My Story

I'm starting a new journal. Not because I feel the need to start over fresh, escaping themes and preoccupations plaguing the present one, but because said present one is full. Cover to cover. It's a remarkable tome of two very eventful years. And not just hormone-induced "oh, she's a girl" eventful. There's some heavy stuff in there. Fear, death, heartache, anxiety. With joy, risk-taking, fearlessness, infatuation and optimism rounding it out. Some of it almost reads as fiction. I am not the Nadine of 2007. For this, I am thankful. I am moving forward.

Maybe I'll quote from it one day. In short cryptic doses.

I'm hesitant to write the first entry in the new one. I don't know what to say. I feel as though there should be something significant going on in my life or my head before I start to scribble. I don't want the first page to be boring.

I don't want my life to be boring.

I recently discovered Donald Miller. I know, I'm a little slow. And I think I love him. I want to hike up a mountain with him and tell him all my secrets. And then we can sip wine and talk about story and why I desire an epic tale of my own. I crave memorable scenes. Strong characters. I want to be able to define what I want and then pursue it passionately. I want to sacrifice. I want my story to make me a stronger woman in the end. I want my life to read as a redemptive and meaningful narrative.

And as Don and I walk down the mountain, he'll tell me how to get a book deal.

YouTube Tuesday: (500) Days of Awesome

I stole this from Beth. Because I have no original ideas today. And it's Tuesday, thus requiring some sort of YouTube element here.

This is the best scene of the summer. (Not taking District 9 into account. That movie just kind of hovers above the rest.) I find it hilariously appropriate, as I'm about to turn off my computer and curl up with Sex God. I highly recommend chapter six to all of my girlfriends. And to my future husband. Just sayin'.

P.S. Go watch (500) Days of Summer. Or don't. I'm not the boss of you. But if I were.... I'd make you see it. Twice.

Sunday Stuff

Another "stuff" post. 'Cause I like stuff.

• This article makes me giddy. If you haven't seen Julie & Julia, I highly recommend it. Not only will it desensitize you to the boiling of live lobsters, it will inspire your inner blogger. Book deal, here I come!
• Liv Tyler and I could be twins. I pretty much wear this exact outfit every week. Minus the sunglasses.
• Read Sex God. I'm serious. I keep trying to quote from it, but I can't. Because I end up wanting to transcribe the entire thing. It is a little awkward to bring up in conversation, though. "So I was reading Sex God last night...."
• I received a sad email recently, one that hinted at a young marriage in significant trouble. Maybe they need to kiss more. Or better. (The Onion rocks.)
• Why is everyone talking about the darkness and goriness of District 9? I thought it was excellent storytelling, evenly paced with solid action sequences and heartbreaking character development. I wasn't even slightly disturbed. Which now disturbs me. Quick, someone reassure me that it's completely normal to not freak out over exploding humans.

I Heart Banned Books

source: 9GAG

Banned books are usually the best ones. Or so has been my literary experience. Check out this list of 50 Banned Books That Everyone Should Read. Most of my favorite novels find themselves on the list. I'm not sure what that says about me.

Of the books I've read on the list (quite a few, actually), these are the ones that have stuck. That still resonate with me. That evoke a pretty powerful reaction whenever I think about them. Or that pop into my head when I have little reason to think about them at all. Some scenes and images just won't leave me alone.

• Catcher in the Rye. I love Salinger's tone. Makes me want to write.
  
• Lord of the Flies. I love Golding's allegory. Even though it makes me a little uncomfortable. And I'm obsessed with stranded-on-an-island folks. Obviously. (Where was Desmond in Lost's finale? Anyone? Bueller?)
  
• Bridge to Terabithia. I cried. In class. The whole imaginary-world-collides-with-juvenile-tragedy got to me. I was 11. And will probably make my future children read it at 11, too. And then make them play outside.
  
• The Giver. I love this book. Every little magical moment. Every terrifying heart-in-throat page. (Does it endorse killing? Maybe.)
  
• Anne Frank: Diary of a Young Girl. In the most melodramatic days of my youth, I wanted to be her. Maybe that's why I have stacks of journals lying everywhere. (Apparently this was banned for being "sexually charged" and pornographic. What the--?!)
  
• To Kill a Mockingbird. I love Atticus. My literary hero. Almost convinced me to study law. I also love Gregory Peck. Another dead boyfriend.
  
• Of Mice and Men. I don't love Lenny. Or George. But I can't ignore them. And I've written more essays entitled "Of ___ and ___" than I can count. I owe Steinbeck a lot. Namely, my student loan.
  
• Little Women. I. Love. Little. Women. Front-to-back. On my personal top-3-novels-of-all-time list. I would say I want to be Jo, the adventurous independent writer with crazy-big dreams, good intentions and bad hair, but I wouldn't have turned down Laurie. So no, I will never morph into the fictional heroine. Not completely, anyway.
  
• In Cold Blood. I love the innovation of the true-crime-meets-novel. And the meticulous research. And Capote's personal obsession with his own material. (Um, 8000 pages of notes?!) And the Harper Lee connection makes me love To Kill a Mockingbird more. The circle of book-life.

I need to finish the list. I'm slightly embarrassed that I've never read A Handmaid's Tale. Perhaps that should be next. After The Great Gatsby.

Books > blogs, as much as I hate to admit it. I think it's time to create a summer reading list. Before bad television and Toronto humidity fry my brain.

Oh, and if I ever write a novel, please ban it. Please.

Diary of a Wombat

Add this one to the reading list. Preferably the boxed set.

An excerpt:

Saturday

Morning: Moved into new hole.

Afternoon: Rained.

New hole filled up with water.
Moved back into old hole.

And the greatest stuffed animal ever:

From Echidnas On the Loose.
This one is also quite amazing.

Thank you, Stickers and Donuts, for the wombat fun. I'm in love.

Welcome to Math. Weather Math.

My umbrella broke on Friday. Total and complete destruction. So I threw it out.

It was pouring this morning. I dug the twisted nylon mess out of the trash and embraced the hobo-chic look for approximately 30 minutes. And then threw it out. Again.

The man in the convenience store beside my work sold me an umbrella for $3.99. I anticipated it surviving for 2 days. Hope set high.

It died. Already. See, I work in a wind tunnel. It didn't have a chance. One gust and the nylon was yanked violently from the frame. I am not meant to remain dry.

Off to secretly plot my move to Arizona. And/or design an indestructible handbag-sized umbrella of greatness. That also happens to be on the cutting edge of fashion.



P.S. Check out More New Math. Time-waster par excellence. Life is math. (Thanks, Sarah, for the link!)

P.P.S. Did you any of you read the book Has Anybody Seen My Umbrella? It's fascinating. Prince Charming can't read, so when he finds Cinderella's glass slipper, he misreads the name (yes, like a good-- and organized-- heroine, she labeled her shoes) and then walks around town, looking for Umbrella. Taught me to appreciate literacy, umbrellas and fairy tales. In that order.

P.P.P.S. I've posted about my umbrella issues before. I explain my umbrella pain here. And then mourn the theft of one here. And my stolen umbrella returned here. And then there was the great tragedy of losing Bert the umbrella. Maybe I'm still not over him. And this umbrella love story. Oh, and I named one umbrella Ebeneezer.

And sadly, this was streamlining the umbrella posts. I didn't want to overwhelm you. If you're a piece of nylon sheltering me from the rain, even for just a day, you will be blogged about.

I'm a Book. Judge My Cover.

Ever have one of those headachy days where you just don't like people? Yeah, that's my Sunday.

But if I were really a book, I'd be the one below. A cow befriends a rock that's really an egg. It's practically Shakespeare. And it's on my bookshelf.

Dangerous Doesn't Scare Me

Mack was getting frustrated. He spoke louder, "But, don't I have the right to..."

"To complete a sentence without being interrupted? No, you don't. But as long as you think you do, you will surely get ticked off when someone cuts you off, even if it is God."

~The Shack

I started reading The Shack over the holidays. I haven't finished, so I won't post any sort of conclusive opinion yet. 

I've heard people call this book dangerous. Then again, I've also heard people call Brian McLaren dangerous.

So far, I would not be scared to meet this novel in a dark alley. Just as I would not run screaming from Brian. But maybe that's just me. I am fearless. 

And I'm a mess.

"This mess is you! Together, you and I, we have been working with a purpose in your heart. And it is wild and beautiful and perfectly in process. To you it seems like a mess, but to me, I see a perfect pattern emerging and growing and alive -- a living fractal."

~The Shack

Guest Blogger: Jane Austen

"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them - by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."

~Mr. Bingley, Pride and Prejudice

Third-Grade Book Report: Little Women

I found a book report in a stack of childhood memorabilia. Apparently I read Little Women in the third grade. I was pretty much the most brilliant child ever.

Below are my 8-year-old thoughts on the book. Unedited.

The main setting in the story is in the cozy little home of Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy. And there was Meg's house when she was married, which is called "Dovecot." There was the big and roomy house where Jo stayed in New York for 6 months. There was also Mr. Laurence's mansion.

Beth - kind and willing to give and share. She is loving and sensible. She's wonderful to be with.

Meg - likes to be by herself and act like herself. She's a loving and kind mother.

Jo - always wants money. She makes her own clothing. Tries to be as kind as she can.

Amy - joyful most of the time. Young and gentle. Laurie can only fill the hole in her.

It started on Christmas, when the whole household was cozy. But it didn't stay that way. In the story, their bond dies, Meg gets married, has twins, Beth dies so everyone is upset. Their father comes home from war, and Amy gets married so Jo is left all alone. She goes to New York from Christmas to June. She meets old Mr. Bhaer and falls in love with him and Jo gets married to him.

I rated the book a ten out of ten. Which I still would, although for wildly different reasons.

"Their bond dies."
"Jo always wants money."
"Laurie can only fill the hole in her."

Apparently I've always have a flair for the dramatically (and occasionally inaccurate) written word.

The above picture is the exact version sitting on my bookshelf. It was my mom's. There are a few black and white pictures inside, but she colored them in with pencil crayons when she was a little girl. She was a good colorer. In case you were wondering.

Please Don't Die

I don't think it's possible to cry yourself to sleep. I'm pretty sure you cry yourself into a state of exhaustion, you stop crying, and then you sleep. Do people actually nod off mid-sob?

I went to bed too late last night. And then I decided to read. Not the smartest idea I've ever had. But when it's late, my wisdom is impaired. As is my everyday caution. If I'm exhausted, my heart is on my sleeve. Those of you who've spent the night talking to me know this. I will pour out the intimate stuff of heart and mind when the rest of the world is sleeping. Too much energy is required to keep my guard up.

I was reading The Last Lecture, Randy Pausch's book based on his lecture of the same name. It's a little book, full of sound-bite wisdom, quirky stories, and a William Shatner tale that actually nudged a few tears down my face.

It's also a dangerous book. It makes you a little more dissatisfied with mediocrity. It gives you no excuses for laziness. It makes you want to crank up The Lion King soundtrack while speeding down the highway in a convertible on the way to your dream job as a Disney Imagineer. I kid you not.

I was skimming through. I was tired. I was almost done. And then one sentence destroyed me.

There's a moment in his lecture (Have you seen it yet?) near the end, where he brings out a birthday cake for his wife. It's a total surprise, the room erupts in song, and she comes forward to hug and kiss her husband. As the audience applauds, his wife whispers something in his ear. We assume it's along the lines of "I love you." It's sweet and moving and then we move on.

But the book expands.

As we held each other, Jai whispered something in my ear.

"Please don't die."

It sounds like Hollywood dialogue. But that's what she said. I just hugged her more tightly.

Those three words shattered my little world. I lost it. It was the most perfect honest sentence I'd read in a very long time.



I'm going to start reading the Sears catalogue in bed. Good night.

She Walks Like a Lady. A Lady Who Reads.

I went for a walk after work today. At first, it was just to avoid waiting for the streetcar. But then I couldn't stop. I started to understand Forrest Gump's endless run.

My little walk became a two-hour-plus trek through the city.

There's something about sunshine and fresh air that makes me feel alive. I was in a zombie-like state of exhaustion for most of the day, so this new exhilaration wasn't something I was about to cut short. How tired was I today? Let's just say that I forgot how to wash my hair this morning. I remembered to rinse, but I forgot to lather. It wasn't until I was blow-drying my hair (and already running late) that I realized I had neglected to go near the shampoo. Yes, I washed my hair with water. I need sleep.

And so I walked, thriving in the outdoor air. And conveniently, this walk took me past bookstores. Three of them. And I spent money. In two of them. Not much, though (I conveniently discovered unused gift certificates in my wallet). And while it seems impulsive, these little treasures have been on my wish list for some time. So I consider the purchases well-planned and productive in the scheme of my week. And there will be a return on my investment.

ProBlogger is one of my favorite blogs. I'm a daily blog-stalker. Darren Rowse is an Aussie pastor-turned-full-time-blogger with a super-brilliant blog about blogging. He's also one of the guys behind b5media. And he's written a book. A book that I now own. So if you see changes here at on her toes, blame Darren.

And you know who Stephen King is. Misery didn't exactly paint a lovely picture of a writing career, but his book On Writing is a classic in the trade. And I like classics. And I think he knows what he's talking about when it comes to career stuff.

But before I read (or write), I shall sleep. And use shampoo.

How I Vote

This evening, my theo-political imagination will be provoked. Or so I anticipate.

Dad explains.

"Never stop dreaming."

It was my fear of failure that first kept me from attempting the master work. Now, I'm beginning what I could have started ten years ago. But I'm happy at least that I didn't wait twenty years.

~The Alchemist

The Alchemist is one of the most quotable novels I've ever read. In fact, as I was reading it last fall, I was quietly wishing that I owned the copy I was thumbing through. I wanted to underline every other sentence.

I fully blame Tim for my love of this little book. And while I can't wholeheartedly embrace its theology, there's certainly plenty of nuggets of gold in its pages. Because I'm a dreamer. Always have been. And I think it's about time I start following those dreams. Not to get all sappy and Field of Dreams on you....

Years after the sale of the movie rights, The Alchemist is being adapted into a film. This little parable of hope will be produced by Harvey Weinstein and starring Laurence Fishburne (who is also directing. Go, Morpheus). I'm not sure how I feel about its adaptation, but I knew when reading it that such a fate would be inevitable. Check out my MovieZen entry for more details of its adaptation journey.

Lately, I've been so eager to embark on my own journey for hidden treasure. I'm sure I'll try to wax poetic about my little (and often lovely) life in the coming weeks, but I can't tell you how ready I am to step out and start living the adventure. After the events of this past week, I feel rather fearless. In a really healthy way. Not in a stupid jump-off-a-building way.

We are afraid of losing what we have, whether it's our life or our possessions and property. But this fear evaporates when we understand that our life stories and the history of the world were written by the same hand.

~The Alchemist

Becoming Real

"What is REAL?" asked the Rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before Nana came to tidy the room. "Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"

"Real isn't how you are made," said the Skin Horse. "It's a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real."

"Does it hurt?" asked the Rabbit.

"Sometimes," said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. "When you are Real you don't mind being hurt."

"Does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"

"It doesn't happen all at once," said the Skin Horse. "You become. It takes a long time. That's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept. Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in your joints and very shabby. But these things don't matter at all, because once you are Real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."

~The Velveteen Rabbit

image source

Hagar Revisited

I know I wasn't supposed to like it, but I did. It's a general rule that books you read in school are not to be enjoyed. And for some reason, it tends to remain universally despised among my friends. But The Stone Angel is the probably the only novel I've ever read from which I can quote the last sentence. I usually remember books' concepts, stand-out characters, odd situations, but never endings. Ever. That's why I can reread books. But it's hard to deny an ending that actually ends with the end.

I think the book resonated with me for the same reason that the film The Notebook moves me every time: it tells a story from two ends. A rather unsympathetic, proud, petty woman in her nineties tries to run away from her own mortality only to have the regrets of her past collide with her uncomfortable present reality (and worse, her impending deterioration). And yet there's a glimmer of redemption, that sliver of hope that comes when pride is chiseled away. Maybe I see a little of Hagar in myself. Just as I'm sure the still-young Margaret Laurence poured much of her own life into her anti-heroine.

Side thought: Is it just me, or does Laurence look like the Hagar? The image in my head while reading the novel was always that of the author. To me, the two women were physically one and the same.


I read a lot of biographies. So whether I intend to or not, I end up reading first-person novels as accounts of a life once lived, despite being found in the fiction aisle. The Stone Angel is the kind of memoir I hope to write one day. Not necessarily a depressing tale of regret and desperation for approval (I certainly hope not, anyway), but one that's honest, passionate and sweeping, picking up the broken pieces and concluding without self-pity. I guess I want to be in the moment until the end. I want it to end mid-sentence too.


For those who weren't hanging out at the Toronto Film Festival last year, you may not know that The Stone Angel has been made into a movie (to be released May 9th). I know you're shocked. Or grimacing. But I think it has a pretty great chance of achieving cinematic decentness. Because it will finally remove the "What is the imagery in every single noun in this chapter?" English-class drudgery and leave us with pure story. Starring Christine Horne (from Aurora!) and the incomparable Ellen Burstyn as Hagar (the "then" and "now" Hagars, respectively), with a supporting performance by indie darling Ellen Page, I'm clinging to the hope that these performances are grounded enough to prevent the melodrama from creeping in. The book didn't allow for sap; I want to see the grittiness of Hagar's frustrating reality.

My only concern is for the ending. Part of me hopes for a sudden cut to black, a literal interpretation of the ending that I will quote until my own demise:

And then--