Will I or will I not drive in the snow today? My 20th Final Decision

Snow in Columbia again! I saw it in the wee hours of the morning, my backyard lighted up by moonlight shining on the white sparkly blanket covering everything. The sight did not deter me in the least regarding my plans for the approaching day—worship and hanging out with a friend who is under the weather (couldn’t resist that cliché). So, I got right up when the alarm sounded, despite grogginess from the eating, drinking merriment of Christmas. Yesterday was filled with fun and wonder with special guests and family including three grandsons, ages 1 ½, 3 ½ and 5 ½, a recipe for adorable cuteness (okay, yes, and a few other moments, too). Anyway, the celebration had taken its toll, but I was, nevertheless, on track.

The track began to curve when I glanced out the window to see snow still coming down. Settled with my coffee at the computer, I serendipitously found energy for working on Sunday by Sunday III for a bit. The harder I worked, the heavier the snow seemed to fall. There were few cars on the road, and whispers began circulating in my brain about staying home.

But, then an e-mail from church announced that the “show was on; don’t be scared off by the weather.” Remembering how special it is when there is a small congregation of the faithful few, I wanted to be there. Plus, the gospel lesson included the slaying of the holy innocents. I’m always curious, if not desperate, to hear what good purpose that horrendous story can serve for the building up of faith.

So, I watched the clock to make sure I left in plenty of time—and started worrying about road conditions. To check on that, I found my boots and winter wraps and ventured out. I headed into the park next door, an icy breeze blowing large tufts of snow into my face. I opened my mouth, hoping to catch a few, and thought of our pup Scout seeing her first snow years ago. At first, she was startled and suspicious, but was soon leaping in the air, snapping at the clusters of flakes. Fond memory.

In the park, a couple was sledding and a guy was taking pictures. The only other person I saw walking was dressed in a parka and sipping a beverage out of a plastic bag from Li’l Cricket Gas and Convenience. Making the circle to head home, I turned around a few times to peer down Main Street through the snow and wintry grayness to see if I could spot the state capital. I could, barely; that was cool. There was little traffic, but, as I expected, roads were perfectly clear; there was no reason not to go. Except that now, getting back to my warm house and holing up seemed like the ideal thing to do. This is South Carolina, after all, and any amount of snow is an acceptable excuse for canceling anything, so…

So, here I sit writing, feeling very cozy and rather wimpy—and utterly forgiven for acts of wimpiness and sins of omission and comission. In a few minutes, I’ll heat up leftovers I brought home last night—the richest mashed potatoes you can imagine, broccoli and red peppers with Kalimata olives and feta, stuffed mushrooms. Oh my, oh yum. And now, off to two (of many) lovely sabbath activities that await: a call to Mom and the Sunday paper. Amen!

I Am a Myth-led Christian

If I, as a devout Christian, were to dialogue with the folks who put up the atheist billboard at the end of the Lincoln Tunnel in New York City I would focus on the word myth. The billboard, as you probably know, pictures a classic scene of the Nativity of Our Lord, and has the caption, “You KNOW it’s a myth. This Season, Celebrate REASON!”

Yes, I would say, Christianity is based in stories with some historical basis passed on over millennia by a community of people to explain and preserve a set of beliefs and a way of life. This is an alternative definition of the term, something much different from a purely fictional story. And I would share my favorite definition of myth, stated by a young child: “A myth is a story that’s true on the inside but not always on the outside.”

Another important point I would want to make—one of those points that seems that it should go without saying but, alas, must be said—is that there is a wide diversity among those of us who identify ourselves as Christians. For the most part, the Christians I hang out with in the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America respect deeply the beliefs and non-beliefs of others. Our understanding of God does not lead us to condemn others, but rather, to love one another. Many Christian billboards cause me to cringe. The fact is, I am more comfortable with kind, friendly atheists than self-righteous Christians who are sure they have all the answers.

I would most certainly share with my fellow human beings who cannot make sense out of God that sense is not the most important aspect of faith—though logic and reason figure in. We do not check our brains at the door of the church and science is no adversary of our God. To find meaning in life and death and life again, we value both mystery and knowledge, both emotion and intellect. Our life together is reasoned and disciplined, and yet, our practices help us move beyond reason. Barbara Crafton, Episcopal clergy, expresses this well: “Liturgy is the recapturing of something that once happened, bringing it alive again and amplifying its meaning in the present moment. Sacraments are not rational occurrences, and they cannot be reduced to reasonable explanation. It is one of the saddest parts of being rational beings, this sterile insistence of ours that everything make sense, our grumpy suspicion of mystery.”

Those would be a few of my main points. And I would listen. I would want to know how they’re faring on this terrestrial ball with its vicissitudes of life. I would learn from them, I am sure, and we would discover common ground. These speculations are based on dialogues I am privileged to enter into frequently.

And I would desire civility and mutual respect in our conversation. I’ve been cruising the Internet, reviewing dialogue between atheists and Christians on billboards and other matters. Clever terms and phrases have made me smile and even laugh out loud, but I was, ultimately, sad at the animosity exhibited. Terms like “religiotards” and “kool-aid drinkers” and descriptions like “your illogical, irrational, Bronze-Age belief system” don’t create a comfort zone for sharing differences and finding likenesses. Neither do patronizing, condescending attitudes displayed by Christians towards those who don’t believe the way they do.

In my Sunday by Sunday series, relationship between Christians and atheists is incarnated in the characters of Rose, inveterate church lady, and Jim, her non-believing neighbor. Dialogue isn’t always easy for these two. With determination and mutual respect, however, they maintain civility and focus on values and beliefs they share. Therein lies human connection which seems sure to align well with the purposes of a loving God—and with an ordered universe.

Poetry from Long Ago

In the fall of 1984, my youngest child started school, and I wrote a volume of poetry. ‘Twas a major life passage for me. Intent on the pursuit of serious writing, I bought a ream of paper and a box of 9 X 12 envelopes and outfitted space on the narrow balcony of our little house in the woods. With an old electric typewriter from a friend, I settled in at my desk, a dressing table sans mirror, for the disciplined writing life. I knew enough to write about what I knew, and one product of those four months before my re-entry into the labor market was Spinning with the Spiders, poems about being a full-time mother and homemaker.

The title poem (below), first-written, has remained my favorite and was also well-received in open reading at a Tennessee Mountain Writer’s Conference years ago, seeming to have broad appeal on the basis of the futility of our efforts. That futility is the obvious theme of “Holy House,” (for the rest of the poems, click here) and its popularity amazed me. By audience request, I performed it several times at that same conference. During a session with a teacher of poetry at another workshop, however, “Holy House” was panned entirely, and I was admonished that inanimate objects cannot take on animate qualities, such as a rug being tired. That teacher seemed to be in no mood for light verse.

Spinning with the Spiders is definitely light verse, a glint in my eye and my tongue firmly planted in my cheek. Yet there is substance, I insist. At the Iowa Summer Writing Festival, I studied with Jane Mead and offered “Pristine Christine” as my poem for group critique. Teacher and participants fairly well dismissed it as insubstantial at first, but then asked me to say it again—and again—and again. The resulting discussion was rich with insight for me, and affirmation, too, complete with suggestions for improvement.

Anyway, the poems were fun to write and are fun, still, for me to hear. I’ve committed them to memory and enjoy reciting them while driving or waiting or—doing housework, of course!

Spinning with the Spiders

Spiders spin splendid webs at my house

and I am the cleaning lady

who doesn’t much like cleaning

but does it anyway,

when she can, when she must,

when the dust and spider webs

seem hazardous to health

and floors are gritty to the touch of naked soles;

and if a friend dropped in, especially Pristine Christine,

embarrassment would get me;

and it’s amazing how many spiders

there are in the world

and how many of them live at my house

and how speedy those spiders are,

and they spin and I spin my wheels

because I don’t much like cleaning;

but, on one special, gray morning

I swept the cobwebs from my eyes

and from my house

and the next day

the smirking spiders

had re-spun every one.

Copyright © 2010 Cristy C. Fossum. Create in Me Enterprises, 1215 Beaufort St., Columbia, South Carolina 29201. May not be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

A Quiet Place to Write

I have a quiet place to write. This has not always been true. Last fall, new people moved into one side of the duplex next door. Sorry to say, their six-month tenure was a time of insecurity and stress on our street. And noise.

I had extended my hand in welcome as the new tenants were moving their furniture. A few days later, I think it was Christmas Day, they had an altercation with family members. Obscene language was shouted and screamed from front porch to the car in the driveway for several minutes. Startling. Offensive. Scary.

Soon, the other neighbors and I had the appropriate police contact number on our speed dial and were hitting it frequently, at all times of the day and night, because of similar incidents disturbing our peace. I heard drug deals gone bad outside my dining room window and encountered the troubled tenants in various conditions altered by drugs and alcohol. Items began disappearing from outside people’s houses. I hesitated to have my grandchildren come and visit.

We banded together, working with our neighborhood organization and the law enforcement officer assigned to our area. We persisted in our efforts until the tenants were evicted. Once again, our street was pleasant and safe. And quiet.

This restoration of peace coincided with my return to writing as a full-time job on July 1. For the year previous, I had taught special education at a cyber high school, Provost Academy South Carolina. That was a year with a steep learning curve for me and challenges unique from all my other experiences in public education. ‘Twas a great adventure, but my major disappointment was that the professional demands were not compatible with serious writing. Evenings, weekends and summer break were largely taken up with school commitments. The progress I had hoped to make on book three of my Sunday by Sunday series was impossible. I was pleased, therefore, not to renew my contract so that I could pursue my passion.

And so, I write now, not only with quiet around me but also within. What a lucky duck I am to have this opportunity! Deeply grateful, I am determined to reach my goal, always, I hope, under the guidance of the Holy Spirit. The agony and ecstasy of the writing life are, well, agonizing and ecstatic at times, though mostly in between those two extremes—in other words, lifelike. So, here I be in my office, at least five days a week, hard at work composing and revising, serene and thankful, despite the challenges. Yeehaw!

How I Write #1 -- Schedule

I was stumped for a moment during a presentation I was making when someone asked me that question about writing discipline/methodology/schedule. “How do you write?” the question begins. “Do you have a daily schedule or goal? Do you outline first?” etc. I didn’t have a ready answer because my writing discipline includes many approaches. “I don’t know,” I groaned. “I just know that somehow, eventually, the book gets written.”Upon further reflection, however, I can be more specific than that. Here are some thoughts on schedule:

The best writing days begin around 8:30am. I write through lunch, and end between 2 and 4 in the afternoon. When I’m really humming along, I will leave the chair frequently and engage in a mindless task to stimulate thought. For example, yesterday I was composing and decided that a character would have a dream. Great idea. Felt right. But what would she dream? Ups-a-daisy, outside to a flower bed to pluck weeds. Five minutes and eight mosquito bites later, the dream piece took shape in my mind. During these moments, I talk things through, put words in the character's mouth, and might even laugh or cry at the ideas that surface. My brain is somehow set free to spark in a way that wasn’t happening just a-sittin’ and a- thinkin’.

The worst writing days are filled with ennui—irrational weariness, dissatisfaction, disinterest. My innate sense of inadequacy comes to the fore, manifesting in thoughts like, “Nobody cares whether I ever finish the book anyway,” and “Who would even want to read this junk?” I fret and putter, and my motto becomes “Keep moving,” a takeaway from a writing workshop brainstorm about what to do at such times. Can’t find the right beginning for the chapter? Skip to another section and write that paragraph/incident. No traction at all on composition? Dig into research. Computer coming down with a virus and moving too s-l-o-w-l-y for research? Flesh out sketches of characters getting ready to enter the story. If I keep moving and don’t give myself over to the funky mood, I can usually accomplish something of value, albeit without enthusiasm.

I admit, also, that I sometimes go to bed and pull the covers over my head, maybe just for a few minutes, maybe for an hour or two. Cocooning myself seems to restore creative energy. And on rare occasions, I have defeated the ennui by giving into it, abandoning the writing task altogether and spending time with kids and grandkids or immersing myself in household tasks. Such radical action is, for me, a statement of faith. Once I wade through a metaphorical pool of guilt up to my neck, giving in is most liberating. Serenity comes, based in a deep trust that this momentary lull will not scuttle the project. All is well.

How I Write #2 -- Organization

In regard to planning for writing, I use as many tools as “Cartier has pillboxes,” to quote either Tom Robbins or Kurt Vonnegut. Tom, I think. Outlines—spreadsheets—lists—webs—notebook to record random thoughts and phrases, ideas on sticky notes—I use them all.

My most important graphic organizer is a mile-long spreadsheet formed by taping sheets of paper together. Each row represents a chapter (or in my case, an entry, as my books are in a journal format). Each column represents a character or perhaps event, such as circle meeting. In the cells, I mark an X when a character appears or an event happens. That way, I can easily see when it’s time to bring Cousin Josephine in again or have a circle meeting. In each row, I write the page # the entry starts on—in pencil, as it’s always changing—so that I can move around quickly in the manuscript. To the right of each row is space for brief notes about the content of each entry—again in pencil, as that can also change. I love my spreadsheet, can you tell? I’ve heard of other writers working this way.

Because my present project is based in the Revised Common Lectionary, I explore commentary that expands upon the scripture lessons. Thus, for each entry/chapter, I have 3-5 pages of handwritten notes and excerpts I’ve copied and pasted from online commentary. To this material I might also attach relevant articles, cartoons, anecdotes, or worship bulletins. Those packets, I’ll call them, help me organize and plan.

A small spiral notebook in which I jotted ideas and thoughts before they were forgotten proved to be most helpful in the writing of the first two books. I outfitted such a notebook with tabs for characters and topics for Sunday by Sunday III, and for months prior to beginning III, scribbled many plot possibilities and bits of dialogue in it as they came to me. I lived in eager anticipation of utilizing them at the appropriate time in the writing process. Alas, in the midst of major redecorating of my house, I lost this wealth of time-saving, inspiring tidbits. The likely scenario is that I’ll find it the day after the book goes to press, of course. How lovely if I would find it sooner—like, say, tomorrow!

The web is one of my favorite graphic organizers for preparing to write. You know—a circle in the middle of the page, write the subject or theme or chapter title in it, and then draw lines off the circle like spider legs. At the end of each “leg” is another circle in which is written a situation or phrase that might be included in the entry. These circles, in turn, can have more legs/lines leading to more circles that provide additional information and details. This process seems to activate my right brain, and I have found that a well-ordered web pretty much writes the chapter. I’ve developed webs for the last three entries I’ve written with good results. However, I may not web again for a while. We’ll see what works next time.