Summer Travels

I've recently returned from Jackson, Mississippi, where I lived for a year.  Only it was actually only four days.  A good book will do that to you.

I read a lot.  In fact, I've curbed my reading over the last few years because once I begin a book, nothing much else gets done.  I'm the kind of reader who can't let go of a story, no matter how poorly written or how ridiculous the story line.  Because of this, I've experienced a lot of great literature, and a lot of baloney books, too.  Last week I made a wild swing on the whiplash express between the two.

Now that my toddler is in a big-girl bed but is not the kind of person you'd want wandering free in the night, I've loaded several reading apps into my iPod Touch.  I sit at the foot of her bed and read as she falls asleep.  Because of my skinflint nature, I only read freebies, so I picked up a few free offerings from CBD's new ebook list and downloaded a title or two from the local library.

One of the first titles I read was Reinventing Leona, by Lynne Gentry.  I liked the concept behind the story line:  a pastor's wife, living in the church-owned parsonage, is abruptly widowed.  Always dependent on her husband's strong personality and comfortable in her role as his helper, she now must become her own person and make her own life.  This plot rang a bell with me, since I am the wife of a pastor and we live in the parsonage.  As I read, I related more with the author of the book than with the story, however.  In my mental fiction, Ms. Gentry has enjoyed reading since she was a small child.  She probably won school awards for her writing.  Maybe she has a blog and gets a lot of compliments on her imagery and writing style.  She's toyed with an idea:  she dreams of writing a book (don't we all?).  Armed with a unique and interesting story line and the good wishes and encouragement of her friends, she begins to write.  It goes in spurts.  Sometimes the writing just flows; at other times, she agonizes over each phrase.  She reads and rereads until her own words make her crazy.  Finally she turns portions over to her friends and asks them for brutal honesty.  They like it!  She's affirmed!  After sending her idea to a publisher, they ask for the manuscript, the deal is sealed, she works and sweats and strains, and one day she holds a book - HER book - in her hands!

Bad news:  My story is better than hers.  Her writing never quite invites you in.  The plot is overly segmented and often difficult to follow.  You never actually experience Leona reinvented, but only rehashed.  Scriptures are placed carefully and predictably.  But the worst part - the part that made me groan and roll my eyes, even though I empathized with Ms. Gentry - was the imagery.  The imagery, in fact, was what clued me into my likeness with her.  At points, her story moved along smoothly enough, but then I'd hit rocky pavement littered by sharp descriptions of every type and of every thing.  My mind stumbled and stalled as I tried to follow the faint trail of her plot through the clutter.  Some of her images bordered on the ridiculous (sorry, Ms. Gentry, if you ever read this, but it's true - please keep reading), like when she described the main character entering her overbearing mother's hospital room "like the Ty-D-Bol man."  The fits and starts are where my mental self-critic inserted itself.  "Just why," it asked bluntly, "do you think you could do a better job?  Your words are much like hers.  You rarely think of a unique phrase or untried description.  If you weren't reading this right now, you'd never even see it."

It wasn't a horrible book, but it wasn't one I'd recommend.  It had a unique story line and interesting characters.  And her descriptions were vivid, though heavy-handed.  I ended the book without the sad regret you feel when you've become a part of the literature.  But I learned a lot from that book about great literature, and talent, and running with your dream.  I hope Ms. Gentry writes again, and I hope she finds her way to clarity and definition.  I hope her friends and editors do more than encourage.  And I hope that I can make as much of my talent (when I find one!) as she has.  The plot line sold me on the book because of my similarity to the main character; my take-away was my similarity with the author.

The ebook I read after that was borrowed from the library.  The Help, by Kathryn Stockett, doesn't require my review.  I hope I get to visit Jackson, Mississippi (or New York, or Chicago...) with her again soon.

More About Music: The Voice

Please note:  I wrote this post long before hearing there is a TV program by the name "The Voice."  I did not intend to refer to that program in this post.


I hate it when people take an ordinary occurrence and spiritualize it with some deeper meaning.  I'm about to do just that.  I embarrass myself.  Don't worry, though.  It's short and won't hurt much.

My husband has a Voice.  When he sings, you know he's singing.  Others sometimes stop singing just to listen to his Voice.  When he leads worship, he truly needs no microphone - his Voice is very present.  His Voice is built for solos.

I have a very plain voice.  Pleasant, but certainly not outstanding.  When I sing, I naturally blend with everyone around me.  If someone happens to hear me (I tend to harmonize), they inevitably think it was someone else.  My voice is built for choir.

Tween and I were driving and he asked me about his voice.  He can carry a tune, and he shows some promise as far as impromptu musicals are concerned, but he's still got a little boy voice.  Tween, however, was under the distinct impression that his was a Voice Like Unto His Father's.

I'm a "burst their bubble" kind of mom.  I don't believe in pumping up my kids about talents they don't have.  Being that this was tween, though, I had to do a slow deflate rather than a rapid pin thrust.  So we talked about the relative merits and drawbacks of solo vs. choir voices.  Here is what we came up with:

Solo:  Can sing a solo.  Can't sing in an ensemble, as the Voice stands out too much.  Can be intimidating to sing with.

Choir:  Can't sing a solo except in unusual circumstances.  Duets, trios, quartets, choirs - all good.  Great background vocalist.  Welcome at sing-alongs.  Fun to sing with.

At this point I waxed spiritual.  Solo voices are wonderful to listen to, but choir voices reflect more of the body of Christ.  Rather than standing out, we are usually called to augment, or blend, or refine a cooperative effort.  The beauty is found in the blend.

Tween rubbed his chin for a moment, then agreed with me that a choir voice is more flexible, and more like the body of Christ.

Then, of course, he wanted reassurance that he wasn't completely out of the running for a Voice.  After all, one day a man's voice would be his.  Perhaps, someday, he, too, will have a Voice!

He's right, of course.  I can't help but wonder, though, if he inherited a pinch of my reckless optimism.

Have you ever seen a sentence with so many commas as the one three sentences ago?

Delusions of Grandeur

I have 'em.  Lots of 'em.

I'm a humble soul.  I don't overestimate my abilities or toot my own horn.  But deep in a little-known corner of my heart lurks an expectation of greatness.

Here's a good example:  Every evening I prepare dinner.  I am not known for my cooking abilities; in fact, I am rather infamous where cooking is concerned.  Yet for some strange reason, whenever I try a new dish, or alter an old one, a voice in my head whispers of impending celebrity.  The voice begins small enough, quietly hinting that this dish may actually taste good.  However, it quickly intensifies.  Within minutes I envision posting my recipe on an internet forum.  The dream accelerates:  after rave reviews, it's picked up on hundreds of blogs.  It becomes the next viral Chloe's Chicken Soup!  Suddenly, people are asking me - ME! - for tips, advice, recipes!

So far the accolades have not been forthcoming, however.  I remain a mediocre cook at best.  It's fine with me; as I said, I don't overestimate my own abilities.  Still, my inner enthusiast cheers me on.

I'm deluded in other areas, as well.  Whenever I undertake anything new, suddenly I am certain that this is the work that will make me great.  A sewing or knitting project will show me to have tremendous talent.  My co-op class will be the one people beg to enroll their children in.  My help on the sound board at church will resolve all problems and satisfy everyone's need for the perfect volume and sound quality.  You get the picture.

Perhaps I am too hard on myself, though.  Maybe I'm not deluded so much as optimistic.  Some mix their optimism with caution; I do the opposite.  You might say I'm recklessly optimistic.

Yes, that sounds much better, doesn't it?

And who knows?  Perhaps one of these days I will find an area in which I truly excel.  I certainly have the right person behind me, inspiring me ever onward!