January 3rd, 2008

My cousin Shannon was the world’s greatest storyteller. Which is to say she was a phenomenal liar.

In fact, my cousin was not only was a brilliant liar, but she told so many lies that my brother and I used to joke that we should assemble and publish a collection of her lies and title the book, “The Many Lies of Shannon Jones: a true story”*. At times I did get fed up with my cousin’s incessant lying, but at other times I found her fabrications enthralling. The key was that I had to recognize that she was lying. When I knew she was lying, I could sit at her feet and listen to her spin a tale of lies with utter fascination, asking her to elaborate on key story points and taking delight either in her squirming to satisfactorily answer my questions or, just as often, in her magnificent ability to produce sensible and realistic details on the fly and out of thin air.

Of course, a natural side effect of her penchant for make believe is that I usually didn’t believe a word that came out of her mouth. Whenever she started telling me stories—even if it was just a summary of a trip to the grocery store with her mother—I assumed she was talking crap. Sometimes that crap was interesting and I’d play along, but other times I’d tell her to shut up because I’d had enough of her nonsense.

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January 3rd, 2008

Like many people, I get both nostalgic and hopeful at the new year. I begin to think about travesties overcome, battles either won or lost, things I can improve upon, blessings I am grateful for.

In terms of this blog, and writing in general, I start to think–what the fuck have I been doing with my time?!

It would be easy to say, “I vow to write at least one blog post a week for the rest of 2008″ and then it will be eight times as easy to not do it, and I am not into setting myself up for disappointment. However, what I can do is make an effort to at least consider writing in this blog. I can at least take the time to think about what I would write if I weren’t too tired to write. And then, with an idea in hand, I’ll perhaps have the motivation to pound something out when a spare 20 minutes avails itself to me.

Last night I sat down with my laptop and composed another memory-story, this time without a religious theme, but something I wanted to remember. I forgot to post it last night (I fell asleep early after a long first day back at the office) but I will post it tonight. So, here’s to more frequent updates.

Because, the truth is, what good is a writer who doesn’t write? Oh, sure, I could take the easy way out and say I’m more a graphic artist these days than I am a writer, but that would be the worst kind of lie, because I’d be lying to myself. I will never be anything more than I am a writer, and that’s probably how it should be. Graphic art only came into my life a few years ago. I’ve been writing since I was a little girl. In fact, when I was about 10 years old, I dragged my ancient, enormous, heavy-as-hell typewriter with me to my grandmother’s house in Ohio for summer vacation and I spent the summer in her basement writing a novel. It was terrible, to be sure, but it was coplete. My 10 year old self spent summer vacation writing a novel. And I would dare to call myself a graphic artist instead?

Pish posh. I can’t even draw.  There’s the rub.

I have also decided that I need to write a novel this year. I say “need” because I’m not sure it’s something I want to do so much as something that I feel compelled to do. I haven’t written any good fiction in ages. I’ve gotten out of the habit, and I’ve quite forgotten how. But it was how I began my life as a writer, and it is how I think I may continue my life as a writer, so I’d best get started. The only way to grow a muscle is to use it, and there’s no time like the present. So, whether I want to or not, there it is. And I’m sure that once I get going I’ll want to.

And that’s really all I have to say about that. Wishing everyone a splendid new year.

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November 13th, 2007

North Hollywood, California, was a truly diabolical place in the 1980s. Which is to say that, guided by the loving paranoia of my family and churchmates, I found Satan absolutely everywhere I looked. He was prevalent in popular music, movies, cartoons, and role-playing games. Watching an hour of MTV was a sure ticket to Hell. In fact, Satan was so ubiquitous that I grew to be both terrified of and enthralled by the unholy trickster. I took great pleasure in finding various ways to irritate Satan, which included random acts of kindness (though never directed toward my brother) and engaging in long monologues in which I would tell Satan why his zeal to steal my soul was a lost cause, for I was bathed in the blood of the lamb and could never be tempted to damnation. And as I would say this, I would stamp my feet (to annoy the demons below) and smile as widely as I could, for a song that I had learned in Lutheran school had taught me to “Smile sweetly, sister, so you’ll send Satan sadly away”. The alliteration appealed to me, of course, but so did the idea that I could piss Satan off simply by donning a smart-ass, shit-eating grin. So many days were passed stomping my feet and grinning like a fool, all in the service of Jesus Christ’s army.

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August 27th, 2007

I am competitive by nature. Even at stuff I don’t care that much about and know I’m not very good at.  I once knocked over a little girl at a wedding reception so I could catch the bouquet, even though I was, for all intents and purposes, already engaged. So you can imagine my extreme frustration and annoyance by the fact that my son, a tiny little hobbledehoy, creams me at both Wii bowling and Wii boxing. It’s gotten to the point that I don’t even want to play with him, especially because he seems to have mastered the art of excessive celebration—if this were the NFL, he’d be fined for the shit he pulls when he licks me in a match. He cackles with glee as dances about the living room chanting, “Uh huh! I’m awesome! You suck!” He gyrates those hips and pulls faces, all the while maintaining eye contact for the rub. It’s maddening.

And what’s even more aggravating is that he’s so freaking cute when he does it, I simultaneously want to hug him and rip his head right off his bony, little shoulders.
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August 13th, 2007

I don’t know if it’s the oppressive Texas heat, mid-career malaise, or simply waiting, inexplicably, for something really wonderful to happen, but I can scarcely think straight these days, let alone think deep. For the first time in a long time, my life is, well, boring.

I understand what the Chinese meant when they cursed each other with the words, “May you live in interesting times.” I enjoy change; I’m the sort of person who grows idle and listless should I stay in any one phase of my life too long. I usually keep things interesting, but interesting is tumultuous. Interesting is dangerous. Interesting means I don’t have time to enjoy the moments in between earthquakes.

There is stillness here in the deep. It is not interesting. But it is stable. And warm. And delicious.

I won’t lie, though: I find myself fidgeting all the time, my mind racing for things I should be doing, but everything around me is so still. All my writing projects are complete and the new ones are still gestating quietly, developing into something that can live on their own. My design projects, too, are for the moment paused, as the university limps its way out of summer and into the blusterous activity of the fall semester. Everything is dormant right now; there is no drama.

Yet, I long for a wild, blissful adventure to muss my hair and dirty my hands. I want to hope for something. I want to embark on a journey.

I’m trying not to think, and I’m succeeding. I’m trying merely to be, to reconsider my life as I enter my thirties, trying to figure out who I am, where I want to go, what sort of legacy I want to leave behind. I say all this to say that if this blog hasn’t anything relevant or deep or thoughtful to say for a while, I apologize. I’m mentally cleaning house.

I do intend to continue with the storytelling, however, if for no other reason than I feel the need to reminisce, to leave traces of my little girl self and her experiences of the world. Not for you, I’m afraid, who didn’t know me as a child or as a woman and probably don’t care except that perhaps the stories are amusing to you (I hope they are; they’re funny as Hell to me in retrospect) but for myself, so that I can look back and remind myself when I forget that I was a religious, strange, overly thoughtful and yet all the same, childish little girl back in the day. I hope I never lose that.

So I apologize for what may come in the next few weeks or months. But if you’ll allow me the indulgence, I hope you’ll enjoy the memories as I dust them off and display them on the shelf. They’re my war medals, and though sometimes they make me look like an arse, they’re mine; I earned them.

Very well then, on with the show!

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