And they lived happily ever after.

No, this is not a bit of fiction. This is me thinking about my writing style. I like writing about happy things, but I also do enjoy writing difficult conversations and turmoil. Mostly because I like writing through an idea and trying to come to the other side of it myself. I am learning alongside the characters.

I will give my characters many angsty conversations. Conversations that I'm afraid sometimes stay in the angst for too long and don't have enough levels. But hey, I'm learning. I'm writing something, and I'm enjoying the process.

You know what I don't like writing? Really, desperately sad things! I've recently written a few fiction sketches and some of them are sad. Sad conversations, and in one, something terribly sad happens. As I was writing that particular piece I did not want the bad thing to happen. And I don't think I would have written it that way if I hadn't already written a later part of the same story that necessitated that sad bit in this sketch.

I can't write something bad happening to my characters unless I can see the happily ever after in their future. It probably has to do with wanting control. I have to know that my characters will be okay. So writing something sad is just a crappy thing to do. I don't want to do it, because I want life to be better than it is. One of my favorite lines in Silver Linings Playbook is "The world’s hard enough as it is, guys. Can’t somebody say, “Hey, let’s be positive? Let’s have a good ending to the story?”

And so when I write fiction I want the people to be happy. I can't just kill someone off or make something terrible happen to them. Unless I have an outline and know that later on the person will be okay. I know that's not life. I know that people have crappy things happen to them and they aren't okay.

Sometimes I look at my story, at my life, and I don't know that it will have a happy ending. I don't know the future and that is a scary thing, but I do know one thing, and that is that no matter how bad things get, they can always get worse! Wait, no! Dang it, my love of quoting movies just snuck in there. But funnily enough that's from the movie Ever After. Which (spoiler alert!) has a happy ending, as the title might suggest.

I don't know the future. I can't know the future. I hate spoilers. I don't know that I really even want to know the future. But I do want to know that I will be okay. And because I have the power to grant that to my characters in the stories I write happy endings. Now you'll be surprised when you read some story I write and it's just miserable. I don't like to be predictable, so why am I telling you all my secrets?! Now I have to write something terrible!

Okay, but here's the main point. I think that everyone is guaranteed a happily ever after. Right? Is guaranteed the right word? Maybe not. But to anyone who enters the contract and puts in the work, the outcome is guaranteed.

So in that sense, yes, I feel entirely sure that if I keep following the path, and follow the Guide Book, then I will have a happily ever after. No matter what happens in the meantime. Because I believe in the Lord, and I am sure that He can bring good out of anything, and therefore my stories have to reflect that hope.

My Life Is Based On A True Story

Well, that would be how things happened. I've been kinda keeping an eye on my blog and noticing that I'm nearing my 100th post. But of course, somehow I managed to un-publish one. I don't even know how one does that! So apparently I'm not very blog savvy.

I had great plans that my 100th blog post would be something clever and epic, but it wasn't. It wasn't at all. It might have been one of the most bland things I wrote!

This post however represents the start of my next 100 blog posts!

I started a blog in July. It's been somewhat steady. This year the posts have been slower in coming because I also started a daily hand written journal and so a lot of my stuff just gets written there and I don't come on my blog as often as I used to. Maybe I will write up some of my handwritten ramblings some day.

I recently was looking at some magnets with twippy sayings on them and one jumped out at me: "My life is based on a true story."

Well, as if that isn't the most obvious thing in the world! But then, think about it! Life is for real. And depending on how you wanna think about it, you are writing your own story. Or maybe you prefer to think that the Lord is writing your story. He is of course, but maybe it's kind of a choose your own adventure? We are in freedom to take any path He offers us, or to stray completely from any path at all. We can turn to page 34 or 426, depending on what we choose, or we can forge out own path, burn the book, write a different ending.

But I'm pretty sure that no matter what we choose the Lord foresaw it. So He is writing our story. Or at least righting it. No matter what we choose He will do His best to turn our choices toward use and Him.

Maybe I'm rambling. I know that I am, but I'm just too excited to slow down and organize my thoughts.

I started a blog in July. I've written over 100 posts and I am grateful for the encouragement and feedback that I have received. I really do hope that my blog is inspirational to others and is useful to someone other than me, but I also know that it is useful to me whether others get it or not.

I love to write. I've been writing for as long as I can remember. I REALLY wish that I could find the story of Toodles and Cindle that I wrote when I was like 4 or something.

I have been writing.

When I was 12 I wrote some never-ending, excessively long story about some royal families and all the people falling in love. It was over 300 pages, typed, single-spaced. It was called "The Story" and it got too big to fit on one floppy disk so I had to split the file so that I could back it up. I have so many partial stories sitting in files on my computer waiting for something to happen.

Seriously the only story I ever finished (other than Toodles and Cindles when I was around 5) was a sorta Frog Prince parody called "The Invisible Prince".

I thought it was cute and okay but had some serious problems. This summer one of my friends read it aloud to me and another friend and that moment changed the way I view my writing. It was one of the scariest things to sit there, crimson-faced while my story was being read out loud! I still cringe a little thinking about it. But they were laughing and enjoying something I had written, and I had a little epiphany that maybe my writing was okay. Maybe people would actually enjoy reading stuff I write!

So, through these friends I developed the courage to at least start a blog. It took me a few more months to start sharing posts on facebook and actually letting people read it! But it has been a great outlet for me.

I love a lot of things, but I didn't realize that I could actually be good at any of them. Painting took me completely my surprise! I'm no da Vinci... yet. But I found that I could never become a good writer or a great painter without trying. Practice is necessary, frustrating, and fun.

I enjoy painting, even when the end result looks like a 2 year old painted it. I enjoy writing, even if I misuse "it's".

I enjoy it, so I do it, and I progress.

My life is based on a true story. It's the story that I make it to be. I get to choose my own adventure. And by golly, I'm gonna choose it!

The best time in our life.

Wham bam shang-a-lang, and a sha-la-la-la-la-la babe.

"Will you please turn that off!" she screamed. The music was blaring and she couldn't hear herself think. The children were turning the house over and Mark was just sitting on the couch with his laptop open and the music blasting.

He didn't seem to hear her. He was too immersed in whatever he was doing. She stared at the man as he sat in obliviousness watching his screen. Time froze as she stared wondering how on earth he could be so unaware of his surroundings. How could he not care? She almost wished she could feel such apathy; to be immune to the cries of her children! Because even when she was too busy, and tired and unable to meet all of their demands, even their crazy and unnecessary demands, their cries still pierced her. Wouldn't she love to be able to zone out and not even hear their cries?

No, that was not what she wanted. She just wished that Mark could hear them too and that they would affect him the same way they did her. How could he hear his daughter sitting on the floor three feet from him wailing and not notice her?

I think a little emotion goes a long long way. But careful now don't get caught in your dreams. Look out baby this is not what it seems.

"Mark? Mark, can you hear me?"

"Wha? Yeah, jes a sec, Beth," he muttered.

"Unbelievable!" she said striding across the room and picking up the three year old before Jamey threw another block in her direction. "Jamey, stop that! And go get your shoes on! Addie, are you dressed yet?" she called down the hall.

There was no answer, but that didn't surprise her one bit.

"Bea, go check on your sister, will you?"

"She'll never let me in!" Bea said, not looking up from her book. "She doesn't even answer when I knock on the door."

"Bea, just go!"

Beatrice slammed her book shut and stormed down the hall. Beth could hear the distance shouts of her daughters as they yelled at each other through the doorway, but she couldn't deal with that now. Jamey hadn't moved from his pile of blocks and the baby was now crying.

"Jamey! I said get your shoes on! Mark! Can you get the baby? She's crying again!"

Well I thought we agreed on what we need. So listen to me I'll tell you what we've got. We've got a wham, bam shang-a-lang...

Mark was still staring at his computer. Beth dropped the 3 year old on his lap and left to get the baby from their room. When she returned, the 3 year old was on the floor and Jamey was trying to fend her off.

"Stop! Stop!" he cried. "Mom! Get Kate to stop touching my tower!"

"Jamey, I told you to get your shoes on. You can't be building a tower right now anyway!"

"Make her stop!" he screamed.

Beth looked at her husband on the couch surrounded by all the chaos and wondered again how he could withstand such noise without intervening.

Rather than shouting for his attention again she dropped down on the couch next to him with the infant in her arms and looked at him. "Mark?" she said. "I could use some help!"

He seemed to pop out of his reverie as he looked away from the screen and to his wife beside him.

"Hey," he said. "What's up?" Beth let out a snort of laughter and frustration.

"Mark, honey. We gotta go! None of the kids are ready and we're gonna be late!"

"There are more important things than punctuality," he told her.

"Like your computer?" she said, unable to withhold the snark.

"Sometimes," he replied, with a smirk at the corner of his mouth.

He stood up, setting his laptop aside and pulling his wife and youngest child into an embrace and began to dance with her.

"I'm not really in the mood," she said, but he saw the smile growing behind her furrowed brow. "We gotta get going!"

He smiled as he spun her about and looked at their children fighting on the floor as he sang along with the lyrics: "We'll remember the best time in our life!"

Cold

Dead? That was not at all what I was expecting. I wasn't even sure what to say in response. I swallowed the lump that had formed in my throat and waited. I wasn't even sure if I should look at him. Could I meet his eyes? What was going on?

I waited. Finally I looked over at him and the look on his face prompted my pity, and I broke.

"Dead?" I really didn't know what to say. "Do you want to talk about it?"

He began to nod slowly. "I think we should," he finally said.

"Do you want me to drive us home?" He didn't answer.

"Would it help if I asked questions, or shall I just wait?"

"You can ask," he muttered.

But where to begin? I wasn't even sure what to ask.

"Well," I began hesitantly. "Who was she? What happened?" I knew the questions were too broad, but I didn't know how to be more specific without being impertinent.

He didn't answer right away. He stayed motionless in his seat, but at last said "She fell through the ice."

"Oh, my gosh!" I whispered.

And then he was just talking. "I saw her when they finally pulled her from the water. She was like a statue. Her eyes were still open and there was nothing in her face that read "peace". She was in agony. I remember hearing her screams through the ice as the current swept her under. She was no where near the thin ice that she fell through. She died, panicking to get out, stuck under a thick layer of ice that we couldn't break through. I don't know whether she drowned or froze to death."

On the word "death" his voice cracked and he stopped talking. I could hear him swallowing. I glanced over at him and he was biting his lip. I could tell he was working hard not to cry.

"It's okay," I said softly, trying to invite him to cry if he wanted to.

"No! It's bloody well not okay!" he cried, and I recoiled. I knew that he was just trying to hide from the memory and hide from his own pain and that he was not mad at me. But being angry was easier than being sad.

"I didn't mean that!" I said.

Silence fell between us again as he sniffed slightly and shut down.

At last I ventured another question.

"Do you want to talk about it more?"

"Only if you ask the questions," he said. "I can't offer any information."

"Why not?" I asked.

"Because it's too bloody hard to talk about!" he said, his voice becoming elevated again.

"We don't have to talk about it," I assured him. "If you don't want to talk about it, we don't have to at all."

Silence again.

I looked over at him as he sat there chewing his lip. I couldn't tell if he wanted me to ask him questions or if he wanted me to leave him alone. We hadn't been dating that long. I guess that's why he had never brought this up before. It definitely explained why he was reluctant to go to hockey with me. But he had come so many time with me before and never said a word. I thought he was enjoying himself. I mean, I could tell he didn't love it, but he had been a willing participant. This was the first time I felt like I had dragged him against his will. And now I was wondering what it was about this time that had triggered him. And I still didn't know who she was. I wanted to ask so many more questions, but I felt like it was for myself; I only wanted to ask questions so that I might know what was going on. What could I say or do for him? I didn't even know if it would help for him to tell his story or to be left alone.

I shivered, and realized how cold it had gotten in the car as we sat there in this random parking lot. But the shiver was about more than the chill on my skin.

I turned the key in the ignition and Laif looked up.

"Are we going?" he asked.

"I just wanted to heat the car back up," I told him. "But we can go wherever you like."

"I'm sorry I made us late for hockey," he muttered.

I turned to face him. "Look," I said. "Hockey doesn't matter. I'm not going to hockey tonight. What do you want to do?"

He reached over and grasped my gloved hand, but said nothing. I squeezed it back, wishing I could do more.

The Gray

This time I was surrounded by blackness. It wasn't that total black that makes you think that there just is nothing around you. It was a dull gray. A painted gray. It was real, but an absence of color that was swirling all around me.

Before there had been something to reach for, something to focus on, but here, everywhere I looked was darkness. It wasn't sad or scary. It just wasn't.

I sat down. It wasn't tumultuous. I guess it was still. But I didn't feel panicked. I didn't feel worried. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel bored. I just didn't feel.

I don't know how long I sat in this gray, misty substance, but I had no desire to move. I could have just drifted off to sleep and it would have just been effortless and calm. But as I sat there was a prick inside me and I doubled over and opened my mouth to speak but instead endless air rushed in to me, filling my lungs and expanding my chest. It felt so good that it hurt.

I was now crouched in the grayness looking around me for something, anything to focus my eyes on. I began to panic. Everything around me was the same. I felt stuck and despite the life giving breath I had just received, my breathing became shallow and I gasped for air even though the air around me was as clear and pure as any I'd ever breathed, but it hurt as it came in my nose and throat. It was like my nostrils had forgotten what it felt like to breathe. Every breath hurt and at last I had to put my shirt over my mouth and nose to keep the fresh air out. My shirt worked as a filter and I could breathe in this clean air without the intense pain.

But now I noticed my shirt; it was the same gray nothingness and so was my skin. I let out a dull scream as I stared at my dead looking hand. "Help" I breathed. But it came out as a rasp.

I tried again, but I was still coughing on this fresh air and couldn't fill my lungs anymore. I was afraid to breathe deeply. It hurt. But without the air I would not be able to speak. I lowered my shirt from my mouth and breathed in deeply. The pain ripped at my throat and the first sound out was a silent scream.

I tried again and took a more cautious breath. Was I getting used to it? I felt less light headed and more ready to feel.

"Help!" I tried again, and the sound carried a bit more. With a bit more practice I was able to breathe more easily and began shouting.

"Help me!" I cried. "Can anyone hear me?" but there was no answer. Even my own voice did not send back a comforting echo. I was completely alone. There was no sound but me. And now I could hear my breathing like it was right by my ears and I screamed and tried to burry my mouth and ears with my gray arms.

I stayed like this for too long. Curled up in a ball facing the ground. I only moved because I felt warmth on my back and it scared me. I cautiously crept out of my hiding and noticed that the grayness was being replaced by a yellowness that seemed to be seeping in around me and encompassing me with warmth.

I didn't like it. The grayness had become a sort of comfort and even though I wanted the grayness to end I wasn't sure that I wanted this instead. It felt invasive.

It was getting brighter. I put my hand up to block the light, even as I looked toward it, and gasped because my hand was flooding with color.

I dropped it and looked down, but my clothes were still gray and the brightness was still growing.

"Stop!" I whimpered. "Stop! It can't be so bright. Stop!" But there was nothing I could do. It kept growing and my eyes began to ache even though I closed them tightly. I was not in control and as soon as I realized this I realized that my breathing had become shallow and scratchy. And I remembered that my breathing had been the one thing I could control. I couldn't control the intensity of the air I breathed but I could control the depth. I tried again to focus on that and as I breathed I saw the lightness begin to slow and hasten as I breathed in and out.

Was I controlling the light? but as I looked into its brightness I knew that it was not me. I could only control my reception of it and so I took a slow deep breath and saw the brightness approaching in equal measure to my breath.

I closed my eyes and listened to my beating heart.

One Winter's Day

They were like two little children; laughing and teasing. His face lit up as she skated around him, her smile as wide as his own.

"Marta, your nose is as pink as a berry!" he laughed, tugging one of her braids.

She skated to a full stop to face him. "Then warm it for me!" she laughed and rubbed her nose against his.

He held her for a moment, looking into her eyes. "I love you!" he said, before wrapping her in a warm hug. She nestled under his chin, feeling safe and warm.

"I've never felt more loved," she said. She could feel the engagement ring on her finger which he had placed there hours before. Her thick wool gloves concealed it from view, but she could feel the comforting band on her finger.

He took her hand and pulled her in to motion. As they skated along the frozen pond they couldn't help but smile at each other.

There was no one else on the pond that day to witness their shrieks of delight due to the weather. It was actually quite nasty out. The sky was a deepish gray spitting out intermittent sleet, but you wouldn't have known it from the way these two played. From their faces the sun shone and the clear blue of Marta's eyes was enough to brighten the day.

Laif couldn't have planned the weather. He didn't know it was going to be a day for books and fires. He had planned a special skating outing since he knew it was her favorite. So here they were, braving the nastiest weather of the year to skate. And they didn't care. Hot chocolate and reading aloud their favorite books by the fire would come later. For now they had to enjoy the outside world for what it was!

"Can't catch me!" Laif said, releasing Marta's hand and soaring along with a look of determination on his face. But Marta could. She was a better ice skater and he knew it. He loved her for her exuberance on the ice. She had never taken lessons, but she'd been on the ice all her life. There was nothing she loved more than to don her skates the moment the weather was cold enough. The wind and ice in her hair were life giving.

When she caught up to Laif he held out his hand and caught her so she circled around him, laughing the whole time. He brought her close again, grinning at the icicles in her braids, wanting to kiss the snowflakes off of her cheeks.

But she was too fast for him and pushed off getting a head start. He had a harder time catching her and she stayed ahead of him until her laughter slowed her down and he caught her around the waist and spun her around.

"We will raise our children on the water," she said as they stood looking out over the icy landscape, his arms still around her.

"And in the water in the summer," he said, almost pleading; for he loved the summer as much as she loved the winter. They were two complementary halves.

She laughed. "Of course!" she said. "The only way to tolerate the heat of summer is to be in the water! And besides," she said, kissing his cheek, "They wouldn't be your children if they didn't long for the sun on their curly heads."

"That's right!" he said, kissing her knit cap. "All of our little ducklings swimming along behind me in the summer and skating behind you in the winter."

"And we'll be skating alongside each other. Forever."

He held her tight, and the moment felt like a lifetime and not long enough.

She skated away from him and then twirled once before a terrific crack and she was gone from view, swallowed by the icy depth.

One Peanut

Have you ever noticed that one bad thing sticks out much more than one good thing?

One bad thing can ruin a whole lot of good things. It doesn't seem equal.

My wise man once described it to be thus: Imagine that you're eating a handful of peanuts. In that handful of delightful peanuts there is one rancid nut. When you pop the whole handful into your mouth, that one nut will spoil the whole lot.

Conversely if you have a handful of rancid nuts and there is one solitary good one (or even 5!) you won't notice it at all. You will notice the nasty taste and nothing more.

Why is that the case? It carries through life as well. Even if you're trying to look for the good and focus on the positive, one bad peanut can spoil your day!

In an ideal day of friendship, walks and board games, one wrong comment can make me feel like the day was a bummer.

Why are we so prone to noticing the hardships and trials and things that go wrong in life?

One bad peanut can spoil the lot of good.