This is it.

The day before I start my novel. I, and thousands of others around the world, will be embarking on the one-month novel-writing quest known as Nanowrimo. (www.nanowrimo.org). I'm a bit nervous, but I'm not totally unprepared. For years, I've had this fantasy story stirring in my head, and this, I believe, is the perfect time to finally get it on down paper.

So, with my random preliminary character notes and plot point scribblings, I embark (look! I'm already in the fantasy-writing mindset). I'll try to keep you posted on my progress, but, if you don't hear from me, you can assume that I'm either writing furiously and will need a hand massage by the end of the night or I'm ripping out my hair in frustration.

Now, to use that extra hour of sleep to my advantage :)

See you on the other side.

Heidi

p.s. While at the Minneapolis Institute of Art to see the traveling Louvre exhibit (which was incredible, by the way), I found, in the middle of a crowded room, a man dressed as Waldo.

Springtime of Life - Camille Corot

For it is Life that we want

"For it is life we want. We want the world, the whole beautiful world, alive - and we alive in it. That is the actual god we long for and seek, yet we already have it, if we open our senses, our whole bodies, thus our souls. That is why I have written and intend to continue until someone among you takes up the happy work of keeping the chain letter of the soul moving along into whatever future will come." - Bill Holm

Since working at Milkweed, I've discovered this fantastic author, who, sadly, passed away earlier this year. I want to take his message to heart, take up his calling, and since he can no longer speak, carry the chain letter of the soul to my generation.

I hope to live this way in my faith, as well. God gave me the gift of words, and I must've ever forget that. Let me speak truth to the world eloquently, precisely, and honorably.

Happenings

I quit my job! I have never felt so liberated. I mean, if people are not going to respect me and my work ethic and/or use me as a scape goat, they better be paying me more than $7.25 if they expect me to stick around.

In other news, I had an interview with a recruiter this morning. I think it went well (even though we were thirty minutes late thanks to traffic!), and this could be the beginning of a very amazing opportunity. The building also housed the Dairy Queen headquarters, and they gave out free dilly bars in the lobby. Kind of exciting :)

Josh went apple picking over the weekend and is in the process of making apple sauce, apple pie, and apple crisp. The apartment is in a constant smell of yum... In the meantime, he decided to store the bag of apples on the balcony. I looked out the window this afternoon and saw a squirrel bounding away with something very large in his mouth. Naturally, I started laughing, and after Josh chased the animal away, he moped about the loss of one of his hand-picked apples. And just because I love rodents and this story sort of relates to this picture, I've posted something lovely for you to look at.

"Morning Song"

I took a trip to the library today with the intent of getting one particular book and ended up leaving with four. Go figure. One was a collection of poetry from Sylvia Plath, a very lovely and tragic poet. Why is it that the people who are highly-tuned to the beauty of language and the world around them are likely to commit suicide? Is it, perhaps, because they see the potential of the world and know that it will never be rid of all the evil?

But, I digress. When I opened the book, I was met with this beautiful piece of poetry. When I was done with work on Sunday, I was so sick of screaming, messy children. Perhaps that's why this poem sticks out to me. I need to see the beauty in the crying.

Morning Song

Love set you going like a fat gold watch.

The midwife slapped your footsoles, and your bald cry

Took its place among the elements.

Our voices echo, magnifying your arrival. New statue

In a drafty museum, your nakedness

Shadows our safety. We stand round blankly as walls.

I'm no more your mother

Than the cloud that distils a mirror to reflect its own slow

Effacement at the wind's hand.

All night your moth-breath

Flickers among the flat pink roses. I wake to listen:

A far sea moves in my ear.

One cry, and I stumble from bed, cow-heavy and floral

In my Victorian nightgown.

Your mouth opens as cleans as a cat's. The window square

Whitens and swallows its dull stars. And now you try

Your handful of notes;

The clear vowels rise like balloons.