The Reason for the Season Part One

The Reason for the Season

Part I

    

 “What are you looking at?” Joe asked his reflection in the water. The image of a brooding twenty-something stared up at him over the bridge rail, rippling, breaking and reforming. The water looked cold. And his reflection looked just as cold and mixed up as he felt. He wished he had a rock to throw in. He wished he had the courage to jump. One might say it took more courage not to jump and just endure, but he was not jumping mostly because that water looked icy cold. That, and he wasn’t really that miserable, was he?

     He pushed back from the splintery railing and looked across the bridge both ways. Empty. Not even a vehicle. Why did he think that there would even be another pedestrian? Everyone was home or in church doing Christmas Eve stuff tonight. Even the shops were closed. Stupid little town with its little population. Stupid December.

     He looked back at the rushing black water below him with the figure looking up at him. He knew he wouldn’t have the courage to climb over the rail and… then what? Let go? No, the water was cold. And you know what? He still had friends and a family. Parents who thought he would be born on Christmas so they picked out the name Joseph and went ahead and named him that when he was born weeks early. A big brother whose birthday was in May. Did it get any better than May? What was worse than a December birthday? Well, a December birthday for a young adult was worse. Too old to have a fuss made. He wasn’t a little kid anymore. Christmas would just be worse. What did it matter now?

     What did anything matter? What was tomorrow, other than another cold day in a cold month in a cold year of a cold life?

Joe pulled off his coat and dropped it on the ground. But then he thought that if he did jump, then the coat would be better to have on and weigh him down.

     What was he thinking? He leaned hard on the railing, looked down at the reflection and asked: “What are you thinking?”

     “What are you thinking?” said a voice behind him.

     Joe whirled around and there was an old man next to him. He was not much taller than Joe with a scraggly white beard. He was bundled in a long brown overcoat and an old aviator’s fur cap, complete with goggles over his forehead. He stood there looking like an old war flying ace at Joe with the kind of smile someone has when they’re about to reveal a secret.   

     “Wow, you scared me,” Joe said. “Where’d you come from?”

     “What are you doing?” the man asked. He looked over the bridge railing as if to see if Joe was looking at something in particular. Then he nodded as if in understanding.

     “No, I wasn’t going to jump,” Joe said. “I just came out here to think, okay?”

     “Of course you did,” the man said. “I’m Donavan.” His voice was gravelly and careworn. He extended a gloved hand.

Joe gave it a shake. The man’s grip was like a football player’s and he almost winced.

“Sorry,” Donavan said. “It feels good to shake hands with someone.”

Joe looked him over. The man was dressed in old clothes but they looked warm. He had all his teeth and he didn’t look like the stereotypical alkies that hung around town. He still might be homeless. Might as well ask.

“Have you got a place to go tonight?” Joe asked.

“As a matter of fact I do,” Donavan said.

“I mean, like a home? Or a shelter?”

The old man nodded. “I have a place,” he said. “But right now? I’m supposed to be here, Joe.”

Joe backed up a step. “Did someone send you to look for me?” he asked. “Is that how you know my name?”

Donavan nodded. “Not who you think,” he said.

Joe stared at him. He heard the rushing water below him and felt the cold wind on his nose.

“This isn’t funny,” he finally said. “Coming out and doing something like this. Just because I’m on a bridge on Christmas Eve, you think you can come out and do a “It’s a Wonderful Life” on me or something? What, are you going to tell me that you’re an angel? Are you going to tell me that I’m going to be visited by three ghosts tonight?”

Donavan had been smiling but then frowned. “You’re mixing up your Christmas stories there, Joe,” he laughed. “The guy on the bridge was given a look at what the world would be like if he had never been born.”

“Yeah,” Joe said. He turned from the rail and stared walking. “I’m going home now. Let’s just say you saved me from jumping and I’ll be all happy and… and ‘the end’, okay?”

He took several steps and turned around. Donavan just stood and stared, not following. He smiled and raised his hand in a little wave of: yes, I’m still here. Who sent him? How did this man know his name?

“Why did you come out here?” Joe asked.

“Why did you?” Donavan asked back.

Joe was about to say how he just wanted to come out to think, but he stopped. This stranger was here, who knew if he’d see him again? So he walked back and told him how he had just had a bad month. He had graduated high school a year and a half back and was trying to figure out what to do with his life. He was still living at home. The world seemed to be just going on without him and he felt disconnected. And his birthday had been a disappointment.

“I know it’s selfish and everything,” Joe said. “But I miss being a kid and having a fuss made over me. And Christmas will be the same thing, you know? It’s just not fun anymore. I know it’s wrong to feel this way, but… I don’t know, it’s just getting me down.”

“I hear you,” Donavan said. “This time of year gets people down, Joe. It happens to a lot of us.”

Joe nodded and looked at the water below. Donavan’s reflection stood next to his. “I hate Christmas,” Joe muttered.

“So you’re the type who needs to be visited by the ghosts,” Donavan said. “To find the true meaning of Christmas.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

“Okay then.”

Joe smiled. “What are you going to do? Snap your fingers and take me into Christmas past? Donavan, I know the true meaning of Christmas.” He made finger quotes. “The ‘reason for the season’ right?”

For the first time, Donavan’s face fell. “No you don’t,” he said. Then he turned impish. “Where would you want to go if you could visit somewhere in time Joe? Christmas past?”

“Okay,” Joe said. “If you could do it, send me to December 25^th, year zero.”

Donavan opened his mouth, then closed it. He grinned again. “Snap my fingers, right?” he said.

“Go for it,” Joe said. “Oh, and take me to the fields outside of Bethlehem, right? If we traveled in time but not space, you know this bridge would be gone?”

“So would the river,” Donavan said. “Get your coat.”

As soon as Joe grabbed his coat from the ground the air suddenly turned icy. The ground tilted. He fell over backward into tall grass.

Joe barked in surprise and realized that he felt terror as he scrambled to his feet. Everything was out of focus. There was a blurry moon over head. He shook his head and watched his surroundings pull into focus like adjusting a pair of binoculars.

He was standing on an empty hillside. The stars and moon lit around him enough that he could see hills and rocks. There were no buildings in sight. No sheep or shepherds either. The air was colder and dryer here, but there was a cleanness to it. And he had never seen so many stars.

A voice spoke behind him and this time he fell down.

“Stop that!” Joe shouted. But it wasn’t Donavan. This man was shorter and thinner than him, maybe about his age. He had dark whiskers, not really a beard. He wore a long robe and something like a turban on his head and he was holding what looked like a blanket. He spoke again and Joe realized it wasn’t English.

Joe got to his feet again and looked at the man. He could be a shepherd, or anyone from around here. But where was here? Had he traveled in time and space?

“I fell off the bridge didn’t I?” Joe said out loud.

The man shook his head.

     “You understand me?” Joe asked stumbling forward. The ground was uneven and rough.

     “I thought you would like to hear Aramaic,” the man said. “For authenticity, you know?”

     “Donavan?”

     “Call me Yeshua.”

     “Okay, Yeshua. Where am I?”

     “Right were you told Donavan to send you. These are the hills of Bethlehem. The Julian Calendar hasn’t been created yet but it’s four days after the winter solstice, two-thousand, thirteen years earlier than it was before.”

     Okay, Joe thought. He had fallen off the bridge. This was a drowning hallucination. He was about to run out of oxygen and the last thing he was seeing was this. He turned to his companion.

     “So where are the shepherds?” he asked. “Is the angel about to appear?”

     “No,” Yeshua said. “It’s winter. The sheep are kept in barns when it’s this cold.”

     “What about the angel?” Joe said. “So wait, did that not really happen?”

     He saw Yeshua smile in the moonlight. “It happened right here, Joe. Three summers ago. This hillside lit up like it was daytime. Shepherds heard the message of the angels and went to Bethlehem and saw the child they had been told about. But it didn’t happen on this day, this year.”

     The man pointed off toward the hills. “He’s got the same name as me,” he said. “It’s not an uncommon name. The family stayed there until just a short time ago. Now he’s in Egypt.”

     Joe nodded and felt the cold go through his jacket. “Why did you bring me here then?”

     “Besides it’s what you asked?” Yeshua said. “You need to know the reason for the season. Let’s start by erasing some things. There are a lot of legends surrounding the story of our Savior’s birth. This would be December 25^th, year zero. But it’s not his birthday. And it’s still early in the story. The Good News has barely started to spread.”

     It was very quiet then. Even the wind blew almost silently. Joe looked at the hills in the clean white moonlight and tried to imagine sheep and shepherds. Was this really the place? Yeshua sighed and lifted his arms. He let go of the blanket and it drifted to the ground.

     “Here is where the news was first told. Tidings of great joy. Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth Peace. Goodwill to all men.”

     He lowered his hands and picked up the blanket.

     “That’s what Christmas is all about, Joe,” he said.

     Joe felt laughter bubbling up inside him. What kind of dying vision was this?

     Yeshua held up his hand. “But,” he said. “It’s not the reason for the season.”

     “Jesus is the reason for the season,” Joe said.

     “That sure sounds right. But no.”

     Joe stood and looked at the night sky. Whatever was happening, it seemed real. And he would just let it happen. It was better than standing on a bridge looking at his reflection. He felt like walking to Bethlehem. But the ground was difficult to walk on. He wasn’t dressed right and he didn’t speak the language. Plus it was colder than he had ever remembered feeling. And he knew there was more he wanted to see.

     “Can we go now?” he asked.

     Yeshua smiled. “To Christmas present?”

     Joe nodded. “Sure,” he said. “Take me to the present, and show me what there is there.”

     “Someone else will be there to meet you,” Yeshua said.

     “Right,” Joe said. “The ghost of Christmas Present. Well let’s go.”

     He stumbled and fell again. The ground under him was flat and level and hard like cement. Light was all around him, out of focus and swimming again.   

     Then he heard noise. There was a dull turmoil of voices, music and commotion. The smells of people hit him next. He had only been on the clear hillside for a short while, but now the odors were overwhelming. His vision focused. It was a shopping mall. Decorations and lights were everywhere. People seemed to move around and past him, paying no heed to a young man crumpled on the floor. He wondered if they could even see him.

     A big beaming man moved through the crowd. He had on a powder blue suit and tie. His hair was a styled blond mop and he was carrying what looked like a Bible.

     “Praise the Lord, I say yes!” he trumpeted. His “yes” came out in more than one syllable like a TV preacher. In fact, everything about this man said TV preacher. He stopped at Joe and reached his hand down.

     “Merry Christmas my brother!” he shouted. “Hallelujah!”

     Joe let the man help him up. No-one else seemed to see him.

     “Are you my…”

     “I truly am your ghost of Christmas present, praise the Lord,” the man said. “Brother Jed Rich at your service.”

     Joe sighed. His mind must be fading fast to cook up an image like this.

     “And you’re Joe,” Brother Jed went on. “Hallelujah, it’s good to meet you. Merry Christmas.”

     “Merry Christmas,” Joe mumbled. He looked around at burdened shoppers rushing past. Children of all ages and all moods were everywhere. Kids were singing and dancing alongside parents, others were wailing and being dragged. Some moody looking teens stood outside a music store and surveyed the scene with dramatic contempt.

     “The mall, huh?” he asked. “I’m supposed to find the true meaning of Christmas here?”

     Brother Jed leaned back and smiled even wider. “What do you see?” he asked.

     “I see the season at its worst,” Joe said. “Sure people are happy, some of them at least. But look at the commercialism. This is totally what Christmas is not about.”

     Brother Jed took Joe by the arm and they started to walk. He pointed into shops where clerks looked exhausted. Lines extended out into walkways. A family went by with the mom holding a crying baby and pushing a stroller full of packages.

     “Commerce,” Brother Jed said. “Christmas creates a large percentage of business revenue for the whole year. Without the holiday season, merchants couldn’t pay their workers. The economy would collapse.”

     Joe walked along and waited for Brother Jed to go on. Any time now, he ought to explain his point. Christmas was not about commerce. But Brother Jed just kept walking.

     Finally Joe stopped. “There’s no sign of anything Christmas here,” he told Jed. “All the signs say ‘happy holidays’ or ‘season’s greetings’. The music is secular. There are no decorations with anything about the real meaning of Christmas.”

     “Come along over here Joe,” Brother Jed said. “I want to show you something.”

     They walked up to a coffee shop and Brother Jed pointed to a window display then went into the shop. Joe looked in the window and saw a nativity.

     Well that’s nice, Joe thought. Except wait, is that Santa Claus?

     The nativity set in the window had painted plastic figurines. There was Mary and Joseph, animals, Shepherds and Wise Men. And by the manger with the Baby Jesus, there was a kneeling figure of Santa Claus, bowing in reverence.

     Brother Jed walked out of the store with two coffees and his Bible tucked under his arm. He chuckled.

     “I’m not sure I know what to think about that,” Joe said. “I don’t know if it makes sense.”

     Brother Jed handed Joe a coffee. “It will make sense,” he said and sipped at his own cup.

     “How did you get these?” Joe asked.

     “That’s not important Joe. Look around. Tell me what you see.”

     “Santa Claus at a manger. And look, someone also put in a robot figurine too.”

     Brother Jed turned and looked at the display. He pointed and laughed. “It’s him,” he said. “Now turn around Joe. What do you see out there.”

     Joe turned and looked at the mall.

     “A bunch of people running around, buying stuff.”

     “Me too. Is this Christmas to you?”

     “No,” Joe said.

     Brother Jed took a long drink. Finally he lowered his cup and kept his eyes on Joe. “Really?” he said. “If you saw a picture of that, you would title it: ‘A mall at Christmastime’, right?”

     Joe nodded. “Yeah,” he admitted. “This is what Christmas has become.”    

    “Exactly!” Brother Jed exclaimed. “Hallelujah! This is what men have created Joe. This is two-thousand, some-odd years from the night where nothing happened on that hillside in Bethlehem, don’t you see? Let them celebrate and spend money and do what they want to the holiday. Do you know what Joe?”

     “What?”

     “Praise Jesus!” Brother Jed thrust his arms in the air and coffee splashed on the window behind him. “This isn’t what our Lord created, Brother. It’s a creation of mankind. But no matter what idols they raise up, hallelujah, they can’t ever lose the reason for the season! It’s all around us! It’s everywhere!”

     Joe took a drink of his coffee. It was perfect. The shoppers around him had not seen Brother Jed’s shouting. He didn’t even get it himself. The mall had seemed so frantic and miserable. But now, he didn’t know. Brother Jed’s outpouring of joy had made everyone look just a little less depressing.

     “Thanks for the coffee,” he said.

     “My pleasure brother,” Jed said. “Now where are we off to now?”

     “I don’t know. The future? Christmas to come?”

     “Why not?” said Jed. He glanced at the nativity behind him, then back to Joe. “Hang on to that coffee, I’ll just snap my fingers, right?”

     “Yeah,” Joe said. “I guess this is goodbye. I’ll have another ghost to show me around the next place?”

     “That’s right,” Jed said. “It’s been a pleasure.”

     “For me too,” said Joe, surprised to realize he meant it. “I didn’t expect someone like you here.”

     “Wait until you meet your next host, or ghost,” said Jed. And he burst out laughing.

     Joe gripped his coffee with both hands. If he fell again he wanted to be ready. The mall went out of focus, and he began to sense he was outdoors. Things were flying around.

End of part I

Part II is here

    

Is this a healthy hobby?

     It’s not enough to say “it could be worse”… that I could have worse hobbies. I could also be a worse person, the fact that I’m not doesn’t improve my character. I am defined by who I am, not what I’m not. Sure writing might seem like a harmless hobby, but when I get into what I’m doing, put on my headphones and focus hard on my laptop screen, I am neglecting the rest of the world. That world is the real world. One of my biggest problems, even from far back in my childhood is my coping mechanism is to escape from the real world into creations of my own.  

     So while I might say that “at least my hobby keeps me at home”, it doesn’t really. I can’t say “at least I’m not out on the golf course or bowling every weekend”. If I was doing that, I might be interacting with real people. That could be preferable to sitting at home with Rhapsody Music Service turned way up in my head, banging away at my keyboard about imaginary things of my own creation. Call it escape, denial, idolatry, anything but a healthy way to spend time, and you could be right.

     Thanksgiving evening after sleeping off a big noonday meal I sat down at my laptop and stuck in my earbuds. I thought I could finish my November novel that evening. At one point, I was aware of my son, Jamie standing close to me. I resisted the urge to wave him away like a mosquito, even though I still shuddered in annoyance. Jamie asked if I wanted to go sit in the living room and watch a movie. Which movie? One I didn’t care for. That made it easy to say no. I probably wouldn’t have watched anything, but because I really don’t like that movie there was no conflict in saying no. Prajna questioned me, didn’t I want to come watch it with the family?

No, I hate that movie.  

You haven’t even seen it.

I’ve seen most of it. I don’t like that actor in anything.  

I went back to my writing. I was thrilled to finally be at a good part of the story. For weeks, I had trudged through the middle of what I had hoped would be a good novel. The beginning was good and I knew how it would end. The middle had been rather dull. Now I was finally at the end. I was writing out the culmination of the story, it was all coming together, the story I had been thinking about for almost a year. The ending that I had been thinking about for months was finally happening. The climax happened. I wrote the last few sentences and exhaled in a thrill of relief. The ending was as good as I had hoped. I would work the next day on a short scene of falling action, a sort of epilogue, but the story was done. I felt high.

Then the evening went downhill. The movie ended at about the same time that I was done writing. The younger boys were squabbling and I was having a hard time stepping back into the real world where my family lived. I ended up upsetting people. Finally Prajna let me know that I had hurt her feelings by not watching the movie. That had been family time. We were together as a family, it was Thanksgiving and everyone had been watching a movie together, minus me.

I was incredulous. That, watching a lame movie, was family time?

Yes, it was. And I had skipped out on it. Regardless of how much I wanted to write, I had hurt other people’s feelings choosing to not be with them. It wouldn’t have killed me to sit and watch the movie. And it would have been spending time with the family.

I felt ashamed and let down after learning that. I was ashamed of myself for neglecting my family and I felt let down for having something I had looked forward to for so long finally come, but at a price.

So this year I learned something unexpected about writing and National Novel Writing Month. I already knew that family should come first, but I learned that I need to actively look for how to prove I believe that.

 I wrote the epilogue to Sidewinder the next morning and validated the novel. It was a bittersweet victory. I had put more into the novel than I should have. Now that it’s done, I want to keep working on it. It is indeed a good story. For now, it has a good beginning, a dull middle and a great ending. If the novel was a sandwich, it would be on a fresh toasted ciabatta bun, or maybe even French toast, but the middle would be a broiled chicken breast that was rather dry. I need to go back to work on it. The middle needs seasoning, some gristle cut away and definitely some spicy sauce or something. But it can work. It can be a good story. What it can’t be is a hindrance to being a good husband and dad.

I was going to go back to work on my memoir after November. The thing is, Sidewinder was a lot more fun. Sometimes any writing in the winter is an achievement. But it’s not really the writing that’s tough, it’s keeping my head above the murk of despair and pressing on.

In truth, nothing is easy sometimes, not even the stuff I love to do. Am I going to go for it anyway? I can’t write my novel at the cost to anyone else. That means I need to get up early if I want to write and do it all before people are up. Most days in November I was up at 4:45. Can I still do that? We’ll see what happens. At least today I blogged. More blog posts call, so does Sidewinder, so does the memoir. I’ll keep you posted.

Sarah

     Ask any married man what the best day of his life was and he’d better answer his wedding day. I do, and it’s the truth. But I have another good day that stands out.

     Wednesday, December 2^nd 1998 was a typical warm day with the ocean breeze mixing with the fragrance of the local flora in Kihei, on the island of Maui. I had taken the whole week off in anticipation. Harrison was at school and Prajna and I went for a walk with Naomi and Benjamin. We took our other little girl too, Prajna carrying her along as she had for the last 9 months. She had carried our little girl in Budapest, Hungary, through London’s Heathrow Airport and all the way home to Hawaii with a stop in Yucaipa for two weeks.

     Despite the beautiful day, Prajna was anxious and uncomfortable. I, however was pleased as punch to be walking down the street with two beautiful children and a beautiful wife I had beautifully helped become with child. On our walk, we ran into our friend Iris, whom we hadn’t seen since the night Naomi had been born. Naomi’s labor had been intense, but quick. Benjamin’s had just been quick. So quick that the doctor didn’t even make it to the hospital that night in Budapest.

     We anticipated this next labor to be quick too. Even though we had our obstetrician and our plan for Maui Memorial Hospital, we were prepared for another venue.

     Maybe it was meeting Iris again, maybe it was the walk, maybe it was that our little girl was a day past due. But when we got Naomi and Benjamin down for their naps back home, Prajna went into labor. It was powerful, and we didn’t have a sitter for the kids yet. It occurred to us both that we might end up having the baby in the car on the way to the hospital. Why not stay put?

I called 911, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. I didn’t stay on the phone long because Prajna wanted to push. So we unpacked our home birth kit there in the back bedroom and went to work. Well, Prajna was already at work, I mostly told her how well she was doing.

Someone was at the door, I asked if it was the paramedics, but it was better. Prajna’s mom arrived. She had assisted in deliveries before. She coached Prajna, take a deep cleansing breath, and I took up the catcher’s position.

And I caught our daughter. It was more than a catch. I did ease her out, copying what I had seen our OB do in the past, and remembering what I had read in What to Expect when You’re Expecting. But the delivery was flawless. The paramedics arrived once it was done and bundled mother and child into their ambulance. Harrison got off the school bus in time to see it parked outside and saw him mommy and new baby sister before we left.

As we sped to the hospital, the paramedics wanted to write “Jane Doe” on the forms. Naomi really liked the name Sarah, so right there on the Mokulele Highway in the back of an ambulance, we named our Daughter Sarah Marie Faux.

I called my parents on the mainland from the hospital. Oh yes, we had a baby, but what was cooler than that? I got to play doctor and deliver her myself. You couldn’t have smacked the grin off my face for the rest of the day.

I told the story to anyone who would pause to listen. Folks said I would have a special bond with my little girl, being the first hold her and deliver her like that. And I do.

I look back on that day with fondness. It was a pretty cool day. But the thrill that fueled my pride has faded. In that hospital room, having a new daughter almost took second place to playing doctor. But now the best part of all of that this: my little girl turns 15 today.

Sarah has always been a face of quiet wisdom and happiness. No achievement I could ever accomplish could ever outshine the joy she brings to everyone. Now I consider it an honor to have been a part of her coming into the world.

Happy Birthday, Princess. I love you.

Thanks for the Big Little Things

     This didn’t make the news, but it happened this weekend. A jumbo jet loaded to capacity was coming in for landing at a large metropolitan airport. It landed safely and every passenger disembarked alive and well. The truth is, it happened several thousand times over the past few days.

     In a related story, hundreds of thousands of school children made it safely to and from school. Many of the children came home from school knowing things they didn’t when the left home.

     Also this week, a child got their first puppy.

     Today, someone ate their first strawberry.

     Someone listened for the first time to Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony. Someone else heard for the first time U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name” and someone else stood and listened to wind blowing through pine trees.

     Babies took their first steps today and said first words. Grandparents held their grandbabies for the first time. Many were at a loss for words.

     Another item that sometimes makes the news but deserved mentioning. All around the world, donations are pouring into local charities. With an American Holiday celebrating thanks approaching, food pantries are receiving donated food from local businesses as well as ordinary people.

     This week, some people are planning on spending time with loved ones rather than work or school.

     I know that the news is full of bad stuff. And to keep some balance, we are fed a few heartwarming stories to help us sleep. But so many things happen every day that don’t make the news because they aren’t news. Of course things go right every day. I think things go right more often than not. It’s when things go poorly that they get the attention. Right or wrong, the bad things get the attention. Perhaps it’s like the problem child getting more notice than the well behaved one because the good kid is doing fine and doesn’t need correction. If things are going well, why pay it any attention, right?

     Except that is what this upcoming holiday is about.

     And really, I think I should have an attitude of gratitude on more days than the last Thursday of November. But that’s another topic to beat to death on another day. No proselytizing this week. I’m just thankful for too much to find fault in things. Thanks for reading everyone. Have a great week.

      

No Roadwalker post this week

I'm sorry, I'm too caught up in trying to write a novel in 30 days  AND get a little sleep. I have tried not to neglect anything else in my life, but the blog fell by the wayside. It was a busy weekend.
Here are links to two of my favorite blogs:
Storyline is by one of my favorite writers. I could read his stuff all day.
Lindsey Howard is a missionary in South Asia with amazing adventures to share. Please pray for her.
I hope I will post next week, Good Lord willing and the crick don't rise.

The itchy Truth

     One of my favorite lines in the movie Beetlejuice has the displaced urban dweller Delia Deetz, moving to the country. She’s an amateur sculptor, and when the movers are handling one her pieces she cries out to them:

 Careful! That's my sculpture. I don't mean "my" as in "I bought it." I mean I made it.

     The mover is unimpressed. Poor Delia Deetz. She isn’t an artist for herself. She does it to impress others. And I wonder how many people who indulge in any craft, visual arts, music or writing, can say they have no desire whatsoever to impress anyone. I don’t know. So I will only speak for myself.

     I love that line from the movie because it reminds me of me. I don’t think I would ever say this to anyone, but I might wish to: Hey hand me that bag, my books in that bag and I don’t mean my book that I’m reading I mean I wrote it!

     Do you know what? When I’m writing at Starbucks, most of the time I am really engrossed in what I’m doing. But one in a while I look up and wonder if anyone wonders if I’m a writer.

     Look at that guy with the laptop. Look how serious he seems, how hard at work. I’ll bet he’s a novelist.

     Yeah right. This is Starbucks, which guy with the laptop are you talking about?

     I am confessing this because I am 11 days into National Novel Writing Month. I have been thinking about this, looking forward to it just about all year. It’s when a bunch of people resolve to write a novel in 30 days. 50 thousand words is actually pretty short for a novel. But 30 days to write it is quite a feat. And to me, there is little else more fun and thrilling.

     When I first heard of National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo if I’m not inclined to pad my word count, I thought it would be impossible. It was a few years ago. The thought of it seemed completely unattainable.

     But a few years later I thought I would try it out. A few days in, my laptop crashed. I finished the story almost a year later. Then last year, November 2012 I gave it another shot. And I did it. I wrote 77 thousand words in 30 days. I was proud of myself, astounded, thrilled and plenty of other cliché adjectives. The story was just a first draft, rushed toward the end and needing considerable revision But I did it, something I thought couldn’t be done, I exceeded my expectations.

     So I’m doing again this year. And I am learning something. Novels are like children. Parents know this. No two are alike. The first one might be easy, and the next one might not be so much. Am I having trouble this year? Not getting my word count in. I had several thousand more words by this time last year, but I am still exceeding the 1667 words a day to reach 50 thousand in 30 days.

     What I don’t like isn’t the word count. I am not pleased with how the story is getting out. I have written a few great scenes. When I’m done with them I feel high. But a lot of the rest has been exposition. There is a lot of backstory for this novel. I don’t think that backstory should matter much and the writer should just tell the main story. Get the conflict driving the plot as soon as possible without mucking about explaining what and why things are the way they are. But I have found my characters talking a lot, explaining things to each other, which means explaining to the readers. To me, that’s lousy writing. And I am guilty of it.

     No matter, it’s a first draft. I’m still having fun with it. I am having fun waking up at 4:45 every single morning and writing for two hours. Really, I like it. I wish I could do this every day of the year.

     I hope I can convince myself of this. It’s tough going this time around. But I don’t want to give up. I have a very cool ending in mind for this story. There are megathemes of forgiveness and redemption. I just need to keep making my way toward that ending with each scene advancing the plot.

     I whipped this blog up quickly without revising it much because most of my energy is going to the story this month. Thanks for sticking by me. To be honest, it really means a lot to me to have fans. Fans, yes. But I write mostly because I just love to do it. To me, it’s like having a scorching itch, like a peeling sunburn under a burlap nightshirt, but the itch is inside of my brainpan and the only way to scratch it, the only way, is to write. That’s my main reason, it scratches that itch.