Tuesday, February 18, 2014


Those of you who have been following my blog are aware that I have a soft spot for plays.  I'm actually involved in one now.  (As in, I have a lovely role that I should be off memorizing.)  The play is about Jesus' ministry and will be performed this spring at the Nazarene Church in Frederick.   

There, I managed to sound all announcer-y,  which wasn't my intent.  What I really wanted to talk about was ripples- the way you'll sometimes realize that the stone you tossed into the pool years ago brushed ripples against all these other lives.

Back when I was young some friends and I did a fair bit of backyard theater for our parents and whoever else we could grab and force to watch.  One of those friends is now directing this church play (which is how I heard about it, incidentally).  I like to think that back when we were hanging sheets in the garage, God was watching us work but also looking at the moment I've just now reached in linear time, and planning, way back then, how one would affect the other.  Maybe also looking to moments I haven't reached yet.  

It's not that often I get to look back on a piece of my life and see God's foreshadowing.  Life is so messy the patterns aren't always obvious while you're in the middle of them.  But when that happens, it's just an amazing thing.    

Tuesday, February 11, 2014


Hi, I'm back, after some computer problems and now a nasty cold (that is fortunately not keeping me down).  I've been working on a new story.  I'm mostly mapping out conversations and emotions, ignoring descriptions and inconsistent world building in favor of get-the-idea-down-quick!  

It has been several years since I've been so excited about a project.  I'd run out of ideas so I got caught up trying to fix an old story, making everything perfect and bleeding the life out of the poor thing.   I was trying to gloss over the less pretty pieces of my life, too.  All the bits I couldn't fix.  

The thing is, you can't make good art if you're lying to yourself.  It doesn't work.  Art comes from dredging your emotions, even the ones you don't want to feel -especially the ones you don't want to feel.  Once you start hiding, all that fire just... it damps down.  You're left writing is meaningless gloss, so you polish you adjectives and hope all that gloss shines. 

I already knew that, but sometimes I forget.  So now I am writing about a loveable coward, wincing at my own cowardice, and wishing I didn't relate quite so well.  

Life is good.