A Visionary

A few months back I read Irene Nemirovsky's Suite Francaise. She wrote the work of fiction while living the horrors of World War II in France. It was meant to be a saga of life during the war, but she was only able to complete the first two novellas. Because of her Jewish heritage, she was taken to Auschwitz and killed. I often find myself still thinking about how accurate her interpretation and treatment of reality are in her novel. I'm just in awe at how clearly she saw the future.

"He wasn't made for the world that would be born of this rotting cadaver...A brutal, ferocious, dog-eat-dog world." (p. 35)

In one line she sums up a lot of the changes in society since World War II. Everything from Feminism to our culture's obsession with celebrity to the increase in senseless mass shootings could be traced back to the reactions of society at large after World War II. Now it's ridiculous to blame these things on history and the actions of brutal men long-gone, but I see a connection. After the wars of the mid-Twentieth century, many people were better able to take care of themselves and their families. The Baby Boomers grew up with parents who understood sacrifice and wanted to provide their children with hope. In one line Nemirovsky interestingly defines a large part of what became part of the American Dream in the last half of the Twentieth century: the need to succeed monetarily and climb the career laddder. Then I think the Baby Boomers took this hope too far when they taught their children to care for the self too much. Our day to day lives have become so removed from hardship, fear, and the need to rely on others that we can love ourselves too much. We place too much value on self-esteem. It makes us selfish and ultimately delusional.

That was a paragraph that I wasn't intending to write in this post because this was going to be about writing. It was going to be about how I want to work at seeing things as they are. I remember wanting to write about the attacks on September 11th a few months after they occurred. I was still in Sixth grade, and I was going to write a fictional journal from the perspective of a girl whose parents died in the towers. I was so young and naive, but I recognized that it was an event that would radically change the world. I never wrote that story because even though my thinking was juvenile, I saw that I didn't know enough about the nature of man or the attack to do it justice. I want to be able to write about the important things now. I firmly believe that I have to be more realistic to affect anyone with the stories I want to tell. Because important things are happening every day, and I'm lucky enough to have the time and ability to write them.

Sometimes I have a great fear that my whole way of thinking is incorrect. That I will wake up one day and realize I've built up too many false ideas and that the way I've constructed the world has to change. I know I'm not completely wrong about everything. I have my faith in God and His Son to lead me in the right direction. And I can be wrong about things; it means I can change. It means I can be who I aspire to be. My hope is that my main thought process holds up over time though. I want my words to mean something to me in 50 years. I hope that I tell the stories that need to be heard. I hope I can see the world clear enough to know them.

I learned a lot about writing from Irene Nemirovsky. Her notes and outlines are published in the back of the book, and I love the way she was able to critique herself. I'd like my journaling to be more like that. I also love that she wrote things just for herself, especially this poem:

The Wine of Solitude

by Irene Nemirovsky for Irene Nemirovsky

To lift such a heavy weight

Sisyphus, you will need all your courage.

I do not lack the courage to complete the task

But the end is far and time is short.  

A New Chapter in the Mormon Romance Genre

So I was going to post something really important, but I couldn't get the words right, so instead I wrote this.

I've been thinking about what the Mormon equivalent to online erotica would be, and I think I've got it. Celebrity conversion stories. It's fan fiction with the added element of the celebrity joining the church so you get your happy ending. A perfect marriage of the internet and obsessive Mormon girls.

My favorite story involves meeting Shaun White on a plane, getting snowboard lessons, going to the Olympics, and being interviewed by Barbara Walters about him joining the church and our marriage. Right now I'm not sure I'm invested enough to take the time to do that story justice, so here's a few rough snippets from my would-be novel about my musical soulmate. Picture an expanded version of this with several scenes in church foyers.

Welcome to the Brink

It was too simple, really: us meeting. I'd just seen your show and was winding through the streets trying to remember where I'd parked my car. You walked right passed me, and then turned and asked for directions.

Why you kept talking after I told you the bar was just around the corner still baffles me. But for whatever reason, you invited me to join you. In that moment I froze--mostly with fear--and tried to choke out a yes, while moving my head up and down.

I think you instantly regretted that invitation when I ordered a Diet Coke. You deny it now, but I saw your eyes go flat. And then you remembered you were in Salt Lake City.

"Are you Mormon?" you asked with raised eyebrows.

"Yes."

The air was momentarily tinged with awkwardness, but it dissipated the moment a radical fan-girl came and kissed you full on the mouth.

You blinked, trying to hide the cringe, and I bit my lip to keep from bursting out laughing.

And then, after you politely shrugged her off, we were friends. All it took was the ludicrousness of the moment to make you a real person and not a celebrity musician to me. I don't remember what else we talked about that night. Mostly about National Parks and motorcycles and how hot we like our salsa, I think. That was the beauty of it. It was easy and I didn't have to think about what to say next.

At the end of the night you kissed my hand, and as you turned to walk away, you rose the napkin I'd written my email and phone number on as if to salute the night.

Shaking my head, I walked away not quite believing any of it had happened.

...

It took you a month and a half to send me that first email. I'd written that whole night off as a grand legend to tell my future children, so I had no idea what to think when I saw your name in my inbox. The blood rushed to my fingers in anticipation as I clicked on the email.

Do you like the cinema? And what are your thoughts on Hawthorne?

I probably stared at the screen, knitting my eyebrows together, for a full nine minutes. I couldn't decide if it was the most ridiculous email ever or the most ridiculously perfect opening I'd ever heard.

I love films. The pictures are a highly underrated art form. As for Hawthorne, I don't understand the appeal of The Scarlet Letter, but I suppose I can't judge the man on one novel. 

We emailed fairly regularly until you came and took me to that movie at Sundance. You loved that the writer took lines from Shakespeare, Friends, and The Simpsons to tell the story of The Scarlet Letter. I thought I'd love it and really wanted to, but I still just don't understand the power of the story.

You came and saw my very average house. I tried to invite you to church, but you didn't accept. That didn't scare you off though. I think it led to our deep conversations that ultimately cemented our relationship.

...

When you took me to the Grand Canyon, I felt a change. It was a turning point in my confidence. For some reason, I felt strengthened to be myself completely and to be a better Latter-day Saint. It was all or nothing and I had to have it all.

Smiling down into the ruddy abyss of the Grand Canyon, I whispered, "Welcome to the brink."

...

"You're coming to LA this weekend," you told me without even saying hello on the phone.

"We just got back from Vienna; I'm not letting you fly me anywhere else."

"Then pay for the ticket yourself. I don't care. You're coming."

So I paid my way to sunny Los Angeles. When you picked me up at the airport, I knew you were excited about something. I tried to get it out of you, but you just picked me up into a gripping hug and told me it was nothing. You were just "happy to see me."

I wasn't buying that sentimentality from you, but I dropped it. You know how I love surprises.

You performed that night, and made me stand right in the middle of the crowd. "You'll give me courage. Now that I don't get drunk every time I perform, I need it."

So I danced and enjoyed the music and loved that I was supporting friends. I love when the crowd begs for an encore. I was looking around at everyone who had been bonded by the beauty of the music, when you said, "This one goes out to the strangest girl I know."

I whipped my head back to the stage and met your eyes with a stunned look. You winked and smiled that crooked smirk I can't resist. 

It was the most beautiful acoustic encore I've ever heard. I stopped dancing and just stared at you. I was completely floored by the song you debuted that night. The song that you'd written for me; for us, really. And then I started crying when you started the last verse with the words "welcome to the brink." I can't believe you heard my words. And I mean really heard them, because the song captures what I meant so well. It's a yielding out of love and pure desire. It's about making the decision once and for all and jumping in full force.

As soon as you finished the show, you jumped off the stage and came to me. I was still in the center of the room, unable to move. I reached up my hand to pull you into a hug, but stopped somewhere in the middle and dropped my hand. The things that had been building up combined, and I knew for sure that we were in agreement that we weren't just friends anymore and I didn't know what to do. And then you kissed me. 

...

As you like to say, you tried Mormon dating for 3 weeks. I think we had some of our greatest days during that time, but you couldn't give me everything that I wanted. And frankly, I don't think it was enough for you either. You couldn't give me the eternal marriage I'd always known I'd need. We weren't headed anywhere that would lead to a fairytale life for either of us. The day I decided to end our romantic relationship, the sun shone into your hair, and that's mostly what I remember. The image of you slightly turning away and squinting in the sun as I told you that I couldn't do it any more and we had to go back to being just friends. I was worried you wouldn't allow the change, that I wouldn't get to experience life with you in any way. Instead I got an "I'll try."

...

We were actually pretty good at being "just friends." We still went on vacation with the band. I'm thinking of the trip to Bryce Canyon. Have I ever told you that I love how much you love Bryce Canyon? You get all boyish and excited about it. On one such camping trip, the rest of the band went to take pictures, and we stayed back to get dinner going.

The red rocks through the smoke of the fire were beautiful, and I smiled as the wind ruffled my hair. I caught your eye as you were lounging in a chair, whistling a song.

You grinned, "Get over here."

I shook my head and skipped over, looking at you quizzically.

You pulled me onto your lap, grabbed my cheeks, and just looked at me.

"I'm ready, " you finally said.

"For what?" I whispered.

"You. I'm ready to know what makes you so complete. You know I'm scared of too much happiness but I love you too much not to explore something that makes so much sense to you. Sometimes I think I can feel it, especially when I'm discussing real things with you, but it's not enough. I need to figure it out for myself."

"You know a lot will change if you know what I know."

"Yeah, but it will be worth it. And I'll get to keep on loving you."

...

It's been four years since we first met on the street, and next week I'll get to call you my husband. You told me once that it took a long time for you to feel like you were joining the church because you felt it was the truth and not just to keep me in your life. Let me tell you, it was worth the wait.





Okay, I think this definitely takes top prize for being the most ridiculous thing I've ever written. And I wanted to make it flowery and metaphor-ridden, but I can't bring myself to waste more time on this. Like all great Lifetime original movies, hopefully it's awesomely bad. 

Happy Halloween!

Lately, this lyric in particular has been stuck in my mind. 'Cause I'll write songs and you write letters.

I hope you enjoyed your Halloween. I saw Deep Love a folk-rock opera and absolutely loved it. It was grotesque and beautiful and made me wish I could sing. Oh, and own metallic leather pants.

Call of the Feral

I didn't have friends in high school. People tend to say things like this, but in my case, it's true. I had habits and acquaintances. Nothing more. I would sit at a lunchroom table on days I wanted to play the game and listen to these people talk about what they'd done that weekend. And inevitably they'd ask what I'd done.

"Not much. Hung out at home. Went to a movie with my family." Every week more or less the same response.

And I always sat there wondering how no one noticed that I was never there for any of the out-of-school activities.

I only blame myself for those lonely days, so if you knew me then, don't be offended. Because I know you tried. I had too high of expectations. I blame my idyllic childhood self and Saved by the Bell for that.

In order to survive the life I'd carved for myself, I proclaimed myself an eccentric. Granted, I think I've always been quirky, constantly in the pursuit of eras that are long gone and probably never existed out of literature, but I took it to another level. No one could ever understand me, so why should I try?

And then I went to college and started to wipe the delusion from my eyes.

Despite having friends that I feel privileged to call mine, I often felt separate from most people.

It's a running joke that I'm the forgotten one. The one hiding in the corner, always the last to be discovered. One time in particular has always stayed with me. For one FHE activity, we played waterballoon volleyball. Of course it was a partner game, and I was the odd person out. It shouldn't have been a big deal, but for whatever reason it was. That night I realized that I might be overcompensating. In order to not show my fear or my shyness, I might appear to be fine. Content with being a solitary, instead of the quaking little girl in the shadows I see myself as.

I just can't believe that I fooled anyone for a second. That makes it sound like I'm weak. That I wasn't okay alone, but that's not true either. I was handling it. In the clinical sense, I was mentally healthy and led a functioning life.

Despite having the best friends I'd been craving, the feeling of separateness persisted and fueled my philosophy essay the following year.

It's one of the few pieces of writing I'm truly proud to have authored. I've since lost it because my computer crashed, so it might not have been as brilliant as I remember, but it was something that had been a long time coming.

I set out to write about how much can be gained by being a solitary. I felt a need to prove that I was somehow okay, maybe even better off, because I had spent so much time alone in high school.

The theme revolved around feral children.

My obsession with feral children stemmed from what else but a TLC documentary. Instantly, I was so desperate to learn about their human spirit and their experience with learning. In some ways, I felt like I had exiled myself so long that I was a feral child in terms of my social ability.

I remember it clearly, the moment of self-discovery.

I was walking on campus by the Kennedy Center, and as I was crunching all of the impossibly large leaves under my feet, the spark lit, and I knew I'd been so utterly wrong.

We need relationships and connections! We cannot become much without interaction with other things, and most importantly people. The entire time, I was lying to myself in the dark in order to justify the way I lived my life.

There are accounts of feral children who were unable to feel extreme temperatures. One boy, found in France, would put his bare hands in the fire in order to eat a potato; his body couldn't even react to the pain because it never could afford to. In the same sense, I'd made myself numb because I thought I couldn't afford to be alone after an honest try. I was okay being a solitary because I'd conditioned my vulnerability out of the picture out of necessity. Or so I told myself.

That time of intense study of human nature and principles of learning shaped my social approach going forward. I'd survived basically alone, so I knew I could do it again if I had to, but I also knew that it's a stagnant place to be. It's very easy to grow tired of yourself if you spend too much time a part from the rest of the world.

Now I'm better at explaining myself and accepting that people often won't understand where I'm coming from, but they won't dismiss me either. I hide less. I don't always let the feral child in me run away from people.

With the move, I've had the pleasure of meeting new friends. The other night I said I was shy to one of them, and he adamantly disagreed with me. I have to say I'm still pretty shocked by this. Although I no longer feel like the helpless feral child, I still think I come off as a timid--like to the point of being pitiful-timid sometimes.

Maybe I faked it so long I made it? I can't seem to decide because the call of the feral is still strong in me, but I know I'm firmer in showing my confidence. All along I genuinely liked the core of myself, but I wasn't strong enough or smart enough to share it with others.

It's a work in progress, but at least I'm not still lost in the forest, the only one able to hear the falling trees and my own voice.

At 23 & 1/2

I own real furniture. Not just those cheap bookshelves from Big Lots.

Because I can't wake up on time, I have to shower at night.

I have 17 pairs of boots and an entire drawer designated for tights and leggings.

Sometimes I think I'm smarter than I give myself credit for.

I have to jump to get on my bed. And I'd really like for someone to explain to me why making one's bed became such a standard practice. I think it's a pointless chore.

I'd like to wear hats more.

Jellyfish are still my favorite animal.

Lately, people haven't been hearing the sarcasm in my voice...and I haven't really been correcting them.

I've always known that the real struggle would be figuring out what I really wanted to do with my life, not in the achieving it part. I'm still on step one.

The last three episodes of Dawson's Creek are just waiting for me to watch them, but I can't seem to do it. It's too soon to say goodbye or goodnight. Plus I need to prepare myself for the exorbitant amount of tears that will flood my face.

Nothing sounds better than picking up everything and traveling anywhere and everywhere for a year. I can't decide if that would be a voyage of self discovery or if it'd be plain running away.

I'm in the middle of reading Anna Karenina.

I wish that I could call myself an artist.

Today's Obsession: Keaton Henson's "Lying to You"

I really wish I was still in my Sex and Gender class because I have so much to discuss about this song and video and how it pertains to gender roles and expectations in society. I'll spare you my essay though and let the art speak for itself.

A message That I'm Sending Out Like A Telegraph

Sometimes life seems rather fickle. Or maybe it's just me. I'm probably the one fluctuating. Today I've just been thinking about how strange it is that I live in a house that I haven't seen all of. Apparently there is a sun porch in back? I've lived here a month, and I've only been in the backyard once, for about five seconds. I also think it's bizarre that I think about people who were the most important people in my life at least once a day, but I hardly ever talk to them. I lived with people for more than a year, and I only know the basics of their lives. It's weird that sometimes I have a hard time remembering some of my roommates' names. I saw them nearly every day for crying out loud! I hate that I don't know what my friends' houses look like or if it feels like home. I don't know their day to day schedules or how they feel about things. I guess I just wanted you all to know that I love you. And you probably don't know [wish I was better at that]. But I do. I really do.