When we moved here to the Columbia Basin 18 months ago, we did so after turning down a good job in Boise and on the promise of a very lucrative position here.

           
The position later fell through, which was fine—we were accustomed to financial insecurity at that point and laughed it off—but there were a few heady days when Dragoon worked out how much money we’d make with that job. More to the point: How much MORE money we’d make than we were currently making.

            When you’re offered a lot of money, what do you think of? Me, I thought of all the things I’d seen others have and, I admit, envied. Woo woo, finally it was MY turn.

We’d have a big house, obviously. We’d get another couch so we wouldn’t all be squished on the one futon sofa. Higher-class food—less beans, more salmon and salad. And if the money kept coming in—dare I imagine it?—a maid service once a week!

            That’s all fine, I grew up spoilt rotten and I’m used to being a brat with a sense of entitlement. But what surprised me is what wouldn’t change—I would still want to homeschool, and I would still write.

Really? I went over thing again in my head, adding zeros to the end of the imaginary annual income. Yup. No matter how rich, I’d still want to homeschool and write.

And if it went the other direction? Well, heck, I started homeschooling and writing when Dragoon was enlisted in the military and we were scraping together grocery money each week for out-of-date commissary food.

            My point is, rich or poor, homeschooling feels like the right thing to do, and writing brings fulfillment—or, even if it doesn’t, writing is the brick wall I have chosen to run into repeatedly until my airbags inflate and I have to hang it up and go to bed.

            This is where I’m going with this: I know that these are things that make me happy no matter what. So what place would envy have in my life?

            Lately, not much. I thought lately my problem lay with Envy’s unwashed brother Sloth. I haven’t been getting up early like I should. My stern talkings-to towards myself have been more concerned with seeing things through that I’m tempted to give up on—one of my more persistant personality traits-- and to meet daily requirements (exercise, bathing, writing 2K a day) even when I just don’t wanna.

            I visited a blog of a writer I admire, who linked to another blog, which mentioned envy. Mentioned? Condemned.  Specifically, the envy of aspiring writers towards megasuccessful books like Harry Potter and Twilight. I thought it was nice that they called me/us "aspiring". Not "wannabe" or "grasping". So, I'll give them taht.

            I’m not condemning the condemnation. Envy is bad stuff, baby. It eats you alive. I should know.

            And those of you have probably been at one point on the wrong end of my opinion when you unwisely asked “Don’t you just love Twilight?”, you know too.

       Because there’s a kernel of envy there, it would be easy for you to tell me all my criticisms are borne of envy. (Me, I think some of them hit the target, but then we all think we're right, don't we?)

It’s not true, but it’s true enough to shut me up. Now you know! You have the power. This is why I do NOT bring up Twilight anymore and try to change the subject even when goaded. (you know who you are.) I try to avoid Twilight like a dry drunk avoids a bar, but it's hopeless.
 
I write YA paranormal fiction and I am a Mormon momwife living in the Western United States. It is not possible for me to breathe "I'm a writer" without Twilight being invoked. This is why I so rarely breathe "I'm a writer". Everything I write will be compared to Twilight. Period. I understand that publishing is a small world and I should not pee in the sandbox, but, pardon me, it sure seems like someone is peeing in mine, anonymous and humble as it may be.

            Having successful writers tell me how ugly it is for me to envy another’s success feels a little like the time I went to church with a half rich, half poor ward. There was a meeting on financial health, which got hijacked by a few of the richest members standing up and one guy literally wagging his finger at stupid poor people like us who couldn’t manage our money well enough to be successful like him. It was like he was sure that *my* penury could somehow irritate him more than it was bothering me. Listen, dude, I'm not enjoying this any more than you are; can we please move on to the place where someone can help me to succeed instead of telling me why I'm so vile because I haven't yet?

            My inferiority complex would like to interject something here (as though she hasn't been in control of thise whole screed):

With all her millions of adoring, swirling-eyed fans and her millions of millions of dollars, why does it matter to Stephanie Meyer if I dislike her books or envy her or not?

I’m not even a blip on her radar screen. Of course she looms large in MINE—it’s impossible to write anything YA fiction/paranormal as a Mormon girl now without people invoking the Twilight curse. Often in the form of emails about successful writers with a sort of Post-It “Hey, why don’t you succeed more like THIS?” attached.

And since it doesn't matter to Sister Stephanie, why should it matter to YOU? Are you showing me concern in the form of "tough love"? If this is something that is between me and God, and a sin I need to quit before it hurts me, then how did you get into this conversation?  

           
Inferiority complex is done, and I’m putting her back in my Shame Box now. Thank you.

            Envy: Yup, you got me! In fact, you could go down the whole list of deadly sins and I’m sure to be guilty of all of them, up to and including Murder, if you were to taste the burnt chicken lunch I fed my long-suffering husband today.

I try to be good, but there are ever so many ways to be bad, and when I'm on autopilot I like to try them all. Including Petulance, Peevishness, Discouragment and Wanting To Have The Last Word.

         And they say: Can I just get back to my sad struggling story now? I know it’s nothing anyone else would envy, but it’s mine, and I’d like to go back to being my book’s Holland Mom and plotting weakly on how to glean scraps of success from the megapopular authors' sloppy seconds..

Thank you and good day.

Wrestling with writer's block: frustrating.

Blogging about wrestling with writer's block: pathetic.

Searching for something original to say about writer's block: No, thanks, YOU do it.

I know it's irrational. I know it's my fault. I know maybe I could apply some Puritan elbow grease to this thing and just push through if I were Rambo enough.

The stupid thing is, right now I feel like my story is one of the stupider stories ever thought up, a waste of time for all who would read or write it. Which you'd think would take the pressure OFF, because if I already know it sucks, then how much worse can my writing make it?

Oy, uff da, &%*$#!

Orson Scott Card wrote a short story about a woman who chooses to live her perfect day, over and over, and shows the horror of making time stand still. 

Even with that cautionary tale in mind, I wouldn't mind living yesterday over again for a few weeks. 

The morning went well--I just started doing Body-For-Life. No, it's not a cult (I'm Mormon, a homeschooler, and used to sell Mary Kay; I'm maxed out on cults for now). I won't tell you what it is, because you can Google that yourself, and I hate sounding like a cheesy commercial.

In any case, it's really working for me, and I've already lost weight and seen an increase in strength and energy. 

So, yesterday morning, I lifted weights. Then I watched my friend Frau's kids while she ran errands and we all cleaned the house. (I love having a clean house.)

Then we packed corndogs and carrot sticks and put Cherry Blossom and Moose into the double stroller, and walked a mile down the footpath by the river and had school out in the fresh, Russian-olive scented air. There were birds tweet-tweetering while I read a chapter of The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe to the kids. Then we played for an hour.

After we got home, Chief, my 8 year old boy, was permitted to play Zoombinis while everyone else in the house took a nap. I want to include neon lights around this: I GOT A NAP. 

Dragoon got home before six, while I was packing some chicken and spinach wraps to take with us on errands on our way to Dragoon's Dad's house out in the sticks half an hour from our house.

And at my FIL's house was......

PUPPIES!

Goldie the golden lab had three puppies earlier this week. I got to hold one--a tiny, blind, squeaky, silky little nurser. 

In no time at all they'll have their eyes and ears open, and will be bounding in fat seesaws across my FIL's lawn. 

My FIL's dogs are wonderful; they are smart and gentle, and his only regret about the puppies is that there weren't more of them, because puppies from FIL's dogs are in great demand among people who know him. 

I know, I know, we should never breed dogs, we should all go to the pound and get abandonded doggie orphans, I know.....but that's for another entry. Suffice it to say, I think parentage is important for knowing what kind of dog you're getting, and I am really careful about making sure the dog that's around my babies is a known (and trained) quantity. I'll take chances with other dogs when my kids are older.

Then FIL saddled up one of his horses for the kids. We are over there once a week and he's been teaching Buffy, my 6 year old daughter, how to ride. Chief tried, but he's too nice and horses are very quick about knowing who they can boss around. 

Buffy, OTOH, is a natural alpha, and always has been, and has a great time perched way up there on the tall muscled monsters my FIL prefers.

Then FIL saddled up another horse and pushed Dragoon and me out the door to go ride out on the sagebrush while he gave our five kids root beer floats.

It was a beautiful night; not too hot, not too cold, and the sagebrush smelled sweet and green. We rode up into the foothills and looked out into the rural canyon where my FIL's property is. 

Horseback riding with your honey sounds like an innately romantic thing, but really it's a lot of trying to get horses to stop racing each other, and horses nickering to each other about the idiots on their backs, and saying "Whoa!" and "Stop that" and coughing when the horse in front sends a particularly potent puff of methane into your face. 

But. other than that, it was pretty good. I see now why cowboys wear those boots. My Birkenstocks weren't very helpful for horseback riding. 

This morning was perfect, too. I caught the 7 am session at my temple, and got home in time to make smoothies for the children, and now Dragoon and I are getting the kids and house ready for us to go on a date and go see Prince Caspian.

I think I must secretly be a Calvinist, because all this perfection is spooking me.

Don't get me wrong, I'm very grateful too. I am VERY grateful. But it sets such a standard. Now that I've had a wonderful day or two, will every other day pale in comparison? Will I engage in self-recrimination when I read this entry a month or a year from now, because I think I should have the stars align like this every week?

Maybe I'm just borrowing trouble.

Well, anyway...the perfect day. I really liked it. 

(I mean, dude........puppies!)

“Heavenly Father planned for me to come to a family. I can strengthen my family now.”

I have a mom, and a dad, and 2 brothers and 2 sisters.  I am 4 years old.

We are all different. We have different names and different hair. We are all good at different things.

(Chief) is good at computer games and he is gentle and kind.

(Buffy) paints pictures and is smart at math.

My mom says I am cute and happy about things. I have enthusiasm.

I like it when my family sews together and eats candy together and reads Narnia together.

 I help my family by cleaning and jumping around being happy. I try to be nice to my sister even if she is mean to me.

Jesus wants us to be nice to our family even when they’re mean. And we should help clean and be happy, too.

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen. 


Then it was Buffy's turn to bear her testimony:

I know God is true.

One time I was very violent. So Mom had to hold me down. But when I got a blessing from my dad, I became much better.

I know God is true because He gave the power to my dad to put his hands on my head and bless me.

And I know that if you are very violent, then you will need a blessing. You should ask God for help and then He will help you.

In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Then 8yo dear son Chief got up to read a scripture, and Dragoon realized that nobody had told him WHAT scripture to read. 

As it turned out, Chief did find a scripture having to do family. He opened his scrips and began reading, "And Adam knew Eve his wife, and she conceived, and bare Cain..."

Finally he finished up with "Cain rose up against Abel his brother, and slew him", smiled, and sat down.

Buffy's testimony was just a little cringe-worthy, but  but last year while we were still living in Boise, one of my kids was assigned to give a talk about their favorite scripture story. Honeybee chose--it's every kid's favorite--Ammon cutting off the sheep-rustling Lamanites' arms. 

Chief and Buffy got excited and involved and wanted to help Honeybee. They all immediately made visual aids. They traced their arms, and colored and cut them out, and used red poster paint on the torn-paper ends, and there you have it: paper severed arms. 

Buffy, the oldest girl, grabbed one of the PVC/duct tape swords Dragoon makes for our kids, and while Honeybee gave her talk, Buffy acted it out, waving her sword behind her and spilling the paper severed arms out of a tote bag.

It was actually one of the proudest moments of my mothering career to date, my older daughters working together to combine Sharing Time with Sam Peckinpah. 

Likewise, I'm proud of Chief for managing to stay on-topic with his scripture. Granted, his scripture selection may not have been what the Primary Presidency had in mind when they assigned him, but I think procreation and fratricide cover the human family experience.  
 



 

Most families have a stripper. My family had me.

One of the favorite stories in the family saga happened when I was a small girl and we were living in Japan. As the story goes, I took off all my clothes and climbed some trees in the middle of the cul-de-sac, and had to be escorted back to our cinderblock house by snickering Japanese construction workers. 

When I was seven, I reached a compromise with my parents, and began wearing a swimsuit all the time as a concession to modesty.

I suspect part of the problem was that I was a child with that kind of annoying telekinesis that recoils from tags, seams, and impure cottons. Some of my kids have inherited this (Hanibess is our stripper) but clothes are comfier these days. Look at tagless tees. Since my 80’s childhood, some clothiers have finally realized that children aren't oversized dolls to be shoved into polyester outfits with huge knife-like seams, but, aha, actual people, who would appreciate a fiber that breathes and a non-binding inseam.

So as a kid I decided that if it weren't comfy, then I weren't wearin' it. My parents were likely eager to prevent temper tantrums associated with kinesthetic oversensitivity, hence, the swimsuit. 

20 years later, the swimsuit compromise seems to have worked. I began adding to my small pool of clothes I would wear, and now I’m an adult, and I mostly keep my clothes on. My parents couldn't be prouder. 

However there is a vexing irony in the commandment to “Keep Modest!”: Motherhood.

I began young adulthood at 19 when Chief, my 8 year old son, was born. I had just spent the last 15 years at church with “Keep Modest!” thundering down. (15 years to account for the years as a toddler when I ignored modesty, and the years as a teenager when I similarly ignored modesty. It wasn’t that I didn’t hear the lessons on modesty, I just didn’t listen to them.:

So it was traumatic to my dignity to give birth. ALL the bits I had been told to keep under wraps were right there, in front of strangers. In front of strangers a LOT. It was horrifying, up till I was uncomfortable enough that I didn’t care anymore., at which I point I felt simply taken advantage of.  

Once Chief was safely out, I thought, “Phew! That’s the end of it! I can forget about this whole embarrassing episode.”

Until the lactation consultant came into the room and "consulted" me right out of my hospital top. She was personally handling my very personal personal-ness before I had a chance to say with indignation, “Excuse me, do I know you?”

And you parents of small children out there are laughing at me, because you know that's still not the end of it. The Great Immodesty of giving birth and learning to breastfeed (sorry, "nurse", other ladies at church don't like me to throw around "breast" too much) is but a prelude to an entire immodesty-based lifestyle--from nursing a regurgitating newborn that makes wearing a shirt pointless, to shoving a post-partum body into clothes suddenly too small and too tight, to never going to the john or taking a shower alone again. 

And that’s just MY motherhood-related immodesty. That doesn’t even begin to cover (I have a weakness for puns) the immodesty of taking small people with you everywhere. Besides the way children like to loudly discuss genitalia in public, including visual demonstrations, or loudly comment on the size of Mommy’s rear end in a public restroom, some small children, when they are upset, like to begin stripping their clothes off and throwing them, like a mix of aggrieved Israelite rending his garment and a monkey throwing its—er, throwing whatever it has at hand.

 I have some of those small children. It’s like a bad martial arts movie around here, the way shirts fly off of chests.

I have wondered if nudists would have an easier time adjusting to the realities of parenting. I briefly considered it, but when I thought about how often I cook burgers and bacon, I decided to stick with clothes for now. Besides, Dragoon doesn't grok nudity. He's always cold as it is, and he's too ethnic British to be running around in the noodypants without convulsing in embarassment. If I were to go naked-with-no-clothes-on, then I would be a lone woman in the Garden of Eden.

All of this is to explain why, for me, modesty has always been, to me, an exotic and confusingly elastic concept.