The Tyranny of the Blank. White. Page.

If you've read this blog, you've heard me talk of it.  It.  The thing that haunts me, haunts every writer at one time or another.  Even the great ones.

The Blank. White. Page.

I am 9 pages and 2,800 words into my novel.  A novel that, when finished, must be 150-320 pages or 15,000-80,000 words.  So, only 57,200 words to go (my goal is 60,000), but who's counting?

The Blank. White. Page.  You and I will be friends in the end.  We will make a truce, come to an understanding, learn from eachother, and, yes...even...eventually...like one another.  Just wait, my friend; it will happen.  I am Not. Giving. Up.

Five Years

Last Friday my husband and I celebrated five years of marriage.  We dated and were engaged for a year before that, and we had been friends for ten years before we started dating.  All in all, I've known Justin for sixteen years, almost half my life.  And I've finally figured out how to love him.

Well, sort of.  We're definitely a work in progress.

You see, I've always been a fear-based person.  Afraid of everything, really.  When we got married I was constantly nagging him to be different, to do things differently.  I think I was subconsciously afraid that if we didn't completely gel - you know, the stars-in-your-eyes, Hollywood, we simply "get" eachother version of relating - than we weren't meant for eachother.  We would somehow deteriorate into nit-picking and nagging and eventually divorce.  Certainly we could never continue to like eachother since we didn't really like anything the other person liked.

I love fancy vacations on the beach; he'd rather rough it in the mountains. 

I love clean, tidy, spaces; he could care less about clutter.

I would rather read a book, go to a museum, enjoy a wonderful meal.  All of these things bore him to tears.  He wants to hunt, fish, and do things.  He prefers activity to chilling out.  In other words, you'd never catch him lounging by the pool.

I have an evangelical bent to my worship.  I pray out loud, lay hands on people as I'm praying for them, worship along to contemporary Christian music.  I like to talk (a LOT) about what Jesus is doing in my life.  My husband is the strong, silent type.  I would probably never hear what God is doing in his heart, or how they are relating to eachother, if I didn't ask.  He likes calm, quiet liturgy.  He prefers to pray silently (but he will pray aloud when I ask him to).

This last was the place that scared me the most.  How could we make it if we didn't relate to God in the same way?  Where will we come together, where is the common ground?

In the early years of our marriage I used to seriously stress out about this.  I would nag him to be more like me.  I would try to be more like him.  I would force him to sit through countless talks (you know the kind I mean) sifting through my anxieties until he would say something incredibly wise like "I love you, you love me, that's enough."

He's right, of course.  Love covers.  He's always been right.  I've been on the sideline waffling through moments of panic and bliss, and he's been steady-as-she-goes the whole time.  Providing the foundation and covering I need to gain security.

I mention this because, in the most real sense, my husband has modeled Jesus for me.  He has re-presented Jesus in a tangible, daily way.  He lets me freak out, fear, cry, be anxious, get impatient, become angry when he doesn't respond by doing what I want him to do.  But he never, never caves.  He never becomes something he's not simply to apease me.  He remains true to who God made him to be, and, in so doing, he is perfect for me.

Because we are different, we sometimes have to work harder to come together - definitely.  But because we are different, when we come together it means so much more.  I know that he is willing to sacrifice what he wants in order to love me in tangible ways.  I learn more about myself - about what I'm capable of, for instance - because I try new things in an effort to bless my husband.  In general, life is simply spicier because we each bring different ingredients to the recipe that is our life together.

Last Friday we celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary.  We went out to a nice hotel and did nothing.  Literally.  Nothing.  He meandered around the grounds enjoying a good cigar while I holed up in the hotel room with my favorite TV series on DVD.  The beauty of the whole thing was this: I didn't stress out that we were different, had different wants and different needs.  I was thrilled, actually, to release him to get what he needed/wanted and to allow myself to do the same.  It felt so light-weight, so comfortable.

"For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light."  (Matthew 11:30)

I may be stretching things a bit, but this is what I experienced last Friday night.  In a word: TRUST.  I've become so sure that Justin loves me I'm able to walk in trust more than fear.  I loved holing up in the hotel room, and I loved that Justin was not with me.  Don't get me wrong - we had couple time while we were at the hotel (a romantic dinner, a leisurely breakfast).  But we also let the other be who we each are.  Finally.  Five years in I'm finally comfortable enough in our skin to simply be.  (Justin has been there the whole time; I'm the late-comer to this party.)

So this is what it means to carry an easy yoke, a light burden.  Satisfaction; deep, pervasive joy; light-heartedness; rest. 

Thank you, God, for giving me a husband through which you teach me how to belong to you.  Thank you., God, for love that covers.  Thank you, God, for the freedom that comes when we feel safe.  I thank you.

Linking up with Soli Deo Gloria today.  Go check them out!

Voice

I just had a remarkable experience.  I read something worth reading.

I mean really worth reading.  Not something that made me smile or gave me a moment’s “hmm” of reflection.  Words that lifted me outside of myself to the point that I could look down upon my corporeal self and reflect.  See.  Understand.

It is a new work from my all-time favorite author, a woman I believe deserves to be in the lexicon of worldwide literary greats.  I Love a Broad Margin to My Life, a new autobiography from Maxine Hong Kingston. 

Opening the cover, feeling the hard, perfectly-proportioned binding in my hands, turning the page, listening as the paper scrapes against itself…this is a holy experience.  Set apart.  I am transported.

Her voice, her form, her effort, her experiences.  Thank you, Chocolate Chip, for taking the time.  Because of you, my time is not wasted.  I love your half-spoken words, the suggestions of images and thoughts that are at once complete without being over-stated.  Oh, that I could write like you.  Did you ever rewrite, I wonder?  How many drafts to achieve such perfection, such poise balanced on the tip of your pen?

I am on the fourth draft of my first novel, a novel I have not finished yet.  I rewrite before I complete.  I need to let the story breathe, I realize, let ink flow.  Poetry, not prose.

Last night I watched an episode from season four of The West Wing.  In it a reporter asks Sam Seaborne (one of the President’s speech writers): “how does it work?”

“How does what work?” replies Sam.

“The State of the Union,” the reporter responds.  “How do you start?”

After an explanation of how they narrow down topics, Sam states: “and then, for the second time, you find yourself standing in a hellhole that makes you want to kill yourself.”

“Why’s that?” the reporter asks.

“Why?” responds Sam.  “Because it’s the blank page.  Because.  It’s the Blank. White. Page.”

Something all writers can understand, I believe, even Ms. Hong Kingston I’m sure.  The tyranny of the page.  It must be defeated.  How?  By letting the story flow.  By being true to yourself.  By ceasing to self-doubt, self-criticize.  By letting you – your voice, your form, your effort, your experiences – be. 

“This well-deep outpouring is not for anything.  Yet we have to put into exact words what we are given to see, hear, know.”  (I Love a Broad Margin to My Life, Kingston, p. 4).

Back to the page now. 

Piecing it Together

That's a picture of a puzzle my husband and I started the week after Christmas.  It has 1,000 pieces.  Miraculously, we've managed to keep our one and two-year-olds from messing up the process and losing any pieces (at least, we hope we have!).  We work on it at night when we're not too tired.  Today I had a few moments so I re-engaged the puzzle.  As I did, these thoughts emerged:

• Pieces rarely, if ever, fit where I think they will.
• If I can't find that missing piece, it's normally because I've categorized it into the wrong pile (I pile pieces according to puzzle sections before I begin).
• I always have to take a second look before I find the piece I'm looking for (and normally a third and fourth look).
• The longer I look, the more of the big picture I am able to see.
• It's easy for me to see the path to finishing a puzzle that's not meant for me - a two-year-old, "large piece" puzzle, for example.  It's much harder when I'm dealing with a puzzle that fits into my life stage.  I have to follow where the pieces lead, rather than directing them myself.

I want to be a good puzzle-put-together-er.  (I know, no such word, but you get my meaning.)  When I think about how to craft my life, how to steward the gift of this lifetime He has given me, I want to follow, not lead.  I want to let sight unfold, acting as more of an active, participatory observer than an author.  I want to quit thinking I know how things should fit together and instead let the pieces fall where they will.  The picture is much more beautiful if I let the Puzzle Master have His way.

Random Musings

A good friend recently posted some fun facts about herself on her website.  She's inspired me to do the same, particularly because I've spent the last ten minutes internally laughing at one of my quirks.  For more, read on!

The Librarian

As a child I had friends, and was even considered popular by some.  Regardless, I always had a book in my hand.  This was such a habit that a childhood friend dubbed me "The Librarian" (an incredibly geeky nickname!).  I would be in the middle of a party, completely engaged in the conversation in my mind, yet I seemed like a loner, cowering in some corner with my nose in a book.  What can I say?  The books were more fascinating than my girlfriends' latest rants about New Kids on the Block or who was going steady with whom.  They also gave me a safe place to retreat to when I felt overwhelmed or uncomfortable.  Most importantly, though, they partially satisfied my insatiable curiousity.  My favorites in elementary school?  The Anne of Green Gables series, hands down. 

I'm so grateful to my friends.  All of them, from elementary school until now, have gently teased me about my obsession with books, but they all also support/supported it.  Especially in elementary school, this acceptance for my quirkiness was crucial to my self-esteem.  They blessed my hungry intellect, rather than disparaged it.  For that, I owe them much (if you're reading, my friends from Doss, thank you!).

How does this relate to today's stint of laughing at myself?  I currently have eight - count them, eight - books on my bedside table (this does not include one book on my dining room table, one book in my computer bag, and several books on my desk).  I am actively reading all of them.  Call it A-D-D if you will (it's not, but whatever): I yearn for information and have a hard time shutting my brain off.  I never read only one book at a time.  It's, like, impossible, for me to read just one thing at a time.  If you ever find me doing that, run out and buy the book right away.  It must be a doozie.

A Proud Daughter

Another piece of random information: my father is a lung transplant recipient (three years now - thank God!).  I've never really talked about how the process of learning he needed a lung, waiting for one, then finally getting one affected me.  I'm not yet ready to talk about it still, but I wanted to share this link about my dad: Forrest Roan at the American Lung Association.  I'm proud of him.

What If?

My stepmother recently hosted a Christmas party during which she asked all of us to write down on a piece of paper what we would be doing with our lives if money, intellect, or talent were no object (in other words, if we had no limitations).  My answer?  I would be running a goat cheese operation on my wind energy farm in West Texas, and possibly running cattle on the land as well.  If it were viable, I'd dedicate some of the space to a solar farm.

What would you be doing?

XOXO, Jenny "The Librarian" Forgey

Linking up with Soli Deo Gloria today.  Enjoy!