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.

Winding my way home

Nov. 5, 2008

Utah's Ruby Canyon has no roads. It can only be seen by river raft or train. So I feel pretty lucky to be watching its red walls slide past my window.

Though countless Amtrak passengers have seen the same sight, I imagine I am the only one. And I suppose, in a sense, I am. I am the only person to see Ruby Canyon with my eyes, my story, my thoughts about how I got here and where I'm going. Likewise, my fellow train travelers are the only ones to see this canyon through their eyes, their stories.

I wonder what they see?

I see contrast. The baked red dirt burns against memories of snow-white forests in the Sierra Nevada mountain range, crossed just hours ago. How suddenly the journey changes. How suddenly the path turns.

I see a past relationship that grew in love and strength in the great outdoors -- and died in the barren, impersonal land of cell phones and email. I see the hope I will love again.

I see 27 years of knowing the love of my God, my family and my friends. I see a life already full of adventure and a lifetime to fill with even more adventures.

What will they be? And, more importantly, who will I be inside of them? I hope, come what may, I will never forget the sense of wonder that comes when watching the world go by from the window of a train. I hope I continue to live my life slow and deliberate and always with a sense of wide-eyed wonder.