Whalesong

The book that will change my life is the one I am writing now.

That sounds incredibly arrogant. Let me try again.

The book that will hopefully change my life is the one I’m attempting to write now.

Better—still pretentious. But anyone who decides to blog about their literary aspirations is already hemorrhaging pretention, so let’s just jump right in.

Well, perhaps some backtracking first.

There are so many books I could choose to write about for this topic—hundreds, probably. I would most likely need to start before the beginning, with all the books my parents have read over the years, because where would I be if they didn’t have a voracious love of reading to pass down to me? Perhaps I should go back to the books we read every night before bed (Wombat Stew and The Baby Uggs Are Hatching) or the ones we read together out loud when I was a little older (The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Chronicles of Narnia).

Maybe it needs to be the books I fell in love with as a child and read ten, twenty, even fifty times and never grew tired of, the ones that kept my nose glued to the pages instead of enjoying the Hawaiian-Californian-Western-Mountain landscapes during family vacations (Mom and Dad probably didn’t think their active work to make me love reading would backfire in quite that way—I think they were counting on me being carsick if I tried to read in the car). The pages of the Thoroughbred Series are ripped at the corners, yellowed with age, and stained with orange fingerprints from years of Cheetos picked up from roadside gas stations.

I could talk about my 11^th grade AP English class, where I learned what literary analysis meant and discovered that I was quite possibly rather good at it. Gatsby and Macbeth and a haunting poem called The Waking by Theodore Roethke ganged up on me and forced my hand—when I made the jump to college a few years later, it would be as an English major.

I could expound at length on the books I read during classes with Dr. Christopher Armitage at UNC, the English professor who defended his thesis to Tolkein AND C. S. Lewis on the same exam board and was pretty much a rock star in my eyes. His classes were challenging and demanding, and he was a reportedly hellacious grader—and I used to squirm in his class as he read my essays out loud to show the other students what an A paper should look like. He was the person who made me realize that 11^th grade AP English had not led me wrong.

I could wax expansively about the authors I love today—Gaiman and Rowling and Dessen and Koen and Pierce and Grossman and always, always Mr. William Shakespeare.

But now that I’ve written all of this, I think I know where I should have started all along: Christmas, 1992. Age six. Santa brought a book called Whalesong for me, an epic novel detailing the life and adventures and love of Hruna, a humpback whale. This book spoke to me in a way that nothing had before. It’s been probably 15 years since I touched this book, and I can still remember some of the whale songs—Around and over and under the sea, come oh come white whale to me, or Deep in my heart I breathe deeply with you, the breath of the one who made you and keeps you. It wriggled into the deepest part of me and stuck. It was all I could think about. I wanted more. I needed more.

I decided I would write more.

At the age of six, I started writing my own epic novel about a talking humpback whale. Same basic setup as Whalesong, original characters. Later I would discover the ever-entertaining, often-sordid world of fan fiction and realize that in 1992, I was pretty much a pioneer of the genre. I crafted eight single-spaced pages of rousing text. It was a true work of genius.

The novel was unfinished, and a few years later at a rowdy birthday party a girl knocked over the old Mac in the basement and relegated my story to the void, but that was the beginning.

That was the beginning. After that, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to write a novel.

I want to write a novel.

I am writing a novel.

This is the book that will change my life.

This week’s synchroblog topic was a book that changed my life. You can read the other entries here:

The Creative Collective

How to Go from 0 to $300 Champagne in Under 10 Minutes: A Primer

1. Be born into the right family. Seriously. I think the ability to flirt is a hazy mix of genetics and how you’re raised, proof of the blurry line between nature and nurture. Some people know how to walk into a bar and immediately get a drink handed to them, others do not. I’m hopeless at this particular skill, but I happen to have been born into the right family and possess a sister who is a shark. [I made promises under dire threats, with the elixir of bubbles and sin still heavy on my tongue, to be nice to my sister in this entry. I think I’m being nice so far. “Shark” is a compliment in this context!]
2. Have a few drinks in advance. You need to be in the zone to work such a miracle. [Beer infused with whiskey does the trick nicely.]
3. Scout the location. You’re not going to get $300 champagne in a sketchy dive bar or pretentious hipster establishment. Think classy, think expensive. [For the curious: Rasika, fine Indian dining, DC Restaurant Week. Can’t go wrong.]
4. Identify a target. Approach the bar, scout out the situation, find someone who is likely to engage you in conversation but is not ultimately going to ask anything else from you. This is key for the quick escape. Our target: man, mid-50s, European, silver-gray hair swept back from the forehead and falling to the shoulders, expensive suit. His accomplice: trophy date, blond, at least 20 years younger. [Smoking hot.]
5. Establish contact. Look pitifully over the shoulders of the patrons at the packed bar, desperate for a menu, desperate for a drink. When the target hands you a menu and says something along the lines of “My eyes are terrible, I can’t read a thing, hope you can do better,” you pounce.  [When I say “you,” I mean my sister. I had virtually nothing to do with this operation except witness in wonder.]
6. Begin flirtatious dialogue. “No way, my eyes are way worse than yours. No one has worse eyes than I do.” “Oh really, mine are pretty bad. What’s your prescription?” [No joke, this was the opening gambit. In case anyone is wondering, my sister does indeed have the worst eyes, but only because she has astigmatism, which beats out my -8, -8.5. We’re both sort of legally blind, so it may be a moot point anyway. But we’re sisters, so we’re always competing at least a little bit.]
7. Throw down the gauntlet. Within a few minutes of beginning the conversation, my sister leans over and whispers gleefully, “We’re totally going to get free drinks out of this guy. Just watch.” [I was scandalized, but what could I do? We were already knee-deep into things at that point.]
8. Prolong the contact. Allow inappropriate hands to be placed onto shoulders, intimate leaning-in to converse more easily. [Try to ignore the scathing glares coming from the trophy date, who sees her sugar daddy being compromised and is Not Happy. (Actually, she was pretty cool, considering. I think she’s probably used to this sort of thing.)]
9. Peruse the drink menu. Make it clear what you’re after. [My sister likes to strenuously claim that she THOUGHT we were only going to get $10 cocktails out of this guy. She had no deeper, nefarious plans at work. You be the judge.]
10. Watch the light bulb go off. “Ah, a drink! Do you want a drink?” [This is addressed to the date, who nods in agreement.] “Champagne? Yes, let’s do champagne. Sir, we’ll have this bottle and 4 glasses.” [Exchange stunned looks with your sister, for you will have perused the menu at this point and know that all the bottles of champagne offered have 3 digits in the price line.]
11. Take the glass in trembling fingers. Admire the golden liquid, the rambunctious bubbles racing to the surface, the sweet smell wafting from the glass. [Truly, a thing of beauty.]
12. Toast the occasion. Take the first heavenly sip. [Try not to expire from sheer delight.]
13. Make the escape. “Sullivan, party of two? Your table is ready now.” [Exquisite timing.]
14. Offer effusive thanks, follow the waitress. [Still clutching your glass, which is barely even dented. So much happiness still to come.]
15. Collapse into giggles upon arrival at the table, purloined $300 champagne successfully acquired. [Try not to let the fact that you will never, ever have better champagne than this bring down your mood.]

This week’s synchroblog topic was speed. You can read the other entries here:

The Creative Collective

Monster

The monster.

It began with a mouse.

Sleep-deprived, arms a checkerboard of half-healed scratches, pants dotted with incisors’ devotion, I stopped at the toy aisle and perused my options. Laser pointer? The last had been destroyed in one casual swipe of the paw, shattered into pieces on the cold, hard floor. Feather bird on stick? Abandoned with chilling disregard for a former favorite, relegated to exile in the broom closet. Remote-controlled mouse? Didn’t even measure on the Richter scale of toys that might pacify the monster. Nothing would do. It was a pointless exercise, designed solely to get me out of the house and away from the monster for a few precious hours.

I made my way through the various aisles proclaiming the joys of pet ownership—dogs drooling loyally on their masters’ slippers, birds cheeping beautiful songs of adoration for their owners, cats blissfully sacked out on their parents’ laps.

Lies.

I had to pass through the small mammal section of the pet store to get to the door. The beady eyes, pink noses, and enterprising, trembling whiskers of the mice made me pause. They slept in little heaps of tiny white bodies or chased each other around the wheel, always racing—never winning—not caring. What the monster really needed was a challenge—something small and fast and temptingly furry, something that could go where no laser pointer could go.

I looked at that adorable pile of little white bodies, I looked down at the patchwork of red scabs lacing my hands, and I called for an attendant.

The girl at the checkout counter looked at the cardboard box trembling slightly in my hand as my new mouse friend raced frantically from one side to the next. Don’t you need some kind of cage? her raised eyebrow seemed to ask. Perhaps a bag of food or a water bottle or some shavings?

“He’s going to be a free-ranging mouse,” I responded to her unspoken question. A swipe of plastic through a scanner and the mouse and I were out in the open air.

“It’s not necessarily a death sentence,” was the comfort I offered on the way home. “Not if you’re very fast and very good at hiding.”

My mind was already writing the mouse off, wondering how I might ramp up the game when the monster completed the first round. A whole swarm of mice? A fat hamster? Perhaps a chinchilla—one at least as big as the monster himself. A ferret might make for a challenge, though I was reluctant to introduce such a smelly beast into the apartment even for the short length of time it would take for the monster to dispatch it.

No, it was clear that once the monster worked through the pet store options that the game would need to reach another level. I’d need to start trapping wild creatures, squirrels and rabbits and raccoons, things that could offer a real challenge.

But I did know one thing—once I woke the monster’s hunger for live prey, it would never end. If I wanted to avoid being on the wrong end of angry claws and wicked teeth, I would always need to be one step ahead on the food chain.

The mouse and I arrived home. The monster had vented his wrath at my absence on the cactus plant, poor unwitting dupe that it was. Cactus soil on his paws, tail in the air, the monster stalked toward me, yellow-green eyes glinting. I knelt and placed the box on the floor. The trembling of the box increased exponentially. The mouse could sense the presence of the monster. Those cold eyes regarded the box with predatory calculation. I reached for the tab that would release the mouse to his death sentence.

I paused.

Upon further consideration, I decided to go with a second laser pointer.

I could not be responsible for unleashing that kind of hunger on the unsuspecting world.

This week’s synchroblog topic was hunger. You can read the rest of the posts here:

The Creative Collective

All Insane Together Now

“It’s easier to get your heart broken when there are tons of people around getting their hearts broken at the same time…”

This is the first part of a direct quote that I issued during a conversation last night. I find it particularly illuminating in regards to the sometimes pathological community that is Carolina basketball.

You see, I realize that I’m sort of insane. I also realize that I come from a family of very insane people, and that if/when I procreate I will do my absolute best to pass the insane genes down to the next generation. My sister and I have made vows that our children will come home from the hospital in Carolina onesies. And yes, they will be in blue no matter what the gender. It’s all about initiation into the Carolina community at an early age.

What I was referring to specifically was watching the UNC/UK game last weekend at the Crystal City Sports Pub. It’s the designated Carolina watch bar in Arlington, so there were tons of people up there in UNC gear, drinking beer out of blue cups from He’s Not, and cheering like banshees for the entire game. Occasionally an enterprising individual would bellow “TAR,” and like good UNC minions, we all responded without a beat of hesitation with a resounding “HEELS!”

We clapped. We swore. We threatened the refs with bodily harm for the shoddy officiating. And when John Henson’s last-second shot to win the game was swatted away and the clock dribbled down to nothing, there was a collective groan and then silence. It was the silence of a community of hearts shattering.

As silly as it sounds, I’d rather be there than watching the game than by myself on the couch. I’d be miserable no matter where I watched the game, but I feel slightly less like a crazy person when I’m marinating in misery all around.

In the same vein, it’s so much better to witness a huge victory with other Carolina fans around. The best is when you’re actually at the Dean Dome, and everyone pours out the doors in a jostling, euphoric frenzy, slapping high fives with complete strangers, singing the alma mater, howling cheers to the sky.

The best Carolina community moment I can remember was the day after the 2005 National Championship. After the trials of the Doherty era (8-20…), the media frenzy of Roy’s abandonment of Kansas and return to home, the long drought between national championships, the team that was not enough of a “team” and had no chance against the Illinois juggernaut, there was nothing sweeter than walking outside on that Tuesday morning to mild temperatures, a Carolina blue sky, and a campus full of the happiest people on earth. Seriously—people couldn’t stop smiling, all day. Everyone was just a little bit nicer to everyone else. You could stop and talk to just about anyone on campus that day about the game and feel like you’d known them forever. We were a family in triumph and it was glorious.

But, like I said earlier, I know that I’m a little bit insane. Because here’s the second part of my quote:

“…or at least, people who are almost as heart broken. I don’t think anyone was as heartbroken as I was.”

To be honest, being a Carolina fan is sort of a competitive sport. Who knows all the players names, even the benchwarmers? Who knows how many assists Kendall Marshall is averaging per game? Who can recite the most arcane bits of Carolina knowledge at a moment’s notice? It’s all about proving your love, and like any big family, it pays to be at the top of the food chain.

Thank goodness basketball season is finally here. Here’s to a long season of insanity…

This week’s synchroblog topic was community. You can read the other synchroblog posts here:

The Creative Collective

Welcome Back

A few weeks ago, my friend Katie wrote about being fired from the company we both used to work for. I had already left the company in September, but when I heard the news a few weeks later I was filled with the same disbelief and indignation and frustration and fury that had plagued most of my previous year at the company. I had the same thought: how could they do that to someone who played such an integral role in the company for three years?

But Katie, I was lucky enough to see you a few days ago, and I know you’ve already figured this out, but it doesn’t hurt to stress the point—this was a good thing. You were more like my friend Katie in that short time we had lunch together than you had been for most of the past year. Your spark is back, your engagement with what’s going on around you, your love of the unknown. The Katie of the past year has appeared to be mired in a fog of apathy and unhappiness, weighed down.

One thing I’ve always admired about you is your fearlessness. When you decided to buy a house a few years ago, I thought it was a little crazy. But you’re young! my internal decisionmaking compass shouted. The real estate market is nuts right now! You’ll be stuck with this house forever, tied down, wings clipped!

But those were my fears, not yours—you attacked the process of buying a house with determination and single-minded intent to succeed. It worked out exceptionally well, as anyone who’s been over to your house can attest.

Now that you’re out this job, I know you’re going to do great things. Whether or not it’s the project we talked about at lunch, or something still unknown, I know it will be something that is challenging and inspiring and fulfilling.

Welcome back, Katie—can’t wait to see what happens next.

This week’s synchroblog topic was to respond to a post from a fellow synchroblogger. You can read Katie’s original post here, and the other posts from this week here:

The Creative Collective

Reflections

I am a baby, and I am bathed in the crab pot on the sun-drenched deck of my family’s beach house in Emerald Isle, North Carolina. I imagine that the sun is shining and the breeze is gentle and the sky is azure blue. I don’t remember being bathed in the crab pot, and fill in the details as needed. I have been on the receiving end of so many jokes over the years, however—every time the pot is dragged out for cooking—that I believe I am entitled to stretch my imagination. The deck is saturated by sun, the water as warm as if it’s been gently simmering on the stove for hours. My parents run wet hands up over my forehead and tufts of hair, and it is as close to baptism as I will get.

I do not have a church or temple or mosque, but I do have the beach.

Emerald Isle takes its name from the stunning green clarity of the water, but I can remember one summer in particular when it embodied the name better than ever before. That summer you could walk for what felt like miles in knee-deep water that was so pure and clear that you could see every blemish on your toes as you walked, see tiny minnows darting in the water, spot fantastic shells and scuttling crustaceans. The world dropped away. All that mattered was the water and the teaming life that existed all around us, invisible until that day when the water parted the curtain; illumination.

I am like a battery. Every pilgrimage I make to the beach is a kind of recharging and restoration. I rely on the beach to keep me going through fall and winter and spring and all the bad days and hard times sprinkled in between. I have become a lazy battery in recent years. It used to be I had one week to get my fill of sun and sand and water and then an entire year to eke out the remnants. I was very efficient. But in the seven years I lived in North Carolina, there were weekend trips, Memorial Days and Fourth of Julys and Labor Days, and the ubiquitous family vacation. My battery was overflowing. Now that I live in another state, I hope I can sputter along until summer.

On clear nights the stars crowd the night sky with reckless abandon, caught in the gauzy haze of the Milky Way. Sometimes the moon is full and it hangs over the water, creating a moonlit path that stretches out into forever. It looks so real I can imagine taking one step and then another onto that path, walking without care.

A few years ago I was alone at the beach in early October. It was cloudy and the wind was enthusiastic, whipping the sand into a frenzy. I stayed up on the deck with a book; it was far too chilly to venture down onto the beach. At one point I paused in my reading and put the book down on the wooden bench next to me. At that moment there was a break in the clouds and bars of sunlight sliced down into the water, illuminating just a small patch of water in front of my house. The sunlight was a visceral thing, solid enough to touch. I remember thinking the only thing that could make this more beautiful and then before the thought coalesced a group of dolphins sliced the glittering surface of the water. One, two, three fins cut the shimmering blue-green glass.

How could they have known the sun would be shining in that particular spot? How did I happen to look up at the precise moment they appeared? Why in front of my house?

Things like this make you believe. Things like this keep you going the other 364 days of the year.

This week’s synchroblog topic was water. You can read the other Creative Collective posts here:

Water

Of Metros, Pizza, and Identity

An identity crisis, large or small, can come at the strangest times, and they very rarely offer up any warning. Not so much as a “Hey, by the way, you’re going to have an identity crisis on your way home from the metro today.”

Here’s how it happened. It was late, somewhere after 12 but before 1 on a Saturday night in Arlington. It had been a long day; running in the morning, watching possibly the most pathetic UNC football game of all time at noon, horseback riding at 4:30, and dinner and drinks with friends in the city that evening. I was tired. I was also by myself.

I don’t really mind the walk home from the metro. Sure, it would be super convenient if I only lived 5 or 10 minutes away, but it’s kind of nice to get out in the neighborhood. It also helps make up for the calories I sink into beer/wine/sangria/insert your favorite drink here that usually accompany my trips into the city. The only time it really becomes a problem is when it’s late and I’m walking home alone in the dark. I could take a taxi—there’s a hopeful line of drivers outside the stop at all times—but I’m stubborn and I don’t like to admit that I get a little jumpy being alone in the dark. I especially don’t like to admit that being young and white and female and alone makes me stand out. I keep my keys between my fingers, my cell phone within easy reach, and I walk. So far it hasn’t been a problem.

On this particular Saturday night I was also carrying a box of pizza leftovers from dinner. I’d had any number of homeless (and maybe not homeless) people ask for my pizza that night. I was a little annoyed; I paid for the pizza, I went to the trouble of boxing up my pizza leftovers and carting them all over the city, and I’d be damned if I was going to give them up. I’m poor at the moment. DC is a money pit and I don’t get paid for another 4 ½ weeks.

At least, this is what I told myself after I turned down every request, feeling more and more guilty after every negative shake of the head, every averted gaze as I pretended not to hear the words coming my way.

I was about halfway home, walking down one of the darker parts of Randolph Street, and I saw a girl in front of me waiting for the bus. Just as I got up to her, I heard her say “Excuse me.” Not again, was my first thought. I tucked my head and quickened my pace. “Excuse me,” I heard again.

My gait faltered. For a split second, I debated stopping. The voice was hesitant and quiet and sounded a little frightened. Maybe this girl really needed my help. But then I thought about how dark it was and how alone I was and all the other people I’d ignored that night. I thought about who else could be waiting in the shadows for me to stop and talk to this girl. I ducked my chin and hurried past.

I thought about that girl the rest of my walk home. In general, I think of myself as a good person. I’m sure most people like to count themselves as good people. But what are my definitions of good? I work hard. I follow the law. I recycle when I can. I try to be a good friend/sister/daughter/etc. But when it really comes down to it, what do I do for anyone else? What do I contribute to make the world a better place?  I’m so selfish of my own safety—so concerned with preserving my own skin—that I won’t even stop to see what a girl alone on the side of the road needs from me.

Maybe identity crisis is too strong for this particular incident, but it’s something that I’ve been thinking about a lot the past few days. Should I look up volunteer activities in the area? Maybe, but putting in a few hours a month and then burying my head in the sand again doesn’t make for any great change, in myself or for others.

I don’t have an answer, but I am thinking about it, and maybe that’s the best first step I can take.

This week’s synchroblog topic was Identity Crisis. You can read the other posts here: The Creative Collective