Books and the Pursuit Greatness

I've been reading a lot.

Well, actually listening a lot.  

Overdrive's library of e-audiobooks is my favorite technological discovery.  I've listened to an embarrassing number of books on Overdrive during my commutes and the brainless data entry part of my job.  To the point where I am having a hard time getting into the several hardbound books awaiting my attention on my nightstand and end tables.  (Side note: Why must I always have at least three books going at once?  It's a thing with me.  Counseling may be in order.)  

Through this period of winter reading binges, I've come to a few realizations.

Neil Gaiman is my spirit animal.  

I wish I had a British accent.

Stephen King's books, as well as his book recommendations, are unwaveringly amazing and never fail me.

It is still my favorite book of all time - the characters, story development, nostalgia, scares and weirdness speak to my soul.  But American Gods now runs a very very close second.  

I'm actually starting to enjoy biographies.  This must be a symptom of me "being in my 40's".  Great.

Another symptom of me "being in my 40's" is a heightened appreciation of and attraction to authenticity in all its forms.  I dig people brave enough to bare their souls, to be true to who God made them to be, with all their pecadillos sticking out and their freak flags flying through the waves of mainstream.

That's real.  That's life affirming.  That's greatness.

I'm tired of trying to live up to the image of my 41 year old self that my 16 year old self (who evidently had a dangerously inflated sense of reality) dreamed up.  This doesn't mean that I have given up.  I still have goals and dreams and continue to strive for them.  But I'm not a famous singer or an acclaimed writer living the fame and fortune life.  I haven't unlocked the secrets of the universe.  I'm not and never will be a size 2 or somehow miraculously continue to grow to achieve my ideal height of 5'8".  And I have not stumbled across a magic item/substance that will gift me telepathy or the ability to fly.


To my 16 year old self I say there is nothing wrong with striving for greatness.  We all should hold ourselves to a high standard and push ourselves to try harder.  But my youthful dreams of worldly greatness have been replaced by internal, soul and God-honoring greatness.

Authentic greatness.

I have moments of authentic greatness.  Like when I light up my husband's eyes.  Or when I fuel my kids' imaginations or catch glimpses of goodness in their souls.  Sometimes I write something that sparks someone.  Sometimes I sing something that moves someone.  I always listen to a friend.  And sometimes I hold my tongue against all urges to yell (this is a significant achievement of greatness for me).

When I was 16 years old I thought greatness was a sustainable degree of being that, once achieved, would remain and life would sail smoothly along.  But greatness is actually much smaller, more precise moments weaved throughout someone's life.  Good decisions made. Selfless actions given.  Using the gifts God has given only to you to make changes in the world, in one life or many, that only you can make.

This kind of greatness is internal.  It's harder and smaller in scope than you anticipate.  It's clumsy and ungraceful.  It's soul filling.

That's what makes it authentic.  

Mom vs. The Laundry: An Imaginary Appliance Revolt

This has been a familiar scene at my house over the past week or so. 

That's me...surrounded by piles of housework...paying no attention to it. 

Only I haven't been sucked into a soap opera on TV.  I've been absorbed in a book.  The Giver series has given my mind a much appreciated respite from household chores (though not from my kids...I always choose them over a book...well, 85% of the time anyway).  I've been lost in the pages of The Giver series' beautiful and tragic dystopia and didn't want to pull myself out of it, especially for chores. 

Sigh. 

I love this series.  I love reading.  I love books.  And I hate laundry.

Anyway, since my loving and gifted husband has been busy constructing our built-ins in the living room (progress photos are coming) and the kids have been busy, well, being kids; a few things have gone unattended in the Cole household lately.  Namely the laundry.

Ugh.  The mountain of laundry. 

So I declared yesterday to be Laundry Day. 

Our washer and dryer laundered a lot of dirty clothes in one day.  Nine loads to be exact. 

That's A LOT of laundry.

I fear their retribution as they finish the last two loads for me tonight... 

They'll look normal as I approach.  Nothing out of the ordinary.  Just two metal machines sitting in our basement.  But their presence will take on a quiet menace as I approach.  Then, BAM, the washer will attack, its hoses lashing and spitting and flailing, challenging me, daring me to shove one more dirty shirt or stinky sock into it. 

But I will fight it.  And I will prevail! 

Because I am Mom.  And even though I may go on chore hiatus for a week, my appliances don't.  I mean just think if I gave into the washer's protests.  How long before the news would travel to the other appliances?  How long before they would all rise up against me?  It would be anarchy.

Books and Naps

While Lena was in school, Sam and I spent some much needed downtime at one of my favorite places in the world.

A bookstore.

I have a recurring dream of being locked in an abandoned library or bookstore for days and being over the moon happy about it.  Surrounded by all those hundreds of books, all those stories and dream worlds and characters and truths quietly waiting for someone to take their pages into their own imagination and breathe life into them, to give their words legs to run through the undiscovered recesses of our minds, to give them hands that can stretch and reshape and quiet and provoke and enliven our thoughts, our beliefs, sometimes the very essence of who we are.

Plus libraries and bookstores would be awesome places to nap. 

It makes me happy to foster within my kids a love of reading and a love for books themselves. To see that appreciation and love growing in them makes me proud.

Brave, as Interpreted by Lena

Below is Lena's shortened version of the book Brave, including Merida, who looks exactly like a horsy, a dad who punches with old people, the queen who says don't turn into a bear and love you mom, a good guy who turns into a bear too, and an evil wizard who count the bears.

Hmmm, about sums it up for me.

Salinger's Girl

I read a quote today from an obscure short story called "A Girl I Knew".  JD Salinger wrote the story and it was published years ago by a woman's magazine. The quote was beautiful and painted such a vivid picture of this woman with just a few short words.  It provoked me to scour the internet in hopes of finding it, which of course I did. 

The quote was this:

"She wasn't  doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together." 

Upon finding the story, I read it fast and greedily.  Then I read through it again slowly.  It is a beautiful short story written in his simple and effortless way.  Here is the link if you'd like to read it yourself.  A Girl I Knew

Another quote that moved me from that story was this:

"A man can’t go along indefinitely carrying around in his pocket a key that doesn’t fit anything."

I usually don't like short stories.  I prefer diving into characters and stories that don't let me come up for air for days.  But as one gets older, one's perspective changes.  I'm starting to appreciate short stories more now because they leave so much to the reader's imagination.  They sometimes ingrain themselves deeper into my mind than a novel can because of all that's unwritten.  All that's left unsaid is filled in by my own imagination, which makes the story more personal to me.  Makes me feel a part of it in some way.  I mean, I read this story this morning, and I still can't shake it.... 

God bless writers and poets and thinkers and feelers and artists.  They so enrich our lives.

Frustration and Fear

I've been writing a book for about a year or so.  Several books to be honest, but one in particular.

These great ideas for characters and scenes come spilling out of me with words which, when I read back over them in places, I barely remember writing.  Some of the passages are good.  Very good. 

Most of it's babbling nonsense, stream of consciousness, disconnected and shallow.  It lacks depth, heart, work and devotion.  I write of my dreams, my fantasies as if this novel were a journal of the me I began imagining in my youth.  Struggling with a real story, a path for these poor characters to take one way or another, I just stop writing for a time.  I shrug it off as a simple, unimportant flight of fancy of a mother and wife and secretary who so desperately wishes to share something meaningful, or at the very least provide an escape for others like me. 

But it's always there waiting.  The words on the pages anticipate that I can mold them into something of substance.  And I'm letting them down.  I'm letting myself down. 

The question begs, then, if this is something that I really want to do, why aren't I doing it?

Time.  Fear.  Education. 

When does a mother of two toddlers, a wife of a deserving husband, a secretary, a friend, a daughter, an aunt, a back-up singer, a Christian, a woman who is blessed with so many cherished relationships that are so worthy of her time and energy; when does that woman have time to devote to something as selfish and consuming as writing a book?  I already have precious little time, most of which is spent with people I love doing significant things I care deeply for.  I write when I can.  But merely fitting it in here and there is not enough.  It's suffering because of it.  But better my relationships suffer for my book? 

Rich suggested a smart compromise where I wouldn't have to take time from anyone but myself, but then fear comes in.  Were I to make the time, would I fare any better?  Maybe I'm just an essay writer.  Maybe that's as far as this gift goes.  I'm afraid of revealing that.  By not giving this book the air it needs to really catch fire, there's no possibility that I might fail miserably and be forced to live with my mediocrity.  By not trying, at least I still have hope.

Beyond my beloved English/literature classes in high school, I have no education to write.  While my college education in criminal justice/criminal law has served me well thus far (note a hint of sarcasm), I'm still at a loss to fulfill my dream shared my millions - to write a novel that doesn't suck.  It's no wonder I cannot figure out a plot, create a compelling storyline, organize the thoughts that bounce around in my head or control how they come out on paper.  I don't know how.  There are books on the subject, a couple of which I've read, but they pale in comparison to a good teacher.  The chance I had in college to cast aside my fear and actually grow (see My Life as a Penguin, if you are so inclined) was wasted.  And to take a class now, well, that would take more time, now wouldn't it?

Whining...I know I'm whining. 

I am blessed.  If I can't give air to but one of my passions when I am living out so many others, then that's fine.  I'm almost embarrassed to post this when there is so much suffering and hate and ugliness in so many people's lives.  Who am I to complain about one tiny aspect of an otherwise truly blessed life?  I am grateful for everything I am and have, for everyone I love and who loves me.  I genuinely am.         

But here's the thing.  I don't want to teach my kids to fear or apologize for their passions (unless they are really twisted, in which case we'll have to involve a therapist).  I want them to live as boldly, compassionately, faithfully and grandly as the greatest expanse of their minds and hearts allow.  Whether that be lives filled with monumental dreams or simple ones, I want them to believe that those dreams are attainable.  But at what expense do I teach that lesson? 

Sleeping Through Life

Bridges of Madison County

The book provides an crushing love story, and the movie offers two such gifted actors (which is a rare thing these days), Meryl Streep and Clint Eastwood.

At different stages in my life, different parts of this story affect me. But always the character Francesca gets to me. Beyond the love story, she is a beautiful, educated, kind, simple, middle-aged wife, mother, farmer and teacher.

And she is present.

For example, she's sitting alone on the front porch one late night reading Yeats. It's so hot she's sweating, even at night wearing only a robe. Suddenly she stands up to face a breeze and opens her robe. Her robe flows behind her in the wind and her face shows an expression of, I don't know...of being alive. She is aware of herself, her mind, her body, the world around her. Alive. Present.

She says, "Just because someone chooses to settle down and have a family doesn't necessarily mean they're hypnotized. Just because I've never seen a gazelle stampede doesn't mean I'm asleep in my life."

Asleep in my life...that is profound to me.

She knows that the bliss and raw true emotions of having a family are equal to or greater than what someone living a life of "adventure" experiences. But she also realizes that being a mother and wife can be hypnotizing sometimes. Families bring joys and blessings that are incomparable, though often time right alongside the routines and ruts and schedules.

She also says, "When a woman makes the choice to marry, to have children; in one way her life begins but in another way it stops. You build a life of details. You become a mother, a wife, and you stop and stay steady so that your children can move. And when they leave they take your life of details with them. And then you're expected move again, only you don't remember what moves you because no-one has asked in so long. Not even yourself."

My God, it's amazing to me that a man wrote this.

Details, errands, schedules, responsibilities...days and weeks can be easily eaten away by these necessities.I see this in many of my friends' lives whose kids are older. Hell, my kids are very young and I'm already starting to experience this.

Socrates said something like the unexamined life is not worth living. I've always found truth in that. And I guess that's what I find so real and refreshing about Francesca's character. Even before this man stumbles into her life and changes her forever in an intense and tangible way; she's aware of herself and her mind. She's awake. Even through long hard days of farming and mothering and the mundane parts of living, she doesn't allow herself to be lost in it all.

I don't want to be lost in it all.

When Sam and Lena are grown, I don't want to have forgotten what moves me. I love my children and Rich to disgusting degrees. I would give my life for them without a second thought. Honestly. They bring me more joy and fulfillment than anything else I've ever known. They occupy my mind completely most days and I'm glad for that, I want that, I owe them that. They're my family.

But I don't want to give them so much of myself that there's nothing left of me when the kids are grown. I don't think with my introspective tendencies that would ever happen, but like I said before, my kids are very young. And I know parenting gets harder as they (and you) get older. Who knows what might happen. Or how much of me it will take to teach them and love them and guide them the right way. I'd rather be spent completely after presenting two loving and smart and faithful people to this world than to half-ass parent them and make their lives and this world worse just because I refused to do what needed to be done.

I'm rambling.

Here's my point. I will do whatever it takes to be the parent my kids need me to be. And I will pray that I don't lose myself in the process. Either way, I just don't ever want to be asleep in my life.

A Lengthy Recitation of the Evolution of My Reading Habits

We went to the bookstore today to get some new books, real books, for me and the kids. Rich doesn't read real books anymore. He has crossed over to the dark side.

He bought a Nook.

He does read a lot of really expensive computer reference books that are much cheaper to buy in electronic form, and it is a pretty cool little gadget, but still...

Bookstores are one of my favorite places in the world to be. Surrounded by all that imagination, all those other worlds and stories, all that creativity and artistry, all that information, all those epiphanies and paradigm shifts just waiting for me to pluck them down from every shelf...it enlivens me and calms me all at once.

Even the smell of a book, the weight of it in my hands, the way a beautiful cover feels under my fingers, adds to my love of not only reading, but of the books themselves. If ever I am absurdly rich, one of the indulgences I am going to allow myself is a grand library with floor to ceiling shelves lining the walls, rolling ladders attached to each leading to high tucked away corners. There will be a fireplace and large cozy window seats upon which to perch for hours reading a new or old favorite. I dream of that room. A bookstore all my own.

My library would be a farce to real book collectors, though. I'm no literary genius. I read what I like, and I like modern fiction. I like weird fiction. I like young adult (YA) fiction. I do love some classics, like those of Shakespeare and CS Lewis. But let's face it; they were weird guys with strange intensities and senses of humor that I adore. But others, like Hemingway, Sir Walter Scott and many other acclaimed authors, are a huge bore to me. I own a lot of their books, but most I read because they were assigned to me in school or because I felt like I should add them to my repertoire on my journey to becoming an intelligent educated woman. Enjoyment wasn't often involved.

Back to the bookstore revelation. After an exhaustive search online last night for the next book to sweep me away into a wonderfully weird world, a place I can escape to that holds my imagination and captures my mind so that I think of it even when I'm not reading it; I realized how much my tastes have changed over my 36 years.

Back when I was in the actual age range for the YA genre, I was instead reading very adult horror novels that left nothing - nothing - to the imagination. These authors described everything in graphic detail and kept me locked in their firm grip come hell or high water (usually both). But I dug that intensity back then. Maybe because I hadn't done enough living on my own or learned enough about the world second hand to be able to arrive at the conclusions another way. Maybe I needed the conclusions to be forced upon me so blatantly because I just wasn't ready to be gently led.

While some of those books are still among my favorites, mostly due to sharp writing styles and awesome character development, I think I'm regressing now, at least as far as my preferred genre. I want books that take me places and let me escape into them, but that also leave somewhere for my imagination to fill in the gaps, that let me wonder and wander around a little without pushing me around every corner, that let me relive some of the youth I was so quick to put behind me back then. YA books seem to do that.

Don't let the description of YA conjure up images of dimwitted or immature authors who water down their writing, because that is very far from the truth. After all, CS Lewis, JD Salinger and Mark Twain, among many others, are considered YA authors for some of their most prolific books.

Though not all of my new favorite authors are extremely skilled writers, a lot of them are. But what I dig now, even more than the proper and accomplished use of the English language, is amazing storytelling. And if an author can weave an incredible tale that captivates me, and develop strong characters that I love (or loathe, as the case may be), as long as their writing isn't distractingly mediocre; I'm in.

So I'm off to read a book about good vs evil in a place where the real world intersects with a fantasy world, where legends and myths weave in and out of seemingly normal lives to create a land of fierce beauty and fragile romance and determined wickedness, where the journey is fraught with peril and paradigm shifts, where heroes come in all forms, where good usually prevails, and where the author doesn't push me where they want me to go but, rather, guides me and lets my imagination take me as far as I'm willing to go.

Feed Me

I recently read an author’s blog about books that feed her soul. Her imagination is stirred by the books on her list, and she reads them throughout her own writing process for inspiration.

That got me thinking about mediums that feed me as a wannabe writer and as just plain old me. Countless books nourish me, most currently Stephen King’s “On Writing”, which I’m reading now. This memoir/textbook is scary good on both counts. Among many, some others are “This Present Darkness”, “It”, “The Secret Life of Bees”, feeding my hunger for spiritual imagery, character development, and strong eccentric southern women respectively.

Almost more so than books, movies are the other medium that truly feeds me. Maybe it’s because movies are a more tangible, direct route to my emotions and imagination. Maybe I just like seeing massive, 20’ tall heads of beautiful people. Maybe it’s the acting. Whatever the case, I’m in the midst of watching one of my favorites, “Finding Neverland”, when I find a few spare moments. This morning while on the treadmill, two of my favorite scenes, two that feed me to my core:

In the first, JM Barrie pretends that his dog, Porthos, is a bear he is taming for the audience (four boys and their mother). Peter, the young boy who inspired Barrie's “Peter Pan”, says the whole thing is silly, that it is just a dog, to which Barrie answers:

“Porthos dreams of being a bear, and you want to shatter those dreams by saying he's *just* a dog? What a horrible candle-snuffing word, *just*. That's like saying, "He can't climb that mountain, he's just a man", or "That's not a diamond, it's just a rock." *Just*…”

Another favorite scene is when his sad wife, Mary, who is a listless, insipid social ladder climber and Barrie, who is a colorful rainbow shining through his wife’s gray cloud, each retreat to their separate bedrooms for the night. As Mary opens her bedroom door, inside it’s just a bedroom. When Barrie opens his bedroom door, it’s a bright green forest with birds singing and a blue sky and spring all around him.

Scenes like that feed me.

Great New Booking Coming Out - Followup to Shiver

In Maggie Stiefvater's Shiver, Grace and Sam found each other.  Now, in Linger, they must fight to be together. For Grace, this means defying her parents and keeping a very dangerous secret about her own well-being. For Sam, this means grappling with his werewolf past . . . and figuring out a way to survive into the future. Add into the mix a new wolf named Cole, whose own past has the potential to destroy the whole pack.  And Isabelle, who already lost her brother to the wolves . . . and is nonetheless drawn to Cole.

At turns harrowing and euphoric, Linger is a spellbinding love story that explores both sides of love -- the light and the dark, the warm and the cold -- in a way you will never forget.

Comes out in stores everywhere July 20th. Pre-order here.
Enter to win an advanced review copies of LINGER, Sisters Red, The Dead-Tossed Waves, and The Replacement on Maggie's blog