Lent is the practice of giving up something for spiritual renewal  for some Christians. It's become a cultural tradition and less of a spiritual renewal process over the years, and yet I am seeing signs that we need to practice Lent as Americans daily. We have gotten so self-indulgent and entitled- as if the whole world owes us something and as if we've done something great that we deserve to treat ourselves- constantly. Giving up donuts, chocolate, candy, or soda for the few weeks before Easter can be meaningless acts of imitation spirituality unless they are accompanied with the sense of unworthiness. How can one think to compare not eating donuts to the sacrifice of the cross? Unless the act of denial brings you face to face with the loving grace of the Savior, you might as well keep eating donuts.

Without a deep understanding that sacrifice is a gift to ourselves as well as to God, Lent is another empty gesture. When did it become part of every day life to think we are entitled to more and that we owe it to ourselves to treat ourselves? Where did this sense of the need to indulge come from? Things that were rare moments of joy are dull, every day happenings. We take it for granted and refuse to deny ourselves anything. It is a moment of great sacrifice when we have to do without cream in our coffee one morning or the milk ran out and no one went to the store. Happiness is rated by what we own, where we go, what's in our fridge, the kind of car we drive. We are spoiled brats who need to grow up and start making choices that will change the world around us.

True Lent happens every day of the year as you focus on the real things of the heart and less on the outward trappings. True Lent gives you a contented heart in all situations and a sense of peace in the turmoil. Sacrifice the things that really matter- an arrogant heart, the desire to achieve in spite of the cost to others, the attitude of self-indulgence. Oh yeah, and go ahead and give up the donuts! Make them a special treat that you cherish once again! Practice living a life of quietness, of worship, of sacrifice, and watch the feeling of grace and love pour in.

Three years ago I had the opening scene to a new screenplay but not the story behind it. I mentally stashed it away and waited. Yesterday on the nine+ hour drive home from NJ, I had main characters show up and then some of the back story. I still don't have a full plot, but it's nice to know that there is a new story brewing away on the back burner. I didn't write a thing for ten days. Busy taking care of a friend, reconnecting with old friends, bonding with others, I didn't have any energy left over to write here or elsewhere. I took my writing notes but left them in their bag the whole time. On the trip out, I composed emails mentally and then realized midweek that I had never written them or sent them. I've not gone ten days without writing in nearly six years. I write at least five days a week- maybe not a whole piece, but I work on some part of the writing process.

Writing for me happens in two parts- the taking in (the mental processing of new content, experiences, people, ideas, visions, etc.) and the letting out (the story mapping, character development, actual putting words on paper, editing, re-editing, marketing). Part of the ten days was an intensive taking in process- spending time at a hospital and in doctor's waiting rooms, talking to a young Dr in training, talking about staging problems with very creative people until a solution popped up, going to school and realizing how much I miss the dialogue about learning, cuddling on the sofa with big soft dog who thinks I belong to him, and driving around places that belong to the last 25 years of my life. Where does all that stuff go? Not into a notebook chock full of ideas, but into a busy, overworked brain that is busy focusing on how to get out of U of P since the South Street Bridge is closed.

The brain is an amazing thing. It holds so much information, emotions, feelings, smells, sounds, and it lets you retrieve bits when you need them. I had completely forgotten about my opening scene and now it has a critical place in a new story I'm trying not to write (but suspect that I'll begin sketching out on paper while waiting at my own Doctors today). Connect that scene with a five minute convo with an FBI agent ten years ago and I have the back story I need. Add three new characters who are beginning to take shape and I have something totally different. Pretty amazing, huh? Life is good. Life is a miracle!

A great teacher meets the student where they are and coaches them through the process of growing. A good teacher meets the student where they are and tells them where they need to grow, while the bad teacher just tells the student what to do and how to do it. In my diabetic journey, I've met great teachers who were willing to listen to where I was and mentor me in the process that might someday make me in remission. (2% of all people diagnosed with diabetes beat it.) I've been determined to be part of that 2% which means a bit of more aggressive treatment plan and less room for sloppy blood readings. If a food makes my sugar level high- I don't eat it. I have spent the last fourteen months figuring out how diet impacts sugar levels and how to eat so that mine are more "normal". I still need the pills (because I don't exercise enough- if I'd swim every day, and lose more weight, I'd probably not need the pills in another year, but I can't manage swimming daily), and I'm trying Byetta in spite of the fact that I have stick a needle in my stomach twice a day and the side effects (which includes headaches among other things).

I have done my homework. I know how and why diabetes happen. I know the pros and cons of Atkins and the possible side effects. I know that the key to being diabetes free is going to be weight loss. And I'm even ok with my doctors wanting me to eat a little more normally because Atkins is hard to sustain and it affects your emotions.

What I thought was going to happen when I went to the Nutritionist at my new diabetes clinic today was that we'd talk about where I am currently with my eating habits and how we could refine them to make them more effective. What I got was Ms. Attitude and the typical Diabetic diet. (And a carb counting book because the one I had wasn't good enough apparently). My Diabetes doctor warned me that she was anti-Atkins, but I was stunned at how arrogant she was about it and how unwilling she was to listen to where I was. She made all kinds of assumptions- from my health to my diet- none of them true and acted like I was lying when I corrected her. Basically, she wants me to add three times the carbs to my current diet, which will be nearly impossible since I've decreased the amount I'm eating with the Byetta. When I told her carbs make me sick, she blew it off. When I told her that carbs spike my sugar level, she said that was normal. When I said some carbs make my sugar levels swing for three days, she said nothing. She said the reason foods make me sick was because my body wasn't used to the carbs but food made me sick before I was diagnosed with diabetes. She said that wasn't true.

We eat very healthy here most of the time- very little processed foods, lots of lean proteins, very little fats and creams, no heavy sauces, lots of fresh veggies and fruits. I don't cook in oil. I cook white Japanese rice because I like it and for the amount of rice I eat, I am going to cook what I like and get the fiber from a different source. I rarely eat desserts (because I can't handle the feeling of being sick afterwards) and candy is a thing of the past for the same reason. You don't lose weight on the diabetic diet. It wasn't designed for weight loss. It was designed to keep your sugar levels even. It's the traditional diet that they "play with" and "modify" every so often, but I'm not sure I want to bother with it.

I'm thinking that I'm going to just eat normally- protein, veggies, and a small serving of carb per meal and not obsess over it. I'm thinking I'm not going to track my food in the nifty pocket size food log she gave me and that I'm not going to count carbs any more. I'm not going to worry about how much butter I put on a baked potato or how much sour cream I put on a taco.

This is the difference between a bad teacher and good teacher- the result. I have all of her information and resources. I know what's expected of me, but the motivation is entirely different. Instead of being more driven to accomplish the task, I'm stepping back and rethinking if I want to even start the journey. This happens every day in our classrooms. Well meaning, knowledgeable people step in the classroom door and when they're finished, students want to learn less than ever. But the bad teacher walks away, thinking, "Well, I did my job. I taught them everything I know. It's not my fault they won't use it." But they just spewed information. They didn't teach- and in fact- they did more harm with their actions than if they'd been absent that day. You hear it all the time. "The students today are different from yesterday. You can't teach them anything. They don't want to learn anything." Rarely do you hear, "Wow, I blew that lesson. It didn't reach most of the class. How can I do it differently tomorrow." But they're not prepared to learn, I hear back. Not true. I entered her office today, prepared and willing, and so do most of our kids. By the time I left thirty minutes later, I was frustrated and so was she. We both knew that the odds of me doing her diet were slim, but she was confident that it was all my fault. She did the job she was trained to do while I refused to comply to her goals. I bet she never once asked herself why that was. I suspect she'll talk about me to the rest of the staff as a difficult client. Yet, she failed. With all her degrees, trainings, knowledge, and letters after her name, she failed.

The good news is that as an educated adult, I will take the time to process her advice, do some more research, and make a decision that's best for my life. The bad news is that our kids are left powerless, in an environment that doesn't encourage independence and self-responsibility, and there are more of them in classrooms with bad teachers than bad nutritionists.

I'm wanting to participate in a local writing contest- the ten minute play fest. You write a ten minute play. They produce it (I think), and then if it's good enough, you win a little bit of money and bragging rights... simple enough. I have the germ of the idea, but am missing the conflict. I've learned a lot since my first ten minute screenplay. I've learned that when you write something that short that it has to have a simple storyline and simple setting. The primary focus is the dialogue- the conflict played out and resolved. Next Sunday all the participants meet to discuss their work so far and to gather insight and critiques. (Actually, they're meeting today as well- but I have nothing to take and can't go anyway due to prior committments.) I have a week to sketch out the basic plot outline. I have the characters and am wondering if my dialogue writing is good enough to pull off a play. If nothing else, it will do two things- make my dialogue writing better and introduce me to the Arts scene here in a participatory fashion.

There are lots of different kinds of conflict- inner personal heartbreaking conflict (which would take an expert to write for the stage), physical conflict (which isn't something my current characters are good at), and interpersonal conflict (among others I can't think of, I'm sure). My characters have a secret- a big secret they've not told each other in the sixty years they've been close friends- a secret that may destroy their friendship.... what's the secret? Darn if I know... I can't find it. If I could figure that out then I'd have the play mostly written already!

I want to submit at least one book this week to another contest- maybe two if I can swing it. I am still waiting for news of the first contest- maybe March? I suspect that if things are going right that editors are reading it right now. And I have this screenplay... not to mention the new story that continues to write itself even when I'm trying to focus on something else.

My Tuesdays with Cordelia are becoming the highlight of my week as we spend time getting to know each other- which at this point means changing diapers and feeding and her falling asleep in my arms to the sound of something with subtitles. They'll change as she grows and her needs change, but I hope that the bond we're building now doesn't.

I drove down to my Dad's Tuesday night and we sat up talking and laughing about memories from my childhood. My step mother wasn't a part of my childhood and she hadn't heard many of the things we talked about and she asked questions I had never thought about. In the morning we worked on a puzzle in the winter sunlight and talked about who had the blue piece with a bit of white in it and where did the blob of brown go.

I picked up my nine year old nephew after lunch and we drove away for our first outing together- just him and me- his DS left home for his younger sisters to snag while we looked at sharks. He's a thoughtful child, but a bit fearful, and I was planning a day that revolved around him and his wishes. He talked about the sharks and had a toy shark to match to the real ones. He went on and on about touching the sharks and I didn't remember that you could do that. At the alligators a horde of noisy red heads overwhelmed the area- climbing on things, yelling at the alligators, banging on the glass on the floor. Si was done with the alligators instantly, a bit overwhelmed by the chaos of the horde, and we moved on. He wasn't touching anything- not the horseshoe crab, the starfish, or the sharks, and I didn't make a big deal out of it because I wasn't touching them either. We watched the sharks until Si decided it was a bit creepy (with the loud music and the frantic sharks looking for food). We talked about feeding the birds and how they would walk on you and he was determined to try it. In the Lorakeet room, he bravely held out the nector while the Lorakeet walked down my shoulder towards him, but when it got too close, he threw the cup on the floor and darted out of the area. I couldn't join him until the bird flew away and then I reassured him that he was in charge and if he didn't want to feed the Lorakeet, he didn't have to do so. We stopped to rest our feet and share a pretzel and talk before moving on to see the penquins. Afterwards we watched the sharks eat and then I asked if there was any place he wanted to see again. The alligators, he decided and we walked back to them. As we hung out in the quiet of a fake swamp, Si climbed the fence for a closer look. On the ride home, he said his favorite part was the escalators and I was thinking that our next outting should be a place with lots of escalators. He talked non-stop and his mom said that's a sign he's comfortable with me.

Bonding... the key factor is time, I've decided. It's hard to fly in, have a family holiday, and fly out. You need gobs of time going at the other's pace, listening to their chatter, answering their questions, asking your own, and at the end- you understand each other a little better. People talk about quality versa quantity and that's one of those fake choices. You need both. Life together is messy- it's diapers, and nector splashing on you, and not touching sharks, and sharing a pretzel. It's remembering where you parked and learning how to read a map together. It's following the signs through town and eating at Johnny Rockets. It's rocking a crying baby and giggling with her when she laughs. Nector washes off and babies outgrow diapers. Trips become faded memories, but the bond remains when everything else is gone......

I have the germ of an idea for a 10 minute play for a local contest... but no conflict...

I'm thinking a water aerobics class where three old women tease, whine, etc about their life while a series of old men take turns observing the young instructor from the bench outside the sauna. My question is... what's the main conflict? The thing that drives the dialogue? Any ideas?

In other news...

No Van Ness Wu new single yet... the mail is slow!

It's snowing... again! Ohio should have as many words for gray sunless skies as Eskimos have for snow!

I started Byetta today- it's a shot- into your stomach...

A familiar fellow Xangan has scored a berth among eight finalists in a national magazine short story writing contest, the Broken Pencil "Deathmatch." He could really use your help! It's a seven week ordeal, you can vote once per hour, as many votes as you like, the more the better. As a matter of strategy, we are asking this week that you support the "snake" story, "Cortez the Killer."

The competition itself is salty, it's ribald, you can troll with ugly comments, it's fun. It's a DEATHMATCH!!! Feel free to repost on to anyone who might be interested in reading or writing short fiction.

http://www.brokenpencil.com/deathmatch/

This story creeped me out in a way only this xangan can... let me know what you think of it... and the deathmatch writing contest is a whole new experience....

In the country... there are cows and pigs and dragonflies. There are hay lofts and corn fields and coyotes. There are black skies scattered with twinkling lights, a brilliant full moon hanging by a thread, and showers of lights falling from the sky. There are tractors, horses, and big lawn mowers to ride when you're bored. There are fences to climb, fences to mend, and cows to chase back into pasture lands once the fence line is restored. There are long lazy summer days when it's too hot to do much more than swing on the glider on the front porch with a good book, and long winter nights when it's too cold to do much more than curl up under a blanket and watch the fire roar red and yellow in the fireplace.

In the city... there are street lights, taxis, and twenty-four hour stores. There are blocks and blocks of buildings blocking out the sky. There are museums, hole in wall places to eat where the staff know your name, and speciality shops. You can catch a show off off broadway, buy knock-offs on Canal Street, and sample a tiny piece of any culture along the way. There are lions to pet outside the library, elephants at the zoo, and subways that rattle and shake below ground. There are people everywhere, more numerous than the fireflies in the country, and they are nearly all strangers. There are thousands of movie theaters showing movies you can only read about in the country. There are office buildings, and more office buildings, and more office buildings with fierce bike warriors delivering packages in swarms who cuss you out if you slow up their progress. 

When I'm in the country, I long for the noise and confusion of the city. I ache for its busyness and long for the choices it offers. I need to walk for miles and breath in the smell of life crammed into a small space. I have a hole which only the city can fill.

When I'm in the city, after the exhilaration is gone and the euphoria has aged, I feel my soul lagging, as if it needs to escape to the quiet boredom of the empty spaces in the country.

I am...both Country and City... yet I can't do either for very long! But the shore? I don't think I ever get tired of the sounds of the waves breaking on the sand, of the sea gulls begging for a bite of food, of the foghorns honking far from land.

 Country Mouse or City Mouse? - A Featured_Grownups writing prompt.

I have the gem of an idea, a few main characters, a bit of a plot, some smashing conflict and even a setting... I know where the story might be going and even how to get there, but it's too soon for keyboard time. It's thinking time- the Visualization Process time.

I used to think that a day not spent at the keyboard was a wasted day- because my motto is... Writers Write... Every Day... but at some point I began to look at the writing process a bit deeper. When does writing begin? We teach our kids to keep lists of topics, to use graphic organizers to create a plan, and to free write when they're stuck as part of the prewriting process, but usually the teacher focuses on the actual writing and the result.

When I sit down at the keyboard I can turn out 5k words a day and in a month have a first draft. The words flow faster than my fingers and I forget to stretch or wiggle and my fingers ache and my butt falls asleep. At the end, I think "That was a productive writing day". But where is the beginning of that work? Is it when I outline on large post-it's characters and plot connections? Is it when I have a working title? Or is it when I am in the blue phase like I am now...

I think of it as the Blue phase because the world has a slightly less realness to it, as if it's surrounded by mystic blue fog, and I'm less connected to it and living more inside my mind. I sit at McDonald's, a notebook open, as the parents ream out their nine year old for a less than stellar report from her teacher. Stubborn, she refuses to cry at their biting words and she tries once more to explain herself. I notice as a piece of pink yard off her worn sweater drags through the ketscup and leaves red marks on the table. Her fingers are dirt-encrusted and I wonder how they got so dirty in the middle of winter. I have no nine year olds in my story, but the 13 year old is stubborn like she is. When scolded, he shuts down. He doesn't defend himself. He's learned long ago the best defense is silence. He'll cry later- maybe- alone in his room, late at night, when everyone else is asleep. He doesn't do well in school either. The teacher can't figure out why. He's smart. He could do better. It's as if he's learned not to show what he knows. She'll blame it on his daydreaming. He doesn't eat at McDonald's. He's a sheltered child, and he doesn't wear hand-me-downs, or have dirty nails. But there is a gardener in his life- or at least there is one now- a gardener who talks non-stop about nonsense stuff, who sings to the flowers and whispers sweet nothings in the grubs ears (Do grubs have ears?). He looks at the dirt that refuses to come off his palm with a bit of distress. The telltale sign that he's broken a rule means certain punishment later if he's caught. There is no one he can trust to protect him and keep him safe. He has only himself. He wipes the dirt off on ground, but it won't leave. The gardener pours water from a green watering can over his fingers and they tingle in the cold.... and... the little girl and her parents throw away their trays and her mom hugs her. Blue Fog... I'm prewriting. There are few new notes under the page with the 13 year's old character's name at the top. Stubborn, shuts down... those are from before. And suddenly I realize that he's not alone. He just feels that way. Behind him, in the shadows, is his security guard, watching over him, who may have arranged this chance meeting with the gardener. Who's controlling who, I wonder as the free table is occupied by a group of pre-teen boys who are busy snatching fries and texting. They seem so much freer from my guy, and I look for hidden shadows in their eyes.....

 I may never use that scene in the new story- or I might. It's too early to tell, but it has taught me some critical things about my character. I am feeling a bit of the background of the fear and isolation that motivates him for his BIG move- the decision that drives the story and other characters.

I find it hard to think... "that was a productive writing day" after my time at Mickey D's, but actually it was a very rich time, full of color and depth that will add depth and color to the words when I finally write them down. Thus... this is prewriting time... a few notes here and there, some charts, a bit of sketches and story graphing... but most of the work is deep in my head where it can't be seen...

Writers do write... every day... it's just some days look different than others... and some have no word count at the end of them!

We live on the edge of an unsafe neighborhood and while nothing much happens in ours (mostly because it's full of off duty police officers and fire fighters during the day), I'm not thrilled with the door bell ringing. Except it doesn't ring- it chimes loudly and echoes.

When I'm writing upstairs, the sound jars me back to reality and makes me lose my train of thought. By the time I limp down the stairs (since my toes fall asleep while I'm writing and I don't know it until I stand up), whoever is at the door is pulling away. Usually a note is stuck to the front door or a package is jammed between the storm door and the green door.

You read about home invasions in the neighborhood to the west, closer to the city, and you read about the rash of car breaking and entering in the whole city, but my car is in the garage and there's not much to take out of it if someone did bother trying to open the heavy garage door. We don't even have that much in the house.  

I miss not having a dog when I'm home alone when the doorbell rings. Wulfe was no protection and he rarely barked, but knowing that he would be between me and whoever was on the other side was helpful- even if he would try to lick the stranger to death instead of biting him.

Today the door bell rang twice and there was no car on the street or no truck in the driveway. The stranger trudged across the snow to my neighbor's house and tried his doorbell. If he keeps going, around the corner lives the undercover cops with their dogs that are trained to not lick strangers. Next to them is the cat lady the police just arrested for violating the order that says she can only have ten cats. No one knows if she's back yet, and I'm not sure who's feeding her army of cats, but I suspect that they might be happy to see someone at their door today. Though I doubt that even a cat burglar can stand the smell. You can tell which house is the cat house from the street by the smell.

Down the street, around the corner, at the light is the scary bot- boy house. An e-bay find that the owner displayed in her front yard, she put out a call to help when the ugly thing was stolen this fall. She offered to pay a ransom for his return and it must have worked because the bot-boy is dressed in a red Ohio football shirt and peeks out the front window now. I would have paid them to take the nasty thing away forever. Imagine some robber chancing on him mid robbery. If you shot an old mechanical doll, is it murder? And why would you doll-nap the ugly thing and then bother returning it? I don't understand.

I'm living in that gray place mentally where I'm painting pictures in my mind, drawing details, dreaming convos. It is that space before I sit down at the keyboard and let my thoughts flow out nonstop. It doesn't feel like I'm doing too much in this place, but it's important work- it's making reality out of imagination. Or at least it would if strangers without vehicles wouldn't ring my doorbell. They distract me, making me plot things not connected to the tale I'm writing in my brain. And I can't help wondering how happy they'll be when they knock on the cat lady's door.... or shoot an old carnival prop..... hmmmm....