes and goes.  The greatest impediment to writers has never been a lack of inspiration, but a lack of discipline.  

I could feel the ideas, ready to be developed if only I would put in the time.  "You have to write before you feel ready," I told myself.  "There's no way to get better unless you do it.  Taste the darn thing, Anna.  Just see what it's like."

Still.  Still I consumed, and produced nothing but a couple songs in as many months and a few half-baked characters.

Then one day, I turned off the radio when I was driving.

The silence was beautiful.

My scattered, chaotic, unsorted thoughts slowly filtered and began to put themselves in order.  Characters that had been hiding in the background until I was ready to meet them again stood up and asked me who they were.  I began to answer.

I filled the silence.

I can't believe that I didn't know.  I think now, I should have known.

I pride myself on knowing how my mind works.  I know how easily I get overstimulated.  I know how important writing is to my emotional stability.  Yet I had been cluttering my head with processed imagination and letting it stagnate.  It was tangled.  It was clotted.

What's more, I was already overstimulated from the sheer amount of people that my job requires me to interact with, and adding to that could only end negatively.

The fact is, I believe my writing has decreased in quality.  Big picture stuff has improved.  I have a better eye for plotting, and I think my character development is on the road to somewhere really nice.  I have a better grasp on abstract concepts than I ever have before, and I'm recognizing the importance of making people not only do conflicting things, but having themselves conflicting personalities.  The problem is the words themselves.  There's a lack of taste and grace that I see in every prose piece I write.  I wrestle the words into shapes that I hope, rather than believe, represent the soul of the story, and those words fight me all the way.  

It was not always this hard.  It's like going out to lunch with an old friend and realizing, no, you're not friends anymore.  And why?  What's causing this disconnect?  

There are two reasons.  First, I don't read on the same level that I used to.  For years, I read books every day that challenged and grew my vocabulary, and left me more competent with the English language in general.  There's a big difference between juvenile and young adult fiction.  Juvenile, for the most part, tends to build up ideas and reinforce healthy concepts that children have heard before.  The lines are clearly drawn, and the good guy wins.  YA is a whole different ballgame.  It seeks to challenge.  It wants readers to look at their long-held ideals and examine them anew.  To call a YA book "unsettling" is a compliment, not a complaint.  And in order to do this, YA authors like to strip it down to the basics.  It's not someone else talking down to the reader, it's almost a mirror of the reader, talking to himself.  It defeats the purpose for new words to be introduced; that's distracting when all that matters is the battle of concepts.  I believe if I read less YA and more classics, I would be a more competent writer.

The second reason is that I don't write enough.  The only things I've ever really learned, I learned by doing.  It takes me years to become good friends with a person, and those years are not easy ones.  But the more I interact with them, the more I test their limits and their proclivities, the faster I learn who they are and how our friendship can be most rewarding.  I must write if I want to know how to write.

I strongly suspect that this is not an easy blog post to read.  I think it's vague, and not tied together all too well, and the sentence structure is probably repetitive.  But that's the point.  I have to start somewhere.

The Conclusion: Horizon

Things have cleared up a little.  There's still far too much in my head and far too little on the page.  But I have some idea of where to go.  

Keeping the radio off can only do so much.  I need to have a better hold grasp on how much art consumption is too much, and then I need to put my phone in its drawer and start grinding out these words.  I'm toying with the idea of a completely entertainment-free week.  Because that's really the key takeaway from this post: when there's a gap in my entertainment, I can and will supply it for myself.

If I can be honest, I'm really not liking this post, but I spent over two hours writing it and it's almost midnight and I have work tomorrow.  

In everything I write, I try to distill it to the soul of the story and the characters.  Well, this is me, scattered and stumbling, but still going forward.  Take it for what you will.

Goodnight and so long,

Anna