Category: Uncategorized

1) Pictures that Will Restore Your Hope in Humanity (via Jason Boyett)

2) A preview of the upcoming movie based on Tolstoy’s novel, Anna Karenina:

 

3) The preview for The Great Gatsby:

Which movies are you most looking forward to seeing?

There are so many great blog posts out there in the winternets. Here are excerpts from five that caught my attention this past week(ish):

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“And the truth is, I don’t understand the relationship between bad, painful things and a loving, all-knowing, God. Ask me about earthquakes. Ask me about cancer. Ask me about starvation and genocide and those beautiful Invisible Children, and all I can do is shake my head and cry and not know.”

“All I can say is this: the God that I believe in calls himself Father. Calls us his children.”

* * * * *

“Soon, they roll out into the sand where people like me scour that field of tiniest glass beads to find their larger cousins. I fill my pockets with shards gone soft, and I carry them home – from Canada and Scotland and Italy. I lay them out, reminders that everything is repurposed – into words, into stories, into scars that mesh perfectly with the wounds of those we meet.”

* * * * *

“Yes, I know what you’re probably thinking: ‘Katdish, we KNOW you hate everything remotely related to grocery shopping. Shut up already.'”

“And to you I say, NO.”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

* * * * *

It can be an act of faith to take a punch, to believe that the pain of the moment is far better than the pain, distraction, and distress that come from jumping into a fight. I know I’ve gotten it wrong plenty of times. I know I’ve responded appropriately other times. And I know how easy it can be to obsess over criticism, an argument, or a perspective that I find faulty.

* * * * *

“Noah and ‘Lil Blue bound safely onto the opposite bank, but when I glance behind me, I see Rowan tilting dangerously to one side of the saddle as ‘Lil Paint labors, half-swimming across the raging stream. Rowan’s eyes are wide as he looks straight at me, his two hands white against the reins.”

* * * * *

(Brought to you by Addie Zierman, Andi Cumbo, Katdish, Ed Cyzewski, and Michelle DeRusha)

What’s the best post you read this week? If you’re a blogger, what was your most-read post from this past week?

I saw the name in my email inbox and immediately my heart sank. I wanted to read it, but I didn’t want to. I wanted to avoid it, but I couldn’t. There was great potential there for happiness, and an even higher probability for disappointment.

It was an email from an acquisitions editor I had been speaking with regarding her publishing house printing a book about our trip. I had been waiting for a few weeks. I knew this was the yes or the no. With great trepidation I opened the email.

It was a “no.” It was a wonderful, kind, encouraging “no” from one of the most successful, respected editors in the industry. But it was a “no” nonetheless.

* * * * *

I’ve started recognizing the pattern that I go through in dealing with rejection. Even really wonderful rejections (for more on wonderful rejections, check out my E-book Building a Life Out of Words, in which published author Stacy Barton talks about the importance of wonderful rejections).

But I’m sort of early in the rejection-receiving phase of life. I don’t deal with them as well as she does. Here are the stages I go through:

Stage One: I Am a Terrible Writer

This stage is characterized by a clamor of internal voices disparaging my writing, my choice to write, my previous writing, and any future writing I might ever do. Depending on my mood, the availability of my wife to talk me down from the ledge, and the accessibility of ice cream, this stage can last from a few minutes to a few days.

Stage Two: The Other Person Has No Idea What They’re Doing and Have Obviously No Business in the Publishing World

This one feels good for a few minutes because it is self-righteous and self-justifying. Me against the big bad world. But it’s never been true in any of the rejections I’ve received, and it’s NEVER a good place from which to write reply emails.

Stage Three: Life Sucks

Depending on my then-current level of self-pity, this one can hang around for a few hours. Until I think of my many close friends who are terminally ill or battling cancer or have experienced terrible abuses in their lives. Then I remember that I have lots to be thankful for. Gratefulness is a cure for many ills, rejection included.

Stage Four: Enlightenment

At some point I realize that no instance of rejection, especially from someone taking a quick look at my writing or considering a project proposal, is meant to be a sweeping indictment of me or my writing ability. Almost every writing rejection you or I will ever encounter is a very isolated assessment of one thing made up of an endless number of factors, all converging in an instant where someone must say “yes” or “no.” It is the judgment of an instant, upon which so many variables are weighing.

I’ve started to realize that I have (incorrectly) given the same weight to rejection as I have to acceptance, even though their value is not inversely proportional. Confused yet? Me, too.

Stage Five: Work Harder

Finally I arrive at the final stage of rejection, and there is only one thing to do. Work harder. Write more. Analyze more closely what I am doing. And, ironically, open myself up to the possibility of even more rejection.

How about you? How do you deal with rejection? Which phase do you occasionally get stuck in?

Coming out of Lancaster city, I keep making the same wrong turn on to the back roads that lead to our old house. You would think that after being away for four months, these ruts of routine would have been worn away. Big adventures, like big rains, can have a huge amount of eroding power. Yet the outdated pathways in my brain that lead to our old home prevail, and I find myself making a lot of u-turns or simply driving out around on roads that seem to have nothing in common with my actual destination.

* * * * *

In her less lucid moments, Grandma asks about our cows. Or talks about the wonderful dinner she had in Virginia earlier that day. Her mind circles around to the past quite a bit, like someone trying to get home but making wrong turns. She did not remember me on Monday evening when my dad and I went over to visit her.

“Kyle,” she kept saying slowly, referring to my cousin, and all the while her distant eyes looked deep into mine.

I leaned in close to her and noticed that she smelled good, like some kind of hand cream, and her skin was soft. I kissed her cheek and held her face in my hands, something which for some reason made me feel very happy. I smiled.

“Grandma, I’m Shawn. Shaaaawn. Not Kyle.”

“Oh……my……yes……Shawn.”

“Yes, Shawn,” I said. “I’m much more handsome than Kyle.”

She paused, looked at me, and for an instant she was there. Present. The flash of a clear signal on a station otherwise clouded by static.

She smiled.

“Shawn,” she said slowly, and I could tell she was disappointed with herself for forgetting.

* * * * *

I pulled into the country church parking lot. To my right, the old hide-and-seek graveyard. Behind me, the woods that led down to the creek. In front of us, the farmhouse where I grew up.

“There it is, Cade. That’s where I grew up.”

He always asks me to take him there. I had finally made the time.

“We use to tear around that house,” I said, smiling. “We used to climb those apple trees.”

I find my mind circling around to those days a lot. I find myself seeking out the old, familiar paths.

* * * * *

I sat quietly with Grandma holding her hand. Even though I desperately love them, sometimes spoken words are meaningless, especially in such uncharted territory. I feel her knuckles. Her tender skin. Her fingers, sometimes still, sometimes searching for perhaps the border of a quilt, or the eye of a needle, or the hand of my grandfather. Who knows what.

And because in that moment our words felt meaningless, like back roads no longer needed, we sat in a beautiful stillness, an endearing peace around us. It was there in that nursing home that I wondered if perhaps it wasn’t by driving that I would get out of the circular rut I was in. Neither movement nor action nor words could deliver me.

I was trying to achieve with “doing” what only silence and waiting could accomplish. So I sit. I wait. And new, previously uncharted ways begin to form in the persistence of these small drops.

Four months on the road.

Four months of showering in an RV.

Four months of emptying the waste tank every few days.

Four  months of waking up in campgrounds or Walmart parking lots or curbside to a friend’s house.

Four months.

And then, on a warm weekend in June, the adventure ended. We unpacked and vacuumed and polished and swept and scrubbed. My dad power-washed the outside of the bus, and we unhooked our van, and we returned the bus to its owner.

What do you do after four months of a life-changing adventure?

You can find the rest of today’s post over at Joyce Glass’s blog, “Grow, Pray, Serve.”

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If this is your first time here, check out the posts I wrote about our recent four-month road trip. Or my E-book (Building a Life Out of Words) about how I lost a lot of stuff, chased my dream to become a full-time writer, and gained a lot of stuff way more important than the stuff I lost.

You can also follow along on Twitter or over at my Facebook writer’s page.

So it’s been a strange week. Getting home from a four-month road trip. Moving into my parents’ basement. Cleaning up Willie and putting him back into storage. Seeing so many friends who we hadn’t seen for what felt like years. Visiting my grandma. Hugging my bald aunt.

At many points during the week, my brain simply could not compute the the continuous accumulation of stimuli. It was like walking down a long, dark hallway, then opening a door to a room with loud music, flashing lights, strange smells, and dancing clowns. I just wanted to stand there in the doorway, my head cocked to the side, eyes squinting.

What is this place?

* * * * *

In some ways it feels like we’re starting over. 32 months ago we left a close community in Northern Virginia to pursue my dream of becoming a writer. During the first two years, I had picked up some momentum, found new leads, began new projects. We made headway. But after four months on the road, many of my leads have grown cold. I’m left wondering where to begin. All of my current projects are ending.

So it was during this strangest of weeks, feeling like we were at the beginning again, wondering how to move forward, that I kind-of-sort-of panicked. The voices started up again. You know. Those voices.

You’ll never get another writing project again.

Your writing life has peaked – it’s all downhill from here.

You’d better get a job while you can. Anything.

You’re going to end up on the street.

You can only pursue a dream so long before the wheels fall off and you have to give up.

They are always very convincing and nasally. And matter-of-fact. And for some odd reason they have British accents.

So on Wednesday night, I called a friend about getting a job. On Thursday I was told I could have the job if I wanted it – the pay wasn’t great, but it would be regular income. I said I’d call back on Friday morning.

When I went to bed on Thursday night, I had no idea what to do. When I woke up on Friday morning, what began as a vague feeling turned into a determination: I would not give up this easily. It was too soon. I needed to stay the course of writing for a living for a little longer, and if I took this 40-hours-per-week job, my writing would be pushed to the back of the line for a long time.

Most of all, I remembered how difficult it was to go from a complex life to a simple life. To go from a regular income to a sporadic one. I do not want to go there unless I absolutely have to, because the road back to this place is way more intimidating than continuing on the road I’m currently walking.

Does that make any sense?

So I passed on the job. I might be crazy. But I feel like there’s something good coming just around the corner. Which reminds me of some of my own crazy advice:

You will want to give up. Don’t.

Have you wanted to give up on anything recently? What kept you going?

(Photo used with permission)