Monday, December 28, 2009

Sugar

. . . I'm giving it up.

Maybe. I think. Hopefully.

It's been about two weeks. I haven't done it very thoroughly--I give myself one day a week off. And I haven't eliminated white bread and rolls. And I bend the rules a little with non-desserts, such as yogurt. And I put honey on my grape nuts.

But still. Compared to how much I used to eat, this is a big step.

I haven't stipulated a time-frame or anything. We're just taking it a day at a time.

So far, here's what I've noticed:

I haven't lost interest in sugar--things still look good, especially if I've let myself get too hungry. But I haven't had any huge, undeniable cravings either. In fact, the change has been surprisingly easy.

I haven't lost any weight. Sigh. But that wasn't my reason for doing it. Still, I had hoped . . .

I haven't gained energy. This WAS one of my reasons. Probably I need to eliminate white things in order to get this benefit. Or give up my day off.

I HAVE gained in appreciation for the taste of healthy things. Most noticably: cucumbers. I never liked them before. Now they taste so good! And apples and kiwis are so amazingly sweet.

I've had no sypmtoms of withdrawal, as far as I can tell. (Now, if I had to give up Cafe Rio, this might be a different story.)

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Little Drummer

I was brought to tears today listening to "The Little Drummer Boy" in very bad Christmas Eve traffic. This is all going to sound obvious because everyone knows what that song is really about, but I was so deeply touched to realize that Christ smiles at me, too, when I give my little awkward offering that is embarrassing to me because it seems so small compared to what others give.

I am a mediocre mother. There are many ways I could improve as a wife. I'm a bumbling friend and only passing-fair as a den leader. Even my writing skills (with which I've been trying to redeem my sense of worth?) are only moderate.

But I try. And I keep trying.

That little drummer probably felt embarrassed with such a strange gift compared to what others gave (OK, I know it's all a made-up story anyway—but as we know, we learn the greatest truths from fiction). But still Christ smiled.

My prayer this year is that I can feel Christ smiling at my offering, and that I can somehow radiate His smile to those I interact with.

And even though I've given it to you before, here is my Christmas poem for you, just because it says the same thing I've been trying to say here. Merry Christmas, my friends.

Shepherds
by Darlene Young

Don’t tell me about rose-cheeked Arcadian youth
gathering daisies on a hillside
piping tunes to their cloud-fluffy sheep
under the stars.

No, these were foul-smelling, lusty
men with dirty necks, greasy hands,
snorting, arguing, joke-telling, nose-picking
men—one wearing stolen
sandals (although I admit he felt
guilty about it)—gambling on who
had the best aim as they chucked rocks
at a nearby lizard.

You talk about salt of the earth—
these men were salty, alright
downright ornery, some of them,
fighting sometimes and yelling
at their wives when they were home,
which wasn’t often.

Yeah, I’ll grant you Dan
was an innocent
and Dave had some noble moments
and none of them was really evil
but they all had dirty fingernails
of one kind or another
when the light came—
yes, it came.

But don’t take away that moment just before—
flies whining over the sheep dung
and Jake and Zeke having a
spitting contest—
that’s the key moment, you see,
in all their grimy glory;
it has to be

because the light came to me too,
Alleluia.

Thursday, December 24, 2009

For your holiday enjoyment

Click on this if you are a fan of Handel's "Messiah."

(I really do wish I knew how to embed these things into my post. Sorry for my lack of technical expertise.)

Wednesday, December 23, 2009

Light

I've had some difficulties this winter with my health. It's probably due to a change in medication, but it came on just about the time that we had the daylight savings time change. The cold and the dark have affected me strongly and I find myself very sluggish.

I continue my love affair with what I don't have: robust, blooming, strong health. I wonder sometimes if anyone really has it; it seems like people do, but maybe they're faking it, like I am. How about you—do you feel fantastic? Even when I've felt well in my life, I've never felt strong. (My jr. high gym teacher called me "Bird Arms." It wasn't until I had grown up, earned my own teaching certificate, and learned to enjoy at least some small exercise in my life that it dawned on me what an atrocity it was that the teacher in charge of helping me find joy in taking care of my body was actually the cause of my hatred of anything having to do with exercise for many years.) I so look forward to the resurrection when I will be strong and run like a gazelle (also, I will have long, thick hair and a strong chin instead of this weak, doughy thing).

But in my foggy fatigue this winter I have been grateful more than ever before for the lights with which we celebrate Christmas. When even the middle of the day seems dark outside, I keep my outdoor decorative lights on. And all day I keep the Christmas tree lights and the ones decorating the banister burning. I can't believe how cheering it is to me to have them on.

I won't bore you with obvious statements about what light at Christmas-time really represents—you know it already. But I like to ponder how they keep burning, steadily along, regardless of whether the sun is up or down, or whether I am feeling well and triumphant or tired and grumpy.

They make me want to cry.

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Bet you didn't know . . .

. . . the fabric on the benches in the chapel of the new Oquirrh Mountain Temple is pretty cool. You can actually make it 3-D if you let your eyes relax the way you do when you're looking at a "Magic Eye" picture. Really!

There are, of course, many other very good things to be found at the temple. Ahem.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Grandpa


Last week I attended Grandpa’s funeral. Before I write more about Grandpa, let me just say that Mormons really know how to do a funeral, and my family, in particular, REALLY knows how to do a funeral. Granted, there is a difference between a funeral for someone who died too soon and is leaving behind people who need her or him and a funeral for someone who was truly ready and looking forward to the move. But even in the case of my mother, who died too soon, the funeral was fantastic. I remember, in fact, joking in the limo that followed the hearse. We drove past a garage sale, and my mom loved garage sales. “Stop the hearse!” we yelled. “She needs to get just one more in!” Being a Mormon means that you can joke on the way to the cemetery because you fully believe that the deceased is laughing right along with you, and that she is happy to be where she is.

Anyway, as I said, my family in particular knows how to put on a funeral because when the dinner was all over and the funeral potatoes had been cleaned up (as if there were any leftovers of THOSE), we had a massive sing-in. Which is what SHOULD happen after such a happy moving day celebration, right?

Which brings me to the first thing I wanted to say about Grandpa: he left a legacy of music. All his children sing, and their children. And now, our children, too. I loved seeing my boys standing next to uncles and grandparents singing all the favorite hymns, trying to sing harmony with cousins and second cousins. I loved seeing the way music brought us all together, and how we couldn’t put Grandpa in the ground, or leave the church where we sang later, without singing the family’s favorite good night song, “Now the Day is Over.”

Besides the legacy of music that I got through Grandpa, I have specific memories of singing with Grandpa. Particularly, one afternoon when neither of us had anyplace to hurry off to, we sat on his front porch in the rockers, and he taught me a song about a bluebird. It was a duet, and I don’t think anyone had ever taught me to sing a duet with them before. I remember being so proud when I mastered my part and we sang it together. Thank you, Grandpa, for the music you gave us.

That memory on Grandpa’s front porch is one of only a handful that I have of one-on-one time with Grandpa. I didn’t have as close a relationship with him as my cousins who lived in his neighborhood or my cousins who lived out of state and got to stay with him when they visited (I am one of 38 grandchildren). But the ones I have are good, and I am very grateful, in addition, for the other legacies he left, the other ways he touched my life through what he taught his children.

One, probably the biggest, is a love of reading. I got my love of reading from both of my parents, but I got the ability to think critically about what I read from my father, who, I’m sure, got it from his father. Grandpa was a self-educated man who didn’t even finish high school, but he was reading constantly—and not just fiction but the great philosophical works of the world as well as biography, history, etc. It was an inheritance from him, I believe, that led to my receiving a copy of the Bhavagad Gita for Christmas one year from my father, which I read for maybe fifteen minutes and never opened again until I had a world religion class in college—but I was so proud to HAVE it, and loved the idea of studying it. Besides his INTEREST in ideas, I inherited his belief in the value of them, and of reading itself. Because he had a whole room dedicated to his books, and when I visited his house I needed only to stand in that room to know I had permission from God to spend hours doing what I loved more than anything—reading.

Grandpa had an amazing work ethic that his children inherited and tried to teach to their children. He also had a lack of desire for worldly things. (Granted, I can’t be sure that he had no desire for more stuff. It could be that he was just poor, which is true.) He avoided debt as much as possible. He lived in the same humble home in Rose Park all of his adult life. He paid cash for his cars. He died with no debt and with enough saved up to provide for himself and his costs. He didn’t have expensive tastes. I know I benefitted from these characteristics of his.

Finally, Grandpa had a great sense of humor. I’ll never forget his laugh, which was sometimes even a giggle. He joyed in wordplay and teasing his children and grandchildren. One running joke involved pretending that the word “six” was actually “sick,” so that whenever a grandchild or great grandchild was six years old, he would say, “How old are you?” “Six!” “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear it. I hope you get better soon.” “No, not SICK, Grandpa, SIX!” “Oh, have you seen the doctor yet?” Etc. etc. The five-year-old kids all knew it was coming and looked forward to it. Another running joke was the teasing he got for eating ketchup on his eggs. I overheard this one for the first time when I was very small. One of the uncles told Grandpa, “I knew a man who ate ketchup on his eggs, and now he’s dead.” The joke, of course, is that people die anyway, and Grandpa would go on to answer about the people who did not eat ketchup on their eggs who are now dead. But, being so young, I didn’t understand it, and was too afraid to eat the ketchup I loved on my eggs for a few years.

My favorite memory of Grandpa is from the campouts we used to have at Mantua (near Brigham City) with all of the cousins. Early in the morning we would be awakened by a tapping on the trailer canvas and hear Grandpa calling, “Rise and shine, gub-de-gub-de-gub.” Don’t know where the gub-de-gub came from, but it was Grandpa. The nonsense words were an other legacy I got from him, I realize now. My father has all sorts of made-up names for things. The first time I realized that these words were made-up and not in common parlance with the rest of America was when I was eating at a friend’s house and asked for the “glommers” (salad tongs, they informed me after they got done laughing). I don’t know if Grandpa made up that particular word of if Dad just inherited the propensity to make up words. Other made-up words include “flanger” (garage of TV remote), “chumbies” (kids), “nosser-noss” (a form of tickling with a fist twisting on an eager tummy), “getchum-get” (tickling). Not to mention shortened words for things: “ruts” (carrots), “yuns” (onions), etc.

And, of course, I inherited a legacy of activity in the church. I’m pleased as punch to have grown up a Mormon and can’t imagine life any other way. I’m absolutely convinced that this was as happy a way to live as any other way out there and better than most. I’ve never found obedience to the “rules” of membership difficult. Tithing is as easy as breathing, liquor and cigarettes have never been tempting, honesty is the natural and best way to live. My life is easier in so many ways because I was raised to live this way. I’ll always be grateful for that.

Grandpa did a lot of civic work and was a great leader in his congregations, but when it comes down to it, I think his real legacies are the people he left behind, and the people they raised, and the people they are raising, etc. I hope he is proud of how we’re turning out; I think he must be. I’m grateful for his life and what I inherited from him. Thanks, Grandpa. Happy reunion with Grandma. I’ll catch up with you a little later and we can sing about the bluebird once again.


[Grandpa in the glory days of grandparent-hood. I'm third from the right in the front.]

Wednesday, November 11, 2009

A little quote for you

"The bad poet is usually unconscious where he ought to be conscious, and conscious where he ought to be unconscious." -T. S. Eliot

Discuss.

Tuesday, November 03, 2009

Poetry Workshop 3

It's time for some more nuggets from my workshop with poet Kurt Brown. These are somewhat random jottings that come from my class notes. So don't blame Kurt Brown for the lack of organization here--I just wrote down the things that especially applied to me at the time. What you have is "Kurt Brown as translated and sometimes mangled by Darlene Young." So here we go:

Stop thinking and start describing. "No ideas but in things"--William Carlos Williams.

Frost said if there is no surprise for the writer, there will be no surprise for the reader. Start with your trigger, then explore and surprise yourself. (Kurt mentioned the book Triggering Town,which I have read and which is good.)

Face the reader. The poem should not be directed inward to self. Outward.

Every poem is a fragment of a large narrative, a background that isn't in the poem.

Try to detach from your subject sometimes. Range. Let go of the urge to get to an end in the poem or follow it logically. Try to loop around and meander. [Note from Darlene: this addresses my biggest weakness as an artist.] If you know where you're headed before you start, your poem will be flat. Let yourself find the surprise. Think of jazz: riff (but keep the chord structure). TRY to move away, jumping, following your subconscious. Your subconscious will take care of the connections.

One of Kurt's assignments to help with this very thing was to create a poem in which we use a word from the first line (none, ver, adjective or adverb--a strong word) in the second line, then a different one from the second line in the third line, etc. Then in the last two lines, use as many of those words as you can. [I was amazed at the poem that resulted when I did this exercise. It is one of my strongest poems ever, I think. Paying more attention to the structure than what I was saying freed me up to follow my subconscious more, to meander. This exercise helped me realize how much I benefit from having a teacher to give me assignments (even if the teacher is only myself reading like a writer and thinking up projects for myself).]

A poem is an opportunity to explore what you think, not to tell everyone about some interesting, unique thought you've had. (Because no one can come up with something truly unique anyway.)

Exercises are to shake you up from your usual topics, forms, relationships with language, ruts of how you think of things. [Amen!]

Interrogate your poem. Watch for the true subject which will come clear like a lightbulb. You should be looking for it to appear about 2/3 through the poem. Then the poem transforms itself. You know you've succeeded when the last line doesn't mean the same thing as it would have if the rest of the poem hadn't come before it.

Saturday, October 31, 2009

path

Reading Jon Kabat-Zinn again. I should probably re-read him regularly. Today I read about the concept of the tao, or life as a path. This is an enlightening concept for me. As I try to analyze the source of stresses in my life, the reason behind my constantly-clenched stomach muscles, for example, or my lack of just joyous spontanaety with my kids, I realize that I have always been just so concerned with my destination. I have been so hard on myself for not already having achieved various things, and this self-criticism has done more, ironically, to keep me from making any kind of progress than anything else.

I want to give up the expectation that I reach any destinations in this life. I want to learn to love the path, to accept that I am on it and not expect myself to be anywhere else. I want to quit yearning so much and start accepting more. I think that in addition to making me a more healthy person, this will also benefit me in other ways—I will become a better mother. But not (and this is important) because I am trying to be a better mother (destination). Rather, as a side-effect of being more accepting of myself.

I can see that my children have inherited this demanding, self-criticalness, either from me or just as a result of living in this world. The best way I can help them overcome this is to show them an example of self-acceptance.

And while we’re on the subject of self-acceptance, I promised you a follow-up to my envy post. I’ve toyed with talking about the things I like about myself, or the things I am grateful for (great for November!), etc. But I think what I’ll do is address the specific things I mentioned in my first post about envy. The things I have envied are in italics. My response to them is not.

So here goes.

1. People who are extremely healthy, and people who are very strong. People who can run like antelope instead of plodding along at a half jog like I do. People who can stay up late watching TV with their spouses (and by late, I mean after 10:00).
I can get up early and exercise every day. I am not tempted to lie abed, and I get a great surge of adrenaline with each new day. (I am so aware that there are people who can’t even get out of bed all day. Thus I will never, ever take this aspect of myself for granted.) I have worked hard and can now “jog” 5 miles per hour relatively comfortable for 30 minutes. This has taken much diligence and patience because I progress very, very slowly. I am strong enough to do all I need to do (my shoulders can carry the burdens placed on them), and capable of saying yes to any request or calling. I can’t stay up late but, on the flip side, I rarely ever have insomnia and sleep right through every night.

2. Women with thick hair. Well, I have hair. I am not currently undergoing chemo. I don’t look too bad, in general, and don’t hesitate to meet other people’s eyes because I feel ugly. I am not dependent on makeup and don’t scare anyone when they catch sight of me on a no-makeup day. Women with skinny little girl bodies. My size is acceptable and relatively easy to buy clothes for. My husband thinks I’m beautiful. I feel that the sacrifice in skinniness that it took to be a mother is well worth it. Thus I am in the process of making peace with looking like a mother. (It's just a little harder to make peace with looking like a middle-aged mother.) But I like not being 22 anymore. Women who have the money and lack of guilt to make their faces look 25 when they are actually 55. I have seen some women debilitated with the fear of looking their age. I don’t have this problem (though, of course, I’d prefer to stay young-looking if I could do it naturally).

3. People who are out of debt. We are well on-track to being out of debt and not doing too badly for ourselves. I am not distracted by get-rich-quick ideas. I feel confident that God is pleased with our progress and wants us to be diligent and patient. And R has a good job that is not in jeopardy (thank goodness).

4. Amazingly gifted writers. I am no writing genius, but I have some talent so that I know I can succeed when I want to put forth the effort. Writers with amazing work ethics who are determined to succeed. Well, I don’t worry about this one very much, because I’ve found that I can work very hard on something I’m passionate about. I just haven’t found much that I care enough about yet. I’m trying to follow my heart more and not be frustrated at myself for not feeling passionate about a project. Writers who know how to trust their subconscious. I’m going to work on this one. Writers with great agents. Writers with great book deals. Famous writers. In fact, I envy anyone who can answer with ease the question I get too often, “So, what books have you published?” . I could fix that if I fixed the “passionate” problem, above. I am getting much better at not envying these things as I recognize more how much desire plays in all this. I don’t desire to complete any of these big projects all that much. Also, I’ve seen some people succeed at these things and seen that they (these things) don’t bring satisfaction. Recently I was honored at an awards ceremony for some writing I’m having a hard time caring about and the award wasn’t satisfying at all since I knew the project didn’t have my heart in it.

5. People with really close best friends that they never feel insecure about. But I do have some very close friends—people who are gifted and fascinating and caring. I am very blessed.

6. People with beautiful solo voices. But I can carry a tune decently enough to enjoy singing in choirs and small groups, and I love doing it.

7. People who can knit sweaters while holding conversations, and who know how to pick the pattern and the yarn just right. People who can spin. 8. People with the ability to memorize easily. 9. People with the desire to keep their houses really clean at all times and the enjoyment of such. 10. People with the ability to cook, and the enjoyment of such. 11. People who know how to meditate and do it well. 12. Vegetarians. But not really. However, I do envy people who eat very well because they enjoy it. These are all just a matter of effort. I need to decide to change or let it go. And quit judging others!

13. Women who know how to shop, and women who know how to dress. Women who can wear hats or scarves and look great and confident in them. Women who, even when they’re a little heavy, know well enough how to dress that they look nice all the time. Women who know how to pluck and color eyebrows. This one is harder for me, and that tells me I need to do some soul-work. This one is closer to envy than many of the others, because I sometimes find myself resenting or judging women who look very put-together. Or just better than me in general. I’ve got to find a happy medium between putting more effort into what I care about or just deciding not to care.

14. Women who come alive in the afternoon and evening hours, so that their kids get their very best. This one I can’t change (see #1—I’m a morning person). But I can put more effort into organizing my day so that I can marshal what resources I have during the hard times of day. I have seen great improvement on the days I manage to do this. This one just requires effort and patience.

15. People who got to go on Study Abroad during college. I STILL smart sometimes at the opportunities I missed when I was younger. But I am who I am because of what I did do. And I like who I am. Meanwhile, I’m going about getting into my life the things that I missed—like going to grad school next year.

16. People who love being with other people’s kids and are easygoing with them. Also, parents who constantly have fun with their kids. I’m getting better at this as I get older. Also, as I learn to let go of expectations of myself and others (the path). I look forward to enjoying improvement in this area by the time I’m a grandmother!

17. People with really great laughs. Funny people. I can’t change these but I can work on enjoying these people more instead of seething with envy. I think as I learn to loosen up more, I will learn to laugh more easily and sense more joyous moments. I am blessed to be surrounded by people with great senses of humor.

18. Those women that people refer to in Relief Society when they say, “I have a friend who is always there for me, who never judges, who silently serves.” This is one that I’ve got to just let go. I know that I have a good and well-meaning heart, that I am constantly trying to be a caring friend to those around me. Thank goodness for my strong testimony that God knows my heart and that He will let me be a blessing to others, if I desire it, even if He doesn’t let me know how and when that happens. I’m trusting in that.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Green-eyed

I’ve been stuck on the question from the scriptures, “Are you stripped of envy?” This, combined with my current e-audiobook by Wayne Dyer, has got me convinced that my life would be much more peaceful, creative and satisfying if I could permanently eliminate envy from my life. Just since I’ve started pondering this, I have been astounded at how much of my thinking is focused on what I don’t have. I want to commit myself to a zero-tolerance policy for envy. So this post is my farewell to all those old envies.

Things I will no longer envy:

People who are extremely healthy, and people who are very strong. People who can run like antelope instead of plodding along at a half jog like I do. People who can stay up late watching TV with their spouses (and by late, I mean after 10:00).

Women with thick hair. Women with skinny little girl bodies. Women who have the money and lack of guilt to make their faces look 25 when they are actually 55.

People who are out of debt.

Amazingly gifted writers. Writers with amazing work ethics who are determined to succeed. Writers who know how to trust their subconscious. Writers with great agents. Writers with great book deals. Famous writers. In fact, I envy anyone who can answer with ease the question I get too often, “So, what books have you published?”

People with really close best friends that they never feel insecure about.

People with beautiful solo voices.

People who can knit sweaters while holding conversations, and who know how to pick the pattern and the yarn just right. People who can spin.

Vegetarians. But not really. However, I do envy people who eat very well because they enjoy it.

Women who know how to shop, and women who know how to dress. Women who can wear hats or scarves and look great and confident in them. Women who, even when they’re a little heavy, know well enough how to dress that they look nice all the time. Women who know how to pluck and color eyebrows.

Women who come alive in the afternoon and evening hours, so that their kids get their very best.

People with the ability to memorize easily.

People who got to go on Study Abroad during college.

People with the desire to keep their houses really clean at all times and the enjoyment of such.

People with the ability to cook, and the enjoyment of such.

People who love being with other people’s kids and are easygoing with them. Also, parents who constantly have fun with their kids.

People with really great laughs.

Funny people.

Those women that people refer to in Relief Society when they say, “I have a friend who is always there for me, who never judges, who silently serves.” (I don’t think anyone would say this about me. I feel like I’m always eager to serve, but never know how. I’m constantly bungling around. I want to be one of those elegant servers who know when to show up and how.)

People who know how to meditate and do it well.

Ah, man, I could go on. As I look at this list, I realize a couple of things.

First, I’m most susceptible to envy when it involves something I want but which I’m simply not willing to commit to getting. The ability to memorize, for example. Or knit, or spin, or meditate well and often. All these things I could get if I wanted them badly enough. Obviously, I don’t. So why do I waste mental energy envying people who have them? In some cases, I’ve done pretty well at making peace with my decision not to invest. The clean house, for example. It only bothers me mildly when other people have cleaner houses than mine. (The fact that it does proves that it is envy at work, not simply admiration.) But for the most part I’m willing to let that one go. If I could get used to letting other things go, like wanting to be a passionate writer, I would have more peace.

Second, envy isn’t the recognition of good things that I lack. Envy is the slight resentment towards the people who do have them. Envy is more about how I feel towards the other person and less about how I feel about their gifts. Which is why I made myself write “People who . . .” on the list instead of “the ability to . . .” I don’t think there’s anything wrong with recognizing that something might be valuable to have. The evil of envy is when I let it separate me from others because I feel inferior to them.

My goal, then, is to make my peace about the things I’m dedicated to seeking in my life, and the things I’m not going to invest in or simply can’t have (thick hair, for example). I may not have a natural gift with children, for example, but I’ll waste no more energy on wishing I were someone who does. I can use my energy to try to teach myself to be more in the moment, more loving, when I am with them. But wishing I didn’t have to work at it just wears me down.

I think that in conjunction with my decision to renounce envy, I also should commit to noticing and enjoying the things/gifts I DO have. So maybe I’ll make another list to that effect in my next blog. (Bet you’re on the edge of your seat for that one.)

Saturday, October 03, 2009

Highlights from my vocabulary flaschards

So, you know I took the GRE a few weeks ago. To prepare, I had a couple-hundred or so flashcards of vocabulary words. I got the words from lists of words in the prep material, and also from my own reading. I included words I had always sort of thought I knew but hadn’t been sure enough of to actually use in conversation, and words whose meanings turned out to surprise me when I read them in the prep material. I thought you might want to check out some of the highlights to see if you really know as many words as you think you do. So here are some of the highlights from my eight-inch high stack of flashcards.

Words I didn’t know but should have:

recusant: dissenter, nonconformist

juggernaut: anything that draws blind and destructive devotion. Roger also tells me it is the name of certain softball bat. Don't know how I didn't know that one.

exigent: urgent

contumely: I recognized this one from Austen, but still didn’t know what it meant. It means an insulting display of contempt.

phlegmatic: apathetic, sluggish; or self-possessed, cool.

opprobrium: disgrace.

taciturn: silent, not talkative. Tacit means “unspoken.”

eponymous: giving one’s name to something.

distaff: women’s work, or pertaining to women.

scion: descendant.

panegyric: a eulogy in praise or commendation. Similarly, encomium, despite its unfortunate similarity to meconium (and if you don’t know what this is, you’ve never delivered a baby), means a formal expression of high praise.

bellicose: hostile.

sodality: fellowship.

apotheosis: means “glorification as ideal.”

recidivism: a repeated relapse, as into crime.

bucolic: pastoral.

Weird similarities and contrasts

Sedition means resistance to lawful authority but sedulity means diligence.

Impunity and impugn are almost opposites.

Venal means “open to bribery” and venial means a kind of sin that can be forgiven.

Spendthrift is someone who squanders money, and skinflint is a miser.

Turpitude means baseness or depravity; torpor means sluggishness. So torpid means sluggish, but turbid means unclear, muddled, clouded, disturbed. Turgid means swollen or tumid, or pompous and overblown.

Abrogate: to abolish by formal means. Arrogate means to claim without right. Abnegate means “to relinquish.” Abjure means to renounce or avoid. Objurgate means to denounce vehemently.

Obdurate means stubborn or unyielding.

Moribund means “in a dying state.” Mordant, however, means “caustic or biting,” as does mordacious.

Timorous means “fearful,” but temerity means “reckless or foolish daring.”

Ingenuous means “free from restraint, artless or naïve,” while ingenious means pretty darn smart. (I actually already knew this one, but I thought it was worth pointing out.)

Dissemble means to prevaricate, but disseminate means to get the word out.

Imprecate means to curse something; it is not related to implicate.

Words I thought I knew the meaning of, at least in a general sort of way, but it turns out I really didn’t. OK, before you read what I thought these meant and what they really mean, ask yourself to define them and see how you do.

extenuate: it actually means “to lessen.” Attenuate also means “to make thin or weaken.”

nonplussed: I always thought it meant something like “unimpressed,” or “unfazed,” but it means “perplexed”

facetious. I always thought this meant something like “ironic,” because the way people use it: “I was just being facetious.” But it really just means “frivolously amusing.”

quiescent: means “motionless.” I thought it meant “agreeable,” or “amenable.”

dessicated: I thought it meant “chewed up”! Really! It actually means “dried out.” I know everyone knew that but me.

iconoclast: one who opposes established beliefs. I, well, sorta thought it meant the opposite. Kind of.

laconic: I thought this meant lazy, or apathetic. It actually means “terse and concise.”

plenary: I thought it kind of meant “seminal,” or “the main one,” but it really means “full or complete.”

sanguine: another one that I thought meant apathetic, or unmoved. This one really means “cheerful, hopeful, continent.” Consanguine, on the other hand, means “related by blood.”

salient: I thought this one meant “most applicable,” but it really means “prominent.” (You can see how they’re sort of the same. Kind of.)

Saturnine means sluggish or gloomy.

Simper does not mean a little flirty pout, as I thought it did. It means “a silly, self-conscious smile.”

Craven does not mean “insane” or even “malicious.” It means “cowardly.”

Compendium does not mean a collection. It means a brief account of a subject, a summary, or an inventory. Similary, compendious means concise (ironic, I know.)

Baleful does not mean sort of helpless and woebegone. It means “full of menace, pernicious.”
salubrious has nothing to do with saliva but means “favorable to or promoting health.”

Quixotic: OK, I already knew what this one meant, but I have been mispronouncing it for years, at least in my mind. I thought it was “keeyotic,” to resemble the correct pronunciation of Quixote.

Enervate means, illogically, “to destroy the vigor of or weaken.” Seems to me that it should mean to give MORE nerve to something, not take away nerve.

Clement. Duh, I should have known this one because of “clemency.” I kept thinking of the people at the elementary school saying we could stay in for recess “in the case of inclement weather.” But I never really knew that clement means “mild, lenient, compassionate.”

Hermetic: means “completely sealed,” or “having to do with the occult sciences.” I made a big fool of myself once when someone asked me what this meant and I tried to explain what hermeneutic meant instead. (Don’t ask me to define that one today, though.)

Blandishment is not a criticism but a flattery or cajoling.

Bemused does not mean thinking, “Hmm! Imagine that!” with a little chuckle. It actually means “bewildered, confused or muddled.”

Calumny. I think I was mixing this up with calamity. It just means slander.

Torrid does not mean tempestuous and steamy, it means scorching or burning hot with sun. (Also see torpid, above.)

Desultory does not mean apathetically or lazily, it means “jumping from one thing to another; disconnected.”

Weird words, or fun words I’m glad I discovered:

homunculus: a midget.

persiflage: light, bantering talk.

obstreperous: noisily unruly, out-of-control. Surprising I didn’t already know and use this one, being the mother of four boys.

tyro: a novice or beginner.

diurnal: having to do with daytime.

sybarite: person devoted to pleasure and luxury.

bumptious: pushy.

pusillanimous: lacking resolution. Try using that one in a sentence today.

orotund: full, rich, clear voice—or, bombastic speech.

prolix means tediously long and wordy (the opposite of compendious, I guess).

mawkish: such a great word! Means “sickly sweet or sentimental.” Describes some poetry that gets submitted to Segullah . . .

ensorcell: to bewitch. Love this one!

elutriate: to purify by washing. This is just so fun to say, with a sort of breathless, Galadriel sort of accent.

Tuesday, September 29, 2009

The worst music video ever.

I stole this shamelessly from Chris Bigelow. Warning: it will take several weeks to get this song out of your head.

I especially like the jewelry worn by the, um, dashingly sexy male lead. Yeah.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YPnGPIMUnus

p.s. You really need to watch it a few times to fully appreciate all the details and nuances.

Sunday, September 27, 2009

Feeling Safe

I was thinking today about my decision to stay home with my children instead of working while hubby was in grad school. We have some friends who made a different decision, and that decision worked out really well for them financially. I can’t complain because we are doing fine financially as well—and even if we weren’t, I wouldn’t regret my decision. Still, it makes me wonder . . . did they experience any bad effects from that choice? Do I wish that they did?

My musings on this subject led me to another subject, which is really what I want to talk about here. Here it is: I feel reluctant sometimes to discuss my feelings about things like this because I am so conservative and I don’t want to offend people. But it is strange to me that this is so. Has Relief Society become so accepting of differences and so open to exceptions that we no longer feel safe in discussing (or advocating) conservative choices?

I feel so blessed that I grew up in a more liberal church. By “more liberal,” I mean a church that encourages acceptance and even the embracing of differences. A church that has, during my lifetime, switched to encouraging men to put their families first, help out at home once in a while, be sensitive to the physical and emotional needs and limits of their wives. Most of my adult life has been spent in a post-Chieko Okazaki Relief Society, in which we make sure we bend over backwards not to offend the woman sitting next to us who might have chosen, as Okazaki did, to work outside of the home while others cared for her children.

I LIKE this change.

And yet . . . and yet I remain the kind of woman who chose to stay home with my children, even though it was hard, because the prophet suggested I do so. I am glad I did, and I got many blessings by doing so, but the biggest reason I did was because of that. But I don’t feel that I could say that, just that way, in Relief Society, or even on some on-line forums that pride themselves on being “safe places.” The thing is, we’ve made everything so safe for people who are not strict in their following of church guidelines, or people who wonder, or people who don’t fit into the traditional LDS woman types. But have we made these places less safe for people who are strict with themselves and traditional? Do we give as much respect to the “hardliners” for strictness as we do to the women who have made other choices? Do we try as hard to make sure these more conservative women feel like they won’t be attacked or ostracized for sharing their feelings and opinions as we do the others? (I’m not talking here about tolerating intolerance. I’m just talking about making sure people feel safe and respected.)

What do you think? Have there been times when you have hesitated to share a more conservative opinion or feeling because you feel like you won’t be respected or you might be attacked?

Sunday, September 20, 2009

Just a little thing . . .

I found out this week that my novel (yes, that one) placed second in the Utah Arts Council contest YA division! The prize for second place is $750! That's by far the most I've ever won with my writing.

It's weird to me to observe my own reaction to this. Because as recently as two years ago, I would be head-over-heels giddy ("ebullient," one of my new GRE words) with thrills over this award. But now, although I can't say that I'm not glad, it's not as exciting. Why?

I think it's because I'm stuck (again). This novel has some good writing in it (and that's probably why it won) but it just isn't where I'd like it to be and I CAN'T FIGURE OUT HOW TO FIX IT. If it were published tomorrow, I would feel faintly embarrassed that it represented me and my mind and my skill. And yet I know it has merit (guess this contest proves it even more than the agent interest), so it irritates me to abandon it. I'm stuck in this place where I don't want to work on it and don't want to let it go.

The other reason that I am not quite so thrilled is that I've been doing this long enough now (and I have dear friends who are better at it and more published than I am who have shared their experiences) to know that in the end it doesn't matter if others like it, or how many others like it, or even if it does get published--at least, not in the long term. By "doesn't matter," I mean, no writing success is going to make me feel like a permanent writing success, or like a more valuable person. The same insecurities are still there, the same fears.

And, besides all that, the number of people who are impressed by such things is pretty darn small. Even in my extended family, who try their hardest to be happy for me, no one is going to keep mentioning it to me, keep being awed by it. The most I can ask of anyone is an "All right! Good for you!" or maybe a "Can I read it?" (which isn't always that great either, since it often comes from people who had no interest whatsoever in what I'd written until they heard it won something), which sentiments pass very quickly and then all is forgotten.

I can only remind people of my great accomplishments so many times. Thank goodness my husband doesn't mind my, "By the way, did you know I won 2nd place? And also got a 1450 on the GRE?" comments that come twice daily (or more). He even acts enthusiastic--but, really, how much can I expect of the poor guy who doesn't read poetry or literary fiction at all? That's a lot of pressure for one guy to carry--being my cheerleader.

So I've learned that I've got to be doing this writing stuff for my own satisfaction, for the enjoyment of the process, because in the end that will be my real, and perhaps only, reward. Although the $750 is nice. I'd like to spend it on a really cool couch or something but it'll go right into the grad school fund.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Poetry Workshop 2

I'm way behind on my report of my poetry workshop with Kurt Brown last spring. Which is just a sign that my life got exciting. It still is exciting (I'm so loving this phase! I love having my kids in school! Besides giving me time for myself, it's just a very fun age of kids, and parenting is in general more interesting than it has ever been. I'm only just realizing that the real culprit in my emotional struggles when they were little was boredom). But I ought to keep my commitment and finish out these notes for you!

So here are some things I learned on subsequent days in Kurt's workshop.

In a poetry workshop, it's a good idea to read your poem out loud to the critiquers. And then to have someone else read it aloud, so that you can hear how others will interpret its sounds.

When you number sections (as opposed to just starting a new stanza or separating with a mark), you move away in time and space, maybe subject. Leave it to the reader to look at how they're related. The transitions can be supplied by the reader if you've done your job well.

It is not always best to attempt to end with a punch. This is a sign that you don't trust the reader. Sometimes it's best to end with an image rather than an idea. It's often good to end on a monosyllabic word, or a word that ends with a stress.

Use lineation (the way you break up your lines) to strengthen words, to speed up action or slow it down, to emphasize sound. Remember that poetry is a temporal art--that is, it exists in time. Lineation is how you control the pacing, the passage of time in the poem.

[Kurt passed out a fantastic handout on lineation.]

For speeding things up, use "propulsive breaks," breaks that force the reader to go on to complete the thought. This propels them around the corner. Or tricks of words:

My father beat me
in a race.

Use lineation to imitate the action that the poem is describing.

In formal verse, you work with feet. In free verse, the line is your unit to work with, your unit of measurement.

Leave out as much as you can while leaving enough to allow the reader to draw conclusions. (I wish I could tell this to everyone who submits poetry to Segullah! You don't have to say everything!)

Generic language is not always bad. It makes the poem sound more mythic ("man," "house," "hill").

When you're structuring a poem, say the second most important thing first, then the least important thing in the middle, then the most important thing last.

Sunday, September 13, 2009

GRE

Well, it's over. The cool thing about it was how calm I felt. I had prepared all I could; I had taken practice tests and was happy with the scores I was averaging. My biggest fear was that I would get a migraine or other health problem during the test, and I asked for a blessing to help me with that and with the fear of it (which is just as debilitating and often brings a migraine on). (See previous post on fear.)

So I was calm--calm the night before, calm as I drove there, calm as I encountered the essay questions. It was the first essay I was most worried about, because I have found in my practice tests that I am not so great at coming up with contemporary examples to support my statements. Besides being disgustingly unaware of popular culture and politics, even when I do remember things I can never remember names. (For example, in one of the essays I wrote for the test, I referred to "that lady from Britain who sings and who was discovered on the British talent show." You know whom I mean. What IS her name???) Anyway, my topic on the harder essay was this: --oh, wait. I may have promised not to reveal the topic. Did I? I can't remember if it said that specifically in all those things I signed. Well, anyway, it was a topic that I was able to think of three really solid examples for, and I really think this was God helping me. (The writing of the thing, of course, is the easy part.)

I cruised along through the Quantitative (math) section, not getting too worrried about it, answering what I could and guessing when I felt it was taking too long or I had no clue, just as I have done in all my practice tests. (I called BYU and the U a couple of months ago and asked if there was any reason in the world for me to study for the math portion--would anyone at all look at those scores? Answer: no. So I didn't.)

And then I did the Analytical (Verbal) section, and the VERY FIRST QUESTION, the MOST IMPORTANT QUESTION because it determines a cap on your score, contained a vocabulary word that I had no idea the definition of. This was surprising to me, since I had studied hundreds of words in preparation for this test, including all of the words on the "recommended" lists of the test-prep materials. But this was not one I had made a flashcard for or encountered within the last six months. It wasn't a word I'd never heard before, but I had NO IDEA what it meant. (I know, you're dying to know what the word was. But the truth is that I can't remember it! I must have blocked it out or something. Really.) So that was a major bummer because I knew it would have significant impact on my score. I made my best guess and moved on.

After that I had to write YET ANOTHER ESSAY because it was part of the research materials of the test. In other words, I had to do it, but its score wouldn't count for me. It was really hard to push myself on that one, since I was exhausted by then. But I made it through.

Then I had a chance to choose not to have my test scored. If, for example, I felt like I had had a really off day and didn't want this GRE to count, I could click on "don't score," and then leave the test and re-take it another day with no problem. Once I clicked on "score," though, I was agreeing to have the scores sent to the schools I had designated. I had to choose which one BEFORE I could see the scores. I considered not getting it scored for only a split second (because of that one word). But I knew I had lucked out on the essay and not done too badly for myself otherwise, so I went ahead and got my scores.

And here's the joke: my quantitative score was higher than my verbal! Quantitative: 730, Verbal: 720. I couldn't quit laughing about it all the way home. Do these people care that both of these scores are inaccurate? In practices, I average higher on verbal and much lower on quantitative. Ah, well. 720 isn't bad--they say it's in the top 2% of people who take the test. The BYU English department tells me the average scores for people accepted there are 614.61 Verbal and 578.43 Quantitative, so at least I know that my scores won't keep me OUT of the program. (I know that actually the scores probably count very little in the acceptance process.) But it's so hilarious to me! I mean, I did my best on the math part, but I did guess several times. Lucky guesses. The good thing is that if I ever decide I want to go back into a more science-based field, I won't have to take the GRE again! (Not much of a chance of that, true, but I have fantasized about becoming a nurse midwife . . . ) (There's probably a different entrance test for nurses anyway.)

Friday, September 11, 2009

Fear

I’ve been thinking about fear.

Fear is the great evil of the world, I think.

Looking at just my own little corner of the world, it affects me personally in insidious ways, rolling over my life like oil and finding cracks to seep into to break things apart. When I am afraid, I get cranky. (And I’m not sure that crankiness isn’t the true evil, as C. S. Lewis describes.) I become so focused on myself that I don’t see others clearly and I do stupid things.

Recently I have been very afraid, because I have switched medications and it has seemed as if my old illness was returning. This fear turns my insides to gravy, and I find myself walking unaware of my surroundings, and snapping at people. Disgusting.

A few weeks ago, a woman who has a very great fear in her life attacked me verbally (and it was a literal attack) for something so illogical that I suppose it was a blessing, because it enabled me to see that she must really be in pain. I can and do forgive that (though it was very, very painful and distressing), but it makes me wonder how many other people who have hurt me, particularly by just being cranky and thoughtless, are just struggling with their own little (or big) fears. Does all selfishness have fear at its root? Probably so.

I’ve been aghast at the results of fear in my own local school district, where children were not given the choice of whether or not to listen to the President of the United States, because of the fear some parents had. These adults did not trust themselves to research the message that would be given, study its ideas, and prepare themselves to discuss (and, if necessary, dismiss) it with their children. Rather they preferred to make sure that NO children had the chance to hear it. This worries me—that we would, as a society, choose not to risk encountering ideas we might not like rather than being open to the possibility of new things. We are afraid.

Nothing makes this clearer than the “end-of-the-world, what-is-society-coming-to” e-mails that people forward to me. These things are designed to make people act out of fear, and, what’s worse, often contain inaccuracies, exaggerations, dubious authorship and sometimes even outright lies. I’m concerned about how quick people are to click on “Forward” before they even check out the truth of the statements (or even just look it up at Snopes). Why? What makes us eager to spread fear around?

What is the antidote to fear? Well, obviously, it’s faith. But faith in what? Obviously, not “faith that things are already fine.” Because that would be a shutting down of our intelligence, a choosing to be acted upon instead of acting. Maybe it’s a faith that as we take care of things to the best of our abilities, all will never be lost. God is still in charge of my little life, and of the world in general. I have great faith in the lovingness of God, that He will not give His children anything other than exactly what they choose. So even if I think that my neighbor is deluded in what she thinks will be best for this country, God sees her heart. And if her heart is such that she is seeking this or that political change because she wants what’s best for the most people possible, she will be blessed. My forwarding her an e-mail won’t change her heart, and it probably won’t change her mind, either, since she did not ask for my opinion.

I have faith in human nature, but more than that I have faith in God. I’ve got to figure out a way to keep fear from running my life, because it never brings anything good.

Thursday, September 03, 2009

Friending

This thing about “friending” on Facebook. I’m not sure I get what it’s all about. I mean, I’m usually glad, or at least OK with it, when someone “friends” me, but occasionally it leaves me scratching my head. With some of these people I can’t figure out their purpose. Are they just trying to get as many people as they can? Do they sell Amway or something? I suppose I know a disproportionate amount of authors, and maybe these people are trying to build up their publicity—and that’s fine, provided that I actually know THEM. Some of them I just don’t. I guess they find me because I am the friend of someone they know, but still, it seems a little tacky . . .

Some of these situations are worse than tacky, though. Like a certain person who keeps trying to friend me (she’s tried THREE times, now) who was in my ward growing up. The thing is, she HATED me when we were growing up. She was the bully who sent me home crying from Young Women’s many times. She has lived in my memory as the Horrible Thing, the Thing to make sure I never grew up to be, and to make sure my kids never grew up to be. Why in the WORLD does she want to “friend” me? And why does she keep trying, even though I keep “ignoring” her?

And then there are the people who say, “Hey, D! Long time no see!” and I can’t remember ever having met them before. Am I going senile already? (I AM approaching 40 this year . . . ) Who ARE these people? And how can I say, “Um, I don’t remember you”?

I really enjoy facebook, and now that I’ve figured out how to “hide” the updates from most people (but not you, of course--never you), I am able to check it out occasionally without a nervous breakdown. But, please, don’t friend me unless you’re my friend.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

O'Connor: scaring people by writing about sin

Well, I think it's time for more philosophising from Flannery O'Connor. These quotes are taken from pages 139 and 143-44 of The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O'Connor, 1979 edition.

"I once had the feeling I would dig my mother's grave with my writing, too, but I later discovered this was vanity on my part. They are hardier than we think."

I like this one because I think too much about what other people are going to think about my writing. I do it both ways--thinking one group of my friends will think it's too gooey, or others will think it's too scandalous. Or I worry that people will simply misunderstand what I'm saying. Especially with poetry, I can't make everything so clear as to prevent the possibility of misunderstanding without losing all art and subtlety. I have to be willing to risk misinterpretation and leave the readers their free agency.

"About scandalizing the 'little ones.' When I first began to write I was much worried about this thing of scandalizing people, as I fancied that what I wrote was highly inflammatory. I was wrong--it wouldn't even have kept anybody awake, but anyway, thinking this was my problem, I talked to a priest about it. The first thing he said to me was, 'You don't have to write for fiteen-year-old-girls.' Of course, the mind of a fifteen-year-old girl lurks in many a head that is seventy-five and people are every day being scandalized not only by what is scandalous of its nature but by what is not. If a novelist wrote a book about Abraham passing his wife Sarah off as his sister--which he did--and allowing her to be taken over by those who wanted her for their lustful purposes--which he did to save his skin--how many Catholics would not be scandalized at the behavior of Abraham? The fact is that in order not to be scandalized, one has to have a whole view of things, which not many of us have."

"When you wirte a novel, if you have been honest about it and if your conscience is clear, then it seems to me that you have to leave the rest in God's hands. . . . I think that for the writer to worry about this is to take over God's business."

This one hits me hard. I believe that--believe that it is wrong and actually damaging to the quality of my art for me to be more involved than I should in God's business. My business is to do what I feel called to do, and do it as well as I possibly can, then leave the rest to God.

"Part of the mystery of existence is sin. When we think about the Crucifixion, we miss the point of it if we don't think about sin."

"Fiction is suposed to represent life, and the fiction writer has to use as many aspects of life as are necessary to make his total picture convincing. The fiction writer doesn't state, he shows, renders."

"The two worst sins of bad taste in fiction are pornography and sentimentality. One is too much sex and the other too much sentiment. You have to have enough of either to prove your point but no more."

"I don't think you have to worry much about bad taste with a competent writer, because he uses everything for a reason."

I so agree with this one. It explains why the depiction of sin in some things doesn't bother me at all, and other times drives me crazy. So many writers seem to just throw it in for fun, and not for a purpose.

"What offends my taste in fiction is when right is held up as wrong, or wrong as right."

Amen.

Thursday, August 27, 2009

3 things

1. As many of you know, I changed my e-mail address TWICE yesterday. It's a wonder I don't have an ulcer. Some of you, when you heard that I was switching from yahoo to g-mail, wrote to tell me I would like gmail so much more, and I have to say that already I believe you. I look forward to getting more used to it. I'm glad to not be losing e-mail anymore. But here's the crazy thing: google won't let me change my blog account name to be the same as my gmail mailbox. And since you can't have two google accounts open at once, I can never have e-mail and blogger open at the same time! I have to sign out of my e-mail in order to sign into my blog! Stupid!

2. I was thinking today about kind people. There's a lady who lives in Pocatello who periodically sends or brings my husband a little bag of nylon dish-scrubbies that she crochets herself just because she thinks he's a great eye doctor. It amazes me that there are people like that, who would think to give gifts to their eye doctor because they appreciate him. (The dish scrubbies are really nice, too. I use and like them.) I wouldn't ever think to do something like that. It makes me wonder what other things I never think to do. And, while we're on the subject, can I just say how cool it is to be married to someone who is good at what he does? I mean, he's not just adequate, which I could live with, but he is GOOD. It's so nice to never have to worry about what kind of experience my friends or ward-members or acquaintances will have if they try him out as an eye doctor. It's weird because he might just as easily have turned out to be lousy or mediocre--who can know ahead of time how good they'll be at something? I would, of course, still love him if he were (lousy, I mean). But it's so NICE not to have to worry about that! I love being proud of him.

3. Speaking of being kind, here's my present for you. Believe me, it's ambrosia.

Peaches and Cream Cake

Ingredients:
3/4 c. flour
1 t. baking powder
1/8 t. salt
1 pkg. cheesecake or vanilla instant pudding mix (3.4 ounce)
3 tbsp. butter, softened
1 egg
1/2 c. milk
1 lg (about 28 ounces) can sliced peaches, drained
8 oz. cream cheese, softened
1/2 c. sugar
1/4 teaspoon cinnamon mixed with 1 1/2 teaspoons sugar

Preparation:Mix together dry ingredients. Mix in butter, egg and milk. Spread in lightly greased (deep) pie plate or casserole (I used a square glass baking pan). Arrange peaches over batter. Beat the cream cheese, sugar and 3 tablespoons peach juice for about 2 minutes. Spread over peaches, leaving a 1-inch border. Sprinkle cinnamon-sugar over cream cheese mixture. Bake for 35 to 45 minutes in 350 degree preheated oven. Cool and refrigerate.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Book Report

Well, it's been a while since I've reported on my reading. So, if you're interested, here's a long list. I'll mark my recommendations with asterisks:


Adult Fiction:
The Giant's House by Elizabeth McCracken. This came highly recommended to me but I found it very plodding. It's about a young man who is oversized. Just couldn't see its charm.


Run by Anne Patchett. I like Patchett and read this shortly after hearing her speak. This one was gripping but I didn't enjoy it as much as Bel Canto.


Final Theory by Mark Alpert. This was my cruise reading. A very quick read, sort of Grisham-esque in the pacing and mystery and danger the main character is avoiding, mixed up with some scientific speculation. I found it somewhat flawed and I was in a hurry to finish it.


Lavinia by Ursula LeGuin. About Aeneas's wife. I couldn't get past the first third. I guess I just have no interest in that setting or those people. I find some of LeGuin fantastic and others boring.


*Still Alice by Lisa Genova. This was another of my favorites this year. It's a meticulous account of a woman with early-onset alzheimer's. Fascinating and well-done.


I Claudius by Robert Graves. I never would have picked this up if it hadn't been for a book group. It took some work to get all the way through it, but I suppose it's one of those that people should read. Full of violence and lust, the society it describes is sort of mind-blowing. The big question is, of course, how much of it is historical.


Big Rock Candy Mountain by Wallace Stegner. I love Stegner. Alas, this wasn't one of my favorites. It's highly autobiographical, full of excruciating scenes of his difficult childhood. He's a genius, but this one was more downer than anything.


Recapitulation by Wallace Stegner, sequal to Big Rock Candy Mountain. It really was just more of the same. The whole story was told in retrospect, with a loose frame enabling the narrator to tell more growing up stories. I felt it lacked a good story arc.


Old Men and Dogs by Robert Inman. A nice, fat, sweet little story that was pretty good but nothing exciting. About an old woman looking back on her life and trying to solve some racial tension in her town.


Birds of a Feather by Jacqueline Winspear. This was another Maisy Dobbs mystery. I really enjoy these for a light break occasionally. I love how Maisy uses knowledge about bodies and how people carry tension and problems in their bodies to help her understand people.


Wide Sargasso Sea by Rhys. OK, I'm stupid, but I didn't realize the connection with Jayne Eyre until I was nearly done with the book! I found the entire book underwhelming--lacking in cohesive structure. It just seemed like stuff happening. I was disappointed to miss out on Maralise's book group discussion of it, which probably would have helped me gain some appreciation.


Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. I'm told that Ford is LDS, although this book is not. It's a sweet little story about two young friends, Chinese and Japanese, during the war in the Pacific.


Mr. Darcy's Diary by Amanda Grange. Just exactly what it says it is. It didn't add anything to the story for me (what was I expecting?) and is probably best enjoyed by people who just love the time period.


Digging to America by Anne Tyler. I just love Tyler's characters. That's all.

Brokeback Mountain by Annie Proulx. Yuck. Couldn't find anything redeeming here.




Young Adult or Children's:
Hate That Cat by Sharon Creech. This was a sequal to Love That Dog, which was really fun to read. This one was basically more of the same. Same kid, same poetic form. The first one was better, but this was fun, too.

The Wednesday Wars by Gary D. Schmidt. This was a cute book about a kid who is forced by his teacher to read Shakespeare. It was a little disjointed but a fun read.



*My Name is Sus5an Smith; the 5 is Silent by Louise Plummer. This was a re-read for my BYU conference but I loved it just as much. Plummer is so good at what she does, especially in creating the "writing scene" that each of her books has, when you can't bear to read on or to stop reading because of the trouble the main character gets into. Delightful, as usual.

Everything is Fine by Ann Dee Ellis. Although this was pretty good, and I love Ann Dee's prose style (so very good at sounding like an adolescent!), I felt that this book was "more of the same." Like her first book, it was the story of something terrible that had happened or was going to happen that is a mystery that unfolds very slowly. I would like to see her try something very different.

The Way He Lived by Emily Wing Smith. This was very unconventional in structure; it was made up of several narrators telling different, but connected stories. (And even the word "stories" is used very loosely.) I'm fascinated by seeing things from different points of view, but I felt this book was just a little too loose and disconnected. I would have liked to see it after another revision or two. I liked how the characters were LDS in various ways and am curious about the publisher's feelings about that.

Keturah and Lord Death by Martine Leavitt. I hesitate to criticize this one because it is so many people's favorite book and I had heard it praised so highly. But I found the ending unbelievable and extremely disappointing. It is the opposite of romance, to me, when people are so destined for each other that they seem to have no choice in the matter. I found some of the problems that the main character had to solve to be unjustifiable or lacking in the weight given them (why was she so hung up on lemons? it just seemed silly). Still, it was a very interesting premise. Mostly, I'm just not in the audience for these kinds of books (the one with the almost mythical-sounding prose--all the dragon ones, for example).

*Hunger Games by Suzanne Collins. Couldn't put it down--great fascination.




Nonfiction:
Through the Window of Life by Suzanne Freeman. This is an LDS lady who has had visions and near-death experiences that have convinced her about what the breakdown of society is going to be like prior to the Second Coming. Like most of these books, it was poorly written and edited and cheaply produced. Some of it was pretty unbelievable to me, but some of it was very thought-provoking. I'm glad I read it because it gave me a new angle to think about how things could unfold.

Road Map to Holland by Jennifer Graf Groneberg. This was a memoir about Groneberg's experience having a child with down syndrome. I couldn't help being disappointed because I was comparing it to Kathy's book, which was much more interesting. But I have to point out that Groneberg's was a different TYPE of book, with a different purpose. Her title of "roadmap" describes it well. Reading it felt like reading a guidebook to the experience of having a child with DS, not so much a journey into the mind and heart of Groneberg herself. A good read if you are navigating this situation yourself--otherwise rather flat and boring.

*An Unquiet Mind: A Memoir of Moods and Madness by Kay Redfield Jamison. This is a memoir of someone who struggles with bi-polar disorder, and I found it fascinating--honest and well-written. One of the best books I've read this year.

*The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls. This was a highly-recommended memoir of a woman who grew up in poverty. I was reluctant to read it because I hate downers--but this one wasn't! In that way, it reminded me of Frank McCourt. You feel the pathos, but you laugh and enjoy it as well. Amazing story; I can't believe that this woman is able to have a normal life now. She's got to be more screwed up than she lets on.

The Year of Magical Thinking by Joan Didion. This is a memoir about losing a spouse. Some argue that the book is too full of navel-gazing, but I found it fascinating.

*Healing and the Mind by Bill Moyers. Can't deny that this one came from my fascination with health and how my life changed because of my illness. I really enjoyed this book. It's made up of essays and interviews from a wide variety of healty practictioners, most of them "alternate," such as those who advocate meditation, tai chi, etc. I'd recommend it to anyone dealing with serious or chronic illness.

The Poet's Companion by Addonizio and Laux. This was a great poet's workbook with ideas and prompts and just general over-all information on being a poet. I would like to read it again when I have time to work through it.

Creative Writing MFA Handbook: A Guide for Prospective Graduate Students by Kealy et al. Very helpful.

Rough Stone Rolling by Richard Bushman. OK, I confess, this took me more than a year to finish, and I ended up skimming the last third. I found that paying close attention to the first half was very informative and I'm glad I read it, but this is not easy or quick reading. I was fascinated with how Bushman explains the evolution of Joseph's magical worldview. Probably everyone should read it but I doubt many can get through it.

*The Bonds that Make Us Free by C. Terry Warner. This was a re-read and just as good as ever. I think I should read it every few years, and I think everyone else should too. I'm trying to decide whether giving it as a gift to family members would make them think I am saying they need help--? Anyway, just an amazing book about interpersonal relations.

*A New Earth by Ekhart Tolle. This is probably the most new-agey book I've ever read, and it got a little draggy in the last third or so, but the ideas in it were very helpful for me. I think there is a lot of room in the gospel for more of these concepts (non-judgment, non-resistance, non-attachment).

*The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher by Lewis Thomas. These were fascinating essays on science, language, anthropology, etc. I'd love to read more of his work.

Found by Davy Rothbart. Being a window-peeker, I was fascinated by this chance to peek into people's lives written by another one like me. Some of it was pretty hairy but overall it was fascinating and enjoyable.



Science Fiction/Fantasy:
The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde. This is a "Thursday Next" mystery, which takes place in some futuristic society and involves time travel. This would be a really fun book--for someone else. It was all just silly to me.

The Magicians and Mrs. Quent by Galen Beckett. This was a great disappointment to me. Someone recommended it as Austen meets Jonahan Morrell and Mr. Strange, and I guess I can see that, but I found it plodding.



Poetry:
One Secret Thing by Sharon Olds. Yikes! That one would put hair on my chest! This woman flinches at nothing. But she's good--very good.

Eyes of a Flounder by Laura Hamblin. Hamblin is a former member of the Church and her best poetry, to me, is about her struggles with it. (I wrote about this in my blog, if you recall, and ruffled some feathers).

Late Wife by Claudie Emerson. One of my favorites I discovered this year! This collection is very much about relationships, one of my favorite subjects in poetry.

Man With a Camel by Mark Strand. About half of these poems I could never get any kind of grip on. The others were good.

*Say Uncle by Kay Ryan. Ryan is my hands-down favorite poet I discovered this year. Her poems are tiny but dense and delightful. I think I'll write my paper on her.

Dark Familiar by Aleda Shirley. Just OK. I can't even remember it.

Loving a Woman in Two Worlds by Robert Bly. I can't figure out whether I just picked up the wrong book or whether Bly just doesn't do a thing for me. He's very into the dream-state.

A Working Girl Can't Win by Deborah Garrison. Some pretty light things that were interesting because I liked her subject--modern society, being a working woman.

*Strong is Your Hold by Galway Kinnel. Loved this one so much I asked for it for my birthday. Amazing use of language. He has one long poem about September 11 that blew my socks off. But most of his do--even one about a rotting gopher carcass! Amazing stuff.

Ordinary Words by Ruth Stone. OK. Can't remember it much.

On the Bus with Rosa Parks by Rita Dove. I couldn't help feeling that I have seen this same type of thing done better by others. It just seemed to fall a little short of knocking me off my feet.

Dog Language by Chase Twitchell. I found some of these very good, particularly her dog poems.

Everything Preserved by Landis Everson. Yuck.

St. Nobody by Amy Lemmon. I felt her poems about her child with Down Syndrome were her strongest.


*****
It's strange for me to see that the majority of books I REALLY liked were non-fiction. That surprises me. I consider myself a fiction person. I guess my heart is in fiction, but I'm very demanding with my fiction.

Whew! If anyone made it that far, you are a diehard reader and true friend! I'd sure love to hear what your favorites were this year.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

SAHM

I was given an opportunity, in a roundabout sort of way, to participate in a Sunstone Symposium panel about Stay-at-Home-Mothers. While I chose not to participate, I’ve been thinking ever since about what I would say, if given a chance, about my decision to be a Stay-Home Mom (SAHM). So, lucky you, I will treat you readers to my thoughts.

I have a close acquaintance who, after being raised very LDS, has left the church. She once tried to describe to me how awkward it is for her to hang around us still-active people. “I can’t shake the feeling of disapproval from you,” she said. “Not because of anything you do or say, but because of what I know about how you think and what you believe. I know that by the very nature of what you so obviously still believe, you think that I have ‘fallen away’ and am making a bad decision.” “Ah, yes,” I responded, “but you forget that it goes both ways. When you are with me, I always know that by the nature of the choice you’ve made, you consider me to be deluded and less advanced than you, because I haven’t yet progressed beyond my upbringing.” She hadn’t thought of that before.

I feel the same way when I talk about my decision to be an SAHM with other women who did not make the same choice. I am afraid of offending; I am afraid of being thought shallow; I am potentially offended, and so are they. Nevertheless, here we go.

When I really analyze how I made this decision, I realize that I didn’t really make this decision in isolation. I made it as a logical progression from another, bigger decision, and that was the decision to marry at all.

I was a rather boy-crazy teenager and I went away to BYU hoping to catch a man as quick as I could. I got engaged rather young and only escaped marrying that (very wrong) guy by the skin of my teeth and after making a fool of myself. By the time I had become mature enough to make a good choice of whom to marry, I wasn’t sure I wanted to marry at all. I loved my independent life. I loved my education; I could imagine myself continuing in academia forever after, probably as the beloved high-school English teacher and favorite aunt who travelled a lot and had very interesting book groups, etc. It sounded pretty good to me.

But I still knew that the church taught that the greatest happiness was to be achieved in a family, raising children. And people I trusted believed that, too. People told me that marriage and family were good things, and brought great joy. It was kind of like jumping off of a diving board for the first time—I couldn’t know what it was like until I did it, but people who had done it said that it was worthwhile. Mine was the choice, then, to believe them—or not.

Once I made the decision to commit to the family lifestyle, the choice to stay home with my kids was very easy. Logically, it made no sense to me to invite children into my home and then pay others to raise them. What was the point? If I was going to have children, they would be mine—influenced by me more than anyone else.

One thing that helped was that I did not enjoy my work at all. It was easy to quit when my first baby was born. I had great fantasies of the joyous time my children and I would have together at home. But I hadn’t counted on post-partum depression, which blindsided me. I was stuck in a basement apartment with no car in the dark winter. My child was colicky and wouldn’t stop crying, ever. My mother was dead and I felt like I had no help. Each day my husband left to go to school, and I was filled with envy, remembering so clearly and romantically how much I had loved school. Why did he get to go pursue his dreams just because he was male and I was stuck at home with this maddening screaming and boredom because I was female?Again, I wouldn’t have considered passing him off to a child-care center. My fantasies involved my HUSBAND staying home instead of me. Perhaps I would have considered letting my mother or mother-in-law babysit while I worked a few hours each day “for sanity” had they been available. But nor more than that, if at all. At this point, though, I needed extra help in remaining firm in my commitment to stay at home, and this firmness came from one thing: I believe in a prophet. I had been taught that I should stay home if I could, and that was enough.

Sometimes I followed the prophet because I believed that doing so eventually leads to the most joy. Other times I did it simply out of a sense of duty. Either way, I did it out of testimony that following the prophet was what was best for me. It was excruciatingly hard a lot of the time.

Which is why I flinch and seethe when I hear women say, “You stay home with your kids? I wish I could do that, but I just can’t. I would go CRAZY.” Or, its corollary, “I’m a better mother because I work.” I flinch because the emotion behind these statements is very familiar to me. When I can get away for an outing, I come home so refreshed and happy to be with my kids. I really understand why women think they are better mothers when they work. (Although I wonder if their children would agree.)

But I’m also offended because behind this statement seems to be an implication sometimes that I am somehow less intellectual, more shallow or simplistic (easily entertained?) than the sophisticated woman who needs her work to feel satisfied. It ignores the possibility that I might also prefer the company of adults and enjoy the challenge of a profession to the challenge of filling the long afternoons with children.

It would be better if being home with my kids were my passion—it really would. And I’m so envious of the women who feel this way (and I don’t look down on them at all, though I often feel they look down on me for not feeling similarly). But it’s not. But I do it anyway because I believe I should.

I grant that there’s a little bit (too much) of a martyr thing going on here, but I don’t think it’s a small thing that I have sacrificed for this. But, as with the true definition of sacrifice, I can’t deny that it has brought its rewards. I would hate having to hear about my child’s first steps or first lost tooth from a care provider. I like being primary in my children’s lives. And though it was very hard, often boring, rarely satisfying in a day-to-day kind of way while my kids were very small, it’s much more enjoyable now, both because they are older and more interesting to me, and because I am getting full-night’s sleeps and many opportunities to be without them, either physically or even just mentally while we’re in the same room.

I believe that my kids are much better off because of the decision I made. I believe that I am better off because of it as well. If someone asked me my advice for them, I would say, “Do it, but make sure that you have a supportive husband who will see to it that you get a little time to yourself every day, and a big chunk of time to yourself at least once a week. Then dive in. Things get much better the older they get.”

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Flannery O'Connor

Well, I have a couple of thousand quotes from the letters of Flannery O'Connor that I would like to share with you. Don't worry! I'll do it a little at a time! I enjoy reading her because she cares so passionately about writing and about her religion, and muses often about the intersection of the two. Here's a quote from her about orthodoxy, which has been on my mind since I attended a couple of sessions of the Sunstone Symposium for the first (and probably last) time yesterday. (I'll give you more about that in another post.)

Anyway, F O'C talks to her friend about orthodoxy, "which I remember you said was a ceiling you had come through. I take it that what you have come through is some expression of orthodoxy. I have come through several of those myself, always with a deepened sense of mystery and always several degrees more orthodoxy."

This is interesting to me because I like to ponder the ways that I change in my faith and practice as I move through life. One of the women I heard yesterday postulated that people, as they mature, move away from specific religions and more towards general religiosity. (I guess she would say that people break through orthodoxy--or, as Dutcher would put it, reach the other side of their river in their little boat and then abandon it for another.) I don't necessarily agree with her--at least, not with her generalization. Some people become more dedicated to their specific religion as they age (she would say, I suppose, that they are simply aging and not maturing). Others of us (and I hope I'm one) don't necessarily move beyond specific religion or more tightly into the specifics of our religion, but rather broaden our definition of the things that we believe our religion encompasses. What do you think?

Thursday, August 13, 2009

Sorry, so sorry

Dear blog, if there is anyone still out there,

Once again, I apologize for neglecting you. If it helps, I have a plan for regular updates now. You see, I’ve been in a transition period. Since we last talked, my baby has gone off to first grade, and I have come to a new phase in my life.

I’ve been working out a routine, and sort of feeling my way through the days to see what I really want to commit to and what I want to let slide. I know myself—if I don’t commit to certain things and get them into a routine, I won’t do them. And I’m ready to commit to blogging once a week or so. Maybe more—we’ll see.

I’m curious if anyone is even out there anymore. If you are, thank you for your loyalty.

So, this new phase is nice. As I had predicted, I do like it. But some things have surprised me. Here is a list of things that haven’t surprised me about being home alone without kids all day:

1. I didn’t cry when the little pickle went off for his first day. I’m aware that some would think I’m a heartless mom for not being sad at this point. But he was ready, I was ready, what was there to cry about? I did not feel nostalgic or miss him or worry at missed opportunities. We just finished a year of hanging together for most of the day (except for when he was at kindergarten) and we had a good time. I have no regrets.

2. I find plenty to do. (I knew I would.) The trick is fitting it all in! The big thing right now is studying for the GRE. After I take it, I will write a few papers and complete my application. Then I will try to squeeze in another independent study class before May so I can renew my teacher’s license.

And then there are all the little things. Weeding the yard. Pulling up the bathroom linoleum and picking new paint. Choir. Spanish class. Errands. Visiting Teaching. Teaching ESL. Preparing den meetings. And (this is really a last, last priority) maybe even cleaning the house.

3. The days go by too fast. Really.

Things that surprised me:

1. I feel nervous, checking around me regularly—aren’t I supposed to be doing something, checking on someone?

This makes me restless and want to call people to meet me for lunch. I’m not lonely, just a little uncomfortable not checking in with people.

2. It’s hard to get used to. I get out of the shower and have to remind myself several times that I don’t need to rush to get dressed and open the door to stop the fight that has begun while I was unavailable.

3. I still feel guilty taking a nap.

So that’s my life these days. Oooh, one of the side benefits is that I have been finally catching up on some reading. I’ll do a book report sometime soon.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

BYU WIFYR 10: Louise Plummer

Louise Plummer: “The Anxious Writer’s Life”

I’ve never been able to put “writer” down as my profession on anything. Because it sounds presumptuous. Because I don’t spend that much time writing. Instead, I worry about it, think about it, read it.

Even after publishing and receiving good reviews, I don’t feel any more comfortable with the label.

Writing makes me anxious. But not writing makes me anxious, too.

I knew I wouldn’t get much done on my own so I took a class. Success: I produced a 15-pg story. Then, in response to an assignment, wrote a story about Annie and Hennie Sehlmeier. (A family like mine.) Story didn’t work, but I liked the characters and wanted to write a novel about them. Decided to go to grad. school to write it. Didn’t finish it there, but finished it with goal of Delacourt contest.

Publication of 1st novel carries anxiety, too. Will it sell? Worst: am I a one-book author?

I did it again, but not easily or quickly. I usually got most of it done by leaving home for chunks of time.

I’d start with a character with a problem. Play around with ideas, names. (Can’t start writing without the right names!) When I get the right first sentence, then I’m ready to start.

(Story of how she got idea for next novel. Didn’t work out. Moved back, started another one.) What if’s haunt me now.

I’m paralyzed with anxiety, and will be until another novel is accepted.

Writing is an anxiety-producing activity. It is re-examining values, at it best, and this produces anxiety. We search for ways to justify and articulate this readjustment. Writing involves sticking your neck out and being vulnerable.

Kenneth Atchity’s A Writer’s Time: A Guide to the Creative Process from Vision through Revision is what has helped me the most. Atchity writes that secret of becoming productive is learning how to harness anxiety and transform it into productive elation. How writers manage anxiety can become a mark of distinction. Some fail (those who get addicted, depressed, etc.). Challenge is not to avoid anxiety but to turn it into positive energy.

Most of us hate to think—it’s hard. Our brains are thrifty, prefer to keep to known channels. We resist altering those channels or construct new ones. Constructing a new one causes anxiety.

We need to know how our minds work in general and how our own works in particular. Keats called writing “soul-making.” Handout of Atchity’s diagram of how minds work. Right brain, left brain, managing editor. Intuitive: dreamer, outrageous, weird, Goldberg’s “wild mind.” Rational: constructed by society and education. Operates by analogy, makes comparisons, judgments. Slow-moving, sensible, analytical, critical. A writer can’t finish a book without rational mind. Writers need to use both of these. There is conflict there. There must be. Managing editor: constructive interactor between the two. Diplomatic, encouraging, deal-maker.

Most non-writers cope by allowing one part of mind to dominate, usu. rational. We want to fit in. People who let intuitive dominate are in a nuthouse! Writer must not let one dominate. We must tap into intuitive no matter how depressing or contradictory to go there. We must accept that opposing feelings need to coexist.

Writers need to have the initial dream of yourself as a writer, as having things to say. Then your particular project begins as a dream, maybe a hallucination. Becomes an obsession, then a compulsion: I can see myself doing that. I can do that. I will do that.

Will separates dreamers from the doers. From the will the managing editor is born.

Ambition, determination: combination of desire and will. Desire without determination yields pseudo-artists, would-be writers. 2nd stage of dreaming is decision to act. Involves stages of incubation, doodling, setting up timeline. Taking vacations. Writing a draft. Taking another vacation, revising, vacation.

Atchity’s first rule of writing to avoid block: Never sit down to write until you know what you are going to write. This defines writing as the physical act of writing. It doesn’t include incubation, research, doodling, etc. Begin when the book is practically bursting from your body.

If sitting down is intimidating, go outside, do something else. Give yourself a time limit and word count. “I’ll give myself 50 minutes to write 15 words.” Let yourself waste most of it. Say to mind, “Take your time, I know this is tough, don’t hurry.” Then STOP. Don’t write again until tomorrow. Today’s work is done. You’ve removed anxiety. Just that little bit begins a dialogue between the two minds.

For tomorrow: intuitive mind finds a sentence, then another sentence. Manager says, “Thanks, but come back in the morning.” You’ll come up with a new sentence that’s better by tomorrow.

When you’re ready, spend time making an agenda, with a generous deadline for finishing it.

If you find yourself wanting to move beyond that time you’ve allotted, consider expanding the allotment, but don’t go far. Don’t go over it each day. Stop when it’s over. Trick is to find the amount of time that will not make you anxious or overwhelm you.

Atchity thinks beginnings are most difficult. I don’t find that’s true. I love beginnings. I get bogged down in middle. Don’t allow yourself to stop. But you might need to reduce the amount of time you spend with it. Consistency is the key. If you only write an hour a day, you will finish your novel. PLAN YOUR VACATIONS. Don’t take an UNPLANNED VACATION. It’s self-destructive.

Closing in on endings, I always want to write more than allotted time. I allow this only at this point.

Hemingway: stop in a place where you know you’re going to start the next day, where you know what the next few sentences are.

Finding time to write. Talent plus discipline plus time makes dreams come true. Time comes back to those who give it freely. It expends for those who court it. Giving time to do what you love and only you can do distinguishes the happy, productive people from unhappy, unproductive.

Inspiration and muse have nothing to do with your deal with time.

You do it, regardless of whether you feel inspired.

Stop doing things that no one needs to do. (texting, phone. If you want to do it, plan it as part of leisure)
Stop doing things someone else will do if you stop doing them.
Stop doing things that aren’t the things only you can do.
Start doing the things only you can do.
Act instead of reacting.
Even thinking takes time. Some people spend much time daydreaming without making dreams come true.
Thinking about negative things is a waste of prime-time thinking. Say no to yourself when you think dark thoughts. Change the channel. Thought control might be the ultimate time management. Exploit your positive emotions.

If you are an anxious person, use your anxiety in your stories. Have some severely anxious characters. Let them worry, go mad. Write about something you would pee your pants about if it really happened to. Write about embarrassment, etc.

Say to yourself: today I will deserve the label, “writer.”