The Snow Globe

I don't like being different. But sometimes, in some ways, I do feel different from most people. Take Christmas for instance. For lots of people who celebrate it, Christmas is a fun time. Decorating, hosting parties, buying and wrapping gifts. But you know, that stuff just doesn't appeal to me all that much. 

This year I am going away for Christmas. A great way to forgo all the decorating, baking, socializing that isn't really my thing. But even an old grinch like me can be a little bit sentimental. I didn't think so. Until I started poking around in the boxes of Christmas decorations I have stashed in the closet. I was looking for a ribbon to tie around the plate of cookies I was taking with me to the doctor's office. And there it was. 

I took the snow globe out of the box and placed it on the ledge that separates the kitchen from the living room in my small home. I reached over to give it a shake. Inside the globe, Santa is busy making cookies, a cheery scene. As with all snow globes, it is snowing in Santa's kitchen, but that doesn't matter. Somehow Santa and cookies and snow all fit together and it is fine. What matters is that this particular snow globe is the only decoration I need to put me in the Christmas spirit, despite the fact that I am often a curmudgeon this time of year. I turned the little knob and the sound of Have yourself a Merry Little Christmas filled the room. 

This little globe was given to me by a dear friend. A friend who loves Christmas. It is as if she infused this gift with all the happy feelings she gets as she does her own decorating, baking, and entertaining each year. Nothing but good feelings come as I gaze upon the little globe. And that is what Christmas should feel like. 

Not feeling that way about Christmas can be explained easily enough. But explaining feelings and changing them are two different things. I made a vow long ago not to fake my way through the season, even if it meant doing nothing at all in the way of Christmas traditions. I have found that doing one or two things like baking gingerbread with a house full of kids, or buying a special gift for someone who needs it are more meaningful than when I used to try to do it all. 

Each year is a little different, kids grow up, people move, families join and you work out who will go where when. Being flexible helps, I find. And letting go of expectations helps too. That way, when something sweet happens, like finding the snow globe and taking a minute to enjoy it, it is real. And being real at Christmas feels so much better than faking it. 

It's been a year since I wrote those words as I paused to think what Christmas means to me, while waiting for the snow to clear so I could continue driving, on my way to visit my family. And guess what, the snow never stopped, and I never did get to go visit my family. I was stranded in Portland in my old neighborhood. Christmas last year was spent among neighbors I had never gotten to know as we shared our food stock and shoveled one another's driveways, an experience that changed me. 

It's funny how much difference a year can make as well. Since then, I've continued making my home in Friday Harbor. I am so grateful for my new friends here and the way people have welcomed me. And this year, I'm flying to see my family. It's a whole year longer since my husband died, and I've been a cancer survivor for one more year too. My life as a writer is one year older, and in many ways I'm having more fun than I have in years. 

And this year, I feel like much less of a curmudgeon. A little Christmas miracle. As I make a new life for myself here, I am finding that I value everything I have much more. And while what I have materially is less than it used to be, when I think of the things that really matter to me, my friends and family, I feel richer and happier than ever. 

Last year when I wrote about the snow globe my friend gave me, I really was having one of those Christmases where I wasn't in the mood, and everything went wrong. That little snow globe was like a single candle flame. It gave me a glimmer of hope for better times. And here I am, one year later, and times are truly better. 

Merry Christmas.

© M.E. Rollins

One Bad Novel

A friend told me recently she was taking up painting, and was excited to paint her first bad painting. I was curious what she meant. She said when you start something new, before you can be good at it, you have to be willing to be bad at it. That got me to thinking. For months now I've been messing around with novel writing, taking classes, trying my hand at fiction for the first time. My friend taught me that if I'm going to be any good at novel writing, I've got to be willing to be bad at it first. I guess novels and paintings are a lot like pancakes. 

At least it doesn't take 10,000 hours to learn how to make a good pancake. You can get that from page 57 of the 1971 edition of the Betty Crocker Cookbook. That's how I did it. According to Malcolm Gladwell, it does, however, take an average of 10,000 hours to get really good at a profession or art form. 10,000 hours, or ten years. For more on that observation, see Gladwell's book, Outliers. I'm no expert on it, the idea just interests me. 

10,000 hours or ten years sounds like a long time when you're fifty six. I got some good advice when I was contemplating going to architecture school at twenty four. My sister said, in five years, (a B. Arch takes five years at U. of O.) you'll be twenty-nine, whether you go back to school or not. That was a very good point. I did eventually finish, and had a productive twenty year career in architecture after that. Of course, according to the ten year rule, it's possible I wasn't any good until the second ten years, unless you count the five years of school and the two years of drafting school before that. Yes, I think I'll count those. 

But whatever the case of how good at it I was, I did make money for my family, I got to draw and make models which I'd loved since childhood, I had some fun, and met a lot of very interesting people. Writing is like that. All kinds of interesting people show up in a writer's life. I get to play around where the complexity of the medium is a never ending source of fascination. You know when you think about it, even if you stink at something, if you are having fun, does it really matter? And even people who, in my opinion, stink at writing, still can make money at it. I hope to make money at it while not stinking at it. The proof of the pudding will be in the eating.

As far at the novel goes, I have two characters I've been trying to make conform to some sort of logical plot line, and they are just not having it. They won't even identify who they are or what they are about, and they refuse to fill out a character checklist. After reading Danielle Steel, I decided it would be safest to write in third person like she does. I tried that and I had a little fun, but in terms of pushing the novel forward, it wasn't working at all. Then I thought, since I write these essays in first person, why don't I start my novel that way. Ah, that was much better. Once I tried making my protagonist the narrator I could see I'd found a voice and a point of view that worked.

So off I went with my story. That was like trying to steer a rear wheel drive car in a skid in the snow. I had some engine power, but trying to go in the right direction was very tricky. I'd turn the wheel one way and the story and the characters went the other direction, waving and laughing as they went. So now I have a very nice short story with a completely different protagonist having a completely different experience. I like the story. I just found that it wrote itself. I provided the point of view and the voice, the story provided the characters, the climax, and the moral. The novel is nowhere to be found, I think it is under a dirty bank of snow back behind me somewhere. 

But that's the fun of all this writing stuff. I took the leap, decided that no matter how bad my first effort was, I'd give fiction a go, and in the end have what I think is a presentable short story. I like the characters and I care about what happens to them. I cried with them, and I laughed with them. And that's all any writer can hope for I think. Writing, like any art form is a bit mysterious. But then, that's what I like most about it. You just never know what's going to be around the next corner. Or who you'll meet fictional or otherwise. 

My friend has since announced she is trying all kinds of others things, being willing to do them badly while learning, and is having lots of fun in the process. I think I'll stick to the writing, for now anyway. When barrels of money are sitting around, I'll try some other things. What fun it is to be doing something you love, looking for the income to follow. It's a bit scary at times, but never dull. 

© M.E. Rollins