You Must Learn to Rise Above

The Wall Street Journal publishes a magazine for their subscribers every other month. In general, it is full of advertisements for expensive luxuries, and moody articles about different things. However, the written word still prevails, and in each edition, there is a Soapbox feature, a page where six people get to weigh in on one single topic, chosen for them by the editors. The topics vary from tangible to conceptual; the most recent issue covered Manners.

Laura Dern is an actress in The Founder, a film coming out in January, and in Big Little Lies, a miniseries airing on HBO in February. She wrote a particularly insightful blurb, saying,

"It's always thrilling when I meet people, particularly men, whose manners are beautiful. My earliest education in manners came from my Southern Grandmother and Southern mother.

I was raised to believe that a man opened the door for a lady; he walked down the stairs in front of her so that should she trip and fall he could catch her.

A properly raised gentleman considered how he could support a woman, not because she's more delicate, but because it was the right thing to do. So the presidential election has been a true education for me and for my daughter as well.

The most offensive quality is the quality of a bully. My grandmother taught me that even when you're angry, you must treat others with respect. You must learn how to rise above."

Even when someone is trying to pick a fight, even when no one is looking, you must learn how to rise above. 

It is a building block of character, and the ability to do so will be invaluable for the rest of your life.

Settling for Second Best

Yesterday was our work Christmas party. It was happy, successful, and red and green. There was also a cookie decorating contest.

We had 30 minutes and two cookies, and in classic creative nature, I spent 25 minutes on one cookie and 5 on the other.

The first was the passion of my heart, the brilliant idea borne of the several minutes of planning allowed to us before the decorating began. I planned out materials, shapes, colors, sizes.

The second cookie I threw together (by which I mean decorated) at the last minute after I realized I was the only person who thought my first cookie, my pet project, was beautiful. Even I am not entirely oblivious.

For your sake, pictures.

I'll let you decide which was my pet project, but let me give you a hint: I love snow and trees and cabins and little stone paths and clear cold wintery days, and I'd rather draw a picture and a story than "ketchup on bologna" (pardon the unappetizing analogy).

The table unanimously decided that I should submit the ornament, so I did. And won second place. Which was cool. But that's not the point.

I liked winning. Winning is fun. Games are more fun when you win (But be a good sport still, because even if you don't win they're still fun. I know, because I lose board games all the time and I still enjoy them.), everybody likes to watch football better when their team is winning, and in movies we always route for our favorite teams to achieve victory.

But I didn't submit the cookie that I loved, I submitted the cookie that would look better to everyone else.

Pardon the philosophical grasp for meaning in a cookie decorating contest.

Most people who create things know what it's like to love what you make. You think of a unique idea, work on it, put it together, spruce up the details, and pour love into it. Then you polish it up and introduce it to the world, and everyone raises their eyebrows because it's different from what they're accustomed to.

So you put together something that people are used to seeing, and you make it pretty but it's not your heart, and you make it walk the plank into the great peopled abyss. And it doesn't reach the water because people are so excited about it and they snatch it up before it has a chance to touch the salty drip.

But in your heart, you really still love the one you loved first, the one you poured your heart into, the one that was your best idea.

The cookie analogy loses some traction here, because I didn't care this deeply about my cookies. I just thought about it a lot.

Writers (and all creatives) sometimes have to pause their pet projects, their grand ideas, to work on something that will work for them, something that the public will love, something that will put dinner on the table and shoes on the feet. It's easy in those times to forget the first best idea. It's easy to settle into complacency because you've discovered what people love, and you can do it well, even though you don't love it too.

But at the end of the day, even after you've given the public what they want, and made something that people will love, don't forget to do what you love.

Choose something, work hard on it, and make it great. Don't settle for second best.

The Day There Was(n't) a Fire

Last Tuesday I was getting ready to leave work for lunch when I got some unexpected texts from Curtis.

 
 

I smelled it in the hallway before I saw our wet living room. The picture doesn't capture the water that was spitting at the ceiling, streaming down the wall, and soaking the couch and carpet.

Really, it was fine because it was just water, and nothing was hurt besides the couch. We ate lunch as usual, while the plumber scurried in and out and waited for the water to completely drain the our system so he could take the head off and fix the problem. I went back to work confident that when I got home that night, everything would be cleaned and airing out.

Ten minutes after I got back to work, I got more texts. This time they were from my brother, who we asked to sit in our apartment for the afternoon.

“Do you want a video of the bad news?”

I expected a quick clip of a hole in the wall they'd had to break to turn off the sprinkler. What I received instead stopped my heart. 

The water wasn't completely off, and in some mis-chance, when the sprinkler head came off, it fire-hosed greasy black water all over our living room. What the night before had been a cozy, christmas-y nest was turned into a dank smelly black wet mess. We spent the rest of the afternoon in limbo, as I tried to figure out what we needed to do while I was at work, and Curtis worked to assess the damage and see what could be salvaged.

When I got home from work and walked into our apartment building, a group of facilities workers got off the elevator in the lobby. They were covered in black and smelled awful.

I asked them if they came from the corner apartment on 8 and they nodded and said,

“We’re so sorry.”

Usually when people see our apartment, they say, "It's so cute," and "We love how you decorated," and "your couches are so comfortable." They don't apologize.

The elevator smelled faintly, and the closer I got to the apartment, the worse it smelled. Nothing could have prepared me for walking into my tiny cozy home and finding it wet, black, smelly, steamy, a stained shell full of ruined belongings.

I felt like a kid who's trying to learn to ride a bike and keeps falling over—the weight of discouragement was so heavy I wanted to sit down on the floor and cry. But I couldn't, because the floor was covered in black greasy water and the couches were filthy.

Apparently, after water sits idly in clean pipes and extracts sediment from said pipes, sprinkler water turns black. The translation of that into simple language is that the movies have been lying to us all this time. In The Office (spoiler alert) when Michael Scott proposes and all those smiling people get drenched with clear water from the sprinklers, it's an inaccurate depiction (of course, covering everyone with smelly black water probably wouldn't have had the same effect. For the sake of the story, media, deceive on.).

Just know for your own benefit:

Sprinkler system water isn't crystal clear.

After everyone who had been cleaning left, we sat on stools in our living room and just stared. For a long time.

We bemoaned the ruined Christmas tree that we'd put up three days before, the sodden couches, and the cozy blankets (now covered in nastiness) that we wrapped ourselves in so many times to watch movies and eat homemade pizza on Friday nights. Our books had been straight in the line of fire (ha), and they were all ruined.

My parents brought dinner (and some parental care, concern, and encouragement), and when they left we picked the blackened ornaments off the tree in silence, hoping maybe they were salvageable. 

Then we made a list of everything else that got ruined in "The Black Drench." It felt far too long. Without my brother and his wife and the Oreos they brought over, we probably would've given up. Even with them it took a few hours to write down everything we'd lost and what we guessed it would cost.

The next 72 hours were a roller coaster of talking to person after person about what had happened, and what was next, and where we were going to sleep that night. We never implemented my grand plan of cardboard boxes under a bridge, even though a few afternoons I thought we might have to.

Two days later, they knocked out part of the wall, took out the carpet, and started some serious deep cleaning. At one point, all of our saved furniture (and the tree, which has since met its demise) besides our bed and dressers fit in the kitchen.

There were crews working on our apartment tirelessly, from morning to night, all week. Men came in and painted, laid carpet, and scrubbed the ceiling and walls, even on Saturday, so we could move back in as soon as possible.

Everyone was kind, everyone worked so hard for us, everyone did their best to make sure that we'd have a clean happy home to move back into. 

Yesterday, 7 days after the original fiasco, we got to move back into the apartment. It's freshly painted, newly carpeted, and squeaky clean. We don't have any living room furniture, but we have a living room. And that alone is a privilege. 

I learned some stuff in the past week.

What matters lasts.

I used to think that it was important to have things; things mean stability, comfort, establishment. You need couches to sit on, books to read, and a Christmas tree to celebrate Christ's birth. I don't at all discount any of those things, but in the past week I realized I'd much rather have Curtis and none of the other things, than have all the things and not Curtis.

People can sit on the floor, libraries have plenty of books, and Jesus Christ coming to earth is much more significant than just a shiny Christmas tree in my living room (don't get me wrong, I do love Christmas decorations).

At the end of the day the things that matter are still there: love, Jesus, family, friends. The accessories may change the experience, but they don't change the truth.

People are kind.

As a glass-half-full person (but let's be real, if it's chocolate milk, it's half empty. There's no such thing as enough chocolate milk.), I usually see the good in people quicker than the bad. I'm not naively oblivious, but a lot of people do a lot of good that goes un-commended, and I try to look for it.

In the past week people have been nothing but kind. We've been given gift cards for food, money, small kind things like cups of coffee, and other little gifts that might seem like nothing to the giver, but they felt like everything to us.

Dozens of people have worked together to keep us optimistic, to clean our house, and to simply care. Their consideration has gone above and beyond the call of service provider and worker, and reached a level of kindness that would give even the staunchest pessimist a fragment of hope. 

Maybe we need disasters more often, if this is what it brings out in people (disclaimer: I am not wishing exploded sprinkler heads on any of my friends or neighbors.).

I am not enough, but...

My natural instinct is that with enough grunting and legwork, I can get things done. Many times, that is true; hard work builds bridges and climbs the un-scaleable wall. 

In this case, it most certainly was not. Feeling powerless-ness is debilitating to a do-er, and standing in my trashed living room, helpless to clean or move things or repair everything broken, I felt entirely insufficient. Not because there was nothing I could do, but because I couldn't do enough. I couldn't fix it, I certainly couldn't make it all better, I was incapable of doing the things that badly needed to be done. Almost everything happened without my instruction and without my help. I did a lot of work, but at the same time, I barely lifted a finger.

It was an important jolt to my self-sufficient mentality. Surrender and dependence don't come naturally to me, but experiencing forced surrender and helpless dependence reminded me that I am not enough. I never will be. But Christ in me is enough. He is the beginning of every good thing that comes from me, and the completion of every keen idea that spreads through me.

I am not enough. But Christ is. 

I learned a lot of other small things, but those three are the ones that I'm setting out to remember, the ones I'm writing down to articulate clearly, and the ones I'll tell my kids about when they're old enough to understand what a trashed apartment and no renters insurance means.

May you never have to learn these things in the same way I did.

Love,
Anneliese, happily no longer homeless.

Writing Through Hard Stuff

It's good to write about some things while they're fresh—the pain of the breakup, the excitement of an unexpected gift, and the solemnity of loneliness. 

Other things take some time to process and mull over, before you can form anything edifying.

The quick writes are the pieces that help a writer's constitution. It's like being a short order chef; going quickly from one thing to the next keeps the brain stays oiled and the fingers spry. 

The things that take more consideration clog the mind, because even though you're trying to write, your mind isn't in it. It's like trying to write through writers block, only worse because you don't even care a little bit about what you're saying. You want to sigh and give up and cry, because everything you've ever tried is just NOT WORKING.

And maybe sometimes you do, because writing is impossible. Then it's sweat pants, ice cream, trusty spoon, and Hallmark movies till spring comes again.

Because after all, maybe no one even cares if you write or not.

But there are bursts of inspiration and thunderclaps of conviction, because, after all, you are a writer. It's what you were born for, it's what you love, it's what you do best. It doesn't matter if people care or not, because you don't write for them. You write because without writing, you aren't you. Without writing, you don't think, process, and express. Without writing, there's a void in your soul.

That's why, even when you can't afford to share any brain space with the little things, you write anyways. Even if you're writing about bubble gum, grass clippings, and getting dirt in your eyes, you write anyways.

It's what makes you a writer.

Havoc

This cartoon is a pretty accurate depiction of the past 24 hours of our existence, minus the whole dinosaur/dragon stomping through the city thing.

There was a bit of a debacle with the sprinkler head in our apartment—I'll be publishing a story about it soon.

 
 

In the meantime, we're embracing the abundance of God's protection over all we really hold near and dear.

Why It's Important to Write

There are a few reasons that I get writers block. 

First is the completely elusive cause that no one understands, the sudden disappearance of all sensible content from the conscious mind. One moment there are dozens of thoughts and ideas scurrying around your mind—the next they've vanished, leaving no remnant.

Second is the world of distractions. Writing in my house means that the house needs to be clean and neat (dishes washed, clothes folded, and table cleared of papers and clutter), otherwise it's a constant battle between my desire for a clean space and my will to write. Writing in a public space means that there are dozens of people for me to observe, and my mind would always rather wander than work.

The third is like the rusted hinge, the scuff free shoes, the ten year old car with 2,000 miles. It's hard to do anything cold turkey—diet, exercise, sing, and write. I write every day, partially because I love it but also because if I don't, when I come back to the keyboard all that greets me is a blank screen and the crickets. And the crickets. And the crickets.

I'm learning to write with dogged persistence. Sometimes it's tiring, often it's hard, but it's consistently rewarding.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving

I say thank you to a lot of people: the person who holds the door open for me, the waiter who brings me my drink, the cashier who sells me groceries, and the people who call me every day ("Thank you for calling..."). Not counting the phone calls, I say it at least a dozen times a day, to the person who stands back so I can walk first, to the girl who gives me my newspaper every morning, to the lady who brings donuts to work every few weeks.

I say thank you without thinking. It's as natural as breathing or blinking or pulling my sleeves down when my forearms get cold. I say it without looking at who I'm saying it to, without considering what I'm thanking them for, without expecting them to take it sincerely, or even respond.

“I’m a thank you machine.”

No one expects me to mean it when I say it, no one asks for clarification, and barely anyone gives a resounding 'you're welcome.' Our culture uses thank you as a filler—when it's awkward or we don't know what else to say but we feel the obligation to speak. 

We say thank you because someone, somewhere, years ago decided that it was the appropriate and polite response to receiving a service that was bestowed voluntarily (or not). We say it because living in a sphere of entitlement that greets small favors with boorish self-satisfaction is disgusting to us. We say it because 2000 years ago, when Jesus Christ walked the earth, he healed people and praised them for their faith and gratitude. 

We barely know what it means to give or receive true gratitude, because we often feel like we deserve what we're given, and we don't think it matters how we receive it, because after all, they owed me.

Often the things we don't expect shock us into true thankfulness.

When I was in college, I didn't have any money. Ever. I was paying my way through school, working constantly, sleeping not enough, and trying not to do poorly in the classes I was working so hard to pass. Needless to say, extras like good shoes and winter coats were optional (disclaimer: my parents love me and took very good care of me and weren't neglecting me), and I didn't often buy things for myself that I actually needed, because when you don't have the money for something... You learn how to live without it.

One day, mid-October I scheduled time to meet with a good friend who was visiting from out of town. When he initially saw me, he looked down at my feet and raised his eyebrows. On my feet was a beat-up pair of hand-me-down Toms I'd gotten in high school and worn consistently ever since. On one foot four of five toes were sticking out, on the other three toes and the side of my foot were open to the chill fall air (a smarter person would've worn socks, at least). He commented about my shoes and I shrugged, noting that I'd probably buy shampoo and conditioner before I'd spend the money on shoes.

We hung out all day, ate dinner, and talked about a lot of things, both important and minor. At the end of the day as I was leaving, he handed me some money and said, 

“Go buy yourself some new shoes.”

I didn't look at it while he was standing in front of me, because I'd been taught that evaluating a money-gift in front of the giver is rude. I put it in my pocket, got on the train, and forgot all about it for about half an hour. When I remembered, I pulled it out of my pocket and flipped through the bills.

There were three hundred dollars.

Keep in mind, to a poor college student with a consistent average of fifteen dollars in the bank, all that money felt like the bank of England was cashing in all stocks and bonds. I counted it a few times to make sure it was really that much, then put it back into my pocket and searched for a tissue to dry the water that was mysteriously dripping down my cheeks.

The worst part about it was that I couldn't say a real in-person thank you. But I think even if I could have, I wouldn't have known how to do it well enough. 

I would have spluttered and turned red and probably gotten out a "Thank you so much," that didn't come close to covering the depth of my gratitude or the kindness of his generosity. 

But I have a feeling that to him, maybe that would have said it well enough.

It isn't the carefully manicured "Thank you" that stays in the heart—it's the messy, red-faced, teary-eyed recognition that reaches the sensitive parts of our hearts and mentalities. What if every thank you we said was for something we didn't expect, for a gift that felt too large, for the life that we didn't realize was so fragile but now we're so grateful we still have? 

“Being thankful shouldn’t be robotic—it should be a mindful and genuine reaction to a gift that we’re given that we don’t deserve. ”

It's Thanksgiving tomorrow. There will be a lot of trite thankfulness, quickly said so we "can hurry up and eat." If you were giving thanks for something that you weren't expecting and you didn't deserve, it might change your style of gratitude. 

It might be a good change.

Omit Needless Words

William Strunk wrote (E.B White edited and added to) a small book called The Elements of Style. It's filled with practical points for becoming a better writer, and it's a necessity for every writer's tool belt. It's not wishy washy, indefinite, or outdated, even though it's nearing 100 years old.

Much of it is instantly applicable, but (in my opinion) nothing more than the directive regarding word usage.

“Vigorous writing is concise. A sentence should contain no unnecessary words, a paragraph no unnecessary sentences, for the same reason that a drawing should have no unnecessary lines and a machine no unnecessary parts. This requires not that the writer make all his sentences short, or that he avoid all detail and treat his subjects only in outline, but that every word tell.”

Writing is any man's game, but not every man's masterpiece. Needless words separate the mediocre from the good, and the good from the great.

A few ways to omit needless words (and become one of those great writers):

#) Edit. Seldom is anything slim enough in the first draft. Or the fourth. Or the seventh. Put it aside for a few days, then come back to it. Several times. You'll be surprised at all the unnecessary words you use.

#) Give yourself a word count. In college I took an editing class. We had a guest lecture from a teacher who gave us the assignment to condense a famous 350 word story into 100 words or less, but preserve the intended meaning. It was difficult, but not impossible. Having a limit is a good way to learn discernment. If you're thinking does this phrase really matter, it's likely that it doesn't.

#) Say it a few different ways. Good writers will come up with several ways to say something before they settle on their favorite, or combine a few of them. This ensures the best content and the best style.

#) Be hard on yourself. All through high school I had a running joke that letting people edit my writing was like watching them kill my children. Morbid, I know. But every writer knows the feeling—watching words get cut is like waiting in line for cake for four hours, and watching the person in front of you walk away with the last piece. It's miserable, hopeless, and depressing. But when your final draft is slick and clean, it's worth it.

#) Practice. It wouldn't be one of my how-to lists if I didn't tell you to practice. Ballerinas don't get good sitting on the couch. Chefs won't improve if they only make instant pudding and grilled cheese. Children don't learn how to walk without falling over. A lot of times.

Get rid of those words. Nobody wants them anyway.

Purchase The Elements of Style. If you don't own a copy, you need one. Non-negotiable.