Archive: Free Time

Things I will miss about the job I just left:

• Having a laptop with wireless capabilities and all of my favorites plugged in
• Sitting in a super-comfy ergonomic chair
• Taking advantage of a ridiculously casual dress code. Jeans and flats, I will miss you.
• Using a discretionary hobby allowance
• Having cute shops and fun bars within two blocks of the office.

Things in which I will revel this week:

• Spending time with Ted — he’s lying beside me now like a good little lap doggie
• Running errands, uninterrupted
• Baking desserts for church events: ’tis the season to try out pumpkin and apple recipes
• Watching JG’s volleyball team play
• Having time to knit — five more scarves to go before October 16…
• Walking to the downtown area in the freshly-minted fall weather

Hmm. How early can one qualify for early retirement?

For me, considering writing means considering reading because the two are complementary pieces of a continuous process. In growing as a writer, I try to read strong writing, which helps to inform what I write afterward. As a result, I read quite a lot.

When I’m asked for the title of my favorite book, I’m hard-pressed to narrow it down to just one. However, when asked for my best-loved author, the answer is quick: Madeleine L’Engle. She is probably best-known for A Wrinkle in Time, but over the past ten years, I’ve collected more than thirty of her books and I love revisiting them from time to time.

When I was in high school, I always carried a book with me (you know, just in case I had to wait somewhere) and it was usually a L’Engle novel like A House Like a Lotus or The Arm of the Starfish. A friend once asked me if I felt strange carrying around “a kid’s book,” but the thought that I was reading juvenile fiction hadn’t really fazed me. In the end, it was all good, fun reading with strange creatures and exotic locales like Portugal and Antarctica. Who cared where they stored them in bookstores? Madeleine L’Engle has been a constant reading source for me, holding my hand through the early years of novel-reading and then pacing me through more introspective memoirs. I learned to love the feeling of new words on my tongue and on my mind — tesseract, ontology, mitochondria, magnanimous — and relish the thrill of wrapping my head around the plot, emotional process, or thought journey I was following. She is my go-to for a comfort read and I’m still hunting down books for my collection. The satisfaction at the end of the pursuit is always worth it.

Partly for Janssen, but mostly for the general good, here are my most highly-recommended Madeleine L’Engle books, with explanations for my favorites. I’ve had this idea brewing for a while, but in light of her recent passing, I think now is a good time to share and remember. I already miss her, in a way.

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A Swiftly Tilting Planet
I recommend the entire Time Quartet wholeheartedly. Sure, they’re youth fiction, but I dare any adult to grasp the full meaning of any of these books in the first try. A Swiftly Tilting Planet is my favorite of the series and I have no fewer than three copies of it on my shelves: the copy I grew up reading (can’t trash that), a copy of the reissue circa 2001 (ooh, pretty new covers), and the hardcover, signed copy that a friend bought me. So, clearly, the redundancy is justified. I really like the book’s theme of interdependence and the ancient rune as the structure for the chapters and the story. It never gets old for me, even after the sixth time through.

Two-Part Invention
In this memoir, L’Engle shares about her marriage and trials during her husband’s battle with cancer. Even though it sounds depressing, I love what she says about love. It’s one of the best books I’ve ever read about a real, strong, committed relationship. At one point, when JG and I were dating, I suggested that he read Two-Part Invention, which was a personal risk of sorts because I identified so deeply with it. I was half-afraid of my reaction if JG, the person I thought I was going to marry, didn’t like it at all. When JG returned the book to me, he was full of high praise, much to my relief. The best thing he said was, “I feel like I know you better after having read this book.”

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• If you feel unsuccessful: A Circle of Quiet
• If you want a great novel: A Live Coal in the Sea
• If you want another great novel: A Severed Wasp
• If you are religious: The Genesis Trilogy
• If you need a baby gift: The Other Dog
• If you have suffered a loss (and you like dolphins): A Ring of Endless Light
• If you are in the mood for intrigue (and you like penguins): Troubling a Star
• If you have a best friend: Friends for the Journey

#25, #27

Sunday Scribblings #76: Writing

[September 20 edit: A lovely tribute at Slate.]

Earlier this week, JG and I went out to dinner with friends to our local Buffalo Wild Wings joint since we had never been before. JG jumped at the chance because he loves wings, but we rarely order them when it’s just the two of us because I am, unfortunately, a spice wimp.

It’s odd that I failed to develop such an intolerance for all things spicy and hot, because let me just say that the Chinese love their red pepper flakes. Somewhere along the line, though, I inherited overly-sensitive and cowardly taste buds. My problem is not just that I can’t handle the heat; the heat overwhelms my mouth and blocks any other flavor from entering my mouth. I wouldn’t be able to tell the difference between eating chicken or pork or rubber and my eyes inconveniently start to water as my scalp begins to sweat. Everyone else’s “not too bad” is my “holy crap, I’m about to breathe fire.” As a result of the inevitable pain that comes out of eating peppery food, I stay away from anything on a menu that includes, “spicy,” “lively,” “Cajun,” or “zesty” in the description. I routinely ask waiters things like, “How hot is the mild one?” or “Can you make that even less spicy?” JG calls it bland; I call it self-preservation.

Five of us headed off to the restaurant, where a long banner described the range of sauces for the wings, separated into three zones: Smilin’, Sizzlin’, and Screamin’. I happily accepted that there were four whole sauces in the Smilin’ range and scanned the menu, determined to have a meal consisting of more than wings and bleu cheese. Meanwhile, my friends and JG (in that order) made their dinner requests:

“We want to start with 18 wings with Hot sauce, extra ranch dressing, and a small container of the Mango Habañero sauce. Then, we’ll share a chicken tender salad with Hot sauce on the side.”

“I’d like 12 wings: 6 with Hot sauce and 6 with the Spicy Garlic. And could I have an order of cheesy potato wedges? Thanks.”

“I’ll have the rib and wing combo and I’d like Medium sauce on the wings. I’ll take regular fries as my side.”

Then I said, “I’d like an order of the roasted garlic mushrooms and a side salad with the raspberry vinaigrette. And I’ll take 6 wings with the, uh, sweetbarbequesauce.”

As if it wasn’t already perfectly clear that I was the Little Leaguer in the crowd, the waitress didn’t have my wings when our order came and when JG reminded her, she said, “Oh, right, the sweet ones.” Hmph.

Everyone around the table mopped their foreheads, blew their noses, and exhaled deeply in response to their wings while I licked the honey barbeque sauce off my fingers and commended myself for my responsible decision. But a nagging thought urged me to try something a little higher up the Smilin’ scale: How about the Parmesan Garlic? That doesn’t sound too bad, does it? Come on, now. Knowing that JG would help me out with the leftovers, I took the plunge and ordered half a dozen Parmesan Garlic wings.

The wings smelled delicious in the flimsy cardboard boat and I bit enthusiastically into a saucy mini-drumstick. Mm, I thought. Cheesy. Garlicky. I can still taste the chicken. Very nice. Wait, I feel heat. Is that red pepper flake in the sauce?! Oh, crap, it’s covering my whole mouth. Must have water. I’m getting teary already! Oh, man. There is no way I can eat this.

I sadly deferred to JG to eat my wings while I doused the flames with celery and bleu cheese. I have small consolation in that I’ve calibrated myself to the Buffalo Wild Wings scale. I should just stick with the Sweet BBQ and stay away from the Parmesan Garlic. If I’m feeling adventurous, maybe I’ll venture out into Teriyaki territory. Maybe.

Growing up, I was repeatedly told that all of my actions have consequences. During the majority of the occasions when I heard this truism, I was receiving unpleasant “consequences” for what were decreed to be poor decisions: turning cartwheels down the aisle at church, swiping cookies before dinner, or reading under the covers.

I never did outgrow that last indescretion. It is very rare that I would go to sleep without reading something; usually, my fatigue dictates how long I’m able to prop up the book in my lap. Generally, I can last about twenty minutes, depending on the day of the week, but even that short period of time helps my body relax into sleep. Even in the summertime, I snuggle under the covers and lean up against my husband pillow (not JG, one of those pillows with arms) for the nightly ritual. I don’t need to stop myself at a chapter break because my mind conveniently picks up where it left off, even mid-paragraph. As soon as I feel my eyelids droop and my fingers lose their grip, I drop in my index-card bookmark — you know, for jotting down words I want to look up later — slide the book onto my nightstand, reach up to turn off the light, and settle in for the night. On the rare night when I outlast my twenty minutes, I have the pleasure of using my fancy LED reading light. Its moonbeam-y glow brings me back to those illicit hours when I lay huddled under my covers, keeping half an ear open for my parents’ footfalls in the hallway.

Last night, I stayed up way past my bedtime in a mad dash to finish the last chronicle in the Harry Potter series. I started the book in the afternoon on Saturday and read steadily until I finished it at almost 1am this morning. At first, I was simply wide awake. Reading is the best way for me to tell my body to go to sleep, so I pressed on, not realizing that I was entering the thick of the action. When I reached the point of no return, I looked grimly at the clock, took a deep breath, and muttered to myself, “Okay, we’re powering through.”

I am still breathing deeply and muttering this morning. Pressing on to finish the book was clearly a bad decision and I am suffering the consequences, as evidenced by the grogginess, yawning, dark circles under my eyes, and overall delayed reaction time. It’s my own fault. I’ll manage.

Even in my hazy state, I know with full certainty that I’ll make this bad decision again. It’s just a matter of time.

#24