River walk

I went for a walk along the river today. It was below zero, but the sun was shining and the air still. Windless days in Wyoming are rare, so I got out and enjoyed it as much as I could. This is what I saw. And, since words sometimes cloud the picture, I'll simply say: Thank you, Lord.

go west, young man

Tree branches don't sway here;

they bend

and wheeze

like an old man reaching for his toes,

creak, creak, creak.

Snap?

Tumbleweeds don't tumble here;

they fly...

until they bump into some friends hanging on the fence,

and then they hang too.

Their wives know they won't be coming home tonight,

or the next.

Mountains don't look majestic here;

they look old

and wise

as they smoke their pipes,

and blow 'O' ring clouds

high into the sky

and far, far over the horizon.

People don't exist here;

they live.

They help,

they hurt,

they love

Wyoming.

Dog borrowing

This is Lily. I'm borrowing her this week. I mean, her owners think I'm dog-sitting and house-sitting, which is true, but those terms make it seem like Lily is work. She isn't. This yellow lab/husky mix is pure fun. She makes me laugh. She makes me play. She makes me feel energetic and childlike. And until we met just days ago, I hadn't realized how much I needed all those things.

Now, as I sit here with a borrowed dog at my feet in a house I don't normally call my own, I realize that sometimes humans need a change of pace. And, it seems, some humans need that change more often than others. I think I fall in the needy category. I so easily get stuck in ruts -- in my mind, in my daily habits, in my conversations, in my pursuit of God.

Mind rut: I dwell on the same joys or sorrows of my past and fret about the same unknowns of my future. One might think, upon traveling through the ruts of my mind, that I've only lived a few years of wild ups and downs. In truth, I've lived 27 years of everyday food and drink and human interaction. Yes, those years have been laced with moments of pain and elation, but mostly they've been simply living. And that is good! Living is good, and I would be better off to do more of my living and thinking in the right now.

Habit rut: I get up, put on long pajama pants and a sweatshirt, eat breakfast, check my email, shower, do some work, eat lunch, work some more, take a walk, eat dinner, watch a movie or read a book, go to bed. Maybe tomorrow I'll watch the sun rise. And maybe the next day I won't check my email. The day after that I'll call a friend at midnight and ask her to eat breakfast with me right then. And some time I'll skip the walk and roll down a hill instead. I am realizing that changes don't have to be dramatic. Just a small shake-up will do. (If I have dreads the next time you see me, you'll know I decided to "shake it up" and not shower for a while =>).

Conversation rut: I feel a need to tell everyone I converse with that I am looking for a journalism job because that will convey that I am put together and in control. Nevermind it isn't quite true. Nevermind the fact I spent hours in prayer and felt God leading me to stay put while I edit my novel and work to get it published. Why am I so afraid to say that in conversation? Do I fear it doesn't sound grown-up enough? And, more importantly, why am I so concerned with appearing the way I think people want me to appear? Why is anyone? Have we forgotten the beauty of vulnerability and the adventure of being real? Aren't those the things that make for truly enjoyable conversation?

God rut: The God rut is a treacherous one. It forms quickly, goes deep, and feels so right I hardly realize I'm stuck in it. I read my devotional, pray my prayer, go to church, sing a song. Those are good things; I realize that. I also realize they are safe things when done inside my rut. It is easy to read the devotional or the Bible without thinking about it. It becomes harder when I admit I don't understand or *gasp* like what I'm reading. It is hard when my prayers are messy...especially when God answers in a "messy" way, which, if I'm honest, is any way contrary to what I thought should be the answer. When I'm not in my God rut, I sometimes don't want to go to church. It's too scary. There's a lot of pressure there to be, well, happily rutted. It becomes awkward when I'm kind of messed up, and I'm praying messy prayers, and pondering messy, unsafe thoughts about God. Still, I'd rather pursue God while running across the dusty, wide open plains -- fully realizing I may stumble on scraggly sagebrush -- than love Him inside a rut. What's fun about that? Following God should be an adventure. And I, for one, am ready to go...as long as Lily the Borrowed Dog goes with me and makes me laugh along the way.

In it

Here's to life!

There is a scene in the movie "Garden State" that I've always loved. It's between Natalie Portman and Zach Braff. They are sitting by a fireplace and Braff is staring straight ahead, seeming to focus on nothing in the room but rather something in the recesses of his memory. Portman looks at him and says: "You're in it right now, aren't you? My Mom always says that when she can see I'm, like, working something out in my head. She's like, 'You're in it right now.' And I'm looking at you, and you're telling me that story, and you're definitely in it right now."

Though Braff is "in" his head trying to figure out his mom's death, his relationship with his dad and other problems, I think that concept of being "in it" applies to life in general too. So often I feel like I'm skimming over the surface of my life. Only sometimes do I dive deeper and truly connect with the people and scenes around me and the emotions inside of me. But when I do, those are the moments I remember as I reflect on a day, a week, a month or a year.

This January, as I've spent some days looking back on 2008, I have enjoyed going through those moments when I felt completely connected and alive. I only wish there were more. I can only hope I slow down in 2009 and strive to go deeper than the surface, deeper than merely making a living in order to live a life only God can make.

In retrospect, here are a few of those moments I was "in it" in 2008:

* Solo snowboarding excursion in February. At one point in the day it was me, the falling snow, and a toe edge turn that had sent me sprawling down the hill many a time in my snowboarding past. But not this day. I squinted, let out a determined breath and made it. I felt like I was flying.

* Sipping hot cocoa while sitting at my kitchen table, my bare feet chilled by the cold flooring but my hands warmed by the mug.

* Motorcycle ride up Casper Mountain this summer with a friend. We hiked at the top. With all the rain, Wyoming's hills were greener than normal. It was beautiful. And on the way down, we weaved through a neighborhood where many folks were watering their lawns. The mist cooled us down, and I can still recall the smell of moist earth.

* Working on articles on deadline with a cup of good coffee by my side. Deadlines bring such clarity of thought sometimes.

* Handstands and cartwheels on the beach of Guernsey Reservoir at sunset with my friend Sarah. Follow that with barbecued pizza, home-brewed beer and a night under the stars, and life really is sweet.

* Cherry picking in the Flathead Valley on a warm summer day with my family. Surreal.

* Watching Willie Nelson fans hoist their beers to the legendary singer/songwriter at a concert in August with my friend John. If you didn't love Willie in that moment, you weren't alive.

* Listening to the whistle of my Amtrak train before sunrise one morning in Nebraska. It sounded like adventure wooing me deep into the unknown. Taking risks, it seems, forces us to enter into our life with gratitude for where we've been, hope for where we're going, and trust for whatever is happening the moment you "step over the edge."

* Oddly enough, sitting with a woman I had just met after she broke up with her boyfriend. She cried and ate ice cream while two of her friends and I offered comfort. The emotions, good and bad, were so real I felt privileged to share them with someone who was, more or less, a complete stranger.

* Typing "The End" on my very first novel, written in a creative 30-day flurry. Long-time dream: accomplished.

* Pushing my best friend's little girl on the swings.

* Playing chess late at night with my Dad.

* Walking the dog with my Mom. Especially when we stopped for coffee.

* Hearing my brother tell me he loves me on the phone. When he says it, he means it. Do you ever feel more "in it" than when you know you are loved?

2009 started out ugly

To bid farewell to 2008 and throw our arms open to 2009, my friends and I had an Ugly Sweater Party, or USP for short. At this USP, we ate good snackies, played great games like "Guesstures" and "Apples to Apples," and did some leg wrestling. Our hosts, S and D, were grand. A soon-to-be married couple, they recently bought a house and have done a swell job so far of opening its doors to friends and neighbors. Thanks S and D!

On the eve of the new year, the new house welcomed an uglier sort than it had hosted before. They came carrying brownies, root beer float cake, chips, frozen pizzas and a few beers. They came bearing Wiis and cameras. And they came dressed to kill...or at least severely maim any soul unfortunate enough to behold their attire.

At this USP, the sweaters were indeed ugly. One slinky, red, droopy, super-long affair is burnt in my memory. Another blue zig-zagged and pink striped remnant from the '80s also lingers. And the fellow wearing woman's trousers along with a mustard-colored shirt and overzealous sweater vest definitely made an impression. Add to these get-ups mustaches cut from poster board and affixed with double sided tape, and you may rightly say 2009 started out ugly.

But ugly was fun. Self consciousness be darned. The uglier the better. The more ridiculous the richer. We laughed in the new year. And I don't think there was any better way to begin whatever adventures lie ahead of us all in 2009.

Yours truly in her ugly sweater and mustache. Seriously, I don't know how such a garment ever made it into this world...let alone got purchased. Alas, we all make mistakes.

S and D, our lovely ugly-sweatered hosts. Inside out is always classic, and S's stitches came straight from the '80s -- a never-fail choice for ridiculous and pitiful. Long live the '80s!

B and her brother J working the poster board 'stache, goatee and sideburns. Nice sneer, J!

Okay everyone, look ugly. Wait, you already do. Look silly then. That's it. Good job. Happy 2009! (Someone please take that fork away from N. He's scaring me.)

It wouldn't be an Ugly Sweater Party without pulling out the John Travolta vinyl. Who even knew Travolta had an album?! They say you learn something new every day. With such knowledge, I feel 2009 is going to be electrifyin'!

Life: Post Novel

What, some are wondering, does a novelist do after the novel is written? That's a good question. Some, I suppose, experience extreme elation. Others likely drop into a deep depression once they are forced out of the not-so-real world of their characters' lives. Every author is different. Hopefully this short list will give you an idea of Life: Post Novel.

1.) Celebrate! Personally, I ordered a giant load of sweet potato fries. Then, I called a friend and we indulged in some carrot cake and cheesecake and coffee. After that? I went to bed!
2.) Print the manuscript! Pretend it's a book. Hold it like a book. Love it like a book. The night my words came out of that printer all crisp and fresh was a beautiful night indeed.
3.) Buy a T-Shirt! Since the writing of my novel was inspired by National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), I bought a NaNoWriMo T-Shirt. It says I'm an author right there on the shirt...one of hundreds of thousands of people who have embarked on 30-day writing adventures over the last ten years. See below for photos of me, my manuscript and my shirt.

4.) Enjoy the holidays! My brother and sister-in-law came down from Montana to celebrate Christmas. We made fudge, played with the dogs, talked books and movies and politics and religion, shot each other with marshmallows and played chess.

(Here Andy is shown with his newly gifted marshmallow popper gun. This was before all marshmallow chaos broke loose in the Wiest household.)

(Here, at left, is shown Andy's fully loaded marshmallow popper gun. It's aimed right at my head. I have nowhere to run. Thanks, Dad, for giving my older brother something to shoot me with.)

5.) Get on with life! After the celebration, the glorious printing process, the gloating to anyone who dares ask what one's been up to lately, and the going to bed at decent hours of the night, an author needs to reintroduce herself to the real world. For me this involved watching movies again, walking to the library, writing emails and letters, regular showering, lunch with friends, and speaking in full sentences.

6.) Thank God! Seriously. I realize how blessed I am to have had this opportunity to pour myself into writing a novel for a month while living rent-free. I am grateful. I am glad my Lord gave me a love for language and a passion for stories. I am glad He is the author of my life story. How sweet is that?!

7.) Thank family and friends! Authors can be difficult people to live with and tolerate. We get awfully full of pride about our work and are always talking about our characters and the writing process. (Boring.) I am so, so, so, so, so grateful for my Mom and Dad and Andy and Marianne. They have been incredibly supportive of my crazy endeavor. Their encouragement and patience has been invaluable. Special kudos to my Mom. She was the best sounding board for all my ideas and frustrations! She was always interested and never critical. And thanks to all my friends for asking for progress reports and for giving pledges of book purchases once it hits shelves. Also, thanks to all those who have offered to read the rough draft. I know your input will be valuable in the next step of Life: Post Novel -- editing.

(The fam out on a walk with the dogs on Christmas day.)

8.) Edit! After some time away from my manuscript, I am just about ready to launch into the terrible, wonderful process of tearing my story apart and making it better. Advance thanks to my Dad for the brutal but constructive criticism I know he'll give (always with a hug).

9.) Get a real job! I've got a book about how to write an award-winning resume sitting right here beside me.

10.) Start novel number two!

30 days. Lots of coffee. 51,412 words. I wrote a novel.

Your intuition knows what it wants to write, so get out of the way.
--Ray Bradbury

With my trusty dog at my feet, I felt like a real writer. Actually, it was my parents' dog, but I borrowed her. Flipper didn't care if I laughed or cried at my manuscript as long as I gave her a good scratch behind the ears every now and then.

Sustenance. On my last day of noveling, I chose pumpkin bread and coffee. Lots and lots of coffee to energize me to the very end of 118 pages full of 51,412 words.

The first sip of hot coffee in The Igloo on my last day of writing.

I did it. I wrote a novel. Now what?

So much to write, so little time

Some people write in coffee shops. Some write at home. I write on the stage of the local high school as my folks work on the set for the latest production. I think my Mom told me it was 'time' to write every time I turned around to see how things were going. It is amazing, though, what a change of location will do for your creativity!

As of 11:02 p.m. Dec. 15 (today), I have less than one thousand words left to write. And, since tomorrow is day 30 of this 30-day noveling adventure, I'm finishing just in time.

Any and all who are able should join me for drinks and dessert tomorrow evening. I'll even dare to say, "My treat!"

Thanks, all, for coming along with me this far. Your encouragement has been invaluable.

Soon it will be 'time' to edit...

Officially here

The Christmas season is officially here: I am listening to "O Holy Night" and crying. Man, I am so in love with my Savior!

Help me Mr. Hemingway

Photograph by Mary Hemingway in the Ernest Hemingway Photograph Collection, John F. Kennedy Presidential Library and Museum, Boston.

It's been a productive morning.

I have written a few cards and scrounged through piles of papers and the oh-so-valuable White Pages of the Internet to find the addresses to which to send said cards.

I've worked on a colored pencil drawing and read a few pages of a book.

I've showered.

I've called my insurance agent.

And I've even written in my blog. (You're reading it.)

What I haven't done is work on my novel. It's day 24 of my 30-day noveling adventure, and I am completely and totally stuck. Seriously. It must be bad because I just used the phrase "completely and totally." Only authors who are flailing around in a mire of self-doubt and plot confusion use such over-the-top phrases.

I have walked by my computer down in The Igloo many a time this morning -- and loathed the sight of it with each passing. It mocks me. And I stick my tongue out at it.

Tongue protrusion is another sign of a seriously stuck novelist. We quickly degrade into not-so-mysterious-but-quite-immature human beings. I can guarantee Ernest Hemingway did it. And Steinbeck, too. "The Old Man and the Sea" was likely written in its entirety with Hemingway wagging his tongue at the manuscript, or thumbing his nose at it, or some other childish gesture. Really, how could an author take himself at all seriously while writing something so (someone is going to shoot me for saying this) terrible.

What I want to know, Mr. Steinbeck and Mr. Hemingway, is how you got unstuck. Somehow you produced amazing works like "Travels With Charley" and "A Farewell to Arms" with frank and gritty description and beautiful flare. I mean seriously, "To die. In the rain." That has got to be the all-time best ending line ever written, Mr. Hemingway. It definitely redeems you for "The Old Man and the Sea."

And let's not even get into even greater greats like Mark Twain and Jane Austen and Harper Lee. Did they wag their tongues at their pens and still manage to write "The Innocents Abroad" and "Pride and Prejudice" and "To Kill a Mockingbird"?

Oh, I hope so. I really do. Or I am doomed. Help me Mr. Hemingway. Help me Jane Austen. I'll be here in Wyoming sticking my tongue out at my computer, clipping my toe nails, and balancing my checkbook until I feel inspired to go write wonderful, witty words. Or until my mother gives me a swift kick in the seat of my pants and tells me to buck up and git 'er done. Maybe that was your trick all along, hmm Mr. Twain? You had a mother.

Keeping up with the...

I am guilty of a human flaw I never thought would plague me: Keeping up with the Joneses.
Not in the monetary sense. I am happy financially.
And I'm not in a mad dash to climb to the highest wrung of the social status ladder. That doesn't matter to me.
My race has become one of reaching certain life benchmarks by a certain age: Marriage (27 or 28). Children (A few happy years after marriage). Owning a house (Somewhere right around the time of my happy marriage). Working happily in a career (Wherever I happen to live as a happily married woman).
Just recently I have become acutely aware I am falling far behind. I am losing in this race of growing up. I am a failure.
Or so I've been telling myself. And God.
As I watch friends and family stride beautifully through these benchmarks, far ahead of me, I do a good job of cheering their progress and accomplishments. I am happy for them.
But somewhere inside me lurks another, very different emotion: envy. It makes my muscles tired and my lungs weak. It saps the strength God has given me for MY race. So, depleted and angry, I begin to wail to my Father that I have failed in this race of life.
I had not realized until today how much that must hurt my Lord. There He is running right beside me, calling out encouragement, giving me Gatorade and pointing out the finish line, and all I can do is turn my gaze to the benchmarks I can't seem to reach before everyone else has checked them off, fueled up, and moved on.
I had not realized until today that if I look at my life as a failure, that means I look at God's work in my life as nothing. And that is far from the truth.
God's work is everything. It is the reason I've even made it this far in the race. He saved me and set me on the starting blocks. And He is sanctifying me as He and I run together, fighting for every step, focused on the finish line.
We may pass some of those benchmarks I so want to check off. And we may not. I just want to learn to be happy in the race God set out for me. I don't want to keep up with the Joneses. But I do want to keep up with Jesus.

Wherever you are, be all there.
--Jim Elliot

So I run with purpose in every step. I am not just shadowboxing.
--1 Corinthians 9:26

Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a huge crowd of witnesses to the life of faith, let us strip off every weight that slows us down, especially the sin that so easily trips us up. And let us run with endurance the race God has set before us. We do this by keeping our eyes on Jesus, the champion who initiates and perfects our faith.
--Hebrews 12:1-2a

Operation Christmas Child rocks!

Operation Christmas Child is a ministry of Samaritan's Purse that sends more than 8 million gift-filled shoe boxes to impoverished children around the world in order to show them the love of Jesus. The boxes get delivered by rick-shaw, motorcycle, canoe, tuk-tuk, bus, land rover, small aircraft and more. It's awesome!

My friend John and I went shopping to fill our boxes on Sunday and had a blast. I mean, who doesn't want to shop for new pencils, toys and socks? Who doesn't want to brighten some sweet kid's day? If you don't participate in this ministry already, I'd definitely encourage you to consider it next year. Check out www.samaritanspurse.org for more information. In the meantime, pray for all those boxes and all those kids. God uses the most simple of things to do amazing works.

Long live Fall!

This pumpkin is about two feet tall and two feet wide. It sits on a porch not far from my house. Though Halloween is nearly a month past, it holds on. Long live Fall!

I novel, I chauffeur

I emerged from The Igloo on Monday, which, for anyone counting, was day eight of my 30-day noveling adventure. I'd like to say I emerged because I knew it would be good for my health. But that's not the case. I'm willing to risk my health -- both physical and mental -- for the love of words. No, I emerged because I got a job. Not only am I a novelist now, I am a chauffeur. Monday was my first day driving a doctor in town to his clinic in Gillette. We left before 7 in the morning and returned about 9:30 at night. A long day, perhaps, but perfect for writing while I waited for him to see all 60 (!) of his patients. I wrote in the Campbell County Public Library for a switch. My little study room was about two feet square. It was nice and cozy.

Where were you the night of...

Is that a dangling participle? Will it count toward my 50,000-word noveling goal?

Noveling: The Next Frontier

Nov. 17, 2008

Welcome to The Igloo! It may not look like much -- just a table, a red telephone, a laptop and some fingerless gloves to the untrained eye. But let me tell you, it's a place of magic.

Here, for the next 30 days, scenes will be built, obstacles will be overcome and characters will come to life and run amok on that computer screen. The little green notebook will be full of scribbled notes. The headphones will play inspirational music. And the fingerless gloves will keep my hands warm as I embark on my next adventure: writing a 50,000-word novel in 30 days in my folks' rather chilly basement.

It's crazy, I know. Especially for a journalist like me who has no idea how to write that many words of fiction. But that book on the table, "No Plot? No Problem" by Chris Baty, says it can be done. I choose to believe it and invite you to come along.

Stay tuned for updates on the noveling life.

You're so vain, you prob'ly think this post is about you

Nov. 18, 2008

Ah, the joys of traveling alone. Scenery photos are nice and all, but you can only take so many. Soon, you want a photo of, well, yourself. You want to prove you were in all those wonderful places. You want the world to see that you do exist. So, you go crazy with your camera's self-timer.

You set the camera on a windowsill, a television, a log, a rock. You frame the photo the best you can. You hit the button. You run. You strike a pose. You smile. And smile. And smile. The little red light keeps blinking. You frown. You begin to head towards the camera. It takes the picture as you're glaring at it. You try again. You strike another pose. You laugh at yourself. You really, really hope no one is watching.

Here's my proof. I was in a tall building in Boston. I was on the coast of Oregon. I was on the coast of Oregon. I was on Oregon's coast. I was here, in Oregon. Oregon knew my presence. I liked these rocks on the coast of Oregon. I was in Maine, on the coast. I was in Boston.

Hannah was here.

Who are you?

Nov. 18, 2008

I snapped these photos in a funky little book store at the back of the Reading Terminal Market in Philadelphia. The question is a good one. I'd like to add: Who are you becoming?

Sleepin' around

Nov. 10, 2008

Sex sells, right?

Then I ain't makin' any money with this post.

Yes, I slept in 13 different beds in 30 days. They included zero men. The scandal goes no further than the headline. (But here's hoping you all have a sense of humor...)

I didn't get a shot of every single bed, but I got most. They ranged from futons in cute, urban flats to fluffy bed-and-breakfast mattresses to blue suede love seats to Bob the Builder air mattresses to the ever available and always okay floor.

From Massachusetts to Maine to Vermont to New York to Pennsylvania to Oregon to California, here's a pictorial confession of my month of sleepin' around in America.