Ponderosa

• Discovered that one of my favorite Iron & Wine songs was used in what I understand to be a pivotal scene in one of the sparkly vampire movies. This annoys me to no end. Way to ruin “Flightless Bird, American Mouth”, Bobby Pattison.

• Living alone I’ve come to realize that easily ¾ of my conversations occur in my head. I’m pretty good company. I get less motivated to go actually see people though, which probably isn’t healthy in the long run. There’s more of me behind my eyes.
  
• I’ve just passed my six year anniversary here in WNC and the friendships I’ve made have begun to take on the richness that comes with the passage of time. I’m thankful for the people who’ve been with me for years, through the darkness of the valley of death. Those friendships just get better. I don’t know if I express enough how grateful I am.
  
• I talked to my nearly 19-year old sister on the phone for over two hours. Easily our longest phone conversation ever. I moved out when she was 3; we had a lot of history to cover. It’s an adjustment realizing she’s an adult now. The girl peed on my face as an infant and now she has an apartment? Something is off. I love her and worry about her and pray for her and am proud of her and am hopeful for her and all other good things. It’s a weird balance; trying to protect her from mistakes I’ve made all while encouraging her to live her life. I’m not particularly close to my other siblings; I hope she remains the exception.

• Learned how to play Damien Rice’s “9 Crimes” on guitar last week. That song SLAYS me.

• We recently had the annual church camping trip. I need camping. It is such a relief to be free from technology, to be a book and a breeze in a hammock, in repose. The smell of campfire is life. I think I may take some of my vacation to stay out in the woods more often, to spend hours staring at a creek.
  
• I’m thankful for my dog. I’ve learned so much about love from having her around. I still have much to learn.


• My novel is plodding along, in that I’ll work on it for a week straight, then not touch it for a few days, then obsess over it. The smallest things feel like such an accomplishment—some little bit of backstory, an opening line; a realization about a specific relationship. The creation of a historical timeline for the characters took days and, though crucial, it will never appear in the actual story. The process of writing a novel is intimidating, and if I think about it too much I freeze. What if it’s terrible? Boring? Makes no sense? No one wants to read it? What if I can’t finish it? Does any of that even matter? In Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott wrote, “Perfectionism is the voice of the oppressor, the enemy of the people. It will keep you cramped and insane your whole life, and it is the main obstacle between you and a shitty first draft.” I’m consciously trying to embrace the shitty first draft mentality, consciously focusing on the small steps in front of me and not the behemoth of the whole.
  
• I’ve been reading “A Circle of Quiet” by Madeline L’Engle, and there is such comfort in the freedom to create that she professes.
  
• My grandmother died yesterday. She was 92.