What a nightmare...

...literally. Woke up crying from a dream in which this little boy appeared in my house, and I knew it was actually Satan in disguise. (The boy was in a disguise, too--a Superman one, for some reason.) He was soooo cute, like, 4 years old or so, with curly blond hair and perfect little white teeth and a great big 4 year old grin, and just being a little boy by wrestling around and being goofy. But then he got hold of some wooden thing off our mantel (that we don't have in real life) and swung it at me, and when it hit me it nearly killed me. So I started defending myself, and this little boy just thought I was playing; he didn't realize Satan was using him to try to kill me. And I realized, I have to either kill this little boy and thus destroy the vessel Satan is using in order to save myself, or I have to let myself be killed. And I couldn't do it, I couldn't kill this little boy. I kept trying to defend myself and hit him as gently as I could, but then he just got mad and started hitting me more. And then I thought I'd woken up, because I fainted and when my eyes opened my mom was there. But she looked all weird, all pale and undead-like (thanks to the five minutes of "Resident Evil" that I saw Dan watch while I was making dinner last night) and I realized I wasn't dreaming, this was reality. And then the little boy came tearing around the corner and I thought, "This is it. I'm going to die." And my mom just sat there watching while the boy acme up to me with this wooden thing and prepared to take a swing. And then I woke up sobbing and couldn't stop.

It's been a really long time since I had a serious nightmare. Every once in a while I have one of those kinds that jerks you awake and you think, "Whoa, that was scary," then take a deep breath and go back to sleep. But when I was in high school I used to have night terrors almost every week: wars, bombs, attacks, people trying to kill me or kidnap me or worse, watching people I knew die or be taken hostage. And I never read scary books or watch scary movies, because I know how impressionable my subconscious is (hello, FIVE MINUTES of "Resident Evil!"), and quite frankly my imagination doesn't need any help thinking up scary things, so I don't know where all these dreams came from. The worst is when the bad people were people I knew; because I'd see them, like a school the next day, and my gut reaction would be to run, because those dreams were so darned real.

Dan can dream lucidly, most of the time, anyway, and I'm so jealous of that. Every time I think, "This is just a dream" while I'm dreaming I'll end up "waking up" in my dream and finding it's all still there. But he can know it's a dream and play around with it for a while, and then wake himself up if it gets out of his control. And he rarely remembers his dreams, whereas mine are always so detailed and vivid that they become like a set of memories from another life or something. I actually had a dream in college that was a full-on movie, complete with dissolves from one scene to another, cameras that panned across as view and zoomed in or out on certain subjects, and a musical soundtrack! And it was an almost complete story, just missing the very beginning to explain how exactly I got into Thailand, but it had a complete plot and a twist ending and everything. I started writing it as a book my sophomore year, back when I used to actually keep things on disks instead of my hard drive, and I left the disk down in the computer lab where I'd gone to print something for class and it got stolen. I still remember the entire thing, though, and one of these days, if I can muster the energy to do some serious research on Thailand and prostitution rings (piqued your curiosity yet?) I'll write it.

But right now it's time for breakfast and some mindless morning TV to purge that nasty dream from my day, lest it cast a pall over the rest of my Monday. Hope you had a better night than I did!

Confession

Okay, so the Academy Awards are over, I'm bummed Passion of the Christ and Finding Neverland didn't win any of the big awards, and it is time to confess: I have written my acceptance speech.

Now, you're probably wondering how one can write an acceptance speech for an award for which one has never been nominated, and in a field in which one does not even work. Simple: I am really good at pretending.

There was a very, very brief time in my high school years when I considered majoring in theater. (Hilarious since I only ever tried out for one show because I was always so embarrassed and shy.) I am also an avid fan of "Inside the Actor's Studio" and LOVE watching behind the scene documentaries on filmmaking. I even subscribe (shame on me) to US Weekly. This is all because one of my dream jobs is to be a film actress. Did I mention I already have my answers lined up for James Lipton's famous questionnaire? I guess it's not surprising then that my first novel deals with Hollywood.

Dan and I had the privilege of being filmed for two sets of eHarmony.com commercials. (Yes, if you've seen those, you've most likely seen us.) I'd never been on a soundstage before, never been filmed before, never seen myself on TV before. (Well, I don't count the 700 Club segment they did on my dad when I was in junior high and I'm running around playing catch in this awful hot-pink winter coat.) I LOVED IT. I *loved* having someone fuss over my hair and having someone put make up on me. (I do such a slapdash job of it myself that it's always shocking, in a good way, to see it done well.) I loved having three people evaluate the outfit they'd put together for me and then try this, no this, no this jewelry.

What probably made it totally awesome, though, was the fact that Dan, being the brilliant man that he is, told me as we watched another couple get interviewed before us, "They need sound bites--answer their questions but be short and to the point. It's too hard to edit down five minutes of rambling." And since we got to watch this couple go first, we knew what questions to expect, and actually worked a little on our answers before getting up there. And it worked! They loved us. They even did a whole commercial with just us, and then filmed our wedding to use in more commercials (although they never did).

But let me tell you: when that little light went on above the camera, and they asked me my first question, I was in my element. Even when I fumbled my words or drew a blank I didn't get all twittery and nervous like I usually do. I couldn't get enough of it. I was so sorry to be done. And when they called us a few months later to see if we'd do a follow up commercial now that we were married, I couldn't wait!

I've been thinking about taking a script-writing class, because obsession with being an actress aside, I love movies and, obviously, love writing, and how cool would it be to combine the two!? But I must admit there's a little crumb of me that wants to write a movie for myself, write the role I'd love to play, and then find a way to cast myself in it.

Will it ever happen? The chances are so small my calculator won't compute them. But nevertheless, I will continue to polish my acceptance speech.

Lookit all the beautiful people...

So the Oscars are on, and lame as they are every year. I almost turned it off when Chris Rock blathered on about the embarrassment to film that is Fahrenheit 9/11 and how great it was (to the delight and applause of the audience), and then preceded to rip the President after saying he wasn't going to. Then he ripped half the audience. This is humor? Shut up and give the awards already. They're always trying to come up with ways to make the show shorter; why they can't just cut the stupid monologue? (Oh, the best part: after ripping the President for going to war, he gives a big shout out to all the troops fighting for our freedom. I guess we can appreciate the people fighting for us, but not the person responsible for protecting us and thus deciding when war is necessary.)

On a totally unrelated note, I did my nails for the first time in well over a year. I used to do them weekly in college, and ever since I've almost always had something on them, but for some reason I don't think I've done them since I got married. And now all the colors I have are all college bachelorette colors: silver, blue, grape, fire-engine red. I'm not so much like that anymore, which is weird to realize. But isn't it funny: it's the clothes, the music, the nail polishes we have that tell us what we used to be like and show us that we're not that person now. And even though I know I'm probably not going to be that person again, it's hard to let go of those things. I don't like to move on. I'm lousy at throwing things out. I feel like I have a responsibility to be loyal to those things because they made me who I was back then so that I could be who I am now.

Dangit. Chipped a nail on my keyboard. Time to patch....

Baby needs a new pair of shoes...

No, I did not go shopping...we went to Vegas. Stayed in one of the cheaper casino hotels off the strip near Dan's brother and his family. We go there a lot to hang out with them and bond with their son, Simon. This month's excuse to go was Simon's second birthday. It's so cool to see him the way we do, once every two months or so, because his developement makes these huge jumps, but not so big that you get there and think, "Wasn't he just in diapers? When did he learn to drive?!" He's got a very lamentable "Oh no!" that you just can't help but laugh at, and he LOVES his "Uncle Dayo" as he calls Dan. He kept tracking Dan down and taking his hand and pulling him back outside to play. Simon's parents, Andrew and Amber, bought him a Little Tykes jungle gym--not a really big one, just the the right size for the 2-5 set--and Dan's one of those really awesome uncles that will get right down on the floor and play with kids like Simon, so he was tumbling head-first down the slide (a trick Simon instantly copied) and crawling all over with him. SO sweet.

Las Vegas is just such a weird, weird city. No offense meant to any Vegas folk, but I gotta say, I feel safer driving in LA than I do in Vegas. Not just because of the INSANE traffic (because there are so many 24 hour jobs, rush hour never ends!) and the constant construction zones (something's always being either built or renovated or paved or patched) but the fact that it's one of those cities where people WILL come after you if you cut them off. And because you can own pretty much anything in the world there and have it with you, you never know what they're coming after you WITH: a gun or a trained assassin monkey or what. (We actually saw someone take off after a guy who went through a stop sign when it wasn't his turn. Freaked me out.) And when you're down on the strip, or in any casino, really, there's an almost tangible sense of empty amusement and despair mingled with the cigarette smoke. And don't get me started on the people who stand on the street corners on the strip to hand out girlie fliers. *shudder* Thankfully Simon and the gang live in North Las Vegas, away from most of the freakiness. But still, it felt good to drive through our own clean RSM and crash in our own bed when we got home this afternoon. Home Sweet Home indeed!

Art Therapy!

Oooooh, the potential for procrastination this site promises! :) It's called Art Pad, and it's a digital canvas that allows you to not only paint your own pieces (although the colors are a little limited) but to also watch a movie of your piece being created stroke-by-stroke, to add your piece to the gallery for all the world to see, and to even add to other's painting and watch their creation movies. (If you click on that link, it takes you straight to my masterpiece, "Sun on the Lake." Be sure to be duly impressed.) Now some of these people are _serious_ artists, and their stuff doubly impressive after trying to make your own; I was quite frustrated to find I couldn't even draw a straight line. (Although that might be due more to the fact that, even though I'm left-handed, I've always used my mouse and track pad with my right hand, so when I try to draw I'm having to use my left hand in a way I've never used it before.)

Anyway, have fun, knock yourself out, and be sure to put the link to your piece in a comment to me so I can go look! :)

That'll leave a mark...

I got my first official professional book review today in Publisher's Weekly. I couldn't read it until Dan did, because I was too freaked out. Well, let me just say I'm SO relieved to have been getting extremely positive feedback from the "regular" folks who've read it so far, or else I might have been writing this from under the bed.

Some writers say they don't read their reviews. I might take that stance after this. But the thing is I'm just so freaking curious, and I'd hate to have someone say, "What do you think about the comment So-and-So made in their review?" and not have any idea what they're talking about. Although I suppose it sounds very aloof and unconcerned to say, "Oh, I don't read the reviews," and give people the sense that you are confident enough in your work to not care one whit about what the critics say. But the problem is that I care very, very much what the critics have to say. I shouldn't, I know, especially since the people I trust to be honest with me have gushed so far. But then of course you start wondering just how honest they were, and if they were too afraid of bursting your bubble to give you the straight poop.

And to be completely honest, I can't even read my book without finding eight million things I wish I'd changed, and while they might not have made an ounce of difference with the critic, I could have at least been able to say the final product was _exactly_ what I wanted, rather than thinking, "Dangit, I wonder if I can fix all those things and release a second edition..."

This is one of those times when the artist in me really ticks me off. I take my work so personally, I can't just shrug off people's cutting comments. And I'm sure I'll get used to them eventually, not that getting to that point is really something I want to do, seeing as it will require a LOT of cutting remarks. Or maybe I'll learn to stifle my curiosity and turn up my nose at the detractors. We'll see.

*sniff*

If you haven't yet seen "Extreme Makeover: Home Edition" it's time to get out from under the rock you so obviously live beneath and tune into ABC on Sunday nights. Dan and I have been recording them so we can fast forward through the commercials, and tonight we watched one as we munched Hamburger Helper. Just the theme music from that show makes me cry. What some of these people go through is just incredible. Death, cancer, disease, extreme allergies, fire, flood...you name it. I've noticed this season that the houses aren't quite as over-the-top as they were the first season, but I don't see any of those families complaining. And frankly, I'm glad they've scaled down some of the projects a bit, especially given some of the neighborhoods these people are in. I remember the Sweet Alice episode and thinking, "Will they include a security guard in the package for that poor old woman?! She's living in Watts, for crying out loud!!"

Tonight we watched last week's two part episode with the two homeless families in Denver, and as always, it just broke my heart. Someone on the design team made the comment that the experience really changed their view of what "homeless people" were, because you tend to think alcoholic, drug addict, deadbeat, etc., but here were two families who found themselves on the streets through no fault of their own. And I felt sooooo convicted, because how many times have I thought, "If they'd just laid off the booze, they wouldn't be there," and never stopped to think that perhaps they got laid-off with no savings in the bank. As one of the other people at the homeless shelter said, "Most of America is two weeks away from being homeless," and when I checked out our account balances this evening, I realized just how little it would take to send us into the red.

(An aside: as I typed that "If they'd just laid off the booze" comment, I realized that that's no excuse for their homelessness, either. What put them on it in the first place? Abuse? Mental illness? Can I blame them for that? Heck no! So really there isn't anyone I should think of as having "earned" their homelessness.)

So here's what I'm thinking. There are currently 295,540,624 in America. Let's assume that 3/4 of them have a buck to spare. That would be $221,665,468. Surely with that much money we could get some systems in place to take care of these folks, detox them and medicate them and shelter and feed and clothe them and help them get back on their feet. I'm not saying we build them each a house, I'm just saying we make it possible for them to focus their energy on something other than where their next meal is coming from or whether or not they'll get attacked while they sleep in the park tonight.

So is this ever going to happen? Probably not, although those stories of "13 year old starts campaign to help the homeless and raises $1 Million" do pop up every now and then, and one would think that a 29 year old would be able to figure out something even more lucrative than that 13 year old did. But doesn't it kinda make you wonder when you realize how much we could do if everyone just donated their toll change or coffee money or spare change from their sofa JUST ONCE to one giant fund? Any fund, really. Cancer research, tsunami relief, busting drug rings and child trade rings and who knows what else. What if we set up a yearly fund, and each year we all gave one dollar to the same charity. Holy freaking cow, can you imagine the difference we could make? Imagine telling the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation, "Here's $221, 665, 468--go do some research." And then the next year telling Habitat for Humanity, "Go build some houses." Wow.

Well that's one soapbox I didn't expect to step on tonight. Just thought I'd write a little post singing the praises of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition and here I am waxing visionary. Let me know if you have any ideas on how to start that Giant Rotating Fund....

Got fairy dust?

Dan and I went to see "Finding Neverland" this afternoon. Wow. Beautiful movie. So sweet and heartbreaking and...beautiful. No violence, no explosive arguments (or explosive anything, for that matter), no foul language...just a gentle story. And Depp wasn't hard on the eyes, either. If you haven't seen it, do yourself a favor and go. It's obvious why it's been nominated for seven Oscars. I hope it wins them all.

Prayer therapy

I got so fed up with myself this morning.

I come from the Quiet Time Journaling tradition. The one where you record your prayers in some giant spiral bound notebook--or in my care, in an ever-growing document that currently has more pages than my next novel--typically while following the "ACTS" outline: adoration, confession, thanksgiving, supplication. And for the last few weeks, this prayer form has struck me as being so inadequate. I realized today that I could basically cut and paste yesterday's entry in for today, change the date, add a thank you for last night's dinner out with my teaching friends, and be done. And I realized that this is not what prayer is.

Prayer is supposed to be conversation with God, is it not? And yet I'm the one doing all the talking. Or writing, as the case may be. And I'm a broken record when it comes to my side of the conversation. Honestly, I don't know how NOT to be. I thank him for the same things every day because I'm always thankful for them, I ask him for the same things every day because I still want them. I ask his forgiveness for the same things every day because I'm a dense pattern sinner who can't seem to find her way out of the rut. So how do I do these things without my prayer life becoming mindless?

I was poking around Lisa Samson's blog again today and saw a link to another blog called "Ragamuffin Diva." The Diva's most recent entry was about her husband's Valentine's Day gift to her: Anglican prayer beads. She talked about the symbolism of the various beads, the prayers she prayed, the prayer book she had that someone had given her. And it reminded me of the book, "Girl Meets God," which you really must read if you haven't yet. She was a devout Jew who converted to Christianity and attended a church full of ritual and tradition--like the celebration of Advent, which I didn't even know the meaning of until reading that book. And I got the same feeling reading the Diva's blog that I did reading that book: that there was a whole other side to prayer and Christianity that I've never glimpsed, and I'm starting to feel cheated.


You see, I think I'm a Catholic trapped in a nondenominational-Protestant body. I think all those things the modern church shies away from--the symbolism, the tradition, the ritual--are the things that most draw me to God. Heck, when it comes to tradition and ritual in other aspects of my life, I LOVE them, I expect them, and am profoundly disappointed when they're overlooked or forgotten by the others in my life. So it would make sense that I'd thrive on them in my spiritual life. And I understand why the church has tried to rid itself of those trappings, that the traditions and rituals became the priority and the whole relationship-with-God thing sorta fell by the wayside because people mistook them as being the end instead of the means. But I think we've gone so far in the other direction that we've lost our spiritual heritage, and with it, a very important connection to the mystery of God. And I feel like, if I could just tap back into it, the whole prayer thing would just open up for me.

Or maybe I'm just a flake when it comes to prayer, and it doesn't really matter what form it takes, because I'll fall back into the cut-n-paste prayer life every time.

So now I pose this question to those of you who stumbled in today: what form does your daily prayer life take? Are you a journaler? Have you figured out how to keep it from becoming rote? Are you an in-your-head prayer? How do you keep your mind from wandering? Are you a traditionalist and ritualist? Prayer-bead user, stations-of-the-cross walker? I look now to my brothers and sisters in the faith to give me a little prayer therapy.

Musical Muses

I was walking around the RSM Lake this morning, trying to squeeze in some exercise before the rain starts again, and listening to Joni Mitchell on my Discman. I think "Court and Spark" is one of the best albums in my collection, which isn't saying a whole lot, considering how meagre it is. But truly, it's such a work of art. And by the time I had half a lap under my belt, I'd started writing a sequel to "Worlds Collide" in my head. There were so many little things in those songs that made me think of the characters and some of their possible futures. One song, called "Other People's Parties," has a line that cracks me up now every time I hear it: "And Jack behind his joker and stone-cold Grace behind her fan..." There they are, my two main characters, together in a song that I hadn't even heard until the book was written.

There are some people whose music never fails to jumpstart my writing. Joni Mitchell, Plumb, Norah Jones, Billy Joel, Tori Amos. "Worlds Collide" got its start partially from the song "Worlds Collide" on Plumb's album, candycoatedwaterdrops. My second book got its start from Norah's "The Painter Song," on her first album. Joni's song "Troubled Child" has been pinging around my head and I think I know what story it's going to produce somewhere down the line.

It's sad, really, that my music collection is as small as it is, considering how important music is to me. I have a hard time spending money on albums, usually because I think, "What if that song from the radio is the only one I like and I just wasted $15?" and I'm such a freaking miser. I got all excited when I saw that Napster was doing this whole "unlimited songs for $15 a month" deal, until I tried to use it and found out they don't support Apple OS. Blast! Now _that_ I would have done in a heartbeat.

So, a question for those of you who create any kind of art at all: do you have any musical muses? Or, for that matter, any particular medium or experience that turns on your creative faucet?

And so it begins...

You know, five minutes ago I was all excited about starting this blog. And now I'm faced with this giant empty field just waiting for me to type in something really profound or insightful or at least mildly entertaining. And it's just so not happening. I pop into Lisa Samson's blog now and then, and she's really got it down. And she manages to make the weirdest things so interesting, and writes so well about all these little thoughts she has. Which is why her books are so awesome; she is A Writer for sure. Whether or not I get to join her in those ranks remains to be seen.

This whole blog phenomenon is really something. Same with websites. Think of your great-great-great-great grandparents, living back in the 1800's, and how many people knew them. Their family, their neighbors, the other townfolk. And now fast-forward to 2005 and people in Taiwan can read this totally useless information about a not-at-all-well-known author. Our great-great-great-great grandparents probably hadn't even heard of Taiwan. It's mind-boggling.

Time to sew a button on my husband's shirt. If you've been here, please leave a little note. There's nothing worse than shouting into the vast expanse of cyberspace and getting nothing back but the echo of your own blog....

Blessings and grace,
Alison