View From a Speeding Car (Thoughts on Meaning)

Years ago, when I was in grad school, I wrote a novel... in 10 weeks. My professor who was amazing and inspiring, based the class on National Writers Month (in Nov.), where you write an entire novel in a month's time. At the time I took the class (fall semester of my last year of grad school, about six six ago) one of the things that scared me most in the world was  writing a novel. The sheer enormity of such a thing made me tremble. So when Mary Kay (my amazing professor) decided to offer this course with the idea that all of us (herself included) would write a novel by Thanksgiving, I figured that there would never be a better time to face this fear.

I did, of course, write that novel in 10 weeks. We all did, amazingly enough. We'd bring in our flash drive every week and Mary Kay would check our word count. Sheer panic, I think helped us. No one wanted to be the one person who didn't make their word count. And what a word count it was. We had to write 5,000 words a week. 5,000. And let me tell you, there were weeks that I left all those words until the very last minute. I'd wait until two to three days before class and begin to realize that I had a mountain of words to still create. But instead of panicking, I'd focus. And something incredible happened. I had 2,000 and 3,000 word days. I had days where I wrote without stopping for hours straight. Looking back now, I realize that was the only time I have ever been able to do that, to give myself to something completely and totally, with faith and abandon. Faith that I could turn out 3,000 words in an afternoon and the commitment to sit down, shut the world out and do it. It was one of the most freeing experiences of my life. And I've never had it again.

Its only when I'm writing (or reading for that matter) that my solitude seems full. It's full of the lives of my characters. Its full of all the dreams I capture for them, as well as all their pain and heartache. One of my professors once said that the difference with life and stories, is that in  life, it is only after what we are passed what we are going through that we see the meaning in it, if we are lucky. Novels and stories, have the ability to give life meaning in the moment, in a way that life never will. That's part of their appeal.

I've been think about that a lot lately. About not being able to see meaning in the moment and if my life has meaning at all. In the moments I come up blank,  I wonder if my life doesn't have meaning, what it might take to have meaning? I've been thinking about this now more than ever, and maybe that's because I've reached a certain age. Maybe its because I'm this age, and am still single and don't know if or when I might have a family of my own. Maybe its also partly because my folks are far away from me, in more than just distance sometimes, and I have no siblings. Don't get me wrong, I have people, lots of them, who care about me. But there is a distance that can only can be filled by flesh and blood, or by years and years of moments, woven into the fabric of your life. And those things, lately, seem few and far between.

If my life is a story, as so many Christian writers suggest, and it is part of God's great story, then why do we, as people, constantly struggle for meaning? If we are blessed in that we are aware of God's hand in our lives, guiding us, then why do we reach these moments so often that we are screaming "why?" to the heavens? If only there were Clift Notes for life. If only we could flip ahead and read the last page of the story or novel; read the last line, and breath a sigh of relief: "Ok, at the end of this, everything is ok." But we can't do that. As much as we want to or pray for it, those "whys" are often not answered for years, if ever.

Lately, I've been in a season of change and that makes me long for meaning. It makes me long for a solitude that feels full even when I'm not writing. In the meantime, I'm also waiting for the other "characters" in my life to stay or go, change or stay the same, just as I am trying to make these same decisions for myself.  

When I was writing that novel, all those years ago, one of the most terrifying things I remember Mary Kay telling my class was that we had to have a beginning, middle and end to our novel, by the time we were finished the 40,000 word project. We weren't supposed to re-write or edit what we'd already written, but just push forward. Always forward. We followed suit, even though it freaked a lot of us out. And you know what? Something amazing happened. When we were done,  and swapped documents, we saw something. When we read each other's (and our own) novels, we saw something we never expected, or even planned. There were patterns that repeated, subtle things we hadn't even been aware that we were writing in. And they didn't appear once on twice, but a dozens of times. And it happened to All of us. No matter the subject matter of the novel, or the time period, there we meaningful, beautiful, subtle recurrences over and over in stories. Metaphors and  treasured objects; situations and feelings. Over and over. While we'd been focused ahead, while we were working on moving toward the "end," meaning appeared  for our characters and their lives, but so subtly that even we, as the authors hadn't seen it until we went back.

I Know that  God is the greatest writer in the universe and would never miss something like this in the lives of His "characters."  He would place it there with purpose. The meaning He creates is always intentional. But we don't see it. We keep looking for it, but we keep looking for it in the wrong place. We are looking for it as we are moving forward. How can we see meaning in the present, much less the future? Its like trying to get a clear vision of the landscape as you look straight down out the window of a speeding car--all you see is a blur.

If we are to find meaning, or at least get closer to it, we must look back. For in life, as my professor said, we can only see meaning once the moment has passed us by.  

The Origins of Jane Giroux

When I was a kid, back in the 80s, we played silly games. We played mercy and chase and were sure that "bloody Mary" was going to come through our mirror and get us. One of the other things I remember is about names. A way to come up with a stripper name or nickname or some such nonsense... but for some reason, maybe because the name I ended up with was a good one, it stuck. To come up with this "name" you took your mother's middle name (Jane, in my case) as the first name and the name of the first street you grew up on ( which for me, is Giroux, Drive). Hence the name Jane Giroux was born.

As a writer, names carry a lot of weight and a lot of meaning for me. My father named me. He said he wanted a name that couldn't be shortened changed or rearranged. And I will say my two-syllable name suits me.  There were times in my life, though, that I wanted a different name. I remember fondly how I swore the year I was 8 or 9 that one day I would change my name to something beautiful ...like Jennifer. For all the imagination I had, it didn't come through in names. This held through even as I became a more and more avid reader and even a writer. In grad school I wrote my first novel, with a heroine named Joanna Clark.

I've often wondered why, for all my creativity, for my ability to create people and their lives out of thin air, I can not,  for the life of me, come up with something other than common, basic, essentially boring American names for my characters. Its irritating really, since I don't have much control over it. I know, I know. I'm the writer. But I don't. I'm not that type of writer. I'm not the kind of writer that plays God. I'm not the type of writer that see some event on the news and am like, "Now, THAT's a great idea for a story!" No. Nope, not me. I am not so "lucky" as to be an idea writer. I am a writer who is haunted by characters.

Ok, before you start thinking that I'm totally off my rocker (I'm not, I promise. I have a Psych minor to prove it) let me explain. I am a voice driven writer, meaning a character must speak to me and I must get a sense of their voice and who they are before I can write a word. My characters speak through. I don't take credit in the creation of my work really, because all I am really doing is typing what "they" are telling me. I'm a conduit for these characters to speak through. I'm a medium of sorts. And let me just say this is very rare, even among writers, most writers I've come across are "idea writers, " which makes me odd. Even to them. To be the weird one of the weird folks, is quite an accomplishment.

I would have hidden this fact for the rest of my life had I not had the good fortune and blessing to take a class with Robert Olen Butler my last year at Florida State University. Bob is an amazing writer, not just because he's won the Pulitzer Prize ( he won for a collection of short stories, which is almost unheard of) but because Bob is open about and even constantly talks about his process of  "channeling people." That one class with Bob gave me more than access to one of the best writers of our times, or the best feed back about my writing I've ever had, it gave me confidence in my process. Had I not had that class with Bob, I know that when I went into my MFA program, which was fiercely competitive, filled with people more than 10-years older than me, who were writing for praise from the professors and recognition from their peers, I would have baulked. I would have caved under their pressure to totally change my characters or my story; I might have listened as they rewrote my story by "jury" in a group discussion of one of my pieces where I was not allowed to comment or protest.

More than anything else, Bob taught me to stand my ground. I have carried that lesson with me through grad school and out into the business world. But most importantly, when someone is after me to change or be someone else, just like with my characters, I think, "She wouldn't do that. That's not who Jane is."  And I smile and stand my ground.   

BBQ, God, Games and Goodbyes

May the Odds be Ever in your favor...

Friday night my movie gal pal and I went to see The Hunger Games. As many of you well know, its the new craze. Thing is, these books are not really for kids. They're bloody, they have themes or rebellion and good overcoming evil. I'd read all the books within the past few weeks due to the instance of my 13-year-old tutoring client who made me promise I'd read them all before the 1st movie came out. And wow am I glad I did. The movie was amazing. One of the best book to movie adaptations I've seen. But I found myself pondering other things Friday night that the epic movie I'd just seen. The part I felt the strongest about the book was the theme that 1 person can change the world. Its subtle and it doesn't really come through until the end of the trilogy, but its there. And it got me thinking, how do I want to change the world? I know. Not light stuff for a Friday night after a "kids" movie, but hey, that's what I was thinking about. I think my answer is at once simple and obvious and yet, horribly complicated all at the same time. I want to change the world through my writing; I want to teach people (and I have to a point through my tutoring) and I want others to hear about how God has guided my life, even when it was dark and twisty and even when I was at my most bitter and sorrowful. The "odds" have often been in my favor in my life, and I don't believe that's been by chance. I think everything happens for a reason. Oh, this doesn't mean things have always gone well, or the way I want it to. I've had my share of suffering. But I also, that I've been guided along the way. And I'm not alone in this. I think that everyone has a divine calling, if they choose to look or listen for it. So, close your eyes and open your heart, and ask yourself, how do I want to change the world?

One, two, three...

Saturday, turned out to be a crazy, but epic day. I was double booked, for two parties. I promise, I am never this popular. Both events were important and so even through I was exhausted from my crazy week at work and still not recovered from being out until 1am the night before from seeing the Hunger Games, I rolled out of bed and headed out the door at 9:30am.

After running a few errands I swung by Giant to grab stuff to make guacamole for the BBQ I was going to. Since I'd skipped breakfast in an attempt to get out the door on time, I walked across the parking lot to get a smoothie. While waiting for my drink I got a frantic text from AW, who was hosting the BBQ, who said she had forgotten plates and such for the party. I called her and explained I was literally steps from a store, so back to Giant I went. I finished the rest of errands, did some stuff around the house and started getting ready for the party. While prepping guacamole for LL and JL's going away party (ie, 5 rounds of onion, tomatoes and cilantro because I only have a 1 cup food processor) I discovered that the avocados I had bought at Costco the week before and had assumed would be rip, were hard as rocks. I actually cut into one and it was like cutting an apple. Yeah. Not going to work, so Back to Giant I went (and no, I didn't go to the same one, cause I was at the point that I thought the employees would think I was weird). Thirty min later, ripe avocados in hand, I returned home and frantically finished prepping the Guac just in time to head out the door into the pouring rain to the BBQ.

 

Hello / Goodbye

I met LL and Jozsi  in the first Small Group I ever was a part of in my life. We all clicked instantly and as we became better and better friends, and LL (then LB) and Jozsi  started dating, it was apparent that I would never be a third wheel with these two. In August of this past year, I had the honor of being a bridesmaid in their wedding in Oregon. It was a beautiful wedding, full of love and laughter through tears and God at the foundation of it all.

A few months ago, LL told me that Jozsi  had gotten a job transfer and that they would be moving to Memphis. The weeks flew by and Saturday was suddenly upon us, the going away party for my first two Church friends. The party was wonderful, intimate, and went off without a hitch despite the rain. People trickled in and out, eating and talking, catching up on life and sharing stories. Jozsi's parents were even there. They'd come in to town for his graduation from training. It was wonderful to see them again. I find that every time I'm around Jozsi's parents I understand the way he is a little better.

I spent most of my time talking to the other guests, letting other people who haven't seen LL and Jozsi as much as me catch up and say goodbye. By around 7:30 I had to head out to go to my other friend's 30th B-day party, so I gave both Jozsi and LL hugs and told them I loved them. As I stood there I said to LL "I don't know if I'm going to see you again before you leave." And right then, in that moment, it finally hit me. My friends are leaving.

I'm not good at goodbyes,  and maybe  that's because over recent years I've lost a lot of people in a very final way. So, people moving away doesn't break my heart the way it once did. Maybe its because I also know that friendship like mine and LL and Joszi's and  AW too, don't come along often. If ever. At least not for me. I haven't had very many "groups" of friends, even though I've always had lots of friends. But I've always kept them separate. Call it paranoiaa call it common sence, but I've had enough people turn on me when I was young (and in adulthood too) to know that takes a whole lot of trust to be friends with a group. And that was a level of trust I could never muster, until LL and Jozsi and then AW came into my life. I've since had a one or two other groups of friends, but that first group, it taught my heart how to forgive and to grow and to love in a way that I didn't know I could.

My friends are leaving. They are going on as a happily married couple to their new life together. I wish them the very best and know that no amount of distance will sever this friendship. It will change, but it will also grow. I haven't cried yet, and I don't know if I will. How can I? How can I cry about Jozsi having a job he's going to love and taking his beautiful wife and best friend with him? How can I cry about the tremendous possibilities I'm sure lay ahead for both of these wonderful people? If I cry, it would only be for myself, and that seems selfish to me and ungrateful. LL came into my life when I need a friend the most, and I was that for her as well. Since then, we've both gained other wonderful people and don't see each other as much as we used to, but it doesn't matter. We're friends. We always will be. Other people and thousands of miles will never change that. Ever. And for that reason, I will not cry. I will smile and hold my friends close in my heart and be grateful to God for bringing them into my life when I needed them the most. 
  

Begin with the Beginning...

Years ago, when I just finished graduate school I started writing this story, titled Sand and Stone. Even thought its a broken set of scenes and  jumps and skips toward the end, its one of my favourites, even in its ragged form. To try to explain what the story is about would be like trying to explain the make up of my own soul. So, here I am, five years later and I still haven't finished it. I think the reasons why I haven't finished the story are more telling about who I am as a person , a woman, a writer a person of faith, than almost anything else in my life.

Begin with the Beginning and End with the End 
When I was younger, much younger, and I'd talk to my best friend from high school on the phone, I'd often have so much to tell her that I never knew where to start. Leigh would always laugh at me and say simply, "begin at the beginning and end at the end." Its been one of a dozen or more tid bits of wisdom that she's blessed me with over the years. So, here I am, trying, in some sense to begin at the beginning.

I'm a writer who no longer writes. And I'm sure there are hundreds maybe even thousands of others like me out there, real, honest to God writers, that have completed MFA programs like I did, or written novels, has stories published and won awards... that have simply stopped writing. There are more of course, who are real writers, even if they haven't done any of those things yet, or ever, but my point in listing those kind of people, is that we were trained to write and told over and over, "write everyday" and "Never stop." So in a last ditch attempt at forcing my fingers to create people out of thin air, I'm starting a blog, something I not only never thought I'd do, but something I am as a write admittedly against. I'm against it for the simple fact that I've had the notion beat into me that if you put your work out on the web, anyone and everyone will take it. I've gone so far even, to do a "poor man's" copy right, by mailing my stories to myself and keeping them in sealed envelopes. Silly, I know. But when you've been told over and over that the written word is more precious than gold, you try to find a way to lock it in a safe.

I've come to realize, though, over the years the impact my writing can have. I thought lately that I should start even moving away from fiction and start writing non-fiction; maybe start to write about my life and my faith and how each has impacted the other. Maybe I've just read too much Don Miller. Or maybe I've spent to my boring work afternoons reading back logged blogs from one of my dear friends, to not take a stab at this too.

So, welcome to my journey.  Buckle up and hold on tight. Its often a bumpy ride. (But I wouldn't have it any other way.)