I’m reading through them again this year – a current book, an Anne book, a current book, an Anne. And through the first couple I felt like maybe I’d lost the ability to crawl all the way inside. I was afraid maybe I’d grown up, God forbid, or that I was thinking of them too much like work since I’m using the read to get in the right frame of mind for a novel I’m writing that’s basically a love letter to these.

Then I reached the third book – the one where Gilbert finally proposes and Anne turns him down and my heart breaks in five million pieces like I’ve never read the end before. And I’m definitely curled up, crawled in, happily escaped  – all that. It’s in this book that Ruby Gillis dies and Anne faces a spiritual awakening. She refuses no less than four proposals of marriage as we see how beautiful she’s become – not just the star-gray eyes but the spirit and kindness and the heart that makes her as desired for friendship as for love.

Despite its random paragraphs on Theodora Dix and Ludovic Speed, or its totally frustrating interlude for a romance [that is equally agonizing and delightful BUT STILL] between two characters we’ve never met and will never meet again, this book is more plot-driven than the first two or a couple that follow. And it’s the real beginning for Anne as a grownup, which fully shaped me as one.

And thinking about all these things has made me wonder if maybe I feel slightly less invisible inside the Anne book I’m reading, because my life has filled out so richly around it. It’s influenced by her and filled with perspective and a love for beautiful things that’s inspired largely by her. But it’s my own, with its own spiritual awakenings and romance and occasional crisis and boys.

I felt worried when the first two in the series didn’t undo me quite like they had in the past. But now I like the idea that this is only because I’ve been so busy building a life that I think would make her proud.

*photo source

I have a document on my computer, and a folder on Evernote, filled with writer quotes that ring true for me. And I fill it with my own personal rules too. Things like, but not exactly – because this folder is just for me – I won’t follow trends, I’ll write for the love of it, No unnecessary cussing. (Remember these are variations on what I really have in there.)

Well if, and I’m not saying I did, but if I’d been recently struggling to find the courage to develop yet another story, The Golden Globes went a long way toward the effort. Because where you might see a really long commercial for current releases and several DVDs or perhaps a mutual congratulations club among a group of people who take themselves way too seriously as often as they laugh, I see the inspiration to work hard at this thing called art, to believe in what you do, to do what you love, and to say something now and then – something that will last or at least for a moment, matter.

When Nathan Bransford asked, I chose from his multiple choice that I wrote to change the world. But I wouldn’t say that now. It’s more like I write to take the good things in the world and make sure you know they are there. Or sometimes, if I can accomplish it, to take the troubling things and make sure you know there is hope.

I always think I’m doing okay at life, taking it in and relishing its good things like I mean to. I even take pride in how often I avoid its speed and chaotic filling up of every single day. But then a holiday comes, four quiet days to do only the things I love most, and it’s sort of like seeing them again after a really, really long sleep.

Oh, hello, tall boy. You’re twelve now, and I knew that – I noticed after all, when you first came into life and every anniversary of that day since. Still, it’s nice to look at you, watch you savor your happy things as I savor mine.

And speaking of my happiness, hello, dark table. You’re the largest of the prettiest things I notice at home. You make supper better. And birthday cake. And the rounded edges of folded shirts and pajamas. I like your rich color and your still-brand-newness, which reminds me we just don’t see you enough.

I haven’t seen you in a while. That’s what I say to the top of the bright white dryer after sorting and putting away the heaps of things that have piled there. And what a useful white shelf sits above you when it’s not crammed with things that don’t belong. Little white vase and white flower, photo of my sisters in a frame, detergent, softener, and scrub brush: Welcome to my zen.

I’ve been meaning to finish you for a while, Ms. Voskamp. And you didn’t disappoint. This post is sort of inspired by you really. A list of noticed things. And a bright hello to the books unfinished on my computer or not yet begun in a folder marked ideas. I had time to think of you this weekend – big, long quiet after late, creative nights and long, restful sleep. I like you again, very much actually. I’ve planned our whole future together. I hope you cooperate, but I’m not worried. You’re my favorite work.

Hello boy of ten. I see those eyes and how they’re aging you. A child’s are found about half-way chin-to-crown. Did you know that? Yours aren’t there anymore. And they crinkle when you smile. And they’re Papa’s. Except they’re not when I take the time to look. They’re yours. All and only yours. Just like your comedy and your heart.

My bright, bright sunshine of five. I see your cheek before I press my own to it, praying I’ll never forget how that feels. Your hand still wants mine when we walk, and I love that. You’re right, you know. I said, “Will you always stay little for me?” And on my lap you said, “I think not.” And your brave and blatant fineness with leaving me someday made me almost as happy as the fact that you happily curled up with me then.

Hello, cat’s purr and heater’s whir and the ticking of the clock. Hello twentieth-century fox, how I love your sound. I’ve missed the noticing of all these happy things, the deep, satisfaction of really seeing them and truly taking them in. This morning I sat alone with the bread and the cup. I love how they feel, I love the lingering taste, I love the hot tears I welcome every time I hold them and think of the one I believe in who made me and watches as I notice all these happy things.

I’m not a fan of my hair right now. It’s not my color or my length. Its curls aren’t the texture I would have chosen if I’d been given a choice. (In fact, if you’ll remember, God, I did actually give you some suggestions on how it could grow out if you saw fit. Hmph, is my response to your answer.) But this song comes from Disney’s version of Rapunzel in which we think she has magic hair. But she doesn’t. And with the song I remember the truth as Michael said it to me after we’d seen the movie and as I faced the realities of chemo: The sunshine was inside her.

It also reminds me of worship. There’s a sound familiar to me from years of really long church services. It’s strong on the keys. It has pretty melodies and sweeping strings. And this song has it all. When I picture Alan Menken on his piano writing the lyrical tune, I know he was caught up in a swirl of hope and happy and longing and fulfillment that comes from somewhere else, from the other side, from somewhere inside us all that points to something outside and over everything, a swirl that puts itself in laughter, in kind words, in songs – anywhere it might be able to reach us. I’m not saying Menken wrote the song to God or that God wrote through him. I am saying God reaches me, through it.

In the 90s film version of Little Women, someone says to Jo, “You should have been a lawyer.” And she answers him, “I should have been a great many things, Mr. Mayer.” I suppose it’s a feminist statement, as if something outside her held her back. But I think of it simply as a statement on all the possibilities in life. And I like to imagine these and wonder what great many things I might have been as well. I like having wishes – really big and crazy ones that probably won’t come true but have and always will come true for someone and why not me? (I’ll go to New York one day, I’ll sing on a stage, I’ll be in the movies…). This song makes me think of a great many things I should have been and could still be someday.

And these are only three of the no-less-than-500 things. And so it’s on a loop. Round and round while I revise at night in the quiet of my house, full of hope and happy and of a great many things.

Image from Flicktalkers

Now, after crying and aching and laughing and gasping at the movie, I am wondering afresh – in somewhat hushed, don’t-kill-me-tones, if you made me choose, which medium I prefer: Books or Film. When I look at my bookshelf or the recommend-shelf on Goodreads (and in my sidebar), I know there isn’t any question. I love words.

But then I watch the sweeping cinematography of an epic movie or want to wear the fashions or eat the food in a particularly rich and visceral scene, and I think it might be film.

I like books that talk about movies and movies that talk about books. I like books made into movies. I like stacks and stacks of both inside my home.

I don’t have to choose, right? After all, they both have words. They both tell stories. They have both enriched my world and made me want to be a part of the enriching.

Right now I’m revising a novel that celebrates storytelling and story-living and this passion for the business of the first. And I’m desperate to finish it but more importantly to finish it well. And so although I’m writing every night and filled with intense pleasure  when that’s the case and vague despondency when it’s not, I’m also taking breaks to read beautiful things and watch beautiful films and remember why I’m doing this in the first place and attempt to learn the best and brightest ways to do it. It’s not my only job, but it’s my favorite one (second to Being Mama) – this writing and consuming-to-learn. And this weekend, that job brought me The Help, which I can’t recommend enough, along with these wise words someone gave to accompany it: I wonder what our generation believes (a la separate-but-equal) that will one day embarrass our children.

You see what I mean about enrichment? What a wonderful challenge to take away from a theater.

I’m ankle-deep in those revisions I was raving about recently but keep finding myself distracted like the dogs in UP. Only these distractions are way harder to resist than a squirrel because I’m convinced they would actually help me revise in the long run. Still, basically these are the equivalent to the reorganizing of nuts and bolts instead of just starting the project already.

1. Emma by Jane Austen.

All the signs are there that I should read this book again to see exactly how Jane Austen created a selfish, shallow character that we care about as she changes and grows up. (The signs being that Felicity mentioned literary heroines on her blog today and my new best friend, SECOND SIGHT by Cheryl Klein, uses Emma as an example during its revising exercises). Like Emma, my main character has a change ahead, and I’d love to perfect the flaws as well as the growth.

2. Anna and the French Kiss by Stephanie Perkins.

I keep hearing about this one. Plus, it has the Eiffel Tower on the cover, which I’m always drawn to and especially in light of the novel I’m revising. It’s on the list for sure.

3. Markus Zusak

I told you about The Book Thief, right? It’s a young adult novel set in Nazi Germany, narrated by Death, telling the story of a young girl who steals books and hides a Jew. It’s beautiful. Fortunately, when I was in a chemo stupor and didn’t quite realize what I was doing I also bought another YA book by Zusak – this one featuring a 19-year-old, which is similar to the age of my own YA characters, so that I can further study his language, storytelling, and ability to weave a YA story that is definitely enjoyable for adults.

4. Google+

This one can’t help me revise at all really. I just love it. I want to marry it in haste and learn about it later. The circles! I love them.

5. How I Met Your Mother

Creativity everywhere. (I’m finally watching, Felic!)

6. Plot techniques a la the aforementioned Cheryl Klein

That book is both an indispensable tool for revising and 101 Ways To Avoid The Actual Work. Shrink your manuscript and view it in miniature to see how the plot develops! Write out each chapter in one-sentence to see if there’s enough action inside! Map the exposition/inciting incident/rising action/and climax for EVERY SCENE!

Ee! I want to do them ALL.

7. The New Yorker

They come every week – thick, beautiful articles that teach me important things, like what our President is up to and that Pixar is an awesome place to work. Read this paragraph from an article by Aleksandar Hemon, and you’ll see why it takes time to read and think about these articles. (And to plot reactionary blog posts as well).

One of the most despicable religious fallacies is that suffering is ennobling – that it is a step on the path to some kind of enlightenment or salvation. Isabel’s suffering and death did nothing for her, or us, or the world. We learned no lessons worth learning; we acquired no experience that could benefit anyone. And Isabel most certainly did not earn ascension to a better place, as there was no place better for her than at home with her family. Without Isabel, Teri and I were left with oceans of love we could no longer dispense; we found ourselves with an excess of time that we used to devote to her; we had to live in a void that could be filled only by Isabel. Her indelible absence is now an organ in our bodies, whose sole function is a continuous secretion of sorrow.

I know. It’s not a happy quote. But it’s so very honest. I can’t see any immediate or worldly good for the death of his infant daughter either. Even though in general I do subscribe to the belief that there is always something to learn and oh yes there IS another plane. And I do believe it’s good. And he’ll wipe all tears from their eyes, I’ve heard. And there will be no more death, nor sorrow, nor pain.

Now it’s my new fave, an anthem for all the best things that have ever happened and all the best things I hope to happen in the future.

This night is sparkling, the lyrics say.

Don’t you let it go

I’m wonderstruck

Blushing all the way home

I’ll spend forever

Wondering if you knew

I was enchanted to meet you

The song in her own words describes a night in New York City when she’d met someone new. As she rode away later, the lights of New York City sparkled, and she felt that excited rush of emotions, grateful for the new acquaintance, hopeful for the future, wondering where it might lead. And the music and lyrics capture all that so well.

The words she uses were surely minted with just that emotion in mind: Sparkling, wonderstruck, enchanted. It reminds me of a children’s book I began once and how I stuffed it full of words that made me feel the emotion I was trying to capture. Words like apple and red-and-silver icing.

I love the song because it doesn’t only remind me of its most literal inference – the traditional crush. It makes me think of all the good things that ever happened, all the moments in life that make the monotony worth it. The moment when I first met each of my sons. New friendships that quickly and easily move into old ones. The people and moments that left me starstruck, whether they were famous at all or simply ordinary but wonderful. And definitely, definitely, especially considering the story behind the song, it reminds me of the first time I met New York City.

I’ve said before that there are emotions I wish I could bottle into my writing. I’m thinking of tweaking my personal mission statement as an author to this: Write books that feel like a song by Taylor Swift. Write books that leave people feeling enchanted.

(Image from People.com)

*Not long after we moved into this house, our new neighbor and long-time friend, Tom, told me what some of the trees were in my new yard. The one on the east is a tulip tree. But it’s so tall, and the tulip-like blossom blends so well with the leaves that I never actually noticed them until this year. For this picture, I held the camera above my head with my arms stretched all the way up, and this was the tulip closest to the ground. It was nice to finally see this tree though – after nine years, I finally saw it. It was the gift I gathered that day.

*Second, there’s a F.R.I.E.ND.S moment I love in which all the girls are wearing wedding dresses, drinking beer and eating popcorn, and Monica says, “I wish there was a job where I could wear this all day.” I have my own new dream job that’s similar, and it also involves a beautiful dress.

I drive by a bridal shop in my town – I’ve mentioned it before – that has at least six gorgeous dresses in the window display all the time, and they change pretty often. Lately, I’ve waited for a Kate Middleton-esque bridal gown to appear, but it hasn’t happened. I feel so happy every time I drive by this window. Ahhh, pretty dresses. I want to stand outside this window and eat breakfast, I recently tweeted. And I want to have a job in which I wear its window displays. Yes I do.

And while I’m wearing the beautiful dresses, I want to gather. I want to read books and magazines and blogs and just gather inspiration like I’m picking a bouquet. And it’s not like I would just be consuming. I’d turn the inspiration into inspirational blogs of course and into novels. I would. That would be the goal. Gather lots, create a little, every day. All while wearing designer gowns from Teresa’s Bridal Boutique. I love this plan.

*Third, I have an idea for you, to go with all the decluttering I know I’ve inspired you to do. This is, of course, for us declutter-ers who hold a bit more need for the sentimental than true minimalists.

You start with a binder – at least one and one-half inches probably – and you fill it with clear sleeves. Then you get a wedding invitation in the mail that you adore. It sits on your table for a week or so until you clean that off, then it sits on a shelf or the top of the fridge – oh dear – or between the magazines on the end table. When you reach that end table during the decluttering process, you won’t know what to do with that pretty little invitation – or that birthday card that still makes you smile when you see it or the first award your child got at school or the doodle your husband made at work when he was still just your boyfriend and he was thinking of you. You’ll know you might as well throw it away, but you can’t help but wonder if it might be sheer delight to look at it again one day in the future when you’ve forgotten all about it. That’s when you remember the binder. You tuck the invitation into a clear, plastic sleeve. Now it’s no longer clutter but a page in the book that tells the story of your life – not the epic parts maybe, but the little parts that equal the whole.

So you buy your binder, and I’m going to get mine out and add to it some of the snippets currently on shelves and such (though not the fridge top, because that’s a place I’ve already tackled!). And now, we’re all gatherers.

I love this job.

Dan White, musician, blogger, and brother-in-law, encouraged us all to join a project last week called

M O S A I C.

We would all create something – anything, and the completed gallery would be a variety of projects from a variety of artists. I made this, a mosaic in itself, of photos and memories from my NYC trip last year.

A person I follow on twitter used to, or still does, #thankfulThursday tweets. A few blog readers will know I kind of have a thing for Thursdays. They’re just the perfect time of the week – I’m no longer trying to get into it, I’m not too far from being done with it. I’m very present on Thursdays. I was afraid after going to New York last year, in the words of Anne, it would spoil regular life for me. I worried I would want to move there (and I kinda do) but that I’d have to divorce Michael to do it and also sell all my earthly goods and win the lottery. I was so delighted to find that visiting there didn’t make me dissatisfied at all. Instead it just added to a lifetime of happiness. “I’ve been to New York. New York!” I breathed that happy in and the thought just compacted all the other happy ones, so that I felt more full of contentment than ever. I felt glad New York exists, that I could visit it any time I wanted, that I knew people there.

Apparently it’s a New York City week, and I’m not sure why because I didn’t even watch the Glee finale until last night. But I think, really, it’s a thankfulThursday sort of week, in which I count the goodnesses in life, of which having been to New York City, is only one.

I love it. I never knew I would love it, but I do. We were a busy family when I was a kid, but we were busy with different kinds of things. So this is new to me. I never did any sports past the first eye-opening year when I realized how hard I would have to work to get better. I hate that now, wishing I’d been more dedicated to at least one. When I watch the kids, my heart is fully there, but I’m  quiet. Other people yell things like, “Down and Ready,” “Hands up”, or other sport-appropriate versions of you were supposed to be here or there and do this or that. But I can’t in good conscience yell much of anything. Authentic choices might be, “Good job for playing sports!” or “I’m so glad you’re out here instead of on the Wii!” (Have you noticed this generation’s “I’ll be there in a sec” has turned into, “Can I just finish this level”? I wish I had a Barnes and Noble gift card for every time I’ve heard that.)

So I’m all there, fully present, if less aware than the next mom about exactly where they should be when as I cheer for them. And I’m so proud of them I can hardly stand it. And I love our life with three athletic boys.

Still. I also love to see a bit of me in them. They have Michael’s freckles, Michael’s love for sports, his competitive drive. Drew has Michael’s run – I noticed it at track-and-field day – the shoulder blades, the focus. But as we drove to our three baseball games last night, Drew sat beside me in the car with a plain, cheap notebook that hadn’t been used. He cracked it open, flipped the cover beneath, and faced the blank page where it sat on his lap. “A fresh piece of paper,” he said with barely contained glee. “What should I draw??”

And I smiled. Huge. Because I loved the baseball games we were headed to. But oh how I loved seeing me in him, the same drive to create, the same audacious belief that he could, the same sheer delight at a blank, white page.