A Cosmic sign?

In June, as the few readers of this blog probably know (if there are any readers, given how infrequently I post!), I went to a fabulous writer's conference. One of the perks of the conference was the chance to submit parts of our novels to the editors directly, without having to go through the typical agent route. One of the editors had a particularly early deadline--the middle to end of July. I dutifully followed her instructions and sent off my packet with ten days to spare. Yesterday, you can imagine my chagrin when I found the envelope crammed into my mailbox, with a "Return to Sender: Address Unknown" sticker on it. (The deadline was July 29th). One closer inspection, it looked like someone had written over one of the numbers on the address--was that why the address wasn't found? Or was the rewritten address someone's valiant attempt to deliver it? I opened the envelope and double-checked the address the editor had given us: it was exactly what I'd written.

Anyway, I was a little bummed about this for a while--not so much because this meant this particular editor would never see this project (there's still a chance she might--my sister, who has much better connections than I do, is trying to find out if this happened to anyone else), but because at the moment it felt like it might be a cosmic sign: Maybe you shouldn't do this whole writing thing. Maybe it's just a waste of energy and effort.

I think I must have been tired. I tend to get discouraged easily when I'm tired.

In any case, time spent doing something you love and getting better at it is never entirely wasted. Right? Right? . . . ?

On Grieving

I just finished reading a powerful middle-grade novel about grief called Love, Aubrey. I'm not going to review the plot here (you can see my goodread's review here), suffice it to say that I thought the book was a compelling and moving exploration of how someone can move through the grieving process and come out okay.

As usual, I stayed up later than I should have finishing the book. (Late meaning 11:30--Evelyn usually climbs into my bed promptly at 6:15 every morning).

What surprised me, was the overflowing of emotion I felt when I finished the book. For a while, I lay in my bed and just cried, until I realized I needed tissues and made my way to the bathroom. I wasn't crying for the book (though it had made me cry plenty). I was crying for the baby I lost in February, a loss I thought I had come to grips with and moved beyond until a book on grieving reminded me that I *do* sometimes feel a sense of loss (mostly for that personality that I won't ever--at least in this life (or maybe ever; our belief system is a little fuzzy on miscarriages) get to know). I wonder what kind of person that little boy would have grown up to be?

Sometimes, I think, catharsis is good for the soul. (Although not always for the mood--since I woke up this morning tired and puffy eyed!)

On talents

I've been thinking about the idea of talents on and off for a few months now. I'm not sure I have anything super coherent to say just yet--this is more of an exploratory post for me, to document some of the things I've been thinking about recently.

When I was younger, I thought of talents mostly in terms of the flashy talents I saw around me: people who were good athletes, musicians (both talents I don't have), being a good student, writing, drawing--things that were immediately visible and obvious. As a teenager, I had this secret conviction that because I happened to have some of those flashy talents (in high school I was known as an artist and a writer), I was destined for greatness. In the intervening years I've learned some humility and perspective.

Among the things I've learned:

1. There are lots of different kinds of talents. Some of the most impressive talents are *not* obvious or flashy. Last Sunday, the ward I was attending had a Relief Society lesson on developing your talents. I spent most of the lesson thinking about a friend of mine in graduate school who was a wonderful friend. I know few people who can equal her in terms of her warmth and compassion. Now that, I think, is a talent worth having.

2. I'm not as talented as I thought I was.

3. Just because I'm not as talented as I used to believe is no excuse or justification for slacking off on my talents. In fact, I started thinking about this idea of talents a few months ago in the midst of a real yearning for creativity in my life. (Some of that may have stemmed from mid-semester doldrums). I'd also been reading my patriarchal blessing, which encourages me to develop my talents, and have been feeling guilty about the fact that in the ten years since I graduated from college, I have done little creative writing or art (unless you count making birthday cakes for my kids). Sure, I've done other things--I finished graduate school and I've had two children (who bring with them their own capacity for learning new talents--chiefly compassion and patience)--but I haven't done anything with the talents that I used to love, and which used to define the way I thought about myself.

In the lesson last week, I was particularly struck by the idea that we are accountable for developing our talents even if our talents are not particularly impressive. In the parable of the talents, the Lord was no less impressed by the servant who improved his two talents than the servant who improved on his five talents (yes, I know the parable refers to money--my wording here strikes me as ambiguous). I'm still accountable for what I've been given.

4. You can't ignore your talents just because you're afraid of failure. Actually, this is a little misleading--I'm still learning about this one.

Case in point: In three weeks, I'm supposed to go to the Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conference. I'm attending one of the workshops, and I'm supposed to share 10 pages of a novel. Fifteen years ago, I would have thought nothing of this (in fact, as a senior in high school I wrote a relatively bad novel, but it was several hundred pages long). I'm not intimidated by a ten page academic paper. And I suppose I have to admit that it's not the length that scares me--it's having to submit my writing to a jury of my peers. I suppose this is good for me--after all, it makes me much more sympathetic towards my students, who I routinely require to exchange papers. And it's good for me to step out of my comfort zone. But I am horribly afraid of failing at something I used to think I was good at. Yet I've been feeling this constant nudging like I need to start working on those so-called talents of mine again. Why, I have no idea. But since it feels suspiciously like a prompting, I guess I shouldn't ignore it.

Anger management

Sometimes I'm convinced that the primary reason I have kids is so they can teach me my limitations. Andrew is particularly good at this--probably because we're alike in so many ways. Case in point, at his recent preschool graduation, Andrew was awarded, "most determined." I was (I'll admit) a little appalled by this, because I could see it meaning that he'd been giving the teachers a hard time (they reassured me that it was a good thing--he's just good at sticking with tasks). When I told my mom about this, she laughed and said, "well, you would have gotten the same award as a preschooler."

One of the things I've struggled with as a teenager and an adult is controlling my temper. I actually thought I'd more or less over come it; when I got married, I hadn't yelled at anyone in years. Sure, I got annoyed on occasion, but I was generally able to work through it and even have civilized conversations about it. Even after I married, Dan and I generally able to work out our disagreements through discussion, without resorting to real fights. (Although now that I think about it, Dan probably deserves more credit for that than I do. It would take a lot to provoke him to a real fight). And then I had Andrew. Even as a baby he was trying--so determined to have his own way, so frustrated when it didn't work out. And I found myself yelling, again. Not all the time, mind you--usually this happens when I've tried four times to respond calmly and the fifth time I just can't do it anymore. (I'm not alone in this--there was a NYT article a year or so ago that argued that "Shouting is the New Spanking." Incidentally, I enjoyed the comments to this article the most--it was clear that some of the well-intentioned commentors had never had children; one person went so far as to suggest that parents yelled because they lacked the vocabulary to do otherwise. Um, I don't think so. Whatever my problem is, it's not a limited vocabulary.)

This brings us to this morning. I volunteered to make cupcakes for a community fund-raiser this evening; I was supposed to drop the cupcakes off between 11-noon. I spent the morning mixing cupcakes (two different kinds); the kids helped me put the liners in the cupcake pans and then played with a neighbor kid for a while. I kept thinking this would be a great opportunity to help my kids learn about the importance of service.

Then, however, my deadline approached, and with it, my stress level increased. I tried to call my contact, to let her know I'd be late, but none of the numbers I could find for her worked. When I finally loaded up the cupcakes and kids into the minivan, I'd just about had it. I was frustrated, worried about being late (I abhor being perceived as irresponsible), and not nearly as patient with my kids as I should have been.

Later, after I figured out a contingency plan (take the cupcakes to the event when they're setting up), I was able to calm down and I apologized to my children.

"That's okay, mommy," Andrew said. "Everyone gets frustrated once in a while."

So now it seems I have something else to learn from my son: a better sense of perspective.

Sometimes I am not a very nice person

I've had two occasions in the last twenty-four hours that have been honestly challenging my sense of myself as a tolerant person. (Maybe the trick is that I'm not really tolerant--I just imagine myself to be so).

I have been thinking a lot lately about some of the things said in the General Conference broadcast for my church: specifically, the idea that we need to be more invested in service and the concomitant idea that we are all equal. And not just in a lip-servicey idea of equality or equal rights, but the sense that every person has equal value before God. Sometimes it's hard for me to wrap my mind around that idea; the world spends so much time and energy trying to put people into their respective places (popular culture, economics, etc. all try to sort us into hierarchies of value) that it's sometimes hard to see outside of that. And I think I'm as guilty of anyone of wanting to feel *special*--somehow better, or more gifted, than other people. I don't think I have a lot of forms of prejudice, but I do have to confess to something like academic snobbery: I don't think I'm necessarily more beautiful, or morally superior, to a lot of people, but sometimes (and I'm almost hesitant to post this openly, except that I know only a handful of people read this), sometimes I do think I'm smarter than people. I try to fight this--honestly I do--but reminding myself that a) that's only a specific kind of intelligence--it doesn't include emotional or social intelligence (both of which I'm not so blessed in) and b) even if I am smarter on some kind of empirical scale, that doesn't make me more valuable.

Even so, it's still frustrating to me when I'm in a situation that invites me to be judgmental--and worse, when I accept the invitation. Last night I had the opportunity to go to a book group meeting where Ally Condie (author of YA novel Matched) was our guest speaker. She was an amazing person, and that aspect of the event was great. But. But. Some of the other guests honestly drove me crazy with some of the questions and comments that they made, some of which revealed a kind of insular thinking. I really struggled (and, yes, largely failed) not to be judgmental of them. For instance, one girl commented on the love triangle in Matched and, bringing up Twilight (Condie's agent also represents Stephenie Meyer), came to the bizarre conclusion that love triangles must be some kind of Mormon thing. Um, hello? Have you any other YA literature? Another guest, when Ally mentioned that she doesn't read reviews of her work (unless her agent sends them to her), agreed that it would be difficult, especially since some of the people who review books don't have the same standards we (i.e., Mormons) do, and so they might be comparing her book to a wider spectrum of books. Where, when you compare it to other, decent, clean books . . . I admit it. I just don't get comments like that. Since when do Mormons have any kind of monopoly on virtue, in the first place? And since when is literary judgment also a moral judgment? Can't you simply not like something? Anyway, there were other things, but I'll limit it to that for now.

The other instance was a sacrament talk given this morning. I should say up front that the speaker was a good, honest, upright young man who probably would be appalled to know that I took his earnest words so wrongly. Anyway, the speaker in question is heading out on a mission for the LDS church this week, and had been asked to give a talk on the priesthood. My thought is, if you have a topic like that and you're speaking to the entire conversation, find a way to make it relevant to everyone. Instead, he talked about he importance of being worthy to hold the priesthood (and where does that place me, as a woman, when I can't hold the priesthood and am clearly not part of the "we" he speaks of?). He brought in several examples of how to live worthily--all good examples (like President Hinckley's "Be-Attitudes")--but I was a little frustrated by the fact that he didn't acknowledge that such attributes were just as useful for women to develop. (He also brought up scouting--and, while I know the program does a lot of good things, it is *not* synonymous with church doctrine). When he finally did bring up women in this talk, it was basically in the context of, men need good wives to be better. And when women honor the priesthood, it makes men want to try harder. All of which are probably true, but I was frustrated by the take-away idea that the primary reason why women should be virtuous is to make life easier for men. I don't think that's true AT ALL. (And quite possibly, this is not at all what the speaker intended me to take away.) It's true that good women can inspire their husbands; but it's equally true that good men can inspire their wives--I've seen that in my own marriage. And it seems to me that the primary reason we (men AND women) should honor the priesthood is because God asks us to do so and because it will bring us closer to him. Although we should do what we can to aid others on their spiritual journeys, ultimately, we're primarily responsible for our *own* souls. My primary motivation for being good should not be to make my husband better. That, to me, seems a trivialization of my own individual worth before God.

On writing

So, my sister has more or less convinced me to go to this Writing and Illustrating for Young Readers conference this summer. She's gone for several years and loves it. And I've been feeling the need lately to plug into the more creative side to my brain. It's kind of sad, really--in high school I was very much into creative and expressive writing--I wrote a novella in junior high and a full fledged novel in HS (which I rewrote the summer after I graduated and which was several hundred single spaced pages long). Since then, though, my creative writing efforts have been sporadic. I took a personal essay writing class and a short story class in college, and loved both--and then I became an academician.

I feel strangely conflicted about the idea of getting back to creative writing: what if I'm no good at it? That never bothered me in high school (probably because by high school standards I was reasonably good), but my standards are much higher now and I'm not sure I could bear not meeting them. What if it turns out that the only writing I'm really good at is academic writing? (Although having weathered through a couple of rejections there I'm not entirely sure about that either). I'm also just a little annoyed at becoming a cliche--how many English professors are there who are aspiring writers? A majority, I would think. And, I'm a little intimidated. By what? I'm not exactly sure. Writing 300 pages doesn't daunt me (a dissertation will do that). Possibly this has to do with the fear of failure mentioned earlier. But yes, intimidated by good writers--writers whose skills are vastly superior to mine.

But, I think it will be good for me. I think it will be good for my soul to get back to creative writing; and I think it will be good for me to tackle something that I'm not good at, or very comfortable with. And if all else fails, I can always blame my sister . . .

Further reflections

You can find my previous post, expanded and more focused, at Segullah today.