I got the idea here and since I like procrastinating my novel, thought I'd give it a shot.
Novel: Hey, you know how you were feeling really good about your word-count last night? And how it said you'd been done by November 29th?
Me: Yeah, I remember. Why?
Novel: If you look now, it says December 3rd.
Me: Why would you draw my attention to that?
Novel: Oh come on, it's not like you'll have me done by November 30th anyway.
Me: But I'll have 50k. That's close enough.
Novel: Words don't equal story. Remember Stasis? Almost 100 pages and no story. Took you two years to realize that you suck at plot.
Me: Hey, leave Stasis alone. I was 14. Besides, you have a plot, in case you hadn't noticed.
Novel: You named the villain after a Jersey Shore character you read while your procrastinating. That's plot gold, my friend.
Me: That may be where I got the idea, but it works. Besides, when I think of a better name, I'll go back and change it.
Novel: The way you went back and changed the twins eye color? Oh. . .wait, you still haven't done that yet.
Me: It's like you don't want to be written.
Novel: What I don't want is to be written just so you can say you wrote me. I thought you prided yourself on quality of words over quantity.
Me: I do. And I will. But there needs to be a balance of both.
Novel: At what cost? Your relationships? Your own sanity? People are starting to get annoyed with you because of this. Is it worth it?
Me: Yes, it's worth it. I can't give up now. I'm so close. This is just the Week 2 Slump.
Novel: If you say so. How many words left today?
Me: Shut up, book. You're not real.
Novel: Don't remind me.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Reason 620 I Am Thankful for My Boss
Seriously, this guy gives me reasons to be thankful for him and my job every day, but today especially.
Everyone in my life has been super supportive the last 8 days because of a writing competition I'm doing. However, nobody really hears about it more than my boss. This is simply because I'm with him from 9 am to 5 pm five days a week. He's a huge part of my life, which means he also hears the majority of my complaining.
Today, just a little bit ago, I went into his office to tell him his next patient was here and also to lament how much writing I had to do today to meet my word-count. I write at work when I'm not interacting with patients or on the phone, and he knows that and has given his blessing.
But today, after I told him what my word-count was and what it needed to be, he looked at me and said "you can do it". He then went on to say that his 1 o'clock appointment would take three hours, and that I should write away because he knew I could get it done.
To know that he supports me fully and believes in me has been huge, especially today when I'm in something of a rut and funk with my writing.
So, thank you Caden. I fully believe this novel wouldn't get finished without your help.
Everyone in my life has been super supportive the last 8 days because of a writing competition I'm doing. However, nobody really hears about it more than my boss. This is simply because I'm with him from 9 am to 5 pm five days a week. He's a huge part of my life, which means he also hears the majority of my complaining.
Today, just a little bit ago, I went into his office to tell him his next patient was here and also to lament how much writing I had to do today to meet my word-count. I write at work when I'm not interacting with patients or on the phone, and he knows that and has given his blessing.
But today, after I told him what my word-count was and what it needed to be, he looked at me and said "you can do it". He then went on to say that his 1 o'clock appointment would take three hours, and that I should write away because he knew I could get it done.
To know that he supports me fully and believes in me has been huge, especially today when I'm in something of a rut and funk with my writing.
So, thank you Caden. I fully believe this novel wouldn't get finished without your help.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Acting Out of My Justification
I lost access to my old blog, and decided to start a new one. This is that attempt.
Last night was our weekly family study of Romans. It was dad, mom and fiance, Andrew. We were talking about justification and faith; being clothed in the new garments replacing fig leaves. The question was where did I feel justification was not enough. When did I feel that I needed to make my own garments to cover what God already died for.
Que family code speak. We started talking about "that one time" and "back in seventh grade" and Andrew sat there looking a little confused. My mom looked sheepish and my dad looked worried. He laughed a little nervously and said that he had opened a can of worms. I hadn't told Andrew about the situation in question.
I made an executive decision. If I'm going to marry Andrew, I have to tell him everything. But it was more than that. I claim to believe the justification of the Cross. I need to live it out. No shame. No fear. Maybe a little embarrassment.
When I was in seventh grade, I went to a very popular private school. I did not fit in at all. I had a few friends who were considered popular. The main conversation was always around sex. Kids were talking about how far they had gotten (which I now know to be a lie). I can never do anything on a small scale, so to bump up my status, I concocted my own lie. A lie that made me popular. Sort of.
I told a few choice people that I had slept with a youth pastor and might be pregnant. This spread like wild-fire. I thought my plan had gone off flawlessly. Until two things happened. A girl in my class called me a slut and I got called into the principals office.
I knew instantly what it was about. My parents were called in and I sat between them while the guidance counselor and the principal looked at me and told me I was dangerous. That I needed help. That I wasn't allowed back at the school until I had gotten help.
This is part of my dad's and my story. This is where I saw him defending me. This is where I saw him as dad. But for years I struggled with this. Fear that I was really dangerous. Shame over what I had said.
I got the image of beating myself with stones trying to clean the sin off my skin. And as the blood continued to pour out of my broken flesh I prayed with each stroke that it would be the last. The final. Enough to call me clean. I realized a few years ago that it wasn't. I didn' have to keep beating myself. Jesus took the beating that was rightfully mine.
Even though I knew this, telling this story has held an ounce of fear. What will people think when they hear what I did? After last night I realized it doesn't matter. There is a very cliche, yet somehow true saying: those who matter don't mind and those who mind don't matter. And it's true. Those who love me will see me as Jesus sees me; past my sin.
Last night was our weekly family study of Romans. It was dad, mom and fiance, Andrew. We were talking about justification and faith; being clothed in the new garments replacing fig leaves. The question was where did I feel justification was not enough. When did I feel that I needed to make my own garments to cover what God already died for.
Que family code speak. We started talking about "that one time" and "back in seventh grade" and Andrew sat there looking a little confused. My mom looked sheepish and my dad looked worried. He laughed a little nervously and said that he had opened a can of worms. I hadn't told Andrew about the situation in question.
I made an executive decision. If I'm going to marry Andrew, I have to tell him everything. But it was more than that. I claim to believe the justification of the Cross. I need to live it out. No shame. No fear. Maybe a little embarrassment.
When I was in seventh grade, I went to a very popular private school. I did not fit in at all. I had a few friends who were considered popular. The main conversation was always around sex. Kids were talking about how far they had gotten (which I now know to be a lie). I can never do anything on a small scale, so to bump up my status, I concocted my own lie. A lie that made me popular. Sort of.
I told a few choice people that I had slept with a youth pastor and might be pregnant. This spread like wild-fire. I thought my plan had gone off flawlessly. Until two things happened. A girl in my class called me a slut and I got called into the principals office.
I knew instantly what it was about. My parents were called in and I sat between them while the guidance counselor and the principal looked at me and told me I was dangerous. That I needed help. That I wasn't allowed back at the school until I had gotten help.
This is part of my dad's and my story. This is where I saw him defending me. This is where I saw him as dad. But for years I struggled with this. Fear that I was really dangerous. Shame over what I had said.
I got the image of beating myself with stones trying to clean the sin off my skin. And as the blood continued to pour out of my broken flesh I prayed with each stroke that it would be the last. The final. Enough to call me clean. I realized a few years ago that it wasn't. I didn' have to keep beating myself. Jesus took the beating that was rightfully mine.
Even though I knew this, telling this story has held an ounce of fear. What will people think when they hear what I did? After last night I realized it doesn't matter. There is a very cliche, yet somehow true saying: those who matter don't mind and those who mind don't matter. And it's true. Those who love me will see me as Jesus sees me; past my sin.
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