A short story about dolly steps:

Once upon a time, there was a girl called Danielle who liked to daydream. In her happiest daydreams, Danielle imagined herself being a Real Writer and publishing Real Books written for Real Children to read.

She had published some grown-up stuff in grown-up magazines, but that was mostly to do with building things or making things or being things. What she really dreamed of was invented stories.

Early in 2009, with a knot in her stomach the size of a large meat pie, she sent one of her made-up stories to a Real Magazine for Real Children. It was more just for Real Experience, a sort of adventure along the pathway to being a Real Writer. But her heart nearly stopped beating when the very Real Editor of the Real Magazine for Real Children bought the story and paid Real Money for it.

Danielle wanted to frame the cheque, but commonsense prevailed and she banked it, where it was soon swallowed up by the necessities of life. The delight of that moment had become a distant shining light -- in fact, she had forgotten even to expect the Real Magazine's arrival -- when, suddenly, quite out of the blue, it came.

In awe and amaze, Danielle flicked through the Real Magazine -- called Orbit -- and saw her little story there on page 8. And on page 9 was a Real Painting by a Real Artist called Matt Ottley -- an Artist so Real that he had illustrated books by Real Authors that Danielle had grown up reading. Danielle may or may not have jumped up and down. If she didn't Really, well then, she was on the inside. And she definitely squealed and took the stairs two at a time to show her family.

It was a Really exciting day -- enormous, giant, bounding... dolly steps on the pathway to becoming a Real Writer.

The end (or not).

PS. Danielle hopes she is Really not breaching copyright by posting these ecstatic pictures from the Real Magazine.

Best mail day:

Monday brought me the coolest mail. An envelope came from my grandmother with a beautiful card and, enclosed with it, a postcard she received for her birthday in 1942, and a tiny faded photograph depitcing her as a young girl (long, skinny legs and all), along with her sister and several old aunties (no guess as to what'll be the subject of my flashback Friday post this week). Also, a whopping great big parcel came with my first study units of my degree. I am officially a student again! So very, very excited.
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It's a bachelor of arts with a creative writing major (*squee*) and I'm studying externally through Tabor College. I started work yesterday and already I find myself in the middle of writing a poem. Yes, yes. This is good stuff.

In like a lamb and out like a lion

They say that March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. That's all very well if you live in the northern hemisphere; in southern parts, things are completely opposite. Today showcases all of autumn's most lionesque qualities. It's grey and bleak and windy. Thunderous rain has been pouring down since early this morning, and the road is a slick, sleek stream of water. The construction site across from our house is a pure mudbath. On days like this, it would absolutely stink to be a postman. Respect, postie. You do an awesome job.
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The last two weeks have been delightful ones for me. For starters, my Dad was home from his worksite for a weekend and we celebrated in usual Carey family fashion by doing a very random small road trip into previously unexplored regions, having a picnic lunch at a tiny hidden park, and stopping so the boys could investigate a motorcycle museum in a refashioned water park. Yes.

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It was my sister Lauren's birthday on Monday, and I'm pretty sure you have to have been homeschooled to understand that for people who school or work at home, birthdays are always a public holiday. This year was no exception, even though most of us are at the age now when you're supposed to pretend birthdays aren't important. I remain steadfast in my belief that they are.

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And change is afoot, too. I had felt that 2009 would be a year of changes, particularly as God began to impress on me that the season of publishing Whatsoever, an editing job that's been part of my world for over ten years, might be coming to a close. It's huge when things like that finish up, and as I've been planning the final issue of the magazine, I've been pondering what might be around the corner. I applied for a couple of jobs that I felt might be providential, and in the meantime I've been pushing my little half-year of writing furiously. Both jobs fell through, but I was over the moon (the cow that jumped the moon in the fairytale? It had nothing on me) when I found out last week that one of my children's short stories had been picked up by a magazine I love and respect! Nothing can convey my delirium at this discovery except gush, but I'm going to refrain from gushing before you all (local family and friends have seen the gush, I'm afraid) until there's an actual paper copy of the work for me to actually gush over. Needless to say, I am super thrilled and super excited and super thankful to God for offering me this encouragement.

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Of course, that has only motivated my words even more. And now it looks like I might be doing some studying to further all this words-stuff! Again: super thrilled. I'll hold back on the details until I know for sure if, when, and how, but I'm excited. And thankful. It's a pretty cool thing when doors begin to open in new directions.

Making words and toothache, and how they both hurt quite a bit.

Yesterday I pulled out my paints and made a big mess of colours. It was the first time in a long time, and it felt good. Also a little scary. Plus it gave me time to think.

That morning, I'd rather unsuccessfully squeezed out about 750 words (250 short of my daily required quota, if I'm to fulfill my writing pledge for this year, and let's not talk about the fourteen days I've missed writing already this month). Every one of those words was painful. Getting them from brain to fingers to screen felt rather like trying to run a marathon through quicksand. The sludge kept pulling me down.

At lunchtime, I took refuge in a little paperback mystery novel. The supposed powers of distraction only added to my misery. The book was nothing earth-shattering, certainly never destined to be a classic or even a top seller, and yet it was immensely more readable and more real than anything I've ever been able to shake from my pen.

That's an agonising realisation to make, but it was also strangely enlightening. I realised that the reason I've been finding my writing goals so hard to reach is not because it's hard to spew a thousand words onto a page every day (it's not; plus, a thousand words usually takes more than a page, in case you were wondering). Rather, it's painful because it's horrifying to write a thousand bad words a day. Bad writing is painful. Understanding that one is making bad writing is even more painful.

It couldn't have been just coincidence, then, that I read Justine Larbalestier's latest blog post that night. She said:

There’s a certain misery in the air right now. I’m reading it on other writer’s blogs. I’m feeling it myself. Seeing it in tweets. Hearing it in late night conversations in bars. It’s kind of everywhere. So many writers I know, or who I follow on line, or in interviews, are grappling with their own self worth as writers. If I’m not selling am I still a writer? If I can’t get published am I still a writer? If my contract got cancelled am I still a writer? If my next book doesn’t do as well as my last book am I still a writer? If I don’t win awards am I still a writer? If reviewers hate my books am I still a writer?

Obviously, she is speaking particularly to published authors, the people already considered by most of us to be already making good words. But her advice rings true for anyone. It rings true for me:

All you can do is write the very best book you can.
It will get published or it won’t. It will find its market or it won’t. It will sell or it won’t. It will win awards or it won’t. None of that matters if you’ve written the best book you can.

Every act of creativity involves taking a risk. We don't really know that what we're undertaking will turn out lovely and beautiful. Well, maybe Bach had that kind of confidence, but most of us don't. Most of us just jump out into the water and hope we'll remember how to swim. Not even gracefully; we just want to stay afloat.

All I can do is try to write the very best words I can. I might not make something brilliant, but the question at the back of my mind asks, "Will you be able to stop, even if you stink?" The answer is: most likely, no.

I take courage from that phrase about genius (was it Einstein or Edison who said it?): genius is 1% inspiration and 99% perspiration. Since genius isn't what I'm aiming for (I gave that hope up long ago), I figure the equation for making something really, really good might be half a percent inspiration and 99 and a half percent perspiration. Inspiration is everywhere; the perspiration bit is up to me.

Words. See them grow!

[a sneaky peeky at the upcoming project for Homespun magazine. Don't tell anyone!]

One of the things that I'm looking forward to about the Tasmania trip -- I mean, even apart from the cool weather, the lack of sensible bedtimes, the day trips, the walks, the old buildings, the bakeries, the reading, the explorations, the familyness (is your mouth watering yet?) -- is the chance to make amends for my utter failure to meet my 20,000 word goal in January.

To be sure, I hadn't expected that our home would explode with such a multitude of delightful people all one after the other. I struggled to make my bed most days, let alone sit and type for a few hours uninterrupted. So I have an excuse -- sort of -- but I also have an opportunity to redeem myself.

If anything, it might be harder to write, over there. There is nothing so very pressing to do, but all the delights of a new place distract and delight. Nevertheless, I will chain myself to the keyboard at least a little each day, and see what happens. I want to reacquaint myself with my writing projects, to begin to care about them again. To write, you have to care, at least in some small way, about the words or the characters or the story. I've been so long absent from my characters and stories that I've forgotten to care. I want to start caring again, and I hope the holiday will work for me.

Also: journalling. I very very much would like to start writing again. My brain needs it and I think my family would appreciate me pouring out my thoughts on paper before I launch the bombardment on them.

On a sort of slightly related note: would you like postcards? I'd certainly like to send them :). If you would like a postcard from the tiny little crooked island down south, send your mailing address to postcardsplease@gmail.com. The first fifteen people (I'm being ambitious) will get something in the mail! Oh, and even if you know that I know your address, send it anyway because it's nice to have everything in the one little place.

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conversations:

Caitlin -- We can't understand it all, but you are so right: God is definitely in control.

New beginnings, times two.

November is the month of new beginnings for me. Crazy that the beginning of the silly season should also be the time to launch into new projects, but that's how she rolls, baby!

New project #1: the [half]year of writing furiously
I've written furiously this year already -- the novel-writing project saw to that -- but since July, I've been really prompted first by some subtle hints from above, and then by the encouragement of my family, to give this freelancing thing a shot. I've done lots of odds and ends with writing over the last couple of years; now I'm aiming to give it six months of concentrated effort and see where it takes me. I don't want to be rich, but I do hope to be able to earn a little doing something I really care about. I intend to work my tail off and see what doors God opens -- or closes. And at the end of six months (and probably at the end of every day until then), I'll take stock and see what surprises have appeared along the way. Watch this space.

New project #2: the year of reading chronologically
I've done read-the-Bible-in-a-year plans before, and found them really helpful in guiding my everyday Bible study. What I don't like, however, is knowing that on the 1st of January, I'll be reading Genesis 1, and that around Christmas time I'll be wading through Revelations. So when Justin Buzzard launched The Year of the Bible, starting November 1st, I was all ready for it! It'll be good to have that sense of discipline and direction guiding my daily Bible reading. Plus, the .pdf you can print your reading checklist from folds into a nifty little bookmark. You have no idea how appealing this is to a dork like me.

I covet your prayers regarding item number one up there on that list, and as for item number two: want to join me? We can compare notes on what we're reading in Scripture, and talk about the Bible, and get all excited and stuff. Yay!

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conversations:

Narelle -- boy, thanks! That's encouragement indeed. Maybe I will have to try working it up into something publishable :).

Abbie -- what a fun way to spend a birthday! I totally want to steal this idea :). Please pass on late birthday wishes to Grace from me :).