Ramblings of a sort-of author

I received my first rejection letter this week. It came from this publication. I feel pretty good about it actually because it means that (fanfare please....) I have officially entered the domain of a Real Writer. Real Writers receive rejection letters all the time, right? It's the closet writers who dream big but never send their babies out into the word, who never risk rejection, who never lick the stamp on the SASE that will likely come back to them bearing disappointing news.

I think I'll frame the letter. It's printed on a half-sheet of paper. A form letter. It doesn't even have a real signature at the bottom. I get the impression that they send a million of these out a year. In fact, my tiny letter informs me that this publication's submission to acceptance ratio is 100 to one. This makes me feel slightly better about having ventured a bit of hope, having stuck my neck out only to have it...not cut off exactly...perhaps sliced politely with a few paper cuts. It wasn't as bad as I thought. I'm actually looking forward to coming up with something new to send them again. It only took four months of waiting to get a response. I can do this 3 or 4 times a year for the rest of my life and all it will cost me is a bit of postage. Well, and the obscene amount of hours it took to write the essay. But Real Writers enjoy that part.

The other thing that lets me bask momentarily in a Real Writer glow is the fact that several weeks ago, I received an acceptance letter for one of my essays. It came from this publication. I'm looking forward to a modest little paycheck (will I frame it as well or cash it? Decisions, decisions.) It will be my first opportunity to see my name in print in a real, honest-to-goodness national publication. This is a heady thing. I'll try to keep the swelling to a minimum. Perhaps I'll hang the rejection letter next to the check just to keep myself humble.

How to make a lasting impression

by Nora

First you show up at mom's friend Kathy's house and make your best adorably innocent face. Then, when no one is looking, you slice open your big toe on something sharp (it doesn't matter what that thing is, in fact, chances are the adults will never be able to figure it out). Now here's the important part: don't cry or let on that your toe is bleeding until you have worked your way through every single room, stairway and hallway in the house leaving little bloody toe prints every few inches. If you're fast enough and quiet enough, you can cover a lot of territory in the time it takes your mom to notice that she has a spot of blood on her sock and wonder about the source. By then, you will have made your mark...and your mark...and your mark....

Just for good measure, after you've been properly bandaided and cuddled and set free again, wait until your mom is busy wiping bloody spots off the floor and go fall down the stairs. Make sure you don't hurt yourself, but give your mom's friend a good healthy complex. She'll think her house is a death trap. I'm sure she'll be ready to invite you back again real soon.

Checking up on the resolutions

Obviously, any New Year's resolutions I made to be more consistent in my blog entries have gone the way of the Eat No More Sugar until 2010 vow. Alas. But I will say that my resolution to spend more quality time with my family is going well. In fact, there's likely an inverse relationship between the one and the other. The more time I spend with my husband and kids, the less time I spend on the computer. Funny how that works. I plan to do better on the blog this month. I have plenty to write about and I won't give that up. I just wanted to say that I'm busy sorting out priorities. Here I am with a few of my cutest priorities at the Salt Lake Temple this past weekend.

turning pages, unwinding scrolls

Nora turns 20 months old this week. What can I say? Every stage with her has been an adorable one, but each one seems more endearing than the last. She is starting to sing and jabber all the time. We were watching White Christmas the other day and I swear she was trying to tap dance. As I type this, she has found the box of too-small clothes that I left out and has gone to town with it, taking each item out and tossing it over her shoulder, then sorting and re-sorting everything into different piles. From the look on her face, this is a project of sobering proportions. She’s thinking: Good grief! When will I ever get a handle on all this laundry?

Nora also loves books. Obviously, she came to the right family. She has hundreds to choose from (and pull off the shelves, and tear pages from and shuttle from room to room…). Last night I read a whole stack of stories to her and then put her to bed. This morning when I went in to get her out of the crib, she was pointing to her bookcase and whining for more. What a delight it is to pass on my love of reading to her. When I become first lady (not president; too much work) I will be the first lady with the big campaign about reading to your kids every day.

I'll willingly admit that I frequently fall short of the ideal mother mark, but when I’m reading to my kids, I feel like—at least for this moment—I am doing something right.

I found this painting by Henry Ossawa Tanner a few weeks ago while looking for new Christmas art. I was drawn to the way Mary and Jesus, as they lean in to read together, form a single mound. The scroll they are reading echoes that shape. The two readers share a moment of solid attentiveness; they are at one with their task. Mary is teaching Jesus to read, but she is also passing on tradition, knowledge, and a love of the word.

The parchment is rolled up on the floor on one side of them, but the other end of it is off the edge of the painting, as if it has no end. Time, and the passage of it, are implied in the sense of words having been read and words yet to come. But time has also been suspended, as mother and child focus their eyes on the phrase before them. They are paused at the top of the arc of the unwound scroll. They are—to use a trendy modern phrase—living in the moment. This is how I feel when I set aside my stacks of things to do, ignore the phone, turn of my laptop, and sit down next to a pile of books with one of my kids. It doesn't matter if we're reading Isaiah (as Mary probably is) or There's a Wocket in my Pocket. It's a good moment. And I'm going to hold onto it as long as I can.

Gabie at the wheel.....uh, keyboard

My Mom is a total slacker. She took a whole week vacation from my blog without telling anyone. And you know what she's been doing? Boring stuff. Grading final exams. Getting ready for another class. Cooking. Cleaning. Nothing really important. She's all mixed up about what's important and what is not.

What's not important: sleeping, doing anything that involves my baby sister (who I think can pretty much take care of herself by this point), reading any book without pictures, taking showers, and talking on the phone. When I catch my Mom doing any of these things, I have to pester her until she stops.

What's important: sharpening pencils, watching Myth Busters, "getting ready for when Jesus comes by moving furniture around in the family room," eating Gogurts, and talking non-stop about the laptop that Grandma has to buy me even though Mom says she will NOT let me call Grandma and tell her that she has to buy it for me.

It is also important to give people advice. Especially my Mom. She needs someone to tell her what to do with her life. When I found this picture in the photo albums, here's what I said:

Me: That's a pretty dress. You should wear it to church someday.
Mom: It's my wedding dress, Gabie. People don't wear their wedding dresses to church.
Me: Then you should just wear it around the house.
Mom: Sure, but there's no way I would fit into it anymore. I've gained a few pounds since that picture was taken.
Me: Then you have to go on a diet.
Mom: Yeah, thanks for the idea.
Me: You should start today. You have a lot of work to do.

My Mom has no idea how lucky she is to have me around.