Here is the truth of the matter.

Every time I talk myself into writing about my time in Italy, I can’t bring myself to do it. I got close to doing so many times. Every time I walked into the office,  I’d remember that the floors needed to be wiped down, or that I needed to eat lunch, or assumed Milli was bored and needed to hear me tell her about my day…that was jam packed full of NOT writing.

After the house was spotless, I poured my energy into decorating. My in-laws are coming to stay with us for two and a half weeks, after all. So I started painting swatches on the walls again, all of which turn out to be the same stupid shade of yellow.   We finished painting our dinette set. I went out and bought a new comforter set and outdoor lighting for our Young Couple’s Fourth of July party that is going to take place during the day. I bought rugs and an adorable salt and pepper shaker set for our newly painted dinette set, all the while avoiding what I knew I had to do.

And I know that writing about my time in Italy is imminent. Because that’s what I do. I write about my experiences and, lately, share them here with you all. But every time I set my mind to it, I am struck with a fear that holds me back.

Here it is: I’m afraid of leaving the experience behind. It was one of the best times of my life, and at the back of my mind, I know that if I write it down, it will be in the past. See. I’m already writing in the past tense! I also know that what I must do now is to write my experiences down, which have already become mere memories. First, so I don’t forget them. Second, so I don’t EVER forget them.

Oh, sweet sweet Italia…

When we returned, many of our family and friends asked us wide-eyed “So? How was it? Tell me everything?” I found myself shrugging my shoulders and giving quick, short answers like “It was wonderful” and “We had a great time.” These answers were returned with disappointed stares. I had a very hard time putting into words how amazing our trip really was, and I didn’t know why. I kept trying to come up with answers that truly revealed what traipsing through Italy was like, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t have the words.

I’ve been thinking about this for a while, about why I’m not able to accurately describe how our trip was. And then it hit me: Every single moment of my time in Italy was absolutely amazing. Even in the few moments when I wasn’t feeling well. Even through the pain and uncomfortableness, I was so so happy. I think I can safely say Mgo was too. He was beaming the entire time. And I think I’m choosing not to tell everyone all about our experience because I don’t want it to be over and I want it to be ours. As long as I don’t share ALL the memories, they’re mine and his to keep. Is that selfish?

But I will share some of it with you here in the coming posts. I feel like I owe it to my readers.

Here is my promised Q&A! If you have any more questions, let me know, and I will try to include them with my answers in coming posts!

“What would be a normal amount of gelato eating for a day I’m thinking like 6 is that too little or too much but is there such a thing as too much when it comes to gelato?” (Khach)

Before we left, I told Mgo I want to eat all day long while in Italy. I was being sarcastic. When we arrived, it soon became a reality. And if anyone knows me well, I am an ice cream FANATIC. For me, there is ALWAYS room for ice cream. As we walked the streets of Italy, we saw cafes at almost every corner. Most cafes had fresh, handmade gelato. We had gelato after lunch and after dinner almost every day. I was in heaven!

“Can you say a sentence in italian?” (Jonny)

I can’t say a full sentence in Italian, but words I used every day we were there was “bonjiorno,” “grazie,” “arrivederchi,” and “prego” (spelling is off). The word I heard the most during our trip was “prego.” It means “you are welcome.” So any time we approached locals to ask for directions and such, they said “prego” before we asked a question and again after we thanked them for their help. When we returned, we went to Costco to stock up on groceries and saw a big container full of “Prego” pasta sauce. People around us wondered why we were laughing so hard.

“Why didn’t you leave MGO there?” (Jayson)

Why didn’t he leave me there??

“What was a highlight of your trip?” (Mgo)

The fact that we didn’t have phone service or internet outside of our hotels! It was great to connect with you and to not be distracted while we explored!

“Which part of your trip was your favorite and why? Which city did you enjoy the most? Favorite meal or restaurant/cafe in general?” (Lori)

Surprisingly, my favorite city was Rome! I thought Sorrento and the coast would be my favorite by far for its beauty, but Rome’s charm and history took my breath away. The last day we were in Rome, it rained. It’s amazing how beautiful the city looked in the rain. We put our jackets on and stood close under our umbrella and got lost in the city. It was my favorite day. We found an amazing pizzeria and a coffee shop that was tucked away near the Pantheon. It was full of locals without many tourists. I had a mochanella – a shot of espresso with chocolate and cream. It was the best coffee I’ve ever had. My favorite color at the moment is yellow, and the decor’s primary color was a mustard yellow. We drank our coffee at the counter and watched locals come in and out, drink their coffees and chat with the owner. For a moment, I didn’t feel like a tourist. I didn’t want to leave!

“If you were to reproduce one meal at home, which one would it be?” (Cara)

We found a restaurant in Rome in an ally that was tucked away from the busy city center. It was full of locals. which, we learned, was always a good sign. I had a pasta dish. People, it absolutely stole my heart! It spoke to my soul! I love food, especially when it’s delicious. It was a handmade pasta with a cheesy tomato cream sauce. It was divine. It was so good, we returned again for dinner before we left Rome. I don’t know how I would reproduce it, even though I would love to. I would have to have tomatoes and cheese and pasta shipped in from Italy. The tomatoes in Italy just taste different, almost like their sugared. Apparently, the fruits and vegetables in Italy are famous for their flavor because of the potassium in the soil. Raw, cooked, the produce is amazing. When we returned home, I was craving that pasta dish!

How much did you miss Alik while you were gone?” (Alik)

It’s funny that you asked this question. Alik is one of my best friends since we were in diapers, and just before we left for Italy, she called to tell me that she got a positive pregnancy test! I was ecstatic and loved sharing in her joy! So, of course, she was on my mind a lot while I was away. I even dreamt that she called me to talk about the pregnancy, so I was constantly praying for her and for the baby. I already love this little one so much and pray for him/her every day! I can barely contain my excitement!

“Where was your favorite landscape/cityscape and why? (Pictured would be appreciated)” (Noelle)

My favorite landscape was the Amalfi coast. While in Sorrento, we took a nine hour tour of the coast, driving on the windy roads along the cliff. It was magical. With each turn along the bend, the Mediterranean was a different shade of green. We spotted ruins and castles and towns tucked away on the beautiful cliffs. It was like being in a painting. I will never forget how beautiful it was.

“What was your most moving moment?” (Cara)

Walking into St. Peter’s Basilica and realizing I was standing above where Peter was buried, I turned to Mgo and said, “It’s our Peter! Our Peter is buried here.” Then it really sunk in that I was in the presence of this great man of God. That during his life, this man was in Jesus’ presence, and I began to cry. It was just emotionally overwhelming and powerful.

“What’s one thing about Mgo that you learned about him that you didn’t know prior to your trip?” (Cara)

Mgo is a winey! As you all can imagine, we drank lots of wine while in Italy. House wine at restaurants was cheaper than the bottled water. Aside from that, the house wine was delicious! Every time Mgo poured his first glass, he smelled, swooshed, smelled, swooshed again, tasted, swooshed, and all I could do was sit back, taking large sips of mine, and watch him. It was quite amusing at first. Then it was quite annoying, and I told him if he swooshed and smelled his wine one more time, I would take it away and chug it. Of course, if I did that, he would have to carry me back to the hotel.

I would go back to Italy in a heartbeat.

“I just wish life were simpler,” my sister said to me recently.

One of the hundreds of reasons why I love my sister is her honesty. Her ability to clearly  and boldly share with me about both the joys and the disappointments she encounters in her life. That’s one of the many ways we were different growing up. It was difficult to nurture our relationship, because she was an open book, but I never shared about my life or my feelings with anyone. I think it frustrated her. It wasn’t until I moved to Rhode Island and was forced to face some major hurdles related to my health that I began to open up. It wasn’t automatic. It took me over a year to tell her how I was really feeling. And once I began to confide in her, I realized that, one, she is one of the most compassionate listeners I’ll ever know, and two, that when you tell your story, not only do you begin to heal, but so do those around you.

Yes, I too wish life were simpler. I wish I could wake up each morning and go about my day with no physical restraints – without worrying about what my body will do that day that will prevent me from doing what I want or need to get done.

Confession time: I’ve been avoiding my physical therapist.

Last time I saw her, I told her I was ready to really start exercising again (she made me withdraw my membership at the local rehab center’s gym). She sat me down and told me that right now our goal is to just get me to function, like wash the dishes without wiping out for the day, or get me to be able to do a load of laundry without needing a nap. It was quite frustrating to hear, and I think I might have pouted for a few minutes. She is amazing in that she waited while I had my moment of just plain frustration. Then she put her hand on my shoulder and told me I was doing a great job and she was going to help me. She sometimes sends me short encouraging text messages. At my appointment today she gave me a hug and told me that I can call her anytime. I arrived there feeling frustrated and emotionally drained, and left with confidence and a full heart. I thank God for her every time I go to therapy.

If life were simpler, my husband would not have to ask our travel agent about the cancellation policy for our dream vacation three times while on the phone with her.

“So if after we visit the first city, and for some medical reason we can’t continue, can we get a refund on our hotels for the rest of the trip? Can we come right back home?” he asked, all while smiling at me reassuringly, knowing my heart. Knowing this trip is something I have wanted to experience all my life, but that my anxiety about it is high. We have been saving and planning for this trip for years. (I have been told not to reveal where we are going until we return. Blog post and pictures to come!) We will be walking a lot. All-day walking. And of course I’m scared. If I have a week like this past week, where I couldn’t help lead worship because I couldn’t stand for the duration of just one hymn, I may ruin our trip. A trip we’ve been saving and talking about for years. That is my fear. That my body will turn on me, give me the cold shoulder, laugh at me when I tell it to just behave.

But then I remember how patient and kind Mike is when I’m sick. He knows when I need to take a break before I do. He always turns those breaks into good conversation. And I can close my eyes and see us sitting on a bench in a beautiful city, resting, talking, laughing…

When my pain is at my worst, I get frustrated and extremely exhausted, not only physically, but also emotionally. I put on a brave face for Mike, because I want him to come home to a happy, strong wife. In control. But some weeks he comes home to a messy home and a wife who is still in her pajamas because the pain has not let up in over a week. Even then, I smile when he walks in the door. I can’t help it. He smiles back, and without a word, cleans up and takes care of me.

Sometimes I yell at God. Yes, I’m a pastor’s wife who gets angry with the big guy upstairs. It’s happened many times. I try to avoid reading my Bible, like children crossing their arms over their chests and refusing to eat their dinner – depriving themselves of nourishment they need.

But then His peace overwhelms me.

If I didn’t experience disappointments and difficulties, when would I turn to my Jesus? It is in my moments of excruciating pain or unrelenting fatigue that I turn to my Lord. It makes me get on my knees.

And I know it’s the only place I want to be – being comforted, His peace washing over me, being led into His presence.

So if life were simpler, what would keep me on my knees?

“I don’t want to be a writer anymore,” I said to my family.

I hosted Easter this year. The day before my family graciously made the trek to Fresno, I had a pretty bad migraine. I get them often, but they don’t bother me much. What I mean is, I know how to handle them. They don’t get out of control. But sometimes my meds don’t work. It was one of those times. My body misbehaves almost every day, but this behavior leaves me debilitated. When this happens, I am truly humbled because there’s nothing I can do about it. I HAVE to rest even if I want to do a million other things. So aside from feeling lousy all day, I got a bit frustrated. Then frustration turned into boredom. I tried to read, but it was difficult to focus on the words on the page. There was nothing worth watching on television. So, of course, I turned to Pinterest.

I found a tutorial about how to do your makeup. At that point, if I moved much, my headache got worse. So I sat still and clicked “play.” Then I watched another. Then another. And three hours later, I was determined to put into practice what I had learned. Of course, I had to wait for my body to do its thing and rest. Around 9pm I felt a small surge of energy. Of relief. I went to the bedroom and began sifting through all of the makeup my mother-in-law so generously gave me while working at Nordstrom. I didn’t realize how much I had accumulated until I filled three huge makeup bags, all separated into categories, of course. Ahem. Yes, I get a little OCD with these sorts of things.

Mgo came home an hour later.
“Tam?”
“Hi.”
He stared at my face and squinted a bit. “You goin’ somewhere?”
“Nope.”
He stared some more, shifting his head to the right a little, like Milli does when I have mini dance parties in the kitchen to celebrate an empty sink. “You look like you’re feeling better.”

    And for those two hours before I washed it all off, I did feel a little better. Empowered. Yes, my body was misbehaving, but when I looked in the mirror, I not only looked well, but I looked energized. I watched a few more tutorials to perfect a few more makeup tricks and laughed at myself for spending so much time on something that, just a day ago, didn’t matter much to me.

“You’re an idiot,” my sister said, sitting up on the couch.
“No, I’m serious. I think I want to become a makeup artist,” I said, trying not to smile.
My sister continued to call me an idiot, my husband told me I needed sleep, and my dad stared at me in wonder.
My mom smiled. “Well, if that’s what you want to do, then you should do it.” Typical. She is always so supportive of our ambitions, no matter how outrageous they may seem.

Of course, at the end of the night, I could no longer hold a straight face. A face that was so precisely make-upped.

Sometimes I can’t help but think about what my life would have been like if I weren’t a writer. What if I had become a computer programmer like my dad desperately wanted me to do? Or a nurse? Or a pilot? Some days I wish I wasn’t a writer, because it’s lonely and difficult. But then I go to my desk and write a new sentence. The sentence and I have a staring contest, and it always wins because I look away and add another sentence and then another. Then I look down and see that, suddenly, there’s beauty on the page. Meaning. Life.

Everything I am springs from this: that I am a writer and will never be able to abandon this ambition and role.

Now one with perfectly lined eyes and a pretty powdered face.

The concept of a “day off” is a bit fuzzy in our household. Because my husband is a pastor, he doesn’t get Sundays off (surprise surprise). Actually, Sunday is one of his longest work days of the week. He wakes up with the sun, spends the morning in the office going over sermons, returning emails, planning out visitations, then leads the church service and preaches two to three sermons. Then when church is over, we stay until everyone leaves, chatting and catching up with church members. That lasts about an hour. Then we usually go out to lunch with a group of friends from church. Sometimes that turns into hanging out all afternoon, and then having dinner together, too. It is so much fun. We get home late, but it’s okay, because Monday is Mike’s allotted day off.

Because of his busy schedule, he was unable to take Monday off last week, which pushed a bunch of our errands to Monday of this past week. We spent most of the day running around town. We took Milli to the pet store to pick up a few things for her. Apparently pet stores scare her. She let us know by relieving herself inside. We were humiliated as we watched a sale’s associate clean the mess up. Next up was taking her to get her last set of vaccinations. Then came the home improvement and grocery shopping. In the midst of this busyness, Mike was on the phone. All day. By the time we went to bed, I was surprised his phone didn’t drop dead from all the phone calls, texts, and emails that came through. Oh the power of technology. Helpful, but so distracting and draining. It seemed like he didn’t really get a break from “work.” Then again, do any of us really get a break from work?

On a side note, because he didn’t quite get time away from work, and because I’m an outstanding wife, I wanted to make him a delicious meal. Okay, I need to let you in on this important piece of information. Right here. Right now. I love food. When I eat something delicious, it makes me happy. And a good meal, especially comfort food, strikes up great conversation. So I decided to make beef stew for the first time. I happily diced my turnips, carrots, and when I was halfway through my onion, I sliced my finger open. Yeah. It was pretty dramatic, but mostly annoying. Because after that, Mike had to finish dicing, help me cook, and then…he had to do the dishes. He helps out a lot around the house, but one thing he hates doing? Dishes. And who couldn’t do the dishes because her finger was bleeding profusely? Yeah. Hi.

Firsthand experience tells me that a “day off” for a pastor is really just being away from the office (most of the time). I think for Mike, it’s being in close proximity to his family, being able to work from the couch or do home improvement projects during important phone calls, etc..

So because he’s usually home on Mondays, I try to take Mondays off, too. For those of you who know me, you probably have a sudden urge to whack your palm against my forehead and say, “Duh, Tam. You don’t teach on Mondays. You already have it off!” Ha. Like I said, days off are fuzzy not only for Mike, but for me, too. As a professor, there is ALWAYS grading and planning to get done. As a writer, you don’t get days off. It’s got to be consistent. And writing doesn’t just happen at my desk. It happens while Mike and I are running errands together. The smell of pine at Home Depot can trigger a memory that takes me back to something my dad said to me when he helped me put my dresser together in my childhood bedroom at home. That piece of dialogue could be just what my character needs to say in the story I’m working on. It’s a constant craft and it’s a delight.

So I guess we never really get a day off. I know for a fact that Mike can’t stop working, even on his days off. His sermons are running through his head constantly just like I’m always thinking about my stories, blog posts, magazine articles, etc.. We keep pens all over the house in case an idea pops into our heads. And we’re always out of napkins.

Now excuse me. I need to go post-it shopping.

I was working on a post about what I did this past weekend, but I had to delete it and save it for another time. It just wasn’t happening. My mind feels like it’s swimming in a big warm bowl of oatmeal. And let me tell ya. It’s a slow swim.

What I’m trying to get at (somehow) is, today, I’m experiencing Fibro Fog. According to doctors, it’s the inability to concentrate in fibromyalgia patients. This time they picked a good name for it. Oh yes. It’s as weird and annoying as it sounds. As I type, I’m chugging down a large mug of lukewarm coffee and popping mini chocolate chip cookies in my mouth, trying to get my mind out of this funk. Yes, that’s how great of a multitask-er I am.

It’s not just that I can’t think straight. I mean, there’s that. But then there’s barely being able to focus my eyes on one thing at a time. There’s also having moments of, wait why am I in the office? Did I go to the bathroom today? When did we get a dog?!

Yesterday, my plan was to cook dinner. Chicken tacos! When I came to the kitchen to start slicing the chicken, which was defrosting in a cold bowl of water in the sink, I realized that there was a hole in the ziploc bag, and the chicken was swimming in water. Ew. I tossed it immediately. Gross contaminated chicken. Mgo came in, opened his mouth to tell me I was just being a paranoid maniac, then picked up his keys and said, “Okay, where are we going for dinner?”

In the car, Mgo proceeded to tell me about a dilemma he was experiencing. It was a scheduling conflict, and he wanted to know what I thought he should do about it. He told me about the situation the first time, and then asked me what I thought. I literally had no idea he already told me. 

“So you can’t fly on Friday because…”
“No…I have to fly on Thursday,” he said.
“Okay, because of the conference.”
“No,” he said.

So he explained it to me again.

“So?” He waited.
“The conference is on Sunday?”
“No, Tam. It’s not a conference.”

He finally turned his head and looked at me with the “is she okay?” look that he tried to cover up.  Such a familiar look.

I think I finally got it the third time.

Now, can anyone remind me when the last time I washed my hair was? Anyone?

As I revamp and refocus my blog, I am realizing that all this time I have focused on writing about, well, writing. That’s it. About contemplating writing, and psyching myself into actually putting my butt in the chair and typing. It happens. If I promise myself some chocolate afterwards. Or ice cream. Ice cream usually gets me to run to my desk. However, my life as a writer stems from who I am and what I do.

Here’s what you may not know about me:

I am a writer as a result of the life I was given.

As a child, I was not only entranced by books, but by life itself. I soon learned that life was driven by people, and so I was mesmerized by them. Each person was so different and interesting to me. I don’t know why but from a young age I watched the world closely. I noticed things about people that others didn’t, like quirks, things people would do when they were really uncomfortable, and nervous ticks. My family spent a lot of time together, and I watched them. I watched them closely. I didn’t want to miss a thing. I took note of my grandmother’s long, skinny fingers and how they all curled to the right when she was relaxed. The deep sadness that appeared and that is still present in my aunt’s eyes after my grandmother died. How my dad actually rubs his chin when he is thinking or trying to make a decision. How my sister’s eyes used to well with tears so easily and how she hid it so well from those around her. How each evening my mom would pull on her own hair, one strand at a time, while watching television. These things are imprinted in my mind. I can’t shake them, and I’m glad. You can read my post about why I write and why I think stories are important here.

Another thing I experienced as a child was not feeling well. It was an ever-present feeling of nausea, headaches, and fatigue. Most people told me I was imagining things. Maybe I was just too in tune with my body like I was with the world around me. I always felt sick, and it sometimes got in the way of things I wanted to do. But I pushed past it because nobody else really believed there was anything wrong. My doctors thought I was a hypochondriac. They smiled and gave my shoulder a squeeze. Their laughing eyes would say you’re fine. Go live your life, child. So I did. It would be be at least a decade before I really knew what was going on. And now I confront it, and push on each day. And I can only do this because I know I can rejoice in suffering, because it will produce endurance. Endurance will produce character, and character produces hope. That four letter word, HOPE, hope in Christ, my Rock, is what gets me through my worst pain days. In this way, fibromyalgia is not really an obstacle. It’s just one of the things that pushes me back to my desk, to my pen and to my fiction. Unless, of course, I’m too sick to get off the couch. But even then, I’m writing in my mind.

I’m a wife and a pastor’s wife, which are two very different roles that I take on every day. When I first started dating Mgo, he was in seminary. I fell in love with him, which happened because of a force outside of myself. I firmly believe that God made this happen, because I tried to reject the idea of love and marriage for most of my life. I never felt the desire or the need to fall in love, let alone get married. God had other plans for me. Because of my deep love for Mgo, I jumped into a life with him, not realizing what I was really getting myself into. He became a pastor, and by marrying him, I became a pastor’s wife. For those of you who are pastor’s wives, you know that this poses many hardships and many joys and blessings. For those of you who are not, you will get a glimpse into what it’s like. 🙂

Hi, my name is Tamar. I’m a writer, blogger, thinker, battler of fibromyalgia, wife, rookie pastor’s wife, and English professor.

And I’m probably spying on you.

Welcome.

By writing this sentence, today I am meeting my goal of writing one new sentence a day.

We have entered the decorating stage of new home ownership. It’s quite exhilarating to be able to pick out furniture and paint colors that reflect our personality as a couple. It takes our minds off of our daily stresses. Yesterday we went to Home Depot and brought home a few sample paint colors. We also visited a pillow factory and brought home some fabrics to see which ones we want pillows made of. I have to say. It is a blessing to be married to a man who does not just sit back and watch as I make all of these decisions on my own. His product design background has cultivated in him a love for design. Even though we butt heads here and there, we respect each others taste and judgement. Putting our personal touches on the decor of the home really makes it feel like OUR home. It’s an amazing thing to wake up in this house every day. Each morning I have to remind and even convince myself that it is in fact ours.

Another big change in the house is our new addition: a puppy. Now let me tell you something you may not know about me. I am not a dog person. I never was. I’m still not. Mike has always wanted a dog. He’s been trying to convince me for years. We visited a few pounds in Fresno a few weeks ago just to see if I’d even be comfortable around dogs. The stench of urine killed me, let alone dozens of dogs staring at me with their sad eyes, begging us to take them home. I wasn’t convinced, until I met Milli, whose name was Avery at the time. She was running around in her kennel with her siblings until I approached them. She immediately came to the door and began jumping up and down. It was her ears. They slay me. I found myself trying to talk Mike into adopting her. Yeah. I know. I was the one trying to convince him to get a dog. Weird. We brought her home and she has brought a lot of life to our home. No matter what kind of day I have, when I come home, she’s happy to see me and follows me around the kitchen. She sits on my feet when I’m washing the dishes and cries when I’m not near her. She’s three months old, so she’s definitely a handful. House training seems to be going backwards these days.

Tiny Milli sitting on my feet while I wash dishes.

According to my physical therapist, Milli is good for my health. She keeps me active since she needs to go out so often. I’ve had to get up from my computer about three times while writing this post. The fact that I’m balancing couch time with going for five minute walks at least every hour is going to hopefully keep my pain down. So not only do I have Milli to keep me company while I’m at home during the day grading, writing, and doing chores, but she’s helping keep my pain at bay.

I’m hoping she will also be good for my writing. Many writers claim that having a dog or a cat helps you maintain productivity. Writing is a solitary occupation, so it’s hard to keep going back to the computer. It’s a bit lonely. Maybe Milli will be good company. The kind of company who lays next to me, quietly encouraging me with her presence. My cheerleader. When she’s finally house trained, of course.

Here’s hoping that change is good and that it will be an inspiration.

I know what you’re thinking. What could I possibly have to say now, after all this time? There’s a voice in my head that continues to shout out: “What have you got to say for yourself? Do you even remember how to write?” The only explanation I have is the truth.

I began to teach English at the local community college in the fall. In the midst of using my energy to teach my students how to write correctly and in an effort to inspire them to find their voice, I sort of lost mine. I have been so caught up in teaching others about the importance of knowing how to write well and encouraging them when they don’t believe in their abilities and talents that I stopped paying attention to my writer self.

But, as expected, inspiration is tugging, pushing, pulling me back to that which, apparently, I can’t hide from for too long.

These days, it takes a lot out of me to step away from my students’ essays and my lesson plans. Last semester I taught my own class for the very first time. I have assisted professors in classrooms before, but I’ve never taught my own class. It took me a while to get the hang of the lesson planning and classwork, but now I feel confident and even inspired. I’ve stepped into a new chapter of my life. I always dreamed of teaching English at a community college – a place where students’ education is usually taken lightly or overlooked. I’m doing my best to give my students as much of my accumulated knowledge about the writing process as possible. Of course, as a creative writer, I sneak in some creative assignments. I am also teaching Hemingway. One of my students last semester told me that he had to check to make sure he was in the right class. He wondered why we would be reading in a writing class. I couldn’t help but chuckle. How can we write well if we do not read?

What I’m currently reading…

 Today was the first day of FCC’s spring semester. I’m teaching another 7am class.

A snapshot of this morning’s sunrise at FCC.

As I watched the sun rise this morning, I thanked God for a new day, a new class to teach, and a fresh opportunity and attitude to begin writing again.

I’m in the midst of a bad flare up – one that seems neverending, like I’m falling deeper and deeper into a dark pit. But it’s not lonely. My husband is ever so caring. I don’t even need to tell him what hurts. My sore muscles are being massaged, the heating pad is placed on my back, and my meds are miraculously appearing without me having to utter a miserable request. What can I say? He is my best friend – the love of my life. But what brings me ultimate joy is my Lord and Savior. Even in my worst moments, when I think the pain will never go away, he brings me joy and comfort. What an awesome God I have, that holds my hand. Me – a sinner.

Interestingly, it’s during these rough patches that I feel most in-tune with my thoughts. I become strangely focused and motivated. I feel a strong urge to create.

I’m here again, friends, to make a promise I hope to keep this time – to write every day. You may not want to join me on my journey this time. However, I am not one to give up – not for too long, at least. I’m coming back to it. My hope and prayer is that I can bring my God glory, even in something as trivial as writing a short story…or even a blog post.

Here’s to starting fresh. Again. To write at least one new sentence a day, even if it’s on this blog, to find my writing voice. 

Wake up. The sun is rising. It’s a new writing day.

I have recently fallen in love with Joan Didion’s work. Here is my review of her newest memoir, Blue Nights. My review first appeared in and was published by Rachael Magazine.

Joan Didion’s latest memoir, Blue Nights, beautifully portrays her conversation with herself about the life and death of her daughter, Quintana Roo Dunne, in which she comes to terms with her loss and the fears that develop as a result of it. Although her grief is evident in her writing, her language is inviting, with the words and sentences flowing together in an honest but frail colloquy. Nonlinear and full of questions, Didion’s heartache and anguish are apparent in the way she knits her thoughts together.

More than just a book about the loss of her daughter, and the affliction that ensues, Didion’s memoir delves deeper and reveals the emotional complications that arise as a result of it. Fifty pages in, Didion confronts the real subject of the book, confessing to the reader that what folds in and unifies the memoir is the topic of fear, “this refusal even to engage in such contemplation, this failure to confront the certainties of aging, illness, and death” (page 54). She is afraid of illness, and of death, which are inevitable. Although she tells the reader that memories don’t bring  “solace,” that they only remind us of what we have lost when we no longer want to remember, she is afraid of losing the memories (page 64). She is afraid that the inevitable aging of her body and the illness it could bring will take away her ability to remember and to write.

Didion’s prose is equally private and public, reflecting moments of pain she feels deep in her soul, describing memories and feelings, and yet letting the reader in to share in her despair. The title, Blue Nights, is an illustration of her inability to think about anything other than the “inevitable approach of darker days” (page 134). The end of her book does not bring about a resolution or any sort of peace with the subject of her fear: “The fear is not for what is lost…the fear is for what is still to be lost” (page 188).

I highly recommend this book, to all those who love literature and appreciate the written word. It’s a fantastic read. It has taught me to pay close attention to words as I use them to create sentences, paragraphs, stories, and most of all, to pay close attention to life.

Sometimes our routines are interrupted and skewed.  We can’t watch our favorite television shows because our husbands want to watch soccer. We can’t fold our undergarments on the couch like we usually do because our mother in laws are over for coffee. We go to bed later than usual because we are out celebrating a friend’s birthday. We don’t floss because we forgot to pack it in our suitcase. We don’t work because we are on vacation. We don’t exercise because we are sick.

Last night, Mike and I went out for dinner, to officially celebrate our fourth wedding anniversary. It was definitely a break from our usual daily routine. We stowed our phones in my purse and didn’t speak a word about household chores, our house hunt, or our plans for the weekend. We even kept “church ministry talk” to a minimum. We forced ourselves to talk about our relationship, and our plans for the future. We squeezed past many “what ifs” concerning our future. A moment in our conversation that I hope I will never forget was when we asked one another what we would tell our kids, if and when we have any, about one another. Mike told me he would always refer to the fact that I’m a writer to defend my peculiar moods and outbursts. Great. In his mind, our kids will think I’m a weirdo. At least he’s already planned out an explanation for it. This rift in our routine was a welcome break from the norm. We had a great conversation and really enjoyed spending time with one another, spending some time away from the stresses of life that we all experience. Yes, I could’ve been going through our endless piles of laundry, washing the dishes, scrubbing the toilet, but those tasks were put on hold for a good reason.

A couple of weeks ago, we went to Montreal for a church conference, and then to Boston to visit some dear friends. It was a wonderful trip, during which I was able to catch up with some old friends whom I hadn’t seen in years, do some exploring, have a make-believe tea party with my best friend’s four-year-old, and spend time giggling late into the night with friends who have become family. Needless to say, coming from California, Mike and I were super jet-lagged. We took a red eye flight into Montreal, stayed up late each night, and woke up early each morning. It took a toll on us physically, but we were grateful for some time away from our usual routine. My body was tired, but my mind was energized with the new friendships we formed, and the new places we saw.

Friends, I tried to stay true to my promise. Every night, I grabbed my journal and my pen and sat in our hotel room trying to write. But I couldn’t. Not because I was exhausted, or because I wasn’t in my own bed. It was because my mind would wander. On some nights I went to the room while others were still awake to see if I could get some writing done. Other nights I would force myself to stay awake while Mike slept peacefully next to me, trying to will my brain to form sentences. Anything. Something new. Something to make it possible to come back to you all and tell you that despite the exhaustion and distraction that comes with going away, I was able to stick to my promise to you and to myself of writing every day. However, I couldn’t help but think about those who weren’t in their hotel rooms. Those who were out there, talking, laughing, living. So I put my pen down for the rest of the trip. After all, did my writing really matter? Did writing every day really encourage myself and others to be consistent? Did it inspire?

Then something happened. I was speaking with an acquaintance of ours, whom I hope I will get to know better in the near future. I don’t know much about her, but what I do know is that her smile is contagious. There’s a glint of magic in her eyes when she speaks, and she carries joy with her wherever she goes, and, from what I can tell, passes it on to those around her. In the middle of our conversation, she took a step forward to separate herself from the group we were in and told me that she reads my blog posts, and that they have inspired her to write every day, even if it’s just a little paragraph. I was stunned. There I was trying to ignore that part of myself, just for a few days. It wasn’t until later that evening that I realized how excited I was that my words have encouraged someone else to do the very thing that I tried to run away from…just for a short while. It felt like magic. And that magic has brought me back here. If you are reading this, thank you, and keep writing!

I recently came across a blog (http://anakarenchapa.wordpress.com/) whose author mentioned that her commitment to writing consistently was recently re-established because she happened to come across my blog by accident and was encouraged by it. Wow.

These are the things that push me to not only keep blogging about my creative writing journey, but to keep working on my fiction. Thank you to my old readers, and new readers alike. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to keep you accountable, and, in turn, keep myself accountable, to write something new every day. Feel free to leave comments as to how your own writing is coming along. I would love to hear about your writing schedules!

Writing is a solitary occupation, but when I realize that there are other writers struggling with the very same things that I struggle with as a writer, it makes me work harder. I know that sometimes, especially when we go on vacation, it is difficult to write every day. However, last week, I learned that taking some time away from your work, once in a while, is okay. Sometimes you need to step away from the story to give your mind a break. The truth is, your character will be there, waiting for you and ready to keep going when you return. So please, if you take a break, RETURN to your work!

Writers, and those of you who are trying to be disciplined and remain inspired in your endeavors, know that you’re not alone. Know that there will be days when you can only manage to get a single new sentence onto the page.

And that new sentence is a step forward–a small miracle.