Bah, Humbug

I have a hard time at gift-giving occasions. I’d like to find a reason for this other than my own selfishness and pride, but I’m feeling a little squirmy because I’m afraid that that’s what it gets down to.

So here’s the deal. I have two problems: stinginess and a very sad lack of shopping skills.

First, I always feel like money is tight. It doesn’t matter how much we have, I am always aware of how much we owe, or the things we ought to be doing with money if we had more, and also how much I shouldn’t have spent last week/month in light of those things. I think I will ALWAYS feel that money is tight; it’s bred into me.

So, at public gift-giving time (and here I am talking about Christmas and also wedding and baby showers, not times when you give a present just because you feel like it and you know it won’t be compared to what everyone else is giving), I feel tense. As soon as the relatives start talking about who is giving to whom this year, and what the targeted amount-per-present should be, my muscles start to twitch and my body goes into fight-or-flight. Because any amount is always too much (here’s the selfishness), and because I am extremely deficient in “finding a good deal” or “making something small look big and fabulous” or even “picking just the right thing” categories. I feel humiliated when I have to give things to people in front of other people, because my present always seems cheaper/dumber than everyone else’s, even when I bite the bullet and spend MORE than I should just to avoid embarrassment. (Have you ever been to a baby shower, clutching your little hooded towel or baby bath set, and watched people give the expecting mother three designer outfits each? This always happens to me.)

I don’t speak the gift-giving love language. Giving gifts is never about love with me. It’s about obligation.

I hate this about myself. I don’t really know how to change it, either. In efforts to avoid wincing when I need to start dumping money at Shopko, we have begun budgeting money all year so that we have a Christmas cushion. It hasn’t helped much. I still can’t stand the feeling of spending, spending, spending. I try to think nice things about the people I’m buying for as I buy. I try to plan ahead and select things with care and love. I’m really trying here, folks. But I still feel nothing but churning stomach when it comes to trying to pick out, buy, wrap and publicly give presents.

Yes, I know it’s pride, this thing about being in public. I admit it.

The problem with public gift-giving is that there is never an option to sit out. Imagine what it would be like if I said to our relatives one year, “I’m sorry. We’re sitting out Christmas this year. (But feel free to give to us if you want.)” Or if one year I gave only cheapie presents—say, $5 presents, when everyone else was doing $15. Knowing my relatives, they would be very sweet about it and not feel bad. But I would be miserable. That’s the problem with parties at which people exchange gifts—you know everyone is going to see. (Pride, pride.)

Then there's always the kids in my children's classes at school who invite their entire class to their birthday parties. What's with that? I've never even heard of the kid, and now I have to find money in my budget for them? And since sending something cheap (a candy bar, say) isn't an option, I end up keeping my kids home from the party. Can you believe that? My own cheapness and pride keeps my kid from a birthday party.

And the other source of my paranoia is that since I hate shopping, I am sadly lacking in experience and knowledge about what a good price is or high value is. I know that even if I spend more than the requisite amount on a really cool (it seems to me) candle, for example, the person I give it to knows vastly more than I do about candles. Probably she will look at it and know (in some mysterious way) that it is the BAD brand of candles. Because probably everyone but me knows that a candle from anywhere but “Salt City,” for example, or some other place I don’t know about, is not worth burning.

Now, I know that several of my relatives and friends, to whom I plan to give and to whom I will always give, are reading this. I hope you all know that it really has nothing to do with my love for you, my gratefulness to you, or my desire to give you something you would love. I just wish there were some way I could sacrifice for you that would feel meaningful—to both of us. I wish I could get over this. I’m working on it. In the meantime, keep in mind when you open things from me, that I am groveling inside at my own stupidity for picking out whatever it is. Know that I still love you, even though I hate buying gifts.

Hey, here’s an idea: next year, let’s all spend a lot of time thinking about what we would give each other if money were no object. (We can take all year to do this, and we will do it for everyone instead of drawing names, because, hey--money is no object.) Then we’ll write our ideas on a piece of paper, wrap them up, and then open them together. It will be a mutual covet-fest. (But we'll be spending time together, thinking about each other and getting to know each other better.) And then we’ll take all the money we budgeted for Christmas and go out to eat somewhere fun, or buy sub-for-Santa gifts and donate them—or both. How would that be?

Happy Birthday, Mom

I've been too tired to brave a trip to the library, so this illness has given me the opportunity to attack the stack of books I own and always meant to read but couldn't ever quite bring myself to start.

The first was 1776 which, I am ashamed to admit, I ended up skimming most of the way. Lots and lots of people have raved about it to me, and I admit that it was well-written and quite easygoing for a history/war book. But it never gripped me and I found myself slogging. (It doesn't help that my brain is foggy anyway. In that state I have low tolerance for nonfiction.) So I finally gave myself permission to do some heavy skipping ahead and called it good.

Now I'm well into How Green Was My Valley, by Richard Lewellyn. And here is what I have to say about it: oh my goodness. This is why I probably will never get around to writing that novel I flirt with in my mind. It's one of those far-reaching books that takes you, very slowly, through the life of the main character. Episode after episode, the way life is. Some sad and sweet, some horrible, some hilarious. I could never, never find the patience, or be gripped by a single story, enough to produce something like this. This is the kind of story that comes only when its writer has huge love for the story and its details. I'm sure it is autobiographical to a large extent; if it's not, he's even more of a genius.

All this and just a delight to read.

So you may be wondering: if I own the book (and I don't own many books, in proportion to how many I read) why haven't I read it before?

The answer: my mother loved it. Somehow, somewhere in my teenage years, I got all prickly about wanting to be different from my mom. (Maybe it's an oldest daughter thing.) I remember having to sing alto whenever she sang soprano, for example—or the opposite, since she alternated parts with each verse. So some time during this very irritating phase of mine, my mother tried to get me to read this book. I refused. Not JUST because she wanted me to read it; it also looked very boring (and still does) and starts off very slowly. But a lot of it was because she loved it so much.

This is me baring my pitiful teenage soul with it's small, cold heart.

Let me just say right here that my mother was always a very sweet, guileless person, full of enthusiasm and love for the world. Just the kind of thing that rubs a grumpy teenager, with her superior "weight of the world" moodiness ala J. D. Salinger, wrong.

Just the kind of thing that makes me weep for her, and for my coldness towards her and her passions, now.

And who was the loser? I was, of course. And still am, in some ways. But I don't doubt that she felt it too sometimes, and suffered for it. I'm sorry, Mom.

In fact, that was the hardest thing about losing her when I did (I was 22). I felt that by then I had outgrown my childish snootiness and was possibly turning into a likeable and open-hearted person—but that was just when she was beginning to check out of here, physically and then mentally and, finally, emotionally. So she died, and I never found out from her to my satisfaction whether she forgave me for having been a teenager, and whether she thought I might be improving.

Anyway, when she left I inherited her book. And to wrap up this psychoanalysis, I need to say this, to you and to her: I love this book. It is dear and sweet and funny and makes me weep. I even like the silly notes she scribbled in the margins, like "universality" and "imagery" and "good!" (Well, I don't like them so much, but I forgive her for them.) And one other thing I must say: happy birthday, Mom. Because today happens to be her fifty-seventh birthday.

And I really, really miss her today. (I admit it. Being sick always makes me miss her more, too.)

I love you Mom. I hope you're up there reading everything so you can pass me some good ones someday.

********************************************************************************

p.s. On a whole nother subject:

It's Christmas around here, and I'm not talking about the tree that Rog and kids are slaving away at downstairs. I'm talking about the bag of chic flicks my cool neighbor Sue just brought over for me to watch: Mansfield Park, Wives and Daughters, Ideal Husband, Importance of Being Ernest, Emma, Room With a View (nudie edition, I believe), new Pride & Prejudice (which I like despite Keira).

And more evidence that it is Christmas: Kathy S. felt sorry for me that I didn't get Thanksgiving dinner and showed up with a pumpkin pie that she had just baked just for me!!!!! It was even still warm! With a can of whipped cream to go with it!!!! Am I lucky, or what?

Hey, I'm not even embarrassed to admit that there are perks to hanging out in bed all the time. You don't begrudge me a little enjoyment, do you?

*******************************************************************************

p.p.s. In case you were wondering, yes, I really did mail copies of that letter to all those BYU people about an MFA program. And I got an answer today. Lance Larsen e-mailed to inform me that they are serious about trying to get one, and maybe there will be good news in a year or so. I wrote back to tell him I look forward to the possibility of studying with him in a few years. (Let's see . . . Peter will be in first grade in 2009 . . . now, if I could just find $20,000 lying around . . .)

Wish I'd written it . . .

(not that I could ever even call myself a writer in his presence). Here's a very important piece of art by my friend Eric Samuelsen, who is an amazing playwright and BYU professor, on the subject of the annual Primary Program. The drama! The pathos! It'll move you, I promise.

http://mailman.xmission.com/lurker/message/20061031.212220.7651ce36.en.html

Being a good mom. Being good. Being.

Well, in my lying-around-ness ala mono, I watched "Little Women" again. (I'm dying for some more chic flicks to watch. Anyone?) Even though I think it was thoroughly mis-cast and I can't stand Wynona Ryder OR Susan Sarandon, I still had a good cry. (Note: I HATE crying in movies. It wasn't so bad, though, being sick and all.)

But it got me thinking about transcendentalism and parenting. Now, you may have noticed that Marmie (mother) is not all that present in the girls' lives in the movie, or in the book. And Papa is downright absent almost entirely. That's because the book is autobiographical to a large extent, and Louisa May's parents were transcendentalists. If you missed the very tiny references to that and don't remember from school, that means that they believed that the best pathway to truth for each soul was within their own soul. Through their own individual "light of Christ," if you will. You can see that in how Marmie teaches the girls—letting them pretty much govern themselves wherever possible, and trusting that they would learn through introspection and experience much better than through lectures from her.

I remember when I read "Little Women" last, and also when I studied transcendentalism, that it all sounds good on paper, and also it sounds easy enough when you are the absent Papa or when your kids are older. But what I've always wondered is how they carried out such ideas with a bunch of little kids running around? You know, during the age when if there were no old fashioned, non-transcendental TRAINING (different from education, which comes later) to the contrary, kids will climb on the table, throw food, and use their fists and teeth? How come the movie didn't show that stage, huh? Huh? You show me how that poor mother kept her patience in those early days with old Bronson always off with his hippie friends!

So I've decided to believe that there really is something special about age 8. And the good thing is that some of my kids have moved into this older age group, and are ready to be educated instead of trained. (Thank goodness they were trained first, I must say.) So I think it's time I revisited transcendentalism as it pertains to parenting. I like the idea of refraining from lecturing, of leaving them alone to feel and learn, and then, possibly, getting involved by simply asking good questions. "Did that feel good? Did it work? What does the Spirit tell you about that?" I think that's the kind of parent I would like to be. It requires an awful lot of faith, though. Faith that somehow, over time, if they are left alone to feel it (instead of being manipulated/lectured into it) the light of Christ in them will guide them right. Faith that God is active with them, is already working with them.

In the end, that's the only kind of parenting that will truly educate, isn't it? All else is training.

I want to be a good mother. I have this picture of "Darlene, the Good Mother" in my head that I want to measure up with. Problem is, it changes with every parenting book I read. I think I need to switch my focus away from being a good mother to just being Good. The natural consequence of that would be better parenting, wouldn't it?

And, taking it a step further, I wonder sometimes if it would be even better if I quit focusing on Being Good so much and instead focused on just Being. Because isn't that what transcendentalism is all about? That I have so much faith in the light of Christ in me, and in my innate goodness because I am a child of God, that the purer I can live in the moment, without fear of WHAT I am, the better I will be. Because what I am in the most present moment, without self-consciousness or striving, is Good. And living true to myself and each individual moment (without fear, the cause of most non-good behavior on my part, and which usually has something to do with focusing on future or past) is living true to my divine nature.

I think I need to read "The Bonds That Make Us Free" again. As I recall, that was its thesis: that the truer we are to ourselves, the better we are.
So, my new goal: not to be a better mom, not even to be better, but just to Be. Me Zen Mama.

New York Doll

Well, I finally saw New York Doll last night and I can’t get it off my mind! What an amazing, amazing work.

I think this film is an amazing example of what LDS art should be. Here’s why:

It simply told a story.
It told it very truthfully, without emotional manipulation.
The character that the story was about was Mormon.
Some things happened to him. Some of them involved his Mormon-ness.
The viewer was left to make her own judgments about the story and the character. (No preaching of any kind!)

Amazing, amazing. (Did I mention it was amazing?) This story was told in such a way that I COULD NOT DOUBT the religious experience that Arthur Kane had—without ever even feeling as if the creators expected me to believe it! What breathtaking skill! I kept thinking about another Arthur, Arthur Henry King, who tells about his experience reading Joseph Smith's account of the first vision, and feeling absolutely compelled to believe it because of the plain and non-manipulative words Joseph used. (And is Brother King now rolling over in his grave at having been compared with New York Dolls' Brother Kane?)

Now, aside from my feelings about this film as a piece of Mormon art, here are some other observations:

How ridiculous (to me—I wonder if it did to non-Mormons, or to people involved in rock culture?) the other members of his band looked compared to Arthur when they reunited. Saggy, dirty, silly, with their swaggers and attempts to be polite about Arthur’s conversion. Weird to think that they were probably looking at him with gentle condescension because he was poor and had never made anything of himself and now belonged to this weird church. Weird because of how silly they looked in their stupid clothes. They laugh a little at him because he feels a responsibility to return to his job (at the family history library) on Monday because they are understaffed. Is the concept of responsibility, of not letting down one’s friends, so foreign to them? Such a strange and beautiful juxtaposition of cultures and values.

I was very moved by the fact that Arthur died so soon after the reunion. To me, it was God’s reward for his faithfulness through what must have been incredible odds. (Arthur seemed quite lonely. I think he is probably being sweetly rewarded now.) I’m not sure I have as much faith as Arthur showed by converting after such a wild life, and then quietly sustaining that conversion in the face of his old friends, whom he must have sensed laughing at him at times.

This movie haunts me.

Have you seen it? What did you think?

Here is my 100% original poem on the subject. (You know it got to me if I'm writing poetry about it.)

Paper Dolls
In Memoriam: Arthur "Killer" Kane of the New York Dolls (1949-2004)
“They who have endured the crosses of the world, and despised the shame of it, they shall inherit the kingdom of God” (2 Ne. 9:18).

Candy-coated rock stars, once your friends,
giggle in embarrassment, slide their eyes
away behind their glasses, feebly pat
your shoulder with their cartoon sophistication.
If we put them in the sun, they'd melt.

Not you.
You welcomed sunlight, judging glare that pierced
with pain, revealing ugliness: the inside
of the dumpster, the bottom
of a shoe, the terror
of the darkest part
of your own small, withered heart.

You winced but didn't look away.

The starkness of the light has softened you.
Now you stand, newborn pink, and face the sun.

You are foreign to these paper dolls,
spreading wide your arms, meeting their eyes.
They shiver, sensing hidden holiness.
You lope into the afternoon to catch a bus.

Married to a Tormented Artist

If I ever write a novel, it will be about a marriage, because I think marriage is the Great Mystery. No one can know the truth about someone else’s marriage. (Probably we can hardly even know the truth about our own.) I’m very curious about other people’s marriages. (But then, I’m very curious about most things about other people. Which is why I am a peeping tom, either through windows at dusk [from the street! sheesh! I wouldn’t walk right UP to a window—what do you think I am??], or through reading fiction so that I can peek into other peoples’ minds.)

I had a really hard time with both of my marriage decisions. (For those of you who don’t know, the first one ended in a broken engagement. That is a whole nother story for another day.) One of the things that made my decision to marry Roger so difficult was that he was NOTHING like what I had always pictured my future husband would be.

Of course, when I was quite young, the person I was going to marry was Donny Osmond. When I grew out of that, it was Steven Kapp Perry, which is very daring of me to admit since there is the very slight chance that he might actually read this someday because we are sort of on-line acquaintances now--very distantly. (But, come on, you can’t blame me. All us fifteen-year-olds hoped we’d marry him. He was, after all, doing the fireside circuit as an unmarried young man with a beautiful voice during the time we were all in seminary. Forgive me, Steve. Now I suppose you’ll never be able to meet my eyes when we meet in person.)

Later on, in college, I had imagined somebody tall (well, we got that one right, at least), dark, older, brooding, mysterious artsy guy—sort of an intellectual Mr. Darcy. I particularly hoped he would be a professor (slightly better than a writer because at least he would make a regular income with benefits).

So I met this guy who first of all looked really young, with blond curly hair and dancing eyes who hardly ever read a book for fun but who I just couldn’t get off my mind or out of my life! A couple of times I tried to get rid of him but I just couldn’t do without him for long. He made me come out of my brooding cave into the sun, to move my body and giggle and play. He taught me not to take myself so seriously. He was my best friend. I had to have him in my life—but MARRY HIM? What about Mr. Serious, Mr. Artist, Mr. Professor? Luckily, I eventually saw that Mr. Happy was exactly what I needed, and Mr. Brooding was exactly what would be disastrous for me.

I scare myself sometimes when I think of what would have happened if I had married Mr. Professor. I would now be a bitter woman. Because being a professor (and especially being a writer) was MY dream. How awful to spend my life staying home with kids while my HUSBAND got to go to work doing my dream job! How miserable to watch him spending time writing and reading and teaching all day long when that’s what I wanted to be doing! To say nothing of the awkwardness and envy if he turned out to have more talent in the things I cared about. The marriage wouldn’t have survived grad school!

I eventually kind of developed a theory that it is only with difficulty that a marriage can handle more than one artistic spouse. So I’m very curious about other marriages in which one or both spouses are artistic. But I can’t exactly ask my writing friends, “So, how’s your marriage?” LDS marriages, in particular, must be awfully difficult when both want to become artists, because we Mormons feel so guilty when we spend time writing that could be spent in our calling, with our family, doing family history, attending the temple, etc. How could two spouses carve out time for themselves to practice their craft without great difficulty?

So, what do you think of my theory? Do you ever wonder what Orson Scott Card’s wife thinks of all this? Richard Dutcher’s? Anyone else?

Michael Landon’s hair always reminded me of ground beef.

So, as I lie a-bed, I have discovered all of the reruns that show up on the higher channels of my non-cable TV. This week I saw bits of “Charlie’s Angels,” “Hawaii Five-Oh,” “The Brady Bunch” and “Little House on the Prairie,” among others.

The thing that’s been amazing to me is how well I remember them and the lyrics to their opening songs, how awful they are (and I didn’t notice it back when I was watching them originally). I can’t believe how familiar they all are—did I actually watch all of these things in my childhood? I started trying to get a rough idea of how much TV I watched by simply trying to sing their songs. Here’s a list of songs with which I am way too familiar:

Brady Bunch
Three’s Company (yikes!)
Love Boat
Happy Days
Eight is Enough
Facts of Life
Silver Spoons
Different Strokes
Family Ties
Golden Girls (yikes again!)
Fantasy Island
The Jeffersons
Welcome Back, Kotter
Charlie’s Angels
Moonlighting
Gilligan’s Island
Cosby Show
. . and probably a whole lot more, including Saturday cartoons and dumb evening shows like “Ripley’s Believe it . . . (pant, pant) . . . or not!”.

I remember thinking that Gopher was incredibly attractive, Sabrina was the best angel (I never liked the blonds) and Jo was much better than Blair. Denise Huxtable was the epitome of all that was cool. Alex P. Keaton was darling and Fonzie bugged me. So did “Wajoo talkin’ bout, Willis?” and that horrible new kid they brought on to be Willis’s and Arnold’s little brother. (I also hated the new little dog—Scrappy?—they brought onto Scooby Doo. I guess I didn’t like innovation.) And the worst show in the world was that new one (meaning it began when I was a teenager and not watching so much TV) with the all the obnoxious kids—can’t remember the name but Mary Kate and Ashley played the awful little girl. Oh, and that horrible robot show—Small Wonder? ICK!

Amazing that I hated so many of these shows . . . BUT STILL WATCHED THEM!!!!! Explain that?????? It’s called loser life, I guess.

Anyway, you can see why I let my kids watch so little TV. Maybe by pure will I can make them into anti-losers, make their lives more interesting than the trash on TV. At least I can make sure they know more primary songs than TV theme-songs!

Question for you: what are your vivid memories about TV when you were a child?

An open letter to the Dean of the English Department, the Dean of Graduate Studies, and the Powers That Be at BYU:

Dear Sirs,

I am writing to beg, plead, prostrate myself at your feet, and employ all the powers of persuasion I can muster in the cause of convincing you to create an MFA in Creative Writing program at BYU. Hopefully, I can show you how creating such a program would be quite easy, involving minimal changes or financial investment on your part, and be of great benefit to LDS writers who desire to create the kind of LDS art that prophets of past and present have been awaiting.

First, you've heard the "We will yet have Miltons and Shakespeares of our own" quote as often as I have, I suspect, so I won't rehash all of that—the desire, on the part of our leaders (and, I must say, on the part of those of us who aspire to being artists), for the quality of Mormon-created art to rival and surpass that of the greatest artists in the history of the world. But what's important to point out is that a Milton or a Shakespeare does not just pop up fully developed like the birth of Venus. An artist must study with great teachers, set aside significant time in her life for her practice, and get acquainted with the great masters of her craft that have preceded her.

An MFA program is where a writer begins her journey to becoming great. An MFA program at BYU is where a Mormon artist can best begin her journey to becoming a great Mormon artist.

You may ask how a specifically Mormon environment can benefit the student more than any of the other great MFA programs already in existence in the country. My answer is that it is true that not all Mormon artists require an LDS-based program in order to grow to their potential. But some do. In fact, the ones the prophets have spoken of and longed for, the ones dedicated to telling Mormon stories in Mormon language for Mormons and also for the world—these are the artists that need a program in which they can be free to discuss their ideas in an LDS framework. They need to be able to study past Mormon artists. They need to study with teachers/writers who exemplify an ability to bring an LDS worldview into their own work—the kind of teachers to be found at BYU.

As you know, it is difficult to be an artist in our culture. There are many reasons that this is so. One of the biggest reason is the great amount of time that full activity in the church requires from each individual. When a person wants to fulfill his calling, earn a living, and spend as much time as possible with his family, it is hard to justify taking the time necessary to get truly great at an art—an art which will probably never support him and possibly never be acknowledged as worthwhile by those around him, who are equally busy in their LDS lives. For this reason, an LDS writer feels a lot of pressure to get good QUICKLY—because without quick results, he may find it difficult to justify taking time away from his family or calling to work on his art. You see, then, that a Mormon artist is unique from non-Mormon artists—yet another reason to provide a unique program for him in which to improve his craft.


I have spoken with a few members of the English faculty who likewise wish there were an MFA in Creative Writing program in place (Gideon Burton and Bruce Jorgensen are two). They tell me that the program already exists in everything but name—that the classes and faculty are already in place, and that to change what is now an MA with emphasis in Creative Writing into an MFA program would be quite simple. That should reassure you that it would not require much in terms of additional resources from the university.

You may ask, then, "If the classes and faculty the same for an MFA as are currently offered for the MA, why wouldn't students be just as happy to enter the MA program?" As you know, an MFA is a terminal degree. For many of us, entering the program will involve an immense amount of sacrifice in terms of time and money. It's understandable that, if I plan on putting in that much money and time in for an advanced degree, I would prefer to receive the terminal degree.

Currently, the only other university in Utah offering an MFA in Creative Writing is the University of Utah. And yet, I know that there are many, many writers in the state, many of whom long to return for an MFA. (Specifically, I know that there is a huge population of people interested in writing for children in Utah Valley alone. You would have no difficulty getting instructors or students for such a program.) The state could easily fill two MFA programs. More important to note than that, though, is the fact that the MFA program at the University of Utah is especially known for being, well, less than warm to people who write from within an LDS worldview.

Bad news for an LDS writer who wants to write high-quality LDS things and who cannot uproot her family to travel to another state.

So, you see that there is a gap in MFA offerings for people in Utah who wish to create LDS art. You see that it would not be hard for you to change the program that is already in place into an MFA program. You see that BYU is ideally situated (culturally, educationally and geographically) for providing an aspiring Mormon writer with what she needs to begin to master her craft and produce what prophets have been hoping for. Please, please follow through and create the program many of us need.

I appreciate your attention.

Sincerely,

Darlene Young

p.s. Once you establish the program, I will be writing you another pleading letter to tell you why you should sponsor my studies with a nice, juicy fellowship. Uh . . . maybe I'd better not mention that quite yet. Nevermind.

A confession

My name is Darlene and I have mono.

These days, I'm trying to take it just one day at a time. Kind of "let go and let God," you know what I mean?

Anyway, I thought I'd let you know about my favorite weapon in the war against the virus. No, I am not talking about Noni or Xengo. Here it is:

Now, doesn't that look tasty?

(We gratefully acknowledge Johnna-the-great for providing the beautiful rose.)

I have to thank my mother-in-law for introducing me to this drink that looks like battery acid. It is called "green juice" at my house, and "parsley-pineapple juice" at hers. Here's how you make it: wash and trim one bunch of fresh parsley. Throw it in the blender with some pineapple juice and whizz away until it is as pulverized as possible. Then strain it according to your daring (cheescloth, strainer, or not at all--if you don't mind eating your juice). Then drink. Voila! You might be scared of the look and sound of it, but believe me: it is one of the most refreshing things you'll ever taste. (And very good for you.)

So here's my question: what are your comfort foods when YOU are sick?

p.s. I'd like to come over and visit with you about a fantastic plan for independent wealth that involves sharing this recipe and others like it with people whose health you care about. If you don't want me to come, just give me the names of ten people I can call instead! Thanks!

p.p.s. You really did know I was kidding, right?

AML Writers Conference

(By the way, check out my new sidebar links. I am SOOO techno-savvy, eh?)

Well, the Writers Conference of the Association for Mormon Letters’s Writers was very poorly attended, which was actually rather heartbreaking, since I helped to plan it. But once I got over that, I had a blast. Here are some of the highlights:

I. Plenary Session: “Can Writing Be Taught?” by Dr. Michael Collings

First, we had a keynote address by poet and professor Michael Collings. Some of you fellow Orson Scott Card fans might recognize his name as the author of the most famous paper about Card. His topic was, “Can Writing Be Taught?” That’s something I am always wondering. His answer to this question was “Yes . . . and No.” I have to agree with him. Here are some things I jotted down: “Writing education is not so much teaching but opening the eyes of people who are already interested in words.” That makes it sound like writing can’t really be taught. What I think Dr. Collings was saying, and what I believe myself, is that writing SKILLS can be taught. But there’s some sort of fundamental part of being a writer that can’t be taught. Maybe that’s what he meant by “people who are already interested in words.” Yes, there are a lot of “writers” who AREN’T writers. You can tell who they are when you read their stuff. And what factor sets them apart from those who ARE? I bet it’s this: what do they read? There are just so many “poets” out there who READ NO POETRY!!!!! I’m not sure they are interested in words—more like they are interested in the sound of their own voices. Just a theory, there. I’m not sure I believe it, but I’ll try it out for a while.

More from Collings:
“The fundamental difference between prose and poetry? Lines.” (I was pleased at that one, because I knew the answer. I knew it because I had taken Creative Writing independent study from BYU, and the author of the text for the class was Bruce Jorgensen. And Bruce says in his text that lines and the breaking of them [and making of them] are basically the only real difference between prose and poetry. Bruce was sitting in front of me during this lecture and he provided the answer to Dr. Collings’s question—but not before I REMEMBERD IT MYSELF from his class. So there.)

“Everything that we talk about in regards to writing poetry applies to writing prose—just not as much.” He pointed out that, for example, the last two lines of key scenes in Card’s Ender’s Game are rhymed couplets: “He just didn’t break them.”

When you’re writing, you need to consider four things: Persona (who are you?), Purpose (why are you writing this?), Audience (to whom are you writing?—his example was a young person describing what happened on his date last night . . . to his roommate, to his mother, to his professor, to his boss=a change in tone, obviously), and Argument (the meat and bones of the issue).

He showed us a fascinating example of a poem in progress in which the student attempted to remove all of the prepositions from the piece.

II. Breakout: “Treasure Hunting: Mining Your Life for Writing Ideas” by Segullah

Mostly I just have to say that I love these chicks. IMO, they are all beautiful and talented and hilarious. I’m so glad to be involved with them. Sharlee (Glen) talked about how poetry engages the reader’s intelligence, senses, emotion and imagination. Wow—what a description. (She must be a poet.) Poor thing had a bad example and a good example and one woman in the class preferred the bad example. (Someone always does.) Sharlee taught us to avoid the sentimental, the rhetorical (unwarrantedly flowery language), and the didactic (AMEN!).

Here’s something just for you, Sharlee (I wrote it myself, just now):

A little hint from which to learn:
Avoid sentiment that you fail to earn.
And a poem to teach is usually bad,
So please avoid this Mormon fad.

There. Great poetry, ain’t it?

And Courtney (Kendrick-whom-I-idolize) talked about learning from the scriptures that she should find her own voice and speak in it. (She spoke of Nephi, whose soul delighted in plainness, when he talked about the Lord speaking in each individual’s language so that each can understand.) Courtney said, “I want to write essays that I would like to read.” The cool thing about Courtney is that she is a master at using her own language and the result is that EVERYONE loves to read her stuff.

I BELIEVE THIS IS THE KEY TO GOOD LITERATURE!!!! Tell the truth as you see it, as accurately as you can, in your own language, and the result is GOOD! Because it comes from God, through His creation (you!).

III. “Fact or Fiction: Writing the Spiritual” by Tessa Meyer Santiago

The truth is that it was my idea to ask Tessa to present because there is such a hole in my life from the last time she presented and she RAN OUT OF TIME. I’ve always ached to find out what else she would have said. Literally, I hang on her every word. I want to be her.

Predictably, she didn’t disappoint. Tessa began by having us list the things that we want to tell about in our writing but that are so darn hard to get right without being manipulative. Things like a meeting with the divine, the onset of remorse, a moment of grace, a changing point, hearing the voice of God, conversion, seeing the face of God in the world around us, dreams, visions, communion with others, confirmation of things.

Her biggest point was that we MUST respect the reader’s agency. She read us some examples of language that does not manipulate. For a starter, she quoted Arthur Henry King on his analysis of Joseph Smith’s description of the First Vision. (And then compared it to Oliver Cowdery’s (?) description, which was obviously meant to persuade.

She read fantastic examples from Levi Peterson (“Confessions of St. Augustine” from Canyons of Grace) and Bruce Jorgensen (who, incidentally, was sitting next to me, and whose story, “A Song for One Still Voice” I had read in the text to my creative writing class) of spiritual moments in fiction that are described so delicately as to WORK without hitting people over the head.

An important question to ask is whether the CHARACTER believes what’s happening, not whether the reader does.

But the sad thing about this session was that I still felt that Tessa ran out of time just when she was about to address my biggest concern: how does an essayist create order out of experience in the crafting of the essay without attempting to create order for the reader? I am so weak at essays for just this reason. I can’t figure out how to structure an essay, how to really make it go somewhere or make some kind of point, without it feeling didactic and manipulative. I think Tessa is so good at it. WHAT IS HER SECRET?

One thing she said that helped me: “The true work is finding the RIGHT story. After that, it’s a matter of simple language.” Also, that her biggest prayer when she writes is, “Help me be unashamed to tell the story.” Amen and amen.

IV. Conversation with Bruce Jorgensen
Well, it wasn’t really a session, but I thought I’d tell about it here since hallway and post-session conversations are actually the most valuable part of writers conferences to me. Taking advantage of the fact that I was sitting next to Dr. Jorgensen, I accosted him and had a nice conversation with him. He says that periodically he and other English faculty members do make an effort to get an MFA program going at BYU, but that there is great reluctance from the powers that be. I restrained myself from falling on my knees at his feet to beg him to throw his weight around for another attempt. I am SO FRUSTRATED that BYU doesn’t have an MFA program in creative writing. As Bruce says (yes, we are on a first-name basis, thank you very much—although I don’t think he knows mine), the program is sort of already there and they would only have to change the NAME of it, really. I just can’t stand the thought that the church professes a desire for more great LDS artists but that there are NO PROGRAMS IN THE STATE where a person who writes mostly LDS stuff can get an MFA!!!!!! Isn’t BYU the exact institution that should RECTIFY THIS PROBLEM?????? HUH? HUH?

So I mostly was preaching to the choir with Bruce and it looks like nothing will change.

I also talked to him about his story, which Tessa read part of, because when I read it the first time I had thought, “Hey, this is a lot like some of my stories because it sounds like a poem and doesn’t have a lot of action.” I wanted to know how he decides to make his poems into stories or his stories into poems, because lately I have been taking all my story ideas and making them into poems. He didn’t really have much to say to that and I came away with a renewed belief in the mystery of writing. None of us really knows how or why we do stuff. (Unless we are formulaic best-seller-writers, I guess.)

V. Lunch

was fajita bar and mighty tasty if I do say so myself (having been the person who ordered it). And did you notice that we each got a CHURRO???? Nay, more than one each, probably, since I ordered food for 75 people and I counted 40 max. in the room. (Arrgggh. There goes our money.) I got to sit by and chat with my favorite up-and-coming LDS novelist, Angela Hallstrom. Then we listened (or rather, tried to listen, since the people on my OTHER side were yapping the WHOLE time until I very nicely asked them to be quiet and they promptly left the conference never to return—OOPS) to representatives of a few new or small LDS publishers (those who deigned to show up, that is). I was interested to hear that Faustus Publishing and Push Publications are both interested in poetry. We also heard a little about Juniper Press, Parables, Rosehaven, Spring Creek, and my friend Chris’s Zarahemla. (Chris, it wouldn’t hurt for you to not emphasize the spiciness of your offerings QUITE so much. I mean, you could still offer some “less-spicy-but still literary and good” books, but you’ll limit your audience if you make “we’re not afraid of profanity and sex” your calling card.) I have high hopes for Chris’s press. He has a good head on his shoulders and might do some great stuff. (Have you talked to Scott Bronson about Whipping Boy?)

During lunch I also got to harangue—oops I mean “address respectfully”—Lisa Mangum, a representative from Deseret Book who made the unfortunate mistake of sitting at the table with Angela and me. I understand her fix, but still I find DB hard to forgive for not taking an interest in boosting the literary tastes of Mormons. I really think they could find it in their hearts and budgets to once-in-a-while publish something that might be difficult to sell just because it SHOULD be out there. (I also believe that there really is a market for these but that it takes time to reach it and build up their trust. Exhibit A is the LDS bookgroup phenomenon. Most of these groups are reading classics and literary stuff, darn it!)

VI. “Poetry Workshop” by Dr. Michael Collings.

More good stuff from Dr. Collings. He talked about the benefit of writing poetry regularly (we see differently—an answer from the audience from, well, yours truly). He had some good ideas for assignments that I want to look up in his book. He spoke of formal forms supporting the poem instead of poems being hung on forms. Some other ideas: “If you’re not sure about the poem, remove the first part and the last part.” “When you cut lines, save them somewhere to use elsewhere.” “When you look at your poem, analyze whether you have addressed language, compression, emotion, music and imagery.”

VII. More poetry workshop.

I had passed Dr. Collings some poetry that he had agreed to look at in a private conference later. So I sat down with him and had a great conversation. We spent only two minutes on my poetry because he had nothing to suggest—he thought I’d already done a fabulous job of revising. (“Post Partum” from original free verse to a sonnet.) So we talked of other things. He said he’d love to have me send him stuff to look at occasionally, and even gave me a challenge: “If you will write one poem a day for thirty days, and send me the poetry thirty days from today—December 4th—I will send you a free copy of my textbook.”

So I decided to take him up on it. I’ve written four poems already and hope to keep going.

He also suggested the cinquain form for me to check out.

VIII. “Turning Research into Writing,” by Scott Parkin.

I can’t comment too much on Scott’s topic because I came in late (after the conference with Dr. Collings), but I really like Scott and the others who were there, Paul Swenson, David and Cheryl Pace. I think we were rather a rowdy audience for him and got him off topic too much (poor guy). But he has some really interesting ideas and I would have liked to follow them to the end but I had to leave to catch Scott B’s session. He was talking about knowing our market. I’m slightly uncomfortable with this idea (hence my need to follow him to the end before I make a judgment) because I worry about thoughts of marketing hampering the creation process. I’m sure he addressed that after I left, darn it.

IX. “Acting Principles for Writers” by Scott Bronson.

I absolutely believe that if I had a better understanding of acting principles I would be a better writer. Scott showed us a fascinating demonstration by taking a really horribly boring dialogue and acting it with his lovely assistant in a way that made the scene electrifying. What I learned from this is that when I write a scene, I should imagine how it would be played out, and then pick certain details of the ACTION to emphasize. This is obviously what is meant by “show, don’t tell,” but it was a new way of looking at it for me. I think if I could master this technique, it would get me away from being so much in my characters’ heads (and also make me less preachy). Acting is really story-telling, and I am fascinated by it. I wish I were an actor (and, really, I always have). But I am really, really BAD at it. (Sigh. I wonder if there are “beginning acting for stifled adults” classes? It seems really clear to me that actors have more fun, in general.)

Scott Bronson’s 7 Elements of a Story: Character. Situation. Character Wants Something. Character Tries to Get it and Fails. Character Tries to Get it and Fails. Character Tries to Get it and Gives Up or Succeeds. Wrap-up.

X. Wrap-up.

I’m actually glad that I HAD to be there in my official capacity because it would have been a hard decision whether or not to go, otherwise. (The mono thing.) I was very, very tired. But also exhilarated. I’m sad that the turn-out was so darn bad, but by golly I sure got my money’s worth. I love these people—they’re why I’m involved with AML. I learned a lot and grew another layer of friendship with many of these people I admire. I guess I decided long ago that if I’m never really great at writing, I would at least be a great fan. And I’ll keep showing up at these things and cheering these people on all I can.

So there you go. Now you’ve experienced the AML Writers Conference. For free. (Next time, pay your money and attend with me, will you?)

Voting

It's that time again and I am feeling the same old stress:

Probably, the most responsible thing for me to do is to NOT VOTE.

I like to think I am a responsible citizen. Absolutely I love America. Absolutely I recognize that if I don't actively support democracy I don't deserve it. Etc. Etc. I'm all for voting. It's just that--just that--

I HAVE NO IDEA AT ALL WHOM I SHOULD VOTE FOR.

Now, I know that the responsible solution here is to EDUCATE myself about the issues and the candidates. But, really, how realistic is that? Does anyone really know whether a certain candidate is better than another unless they either: a) know at least one of them personally, or b) support one party without variance or question?

I admit that I don't read the newspaper as I should. But I stopped believing long ago that the newspapers really tell how things are. You can't put a certain congressperson's reasons for voting a certain way into one tight little op-ed piece. Issues are really complicated. A person might vote against a proposal that seems to be for what that person believes in because it doesn't go FAR enough, for example. You just can't tell from soundbites and voter records what anyone really believes. And you can't tell from their simplistic little campaign statements either.

So how CAN anyone tell anything?

And since I can't tell, how can I go vote? Wouldn't it be better to leave the voting to people who know more than I do about the issues?

Of course, some issues are no-brainers, like more money for education. (But then again, how can I be sure that a vote for more money for education doesn't translate into a vote FOR that stupid, brainless "no child left behind" fiasco?)

I wish there was a way that I could show up and do my civic duty without having to commit to supporting someone I don't know, or something I know nothing about.

I wish there was a trustworthy (yeah, right) website that described objectively and simply the differences between candidates, their honesty and their stances.

I hate to go and just sort of randomly (and that's all it ends up being, really) mark names. It feels so terribly irresponsible. Thus my assertion: it may be more responsible for me not to vote.

Except to vote out that terrible judge I read about in the paper. (Because, of course, the paper is always right.)

This just in . . .

Some of my medical tests are beginning to come back. Just in case you were curious . . .

I have mono!

Again!

(Did you know it was possible to get it twice? Well, it is.)
(I kept telling Rog, "This feels a lot like mono!")

SOOOOOOO nice to have a name for it!