She Writes and Rights

Inspired By.

2012-01-27T11:02:00.000-08:00

I've wanted to get my hands on it for a long time, and now I am finally and blissfully engrossed in Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird. It is as good as everyone has insisted, and it's just what I need right now. I love the imagery in this,

"I wish I had a secret I could let you in on, some formula my father passed on to me in a whisper just before he died, some code word that has enabled me to sit at my desk and land flights of creative inspiration like an air-traffic controller. But I don't."

Yes. Exactly.

And today my thoughts are flighty and somewhat incomprehensible and so I'm thankful that this weekend is here, and that I can fly around with them, exploring new ideas, and hopefully capture them on a page somehow.

These are the words and ideas that inspired me this week, the ones that are still floating around in my head, among other things. I hope you find them as delightful as I have.

25 Insights on Becoming a Better Writer.

"We lost the bet and won everything." A beautiful post on marriage.

Are you a midnight hustler? Ryan Gosling has something to tell you.

Words for the heartbroken.

Why joy?

Bones and bodies : the mystery of our physical selves.

[Photo : my peace lily. The one living thing in my apartment besides me and husband. I find it fascinating. Also, do you follow me on Instagram? Let's be photo friends.]

Mingus at the Showplace : Digesting Experience

2012-01-25T07:43:00.000-08:00

I heard an excerpt of this poem on my favorite morning radio show this morning, during a report about the Poetry Foundation. I howled with laughter at the first line, and delighted in the words as they flowed on.

Mingus at the Showplace

BY WILLIAM MATTHEWS

I was miserable, of course, for I was seventeen,
and so I swung into action and wrote a poem,
and it was miserable, for that was how I thought
poetry worked: you digested experience and shat
literature.

Read the rest of the poem here.

And I am so thankful that in the digital age, radio hasn't died, and neither has poetry. Happy Wednesday, friends.

Poem : The Movement

2012-01-24T12:41:00.000-08:00

The Movement

I’ve never been able to cartwheel.
Even as a kid.
But since everything in my life is changing,
Upside down and backwards to how
I thought I would feel,
I figure,
I should do things differently.
Make changes.
Try, for once, to feel triumphant,
exuberant,
because
YES!
I did it!
I’ll stretch my body out.
Reach my hands to the firm ground.
Let my feet feel the wind,
the free-flowing sky.
Let my stomach muscles loosen
and my belly-button see daylight.
Because I am capable of movement.
I am capable of being moved.

Inspired By.

2012-01-19T15:11:00.000-08:00

I feel compelled to say something.

I hope that my posts this week didn't mislead you.

Let me explain.

I lost my mom less than three weeks ago, and yes, I feel totally different than I anticipated.

But.

I hope that my motivation and my words and my thoughts didn't lead you to believe anything other than that this grief is real. I'll be honest with you, I'm getting the "you're doing so great!" line a lot. Maybe that's my fault. I've been giving the blanket, generic, "I'm doing fine" line, too. And I appreciate the support and encouragement. Really, I do.

Yes, I have newfound motivation for my morning routine when I expected to be unable to get out of bed. Yes, I am writing now more than ever when I expected my words to run dry. Yes, I am focused at work when I expected to be incapable of functioning. Yes, I am making plans and goals for the new year when I expected to be stagnant indefinitely.

But this difference that I feel in my everyday, in my faith, in my self, is downright befuddling. Confusing. Strange. Surreal. It is not a "great" or a "fine" or a word that denotes anything close to easy.

I've encountered something, and it has stolen my breath away. I sense the vastness of life, and it feels so much larger and deeper than before. And it is a terrifying magnificence that evokes wonder and awe and worship and shock and fear. Maybe something like the astronauts felt the first time they looked back to earth from the moon. Or how a mother feels at the peel of an infant cry in childbirth. Or how a diver feels when he happens upon the Lions Mane Jellyfish. It is all surreptitiously heartbreaking and beautiful. I feel grief, and also peace.

And I don't get it.

But I do get it.

But I don't.

And so really, all I want to tell you, is that should you survive loss, like most of us have to do at some point or other, don't expect anything. Prepare yourself for the reality of life and death, but try to let nature run it's course, not just in the person you are losing, but in you. Let life overwhelm you and change you. I hope that you get that part of it, at least.

Meantime, here is some good reading for the weekend.

What makes me feel beautiful : wine and words.

"The real question at the heart of Harry Potter is, Can love win? And it’s answered in Snape, the second cruelest person in the world, next to Voldemort, who is somehow transformed by love." - Snape is my type of hero.

"Give away everything you know, and more will come back to you." Sound advice, no? House of Reps, are you reading this?

New level, new rules.

Here's to the mess.

Oh, and this photo.

Morning : A New Routine

2012-01-18T15:50:00.000-08:00

I am not a morning person. When the alarm goes off at 6:15 my body feels like a dead weight. My ears don't really hear it until 6:30. And the purpose behind that annoying jingle doesn't really register in my brain until 6:45. And then the dread sets in : the effort of getting out of my warm bed, making myself presentable, going out in the cold, dealing with morning traffic, answering emails at work, doesn't make sense from the comfort of my fetal position beneath a pile of blankets. To my shame, I have been known to sleep until 8 a.m.

The bright spot, the one motivating event of my every morning, was my phone chat with mom on the commute to work. I would climb into my car, put on my headset, dial her, pull out of my parking space, and before I reached the end of the lot and started on the road she would greet me with a cheerful,

"Good morning, my Bethy."

As the months of 2011 waned on and cancer took its toll on her body, this routine changed. The cheer in her voice lost its color and vibrancy. Conversations grew shorter. And there were many mornings when instead of that phone call, I received another one from my dad or my grandmother saying that they were taking her to the hospital again. I let the depression settle into me, keep me in bed a little longer each morning, away from the world, away from work, away from writing and everything "wrong" with my life.

You can imagine how different my mornings feel now, to know that our routine is forever changed. No phone calls, no cheery chats. It would be all too easy to justify staying in bed permanently.

Yesterday I pondered words for 2011. Today I ponder words for the first weeks of 2012.

The one word that seems to fit for this time :

C H A N G E .

2012 is my year to accept that change. To live with it, work with it, respond to it. I figure that since my mornings are fundamentally different now, why not roll with it? I know what my mother would do to me if she knew I was sleeping in and arriving late to work every day. I can't dishonor her like that.

So I'm getting up early, when my alarm actually goes off… Okay, here's a secret : I employed the help of my best friend, who has to be AT work at 7 a.m., to text me repeatedly until I answer her that I am out of bed. And I can't lie to her, so I might as well actually get up when I say I am going to.

And from my bed I walk to the kitchen, where our shiny new french press awaits, and my bright yellow tea kettle sings hello, good morning, and I pour a mug for myself, mom's mug.

From there the day begins. I've even allotted time to pack my lunch. And instead of dwelling in the silence of a morning commute without my mother, I call my grandmother; it doesn't do to dwell in the loneliness.

So let the change I feel be the change I need in order to rise early and greet the day in a new way, with gratitude, with discipline, with determination.

Five Words for 2011

2012-01-17T15:13:00.000-08:00

1. S A V O R :

The bittersweetness of this year taught me to savor every moment. Through it I learned to be intentional about making memories. Life is so rich with blessings, even when times are hard. I see the whole of 2011 in the memorable moments : trips to the beach, long drives to and from Chicago, visits from my brothers, good conversations and good music and city excursions and goodbyes and birthdays. Every moment is a gift; let yourself enjoy the present.

2. C R E A T E :

2011 taught me so much about creativity. For the first time in years, I allowed myself to explore poetry and the visual arts. And those things, which seemed so secondary to who I am, became lifelines for me. They steadied me in a way that I did not anticipate, and also gave me a freedom that I could not attain in my work life or family life. Once I began, the instinct and drive were a force that kept me moving forward. Creative drive is transformative when we allow it to be. In 2012 I fully intend on pursuing these things further.

3. C O N N E C T :

I've crossed paths with so many amazing people this year, almost all of them as a result of this blog. I always thought of writing as a solitary experience, but words are universal; they have a way of tying us to another in a spirit of truth and creativity. I branched out in a big way by meeting with some of them in person, and I'm excited to meet more of you in 2012. I met Ally and Darrell in September when they came to Chicago for the Story Conference and I guest posted for both of their blogs. And I met Abby, Melissa, and Jess at the Business in the City event in December.

And as for the friends I "virtually" connected with,

- Joe and I guest posted for each other in November

- Missy and I exchanged her book for one of my paintings and have been connecting online ever since

- Sam and I discovered in one another twin bookish tastes (among many other similarities)

- An old college friend and I bonded over shared experience with loss.

- And Brynna, Mandy, Helena, Elizabeth, Rachel, and Blane all shared their writing with me, too.

4. R E F L E C T :

I wrote a lot this year through journaling, poetry and blogging. I am so thankful I did, because now in my desperation to hold on to the blessings that seemed few and far between in 2011, I have written record of them. Scanning through my blog archives and the pages of my journal, I see now that the year was full of good things. My reflections in my writing then created an opportunity to reflect on them in the future, too. I can reflect on those for years to come and keep those moments alive in my memory.

5. F O C U S :

2011 was full of distractions. I didn't pursue freelancing in the last six months because I needed time to be at home with my family. I didn't pursue grad school for the same reason. I didn't make any changes to my blog over Christmas break because I was at home spending time with my mom, too. If you want me to be really honest, it also affected my finances, my marriage, my friendship, and my office job.

And though for a long time it seemed that I was being plagued by all these inconveniences and injustices, I realized as time went on that it was, in fact, one really important thing helping me weed out all the other inconsequential things which distract me from what's truly important.

2011 taught me to say "no" in order to say "yes." It taught me to work, blog, write, relate, and create with intention. It taught me to see life in death. It focused my priorities.

I wonder what my words will be for 2012. I think enough has happened so far that I can come up with at least one word before the week is through. Stick around. And tell me, what are your words for 2011?

Back on the Blog.

2012-01-16T14:20:00.000-08:00

I've been afraid to start this, unsure that the words would come, unsure that if the words came that they would adequately touch the depth of this experience. But as with all forms and subjects for writing, the important part is to begin.

My mother died on a snowy Monday morning two weeks ago. We missed her by minutes. I slept fitfully in a recliner in her hospice room all night prior, counting seconds between breaths, trying to remember to keep breathing myself. My father slept on an air mattress next to her bed, doing the same. The nurse came in at seven to check on her and administer more medication and left to get a stethoscope. Our eyes drooped closed, and when the nurse came back, she had gone. The air slowly exhaled in one long quiet breath from her lungs, and she crossed over into the next world. It was as simple and as peaceful as that, just as we had prayed for.

I cursed myself for missing it, for not being awake to hold her hand and say goodbye. But now I understand that I was doing exactly that for the months, weeks, days, and hours beforehand. Things had become so apparent; as much as we wished it were different, we knew what we were facing. Therefore, important words did not go unspoken. Time was not wasted. There was no limit to love in those days; how grateful I am for that. And in the moment she left, it was appropriate that she make that transition independently; she didn't need anyone to cling to her and beg her to stay as she made her way into a new life that she rightfully deserved.

I can't say much without saying it all, and a single blog post won't hold the whole of it. If you're at all like me and you haven't experienced death first hand, you probably have all sorts of questions running through your mind :

Is it scary? Can you sense death's presence mentally, spiritually, emotionally? How do you know when they are getting close to the end (days, hours, minutes)? How do you carry on conversations with each other when things become that serious? Is it better to talk about it, or avoid it? How do you spend time with your loved one in the days before their death if they are conscious? How do you comfort and encourage them as they reach death? Losing a loved one is hard - where and how do you find solace and strength to keep living? When your loved one suffers from a terminal illness, can you really find relief in knowing that they are no longer suffering, or is that just something ignorant people tell you when they don't know what to say?

There is a lot that people don't talk about when it comes to death. Why bring it up now, when things are fine? But death is a part of life. Whether it is from a terminal illness, natural causes, or a sudden accident, it happens to each of us; it's only a matter of time, and we never know for sure how much of it we have left. And there are so many ways that it changes us as we witness it, and as we draw closer to it ourselves. A sense of our own mortality is part of what makes us human.

So in the weeks and months ahead, as I process this loss, I will write about it here. If you have specific questions, or if you have your own story to share, please email me. I'd love to dialogue about it.

Love you, Mom.

2012-01-04T21:03:00.000-08:00

Tina Kay Droscha

July 21, 1961 - January 2, 2012

Love you, Mom.

A blogging break.

2011-12-29T15:10:00.000-08:00

I am standing this side of something. A tunnel. A current. A dark place. An ocean of grief. It feels so strangely appropriate to stand on the precipice of a new year, and to stand at the ledge of this experience. I know that light awaits me. And I know that the light will not meet me all at once, but in slow, gradual gradients as I make my way across. And then I will stand, feet in the tides, on the opposite shore and welcome the sunrise. But first I must take the plunge.

I’m taking a break from blogging to turn my focus to my mother as she lives out her final days with us. She has battled breast cancer for 14 long years. We are deeply grateful for her life, for her love, for her unwavering faith and strength to the very end.

I wish each of you a happy new year. See you on the other side.

On Writing : Louis CK Interviewed on NPR

2011-12-28T17:57:00.000-08:00

The following is a quote from comedian Louis CK in an interview with Terry Gross on Fresh Air from a couple of weeks ago. I found this bit about script writing especially insightful. Louis had decided to write an episode for his FX series, Louie, based on some of his fellow comedians, in which a friend has informed him that he has decided to commit suicide. Louis wrote the episode mere months before his friend and fellow comedian Patrice O'Neal died of complications from diabetes.

Gross : Have you been in that position where somebody's told you that they want to kill themselves and you have to decide what are you supposed to do with that?

C.K. : Well, it's a scary thing to ponder, you know, but it's emotional to hear that clip now because, I mean, I wrote that about a lot of comedians I knew coming up and comedy and show business are very cruel and they don't have a nice way of saying no or good-bye, you know? And a lot of guys live really tough lives in this racket.

And I've known a lot of them and come up with some of them and some have made it, some haven't. And, you know, the idea of somebody saying to you look me in the eye and tell me I have a reason to live, it's terrifying to think, well, what if I fail them in that moment?...

And, you know, it's just funny because I have such a different perspective on that issue of, like, someone's not taking care of themselves. Someone's not keeping themselves safe, and what is your role in that? And the anger I feel towards Doug in that scene is the kind of anger I feel about Patrice now that he's gone. So it's interesting to look back on it because the thing – the place I took myself in that scene, as I was writing it, I didn't know where it was going. I knew I wanted to stand on that street and have him give me that news and I didn't know where I wanted it to go. So I started writing to him my argument why not to kill yourself, and as I was writing it I realized for this argument to succeed would be really gross. For me to, like, be the guy who gives him the reason to live is so self-serving.

And the fact that I was even attempting it on paper, I was embarrassed alone in a room. And so the way that I – the path I found to the truth of the scene for me was having Doug be the one to tell me how full of crap I was for trying it. So in other words, as I was sitting there typing here's why you shouldn't kill yourself, I stopped and said to myself, oh my god. Congratulations, you pig. You know, who do you think you are? And so then I had Doug basically say that.

I think the quote speaks for itself, but I will say that this is something I contemplate often. In my younger years of writing, I felt afraid of writing what I know, afraid that if I wrote it, it might not be the truth because it's just me and my perspective. Yet, I have this desperation to write and life as I experience it only spurs me toward writing more. I have to tell this story, I think to myself. How do I tell it truthfully? Will others understand what I mean by what I write?

But the truth is what you know when you're writing in a room alone. It's what you uncover, beneath layers of drafts and words and ideas, once you sit down. It is scary because it is real. Don't be afraid to write the truth.

Merry Christmas

2011-12-22T16:12:00.000-08:00

Source: vintagerosegarden.tumblr.com via Julie on Pinterest

"Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.”

- Luke 1:78-79.

Wherever you are, however you celebrate, may you find light, peace, love, and mercy. Merry Christmas, dear friends.

P.S. Friday, December 23 is the last day you can enter to win one of my paintings on Abby's blog!

bookish : A Guide for the Dreaded Semicolon

2011-12-19T13:40:00.000-08:00

The dreaded semicolon. Most avoid it using it, but it's really not that hard to understand. Should you need a re-education in appropriate semicolon use, here is your guide, courtesy of the Oatmeal :

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.

P.S. Don't forget to enter Abby's giveaway for The Ripe Word! Enter by Friday, December 23.

Holiday Giveaway : The Ripe Word

2011-12-17T09:26:00.000-08:00

Abby is hosting a giveaway for my Etsy shop, The Ripe Word, on her blog from now until Friday, December 23! Head over to Underlined and Bold to enter! Thank you, Abby, for supporting my little shop!

Business in the City

2011-12-15T14:29:00.000-08:00

Tuesday night I joined Jess Constable of Makeunder My Life for Business in the City, a gathering of small business owners for the purpose of talking through ideas, struggles, and plans related to starting a new business. Now that I've opened my Etsy shop, I'm looking for ways to connect with other small business owners and dialogue with them about this process. Having a network of like-minded people is key to building your business, for moral support, for idea generation, for learning the nuts and bolts of business success. It was so great to hear the diverse ideas and experiences that other attendees were there to share. A definite feeling of we're all in this together.

I also had the pleasure of meeting two dear blogging friends live and in person, Abby and Melissa. Abby is a nanny/waitress/traveler/blogger/total free spirit girl that blogs over at Underlined and Bold. She just completed her first ever marathon just because she wanted to "prove to myself that I could do it." How awesome is that?! Keep your eyes open, Abby is doing a giveaway of one of my paintings in the next day or two. And Miss Melissa is a freelance writer that is about to celebrate transitioning from her full time job to her freelance job - so inspiring! Go get 'em, girl.

Tuesday evening solidified so many things for me. That writing this blog was the best random thing I've ever done. That there are people in this world that understand this visceral need to make an impact, to leave a positive mark, through art and writing and creativity. That the best thing I can do for myself, for others, for the world, is just keep going.

Thanks, Jess, for opening up this opportunity for beginners like us to be inspired and motivated.

Poem : For the Apple.

2011-12-13T08:11:00.000-08:00

For the Apple.

I delight in the crispness of an apple,
my lips wrapped around smooth skin
and pure, sweet flesh
broke open between my teeth.

To hold it in my hand,
the weight of it reminds me,
the gleam of green skin reminds me
of growth
of goodness
of briskness and autumn
of contentment
in the order and seasons of things.

Sun
and rain
and leaves of trees
then blossoms bursting to this new thing,
this sweet new thing,
ready for the picking,
for the plucking,
for the grip of my fingers,
for my lips on its skin
for my delight in this gritty, delicious
nectar of nature
and newness of life.

In one sweet moment,
I hold goodness in the grip of my hand.

book·ish : In the Haze of a Good Read.

2011-12-09T15:09:00.001-08:00

Loving this quote from one of my favorite actors. I can totally relate, Mr. Firth. Are you in the haze of a good read? I've just begun 84, Charing Cross Road at the recommendation (and donation!) of a friend. I'm already loving it.

Source: imgfave.com via Bethany on Pinterest

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.*

Inspired By.

2011-12-09T13:54:00.000-08:00

I feel like I haven't done one of these in awhile, but this week my schedule was normal for the first time in awhile, allotting plenty of time to catch on my daily reads and log them, too. I hope you enjoy these as much as I have. Despite how hectic and crazed I've felt this fall, I am still reminded overwhelmed with gratitude when I check my twitter or read my blog comments or peruse my favorite blogs every day. I have found a community of people that are encouraging and challenging and honest. What more could I ask for as a writer in such great company? Thank you.

"The body is naturally buoyant. By lifting your head out of the water and remembering to simply breathe, you’ll be able to float much better." The same is true for writing and blogging.

What are your three things? Take 20 minutes and let this change your day.

Any excuse for a cup of coffee and a good conversation.

"The unforgettable bicycle of Shakespeare." A wonderful story of learning and survival.

The Muppets : commies or inspiring artists? I think I will go with the latter.

Peruse at this : Commonly Misused Words and Phrases.

After reading this post, this post, and this post, I want to read this book.

"The world has your hands, but the deepest parts of you belong to something else." For this reason, be sure to rest this weekend.

Did you discover any good reads this week? Do share.

And a poem on gratitude.

[Photo above : a sneak peek at new designs coming to Writes & Rights in the new year. Excited? Me too.]

Readership Doesn't Determine Writership.

2011-12-08T15:31:00.001-08:00

I've been churning out poetry and journal entries like a human word mill, but when it comes to writing prose I've been struggling. I write with a feeling that I come close, but I miss the mark. The head of the nail is far away from where my words land. Poetry so adequately touches my emotions in that deep place where the logic and structure of prose do not fit. I dwell in that place right now. Memories fill my thoughts. Words and rhythms come naturally, lull me to sleep when the practicality of life feels burdensome and scary.

If you don't believe me, I can send you a screen shot of the 47 different TextEdit windows that lay open and waiting with half written posts in them. I can tell you that the only things that feel accomplished and complete to me are the six [count them! 6!] poems I've drafted in the last two weeks. This is record breaking, but also upside down and backwards to my usual pace and direction and orientation of writing.

I've been worrying and nibbling off all of my finger nails over the idea that my blog isn't a plethora of "Top 10 Ways to Blahblahblah" and that my daily blog readership is approximately 38 percent more than the number of people that actually respond to what I write.

No more.

I've given myself a manicure and moved on. Because here is the thing that consoles and motivates me :

My readership doesn't determine my writership.

I am a writer, first and foremost. My blog is a medium for my writing, not the other way around.

Most blogs are prose, pieces of advice for learning how to build SEO in order to become the next piece-of-advice giver. That works for some people. It's garnered 30,000 readers and an e-book publication for them. Congratulations.

I say that without sarcasm or disdain or jealousy.

I say that with gratitude for the encouragement and useful information that continue to guide my journey as a writer.

And I say that with the knowledge that it isn't for me.

I may lend my advice on occasion, but mostly, this space is my medium for sharing my creative writing and dialoguing about the process. I'm going to be posting a lot of poetry and pieces like this one, but maybe not as much prose or any formulaic posts that make my SEO and Klout score happy.

So what, Bethany?

I guess I'm finally coming to terms with the idea that it's good to be a writer that blogs, simply and plainly. And for the first time in awhile, these words I'm writing don't feel forced.

This space is where you will find me. The whole me. The girl that sits amidst half empty coffee cups and pens and scraps of paper and writes what she thinks about the world, in whatever words and order they come to her.

I am no expert, but I have things to say about writing and creativity and life, and I'd love to dialogue with you about that. Join me. Let's sit down with a cup of coffee and talk about our families and our dreams and what we wrote last night.

The Velvet Coat.

2011-12-05T14:20:00.001-08:00

It hung on her coat rack for most of my childhood. My five, six, seven year old hands would pet the cuff, rub it against my cheek as she shoved my feet into snow boots before school. A picture of her in it hung above my Grandmother's rocker for years. Her dark feathered tendrils disappeared into the dark velvet collar, her face and eyes shining out from it with happiness, mischief. She was gorgeous, I thought.

One day she handed it to me.

"It'll fit you now. Do you want to try it? I used to wear it to see the opera in the city while I was at college. Made me feel special with heels and my tweed skirt."

And as I slip it on in the mornings, right sleeve then left sleeve, flinging my own dark hair from beneath the collar, I imagine her in this life before we knew one another. Laughing, glamorous and innocent and young in a dark velvet coat in the amber glow of city lights. I wrap it closer to myself, this jacket, this girl in another world. Stay with me now.

book·ish : A Holiday Gift Guide.

2011-12-05T09:40:00.001-08:00

With Christmas just around the corner, I've been browsing Etsy for gift ideas. I've found plenty for family, and of course, plenty to pine over for myself. Here are a few gift ideas for the word nerds in your life.

A Bookish Gift Guide. This one is conglomerative - Woolf, Bronte, Shakespeare, Austen are all noted here, but there are some functional pieces as well. And what reader doesn't love a good houndstooth scarf?

Let Shakespeare do the talking. Say I love you and Merry Christmas with one of these beautiful pieces.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.

Poem : The Return.

2011-11-30T14:06:00.001-08:00

I'm returning to days now -

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday…

A natural order of things.

I think in grief, to return to simplicity is the only way to seek restoration, to find healing, to cope, to comfort one another.

The sound of your loved one's steady breath,

a clock as it flicks mutely in the dark,

a bed that is our own.

In case you missed it : Guest Poem on The Write Practice

2011-11-28T12:55:00.000-08:00

Last week I shared a poem of mine over at Write Practice as Part II of a our dialogue on good poetry. [I was a bit preoccupied, so my apologies for the late linkage.] My process for writing poetry is very visceral. My initial thoughts are what get written, and editing comes much later. The one that I've shared is in its infancy - naked as a newborn, in fact. It has a lot of maturing to do, so I need your critiques and comments.

book·ish : holiday party outfit.

2011-11-28T07:47:00.000-08:00

So after a rough couple of weeks I'm back home in Chicago and ready to move forward. We brought Mom home from the hospital on Thanksgiving Day and set up in-home hospice care. I'm thankful that for the time being we are all okay. But more on that later when I'm feeling brave.

For today, I'm dreaming of happy holidays and a great outfit to wear to them. Indulge with me.

I'm thinking that with these earrings and my red suede pumps and a little black dress, this bookish bracelet will be the icing on the perfect New Year's outfit for a party downtown? Oh yes. And since it's Cyber Monday, now would be the perfect time to buy it all for me, right? [Hubby, are you reading this?]

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.*

*All items posted in the book·ish section are found by myself and posted of my own accord unless otherwise stated. If you would like to be a sponsor or host a giveaway, please contact me at shewritesandrights[at]gmail[dot]com.

Guest Poem | Joe Bunting.

2011-11-22T09:32:00.001-08:00

Today's poem was written by Write Practice blogger Joe Bunting, and we're bringing a little bit of the Write Practice process to Writes & Rights. This is Part I of a two-post dialogue about what makes a poem good. Tomorrow I'll share a new poem I've written over at Write Practice, but for today, we're looking for constructive criticism on Joe's piece. So share your thoughts- what parts of Joe's poem stick with you, resonate and tap into your innermost thoughts? Or does it? What parts of the poem are effective, and what parts need work? Do the imagery and message behind it speak clearly through Joe's language? Join the conversation about good poetry.

~

Learning, Still, to See

Where are you?
Do you see that white bird
in the red branches of the shrub?

Do you see this pile of dead leaves
pushed into a ditch from a parking lot
sprinkled with soda cans?

And do you see me, sitting atop this yellow
flower quilted hill—did you look close?
Did you notice each flower is the size of an ant?
Did you notice each is shaped like a stretched out bell?
Did you see the millions of ant-sized yellow bells?
If not, where are your eyes?

Where are your eyes and where are your feet?
Did you dance while God played the pipe in those red branches?
Did you weep when God played a sad song in that pile of leaves?

And did you see the old man dressed in a cornflower gown?
Or the old woman wheeled against the wall?
He stares dead ahead. Drool drips down her lip.

(They watch television and wait to die.)

Old man will you teach us to dance?
Old woman will you teach us to weep?
And will you teach us to see that white bird
Singing sad dance songs in the red
branches of a shrub I do not know the name of.

Maybe then you will learn to see.
(Maybe we'll learn to see too.)

Joe Bunting heads up The Write Practice, a blog of writing prompts for people who don't do writing prompts, where he considers himself the community editor. As a day job, Joe is a ghostwriter and canopy tour guide. (seriously. he hangs out in trees all day long.) Follow him on Twitter. Woohoo!

What Makes a Poem Good?

2011-11-21T09:00:00.001-08:00

"Good poems tend to incorporate some story, some cadence or shadow of story... You could, without much trouble, commit these poems to memory and have them by heart, like a cello in your head, a portable beauty to steady you and ward off despair."

Today I'm thinking about how thankful I am for words and that feeling that you get when you read something that feels so right, so accurate that it taps into your innermost being. I've been rereading Garrison Keillor's Good Poems, and I finally read the introduction. He had some beautiful and amusing ideas about what makes a poem good, but I love this point in particular.

It is this concept that has motivated me to paint and produce artwork, and now share it with others. I am deeply interested in the steadying effect that art and poetry have on human nature, the way that these things color my world, bring it to life when everything feels grey and desolate.

This week I'm swapping guest poems with another blogger, an exercise meant to open the discussion about the process of writing poetry, and using language to tap into the deepest parts of ourselves. Stay tuned.

Inspired By.

2011-11-18T20:38:00.001-08:00

It's late and I'm exhausted. I am soul tired and bone tired and trying hard to grasp onto the good things and face reality, such as it is. Mom sleeps next to me, here in our own quiet room of a fifth floor oncology wing. For a few hours this evening she was coherent, ate a small bowl of soup and her headache was gone, her fever was down, her levels looked good. A glimmer of hope.

I don't know what to think about anything. I don't have a lot of words to say. And for the first time in a month, I don't have a paintbrush in my hand.

I have memories, good ones. I have prayers. I have a whole host of angels that call, text, tweet, message, and show up live and in person to love on us and ease the pain. And I have these little links of happiness that have made hard days a little brighter. I hope you enjoy them as I have. If you found a good link this week, do share.

Clouds.

Light.

Warmth.

Lovers see like artists do.

Unearth your story.

And a random comfy chair I'd love to curl up in right about now.

Insecurity in Art.

2011-11-15T15:16:00.001-08:00

Last Tuesday morning as I sat in a cafe chatting with a friend and getting ready to launch my new art shop, my best friend was preparing her culinary midterm project. This is her first term in pastry making, and she was nervous. Ten minutes into the process, she accidentally sliced open her finger as her professor watched, sliced it open badly enough that she had to leave her midterm and go to the emergency room for stitches. The poor girl. Mercifully, her instructor told her she could retake the midterm on Thursday. He knows from experience the nervousness, the danger of being a brand new chef in a kitchen full of fellow brand new chefs.

And this morning was so much like another morning I remember. It was late August, at the very beginning of my sophomore year. I was standing at my easel for the first day of Drawing I. The classroom was warm in the haze of an un-air-conditioned building, but I was scratching away at my sketchpad, glancing back and forth between my page and the prop - a lone orchid on a stool in the middle of our circle. I glanced at the girl next to me. My orchids drooped, clunky with the weight of too much shading, while her feathery petals sloped delicately across the page. I felt suddenly, regrettably faint. My face flushed with anxiety and blackness clouded the corners of my vision. I couldn't breathe. The professor walked past, and noticed my hand poised motionless over the paper.

"How's it going?" she asked brightly.

In a shaky voice I asked to sit down. She went and found me a glass of water and let me sit, head between my knees, until I could breathe again. I couldn't bear to look up and see if the other students were stealing glances at me and my incomplete page. As soon as class was dismissed I rushed back to my room and collapsed in the middle of our floor to the half amusement and concern of my roommates.

There are a hundred more moments like this one built up in my head : the time when, reading aloud in front of my advanced composition class, I stumbled over the same phrase in my own essay several times before finally reading it right. The time when another art professor walked into the quiet and mostly empty art studio and criticized my painting, even though I wasn't his student. The time that I cut my own finger while slicing bread with Erica for dinner - I nearly passed out and she had to bandage my finger for me.

These moments pile, one on top of the other, like bricks. My insecurity is the mortar that seals them all together into a thick barrier that separates what I am doing now from what I want to be doing in the future. I become hardened and indifferent to art, believing that there is no place for it in my life. I am not meant for it. It is not mine to enjoy.

But it's a defense mechanism, this wall. It puts me in a dark place where my blog posts and poetry and sketches stay buried, lest someone finds them lacking and amateur. It's where all my excuses are born, reasons to keep my cooking and my art and my writing to myself. It helps me hide away my thin skin.

But what joy is there in art unshared? A slip of the knife is an easy mistake. No matter how steady our hands, we are all thin-skinned and fragile, vulnerable and easily exposed. A wall will only bury us and who we really are. There is no joy in that.

I'm working to break down the walls I've built around myself, to bare my thin skin and share my art with others, no matter how painful the process, no matter how raw it makes me.

We have to be willing to slice ourselves open, to pour ourselves out onto the page.

Are you in a dark place? What walls have you built around yourself? What painful moments are you holding onto, or rather,

What painful moments are holding you back?

[All images by me, Bethany Suckrow.]

Poem : What I Learned from My Mother

2011-11-15T09:32:00.001-08:00

Friends, first I want to say thank you for the overwhelming support at the announcement of my new shop last week. At this point, I'm excited to report that I have more orders to fill than I can really keep up with and more ideas and designs floating in my head than ever. It's so hard to predict inventory before opening the store, so perhaps I got a little bit ahead of myself... Oh well. It's an exciting time.

Of course, it's in the midst of this joy that life, in it's unpredictability and indifference to our preferences and plans, chooses to intrude and remind me : it's out of my control. I went home for the weekend, and it turned out to be a lot harder than predicted. I share with you this poem in honor of a friend that passed away, and my mother who is in the hospital again trying to regain strength after a hard week.

What I Learned from My Mother
by Julia Kasdorf

I learned from my mother how to love
the living, to have plenty of vases on hand
in case you have to rush to the hospital
with peonies cut from the lawn, black ants
still stuck to the buds. I learned to save jars
large enough to hold fruit salad for a whole
grieving household, to cube home-canned pears
and peaches, to slice through maroon grape skins
and flick out the sexual seeds with a knife point.
I learned to attend viewings even if I didn't know
the deceased, to press the moist hands
of the living, to look in their eyes and offer
sympathy, as though I understood loss even then.
I learned that whatever we say means nothing,
what anyone will remember is that we came.
I learned to believe I had the power to ease
awful pains materially like an angel.
Like a doctor, I learned to create
from another's suffering my own usefulness, and once
you know how to do this, you can never refuse.
To every house you enter, you must offer
healing: a chocolate cake you baked yourself,
the blessing of your voice, your chaste touch.

[Image via.]

Introducing : The Ripe Word.

2011-11-07T20:41:00.000-08:00

It started with this little idea I had and it grew into something surprising. Something big and unpredictable and good. And I can't believe I'm writing this post, that in mere moments my little idea will be out there for the world to see. Nevertheless, here it is. My little idea is now a big idea about to come to fruition.

My friends, I have started a business. The Ripe Word is my very own Etsy shop I have created for selling my watercolor and ink paintings.

Where did my little idea begin? It's a long story, but in a nutshell, I've always been an artist. I've been drawing and painting since I was really young. For a brief while in college I was an English and Visual Arts double major, but discovered that visual art was more enjoyable when I was creating it on my own terms, rather than in a classroom setting. So I quit. I chose one over the other. For awhile after that I didn't pick up a sketchpad or paint at all, I think because I felt intimidated, but also because I was preoccupied with finishing my degree in English/Writing. After I graduated, I began to pursue it again - slowly, quietly, when I was sure that no one was looking.

What sparked the impulse to sell my work? A few months ago, a family friend began planning a silent auction for my mom to raise funds for her medical debt. She asked me to donate artwork for it, knowing that I dabble in it. I said yes without any forethought to what I would create in order to contribute.

And then I began to think : what can I create that will be more than beautiful, but will also serve as a glimpse of my mother's story, and mine too?

Some of the text incorporated into the artwork is poetry written by myself, some are quotes from poetry or prose that inspires me and speaks to life as I see it : beautiful, brief, and sacred. The images themselves - mostly fruit and other natural objects - are meant to depict life, healthy, joyous and simple. Life the way that it was meant to be enjoyed.

Noteworthy about The Ripe Word :

Fifty percent of the profits from each sale will be donated to my mom to help her as she continues to pay off her medical debt. She was first diagnosed with breast cancer in 1997 and was later diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer in 2002. Since being diagnosed with metastatic breast cancer, she has undergone a variety of treatments and surgeries, and spent much of 2011 in the hospital. [Read more about my mom's story here.] This is my way to honor her, and help her in a way that I am able. [In case you were wondering, yes, she does think I'm crazy for offering this, but since I inherited her stubbornness, she can't stop me.]

The Ripe Word is going green. I'm currently researching materials to make this an eco-friendly business. Paint, paper, ink, mat frames, packaging, and business cards are all on my list of to-find. If you're an artist that works with these materials and can give me good recommendations, I am all ears.

A Note of Thanks :

The auction for my mom was held in mid-October, and it drew a crowd of more than 800 of our "closest" friends, family and acquaintances. My family is truly blessed to have such a strong support system. Even in the midst of one of life's hardest experiences, we have discovered profound joy. This business is in part dedicated to the people that continue to support me and my family, for the prayer and the visits and the meals and the hugs that keep us moving forward. Without you, I wouldn't have had the courage to do this.

With Love,

B.

book·ish: cheeky bookends.

2011-11-07T12:50:00.000-08:00

These so belong on my bookshelves.

Via Knob Creek Metal Arts on Etsy.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.*

*All items posted in the book·ish section are found by myself and posted of my own accord unless otherwise stated. If you would like to be a sponsor or host a giveaway, please contact me at shewritesandrights[at]gmail[dot]com.

Follow me and my bookish board on Pinterest!

Inspired By.

2011-11-04T16:27:00.000-07:00

This song has been on repeat in my head and in my earbuds for well over a week now. Her voice is rich and buttery as it swells in intensity to a ringing sharpness that sends a chill down my spine. It is a reminder of what I'll never be. If I could sing, steal a voice that isn't mine, it would be hers, the way it rises above layer upon layer of strings and slow, steady beats to a pinnacle of meaning, of sweetness and then down again, settling into itself like a folded blanket.

But each of us has our own voice. It is unique to us, and it is unique to the ear of the listener. Our words and our tone speak to us and who we are, our intentions, our secrets, hidden or exposed. They speak to the listener and who they are, how they interpret what they hear, and how they respond to our voice with their own. A dialogue.

Our voice is one among a sea of voices, a reverberation of echoes that often beg the question : am I audible? Maybe if I say it as she said it, I would be heard. Understood.

It is this I struggle with in various capacities and contexts :

To trust the strength of my own voice.

To let it ring true or fall silent as the moment demands. To write, speak, sing with my own words, whether or not anyone is paying any heed. To temper my envy and insecurity with respect for each voice in its uniqueness and respect for a shared reality : no voice can be duplicated. Each is autonomous. Each is temporary. We are tasked with choosing words carefully while we have the opportunity to say them.

Here are a few voices from around the web that I appreciate :

"And that is when art serves us best — when it helps us not escape our pain but transcend it."

"It's a confusion like I've never felt. Not the swirling words of competing reasons, but a blank page." Without Assurance.

Some good news for us artsy-fartsies.

"Her split reminds us that the planning of a wedding is not the same as the planning of a life together."

When the Words Don't Fit.

When your worry feels the size of the grand canyon.

Because I'm obsessed with food.

"The silence is his breathing in." Autumn Wind.

Questions I have for people who have their life figured out.

Feel free to share a few of your favorites from the interwebs this week, friends. Happy Weekend.

Guest Post | Un-Growing Up.

2011-11-02T11:47:00.000-07:00

Today's guest post from Brynna Lynea King is dear to my heart and very close to my own story. If you're a twenty-something like us - or any age for that matter - and still trying to figure out how to be a grown-up, this one is for you. Or have you had an epiphany like Brynna's? We'd love to hear how each of you are working towards un-growing up.

Un-Growing Up

Recently, I became a writer. Oh, well, that's not quite true. Let me start again.

One month ago, I finally decided, once and for all, to be a writer. I started a freelance business that I hopegrows into something fabulous.

Here’s the thing, though: I have written since I learned towrite, which was nearly 20 years ago. I won writing contests in elementaryschool and had an original poem chosen for publication in high school. Imajored in writing and literature. I'vebeen a contracted writer for a marketing agency for over a year. So what is thedifference between that and what I'm doing now? Is it that I made anannouncement, or named a business after myself? No. My identity as a writer isnot a company name or a website or business cards or professional headshots.These may have helped me convince myself, but they came after my decision wasmade. The reason I am choosing to be awriter is that, after a lifetime of self-doubt, I realized that I was at riskof letting my dream slip away. Andgetting in the way was “real life” – or, what I imagined real life meant.

I “grew up” four years ago. I transferred colleges to focuson my future. Then I got engaged. After that, I graduated. In barely over a year, I had gone from beingan art-bleeding, hard-partying singer-songwriter and the keyboardist in areggae band to transferring schools, cleaning up my act, and planning awedding. Soon, I found myself applying to graduate school to be a teacher –because after all, what does one dowith a writing degree?

But then came the trouble. I had a wonderful husband and aneat, pretty life. But it wasn’t nearlyas fulfilling as it was supposed to be. In my junior high classroom, I feltlike a kid trying to act like a grown up in front of other kids, unable to bemyself -- my not-really-very-grown-up self -- for fear of seemingunprofessional or losing respect. And I was wearing slacks. At home, I was attempting to play perfecthousewife, overwhelming myself with assuming all household responsibilitiesbecause I thought that's what good wives do. I found myself in the midst of aviolent, self-inflicted identity crisis based on my own assumptions about whatit means to be an adult -- assumptions that almost cost me my dream and a hugepart of myself.

The truth is, I’m an artist. I’m a writer. I have trouble picking up after myself, and sometimes Ienjoy a little chaos. And so, to balancethe pendulum, I've been working on un-growing up -- just a little. Here are a few things I'm learning.

"Growingup" does not mean becoming someone you're not.

Are you becoming a better version of the REAL you? I can tryto be a neater neat freak all I want. But I am not a neat freak at all.Un-growing up here means letting go of selves I sometimes wish I was, and workingpurposefully on improving the self I am. The real grown-up qualities ofresponsibility, wisdom and maturity are good, necessary things. Add these toyour true self; no made-up self can wear them nearly as well.

Growing up does notmean achieving perfection.

You're driving yourself crazy. And I guarantee your spouse,boyfriend, or best friend is also growing weary of your constant pursuits inthe direction of perfection. Repeat after me: perfect is boring. Some synonymsof “boring” are characterless, colorless, drab, and lifeless. Whenyour goal is perfection, you miss out on creativity, which is almost alwaysmessy and never perfect. Perfectionism robs you of life and joy.

Growing up does notmean you can't have fun.

One night fairly recently, I got mad at my husband when hetold me he only likes doing chores when he can make them fun. To me, thissounded immature and irresponsible. Really? If chores can be fun, why shouldn'tthey be? Stop taking yourself so seriously.

Un-growing up isletting go, deciding for yourself, and enjoying the process.

It's throwing out expectations, unrealistic standards and,most of all, rules. Rules like "you must major in somethingpractical" and "you can't have any fun once you have kids" and"wash your sheets every week.” Says who? Take your three-month-old camping. Major in underwater basket weaving,if that’s what lights your fire. And surround yourself with people like myamazing husband who will make sacrifices (like washing the sheets) to supportyou in your dream, because it’s what you haveto do.

At the risk of sounding like your Facebook wall, I turn tothe legendary Steve Jobs, who really had this one down:

“You've got to find what you love… Yourwork is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be trulysatisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to lovewhat you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking. Don't settle. As withall matters of the heart, you'll know when you find it. And, like any greatrelationship, it just gets better and better as the years roll on.”

I didn't decide to be a writer until I realized I might haveto spend my life doing something else. I might just grow up and leave writingbehind.

No, thanks – I’m going back for it, and it’s coming with me.

Brynna Lynea is a freelance writer and blogger at brynnabegins.com where she blogs about her creative process, taking chances, learning new things, pursuing projects and dreams, and leaning on the grace of God. It is about enjoying today and not worrying about tomorrow. It’s about paying attention to the process. Check out her stellar freelance website or follow some of her everyday musings @brynnlynnea.

book·ish : Was Shakespeare a Fraud?

2011-10-31T15:26:00.000-07:00

Hello, dear friends. What did you do this weekend? I had a hot date with the hubs last night after a busy week and we went to see Anonymous, the new literary/political thriller that asks an extremely controversial question...

Based on the theory proposed nearly 100 years ago, Anonymous purports that it was the 17th Earl of Oxford, Edward de Vere, that penned the plays and poetry that we know as the work of William Shakespeare. This theory is largely regarded in academia as little more than salacious hogwash, yet Anonymous Director Roland Emmerich [known for such films as Independence Day and The Patriot] makes an extremely evocative argument, and I have to admit that the theory over all has some pretty solid points.

For instance, Shakespeare was a commoner with limited exposure to the royal courts, absolutely no travel experience, and little more than an elementary education. Yet, the overwhelming majority of his dramatic work is set in the royal courts and in a foreign land, most commonly Italy. And despite his minimal education, he wrote entire plays in iambic pentameter and his words are still some of the most well known and most well loved in the English language, if not all of history.

By contrast, Edward de Vere not only had the education, travel experiences, and exposure to the royal courts, but many circumstances in his life closely mirror those that are interspersed in Shakespeare's plays, several of which are highlighted in the film. So the basis for the plot line is immediately compelling. [For a full explanation of the theory, view this trailer from the director.]

As far as the film itself, costume design and cinematography are excellent and the acting is superb on all counts. Rhys Ifans plays a tortured Edward de Vere that has spent his life writing an arsenal of plays and poetry that infuriate his wife and his father-in-law, William Cecil, who was Queen Elizabeth I's advisor [played by David Thewlis.] But though he writes constantly, the Cecil family has blackmailed de Vere into never publishing his work. After attending a play at the local theatre and being taken with the way a good production can move an audience, de Vere talks Ben Johnson, a struggling playwright trying to catch his big break, into publishing de Vere's work as his own. Johnson, aptly afraid he would get caught, confides in his friend and fellow actor William Shakespeare about the deal, leaving De Vere's identity a secret. When Johnson hesitates to reveal himself as the writer of Henry V at the end of its first live performance, Shakespeare, portrayed as an illiterate drunk that lusts for the spotlight, jumps on stage and claims it as his own work, thus beginning a public sensation and making Ben Johnson de Vere's only confidant in the truth.

Vanessa Redgrave portrays an aged Queen Elizabeth I that is beginning to teeter on the edges of dementia and failing health, but still understands the threat that surrounds her without a direct, and I might add, legitimate descendant to her throne. Joely Richardson is a razor-sharp depiction of the young Elizabeth, both beautiful and devastating.

Perhaps the most controversial, confusing and disturbing theory that the film claims is not de Vere as the true author, but rather the why behind this whole mess spun that has spun so wildly out of control. The complex and rather jumbled climax of the film hinges on revelations of just how many central characters are actually the illegitimate children of the Queen. All of them that know the true identity of their biological mother want to stake their rightful claim to the throne. These revelations emphasize the political influence over theater in that era, but they also bring to light more deeply personal motivations for de Vere's plan to publish his plays beyond popular acclaim.

The plot is shockingly cringe-worthy, but also really really hard to follow for several reasons, all of which I would classify as directoral failure. The characters are addressed by both their royal title - the Earl of Oxford, Earl of Essex, the Earl of Southampton - interspersed with their first and last names. Okay, I can understand that one. But there are also flashbacks within flashbacks within flashbacks, in which the young and old versions of each character may or may not look like themselves but who definitely look like entirely separate characters in the film... that may or may not be blood relatives. The film has no steady chronological foundation, and it is immensely frustrating. If you want to see it, you should plan on taking notes.

The film is a rabbit-hole of who slept with whom and when, a complex web of incestuous and malicious relationships that destroy each of the characters. For the well-versed Shakespeare reader, every aspect of the film evokes the very soul of the infamous playwright that brought us Julius Caesar, Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, and Richard III - whoever he may really be.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.

5 Ways Travel Changed Me | Life Goal Accomplished.

2011-10-26T16:14:00.000-07:00

3 : Life Goal Accomplished.

I stepped through the sliding doors of O'Hare and watched myfiancé drive away, willing myself not to chase him down and make him take mehome. Three months traveling alone had suddenly lost its appeal. Despite mymisgivings, I dragged my two gargantuan suitcases to the ticket counter beforeanyone could run over me with their own half-ton luggage.

Once my baggage was checked and sent off to board my flight,traveling alone felt slightly less daunting. My tickets in hand and withrenewed determination in my steps, I found my way to my terminal. I had a phonecall to make.

I had spent that summer living with my aunt and waitressingat a family diner in Janesville, Wisconsin. Howie, a 78-year-old retired GMassembly worker and one of my regular customers, came into the restaurant forbreakfast and dinner every weekday. I'd flirt with him casually as I took hisorder [he had the specials memorized], listen to his latest encounter withBetty, the woman that he walked with at the shopping mall each morning. Everyday Howie asked her out on a date, and every day Betty told him no. I'd tellhim about my weekend and about my travel plans for the fall semester. He'dnever been outside of the continental United States. At the end of the summer Ipromised him I’d send a postcard from each city I visited.

But when I arrived at the airport, I realized I hadforgotten the receipt that had his address scrawled on the back. I called thediner, knowing that at eight in the morning he was probably still sitting in hiscorner booth finishing up his one pancake with peanut butter and a slice ofham.

Mimi, the manager, yelled to Howie that he had a phone call,and from across the restaurant his voice echoed through the receiver,

"For me? Are you kidding?"

"It's Bethany," she shouted back.

Several geriatric steps later, he picked up the phone, hisbreath heaving,

"Doll, is that you? You miss me already?"

"Yes, Howie! I realized I forgot your address." Iscrawled it on the back of my ticket envelope.

"Say, where are you anyway? Aren't you supposed to beon a plane?"

I explained that I was waiting in the airport.

"You nervous?" he asked bluntly.

"A little," I admitted. "Matt just dropped meoff and it hit me: I can't believe I'm doing this."

"Listen, your old man Howie has never been anywhere inhis life. All this nothin' will be here when you get back. You wanted to dothis all your life! Just take your ticket and go. Don't forget to write me. Youpromised. And when you come back, you come out and see me and we'll have a hotdate and you'll tell me all about it."

"It's a deal, Howie." I replied. The wrinkle ofworry across my forehead disappeared; a grin spread across my face. Who caredif anyone else in the terminal was watching.

"Alrighty. You take care a you and I'll see you realsoon," he said, and hung up before I could really say goodbye.

Howie said what everyone had been telling me, yet hearinghis voice as I sat in the airport solidified it at the right moment. It was toolate to go hunting down my luggage and make a coward of myself. He was right. Iwas ready for this. And I was finally doing it.

After years of daydreaming and wondering if I'd ever be ableto go, I was embarking on my greatest adventure, my biggest dream. And therewere many moments when it felt surreal, when I stood at the edge of theUntersberg overlooking Salzburg, or stood atop the Eiffel Tower overlooking thewinding web of Parisian city lights, or when I leaned my head against thewindow of the train and watched the tracks wind around the Alps, and thought :

Am I really here? Am I really doing this now?

I was afraid to shut my eyes, afraid I would miss it. I luxuriated in each moment, each meal andcity tour, anxious that I would gobble them up all at once and it would be overtoo soon. I journaled constantly, my hand glued to pen and paper, commemoratingevery memory to words so that on days like today, 3 years later, I wouldn'tforget.

And I wrote to Howie, careful to share as many details with him as I could fit in the tiny space on the back of each postcard. There was never enough room, so I almost always sent two postcards from every place I went. That's the beauty of writing: it can vicariously transfer experiences, allow one person in one place to connect with another on the other side of the world.

And there were many moments [like this one] when it feltscary, when I worried that leaving my home and my family was a mistake, when Iwent a whole week without hearing Matt's voice, when I was utterly weary oftrains and planes and dirty hostels. There were moments when being surroundedby the same group of friends every waking moment for 3 months couldn't erase acertain isolation and loneliness that settled into me the longer we lingeredthere.

But. I did it. I achieved a life goal.

And the opportunity taught me that dreams, though they requiresacrifice, are worth what you invest into them. I returned, changed and happy,satisfied and ready; whatever came next, I knew I was capable of doing it.

And when I slid into thebooth across from Howie 3 months later, he grinned, his arthritic fingerswrapped around a thick stack of postcards.

Photographs:

1 : Buckingham Palace, London. November 2008. | 2 : Hall of Mirrors in the Palace of Versaille, France. November 2008. | 3 : Me, outside of the Palace of Versaille, France. November 2008.

5 Ways Travel Changed Me | Exploring New Landscapes.

2011-10-24T16:03:00.000-07:00

2 : Exploring a new landscape.

There's something deeply inspiring about removing oneself from the familiar. Like a fellow writer shared last week,

"Travel does so much for the soul. It reassures a writer that the world is still a beautiful and endless space."

Sometimes, a change in scenery is all we need to remember that life is not as desolate, or boring, or mundane, or hopeless as we might have thought. And sometimes, the change in natural landscape offers new scope for the human experience because it offers different cultural, culinary, creative, political or social environments. Travel, the act of going to places that we've never been before, adds dimension to the way that we think.

Some people don't yield to it, allowing new places and experiences to shape or inspire their thoughts and ideas. For me, the opportunity to travel is an opportunity to grow. I find it impossible to be indifferent to new landscapes, both literal and figurative. The more space I have physically, the more free I feel mentally.

Salzburg, the place I called home for three months, is nestled among the Alps. The air itself feels quieter and cleaner there. And like its natural environment, the culture of the city is quiet and contemplative, as though the people who live there are there to rest, to live as simply and happily as possible, to go for a bike ride or a hike, to sit on a park bench and whisper to each other in Deutsch.

It's so different than the way I live my life here in Chicago, driving my battered minivan everywhere I "need" to go, jamming my schedule so full that the last thing on my mind would be to take time out of my day to meditate and reflect, the way that I used to when I lived in Salzburg.

Other places like Berlin, Munich, Rome, Prague, Paris, and Amsterdam presented opportunities, too, to examine the way that people live, the way that they process and commemorate historical events, the way they eat or enjoy nature, the way they entertain, the way that they get from one place to another.

The change of scenery renewed my creative spirit. The change of culture challenged my mind.

How do you navigate the terrain of a different way of life?

It's a question I haven't stopped asking since.

Photographs:

1 : Ljubljana, Slovenia. October 2008. | 2 : View from the Monchsberg. Salzburg, Austria. September 2008. | 3 : Amsterdam, Holland. November 2008. | 4. The East Side Gallery, the Berlin Wall. Berlin, Germany. October, 2008.

book·ish : what do you read when you travel?

2011-10-24T10:56:00.000-07:00

I stood in the airport before I left for the first of four flights en route to Austria for a whole semester, and realized I hadn't brought a book. I was suddenly overwhelmed by the prospect of having nothing in my hands, nothing to preoccupy my mind for that much time. So I went to the book kiosk and picked up Atonement, and since I had already seen the movie, I figured I might like it. Did I ever! This is one of my favorite books of all time, and there could not have been a more appropriate novel to carry around Europe. When I read a good book, I love to become immersed in it, imagine myself as the characters. The setting for McEwan's novel [1930's and World War II Europe] was the perfect fictional backdrop to my travels and my studies. What are your reading habits when you travel? If you read books, do you prefer fiction or non? Autobiographical? Does a magazine suit your attention span better? Do you prefer a book to a digital reader?

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

5 Ways that Travel Changed Me | Exposure to Great Art.

2011-10-20T15:51:00.000-07:00

When I signed up to study abroad in the fall 2008, I knew that it was going to change me. And I wanted it to. I think most people get to a certain point in life and get bored. College is a great excuse to travel because you can get credit for it, and because you can run run as fast as you can away from the third-year slog when you're sick of the whole school routine, but not ready to graduate.

So there I was, bored out of my mind and ready for something different, something independent, and I'd been wanting to travel abroad for as long as I can remember. So I choose an awesome program through my university that offered optimal traveling opportunities - 3 days of school work, 4 days of traveling each week with a 10-day trip to the destination of my choice. It sounds expensive, and you're right - it wasn't cheap. However, it was the best deal out there. It was the cost of a regular semester of tuition plus the inter-continental airfare, a 3-month EuRail pass, a €150 per week stipend for travel costs, and room and board included in the charming Haus Wartenberg [est. 1694.] Yes my friends, it does exist, this beyond-perfect program. I traveled to a grand total of 24 cities in 15 countries in less than 3 months.

But what does traveling abroad really do, aside from letting you escape your normal routine? Why and how did it change me, particularly as a writer and creative? This is part one of five in my series about how my travel experience changed me.

1 : Exposure to great art.

There are less touristy ways to explore a city, but to me, the museums are one of the best ways. This is the essence of culture and human thought distilled over centuries, passionately portrayed through painting and sculpture, writing, architecture, furniture, and personal artifacts. One of my fondest memories was an afternoon spent at the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam, which houses the most extensive collection of his pieces and personal items in the world. Then, of course, there is the Louvre and the Musee D'Orsay in Paris, the Uffizzi and the Accademia in Florence, the Vatican Museum in Rome, the National Gallery and The Tate in London… I could go on.

The opportunity to see this kind of work gave me perspective on the scope of art's emotional and cultural impact on humanity. Art matters. It is what remains of our legacy long after we are gone.

In that context, and at that time in my life, my perspective on my own writing and art shifted from being a source of anxiety to a source of identity, something to cultivate and be proud of. I still struggle with that concept, but I did come to understand that this is what God made me to do. The instinct to write when I was traveling became a source of solace and therapy, a way to commemorate my thoughts and experiences as I went, and to pay tribute to the artists that I deeply respect.

Have you traveled abroad? What are some of your favorite museums? Pieces of art?

Photographs:

1 : Me in Prague, Czech Republic. October 2008. | 2 : Sculpture heads, the Vatican Museum, Rome. September 2008. | 3 : Fountain outside of the parliament building in Vienna, Austria. September 2008.

[All images were taken by me, Bethany Suckrow, except for my portrait, courtesy of Brenda Ronan.]

Guest Post | Soul Traveling by Elizabeth Hudson.

2011-10-19T15:03:00.000-07:00

Today's guest post is brought to you by Elizabeth Hudson of StoryWrought.Wordpress.com. She's traveling to Ireland this week, a place that is dear to my heart [I've been there 3 times.] What's your soulmate country?

Soul Traveling.

Even as I write this post, I’m sitting in the airport, tingly fingers moving across the keyboard.

Why am I nervous? I couldn’t tell you.

I’ve traveled before - many times in fact.

But never to my soul mate country.

My friend Amanda termed the phrase, and while I cannot take credit for it, I can understand it completely.

You know, that one place where you feel more at home than anywhere else in the world. And even if you haven’t made it there yet, that one place that you long for, unable to rationally explain the desire to others. It’s that landscape that you’ve dreamt of for years, even without glimpsing with your own eyes.

For some, it’s Chile. For others, it’s South Africa, Italy, or Thailand. For you, it may be New Zealand or Sweden. But for me, it’s Ireland. And it’s always been Ireland.

And it’s Ireland that I’m betting everything on.

Four days ago I said goodbye to a steady salary, a position with promotional promise, the choice of renewing my lease with a roommate I call best friend. All for Ireland.

I booked a flight and gave my three-week notice, determined that a two-week road trip in Ireland would change me. Inspire my being with new experiences, new words, new characters and electrify my writing.

I haven’t the slightest clue what will happen in the upcoming months. I just know that I’m going to come home from Ireland [unwillingly], write until my knuckles ache, and look for any way to make it abroad again.

Because travel does so much for the soul. It reassures a writer that the world is still a beautiful and endless space.

That purpose can still be found out there in the wilds of city streets and spongy moors. That all you have to hear is that clear whisper of vocation in your ear.

“But you must be quite sure, Stephen, that you have a vocation because it would be terrible if you found afterwards that you had none.”

- A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, James Joyce

So in only a matter of hours, I’ll be landing in Shannon to search out the answers I’ve been waiting so long to hear: that I am a lover of words for a reason.

Ireland must be that place.

Elizabeth Hudson is a writer and blogger at StoryWrought.Wordpress.com currently abroad in her soulmate country of Ireland. She writes about writing, creativity, travel and story. You can catch more of her musings at @wanderinglizzie.

[Photograph by Bethany Suckrow. Taken outside Temple Bar in Dublin, November 2008.]

book·ish : A Traveler's Companion

2011-10-17T15:27:00.000-07:00

This week I'll be talking about traveling as it relates to creativity and writing, so let's start by addressing a traveling necessity: the journal. If you're bookish and writerly like me, a well-designed journal is positively pavlovian.

My criteria for a good travel journal : preferably leather because it's durable, and it has to be small enough to fit in a purse or side-pocket of a bag or coat [I have a hard enough time traveling light without adding a family-Bible sized journal into the mix.]

So here are a few of my favorites.

The Traveler's Notebook from Baum-Kuchen. Its pages aren't lined, for those that like to sketch, doodle, etc. And its cover - so sexy, so smooth. Want.

I love the vintage feel of this one.

A foodie journal [because eating my way through Europe or South America or Asia sounds like an excellent plan.]

And don't forget the classic Moleskine. Whether you choose a regular lined or blank journal, or one designed specifically for travel, their smooth hard covers are aptly durable and beg to be filled with stories of your adventures. These are designed specifically for cities! The Amsterdam notebook would have been nice to have that time that I got lost [a story for another day this week.]

And this sweet little Moleskine wannabe, found in Ljubljana, Slovenia for just a few tolar, was my favorite travel companion. [I added the stickers as I went city to city. A cheap and fun souvenir.] To this day, I pull it out and read entries when I'm feeling wandersick.

wan·der·sick |ˈwändərˌsik| Adjective

1. experiencing a longing for travel during a period of time when travel is not financially possible, nor convenient to one's schedule.

2. the antithesis of homesickness.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.
2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.
3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.
4. (of SheWritesandRights.blogspot.com) anything of the aforementioned characteristics as they are found on the interwebs and reposted by Bethany, because bookish and writerly things always give reason for amusement.

Choosing to Live

2011-10-17T12:51:00.000-07:00

"I chose to live like I was living with cancer instead of dying from it." - My Mom.

Inspired By.

2011-10-14T15:54:00.000-07:00

I'm headed home in the morning to spend the weekend with my family for a belated birthday celebration. As I go I am distinctly aware of the blessing that this moment is. Holidays and birthdays and anniversaries tend to flag a reminder: you're in a different place than you thought you would be. That can be good, and it can be bad. A few months ago I was afraid of my birthday. I was afraid that it wouldn't be celebratory, because at that point my mom was in the hospital, and we weren't sure if and when she would leave. But this birthday has turned out differently, beyond expectations. She's home, and the distinct cheer in her voice leaves me speechless, deeply grateful beyond words.

It's this gratitude for life, this gratitude for grace that is my motivation and inspiration for the project I'm working on, soon to be revealed. And so I ask you, as I often do when we reach the end of another week, what is it you're grateful for? What inspires and motivates you? What makes you laugh? Cry? Create? Demonstrate your gratitude.

I touched briefly on this topic in my guest post this week, but next week I want to go in depth with you about the experience of traveling abroad and how it changed the way I approach life, my writing, my dreams and my goals. If you have had a similar experience, I'd love to read about it. Please email me at shewritesandrights[at]gmail[dot]com to share a guest post next week about traveling as it relates to personal, creative and spiritual growth.

Until then, here are a few lovelinks from around the interwebs this week...

What do Elvis Presley, Nelson Mandella, George Washington and Picasso have in common?

Confessions of my generation.

Flick Chicks.

Happiness or Holiness? What should really determine a good relationship.

On Writer's Block, Poems, and Mom Jeans.

"The times I argued I was an adult, I was a child. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have had the fervor nor the interest to make my point." No Children in New York.

I love Missy Durant's imagery here about holding the door closed. And also this quote, "...That’s because I wrote a book. Which was a good idea, until I realized people would read it. " Um, yeah.

[Image via. The yellow trees are always my favorite...]

Don't Pity Your Story | Guest Post : This Is Me Thinking

2011-10-12T15:36:00.000-07:00

Hey, friends! Today I've guest-posted over at Darrell Vesterfelt's This Is Me Thinking about story, grief, and living a legacy. Check it out, leave a comment, share it if you feel so inclined. I'd love to hear your thoughts about how you choose to live your story and share it with others.

A Room, A Conversation.

2011-10-11T10:50:00.000-07:00

Me: "Do you ever have those moments when you can't stand to be alone in a room with yourself?"

You: "There's always the spirit you leave a filled room with. In addition to the silent dark room where you can hear your own verb."

Never underestimate conversation as poetry.

You're better at it than you believe.

[Image via]

This Little Idea I Have.

2011-10-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

Instead of my regular bookish post on this Monday, we're going to have a little heart-to-heart.

You see, I was busy this weekend... But I wasn't busy with housework. I wasn't busy with office work. I wasn't busy hanging out with friends and celebrating my birthday for 3 days in a row.

I was busy with art.

And this art that I've been making is for something really important and potentially life-altering. It is deeply tied to my personal experiences - the people I love, the things that I think, the way that I process the world around me.

And I'm excited to share that with you when the time comes, but for now, let me just say,

Producing art allows for a lot of time to think.

And not having produced a significant volume of work in a long time, especially for the purpose of sharing it with others, I kind of forgot about that. And once I started in again,

I became so.

incredibly.

nervous.

Like, the palm-sweating, heart-racing kind of nervous every time I think about how much work it's going to take to make this idea fruitful. I'm torn between complete excitement and joy for this new possibility, and utter misery.

And it's silly when I think about the nuts and bolts of it, the simple and small gesture that I am actually doing as I create this. People do this all the time. And they're successful at it.

But what if I'm not?

My friend tweeted this link today, and I think it's exactly what I needed to read at this juncture in my life. Because I don't want to make myself so miserable that I sabotage my own ability to pursue this and do it well.

How to feel miserable as an artist:

1. Constantly compare yourself to other artists.
2. Talk to your family about what you do and expect them to cheer you on.
3. Base the success of your entire career on one project.
4. Stick with what you know.
5. Undervalue your expertise.
6. Let money dictate what you do.
7. Bow to societal pressures.
8. Only do work that your family would love.
9. Do whatever the client/customer/gallery owner/patron/investor asks.
10. Set unachievable or overwhelming goals to be accomplished by tomorrow.

Slowly, I've been telling a person at a time. The safe ones - my husband, my sister-in-law, my coworker. They're the ones who will tell me it's possible, tell me if my art is good or needs more work, tell me the mechanics of making this little idea that I have lucrative. No pressure.

And now I'm telling you, although I'm waiting until I can make it all official and professional and whatnot. That's how it's done.

But I share the beginning of this journey, in case maybe you're thinking about doing something like this, too.

We're in this together. So let's get started.

The Age Issue.

2011-10-08T10:16:00.000-07:00

It's funny. I don't feel 24. And perhaps that's because I've never been 24 and the feeling of it will settle into my skin as the next 365 days wear on. Sometimes, I feel older. The kind of older that comes with experiencing life at a faster pace than a lot of people my age. Sometimes, I feel way too young for the things I'm doing, especially when people have the habit of telling me so. Sometimes I feel far removed from the younger me, the adolescent me that felt quiet and sensitive and frizzy-haired. Sometimes I am her again, and the present feels like an alternate universe I stepped into, unknowingly, as I opened my closet to get dressed for school.

So what advice can I give myself as I step into a new year?

I think,

given the unpredictability of the present,

given the patience required in this stage of waiting and growing,

given the fact that I am now officially 24 years old and I do not have things figured out as 14-year-old me might have expected,

the thing I must do is learn.

I don't want to have things figured out. I want to stay curious and hungry and restless enough to want to learn. I want to read and reflect and write and ask questions and search and pray so that the ideas and the answers and the possibilities keep coming. I want to begin each day with anticipation for what I will discover that day, understanding that whatever it is will not be the whole puzzle, but merely one more piece.

Learning is my motivation to live.

Here are a few posts that taught me something this week:

For the guys in their garage.

When death is imminent, life is important.

"I wonder if I'm still a writer or a content creator." And 4 other things that I wish I didn't have in common with every other writer/blogger on the planet.

Remember this post? Here's another beautiful essay about the Fading Art of Letter Writing.

We've sheared the textile of our own lives. And it's time to put down the scissors.

[Thanks Tyler for the great links yesterday!]

[Image via]

Inspired By.

2011-10-07T15:27:00.000-07:00

Guess what, guys?

It's my birthday!

And what a good birthday it's been. Hubs surprised me with a HUGE book - a complete collection of e.e. cummings. Does he know me well or what? Anyway, I'm going out for dinner with my closest loves tonight [at least my off-line ones, because I really do love all of you a whole lot], and I can hardly wait. But first, I wanted to wish you all a happy weekend, and ask for a wee little birthday present in return. Instead of me giving you a list of love-links today, can you give me a link in the comments to the best article or blog post you've read this week? I'll share my own list of weekly favorites tomorrow, but for today, I'd love to see a few of yours.

Have a wonderful weekend - one full of life, full of color, full of wishes come true.

xo,
B.

Guest Post | Why I Write.

2011-10-05T11:39:00.000-07:00

Friends, today's amazing guest post is brought to you by the lovely Rachel McGowan. Please read, please share, please comment. Please tell me I'm not the only one that cried while reading this. Thanks, Rachel!

I sat down to write today in my favorite coffee shop, like Iusually do. I was rushed, like I usually am. I plugged in my headphones, found my favorite writing music,and opened up a blank page. Next to me sat two women, in their mid-thirties.This is not an uncommon sight to see, especially at a coffee shop. We womenlove our coffee dates with our heart friends.

Because I’m a curious person [and an avid people-watcher], Ipositioned my computer so that the pair was in my direct line of vision. Theirmannerisms were fascinating; their laughter was like a magnet. I knew thesewomen had a special connection, though I couldn’t figure it out.

Then one of the women opened a journal. It was a simple bluespiral bound notebook, probably found on a sale at a grocery store. She beganto read.

As soon as I heard the word “addiction”, I turned off mymusic.

[And yes, I sat with my headphones still in my ear, with nomusic playing. A good creep learns this trick early on.]

I stopped was I was originally writing, and just listened. Iwas stunned by what I heard.

The woman sat in the middle of this coffee shop, and readthe story of her struggle with an addiction to alcohol. She sat with her friendand simply spoke the cursive words written on those pages of that journal. Sheread the words that described the pain she felt when her own mother wasdiagnosed with cancer, and how that pain led her to strong vodka. She describedthe moment where she was so drunk she missed her mother’s funeral. She said shewas “crushed by a self-imposed crisis” and was “so unaware of God’s presencebecause of the way alcohol made her feel.”

She said she had gotten more DUI’s than she thoughtpossible, and that she never had enough self-control to give up her keys whenshe was inebriated.

She described the way it felt to be in jail formanslaughter. She said that youdon’t know pain until you know what it’s like to kill the innocent little girlin the other car. When she got to the part about the father of the little girlreading a letter to her in the courtroom, I got chills.

Page by page, she described her nightmare of a life to herfriend across the table. There were tears and laughter and an appropriate useof air quotes. Her friend cried with her, laughed with her, and listened toevery word she spoke. The pen marks were sharp knives in the air, clawing atevery piece of flesh they came into contact with. My heart was shivering.

When she finished, the friend who had been listening theentire time had tears in her eyes. She looked this woman in her eyes, and shesaid, “Oh girl. You are reading my story exactly.”

And then the friend told this woman about hope.

This friend spoke of truth, of freedom, of sobriety. She sangover this woman the melody of a life un-bound by chains, un-clouded byaddiction.

The bond these women shared was based on nothing that couldbe seen on the surface. It wasn’t that they worked together, or shared the samelove for Thai food. They had both drank the poison of substance abuse, and hadboth seen the ramifications of letting that addiction take over their life.They knew what it felt like to choose alcohol over literally anything else, nomatter the cost.

This friend helped the woman take a step out of thedarkness. She spoke life.

And I think this is why I write.

Our stories have more power than we will ever be able tounderstand. It is a level of power that is frightening.

It’s chilling to think of the lives we can affect by writingdown our histories and reading them to the world. It is terrifying to share ourpasts, to write them out, to bare our souls.

There is so much depth to our imperfect cursive handwriting,or the periods at the ends of sentences, and the world is desperate for thatdepth.

It is an unexplainably beautiful thing to let down thatwall, to expose our insides part by part., and the world is desperate for thatbeauty.

It is a disservice to humanity if we silence our own stories,even when they are ugly. To speak them is to speak life, and the world isdesperate for that life.

To let people see our soul comes with a crippling wave ofemotion. Even though it means we might change a life, it is still the scariestthing in the world.

But it is tragically scarier not to.

Rachel McGowan is a California-born 20-something writer, reader, dreamer, joke-teller, car-dancer and shower-singer. She loves learning from people and is passionate about the power of story and seeing good come from gross. Rachel works with college students and drinks diet cokes back to back to keep herself sane. She often writes about love, sex, singleness and relationships -- and the awkward joys and struggles of them all. She tweets about her daily observations, and she blogs about everything else.

Poem: Since Feeling is First

2011-10-04T09:41:00.000-07:00

Life is funny sometimes. We don't realize that there are many people, some friends, some perfect strangers, that are living amazing, poignant, beautiful, brave stories... Maybe what I mean to say is that life is funny all of the time, but we're blind to it.

But for today, open your eyes. Because life is funny, short and sweet, terrible and beautiful. And worth reveling in.

~

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
- the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other; then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

- e. e. cummings

book·ish: Favorite Book of All Time.

2011-10-03T13:59:00.000-07:00

It's the beginning of October. It's a time for cider, bonfires, comfort food, sweaters and boots. And it's time for The Time Traveler's Wife. I've told you before about my obsession with this novel, but here I am. I'm about to pull it off my shelf, crack it open, fall in love with it all over again.

I can't explain it, but something about fall reminds me of this book and makes me want to read it, so I've made a tradition of it. Perhaps it's because the first time I read it, it was fall. Perhaps it's because the novel begins with a beautiful October day in Chicago, much like the one I'm enjoying today. Perhaps it's the symmetry bittersweetness of golden leaves as they fall to the ground and the colorful, heartrending love story of Henry DeTamble and Clare Abshire that commands me: stop. read. relish.

So if you haven't read it, now would be a wonderful time to start.

Source: google.com via Bethany on Pinterest

If you can narrow it down to just one, what is your favorite book? Do you have a book that you read over and over again? Do you reread a certain book at a certain time of year? Am I crazy?

~

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

Inspired By.

2011-09-30T15:38:00.000-07:00

Guilty pleasure confession: I've seen it about a million times now, but I love the first Sex and the City movie. [The second movie was horrible - a floppy storyline that was thrown together as what I hope will be a last ditch effort for another $300,000,000.]

Now go ahead. I know you want to.

Groan and roll your eyes and say, "Bethany, I thought you had better taste than to watch those heathens!" all you want, but I'm a sucker for a writerly heroine, any story line related to relationships and romance, and the fashion and glitz of a thriving metropolis like New York City. So, I watched the movie again last night, and googled "Love Letters of Great Men, Volume I." Turns out, it was a fake book that Carrie was reading at the beginning of the film, until a Mr. John C. Kirkland realized that women round the world were now dying to get there hands on such a book, and so he compiled it. Genius.

Amidst my googling I found this site, and couldn't resist sharing this note from the lovely Man in Black, Johnny Cash.

Transcribed:

Hey June,

That's really nice June. You've got a way with words and a way with me as well.

The fire and excitement may be gone now that we don't go out there and sing them anymore, but the ring of fire still burns around you and I, keeping our love hotter than a pepper sprout.

Love John

The beauty of a handwritten note cannot be denied. There's just something about it that feels so raw and tangible in a way that digitized communication will never be able to emulate. I know that when I'm feeling stuck and disconnected to my writing self, the best thing I can do is close my laptop and grab a pen and my notebook.

So my plea to you, instead of my usual Friday post of lovelinks, is short and simple and sappy to the core.

Write a letter. To yourself, to your love, to your friend, to your future, to anyone that might need it. Be poetic and passionate enough to scrawl your thoughts, messy and unhindered.

Leave something to be found when you're gone.

National Coffee Day!

2011-09-29T11:42:00.000-07:00

Let's all take a moment and give thanks for this wonderful, legally addictive substance that has provided vitality and gumption to writers round the world for centuries, this blog included.

[Image via.]

I'm Not the Story Weaver.

2011-09-28T08:19:00.000-07:00

I am a writer. Consequently, my general outlook on life is a series of archetypes, themes, plots, summaries, critiques... there's a lot of pre-writing and re-writing going on in my head, and there's no switch to turn it off. All the world is a stage, you know.

But it's the endings I'm not good at. I'm a total sap when it comes to endings. Mostly, I envision that the story actually comes to an end, a resolution. I often realize much further on in my writing and reading that this is a false assumption.

Lately, I've begun to wonder about our fascination with the fairy-tale ending. We began by expecting it, and now we've become disillusioned with it, naturally.

But where does the fallacy lie in "happily ever after"?

Is there no such thing as happiness?

Or have we made a bad habit of ending the story at the wrong part?

So the prince and the princess get married... and??? What comes after that? What exactly constitutes the "happily ever after"? A fairy-tale prince or princess would never be unfaithful to one another. The prince would never be a deadbeat dad. The princess would never become a bitter, self-conscious old woman that drives her prince and her children crazy. They would never lose the castle, the talking livestock, and the pumpkin carriage in a faulty investment. They would never bicker or become alcoholics or abuse their kids. They would never die of terminal illnesses.

And yet, here we are. We live in a dichotomy of pure joy and pure tragedy. We find love and we find hate. We can't get rid of the evil stepsisters and the villains; quite often we are our own worst enemy. We make the best decisions we've ever made, and then we screw it up.

Maybe it's the ambiguity of it, the elusive "happiness" that leaves us confused and frustrated and empty when we try to live in the "ever after." The brokenness wasn't supposed to happen, but it did, and we can't see how it could ever be right again. We have no pre-text for what to do when we screw up, so the "happily ever after" plan is eradicated.

Or maybe it's that we've totally abandoned the possibility of redemption.

I yearn for the easy answer, the redemptive ending. I wish I could tie the strings of all our loose ends together so that our lives would never unravel as they so often do. I keep finding myself trying to weave it all together, tightly, to make it mean something, to make our stories and our selves whole again.

I think it's better if I just stop trying to rewrite the thing. Life is beautiful and gripping and horrific and triumphant and tragic enough on its own.

I'm not the Story-Weaver. I need to just keep reading.

[Image Source: None via Bethany on Pinterest]

Guest Poem | Blane Young.

2011-09-27T08:59:00.000-07:00

Today's poem is brought to you by Blane Young.

do you remember?

when the days were easier

when love and romance was boiled down to three checkboxes: yes, no and maybe

i remember those days

when depression wasn't a word in my vocabulary

when I didn't even understand the concept of a bad hair day

do you remember?

when the days were easier

the idea of childlike faith sounded funny and

your dreams of becoming a dancer or a politician were affirmed by everyone

I remember those days

when friendships were second nature

when getting picked last was the most embarrassing thing ever

when singing out loud didn't occur in just the shower

but today, is not one of those days.

and come to think of it, neither was yesterday

or even the day before that

the words I would use to describe today and regrettably tomorrow,

are words like devastating, disappointing and disillusioned.

because in those days, the ones that came before but are no longer,

the air seemed to smelled like cotton candy

my mother's hug was like a fresh cup of apple cider

and playing chess with my father when he got off work was like getting to shake hands with superman.

but then. when you least expected it

you realize there is a thing called hope

and that even though it kills your ego to admit you need to be rescued

but that means there is a rescuer

and then, you look forward to tomorrow. again.

My name is Blane. I am a follower of Jesus, an incredible husband married to the even more incredible Hannah F. Young. I know twenty recipes for Ramen Noodles and I am a ping-pong machine.

I am an intern with Chi Alpha Campus Ministries @ American University in Washington, DC. You can read my blog at blaneyoung.com.

book·ish : Punctuation Humor.

2011-09-26T09:24:00.000-07:00

A little punctuation humor for your Monday:

Source: whoislauren.tumblr.com via Bethany on Pinterest

Source: mynameis-amy.blogspot.com via Bethany on Pinterest

~

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

Inspired By.

2011-09-23T08:02:00.000-07:00

Writing my guest post for Ally this week really got me thinking about relationships. Not just marriage, but all relationships - to people, to art, to work, to a habit, to an idea. We commit ourselves to a variety of different things, in word and in deed, on a daily basis. Don't you think? And if you really think about it, your actions, your schedule, speak volumes about what you care about most. If you're looking back on this week and thinking, hmm... that's not what I want to be committed to, then you're not the only one.

You may be tempted to spend your weekend as a continuation of your work week, scrambling like mad to finish a project.

Don't.

You may be tempted to avoid any form of work all together and park yourself in front of your television.

Don't.

You may be tempted to cling to the period of your life when things felt so much easier than they do right now, when you were a carefree college kid without any real responsibilities.

Don't.

Put down your smart phone.

Step away from your inbox.

Turn off the TV.

Let go of the if-onlys and the I-wish-I-weres.

Read a few of these links and be inspired to commit yourself to something good. A healthy relationship. A life full of adventure. A habit of learning and going and doing.

~

She's Married to Amazement.

I love this quote from Darrell about seeking direction versus wisdom:

"I can seek direction which is circumstantial, or seek the wisdom that will help direct my actions in all circumstances."

Possibly the most romantic stay-in date that I've heard of in a long time.

Rob asks the question: what's more important, a happy story or one that evokes strong emotion, even if it's depressing?

Commit to story. It's A Matter of Life and Death.

Confession: I'm an NPR addict. [Like you didn't already know that...] This story, like so many that I hear on a daily basis, had me in tears and reminded me of this post I wrote a few months back.

So what are you committing to this weekend, and what are you letting go of?

Happy Friday, friends. [And happy fall.]

My First Guest Post: "So How do We Make Our Marriage Work?"

2011-09-22T11:35:00.000-07:00

After getting to know Ally and Darrell through their blogs and twitter, we met up last weekend for an early morning coffee. What an encouragement to meet fellow writers and bloggers who are equally passionate and driven in their work, their faith, and their relationships! Ally asked me to guest post for her about marriage, so I've shared a few thoughts on her site today. What has made your relationships healthy? What are some lessons you've learned - whether you're single, dating, married, divorced? I'd love to know your thoughts!

P.S. My contribution for Ally's Confessions of a Twenty-Something series.

Poem: How Many, How Much.

2011-09-20T11:39:00.000-07:00

I heard a story on NPR this morning about one of my favorite poets, Shel Silverstein. His family is publishing a new collection of his poems this week called "Every Thing On It," which I can't wait to purchase.

Did you read Shel Silverstein growing up? His Where the Sidewalk Ends was one of my favorite books as a kid. This is one of my favorite poems from that book that I still remember word for word nearly 15 years later.

How Many, How Much.

How many slams in an old screen door?

Depends how loud you shut it.

How many slices in a bread?

Depends how thin you cut it.

How much good inside a day?

Depends how good you live 'em.

How much love inside a friend?

Depends how much you give 'em.

I also love this Silverstein poem. Do you have a favorite?

bookish: Speaking of Shakespeare.

2011-09-19T11:47:00.000-07:00

We speak Shakespeare a thousand times a day and don't even know it.

Source: nawasaka.tumblr.com via Bethany on Pinterest

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

P.S. Remember these beauties?

Inspired By.

2011-09-16T15:11:00.000-07:00

Today I'm thinking about authenticity. Writers have the ability and responsibility to wield words and create meaning. We can construct whole worlds of fiction and fantasy. We can give artistic flair to the everyday human experience.

And so I think to myself: whatever we do, whatever we say, however we act, should be authentic to who we are. A story, however edited and rewritten, should ring true. So I strive to live a life authentic to what I feel, and what I believe to be true. But, by my nature and because I am human, I succeed marginally at best. I get caught up in constructing authenticity. And then I lose it. I give in to the belief that this is what they'll want to read from me or this sounds better than the way it really happened or if I told them what I really think, they wouldn't take me seriously.

Do you ever do that, rearrange your thoughts around what you believe people will respond to?

Do you blog for the bandwagon? Post about things that you believe will initiate comments and page views and tweets, or do you blog about things that really matter to you, the writer?

Do you edit your thoughts and words at the expense of your true voice?

Do you edit others at the expense of the truth in their own words?

On the one hand, you write for your audience. You write to give them a thought, a moment illustrated, a word of encouragement, a benefit from your experience. But we have to strike that balance between sharing our gift with others and exercising our gift simply because it is what we are called to do.

I'm convicted by the thought that when we write, we should not just write about writing, but about our lives.

As a very wise professor I know recently explained,

Art is not about art. It's about everything else.

My blog is a blog about writing, but it is also a blog for my writing.

We can lose that authenticity and integrity for our work in a variety of ways, whether through writing about writing to avoid writing truth, or editing our thoughts and experiences to garner attention.

Here are a few posts from the interwebs that I appreciate for their authenticity.

The best reflection out of the many that were shared over the past week.

What good is a relationship without confrontation and commitment?

Is it right, or does it just feel right? How my generation deals with morality.

These bloggers are willing to share their true stories. I took the plunge and shared mine yesterday. Share yours. The world needs to witness it.

The Bravest and Most Beautiful Affair. [Heard rave reviews about the author's presentation on the importance of poetery at Story Conference today.]

Speaking of Story Conference, I only heard about it recently, but I'm heartbroken that I can't be there. On the other hand, I still get to connect with this blogging guy and this blogging girl for an early coffee date tomorrow morning. It'll be great to finally meet them in person!

And finally, a friend and I are starting a writer's group in the Elgin/Chicago Suburbs. Are you interested? Join here.

Have a good weekend, friends.

[Image Source: flickr.com via Bethany on Pinterest]

Confessions of a Twenty Something: I'm in Therapy.

2011-09-15T15:54:00.000-07:00

I was 21 and had just graduated college. I was two months away from marrying my best friend, but I didn't have a job and neither did my then-fiance. And I was completely insecure in the choices I was making. Should we still get married if we have no money? How can I earn money as a writer? Is that even possible? When should I go to grad school? I love my fiance, but am I capable of being a good spouse to him? Am I ready to be an adult?

How do I cope with all of this anxiety?

And I was beginning to notice things about myself. That if I was at my apartment alone without my roommate around, I was doing one of two things: crying uncontrollably, or laying on the couch like an overcooked vegetable watching reality television. My "anger management" techniques, though inherited honestly from my German-American family, were highly ineffective, unhealthy, and were not conducive to being someone's spouse.

I wasn't writing.

I wasn't looking for a better job.

I was letting the negative things in my life strangle the positive things. I had a college degree I'd worked hard for, but I had no job. My confidence in my writing and my professionalism were rock bottom. I had a great relationship with my fiance, but I was terrified that I would ruin it with my obstinacy and insecurity. I had faith in a God that has consistently been faithful to me, but I felt unfaithful to Him by living in fear of the future.

And I knew my friends couldn't fix me.

So I went to see a therapist I knew. And we began to unravel a few things.

First: are you sure you want to get married?

The answer was unequivocally and irrevocably YES. Yes, I did want to marry my best friend. Even if we lived with his parents for a few months while we got on our feet, even if it meant that we wouldn't be able to go on a honeymoon or buy better vehicles or go to grad school right away, I knew with every part of me that we would be honoring God and one another if we chose to work through those things together in marriage.

Second: since I'm getting married, what do I need to do to be an emotionally stable spouse?

All of us were raised with habits, good and bad. And then, at some point, we realize the unhealthy ones are getting in the way of constructing positive ones. We have to deconstruct the unhealthy habits - admit them, analyze that pattern of behavior, let go of it, and then try - painfully at first - to speak, act, reach out, apologize, forgive and encourage in new ways.

Third: how do I learn to cope with my mother's unstable health?

There are days when I'm overwhelmed. There are days when I feel numb to it. And because I am the oldest child and the only girl from my family of five, I will always feel responsible for the well-being of everyone else. I will, instinctively, suppress my emotions in an effort to accommodate those around me. I will, instinctively, believe that if I just "keep it together" I will find a way to fix the situation. I'm learning to confess my grief, my doubt, my fear. I'm learning to let my faith sustain me. I'm learning to be honest with myself and with others about how I feel in a given moment.

And I had to my ask myself this question:

Is going to therapy a sign that I'm broken, or that I'm healing?

We reap what we sow. We have to do the hard work of uprooting the negative in order to make room for positive things to grow. There's a lot of sweat and tears and patience and prayer involved. A lot of talking and crying and brutal honesty. To bear the fruit of a healthy life, I had to find the help I needed to unearth a better way of living. I hope each of you find the courage to do the same.

This post was written in conjunction with the blog series Confessions of a Twenty Something, hosted by Ally Spots.

Words and Strings

2011-09-13T15:40:00.000-07:00

Because I couldn't help but fall in love with this passage, I thought I'd share it with you:

"So many words get lost. They leave the mouth and lose their courage, wandering aimlessly until they are swept into the gutter like dead leaves. On rainy days, you can hear their chorus rushing past:

IwasabeautifulgirlPleasedon’tgoItoobelievemybodyismadeofglassI’veneverlovedanyoneIthinkofmyselfasfunnyForgiveme….

There was a time when it wasn’t uncommon to use a piece of string to guide words that otherwise might falter on the way to their destinations. Shy people carried a little bunch of string in their pockets, but people considered loudmouths had no less need for it, since those used to being overheard by everyone were often at a loss for how to make themselves heard by someone. The physical distance between two people using a string was often small; sometimes the smaller the distance, the greater the need for the string.

The practice of attaching cups to the ends of string came much later. Some say it is related to the irrepressible urge to press shells to our ears, to hear the still-surviving echo of the world’s first expression. Others say it was started by a man who held the end of a string that was unraveled across the ocean by a girl who left for America.

When the world grew bigger, and there wasn’t enough string to keep the things people wanted to say from disappearing into the vastness, the telephone was invented.

Sometimes no length of string is long enough to say the thing that needs to be said. In such cases all the string can do, in whatever its form, is conduct a person’s silence."

- Nicole Krauss, A History of Love

book·ish : Literary Great Britain

2011-09-12T11:02:00.000-07:00

I'm no good with geography, but as a wanderlust and a book nerd, I find this literary map of Great Britain positively delightful.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

Guest Post | Pen to Paper.

2011-09-07T12:05:00.000-07:00

Today's guest post is brought to you by Helena of byebyebitters.wordpress.com. An avid reader, snarky writer and devoted note taker, she has a few things to say about putting pen to paper.

Pen to Paper

Recently, the powers that be at my workplace offered to provide each of us with another axillary monitor - bringing the desktop total to three. I said no. As this response was not in keeping with the majority of my coworkers, I’ve had to frequently explain my refusal. My reasoning? The proffered monitor would take up space currently devoted to my Bic pen and legal-size notepad. This space is sacred, mandatory.

I’m a pen-to-paper girl.

Throughout the workday I jot notes to myself, make lists, and scribble bits of information onto the pad of paper that is always by my side. Without this notebook - and this space to take notes - I would be lost.

I’ve always been an avid note-taker. I have a well-worn callous on my right ring finger where the pen rests as I whip across the page. I filled notebooks with schoolwork and journals with teenage angst. I have a basket of stationery and have long been an active pen-pal with anyone willing to receive my letters.

Handwriting was initially a struggle. I held my pen “improperly” and struggled to form cursive letters with the flow and ease of the other students. Mrs. Harrington, my third grade teacher, would hang examples of proper penmanship on the bulletin board for everyone to admire. I longed to have my own work featured, but continued to fall short.

Formal cursive was later abandoned for my own special longhand hybrid. By the time I entered high school, my script had become a point of personal pride. I experimented with letter-formation: dotting my i’s with bubbles and curving the tails of my y’s elaborately. I copied my mother’s capital H’s and my friend’s lowercase e’s until I developed my own, wide font. My notes were now as neat as they were complete. The employment of several different ink and highlighter colors to further accent my notebooks would come later.

For me, there are certain situation that require pen-to-paper to be properly processed. I learn by writing things down. My brain makes connections as ink spreads my new knowledge along the college-ruled lines. I wonder how I would have done had I started at University any later than I had - in a time when laptops would become ubiquitous and spiral-bound notebooks scarce. Would typed notes have the same resonance? Follow the same well-worn kinesthetic channels to my long-term memory? Be as easily recalled? My learning style requires something more tactile than tapping on a keyboard.
With school and most of my frantic, avid note-taking now behind me, I still reach to a pen to document ideas. I storyboard, I doodle, I make maps. I circle, I highlight, I pin to bulletin boards. While, invariably and understandably, these ideas are typed before they are shared with others, they begin life on a humble piece of paper.

~

Helena Butters lives in Chicago with her fiancé and two cats. She blogs about life, love, and the pursuit of better body image at Bye Bye Bitters. You can catch more of her wit and snark on Twitter at @HelenaMarie.

See a few of my favorite posts from Helena here, here and here.

On Remembering in the Twenty-First Century

2011-09-06T08:18:00.000-07:00

As I turned to washed my hands in the third floor bathroom of my 1920's Georgian mansion-turned-office building, I saw the most beautiful shadow I've ever noticed. Maybe an odd place to contemplate beauty and life, but nonetheless, I was fascinated as I watched the evening sun play with the leaves and the arch of the window.

I had the sudden, second-nature instinct to video it or snap a photo, to find a way to keep it forever. The quick darting movement of the branches and the light as they swung back and forth against each other reminded me of those moving photos people keep making now, those series of two or three photos that make it look like a stop-action illustration.

In an instant, I saw it: the reaction to a reaction to a reaction. Art that imitates life that imitates art that imitates life.

Sometimes I love technology and everything that we can do with it to capture the world we live in. Without photos, some memories, both the important and the mundane, would be lost forever. Without video, we might forget things like what a loved one's voice sounds like, or the way your grandmother's dining room looked with everyone gathered around it as you blew out your candles out on your third birthday. Those moments would die with us. They would flicker and disappear like a beautiful but rather nondescript early September day.

As a writer I'm repeatedly struck with the urge to write things down, to transcribe every moment, every thought, every conversation. I don't want to lose it, this moment that feels so pivotal and poignant. I'm afraid that I'll forget, and that all these things that seem so necessary will slip through my fingers and that I will reach the end, not knowing who I am or how I got here.

But if I have to record it for it to last, was it ever that important?

And what will happen to our perception of lives lived?

I fear that if I'm only blogging and tweeting and photographing and documenting the happy things, the funny things, that I'll look back on life with a false sense of reality, believing that things were less painful than they really were. Or that I will be wracked with an unidentifiable emptiness and disconnect to periods of my life that were filled with hardship, because only half of it is visible.

In our flurry to document and text and tweet and Facebook and Instagram it all, maybe instead of creating a new facet of permanence to our lives, we are instead losing our ability to remember and forget naturally, to live independent of the collective conscious, to appreciate a fleeting moment for the bittersweet thing that it is.

I took the photo anyway.

book·ish: Book Challenge.

2011-09-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

I found Beth's blog, She Thinks Too Much, over at 101 Books the other day. Both of these blogs are thoroughly bookish, which I love, of course. Beth has been doing a book challenge on her blog in the last month, answering questions about the books she's read. Such an interesting challenge for those of us who are addicted to the written word.

Source: ilovereadingandwriting.tumblr.com via Bethany on Pinterest

So give me a title for one of the following in our own mini book challenge:

1. A book you wish you could live in.
[My answer: Harry Potter! I want to live at Hogwarts.]

2. A book you're most embarrassed to say you like.
[My answer: Twilight, the first book in the series. Everything after that, and the movies, and the general hysteria surrounding the series freak me out, though. I'm at least happy to say that I took the time to read them before judging them.]

3. A book whose main character is most like you.
[My answer: Gemma Doyle, A Great and Terrible Beauty, by Libba Bray. Haven't read it? It's one of my favorites.]

4. A book whose main character you want to marry.
[My answer: Henry DeTamble, The Time Traveler's Wife. I don't care if he disappears on me, he's my kind of guy.]

5. A book that you can quote or recite.
[My answer: The Time Traveler's Wife. What can I say? I read that book every fall and never tire of it.]

Or answer them all! Either way it's fascinating to see the unique perspective and taste of every reader.
And if I haven't read them, I'll add your answers to my to-read list!

~

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

Poem: The Master Speed

2011-09-01T14:06:00.000-07:00

There are some poems I read that provoke strong imagery. The lines and their imagery come to me like a recurring dream whenever I am caught in a situation that reminds me of it. A year ago, Matt and I had just celebrated our first anniversary and were finally settled into our new apartment. It felt like things were finally beginning to go right for us with steady jobs, a place of our own, a routine.
But other things were also becoming apparent: that my mother was entering a new phase of struggling with cancer harder than she had yet experienced, that some of our friends and loved ones were not experiencing the came contentedness and peace in their families, marriages, jobs and homes, that the economy was still not on the upswing. Just when we felt settled and ready for anything, we sensed a current sweeping us away from that steady place. In the midst of that, I read this poem. The words and the imagery were an encouragement to me, an anchor that reminded me of the sacred commitment of marriage and friendship, the power of love to create peace and determination like nothing else can.

The Master Speed
Robert Frost

No speed of wind or water rushing by
But you have speed far greater. You can climb
Back up a stream of radiance to the sky,
And back through history up the stream of time.
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste
Nor chiefly that you may go where you will,
But in the rush of everything to waste,
That you may have the power of standing still-
Off any still or moving thing you say.
Two such as you with such a master speed
Cannot be parted nor be swept away
From one another once you are agreed
That life is only life forevermore
Together wing to wing and oar to oar.

Do you have a poem, song, book, etc, that does this for you?

[Image here.]

Library Card! and What I'm Reading Now

2011-08-30T08:51:00.000-07:00

Guess what? I am now in possession of my very own library card! I haven't had one since moving to Illinois [unless you count my college ID, but we're talking reading for pleasure here, so it doesn't count.] So technically, this is the first library card I've had since I was in high school.

I know, I know. You're thinking, Bethany "bookish" girl didn't have a library card? What's up with that? But the truth is, I've had this really bad habit, like all book addicts do, of buying most of the books that I wanted to read. [Tell me I'm not the only one that does this!] And then I realized I was broke. I'm sick of borrowing books or just going through dry spells of not reading, so here it is, along with my new read:

Ever read it? Seems like everyone is raving about it right now. I'm 50 pages in [since starting last night!] and I understand why!

And isn't the card the cutest? It was designed by one of their wee little patrons, and it looked exactly like something I would have drawn at that age.

So what are you reading? And do you have a library card or do you buy or borrow all of your books?

book·ish: KC Library Parking Garage

2011-08-29T11:34:00.000-07:00

This giant bookshelf serves as the facade for Kansas City Library's parking garage. I'm guessing it's probably the only parking garage that is itself a tourist destination. I'd certainly love to visit!

[Images found here.]

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

Inspired By.

2011-08-26T16:10:00.000-07:00

It's Friday. [And the peasants rejoiced!] I'm feeling a little wilted, unlike the photo above. This week has been out of sorts with an undecided, in-transition, what's-going-on, how-do-we-do-this office move at work, a bee infestation in my apartment bedroom window that forced my husband and I to set up camp in the middle of our living room so as not to find ourselves exterminated, and a car that's on it's last life and my last nerve. To add to it, my mom is still in the hospital [since Tuesday, August 16] and doctors are still trying to figure out the best way to, well... make it possible for her to be healthy outside of it? It's hard and painful to explain.

Needless to say, I'm tired. I find life exhausting at the moment. Might explain the dream I had Wednesday night and the lack of personal writing and posting around here recently. My head [and my heart] can't decide if now is the best time to write [time? what time?] or if I am understandably excused from adding that to my to-do list [if not now, then when?].

My soul is surviving on small increments of rest, grace and joy, wherever I can find them. Tomorrow, a group of my favorite girls and I are going to enjoy a day in Southern Michigan tasting wine at local vineyards, snatching up local produce, and surveying what promises to another beautiful sunset like this one.

I know that this is another week of the last several where I've complained about "my lot" in life. I'm well aware that I am blessed, that I am healthy, that I am capable, and that many many many other people in the world are not for a variety of reasons. But on the other hand, this space is not an escape for me. It's a place where I can express my thoughts and feelings and opinions and experiences freely like I can't anywhere else. So if you're feeling a little wilted or trampled, or you have been but are now feeling rejuvenated, feel free to share your thoughts. The company is welcome.

Until then, here are a few delightful posts from around the interwebs:

Mandy wrote an encouraging post for me this week about the importance of traveling and finding a job you're passionate about. That alone is inspiring, but she emailed me today to tell me: she got the job she mentioned in the post writing for a travel magazine! Congrats, Mandy!

Nothing could ruffle her, and that's why we loved her.

How do you relate? Paintings versus photographs versus blogs versus life.

I really love this blog. Decadent photos and beautiful words.

What to do when your work sucks.

Eight secrets writers won't tell you.

Image found here. The flowers are gorgeous, but of course, I'm loving the bookshelves behind it, too.

And finally, this girl is going to share her snark, wit and good grammar with us next week. I'm excited! She started a new series this week, Fat Tuesday, that I'm already addicted to.

What are your plans for the weekend? I hope it's a good one, friends.

Dream From Last Night: Zoo Animals and A Book That Can Tell Me Everything.

2011-08-25T15:04:00.000-07:00

There are a lot of things I don't remember about last night's dream, but I do remember that I was living in a beautiful apartment in the city with some people I don't know. I was walking down the street to my apartment, which was full of taxis and pedestrians. One of the men I lived with was walking behind me, as if we were headed home together. We saw a man whiz past us on a bike, and immediately heard a crash once he was behind us. A car had hit him, and I knew instinctively that it had killed him. Not wanting to see the gore of the accident, I ran away.

Next, as I was running into the safety of my apartment to shut the door behind me, I saw a tiger and a black panther, presumably zoo animals on the loose, run at one another and begin to attack each other in the street. I watched for a few moments, and then found myself in my apartment living room, where I could see through the window that there were two giant phoenixes flying through the sky, and a lion pacing on the balcony of my apartment. I was worried that the animals would attack us, but they never did. The apartment separated us from them, but the separation felt fragile, like it could be broken at any moment and the animals would break through the glass to get us.

Then, an old Hispanic woman, also living in my apartment, gave me money to buy books at a bookstore. I could choose anything I wanted, but I couldn't think of any titles to books I wanted to read, so I looked around the store. A huge book, as long as my arms with thick, brightly covered pages, stood out to me. As I flipped through it I realized it was a reference book that held answers and explanations to all the things that I don't understand in the world: slang terms, differing cultural traditions, why terminal illnesses have killed so many people in the last century. I bought the book with the money I had and took it home. I remember thinking as I pulled it out to read more later that I wish I had chosen something smaller and simpler. One by one the titles of all the other books I've been wanting to read came back to me and I wished I had bought them instead, fictional stories that have a beginning and an end and characters I can relate to, but I didn't have the energy to return the book to the store.

Guest Post | The Search for A Job Soul-Mate.

2011-08-25T11:33:00.000-07:00

Hello, dear readers! Today my friend Mandy, writer of the blog www.prettier-world.com/ shares a post on two of my favorite subjects: travel, and finding a job that you're passionate about. Thanks for contributing, Mandy!

The Search for a Job Soul-Mate.

I recently returned from two glorious years living and teaching English abroad – first to middle school students in Malawi, Africa, and then in primary schools in Bergerac, France. In Malawi, one of the poorest, most AIDS-riddled countries in the world, the people I met and grew to know were happier than most people I knew in the first-world. In France, I finally achieved fluency in my favorite language, and I also had what will probably remain one of the most enjoyable years of my life [those French know how to relax]. The experiences were both incredibly worthwhile and I reluctantly came home to the U.S. in May after an unsuccessful try at renewing my French visa. Since I couldn’t stay in France, I decided that I would “just” find a job in the city. With my strong undergrad GPA, varied internships and recent travel experiences, I’d surely find something within a month or so.

I couldn’t have been further out of touch with reality.

In the beginning, I pursued jobs in book publishing. I was an English major, I like books, I’m a good writer. It seemed simple enough. For the first two months, I blasted out my resume to countless openings on every media and publishing website on the planet. I got a couple of interviews but ultimately there was always someone more qualified for the job. I hadn’t considered the thousands of other English majors descending upon New York City, two years younger than me and with fresh internships under their belts. They were probably all extremely competent and I imagine interviewers saw them as more appropriate for entry-level hiring. Where do you put someone who’s been working for two years in an unrelated field?

My dad, who is brilliant and hard working but was nonetheless unemployed for six months after 9/11, gave me his old networking and job-hunting books and served as my best resource – prepping me for interviews and providing me with useful nuggets that I often didn’t want to hear [“You never know what they’re thinking” and “You can never be working too hard” were my least favorites]. He also suggested I loosen my grip on the publishing ideal and start considering other fields. Dozens of others did too. “Publishing? Now?” But it took me a while to listen.

I began talking to people in PR and non-profits. Websites. Magazines. It wasn’t the field so much that mattered, so long as I could 1: write, 2: interact with people and 3: [optional, but a serious plus] focus on something I love. Then I began to apply for some of those jobs and go on interviews. On one interview at a travel magazine, the woman asked me about my personal experiences and I couldn’t shut up.

That was when it hit me like an atlas falling from a shelf: No matter what I’m doing, I want it to be somehow related to travel.

In many ways, job-hunting isn’t so different from dating: trying on a lot of different hats until you find one that fits. Some people get lucky, but for some, it takes a long time before the right one comes along. And along the way, you learn to weed out the types that aren’t right for you. So although I haven’t met my job soul mate yet, I finally get the feeling that I really know what I’m looking for. I’ve gotten more interviews because my travel experiences speak for themselves, and then I’m able to elaborate about my passions in a real, authentic manner in those interviews. Yes, I like books, but nothing has enriched my life the way that travel has.

~

Read more about Mandi on her blog, which chronicles her travels, her tastes, her writing, and her search for her job soul-mate.

Detour: St. Joseph, MI.

2011-08-23T09:58:00.000-07:00

On our way home from a family wedding this weekend [yay Whitney and Jon!] my husband and I took a detour and stopped in St. Joseph, Michigan. We spent our honeymoon there two years ago and wanted to revisit Silver Beach, which holds a lot of happy memories for us. Sunday was gorgeous: 78 degrees and sunny. The clouds rolled in as the sun was setting, giving us a spectacular lake view that we couldn't help but capture with some snapshots. The first I took with my iPhone, the rest were taken by Matt with his Nikon D80.

When I was young I didn't appreciate the natural beauty of Michigan. Then again, most of what I new of the state was southwest Michigan, which really isn't that spectacular away from the lake. Now though, I love that on our way home to Chicago we can stop and drink in a late summer evening, complete with Silver Beach Pizza and a GIANT waffle cone of Kilwin's pistachio ice cream:

book·ish : Penguin Threads Deluxe Classics.

2011-08-22T15:39:00.000-07:00

Illustrator Jillian Tamaki was given the amazing opportunity to create covers of three different books for Penguin. Aren't the detail and color amazing?

Source: blog.jilliantamaki.com via Bethany on Pinterest

Look at her sewing away on the Emma piece:

Source: blog.jilliantamaki.com via Bethany on Pinterest

And here is the finished product of The Secret Garden:

Source: blog.jilliantamaki.com via Bethany on Pinterest

Hand embroidered versions will not be available for purchase, but Jillian says on her blog that the covers will be printed with a sculptural embossing technique to emphasize the stitches. I'm thinking I'll definitely pick one up when they come out this fall!

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

Overjoy: A Mid-August Move.

2011-08-18T15:58:00.000-07:00

Ah, yes. It is mid-August and I'm feeling every bit of it. August is my favorite month because the weather is beautiful and a lot of good things happen during it, like my anniversary [2 years last week!] and other anniversaries, weddings, birthdays, and it always feels to me like that last resounding hurrah before school starts and the weather cools down and it is suddenly fall.

It's also that time of year when everything seems to take off without me. School is back in session [at least on the campus where I work] and that means changes. Lots of them. New faces, new schedules, less parking, more marketing, a lot of plans go into effect and there is no turning back.

Inevitably, or so it seems, this time means surprises, good and bad. This week we found out about new management transitions and consequently, that our office is moving. I'll move from a second story corner with a view to a basement with no windows. I'm slightly bummed. I mean, who gets a corner office when they're first starting? The late afternoon light is pretty wonderful and I like seeing the campus in a flurry of activity. The space has been consistent affirmation, a reminder:

You're a professional. You're no longer a student. You've earned this position. You have a good thing going for you here.

I'm a blessed girl and I don't want to give that up.

All of this whirlwind week has been a challenge to hold fast to the foundational pieces of my life. My faith. My family. My friends. My passion. Life is quickly convoluted with unintended change. It comes with its cringe moments and can't-wait-till-this-is-over eye-rolls, but it also comes with opportunities to grow, to prove ourselves capable, to embrace possibility. We have to be flexible enough to move with it, react to it, be transformed by it, and firm enough to keep your core self, the things that won't ever change: truth, faith, and love.

And so, I'm happy to meet the challenge and pick a sunny "Overjoy" yellow for my new space. If I can't have natural lighting, at least they will let me paint over that nasty cement color to liven it up a little down there. There's always a bright side, my friends. Sometimes you have to make it literal to see it.

[First image found here.]

book·ish: Book Arranging.

2011-08-15T20:42:00.000-07:00

I've been wanting to rearrange my books for awhile, but it's one of those fleeting impulses that one gets while spending too much time on Pinterest late at night, or standing in line at the grocery store or driving home from work. Then last week I read this post from Sam, and then began looking at these other beautiful bookshelves, it was just the push I needed to do a little creative rearranging.

A nerdier person might keep their books in alphabetical order, but I'm a little too artsy for that. With the limited space and decorating options in our apartment I wanted to make our one bookshelf a subtle decorative statement in the room. I love the idea of a rainbow of books, so I rearranged them by color.

Maybe someday we will have a living room big enough to make it look more like this:

Or this:

But for now I'm happy with this:

The statues of Mozart and V. Hebert were a fabulous thrift find from my mother-in-law.

And of course I had to make room for the library of my musician husband...

What do you think? How do you prefer to rearrange your books, friends? I'd love to know.

~

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

1. (of a person or way of life) Devoted to reading and studying rather than worldly interests.

2. (of language or writing) Literary in style or allusion.

3. (of art and all manner of lovely things) devoted to the written word as a form of art and as a way of seeing the world.

She Writes and Rights

Inspired By.

Mingus at the Showplace : Digesting Experience

Poem : The Movement

Inspired By.

Morning : A New Routine

Five Words for 2011

Back on the Blog.

Love you, Mom.

A blogging break.

On Writing : Louis CK Interviewed on NPR

Merry Christmas

bookish : A Guide for the Dreaded Semicolon

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Holiday Giveaway : The Ripe Word

Business in the City

Poem : For the Apple.

book·ish : In the Haze of a Good Read.

Source: imgfave.com via Bethany on Pinterestbook·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Inspired By.

Readership Doesn't Determine Writership.

The Velvet Coat.

book·ish : A Holiday Gift Guide.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Poem : The Return.

In case you missed it : Guest Poem on The Write Practice

book·ish : holiday party outfit.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Guest Poem | Joe Bunting.

What Makes a Poem Good?

Inspired By.

Insecurity in Art.

Poem : What I Learned from My Mother

Introducing : The Ripe Word.

book·ish: cheeky bookends.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Inspired By.

Guest Post | Un-Growing Up.

book·ish : Was Shakespeare a Fraud?

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

5 Ways Travel Changed Me | Life Goal Accomplished.

5 Ways Travel Changed Me | Exploring New Landscapes.

book·ish : what do you read when you travel?

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

5 Ways that Travel Changed Me | Exposure to Great Art.

Guest Post | Soul Traveling by Elizabeth Hudson.

book·ish : A Traveler's Companion

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Choosing to Live

Inspired By.

Don't Pity Your Story | Guest Post : This Is Me Thinking

A Room, A Conversation.

This Little Idea I Have.

The Age Issue.

Inspired By.

Guest Post | Why I Write.

Poem: Since Feeling is First

book·ish: Favorite Book of All Time.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Inspired By.

National Coffee Day!

I'm Not the Story Weaver.

Guest Poem | Blane Young.

book·ish : Punctuation Humor.

Source: whoislauren.tumblr.com via Bethany on Pinterest Source: mynameis-amy.blogspot.com via Bethany on Pinterest~ book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Inspired By.

My First Guest Post: "So How do We Make Our Marriage Work?"

Poem: How Many, How Much.

bookish: Speaking of Shakespeare.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Inspired By.

Confessions of a Twenty Something: I'm in Therapy.

Words and Strings

book·ish : Literary Great Britain

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Guest Post | Pen to Paper.

On Remembering in the Twenty-First Century

book·ish: Book Challenge.

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Poem: The Master Speed

Source: imgfave.com via Bethany on Pinterest

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective

Source: whoislauren.tumblr.com via Bethany on Pinterest

Source: mynameis-amy.blogspot.com via Bethany on Pinterest

~

book·ish/ˈbo͝okiSH/Adjective