Wednesday, October 2, 2013

I Don't Seem to Meet Expectations

For those of my friends who're logging on here to find out what I have to say about our little adventure last night, sorry.  I'm still processing.  Maybe tomorrow.

Actually I'm busy processing a whole lot of stuff right now.  One of my reasons for writing this blog is so that I have a place to put all the little thoughts that aren't actually a book but persist in going off like firecrackers in my head.  I am always, always a writer.  At every moment in my life, there's a small scribe tucked into the corner of my brain, taking notes like a mad fiend.  I can't help it; I was born this way.  But at least with a blog some of the notes end up outside my head.

So.  Last week I was snarky to someone I really like, because he asked if I was "still writing."  I replied that no one ever asked my husband if he was "still a surgeon."  The more I thought about this the more I realized that the "still writing" question, which I get a lot, has to do with people not quite understanding how writers work.  Many people have good ideas for books; the people who end up becoming writers are the ones who stick with it, who are always still writing.  It's a lot easier to stop writing than to keep writing; easier still never to start.  But you can't become a published writer unless you keep writing for such a long time that, once you've finished one book, you might as well start another.  It has become who you are.  It's what you do.

In a similar vein, last Thursday night I went out to dinner with several other couples, most of whom were strangers to me.  They were all gathered for a weekend golf tournament, including my husband, but not me: I was going to a horse trial with my daughter.  This made perfect sense to all the other women, until they discovered that I was also competing, not just my child.  Then there was some confusion.  I rode?  I competed?  Well, once my daughter left for college, I would give that up, right?  No?  I explained that it was me who evented first; my daughter was a more recent convert.  I loved the sport for its own sake, not just because I liked to do it with her.  Odd.

Also--and I'm not sure how all this ties together, although I have a gut feeling that it does--I've become completely in love with Nadia Bolz-Weber.  She's an ordained Lutheran pastor with wild tattoos and a propensity for telling people to fuck off; she wrote a gorgeous theological memoir, Pastrix: the Cranky, Beautiful Faith of a Sinner and Saint, which was published 2 weeks ago and has already hit the NYT Bestseller list.  I love her writing and her theology so much that I just spent 40 minutes reading her sermons online.  In the cover photo on her book, she's seated on the floor, eyes cast down, arms around her knees.  A sleeveless shirt reveals tattoos of saints running down both arms.  She's got wrinkles near her eyes and a touch of grey hair at her temples, like me. 

I "liked" her on Facebook, and read this post there from a friend:  The book review (which, obviously, was negative) said that your problem is that you believe God loves people just the way they are.

Maybe that's the string that ties this random post together.  Or maybe not.  Today I just can't tell.