Write Like It's My Job

“What is written without effort is in general read without pleasure.” -Samuel Johnson, writer

Writing is hard. I forget this sometimes, figuring that if I were truly gifted or talented then writing would come easily, words should form seamlessly on the page, the whole process as easy and natural as walking. When in reality, I often sit down to write and find my mind choking on the ideas I want to express, so that the end result is a few mangled half-sentences which I pronounce “stupid” and….(not sure how to finish this sentence).

In these situations, I have to rely on the reassurance from published authors who swear (in their own books on the writing process) that it doesn’t always come easily for them either. Anne Lamott penned what is perhaps my favorite book about writing, Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life. In it, she devotes a whole chapter to the immensely helpful concept of “Shitty First Drafts.” Don’t think that all authors get it right on the first try, Lamott exhorts. We all have to start with a “shitty first draft” in order to just get it down on paper. Leave prettiness, refinery and perfection to be sought later on in the revision stage.

Stephen King’s On Writing is another good read. (I like to pretend that reading about writing is an acceptable procrastination for actually doing some writing.) King recounts an episode, early in his career, where he learned to get over the need for perfection and just write. Returning home one evening, King refused to let himself get distracted by the pile of dirty dishes and instead sat down at the typewriter (remember those?) and just wrote. When he had completed his allotted time of writing, he promptly trashed those typewritten pages. They were terrible. Drivel. But he didn’t let the quality of the prose bother him, because he had succeeded in doing his job. He sat down and wrote.

I try to keep that mindset: my job is not to turn out to perfection, but to just sit down and write. To that end, my friend Kelly and I have started to set aside the occasional evening to meet up at DTUT, collapse into their ugly-yet-comfortable orange arm chairs and write. The other night I started a story that was pretty miserable, a “shitty first draft” if ever there was one. But still I can congratulate myself (and I think Anne and Stephen would as well) on the simple act of showing up and doing my job.

Comments-received-whilst-reuniting-with-the-family-over-the-weekend-in-Ohio-for-a-cousin's-wedding

Dad to Kristy: "Your sense of humor is...intriguing."

Uncle to Kristy: "I want you to marry an attorney with Steelers season tickets. The attorney part is optional."

Aunt-in-law to Kristy, after several vodka martinis: "Being nice never gets you anywhere, trust me. You need to go after the power. Make a difference in this world. You got the brains and the beauty. Nail a senator! (some expletives) Kristy, why are you blushing?"

The Koolickle

A recent article in the New York Times reports on an alarming new trend in snacks: Kool-Aid soaked pickles. The origin of this food (though I use that term loosely) seems to be the Mississippi Delta region, though apparently the popularity of, and demand for, these pickles is spreading.

I'm not sure I can even begin to imagine what these pickles taste like - a combo of sickly sweet (owing to the drink mix and a pound of sugar) and sour (vinegar brine). Though I do know exactly what they must smell like, because I myself spent many an afternoon in my youth with my head submerged in a bucket of Great Bluedini Kool-Aid & vinegar solution. (What, didn't you know that's the best way to dye your hair blue for an upcoming swim meet? Where's your team spirit, people!?)

A child, quoted in the NYTimes article, makes an intriguing comparison: in describing his affinity for this snack (dubbed by some "the Koolickle"), he states, "I like it the same as dipping hot Cheetos in ice cream." Now I'm wondering - how does one heat up a Cheeto?

Lily the Diva Pug

On my way home from the subway the other day, I passed a man walking 4 pugs. 4 pugs! The sight made me smile. As I got a few steps past the group, I noticed a 5th canine member of their happy family: a pug named Lily.

Lily had distanced herself from the hyper, tongue-wagging silliness of the rest of the group. Her red leash lay slack on the sidewalk. Though the man was calling her earnestly, Lily pretended not to hear. She stood, she stared, she ignored my curious look. She sauntered over to examine a parked bicycle, sniffed it, was not impressed. She paused as if considering her options. Eventually, when she had made clear that it was her choice to do so, she rejoined her pug brethren and they continued on their way.

A few days later I saw the brood crossing 1st Avenue, attracting the attention of several passers-by. Four of the pugs trotted in unison at the man’s heels, but there – there was Lily again! Feet defiantly scraping the asphalt, Lily was being dragged across the street at the end of her red leash. Every inch of her scrambling figure screamed, “I refuse! I go my own way!” I laughed out loud on the sidewalk.

I like to think of these scenes as little presents from God. It’s like God is saying, “Hey Kristy, wanna see something funny?” (and being omniscient, He knows my answer is “Always!”) Then He paints me a peculiar pug picture, and we share a laugh during my commute.

Neighborhood diva dogs: Just one of the many, many ways He provides for me.

For everything, there is a season...

The folks over at Salon.com have published an interview with Barbara Kingsolver about her latest book, Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life. It sounds like an interesting read, as it chronicles the year Kingsolver and her family spent eating only the food that they grew on their farm in Virginia. (Virginia!!)

I hope to read AVM soon, as part of my ongoing flirtation with supporting local agriculture and eating seasonally. These have been goals of mine for awhile, but I seem to be making slow progress. For one thing, I'm still not quite sure which fruits & vegetables are supposed to be eaten in each season. With most produce now available year-round in the grocery store, there is a learning curve in understanding when each item actually has its natural harvest at which point during the year. (Though my Mennonite cookbook, Simply In Season, does help school me on this matter, so I'm slowly learning.)

My first introduction to eating seasonally came a few years back via Lauren Winner's book, Mudhouse Sabbath. As a Jewish convert to Christianity, Winner discusses elements of Judaism that she has adopted as disciplines in her Christian life. While ruminating on the concept of kosher, and the Jewish idea of infusing even the mundane act of eating with holiness, Winner suggests eating seasonally as one way for Christians to similarly capture this daily sense of reverence. Eating certain foods at specific times of the year can help us reflect on creation and our Creator, and give thanks for the specific blessings He gives at appointed seasons.

While eating squash in the fall and kale in the winter, I can marvel at how God provides for me during each season of my life. While waiting for summer to bring strawberries, I am reminded of waiting on the Lord and how His timing is always good.

"I wait for the LORD, my soul waits, and in his word I put my hope." (Psalm 130:5, NIV)

As I Was Walking...

This past Saturday some friends and I participated in the 22nd Annual Great Saunter. Organized by the Shorewalkers (enigmatic motto: "Collecting is Good, Shorewalking is Better"), the Great Saunter is a 32-mile walk around the rim of Manhattan.

Saunterers typically take 12 hours to complete the loop, but my group figured our legs and schedules would only permit us to walk half of the event. At 7:30am, we set off from South Street Seaport and headed towards our destination: Inwood, the northern tip of the island.

As we meandered those 15 miles up Manhattan's western shore, there was lots to look at: some familiar sights (like the Statue of Liberty) but also many things we had never seen before. Here's a partial list:

-WWII Memorial in Battery Park
-Helicopter landing at the Heliport
-Horse trotting outside NYPD's Mounted Unit
-Knee-high kids playing Little League baseball
-Houseboats at the 79th Street boat basin
-Countless public art installations, including a giant wine bottle
-Clay tennis courts in Riverside Park
-Hundreds of motorcyclists on parade on the West Side Hghwy

Occasionally, though, the path did get a little dull, the walking a little difficult, and sometimes stray baseballs and erratic pigeons threatened to attack, so KT and I came up with an activity to pull us through the tough times. We decided to think of all the songs that have the word "walk" or "walking" in the lyrics, and I am proud to report that we counted 44 songs! From PeterPaul&Mary to Dionne Warwick, Aerosmith to Sinatra, Les Mis to Little Mermaid, we covered all genres in our quest for walkin' tunes.

All in all, a good Saunter.

Eat.Pray.Love

This book, by Elizabeth Gilbert, is hard to avoid. I had seen it in bookstores for awhile, but recently it began to incessantly catch my eye each time I entered a store. I thought, “All right, I see you, I see you. I’ll get around to you one day.” Not satisfied, Eat Pray Love stepped it up a notch and sent my friend M. down to NYC for a visit, during which she extolled the many virtues of this tome.

Just in case I didn’t get the hint, Eat Pray Love arranged for me to meet my friend Kelly for coffee immediately following my visit with M. Sitting at our regular table at DTUT, Kelly noticed another patron walk by with a copy of EPL. “I love that book!” she exclaimed, “My friend just returned my copy to me.” And so I gave in to EPL’s shameless self-promotion, borrowed Kelly’s copy, and 100 pages later, have no regrets.

Eat Pray Love tells the enviable tale of Gilbert’s year lived abroad: 4 months in Italy, 4 months in India, and 4 more in Indonesia. She sets out in part to escape the messy stress of a divorce and failed relationship, and in part to seek the peace and spirituality she hasn’t quite been able to grasp in her life thus far. She casts a wide net in her spiritual search, spurred on by varied experiences such as an intimate encounter with God on her bathroom floor (somewhat reminiscent of Anne Lamott’s conversion experience), an emotional response to the teachings of an Indian guru, and a curiosity peaked by an encounter with a wise and prescient Balinese medicine man.

While I’m not sure if I will ultimately agree with Gilbert’s conclusions on spirituality, I am enjoying her writing style (the woman can turn a phrase!), her humorous self-deprecation, and her insightful observations.

Earlier, as I was reading ELP in the lunchroom of my office, a co-worker noticed the book and asked if I liked it. “A friend recommended it to me, and I keep seeing it in bookstores,” she explained. Been there, lady.