Dinner parties in DC are interesting events.
I’m sure in New York the conversation revolves around the latest Broadway show, or how expensive things are getting, or the newest “it” designer. In L.A. it’s a combination of the arts, plastic surgery and the latest boutique one has to shop at.
You never quite know what the conversation in DC will be, but it probably won’t be what’s listed above. Yet, eventually in any conversation politics come up, mostly likely the election, but sometimes it’s a bill on the Hill or a press conference that was given the day before. More often then not, the conversation turns into one about issues.
Case in point, a friend and I went to a book-signing last week made up of a close-knit group of people to which we were outsiders. We found the row house on the Hill and went in. Over expensive bottles of wine we mingled, discussing the current state of China, the pro-life stance and the slew of recent movies which give adoption as an option, the persecuted church and the abuses they suffer in different countries. The audience was mostly in their 30’s. Scanning the host’s bookshelf I discovered rows of C.S. Lewis, Bonhoffer, Tozer, praised novels on Burma, China, Nixon, WWII, autobiographies by Hillary, Obama, Albright, fiction “classics”, and a modge podge of Christian apologetics. It was a fascinating mix of people from all different aspects of the city.
Contrast that to the other get-together I attended. Enter another close-knit group of friends ten years younger. It’s 10pm on a Saturday, there are stacks of cards and plenty of beer. The conversation falls on the election, immigration, reforms in the government, and who in the group can lie the best. Then the brilliant idea – a drinking game! Laughter ensued, the conversation turned to literature and movies, relationships and dating… This host’s bookshelf is a collection of treasured fiction, key books on development and poverty, bios on Albright, Eleanor Roosevelt, and Shackleton, history of the Middle East, Africa, along with a smattering of classic kids novels and Christian apologetics.
Two parties, two tones, two groups, both in different stages of life. One in the present, a time I would not change. A time of friendship, laughter, figuring out life, and getting by pay check to pay check. We don’t have the opportunity to vacation in Venice for a month, or buy the greatest collection of wine, none of us own where we live. But in a city that is cold and impersonal, where everyone is a networking opportunity and time for real relationships does not exist – it’s refreshing to have a group of friends you can just be with.
16 January 2008
05 January 2008
New Years
Maybe staying home alone on New Years wasn’t the best idea…
But I wasn’t in the mood to be social, and besides, I don’t really get what the big deal with New Years is anyway. So I choose to be reclusive, enjoying a night to be in my apt. and chill, opting instead to watch a movie and ring in the new year with good dreams.
Things don’t always happen as they should.
The movie I watched made me cry, setting me into a bad mood as I have no energy these days and don’t enjoy crying at sappy movies anyway. But I should have known it was a bad idea to watch a movie I knew someone died in, given I had nearly cried at a MTV show the day before.
No joke.
So I did what any logical person would do, I called my parents, I regretted the decision immediately but since the phone was already ringing I knew my father would just call me back and then I’d have to explain why I hung up. So I waited. My dad picked up and we chatted for a moments. He was generally concerned with my decision to be alone on New Years, but I tried to subdue his worries as best I could. Chalking it all up to the fact that I am an independent woman and didn’t want to travel home alone at 2am. This seemed to pacify him, though I could still see him with visions of me sitting alone with empty ice cream cartons strewn about. I decided to move on. I asked for my mother and began an annoyed conversation with her telling me I need to make friends, and my crying I don’t know how, all the while wondering why I called in the first place.
I hung up and called my friend. She was driving to a New Years party at the house of the boy she’s gone on dates with. We got disconnected several times before she admitted she was stuck in a snow bank outside the boy’s home and had been spinning her tires for the last ten minutes. I told her to stop, listing off the disadvantages of spinning her tires and we worked to try conjure up a way for her to become unstuck that did not include going inside and asking for help. Unfortunately her car did not have any spare cardboard to speak of, or a shovel to help her dig. The conversation of my telling her to go inside and her finding any other way out lasted for about a half hour, then Rachel relented and walked to the door.
Realizing I was only moments away from 2008 I scratched my original idea of slumber at midnight and called my best friend. She answered on the second ring, her voice hoarse, her nose running.
“Are you feeling any better?” I asked. My best friend, no one for giving short answers, launched into a story about how, yes, she was feeling better, but she had mysteriously developed a rash on the left side her body. She had noticed it the day before, while playing with her two children. Well she had discovered it by ramming her hip into the corner of her desk and when she went to check for purple skin discovered pink bumps instead. By bedtime she realized the rash had spread to her hand. She studied her right hand wondering if it really was the size of a football as she imagined. Then she paused, should she call someone to call her in the morning? After all, she had no idea what the rash was, and for all she knew it could poisoniness and as soon as she slept she’d slip into a comma, and her three year old would come in and attempt to wake her to no avail. The kids would spend the day forging for themselves while she was knocked out on the bed, no one the wiser. Finally she decided that was silly and went to bed, grateful when she awoke early the next morning.
But it did not stop there. While attempting to get her son clean with a shower she found a black widow on one of his toys. Unsure of her discovery she trapped the spider in a glass bottle, carefully cutting out air holes, and put it on her husband’s workbench. Concerned her rash could actually be the consequence of being bitten the day before she called her brother-in-law who rushed over and confirmed that yes, the spider was a black widow, but he did not believe she had been bit. Just to be sure my best friend got a sitter and trekked off to the doctor, spider in hand. The nurse confirmed her ailment was not spider induced and sent her home, recommending cough syrup.
So my friend had survived the day, the swell from the rash subsided, her spider safely on her husband’s workbench for further examination when he returned from his trip out of town.
Hanging up from our conversation I began to realize that maybe a quiet night alone could be seen as a blessing and slowly made my bed.
But I wasn’t in the mood to be social, and besides, I don’t really get what the big deal with New Years is anyway. So I choose to be reclusive, enjoying a night to be in my apt. and chill, opting instead to watch a movie and ring in the new year with good dreams.
Things don’t always happen as they should.
The movie I watched made me cry, setting me into a bad mood as I have no energy these days and don’t enjoy crying at sappy movies anyway. But I should have known it was a bad idea to watch a movie I knew someone died in, given I had nearly cried at a MTV show the day before.
No joke.
So I did what any logical person would do, I called my parents, I regretted the decision immediately but since the phone was already ringing I knew my father would just call me back and then I’d have to explain why I hung up. So I waited. My dad picked up and we chatted for a moments. He was generally concerned with my decision to be alone on New Years, but I tried to subdue his worries as best I could. Chalking it all up to the fact that I am an independent woman and didn’t want to travel home alone at 2am. This seemed to pacify him, though I could still see him with visions of me sitting alone with empty ice cream cartons strewn about. I decided to move on. I asked for my mother and began an annoyed conversation with her telling me I need to make friends, and my crying I don’t know how, all the while wondering why I called in the first place.
I hung up and called my friend. She was driving to a New Years party at the house of the boy she’s gone on dates with. We got disconnected several times before she admitted she was stuck in a snow bank outside the boy’s home and had been spinning her tires for the last ten minutes. I told her to stop, listing off the disadvantages of spinning her tires and we worked to try conjure up a way for her to become unstuck that did not include going inside and asking for help. Unfortunately her car did not have any spare cardboard to speak of, or a shovel to help her dig. The conversation of my telling her to go inside and her finding any other way out lasted for about a half hour, then Rachel relented and walked to the door.
Realizing I was only moments away from 2008 I scratched my original idea of slumber at midnight and called my best friend. She answered on the second ring, her voice hoarse, her nose running.
“Are you feeling any better?” I asked. My best friend, no one for giving short answers, launched into a story about how, yes, she was feeling better, but she had mysteriously developed a rash on the left side her body. She had noticed it the day before, while playing with her two children. Well she had discovered it by ramming her hip into the corner of her desk and when she went to check for purple skin discovered pink bumps instead. By bedtime she realized the rash had spread to her hand. She studied her right hand wondering if it really was the size of a football as she imagined. Then she paused, should she call someone to call her in the morning? After all, she had no idea what the rash was, and for all she knew it could poisoniness and as soon as she slept she’d slip into a comma, and her three year old would come in and attempt to wake her to no avail. The kids would spend the day forging for themselves while she was knocked out on the bed, no one the wiser. Finally she decided that was silly and went to bed, grateful when she awoke early the next morning.
But it did not stop there. While attempting to get her son clean with a shower she found a black widow on one of his toys. Unsure of her discovery she trapped the spider in a glass bottle, carefully cutting out air holes, and put it on her husband’s workbench. Concerned her rash could actually be the consequence of being bitten the day before she called her brother-in-law who rushed over and confirmed that yes, the spider was a black widow, but he did not believe she had been bit. Just to be sure my best friend got a sitter and trekked off to the doctor, spider in hand. The nurse confirmed her ailment was not spider induced and sent her home, recommending cough syrup.
So my friend had survived the day, the swell from the rash subsided, her spider safely on her husband’s workbench for further examination when he returned from his trip out of town.
Hanging up from our conversation I began to realize that maybe a quiet night alone could be seen as a blessing and slowly made my bed.
21 August 2007
So I don't know if anyone actually reads this, but I enjoy having some place to put my work.
The writing process is hard. I don't think that I ever appreciated the amount of work that went into creating a truly great book. I say that because there is plenty of tripe out there - and believe me is that's all I wanted then I could have written 10 novels by now.
But I want something timeless. I want a story you get to the end of and feel sad because you have been forced to leave that world. I want a story that you become part of, that you wished the people were your friends, that when someone asks you who you want to have coffee with it takes you a moment to answer because you feel silly naming a fictional character.
I want a story with heart and soul, that displays a life.
I remember being in a writing group in high school and someone brought in submission material from smaller publishing firms and writing magazines. I read with horror the list of what these people want, or did not want, in their stories...
- There will be no sex, alcohol, drugs, bad language, lust, inappropriate behavior, judgment, prejudice, gossip, theft, etc. etc. etc. (you get the picture)
- Our readers expect a good story that is easy to read, please keep the content to a light feeling.
And what is life? I ask. Life is a series of experiences faced over time. I love those stories that are the one daring thing someone did in their life, the one trial they overcame. Good for them, but life is a series of daring things, of trials. People succeed or fail, they stumble and they struggle, they face challenges and decisions and then deal with the outcome of their choices. So how can you adequately write a story that is true or honest or meaningful or good if you cannot encompass any of the parts of life?
My characters are far from perfect, and that is wonderful. My characters are real, they are not cookie cutter, but figures facing the true daily grind of life.
Who knows. I've spent the last five years (off and on) toiling over stories I feel so far from finishing. Maybe it will be another year before they're done - maybe they will never get published, but when I hand a copy to someone I can do it with pride because I didn't settle as a writer and chose instead to produce something of substance, instead of something easy...
The writing process is hard. I don't think that I ever appreciated the amount of work that went into creating a truly great book. I say that because there is plenty of tripe out there - and believe me is that's all I wanted then I could have written 10 novels by now.
But I want something timeless. I want a story you get to the end of and feel sad because you have been forced to leave that world. I want a story that you become part of, that you wished the people were your friends, that when someone asks you who you want to have coffee with it takes you a moment to answer because you feel silly naming a fictional character.
I want a story with heart and soul, that displays a life.
I remember being in a writing group in high school and someone brought in submission material from smaller publishing firms and writing magazines. I read with horror the list of what these people want, or did not want, in their stories...
- There will be no sex, alcohol, drugs, bad language, lust, inappropriate behavior, judgment, prejudice, gossip, theft, etc. etc. etc. (you get the picture)
- Our readers expect a good story that is easy to read, please keep the content to a light feeling.
And what is life? I ask. Life is a series of experiences faced over time. I love those stories that are the one daring thing someone did in their life, the one trial they overcame. Good for them, but life is a series of daring things, of trials. People succeed or fail, they stumble and they struggle, they face challenges and decisions and then deal with the outcome of their choices. So how can you adequately write a story that is true or honest or meaningful or good if you cannot encompass any of the parts of life?
My characters are far from perfect, and that is wonderful. My characters are real, they are not cookie cutter, but figures facing the true daily grind of life.
Who knows. I've spent the last five years (off and on) toiling over stories I feel so far from finishing. Maybe it will be another year before they're done - maybe they will never get published, but when I hand a copy to someone I can do it with pride because I didn't settle as a writer and chose instead to produce something of substance, instead of something easy...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
