"I have come to the frightening conclusion that I am the decisive element. It is my personal approach that creates the climate. It is my daily mood that makes the weather. I possess tremendous power to make life miserable or joyous. I can be a tool of torture or an instrument of inspiration, I can humiliate or humor, hurt or heal. In all situations, it is my response that decides whether a crisis is escalated or de-escalated, and a person is humanized or de-humanized. If we treat people as they are, we make them worse. If we treat people as they ought to be, we help them become what they are capable of becoming."
Faves, clockwise from top left: a gorgeous gift from @elizabethf72, a vintage ornament from my grandma, a majorly oldschool vintage ornament that belonged to my grandma’s mom, and finally…a pickle. Because what’s #Christmas without a pickle ornament.
"I hardly remember anything that happened before I was eight or nine: a carousel ride near a one-room school-house, cutting my lip on the sidewalk, my old Strawberry Shortcake lunch box with my name on the inside inb lack permanent marker. My mom had let me write my first name and she had written my last. The letters in "Esther" overlapped and twisted like morning glory vines beside a "KOHLER" in all caps, in the clean hand of a biologist, the name of my species."
Kind of overshot the ol’ 750 words this evening. But that’s okay. Because I’m writing. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it?
I’m still stuck in the “Dear Diary” sort of crap (as tends to often be the case on 750words. What.) but at least I’m showing up and doing the work. In May of 2011, I wrote a minimum of 750 words every. single. day. I just did. It felt great. I’m still able to dip back into those entries and pull little phrases for poem drafts, etc., so at least it wasn’t all in vain. (Or was it. Because poetry.)
But the cool thing is that since I started writing at 750words, I’ve written over 51,000 words. Which isn’t bad, considering that I’m terribly undisciplined (minus that one May) when it comes to forming positive writing habits. And I don’t even know the point of this post, aside from an attempt to publicly brag (?) about my minuscule accomplishment. But at least there are 1,500 words out there that didn’t exist an hour or so ago. So that’s something. Onward and upward.
Eye Color: Green
Birthday: September 7
Favorite color: Green
Best school subject(s): English, Choral, Band, Biology, Drama.
Mac or PC: Mac since early 2008.
Current shirt color: White, black, and black. Never not wearing 500 shirts.
Gamer?: I enjoy shooting zombs and I also enjoy digging mines.
Day or night: Night.
Celebrity crush: Seth Rogen. Ryan Reynolds. Simon Pegg.
Coffee?: Just passed the “175 days without coffee” mark. Had to break up—cold turkey—with my one true love because the acidity and the caffeine-enhanced anxiety got to be too much. So, sadly, no coffee for this lass these days. Ugh. Can we not talk about this anymore? It’s just so sad.
Favorite Food: Homemade soup, tex-mex, awesome salads, and anything from Prairie Harvest Café.
simple song • the shins the poet’s dead • rah rah ex-punks • bry webb slow dance • joel plaskett emergency oh no • andrew bird jacksboro • ac newman letter in icelandic from the ninette san • john k. samson full blooded sicilian • zumpano
"For some of us, books are as important as almost anything else on earth. What a miracle it is that out of these small, flat, rigid squares of paper unfolds world after world after world, worlds that sing to you, comfort and quiet or excite you. Books help us understand who we are and how we are to behave. They show us what community and friendship mean; they show us how to live and die."
Could you say something of this process? When do you work? Do you keep to a strict schedule?
When I am working on a book or story I write every morning as soon after first light as possible. There is no one to disturb you and it is cool or cold and you come to your work and warm as you write. You read what you have written and, as you always stop when you know what is going to happen next, you go on from there. You write until you come to a place where you still have your juice and you know what will happen next and you stop and try to live through until the next day when you hit it again. You have started at six in the morning, say, and may go on until noon or be through before that. When you stop you are as empty, and at the same time never empty but filling, as when you have made love to someone you love. Nothing can hurt you, nothing can happen, nothing means anything until the next day when you do it again. It is the wait until the next day that is hard to get through.