Christmas and babies

You know how the angels sang for Jesus' birth, and how it was such an honor and privilege, and probably they were standing in line and/or employing some kind of extra-dimensional jiggery to fit everyone in who wanted to sing in the choir? How cool it would have been to be one of those angels?

That's how I feel about all babies. Seriously.

Hence the name of the blog...

State of the Cornelia

I'm working at the same middle school I have for the last four years, but in the library this year.

Yes, I do love it. No, it isn't... quite... a perfect job, but it is very fun, many days, and at the moment, it is by all means perfect enough.

I applied to librarian school (to be a school librarian).  It's an all-online program, which I can do the work for IN the library itself. Perfect! Now I'm just waiting to see if I got in...

This year in the middle school, we got fifty, yes, that's five zero student library volunteers. And if we'd had five, ten, maybe even fifteen or twenty student volunteers, I might have tried to train them to shelve in person, one by one. But for fifty... well... I came up with a shelving-certification program, with four separate levels, videos, games (NOT designed or programmed by me), and of course TESTS.

More of this anon. For now: I'm doing pretty well, overall. I wish I were further ahead in my life, but I'm used to wishing that, and excepting for that, life is pretty good. :)

What Jane Austen and John Grisham have in common

I sat down the other night and watched the second half of The Pelican Brief. (I had meant to watch the whole thing, but the DVD I had only had the second half on it, and that was entertaining enough for me in the end.) I enjoyed watching this utterly satisfying relationship between reporter and informant, how vicariously safe it feels to have someone totally on her side, willing to believe her, able to back her up.

And when it was over, I realized that this reporter reminded me of the Aunt and Uncle in Pride and Prejudice, and Admiral and Mrs. Croft in Persuasion. I realized that Grisham puts his characters both in physical peril and emotional peril, but Austen's characters are also often in emotional peril; she is one of the best authors I know at writing emotionally unsafe families.

And, in the end, they (each of the characters-in-peril) get away; they end up safe. SO satisfying. Not quite sure, yet, what I can learn and apply to my own writing, but it was nice to be able to figure this little thing out.

So small it's ridiculous

I've been keeping this new year's resolution since January, JANUARY did you hear me? And it's the middle of July, and I've missed exactly one week since I started, and that was the week of girls' camp when I was gone for five days and came back and slept for two more.

And the goal is: write for ten minutes per week, per project. Which is twenty minutes total. That's the basic goal; that's the one I've only missed exactly once this whole time.

It is SUCH a ridiculously small goal that I have been pretty embarrassed to tell anyone about it-- and yet, it has brought me so much happiness that I've sort of not been able to help myself.

Thus, my new rule of thumb: if a goal is so small that it's embarrassing, but is still not happening in my life yet, that is a great candidate for a goal for me. Ridiculous.

Just, you know, some news

A little news. I'm easing back in to this.

One of the toddler nephews carries a postcard around with him at all times. Mom (my mom, his grandma) says that it has a picture of a cityscape on it, she thinks. She found a birthday card for his younger sister, with some pretty butterflies, and sure enough, she now carries hers around, too.

In Primary yesterday (Primary is Mormonspeak for Junior Sunday School), we learned that one of our new adult leaders loves to eat Beef Wellington. None of us (except her) knew what it was, but she explained, and it sounded yummy, and the teacher ended by telling the children that maybe they could ask their parents to fix it for them. One of the four-year-olds' mother teaches the three-year-olds, and right then and there leaned forward and asked her mom if her mom would fix it for her. Her mom turned around and came right back with, "Does this mean you are willing to try new foods?"

And I found out that Dad used to have a grownup to sit by him in Primary. THAT was interesting. It means, at the very least, that my brother came by his hyperactive ways honestly, but it also adds more evidence (like I needed any; I'm pretty biased at this point) that children with extra energy can turn out very well indeed. :)

About this picture: I have no idea if it looks like the card Mom gave to my niece or not, but it WOULD  be a cute card for a two-year-old, would it not?

Aunties

Aunties

make

excellent playmates.

I am the queen

and you are the king;

you say sit here

and I sit.

And in class

my little girl

does not want to write

So I say:

I will not look

and then I feign surprise;

she is so delighted

we do it again for the next one.

Aunties

cook breakfast

enforce rules

read stories

make UP stories

wipe away tears

sing you to sleep

and when you are gone

they weep

and weep

and weep.

Aunties do not keep their babies.

We always send them home.

We know our limits

When you are mine

I am all yours

but always you must go

always I must be a wanderer

Always I have no home

when there is no small soul to anchor it

Update

It is much easier to write about successes than failures. *sigh*

But-- in the interest of not leaving you hanging-- I thought I would mention: the novel draft I finished last summer turns out to be something I can't bring myself to revise as yet. I keep saying that it's because it is so horrible that I can't bring myself to look at it, but that is only partly true. The other part is that I'm genuinely not sure I can fix it, and the thought of first teaching myself how to fix it, and then doing so, is kind of exhausting.

I remember one Sunday last summer, after I'd gotten in a 3,000-word-day the day before. Such a hot day! I took refuge in a basement hallway, where it so happened that instead of being a shirker, I was able to be a helper. Our ward's Elder's Quorum President and Relief Society President (if memory serves) were using baby wipes (supplied by the EQP; our RSP is single) to wet the edges of envelopes which contained invitations to the ward barbecue being held later that week. As we worked, I talked about how I had always sort of seen marriage as something that would take enormous amounts of work, and at times be very frustrating, but that the end result could be incredibly rewarding. The EQP agreed, and of course I always like it when people agree with me. But-- I went on-- the part I was not expecting was how eerily well my relationship with writing would fit this description: lots of hard work, occasionally very frustrating, worth it in the end.

All of which is to say that I've recently re-committed to my relationship to serious writing. To me, this means writing with intent to publish, and doing so every day. The decision makes me feel flail-y, and vulnerable, and terrified-- and also hopeful, and strong, and alive. I still have no idea how to fix that stupid novel; I still feel like my focus is basically nonexistent (am I a fiction writer or nonfiction? Focus on children or on grownups? Long-form or short form? And the questions go on...). But: it's the year of living dangerously, as it were. How many rejection letters can I collect? Can I make enough money from publication to buy a lunch out? Could I make more? It's time to find out. (*sigh*)