Be Not Idle

The goal of the NaNoWriMo is a completed 50K-word novel by December 1st. I believe I have about 250. *sigh*

Mary Shelly wrote, “The beginning is always today.” She just didn’t mention that sometimes the beginning is today, tomorrow, and the day after that. (When should I end this chapter?)

“If you write for God, you will reach many men and bring them joy. If you write for men, you may make some money and you may give someone a little joy and you may make a noise in the world, for a little while. If you write only for yourself, you can read what you yourself have written and after ten minutes you will be so disgusted, you will wish that you were dead.” — Thomas Merton, “New Seeds of Contemplation”

I got up at 4 am and did a little writing, just to see how it felt. Fast. I gave myself just 30 minutes.

The National Novel Writing Month (aka Nanowrimo) is November. Last year, I signed up for the Flint group, but I didn’t participate. I was too busy at work. This year, I’m even busier – but I’m going to do it, anyway.

I read two recent novels and they are 1) a re-working of the author’s previous fantasy novels but in the gothic/horror genre, and 2) yet another re-telling of a classic novel. Between them, I decided that there is more entertainment value (despite the work) in writing my own novel.

For whom am I writing? God and me.

When I attended a writer’s workshop last week, one assignment was a sort of salvage-yard poetry. We were SUPPOSED to take phrases from our own failed stories and poetry, then make something new.

But I’m terrible at following directions when it comes to writing (even God’s), so of course I used James Healy’s failed poetry.  Yes, Ireland’s Greatest Living Poet offered, among re-posts of his greatest hits, three that didn’t work. I was stunned.

I posted my homage at his blog, and since he didn’t curse me and threaten me with barristers, banisters, or barristas (the great horrors of modern life), I thought I’d post it here as well:

Love in a Post-Christian World
(An homage to James Healy, from his three unfinished poems.)

A fire is dying
upon the bare
shadows
above the ashes.
All the myth
in rome in lyons and in paris
even so in gaigue na manaigh
is dying.
A curse
is there
if you want it.

-Jean M. Balconi (the greatest living poetess in her own house – but only because she owns no parrots)

Last year I took up blogging as a Lenten penance. I took “Be Not Idle” as my title because it jumped out at me from the Bible.

I’ve learned that this title is ironic. For one thing, the passage, Wisdom 14:5, refers to trusting in God’s Wisdom. And I’m a natural worrier.  

The other irony is that I’m rather afraid of being idle, of having nothing pressing to do. The fear is a reason to draw out projects and say “yes” to all requests, no matter how frivolous. It’s been a challenge to see that I needn’t fill my waking hours (and sometimes restless sleeping hours) with tasks. 

Slowly, slowly I’m learning the lesson of Mary and Martha – that being in the presence of the Lord is time well-spent.  Idling isn’t the same thing as sloth.

I’m letting my ideas simmer a little more. I have half a dozen drafts saved; I come back to them and work a little at a time. When they’re ready, I’ll post them.

…(H)e is a consciousness objector to his own conscience.

- Jeff Miller, aka The Curt Jester, on Sen. Joe Biden’s convoluted rationale for being Catholic who supports abortion 

Baby Bro came over and cleaned my gutters (he’s taller and brought a longer ladder). He also took down a few low-hanging branches which I later took to the yardwaste collection center. I didn’t know that I didn’t have to separate the leaves and branches. The attendant had a chuckle at my hard work, but at least he educated me!

BB also brought over the second Futurama movie. It wasn’t nearly as funny (or focused) as the first one. The title was a clue that it was going to be a somewhat vulgar view of love and belonging, but BB didn’t know the saying “the beast with two backs” so it flew past him. The two best lines had us literally having to press the “review” button because we missed some of the dialogue afterwards, since we were laughing too hard. My favorite line is the “scientific” explanation by Professor Farnsworth: “Electromatter is Matter’s badass grandma.” And Bender’s speech at the end, explaining why he “rescued” his friends from a universe of bliss, was the very antithesis of 1 Corinthians 13:4, thus making it funnier than it would have been.

We went to bed past midnight and I, of course, managed to wake up less than 6 hours later. A thunderstorm was moving through, which isn’t that unusual. But I heard the rainwater rushing through the now-clear gutters and woke up enough to be completely awake.

I finished reading Danny Gospel and intend to post a review of it shortly, along with parallels between it and Odd Hours, by another author.

But first I must finish some writing of my own. I think I know why I was “blocked” while writing during the school year. When I write, I become completely consumed and lose track of time. I wrote for 12.5 hours a few days ago when I wasn’t using my alarm clock to curtail my writing session. I took a few breaks here and there, but I estimate that I was writing for 6 hours straight at the end.

The worst part is that I was working on character’s backstories, most of which won’t appear in the novel. But I had half-formed ideas about who the adults were, so off I went. One of my journalism teachers used to tell me that I was a good writer but tended to write “the history of dirt” (instead of sticking to the subject of worm-farming, for example). As a result, the editors had to prune deeply because my articles ran too long for newspapers. Unfortunately, I never freelanced for magazines, because they tend to like longer stories.

But I digress.

My clay class is officially over, with just an unofficial  ”glazing party” later. I have about 15 pounds of leftover clay, which means I’ll be using my dining table as a workplace from time to time this summer. 

My work has been a mixed bag. My first tile came out fantastic! My beautiful bowl with the painstakingly-built leaves, however, will make a rather nondescript planter. I dipped it in the glaze and wiped off the excess, but the glaze still filled all the spaces. It’s now a nothing-special planter. 

On the other hand, my failure has prepared me to use a different glazing technique when I make Jesse’s bowl. I covered it with galloping horses and horseshoes.

I find myself making gifts, mostly. I want to make Pat a tile of St. Anthony, for example. Someone else wants an angel like the one that I based on Eastern icons. And I’ve had it in my head to make a tile with an image of the Divine Mercy. 

In June, I’ll be free to volunteer more at the Art Association. I enjoy it, even when it’s actual work.  Meeting people is the main lure. I met a couple of professional maritime artists and an up-and-coming muralist. A month ago, a lovely couple named Parks came in to admire the children’s work. The wife was an absolute peach, and the husband obviously knew a lot about technique. He mentioned he painted but he humbly omitted that he illustrates Dean Koontz’s children books.   

I’ve often heard that artists are difficult, but I think the truth is that some difficult people are artists.  Mostly I’ve met people with humor, patience, and a willingness to make mistakes.

Speaking of which, I must mention one of my favorite things about going to Pistons’ basketball games: The Spare Tires. They are a group of large men who perform dance routines during halftime.  I know it sounds like a gag, but they are impressive.  

Go here and click on “Spare Tires Photo Gallery” or check them out on Youtube:

   http://www.nba.com/pistons/dance/sparetires.html

“God resolves all given time,” said Cai philosophically and trudged away into darkness. And Cadfael returned along the path with the uncomfortable feeling that God, nevertheless, required a little help from men, and what He mostly got was hindrance.”

- A Morbid Taste for Bones by Ellis Peters, first in the series

I can’t remember the first Brother Cadfael mystery that I read, but I ended up collecting the whole series (in paperback, of course). I had never heard of Ellis Peters (the pseudonym of Edith Pargeter), so I knew nothing about her research or expertise. However, I was struck by the details she included. I had been reading many medieval texts in Spanish.  She gave a good look at the day-to-day life in the monastary and its environs. Her books had the added attraction of being lighter reading El poema del mio Cid.

Morbid Taste for Bones was published in 1977, long before I read mysteries or romances.  However, she went on to write 20 novels and three short stories about Brother Cadfael, the last paperback of which came out posthumously in the States. I gradually collected them all, most by scouring used bookstores and charity book sales.

I had never devoured mystery novels like my friend M’e did, nor did I enjoy my friends’ tastes for romance novels. Peters did mysteries well, although I was able to pin down a couple murderers early in their stories. Her sense of the romantic was something new to me: No clothing-ripping, heaving chests, etc. Many of them occurred between good-looking young people, but there were also depictions of married couples, ”courtly” love, and loyalties tested.  

As I re-read the stories now, it’s interesting to compare the way that Peters changed her approach to the monk and his surroundings as she continued. This first book has an edge of disbelief to it, with a clearly politically-motivated prior and a suspicious “miracle” that sends a group of English monks to Wales to retrieve a saint’s relics.

Brother Cadfael is a man of the world, a former Crusader who joined a monastary life after years of travel and service as both a sailor and a soldier.  His vocation comes at the end of his service, when he’s in his 50’s.  Although some of the characters seem to cast doubt on the authenticity of religious belief, it’s clear even in Morbid Taste for Bones that Cadfael is no hypocrite. It’s a young monk who literally whispers skeptical and often sardonic comments in his ear. 

Eventually in the series – and I’m hard-pressed to say exactly where – the beauties of faith, hope and charity become more important than even mundane things like murder and politics. By the time of the last book, Brother Cadfael’s Penance, the full weight of Cadfael’s disobedience and its consequences are laid out plainly.

At any rate, I highly recommend the series.   

Where I live now – in base of the thumb of Michigan’s mitten - we almost never get snow days. The lay of the land and water is such that the climate is milder than the surrounding areas. (In the gardening, it’s a zone warmer here than in the rest of the state.)

This is probably the last snow day until next year, so I used it to its full.

I slept.

I haven’t been feeling well since Friday. Because my eyes are bleary and my thinking is slightly off, it takes me longer to get through normal chores like grading essays. Since it takes longer, I get up earlier in order to do lesson plans, etc. Then I feel tired and react so much slower to everything. It’s a vicious cycle.

I didn’t want to blog today, but it’s part of my Lenten discipline. In some ways, it’s not a lot different than praying! Sometimes the last thing I want to do is pray.  Until I actually do, and then I realize how necessary it is.

So I blogged, just like I did all the other necessary tasks between bouts of napping: doing laundry, correcting quizzes,  shoveling, catching up on reading, shoveling, filling the birdfeeder, washing dishes – and did I mention shoveling?

 Now I’m going to go off and pray, then get some more sleep.

Overcoming our faults and weaknesses gives glory to God, because we can’t possibly overcome them on our own.

- Mother Angelica

Two weeks ago, I had three pieces of furniture that had outlived their usefulness: a dresser, a linen folding screen, and a wingback chair. Two of the items found new homes, but the hand-me-down dresser remained. I’d used it as a bedside table despite it being too wide and too high. (People suspect you’re hiding the truth when you say you got the blackeye from rolling over to read the clock.) It is too big to fit in my car, and I was afraid to tie it into my trunk and attempt the hour-long drive to a charity. It’s too good for the neighbours’ bonfire.  With its typical  ’50s or early-’60s  tapered legs and fake-wood laminated top, it’s not stylish enough to interest the resale shops.*

As I was cleaning out the office closet, I wondered what to do about storage. Stacks of cardboard boxes are neither safe nor accessible, plus they absorb moisture during humid days. Plastic is better if you want to see the entire contents at a glance. (I prefer to read labels.) 

“It would be nice to have one of those expensive closet systems with drawers,” I thought. Eureka! I put the dresser in the closet, then stacked a low bookshelf on top. Ta da! My art supplies, writing paper, etc. are stored but accessible.

As usual, organizing one area opened my eyes to organizing another. I unearthed my writing desk. It was buried beneath low-priority paperwork, books, the telephone, etc. Mostly etcetera! I realized how long it’s been a dumping-ground when I excavated raffle tickets from the 2006 parish festival!

I don’t know what I’m going to write yet. However, I’ve already benefited from having a single place to read essays and correct tests. Now my diningroom table can stop serving as  Paperwork Central.

*I paid ten bucks for a similar nightstand at the St. Vincent de Paul Society.  I guess I’m not stylish.