2018

There's a reason why I save the year's recap till the very last post. It takes time for me to lift my head above the moment and gaze back at the year from a more aerial perspective as opposed to a 'still stuck in the middle of the throes' perspective. If I'm still stuck on land (and to be honest, I am), it's hard to collect the good moments in a tough year. 2018 was hard - a new kind of hard I hadn't experienced before. There was a lot of caves and tunnels and dead ends and places that looked like dead ends and places that might not be dead ends, but I'm still not sure the way out of.

Those places are the hardest to gain perspective on - the 'stuck' places - and so when I reach the end of the year if I'm still in the-place-that-has-no-way-out to my limited eyesight, it can be disheartening, almost suffocating. People are talking about the whole 'new year, new you', the big goals, the exciting goals, the 'I should be happy for them' kind-of goals, and the ways in which they have succeeded. And I don't know. I begin looking too much at other people's journeys (comparison - usch), and I'm not there. I'm not somebody else or living somebody else's life. Meaghan, get your head back over here. Narrow your focus. 

We all have those glowing moments we slug through the mire of 365 days to find so we feel good, so we know we really did do something 'worthwhile' with our limited breaths. The importance of productivity and progress and big things is emphasized everywhere we look. Whether in our minds or in society around us, our worth is tied up in what we produce or the profit from our production. Somehow that belief has been worked into my core, and even though I KNOW it isn't true, it keeps tripping me up. No wonder, I read it takes 21 days to tackle a thought inside your mind and replace it with something else, something better, something that will survive. 63 days to make it have roots and branches enough to thrive. That's a long time and about a million reminders to yourself through all kinds of chaotic emotions and circumstances. That's a lot of courage and a lot of plain old stubbornness.

And I don't seem to have a lot of either of those right now. I'm tired, to be honest. There's a lot of lessons I started learning in 2018 that I'm not finished learning. There's a lot of major construction and destruction going on over here and so I know the feeling of stumbling over other people's highlight reels and forgetting for the millionth time that it is their highlight reel, their collection of half-told stories (and let's be honest - even if people do say what goals they didn't accomplish, we tell them to have grace on themselves, that they did their best, but we don't extend the same grace to ourselves).

This New Year's Day was filled with a lot less bittersweet melancholy than some. A lot less pressure of making it into something. A lot less "Oh man, it's January. Where did the time go? Have I even done anything with my time? Now it's the New Year, and I'm suppose to have goals and dreams, etc." Worries and anxiety that start to suffocate. Instead I got up as if it were any other day, forget about the month or the year, and tried to focus on the moments and collect them because the moments -- the here and now -- they're where I'm most at peace. If I extend myself too far into the future and tomorrow's worries, then I find myself running and running to try and keep myself from falling. That running is exhausting. So for right now, I'm just here, and hopefully this year, it's where I'll spend most of my time.

And with that, here are some of my favorite moments of 2018.

-Snapshots of 2018 -

February 24th - I don't do spur of the moment, but I did. He was moving, and that's a lot of driving alone. I picked the soundtrack, and we crossed the mountains, and there was fresh snow on all the trees. The world transfigured into a Narnian forest. Car rides aren't so bad. 

May 20th - Riding tandem bike for the first time along the Columbia river. Warm day. Cool breeze. He bought me Captain America socks -- my first fandom clothing. 

July 2nd - Perfectly shaped, beautiful, white and purple turnips. Also my nephew's favorite toys. 

July 4th - "Please not again, God." Anxiety knotting up my insides, but it releases as I carry serious boy - nephew- through my garden and tell him about all my vegetables. He follows my pointing. He seems to know. 

August 15th - I'm on top of the world in arctic terrain. Pieces of Rohan. Valleys and peaks shrouded in endless apocalyptic smoke, but the noise in my head is gone.

August 16th - I can reach out and touch the mountain. My mountain in all its intimate closeness. I touch snow in August. My muscles scream, but I am happy. Happy among wildflowers and perfect places where worries seem so small, mountains are kind, and God is infinitely beyond all imagining.

August 17th - We had to backtrack and everything took longer, but it was alright. The music was still good. Kayaking in warm, clear waters in the middle of absolutely nowhere. Hot chocolate down by the lake in moonlight. The food was good. 

August 18th - Narrow roads that can't really be roads swallowed in early morning fog. The first glimpses of the pacific - old friend, you know, it's always been too long. Sand. Walking along the ocean shore. Ocean forests swallowed in eery mist. And the painters out in the morning light with
their easels. The endless rush of pebbles falling over one another. Starfishes. We didn't reach the most North-Western point of the consecutive United States, but it didn't matter.  

September 7th - Carrots. Perfectly shaped, purple carrots. One handful, two handfuls. Something worked, and I've never seen anything quite so beautiful. 

October 6th - Birthdays are blue days, but it's a day up in the mountains where there's fresh snow, and it's cold, and it's Autumn and Winter and beautiful. We drink hot cider up on the top of the highest point and eat sandwiches, and it seems like the best food I've tasted for awhile. The wind numbs our hands, but there in the moment of sunlight, it seems worth it. And it's not so bad talking to my knees in the cramped back seat of a pickup truck. 

October 11th - Wandering through a Fall Japanese garden in Seattle. So peaceful. And the colors are rich and the reflections are serene and the fish frightening.

October 22nd - After work, I'm kidnapped to the foothills to see the sprinkling of Autumn colors. The tradition for a couple handfuls of years. We drive along in the shadows of the hills, and they stop in the middle of the road so I can get out and take pictures of the yellows in the sunlight, and I want to take all those yellows and decorate my soul with them, to fill myself up to the brim and push back all the blue. I want to become a tree, planted by some lake, in the middle of an evergreen forest (later she said she would like to become a tree across the road from me). We walk across the bed of the lake to our island, and everything slides back into perspective. I never want to leave this place. Hot chocolate on the car ride home. 

November 7th - She said she was rooting for 'optimistic Meaghan'. Rooting -- someone is rooting for me.

December 12th - I got there late after an emotionally exhausting day of 'this seems too painfully familiar', and she had to work in the morning, but she brought me dinner in a bag, and we listened to music and drove all around looking at Christmas lights. And we talked and some of the load slipped from my shoulders. 

December 24th - We were all cooking and baking together, and I knew what needed to be done but didn't have to do it alone. After the church's Christmas Eve service, we searched for somewhere to eat and found Popeye's was the only place open, and we took it and the stockings to the Air Traffic Control tower where my dad had to work late. We all sat on the floor and shared plates and opened stockings. We stayed up till 3 am because of a late night Celtic Christmas with bagpipes and gift wrapping I should maybe have done long before. 

~~~

What are some of your favorite *small* moments of 2018? 

Favorite Aspects of Story: Those Worthy of Saving

What characters attract you most in stories?

I like characters who genuinely want to do what is right, who have a clear sense of what that means, and who are willing to give everything for it. To be completely honest, they sometimes look a lot like Captain America. These are the characters who inspire me, who keep me striving. I'm far from that kind of character, but it gives me a destination. I am besieged by obstacles a plenty, knocked down by them, crippled by them, but right and wrong are carved into me. I sometimes plug my ears, and I try to drown out the conviction, but they are still there. At the end of the day, I want to do what is right, and sometimes I want simple. I want characters in stories whose conscious' compass is not so far off from my own because do all heroes need tragic backstories and long, painful journeys?

In spite of my best intentions, I don't much resemble those heroic characters. Instead other characters draw me in, and they are the opposite to the conscious' clear compass wielders. They are the villains who are all but lost. Think of Regina in Once Upon a Time. Darth Vader in Star Wars. Maleficent in the newest Sleeping Beauty retelling. At differing points, you have little doubt in your mind that these characters are evil, and yet, somewhere inside of them is something worth saving. More than that, there is someone who believes they are worth saving.

And maybe the greatness of these characters is not in their own strengths and eventual redemption, but in the conscious' compass wielders who won't give up on them, who saw what these antiheroes could be and wouldn't let them be any less. Or the greatness lies more hidden. These stories are the stories of love. A love that breaks through darkness and destruction. Or the glimmer of love not quite dead, underneath all the darkness, that is somehow strong enough to push back the flood of decaying morals.

Why do these characters' storylines appeal to me?

These characters appeal because one of the strongest villain-types is the villain who has the potential for good, the potential to be the hero and make the greatest sacrifices. They have potential to do good, but they also have the potential to succumb to the darkness, to give up the fight, and to turn into villains whose hearts hold no hope for redemption. You are on the line as you immerse yourself in the story. You try to read these hearts and predict, but you are never quite sure. You want them to keep fighting, but in their place, you wonder if you would.

As an audience member of these stories, I often wonder how Henry or Aurora could care about the villain. They are despicable. They have done things that I wouldn't ever think about doing. I don't know if I would even want to touch the corner of their clothing, and yet, the creator of this type of villain sneaks their creation past my defense, and I somehow care.

I care because the idea everyone, regardless of the rocky and desperate paths they take, is worthy of saving secretly slips into my mind.

I care because I know well my own inner battles, and I know the yearning for a love that sees beyond my stains, my broken fence, and garden full of weeds to something worthy of saving.

What type of characters are you usually drawn to? Have you seen this character storyline in books/movies/tv shows? What are some of your favorite aspects in stories?

The Top 3 Influencers of My Writing

1.  Like many writers, I'm sure, my love of stories began with C.S. Lewis and his Chronicles of Narnia. But I don't know if I fully realized the extent of power stories held until I watched The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe in the theaters when I was 10. That movie came out at the perfect time in my life. I don't know if it would have enchanted me the same at any other age, but the enchantment of that first time watching it has lasted throughout the years, and still as I watch it, I might as well be 10 years-old.
How could a story hold so much power? It awed me, and I guess that's the same thing I want to do in my writing. To create awe and hope and courage and a yearning because those are the things I've felt from stories.  I guess it's revenge, in a way. I have this yearning that has been awakened by stories, and others must be captured and tortured by it, too.

2.  From the age of 4 until 15 (okay, if we're being honest, we haven't stopped), my brother and I would spend our days creating stories and enacting them. It was through this that I realized I could be a storyteller. It wasn't some magic thing only certain people could do. Storytelling was everywhere and could be done by anyone and in any format. With my brother, I learned more about stories than I could have by reading any book. I learned about creating story worlds, different characters, compelling plots (if I wasn't on top of my game, my brother would get bored quickly, and then all the characters would be suddenly dead), conflicts in stories (our arguments would spill in and out of our stories). Even now, seeds that were planted then come up. Beloved characters have morphed into some totally different role in stories. C. S. Lewis might have influenced my writing a lot. He might have showed me the power of stories, but acting out stories from sun up to sun down with my brother? Those moments showed me how entertaining stories were. How enjoyable it was to create them. And all those memories come with my brother and best friend; so he's up there by C.S. Lewis as an influencer of my writing.

3. It was 2010, no, early 2009. I had a blog called 'Where the Sun Shines' back then with a handful of followers. One of them was a girl named Liz. She was a couple years older than me and an Indie writer (I think she's published two books by now). Out of all the blogs I followed at the time, hers was my favorite. She shared clips of her writing and photos and life in general. But I guess it was the way she answered and even had conversations in her blog's comment section (which is still my highlight of blogging. I never did like how it was more of a one-sided social media outlet) that made her my favorite blogger.
I did write enough then to consider writing as one of the things I enjoyed doing, but I didn't really pursue it whole-heartedly. Through posts on her blog and conversations, she inspired me to actually finish one of my stories. Not only that, she offered to read some of what I'd written, even though I had nothing to give her in return. She read page after page of my different stories and sent back long e-mails.
Let's face it. My writing stunk. Sure, it wasn't as terrible as my early stuff, but it certainly didn't shine. She could have ripped it apart easily. She could have gotten stuck on the grammar or my spelling or how much I told instead of showed, but she didn't. She overlooked my smudges and saw my heart and my potential as a story teller. Sometimes I wonder why she even bothered as I look back at all I've learned and realize everything I didn't know then.
Some writers have sad stories about how different people who've read their writing first ripped it apart. Those writers are so courageous to keep going in spite of everything. I don't know if I'd ever have gotten this far if not for the seeds of hope she planted in my heart.
Over the years her blog disappeared. She just disappeared. I found her on Facebook once, but somewhere along the way, our paths went in totally different directions, but still I imagine hers will be one of the names in the acknowledgements if I should ever publish a book. Those e-mails she sent are still in the dark, dusty basement of my inbox. I sometimes pull them back out and reread them, and I'm once more encouraged. They are more a reflection of her character than my writing, and they remind me of the power of words and being in a place of influence. And they remind me that sometimes compassion trumps truth. Sometimes you need to be reminded how much you're getting right rather than everything you've still got wrong.



Who has influenced your writing the most?

The Early Writings Tag (from Abbiee's Blog)

I decided I would do a tag this week that I found here. If anyone would like to do it, feel free. I'm supposed to tag 5 people, but I'm breaking that rule for now. Without farther ado, let us dig up some embarrassing ghosts out of my closet.

1. Untitled

I don't even remember when this story came into being, but it was my very first. My aunt brought over these (very ugly) notebooks for us, and I was instantly enchanted by the blank, spaced pages. I might have been driven to write because something just had to be written. It's still an issue with me.
I didn't actually finish this book. Essentially it was about a bazillion big families, and I couldn't keep any of their names straight (One of the dudes was named Miguel which I took straight from a show on PBS I used to watch on occasion at my grandparents - the only time I ever watched public television growing up) or which family they came from, and then a stranger shows up out of nowhere, and it turns into a mystery. I'm pretty sure Eileen was the MC (maybe cause that's one of my middle names - seems like so many books of mine end up with a character whose name is one of my middle names).

What I learned:

*Not all families have to be big. I must have been so scarred by this story because it took many years before any of my MCs actually had siblings.

*You don't have to end every chapter with an exciting incident.

*Names can be more original (no offense to all the marys, toms, and anns of the world)

*Punctuation could maybe be kind-of good.

* If you have too many characters in a story, it's gonna be super, duper hard to make them sound different.

*Writing mysteries isn't for me. Well, it took this book and two others (one called The Black Shadow...)

My bro drew this as a 'cover' for my book. Heh.

2. Untitled

A long, long time ago when I was a mere ten-years-old (maybe older, but for embarrassment's sake, let's just say ten), my best friend (aka, one of my big brothers) started enjoying computer games a lot which was really boring. I would sit next to him on a stool, and I began to write for entertainment. So I wrote this story...without a title, and I finished it (though, I don't always mention this being the first book that I wrote) at 31 pages. It was my first Fantasy, and I'm actually surprised at how well-thought out some aspects were. It was about these kings and queens with supernatural powers who had gone missing years ago. This young boy was told the legends of them, and it turned out he was the 'chosen one' who would save the day. Interesting twist, after being left disenchanted by the kings and queens, he almost chose the bad guy's side, but in the end, everyone lived happily ever after, including the bad guy (these were the days when even the bad guy won).

What I learned:

*The importance of getting The Chronicles of Narnia and Lord of the Rings (at that point, though, I had only heard my bro's version of Lord of the Rings) out of my blood.

*The importance of story world! I have never done as much story world plotting as I did for this story. I drew maps, wrote out histories, 'invented' languages and creatures, and wrote songs.

*Not to rip-off other people's creatures. Sure, they might have had different names, but we all know what those small 'humans' actually were :P

*One does not necessarily have to know the entire universe of one's story world. Nor does one have to write out stories about every single event that occurred in one's world, especially when the story world only grows bigger and bigger as portals are installed.

*Not every piece of clothing has to be described.

*You don't have to be super original with names because they'll end up sounding weird (Ha. The complete opposite problem as the other. Never a medium here). However, I did come up with the name 'Sananora' which I used as my blogging identity for many years back when I first had a blog, and that isn't half so bad.

*It's better not to show your writing to other people at first. Usch. (Of course, I took that to the extreme and never showed anyone my writing till the last couple years).

3. Untitled

This one is actually something I might want to pick up and rework some day in the future. It's an unfinished story about Edith Aadland, a girl from a big, poor family. She was sent as a paid companion to three elderly sisters who lived in a large manor in some moors. Her simple life is somewhat disturbed when she comes across a man playing a piano in a small graveyard. He takes her to visit an older woman (not sure if he was related to the older woman or not). And sometime a dragon was supposed to pop out of nowhere. I'm pretty sure it was a Jane Austen/Jane Eyre type mish-mash... but with a dragon.

What I learned:

*The unexpected is the best - hence the dragon. Doesn't that just spice up the story?

*Romance of any importance in my writing = Bleah (And I'm pretty sure I only wrote one scene with her and the random piano playing man).

*It's best not to try and write intelligently about something you haven't researched :P

4. Beyond the Border

This was the book I first purposefully titled. And it's the book I claim I first finished (April, 2011) with a whole 75,000 words. It was a Fantasy novel about a young woman of some fortune named Bethclaire whose lonely life was disrupted by the reappearance of an old friend. Unbeknownst to her, he returned through a portal specifically to persuade her to come back because she was the daughter of a king in the place beyond the portal. Ends up that her friend dies after betraying her, and everybody hates her until they don't, and then they decide that she'll be a perfect Queen.

What I learned:

*How to outline a novel, and I decided I would never do that again. Not to that extent, anyway.

*How to finish a book! (One of reasonable size).

*That I actually could feel some emotion towards my characters and their situations.

*How to consistently write day after day after day. I did 500 words per day by hand.

*Writing was actually something I wanted to do seriously.

*You go a long way with a cheerleader and someone who asks you about your progress.

*It isn't going to be perfect the first time around.

*How to incorporate the more human aspect into my writing - through conversations, emotions, problems. I don't think any of my writing before that really held any emotion.

For the longest time, the only good thing I did with writing was write, but honestly, I think that was the best thing I could do, and I don't regret any time spent or words written. Time is truly the only way writing works, and I'd encourage anyone to spend the time first. Later on you can pick up craft books, but now just let yourself write.

Are you planning to do this tag? Did you write any of your novels by hand? How many years have you been writing?