Silver Lines » Misc. Thoughts

Accustomed to Beauty

robinprincemonroe — Mon, 19 Jan 2009 00:10:43 +0000

A year and a half ago we moved into our lake house. I had grown up on a lake, but had been landlocked for 30 years and I missed the water so much that I felt like I was just going to shrival up if I didn’t get back to it. So, I started driving around looking for slivers of silver, and I began searching web sites and real estate magazines for “waterfront” listings in our area. It took me 5 years to find a house on a lake that we could afford but finally I did. It is a simple 3 bedroom 2 bath home and I just love it!

To get to our home you have to drive over a small ridge. When you reach the very top of the ridge the view is breathtaking. You can see the lake with a mountain in the distance. When God made it possible for us to buy the house I promised Him that I would thank Him every time I came over that ridge. And I do thank Him. At first I remembered every single time but now, sometimes I forget my prayer of thanks.

And I have to wonder at that. The view is the same; wonderful and miraculous. The only thing that’s changed is that I have gotten used to it.

Today, I rededicated myself to that promise of gratefulness. I decided that I absolutely will not miss that view or the chance to thank God for it. And today, when we topped that hill on the way home I asked myself. How many other beautiful things have I gotten accustomed to? How many miraculous things am I forgetting to wonder about?

And that’s exactly what I’ve decided to blog about, at least for a while. So…stay tuned.

The Point of Writing is?

robinprincemonroe — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 13:17:41 +0000

What is the point of writing? To create. To express yourself. To help you sort through things. To get published. To make a living. (LOL) To touch readers. What?

When, like most writers, you have a lifelong addiction to putting words on paper (or computer screens) you have to stop and deal with that question…at least occasionally.

I still remember the first poem I wrote that wasn’t a school assignment.

Here it is:

The Gold Each Day

The gold in a golden hill,

The gold in a daffodill,

The gold in the marigolds,

Which climb up hills in little rows,

The gold where the children play,

The gold that’s in the world each day.

Pretty awful huh? Except….I was only about 8 years old….and I actually had the courage to submit it for publication. It was rejected, of course, but I still marvel at the fact that I thought someone else might want to read it.

I wrote that poem to express my optimistic little self…but I wanted to share it….I must have felt there was something in it that others would need or value. And that’s it isn’t it? The writing itself can be fun and wonderful but the bottom line is, that most of us pen pushers believe deep down that we have something to say that is at least marginally important.

And we’re right! No one else has ever lived the same moments we have lived, in the same places, known the same people or been in the same body or state of mind as we have. No matter how our words are judged “out there” by teachers, readers, or 21 year old editors they are, and will always be, uniquely ours and there is something important about that.

Be Still

robinprincemonroe — Fri, 06 Jun 2008 11:58:32 +0000

Even on my days off I find myself making a mental list of everything I want to get done…everything I should get done.

I think on the top of that list should be the words:

1. Be still

Not for a minute, or a second, but for long enough to get past just catching my breath before the next marathon; long enough to get over that painful side-stitch.

Even fun activities are activities.

I need to learn how to BE STILL.

Positively Rejected

robinprincemonroe — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 12:25:27 +0000

They say you aren’t a real writer till you can paper a room with rejections. I have been submitting manuscripts since 1990 and I could probably paper my entire house by now. I have been fortunate, I know. I have had the wonderful thrill and privilege of seeing some of my stuff in print, but gobs of rejections have come between each triumph…gobs!

The first few years I sent out my work I would ceremoniously tear each rejection letter into tiny pieces and throw it away. Then I’d take the manuscript back to group, rewrite, recheck, reevaluate and get it right back in the mail. I’d kiss the envelope, taking a moment to pray that my orphan story would soon find a loving home, then drop it in the blue gaping mouth of the post box. This routine helped, a bit, to relieve the frustration that came from pulling my heart from my chest and laying it out only to have it smacked, or worse, ignored.

And there were times when I’d lay down my pen and declare that this whole writing thing was just not worth it. What if I put all that heart and energy into something more attainable, more worthwhile?

But there were those few notes from readers…notes that said that somehow the way I put together words made a difference for them. Somehow the sentences I had sculpted helped.

And there were the “positive rejections”. Rejection letters that contained one or two sentences of encouragement or perhaps a short handwritten note from an editor. I have saved every single one of those in a notebook because I know that being a submissions editor is like being a gold miner in a mud hole, and that only the kindest or most moved would make the effort. That notebook is so stuffed now that I can hardly turn the pages.

I got another “positive rejection” this week.

“The editorial team read your work and found the story lively and engaging. We especially liked that the protagonist wasn’t a typical child.”

Now, after that, how can I not take the chance of sending it out again? How can I set my pen down when maybe, no one else in all the world, could write about that one atypical child?

I am a writer. I have to write because I can’t figure out how not to write, and I know if I did find a way to stop I would probably just explode.

Writing in the Crannies

robinprincemonroe — Wed, 04 Jun 2008 12:21:53 +0000

I know that creativity requires energy so I’m wondering; Do I need to store up energy to be more creative? When I blog does it drip creative energy out of me like a leaky faucet? Do I need to hold back on my blog and my painting for a bit until the pressure becomes so pent up that it explodes into my writing again? Or is this just a brief respite before the next writing project? For the first time, in a very long time, I have some good writing time. I am not blocked. I have ideas. I just haven’t been inspired to sit down and get going.

Sometimes the writing is like a creative vortex. It takes energy from me but then it swirls it around and gives it right back to me…often in greater quantities. Other times it leaves me happily exhausted, like a runner after a marathon.

And since it has been a while since I’ve had a book published I’m not sure why I’m writing anymore. I know that the writing isn’t all about being published, but since I’ve been published, writing things that sit in a drawer where no one- not even family or friends- reads them, doesn’t make a lot of sense to me anymore. What am I doing with my time? What am I doing with my energy?

Except that, there are interesting, sometimes beautiful places in this world, hidden thickets, coves, rocky crests, nooks and crannies, icy cliffs, storms and creatures that no person has ever seen, and no one ever will.

No one, that is, except God, who surely must value their creation.

Making something beautiful, new or interesting just for the sake of making it must be enough.

Flying High

robinprincemonroe — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 12:31:51 +0000

Sometimes the giants among us look small because they are flying so high.

100 percent, 100 percent of the time

robinprincemonroe — Tue, 04 Mar 2008 15:06:38 +0000

When I read this blog I thought it was so wise that I had to share it. I will only add one thing.

I believe that this is a sustainable way to live as long as you have enough recreation and relaxing time, and as long as you give 100 percent to that rest time too.

Rest and recreation let us power up for all the other 100 percents that can deplete us if we don’t have the nurishing breaks, and it is almost always during those breaks that the seeds of our very best selves are born.

It was written by Caleb Monroe:

My Leap Year: Small Steps 106-124

Posted: 03 Mar 2008 03:07 PM CST

[My Leap Year is a 12-month life project (begun 11/01/07) at the end of which I intend to be writing full-time. 365 small steps = 1 giant leap.]
Well Friday was Leap Day. I finished up three pitches that day. Sorry that I haven’t been blogging very regularly the past couple weeks, but I have been writing. Working on a lot of different projects and honestly feeling a bit overwhelmed, which is why the site has fallen by the wayside. But I’m back!

Most of what I’ve been working on lately is pitches. Some solo, some with a co-writer, some with co-writers. I won’t go into them in much detail unless they start getting picked up. But I can tell you this: the more of them I write the better I get at them. I can see the improvement and the editorial response so far has ben very encouraging. Not only that, but the most useful pitching skill I’ve discovered is one I actually honed writing my flash fictions: economy of words without losing the energy or excitement. I never foresaw how much I would fall back on my approach to flash fiction when pitching until I started doing so many proposals lately and realized that ultimately I was using the exact same storytelling skills. So if you’ve been looking for an excuse to try a flash fiction experiment, there it is. Better pitches. I’ll be hopping back on the flash fiction wagon this Friday for this very reason.

I was feeling very frustrated the other day trying to juggle the different aspects of my life: writing, wife, work, real-world stuff like bills and also some relaxation somewhere in there to keep the crazies away. I was watching the season finale of Scrubs season 6, of all things, when a potential solution started to work its way into my mind. Zach Braff’s character was talking about how scary it was to try to balance two things, both of which required all of him (in this case doctorhood and fatherhood). That gave words to the frustrations I had been having. How do you balance more than one part of your life that each require 100%? Writing and my wife are each in those category, at least, and the other categories aren’t going away, either. I mulled that over for the next hour or so. How can you get 100% + 100% + 100% to equal 100%? I finally realized there was no way to make the math work, and therein was the beginnings of a solution. I can’t give more than 100% of myself…at a time. When I’m with my wife I can give her 100% of myself without worrying about that other stuff. When I’m writing, the same. And on down the line. So I’ve been trying to apply the 100% factor to things lately, and seem to be seeing an improvement. Today, for instance, is a 100% writing day until we have to go somewhere this evening. I’ll have to see if this is a sustainable system.

Flashing Signs

robinprincemonroe — Tue, 12 Feb 2008 14:01:25 +0000

I was driving home last Monday feeling pretty rotten.

I had just been to the doctor, was given some antibiotics, and told to take it easy.

I passed by a church with a lighted sign. In big, red, flashing letters it said, “REST!”

When I drove by the same church sign yesterday it was scrolling the verse, “Come ye all that are burdened and heavy laiden and I will give you REST!” Apparently the first time I drove by the sign was stuck on that one word, REST.

Who says that God doesn’t speak to us with flashing lights?

Life on Wheels-Part 2

robinprincemonroe — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 17:50:59 +0000

(read Feb.5 first) We had a couple other cars between. Some big yellow thing, I think it was a Buick Electra and then a Plymouth Valiant that we bought from a friend to use as a second car. The seat wouldn’t move up in the Valiant so I had to sit with a big pillow behind me to reach the peddles. Even though the visor (that didn’t stay up) banged me in the forehead I loved my Valiant. It meant that when my husband was at work I had wheels.

Next came the Blue Shark. A giant of station wagons. We kept that car so long we ended up putting a new engine in it. It was powder blue and capable of toting a passel of kids, their backpacks, a double stroller, a wheelchair and all my writing stuff. It was the car we really lived in. I think we ate more meals in the Blue Shark than in our kitchen! I remember manuevering around thousands of mini-vans to park at school, all the time wishing for a mini-van of my own.

and that wish finally came true when we sold the Shark to a family with six kids and got a candy apple red Ford Aeorostar-my shuttlecraft. It was the beginning of our mini-van era which included another red Aeorostar that was rear-ended and totaled and a white Caravan that I dreamed about the night before we found it.

Most recently came my favorite van, a silver Honda Odessy that I named the Silver Bullet. Bullet saw us through numerous trips to visit our daughter in Tennessee and packed full with all my son’s belongings it carried us to his new residence in Columbia.

Only about a week before this Christmas did we find the Batmobile. The vehicle that is ushering in my empty nest years-big enough to carry family when they visit, small enough to save on gas. The seats fold up so that my new Kayak will fit with just enough room for the gear that I will need for a new kind of adventuring.

Because, you see, every car we owned carried me through life’s adventures and “boldly took me to places no man had dared to go.”

Life on Wheels-Part 1

robinprincemonroe — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 22:08:48 +0000

I was toodling down the road in my black Honda Element listening to the theme from the old Batman show when it came to me. Batmobile! That will be the name of my “new to me” car.

More toodling and a few songs later I found myself thinking about about my other vehicles, their names and the stages of my life that they were a part of.

My first car was a green Rambler. I named it the Green Machine. The Green Machine wasn’t perfect. Sometimes the wipers didn’t work. Often I had to jump the battery to make it go. One time the muffler dropped right off of it on I-75. But I loved that car. It meant that after 16 years of depending on others to transport me I could finally get to places myself. Yep, the Green Machine was more than a car. It was freedom!

Then there was the little white Toyota Corolla. I named it Peanut. Peanut was a wedding present from my new in-laws. It was a brand new 5-speed and was the first car my husband and I owned together. I remember packing my first two babies (19 months apart), porta cribs, play pens and all other manner of baby paraphanalia into that tiny car and traveling to conferences for Intervarsity Christian Fellowship. At the time my husband was a campus minister. When I wasn’t driving you would find me riding facing backwards, bottom up, as I tended my two little ducklings.