mssarajevo

Montreal

Sat, 27 Dec 2008 18:49:28 GMT

For Christmas this year my husband and I decided to get each other presents that don't cost anything (although he broke the rules and bought me Beedle the Bard as well as the two "textbooks" Rowling wrote for Comic Relief). So for my gift to him I wrote a slightly fictionalized account of the weekend we met, which was almost 6 years ago now. It's kind of personal, but I thought "what the heck - I'll post in on LJ." So if you're inclined to read it, please don't think too poorly of me! I've never quite figured out what he saw in me that weekend, but I'm glad he did, because it changed my life.

The bus pulled out of the depot in downtown Toronto, crushing the fall leaves under its wheels as it headed for the airport on the edge of the city. In the far back sat a young woman, quivering with excitement. She leaned her forehead against the cold glass of the window and closed her eyes, savouring the moment.

Finally, she thought. On the road again …

It had been two years since she had moved to Toronto, two years since she had felt the thrill of discovering a new place, and although this trip was only for a long weekend, just the anticipation of it energized her like a month-long vacation. She grinned to herself, remembering the ad for this weekend’s conference – “Religion, Ethics and the Public Square” – that had somehow ended up in her mailbox at work. She remembered looking at it and thinking, I’ve never been to Montreal – why not? And so she had smiled and spun, earnestly pleading her case to her boss, and had somehow managed the time off and all the conference fees paid by her employer, even though the conference had little relevance to her job.

Freedom.

In truth, the conference did interest her. Her summer job in the Premier’s Office during university had sparked a keen interest in politics, and her upbringing as a Christian had made her wonder about the relationship between politics and religion. But for the most part she just craved new experiences – and attending an academic conference in a world-class city seemed to fit the bill.

I … am … so … bored ….

She sat near the back, doodling on the new McGill writing pad she had purchased in the campus bookshop, along with a brown leather bag to match the brown suit she was wearing. Really, she had thought, I can’t possibly tote around my black briefcase while wearing a brown suit. These things needed to be considered when trying to blend in amongst the intelligentsia.

But she didn’t feel like a member of the intelligentsia now. The first couple of sessions had been interesting, even captivating. She had always loved learning; always loved to wrap her mind around a complex issue until she could sift through – and tear apart – the various arguments in search of the truth. Preston Manning had spoken first, and she had found she could follow his lecture with relative ease. But the second speaker had been the chair of something-or-other at some Prestigious University, and she had wished she had brought her pocket dictionary. Now, half-way through the first day, she was seriously considering skipping the rest of the sessions and heading out to explore Montreal. But … her employer was expecting a report on the conference and, given that this was his area of expertise, it was hardly the kind of thing she could make up.

Then, just as she was starting this think this weekend had been a mistake, things started to look up. Walking up the aisle toward her was one of the only other conference attendees under the age of 40 – and he was hot. Sandy blonde hair, olive skin, an expression of deep concentration on his face. She blinked, and shook her head. Snap out of it, she told herself. You are not picking up on this excursion.

But that didn’t stop her from following the blonde’s progress as he walked past her and stopped a few feet away to chat with a colleague. He spoke animatedly, and she liked how he leaned forward and gestured with his hands. His colleague must have said something amusing, because the blonde threw back his head and laughed, and that made her smile because his laugh seemed to take over his whole body. It was a very freeing sound.

Hm, she thought, surprised at herself. Blondes aren’t usually my type. Then she checked herself – no type! no type! The last thing you need right now is a weekend fling!

She got up and moved out of the auditorium into the street and walked briskly around the block, continuing her positive self-talk the whole way. She had just come off a string of unhealthy relationships, if you could even call them that, and was only a few months past the heartbreaking end of an unplanned pregnancy. The last thing she needed in her life right now was another man. Just stay away, and you’ll stay safe.

The rest of the day she made a conscious effort to avoid looking for him, occupying herself instead by striking up a conversation with Preston Manning and his wife and ending up invited to lunch with them. She sat with Mrs. Manning during the afternoon session, pleased that she had been befriended by one of the “first ladies” of Canadian politics.

Finally, it was the last lecture of the day, and she sat near the door so she would be able to make a quick escape if it was too mind-numbing to endure. And then the blonde man she had noticed earlier sat in front of her. He had a friend with him, a tall man whose head of dark hair blocked her view of the speaker. She concentrated on every word the lecturer spoke, trying to keep up. When it was over, she quickly gathered her things and prepared to head to the relative safety of her friend’s apartment where she was staying.

“Hi, I’m Mark.”

The blonde had turned around and was holding out his hand to her. Startled, she shook it. “Sara,” she said simply. He grinned at her as if she had just said something charming. “So, what did you think?”

Her brain froze. “Uh …” she stuttered. “About the … uh, the lecture?” He nodded, still grinning. “Oh … well, I thought it was … interesting,” she finished lamely. “How about you?”

“Yeah, I thought it was pretty good,” he answered, shrugging. “Although I disagree with his interpretation of Rawls’ political liberalism as played out in nonburdened societies, especially when you take into consideration the criterion of reciprocity.”

He looked at her, patiently waiting for her response. I have no idea what you just said, she thought as she hastily rearranged her features to resemble comprehension and nodded sagely. I didn’t know they came in both ‘cute’ and ‘smart’.

He continued, “I mean, anyone who had read Rousseau knows that realistic utopia isn’t the issue here.”

“Mmm-hmm,” she said, nodding again. “For sure. So, what brings you to this conference, Mark?” Stop talking to him. Just say goodbye and go away.

“Work,” he replied. “I’m with Focus on the Family, public policy. How about you?”

“Well, it’s kind of work, kind of personal interest,” she answered. “I’m the Director of Communications at Tyndale University College in Toronto. So it really has nothing to do with my job, but I managed to convince my boss otherwise so that I could come.”

He grinned at this and nodded approvingly. “Nice. So, are you here alone?”

Uh-oh. Make something up.

“Um … yeah.” Brilliant.

“And do you have dinner plans?”

“Uh … not really.” Is this going where I think it’s going?

“So, would you like to have dinner with me?”

No, I would not like to have dinner with you because I’m finding you very attractive right now and I’m trying to cut down on the complications in my life.

“Sure, that would be nice. Thank you.”

Damn it.

They left the university and found a small and mostly empty restaurant nearby. Small talk came easy to them – he told her about his sister living in Australia and she talked about her work at Tyndale. He was engaging and attentive, and they found that they had much in common – similar backgrounds, a love for books, and their great anticipation of the second Lord of the Rings movie.

Slowly, Sara felt herself begin to relax, but as soon as she recognized it she reprimanded herself sharply.

Sure, she thought. He seems like a nice guy now, but that’s how they all seem at first. Give him half a chance and he’ll be trying to get into your pants.

“I have a son,” she said out loud, and the bluntness of her statement startled her.

“Oh,” was all he said, looking unfazed.

“I just like to bring it up near the beginning of … you know, meeting new people. Just so they … know. I placed him for adoption. His name’s Samuel.”

Actually, she didn’t like bringing it up at all, but the more she talked to Mark the more he seemed like a really good guy, and it seemed fairest to let him in on the truth sooner than later – the truth being that she was probably not the kind of girl he was looking for.

He asked a couple of questions about her son and was polite and sympathetic.

This is the part where you’re supposed to make an excuse, get up and walk away, she told him in her head. But instead he turned the conversation to politics and she found herself telling him about the summer she worked for the Premier and how she had almost broken up the country via a poorly-worded letter she had written and sent out under the Premier’s signature. As they laughed and continued swapping stories, she started to rack her brain for something else she could tell him that would raise the self-preservation red flag in his mind.

“I drink a lot,” she blurted out. “I mean, I used to, before Samuel, and then I didn’t while I was pregnant … but … well, anyway, it’s … kind of a problem.”

He looked at her across the table with a bemused expression on his face, then put some money in the folder on the table and stood up.

Okay, that did the trick, she thought.

“We’d better get back or we’ll miss the next session,” he said, holding out her coat. She stood and accepted it from him wordlessly, not meeting his eyes. “Afterward some colleagues of mine are going out – would you care to join us?” he continued.

“Um,” was all she said.

“It’ll be fun,” he promised. “And I know they won’t mind.”

“Um,” she said again.

“C’mon,” he said, smiling. “It’s Focus on the Family – how scary can we be?”

At this she smiled back. “Sure,” she agreed, and something twitched in the pit of her stomach that she was quite sure had nothing to do with the meal she had just eaten.

Hours later, she lay on the sofa in her girlfriend’s apartment and reflected on the day. She had met and had lunch with a national political leader and his wife, had met an attractive, intelligent and seemingly nice man, and had then dined again with said man and a group of people more wealthy and influential than anyone in her circle of acquaintances. She had been more reserved than normal throughout the evening, feeling somewhat out of place amidst all these people who knew and worked with each other. But, given that most at the table were of the male gender and given her natural disposition to please and attract, she had handled herself quite well. In fact, she was rather impressed with herself for reining in the shameless flirt that had landed her in so many regrettable situations in times past.

This is me, she thought. The New Sara – able to sit at a table of men and make normal, polite conversation and then go home alone. She allowed herself to dream a little. Maybe someday … maybe someday I’ll be capable of a normal, healthy relationship where things develop slowly and naturally, as they should. Maybe someday I’ll meet someone like Mark in Toronto and things will actually work out …

And dwelling on that happy thought, she drifted off to sleep.

“No, no, I’m good, really,” she said, slurring her words slightly as she half-heartedly tried to wave off the rich lawyer who was re-filling her wine glass for the fourth – or was that fifth? – time. He laughed and put his arm around her as he filled her glass to the brim.

It was the following evening, and she had spent most of the day with Mark, still trying to bluff her way through the illusion of understanding regarding the conference. Mark seemed to find the lectures somewhat interesting but mostly simplistic, while she was no longer even trying to keep up. And so they had sat at the back of the lecture hall, both bored but for very different reasons, entertaining themselves by writing notes to each other on their pads of paper as if they were in junior high.

After the day’s sessions, he had invited her once again to dinner with some of his colleagues, a different group this time. Sitting around the table were a mix of lawyers, policy wonks, journalists and generally wealthy and interesting people, including a televangelist from Texas. She was sitting between Mark and a tall blonde lawyer named David who was picking up the drinks tab and seemed to have made it his personal mission to get her completely pissed. Saying no had never been a specialty of Sara’s, and she had rarely passed up an opportunity to get drunk on a handsome man’s dime. The conversation was lively and she seemed to be garnering her fair share of attention from the men at her end of the table. Mark, who was engrossed in conversation with the beautiful red-haired lawyer sitting across from him, had stopped after two glasses of wine and was now drinking water.

Hm, she thought. That’s odd. I wonder why he stopped drinking? And why is he talking to that redhead?

She reached for her purse under her chair as a pretense for slipping out from under the drunk lawyer’s arm. Without knowing why she was doing it, she slipped a hand under the tablecloth and rested it just above Mark’s knee. She could hear him stutter momentarily in his conversation, and she smiled benignly at the redhead, thinking in her head, Hands off, bitch.

Mark turned to her and smiled, and she removed her hand from his leg and wrapped it instead around her wine glass. He eyed her glass and leaned close to whisper, “How much have you had?”

“More than you,” she murmured. “David’s the one who keeps pouring – I’ve lost track. I told you I like to drink,” she added defiantly.

“So I see,” he answered, sliding his chair back and standing up. “Let me call you a cab. It’s getting late.”

He walked towards the restaurant lobby in search of a phone, and she felt her lower lip swelling in a pout. She was having fun, why did she have to leave?

At that moment David turned to her and said, “Some of us are going dancing, aren’t you going to come?”

She smiled at him brilliantly and patted his arm. “Of course I am – as long as you promise to dance with me.”

They were just getting their coats on when Mark returned from the phone. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“We’re going dancing! Come on!” she effused, then promptly walked into the banister at the bottom of the staircase. “Ooops!” she said with a giggle.

Mark sighed and took her arm, steering her towards the door. “Yes, I think I had better come with you,” he said as they piled into the waiting taxi.

The club was almost empty and they had the floor to themselves. She loved dancing, drunk or sober, and danced with enthusiasm and abandon. The band didn’t seem able to keep up, and Mark spent most of the time watching her from the side of the dance floor, a look between amusement and concern on his face. Occasionally he would join her, rescuing her from David’s octopus arms. At last the others deemed it time to go, and she reluctantly followed them out of the club. David and the redhead took a cab back to the hotel, and Mark hailed another one for her. She was surprised when he followed her into the back seat.

Aha, she thought. Now we come to it.

She tried to give the taxi driver directions to her friend’s apartment in French, but wasn’t quite sure she was speaking the right language. Then it occurred to her – perhaps her friend’s apartment wasn’t the best place to bring home a man for a night of drunken debauchery. She turned to Mark, putting her hand on his thigh again and trying to hold her gaze steady as the world spinned around her.

“So,” she purred, “Your place or mine?”

He looked down at her and smiled, but it wasn’t the lecherous smile of collusion she had been expecting. It was kind, and it clearly said she was knocking at a closed door. “Not tonight, I’m afraid,” he said simply.

She stared at him in disbelief. Had she done something wrong? There was a sharp prick in the foggy recesses of her mind, something that felt vaguely like triumph, but was quickly followed up with rejection. She swallowed it down and forced a smile onto her face. “Another time, then,” she said, and started looking in her purse for money to pay the cab driver. She felt his hand on her arm as they pulled up in front of her building. “Allow me,” he said, handing his credit card to the driver. He helped her out of the cab and walked her to the door. She hesitated before placing her hand on the knob. “Thanks for bringing me home,” she said.

“It was my pleasure,” he answered. “Have a good sleep.”

BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!

“You have got to be kidding me,” she muttered into her pillow, groping around for the alarm clock that was drilling a hole the size of an Olympic swimming pool into her head. Her hands came up empty and she remembered that she had put the alarm clock on the other side of the room so that she would be forced to get up to turn it off. She buried her head under the pillow and pressed it over her ears, but she could still hear the shrill and highly annoying blare. Taking a few more moments to swear profusely into her pillow, she sat up, immediately regretting the action. The alarm clock was still going, so she grit her teeth, stood up, and crossed the room, slamming the off button harder than was necessary.

She stood for a moment in the centre of her room, staring at the clock and trying to remember where exactly she was and what it was she was supposed to be doing now that the infernal noise had ceased. Then the events of the previous evening started to come back to her, trickling in through the fog in her brain and causing the blood to rise in her cheeks. She closed her eyes and gingerly shook her head.

So much for the new Sara, she thought. That didn’t last long.

She sat down on the sofa again, massaging her temples and trying to remember exactly what had happened. They had gone out for dinner, and there had been drinks … lots of drinks … and then somehow they had been dancing, and then there was a taxi, and … and …”

Holy crap! Her eyes flew open and her head shot up, and despite the resulting stab of pain she leapt to her feet and grabbed the phone off the hook.

“Hello?” Her best friend’s voice, back home in Toronto, was muffled with sleep, but this was too important of a discovery to worry about phone call etiquette.

“Kathy! You will never guess what happened,” Sara said dramatically.

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“So I met this guy,” Sara started.

“Um … I could have guessed that,” Kathy interrupted dryly.

“No, listen, this is different.”

“Uh-huh,” was the only reply.

Sara quickly filled Kathy in on how she and Mark had met and a few basic details about him. Then she got to the important part.

“So we went out again last night with some of his colleagues, and this one guy was buying all the drinks, and, well, I got a little drunk. Okay, I got really drunk.”

“Oh, Sara,” Kathy said, sighing. “What happened?”

“Nothing! That’s the point!” Sara answered, as if she had just proved a difficult argument. “Mark took me back to the apartment in a taxi, and I put the moves on him and was like ‘Your place or mine?’ I know this sounds presumptuous, but get this – he didn’t want to sleep with me.”

There was silence at the other end of the phone. Finally Kathy spoke. “You were drunk, and you came on to him, and he didn’t want to sleep with you?”

“Exactly!” Sara said jubilantly. “Isn’t that great?”

Kathy laughed. “But everyone wants to sleep with you!”

“I know!” Sara was laughing now too. “That’s why this is so awesome! I mean, think about it – this guy is solid. He’s handsome, smart, we have tons in common, and he doesn’t want to sleep with me! I think this is it!”

“Whoa, hold on – what do you mean you think this is it?” Kathy said.

“I’m not saying I’ve found the man I’m going to marry or anything,” Sara said. “I’m just saying that he’s someone I could marry.”

“Wow,” said Kathy. “This is big.”

“I know,” said Sara, nodding soberly. Then she frowned. “I mean, there is the very likely possibility that he won’t want to talk to me after last night and thinks I’m a total tart, but still – this proves that there are decent men out there,” she said.

“Who don’t want to sleep with you,” added Kathy.

“Who don’t want to sleep with me,” said Sara. “Who would have thought that would be part of my criteria for what I’m looking for in a potential husband?”

“Indeed,” mused Kathy. “So are you going to see him today?”

Sara paused. “I hope so.”

When Sara arrived at the university he was standing outside the front doors, waiting for her. He smiled as he took in her slightly disheveled appearance and said simply, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she said, ducking her head. “Look, about last night … I’m sorry. I’m not usually like that. Well, actually, I am usually like that, but I’m trying not to be, if that makes any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense,” he said, lifting up her chin to look into her eyes. His touch sent a shiver through her body. “No harm done,” he said softly. “Shall we?” he said, gesturing towards the door.

There was only one session left to endure, and once it was finished they wandered aimlessly outside together. After grabbing lunch at Chez Cora’s, they contented themselves by sitting outside on a bench and counting the number of Jettas that drove past.

“I love Jettas,” Sara told him. “They have a such a friendly shape – almost sensual.” She could feel, rather than see, his raised eyebrows, but felt that after last night she hardly needed to hide any of her quirks. He knew it all now, had seen it first hand, and somehow was still here, sitting behind her with his arm around her shoulders. She could rarely recall feeling more content. She knew that they only had minutes left together, maybe an hour at most before she had to leave to catch her plane. She also knew that it was very likely they would never see each other again after this weekend. But she felt so glad to have met him, to know that he existed in the world – and because of that the world was a more noble, hopeful place in which she could exist as well.

The end.

"I'm a writer"

Sun, 21 Dec 2008 23:05:26 GMT

I went across the Canadian/US border the other day to buy some US stamps for several self-addressed stamped envelopes I'm sending out to American publishers in a bid to get a children's book published.

Border guard: Where are you headed?
Me: To the post office.
Border guard: For what purpose?
Me: I'm buying stamps.
Border guard: For business or personal use?
Me: Business.
Border guard: What is your business?
Me: I'm a writer.

I'm a writer.

As I drove away, I repeated the conversation over again in my head, relishing the sound - and the truth - of those words. My passion is writing. My business is writing. Sure, some of it's not glamourous - writing copy for brochures and backgrounders for mining companies, for example. But whether it's glamourous or not, whether my name appears in print or I just receive a cheque in the mail, the fact that I can do for a living the thing I love most makes me feel truly blessed. Finally, after 18 years of education and several years of professional detours - and a full 25 years after I first declared "I want to be a writer when I grow up," I'm living the dream. I haven't been tagged to do the happy meme that's going around, but if I had been, I'd have lots of happy things to write about.

Now that I'm done the book ...

Tue, 16 Dec 2008 15:01:49 GMT

Review: Harry, A History by Melissa Anelli

Pocket Books, 2008

In Harry, A History, now in it’s fourth week on the New York Times Bestseller list, Melissa Anelli describes the explosion of the Harry Potter phenomenon with the added bonus of her insider’s perspective – along with being a journalist, Anelli is the “webmistress” of one of the most popular Harry Potter fan sites, The Leaky Cauldron. Harry Potter fans will be delighted to see themselves – to varying degrees depending on their level of fanaticism – within the pages of this book. And those few people who have been living in a vacuum cleaner the past several years will be shocked, and possibly appalled, at the intensity of the emotions, debates, commitments and reactions described by Anelli.

The subtitle to Harry, A History is “The True Story of a Boy Wizard, His Fans, and Life Inside the Harry Potter Phenomenon.” The book really addresses only the latter two subjects – Anelli’s own personal experience as a passionate “BNF” (big name fan), and the various expressions of fandom in general. At times these two subjects don’t mesh well, as Anelli vacillates between recounting word-for-word her conversations with friends about Harry Potter and more objective information regarding book sales, spoiler attempts and the online shipping wars (and, no, this doesn’t refer to a battle over shipping deadlines between Amazon and Chapters – a “ship” refers to a “relationship”, namely, who Harry is going to end up with). While Anelli’s personal recollections are an interesting insight into the mind of a fan, the book would have been better served if these parts had been limited to the big events in Potter history in which she had been personally involved, like her personal interviews with J.K. Rowling, the most recent of which lasted 2 days.

Anelli does a good job of giving an overall impression of the breadth and depth of the Harry Potter phenomenon. She covers topics such as the copyright war between Warner Brothers and fan websites; the birth of a new musical genre, Wizard Rock; the Laura Mallory-led fight to have the books banned from schools and libraries; release parties that shut down entire cities; tens of thousands of fans coming out to PotterCast’s travelling live podcasts; Potter-based academic discussions and conferences, and more. Throughout it all, Anelli shares stories from her personal Potter journey – the first time she met J.K. Rowling, her friendship with the actor who plays Vincent Crabbe in the movies, and the “confessional room” she used to express her frustration at the darkness of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

The book certainly has momentum, and Anelli’s excitement and enthusiasm for her topic are contagious. But some of the people encountered in Harry, A History – including Anelli herself, have taken fandom to a whole new level – which Rowling admits in the forward is, on occasion, “downright alarming.” And yet it is these fans who have made Harry Potter more than just a bestselling series and franchise – they have made it a historical and world-wide phenomenon that is not soon to be forgotten. Anelli’s book is probably one of many that will explore this phenomenon and its cultural implications in the coming years. But what makes her book stand out is that it is not written by an academic or a cultural observer, but by someone who was in the midst of it all – and who played a key role in making Harry Potter the phenomenon it is today.

Harry, A History

Tue, 09 Dec 2008 23:25:45 GMT

Look at me, I'm actually posting something for the first time in forever ...

I'm currently reading Harry, A History by Melissa Anelli, who is a journalist-turned-webmistress of The Leaky Cauldron, a massive Harry Potter fan website. Her book is about the history of the Harry Potter fandom - from online sites like Mugglenet, Veritaserum and Leaky to the fan fiction explosion and the wizard rock phenomenon. I'm only about half-way through, but it's well-written (if a little jumpy in places) and very interesting. I just finished her chapter on wizard rock, and I have to admit I had had no idea that Harry and the Potters were such a huge thing. I had heard of them but thought they were just a little garage band. Then I went online to listen to some of their music and discovered that an award-winning documentary (We Are Wizards) has just been released about the wizard rock phenomenon and general fan obsessiveness. In Harry, A History one of Anelli's main points is that the maturation of the Internet around the year 2000 coincided perfectly with the growing popularity of the Harry Potter books and enabled the birth of a fandom that would probably not have happened without the aligning of these particular stars. She also opens the box on PotterWar, which is the coined phrase for the battle between Warner Bros. and the Harry Potter fansites over copywrite issues. Obviously, since sites such as The Leaky Cauldron and bands like Harry and the Potters (and Draco and the Malfoys) are still in existence, WB saw that limiting the imagination and freedom of expression of Harry Potter fans would not be in the best interest of the franchise.

What I find interesting about this book is that it is discribing a cultural phenomenon in which we are still living. I find myself almost more fascinated by the fandom of Harry Potter than by the books themselves. I look forward to being able to say "I was there" to my kids and grandkids ... show them my first editions, tell them what it was like to be at the bookstore at midnight, dig up cached versions of the websites. Of course, maybe they won't care. But I think they, like the children of today, will be captivated by the series and will want to know what it was like to wait for the next installment, what it was like to not know whether Harry will live or die. I mean, I think it was really cool that my mum was a teenager when the Beatles and Elvis were hot - and it's even more cool that she has original Beatles trading cards and an authentic Velvet Elvis. But it would be even better if I loved the Beatles' and Elvis' music as much as she did - and that's what I'm hoping for with my kids, because I think literary tastes don't change as much from generation to generation as do musical tastes.
Anyway, I'll post a more comprehensive review (or perhaps just some more rambling observations) when I've finished the book. The forward is by Rowling herself, which gives the book a indisputable air of credibility. Rowling admits "Reading the book you now have in your hands has been an astonishing experience for me. It is as though I have, at last, achieved the ambition I held for years: to go along to a bookshop at midnight on Harry Potter publication night, in disguise, and simply watch and listen. At long last I understand what was going on while I was holed up writing, trying to filter my exposure to Potter husteries. A great chunk of my own life has been explained to me. ... So this book is a history of a community, written by an insider, and I have found it inspiring, moving, humbling, amusing, and, on occasion, downright alarming."

www.harryahistory.com

This is me, at a complete loss ...

Mon, 13 Oct 2008 19:39:22 GMT

I'm having a great deal of difficulty writing an article for a national magazine that's due ... Wednesday. I have what Anne Lamot would call my "shitty first draft" done - but I don't think even she envisioned something this bad. My problem is two-fold - first, this particular magazine employs a very casual writing style that I'm not particularly good at or fond of. All of the articles are light, fluffy and in the first-person. It always amazes me how one can say so little in so many words ... My personal style is much more formal, probably due to the eons I've spent wasting away in post-secondary education. The second, and biggest, problem is that I really don't know how to write the content of this article! The tentative title is "Finding God in the Dishpan" - and the article is supposed to be about how a stay-at-home parent can overcome the frustration of repetitive and thankless chores and rise above the mundanity of it all to connect to a higher purpose and use that monotony for prayer, service, and a contribution to the circle of life, etc. When I first pitched the article, I thought that in doing the reseach I would find some answers (for the whole stay-at-home mom identity crisis is a very real struggle of mine!) - and although I've talked to other SAHMs and various theologians and parenting experts, I have yet to experience that "ah-ha" moment. So while the section where I describe the problem faced by many SAHMs is quite good ... I feel I have little offer in terms of a solution. And two days left to find it (and write it in a compelling way).

Okay, enough procrastinating. Back to work ...

Final drabble (for now!) - Luna and Tonks

Wed, 03 Sep 2008 23:25:46 GMT

At long last! Okay, my personal opinion is that this is pants ... but, it's been driving me nuts and I honestly don't have the time to work on it anymore! But it was fun while it lasted, and I think there's lots more potential in the Tonks and Luna world. This is for gilpin25, who requested Tonks, Luna and the promp "earrings." It comes in at 933 words.

“Excuse me, but Hogwarts students aren’t supposed to be here. I’m going to have to escort you back to the castle.”

Tonks stood glaring at the young girl with long, dirty-blonde hair and protuberant eyes who was standing in the shop holding a pair of silver earrings shot through with what looked like onyx – which, Tonks thought, were much nicer than the radishes currently adorning the girl’s ears. How this girl had slipped through the increased security at the castle was beyond her, but Hogsmeade at dusk was no place for a student – not these days.

The girl stared up at her, blinked, and then broke into a sudden and radiant smile that caught Tonks off guard. “I’m with my father. We’re doing our Christmas shopping,” she said, pointing towards a tall man in turquoise robes standing at the back of the shop, examining a row of waist-shrinking belts. “You must be Tonks,” she added, unexpectedly.

Tonks narrowed her eyes at her. “Yes,” she said. The girl looked as though she was expecting Tonks to say more, but Tonks had little desire to make idle conversation with a Hogwarts schoolgirl – or with anyone, for that matter.

“I’m Luna Lovegood,” the girl offered. “Ginny Weasley told me about you. She said you used to be a metamorphmagus.”

“I …” Tonks sputtered. “She said I used to be a metamorphmagus?”

Luna nodded. “If I were a metamorphmagus, I would do something different with my hair,” she said, indicating Tonks’ limp brown locks. “Ginny says she prefers it pink.”

Tonks stared at her. In other, happier days, she would have found such candid comments refreshing, even amusing. Now, however, she felt a faint twinge of annoyance coupled with a desire to morph her nose into something rude. But, she thought sadly, there was no point – try as she might, she could not morph even a freckle onto her clear complexion. And it had been a long time since she had even tried.

But, ‘used to be a metamorphmagus’? It had never occurred to her that she might never get her powers back. The leaden feeling in her stomach got heavier as the thought sunk in. She felt hot tears prick at her eyes and looked away, blinking rapidly. Feeling humiliated, she turned away and started towards the door of the shop.

“Anyway, I told her she was mistaken,” Luna said conversationally, as if Tonks had not just stalked off towards the door. “About you not being a metamorphmagus, I mean,” Luna continued. “I think metamorphmagi are like Glabenyadels.”

Tonks turned around. Luna looked up at Tonks as if this last statement were self-explanatory, nodding as if she expected Tonks to agree wholeheartedly with her.

Tonks shook her head and closed her eyes. “Like what?” she asked.

Luna’s eyes widened with excitement. “Glabenyadels. You know – tiny little birds, although sometimes they’re huge, and not always birds – they change shape and size all the time, no one knows what their true form actually is – but you can always recognize them because of their song.”

“Their song.” Tonks raised an eyebrow.

“Mmm,” Luna said. “I think I can do it, hold on.” And before Tonks could stop her, Luna had tossed back her head and started making a sound like she was yodeling with a mouthful of salt water.

Tonks, surprising herself, burst out laughing. Luna looked affronted, and Tonks was quick to stifle her laughter. “I’m sorry,” she said, snorting. “It’s just that … um, well, with such a …distinct song they must be easy prey – kind of makes the whole disguise thing rather pointless.”

“Since when did having a point matter?” Luna asked.

Tonks was beginning to think that walking out had been the right idea in the first place. Er …” she said. “Sorry, but what exactly does this have to do with me?”

“They’re named for the kind of sound they make,” Luna said, and she tossed back her head and gargeled/yodeled again, completely oblivious to the stares of the other store patrons or her father’s proud gaze. “That’s what they’re known for, more than changing colour or size. And you – apparently you’re known for being a real laugh, a talented Auror, a good friend. It doesn’t matter what colour your hair is, not really. It doesn’t make you who you are, anyway. That’s what I told Ginny, and she quite agrees.”

Tonks was speechless. Is that what people really thought of her? Did Ginny and her friends really talk about her that way to their schoolmates? She had assumed they told stories about her nose-morphing, her odd clothes and punky hairstyles … but even though they were a decade younger than her, their good opinion still mattered to her. She felt slightly cheered, and looked down at Luna in wonderment.

“Erm … thank you,” she mumbled. “I mean, it’s nice that you’ve heard those things about me. Thank you for telling me.”

“You’re welcome!” Luna chirped. As Tonks turned to go, Luna called, “Wait! Can you do me a favour? It’s only … well, Ginny says she really likes your style, and I’m looking for a pair of earrings for her for Christmas. Do you think she’ll like these ones?” she said, indicating the ones in her hand.

Tonks took them from her and examined them up close before handing them back. “She’ll love them,” she answered. “They’re just like something I would wear. And tell Ginny to quit spreading bollocks about me not being a metamorphmagus anymore,” she said, but she was smiling. “Tell her I said mousey brown is the new pink.”

Draco Drabble

Wed, 27 Aug 2008 04:55:51 GMT

For ripplednell, who requested Draco and "coincidence." This is a post-DH, pre-Epilogue drabble with some wistful Draco Trilogy undertones (if you can have undertones in 115 words).

“Congratulations, Draco, he’s a very handsome baby. What did you name him?”

“Scorpius Severus,” Draco replied proudly.

“Really?”

Draco bristled at the perceived criticism. “Yes. Scorpius has been in my family for generations.”

“Oh, it’s a beautiful name, I’m sure! Only I heard that Harry Potter’s new baby also has the middle name Severus.” She raised her eyebrows. “Am I safe in assuming the two of you didn’t plan to give your sons the same name?”

Draco looked as though he had just been hit with a Bludger. “He named … he took … WHAT?”

“Mmm,” she said. “Bit of a strange coincidence, isn’t it? Maybe the two of you aren’t so different after all.”

Drabble #3

Tue, 26 Aug 2008 04:53:52 GMT

For katyhasclogs, who requested Remus and 'layers.' I opted to go with a Mauraders-era Remus, and it's 101 words and very PG. The Tonks and Luna drabble for gilpin25 is driving me crazy, so it's going to the last one up (after I've re-written it a dozen more times ...).

James and Sirius sat in their usual chairs beside Remus’ hospital bed. James had kept adding blankets until Remus was covered in layers of cotton, wool and a warm afghan hand-knitted by Lily in bright Gryffindor colours. The fresh scarlet wounds on Remus' face stood out against the white pillow as he slept.

“You know he’s the best of us, right?” James said. Sirius looked at him quizzically.

“I’m guessing the average werewolf’s mortality rate isn’t as high as the average wizard’s … but really, if he can survive this each month, he can survive anything. He’ll probably outlive us all.”

Drabble #2

Wed, 20 Aug 2008 23:20:49 GMT

Sorry for the delay in getting this done! I've actually been writing for money, believe it or not. :) But this is way more fun. This is for godricgal , who asked for Remus, Tonks and the prompt "keep." It's 1,020 words long ... not really drabble length, I know.

“It’s in the closet, I’m sure, I’ll just be a mo’ … go on, have a seat – make yourself at home!” Tonks said brightly.

Remus moved uncertainly toward the bright paisley sofa that sat in the middle of Tonks’ flat. He had never been in Tonks’ flat before and felt a strange sense of nervousness he couldn’t quite explain. They had been on their way to an Order mission when Tonks had realized she had forgotten to bring her Sneakoscope, so they made a quick detour to retrieve it. Remus sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at his shoes as he listened to Tonks rummaging around in the hall closet. Why was he feeling so nervous? He had been in Kinglsey’s and Moody’s places many times, had even stayed with Moody for a time after leaving his teaching position at Hogwarts. So why would he be uneasy sitting on a sofa in Tonks’ flat?

A sudden crash broke into his reverie and caused him to jump up. “Tonks?” he said, hurrying towards the hall. “Are you …?” He stopped dead in his tracks, staring into what Tonks had called the “closet.” From the outside, it appeared to be your run-of-the mill hall closet, in which one could store half a dozen coats, a few pairs of shoes and maybe an umbrella. But this one had obviously been magically enlarged so that once you stepped into it, it became a long corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with random dark detectors, piles of parchment, shoes which had gone out of style a decade ago, rolled-up posters, empty birdcages and fishbowls, mismatched dishes, an old set of Hogwarts robes, and boxes upon boxes of who knew what. He was so taken aback by the vast amount of clutter he failed to notice for a moment that Tonks lay sprawled at his feet, buried in what had been the contents of the clothes rack which now lay by her on the floor. A soft “ahem” made him look down.

“Are you alright?” he asked, hurriedly pulling robes and socks and – he blushed – a black lace garter off Tonks and helping her to her feet.

“I’m fine,” Tonks answered in a higher-than-usual voice as she tried to stuff the garter out of sight. “Sorry … I thought it might be behind the clothes rack …” she said, staring around at the room’s contents.

“What is all this stuff?” Remus asked. “Is it all yours?”

“Well, you know, I don’t really like to throw anything away, you never know when you might need it,” she said.

“You never know when you might need a poster of the Holyhead Harpies from 1987?” Remus asked, unrolling the nearest poster and watching as the players – slightly yellowed with age – zoomed around happily.

“Well, maybe I’ll have children someday,” Tonks said to the nearest shelf, and Remus could not help but notice she was blushing furiously. “And then it’ll be cool vintage stuff.” She looked up at him, “What, don’t you keep stuff?”

“Nope,” Remus answered. “You might say I’m a minimalist. The less clutter, the better.”

“You can’t really see my clutter, though,” Tonks said defensively. “That’s why I have this closet. So it doesn’t really count.”

Remus smirked and said, “Whatever you say. So … did you find the Sneakoscope?”

“Oh, yes! Here it is!” Tonks said, pulling it out from behind a stack of Odo the Terrible comics.

She turned and walked out of the closet and Remus moved to follow her. Just as he was about to leave, his eye fell on some familiar handwriting on a piece of parchment which seemed to be given pride-of-place in a woven basket by the door. He picked it up and read it,

Tonks –

Nice to have met you today. Welcome to the Order! You’ve been assigned to work with me tomorrow night – let’s meet at the Three Broomsticks and I’ll fill you in on our mission there.

Looking forward to working with you,

-- Remus

Remus stared at it, perplexed. He had sent this note to Tonks months ago, the day they first met. Why had she kept it?

“Hey, Tonks,” he called out, waving the parchment in his hand. “Why do you still have this? You know we’re supposed to destroy any correspondence that has to do with Order business.”

Tonks’ eyes widened for a fraction of a second, and then her cheeks turned bright red and she looked down at Remus’ shoes. “Oh … I, uh, I must have just forgotten and, uh, it ended up in there or something … ha ha, oops. Well, I’ll just, uh, get rid of it later, and, uh … well, here, let me take it,” she said, snatching the parchment from his hand and stuffing it into her pocket.

Remus stared at her and opened his mouth to ask if she was feeling alright, but just as he formed the words she looked up at him, a defiant look in her eyes that made him think better of it.

“So,” she said in a forcibly casual tone. “Shall we go, then?”

“Lead the way,” he answered, his mind spinning. Tonks was usually very conscientious about Order business – why would she had neglected to destroy that one letter? Unless … no. That would be impossible …. As they stood in the hallway, Tonks fumbling with her wand and muttering the locking spells, he looked at her with new eyes, noticing for the first time the way her pink hair crept down the nape of her neck, the way her cheeks still glowed with a blush he had created, the way her nose turned up in such an adorable way it made him want to … no. Impossible.

A deep sense of foreboding – and excitement – stole upon him and made him catch his breath. Tonks finished her spells and turned to him with resolution in her eyes. “So we’ve got to go catch some bad guys,” she said. “But, after that, do you want to go for a drink?”

He nodded wordlessly, and together they turned on the spot.

_______________ Communications, Inc.

Tue, 19 Aug 2008 16:32:14 GMT

I'm starting a communications business - the focus will be on writing for corporations and non-profits, as well as marketing consulting. I am also absolutely incapable of making decisions - which I why I'm soliciting opinions on the name of the business. Let me know what you think!

View Poll: _______ Communications, Inc.

The Work-at-Home Diaries

Fri, 15 Aug 2008 18:10:28 GMT

I have a few relatively urgent work-related emails I needed to send this morning, so I leave my kids playing happily in the living room and duck into the office for a few minutes. What seems like mere seconds later, Toddler runs into the office covered in what I initially think is blood - perhaps a repeat of yesterday's bloody nose incident (children and large decorative bath faucets do not mix). Fortunately, it's just red ink dripping from her marker, which my husband had over-zealously shaken earlier in the morning to "get the ink flowing." Thank you, Crayola, for inventing washable markers. So I head out into the kitchen to get a cloth, and I notice that Baby is sitting happily on the floor, stuffing fat handfuls of sticky, day-old cooked rice/lentils/sweet potato into her mouth ... and in her hair, and between her toes, while simultaneously mashing it into the playmat she's sitting on. If any of you have ever made your own "super baby porridge", you know that this stuff is like cement when it dries. Apparently, Toddler thought Baby needed something to play with and so gave her the Tupperware containing the remnants of yesterday's supper ... and apparently, Baby has learned how to open Tupperware. So I pick Baby up and plunk her in the bath, while also filling the bathroom sink with some water and bubbles for Toddler to play in while I deal with Baby. Baby starts screaming and rubbing her eyes so I take her out and put her to bed, go get the playmat, breath a sigh of relief as I discover it's machine-washable, throw it in the washing machine, and come back to the bathroom to discover the entire conents of the sink - bubbles, water, toys and all - on the bathroom floor. Several towels later ... it's now 11 o'clock and my emails have yet to be sent, I'm still in my pyjamas, and all I've managed for breakfast so far is two cups of coffee. Thankfully, I'm finding this all quite humourous - and at least I'm not bored!

In other news ... I am working on my last two drabbles ... will post them eventually. :)

BSG Drabble

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 23:37:33 GMT

A Battlestar Galactica drabble for mrstater - Gaius, Caprica 6, and mental. 100 words, PG.

Setting: Caprica, before destruction

The early-morning light filtered through the tall windows of Gaius’ bedchamber, illuminating the angel-white curls of the sleeping woman beside him. Gaius was sitting up in bed beside her, his fingers probing his skull.

“Gaius?” she said in a half-whisper, half-moan. “What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he answered quickly, shaking his head and smiling slightly. “It’s nothing. Just a … dream.”

“Mmm,” she breathed, sidling up next to him. “A dream about me?”

He continued to gaze at out at the sea. “Yes,” he admitted. “Only you were … and you had … but that’s … well, that’s mental, really.”

Drabble meme

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 05:35:01 GMT

Since I am apparently incapable of writing anything without a prompt, challenge or deadline:

First five comments with a fandom, pairing or character(s), and prompt will get a drabble. If you ask for something [or not], feel free to post this on your journal and offer five of either art or fic that you do, too.

I'll do HP and BSG.

Assignments

Mon, 04 Aug 2008 05:27:20 GMT

Wah-hoo - my newfound freelance writing career took off this week with my first two assignments. One is an article on open adoptions for an infertility association magazine, and the other is a piece about finding God among the mundane monotony of the stay-at-home-mom life - for a Christian family-oriented magazine. The first one doesn't pay but will be good for my clippings file, the second pays a fair amount. I've also sent out a few other queries and am waiting to hear back from editors. Now I just need to get the creative juices flowing ... which leads me to my next post!

On writing, gardening, and ex-boyfriends visiting my mother

Thu, 24 Jul 2008 22:51:06 GMT

In my mind, being a good writer is somehow inextricably tied with being good with plants. Whenever I think of a writer's house I think of my friend Leanne's place - filled with light and living green things in every available space - on every windowsill, in charming pots in the bathroom, hanging from the ceiling (and that's not to mention the vegetable and flower gardens in the backyard). My house, on the other hand, is pitifully lacking in the natural light category and does not have a single plant in it - partly because it has as much light as the average medieval dungeon, and partly because I am woefully inadequate at keeping plants alive. Believe me, I've tried - every once in awhile I make a big trip to the local gardening centre and buy lots of pretty plants in pretty pots ... but then I proceed to neglect them until they wither and die. I'm honestly surprised that I can keep children and small animals alive - however, I do have quite a nice collection of pots now.

This new house that we live in is the first place I've lived that has a bit of a front garden - various bushes and trees that - as I discovered when they all started to turn brown - need watering. Who builds these labour-intensive places?? Do they think we have nothing else to do with our time? Fortunately, our next door neigbours have a gardener (and a housekeeper and a nanny ...), and he was kind enough to give me some pointers (like, "that plant you thought was a weed and just pulled up is actually a rare tropical flower"). We also have flowerbeds in our backyard, but apparently I'm supposed to put something in them (although there are a few bushes that I've been told will flower, and one pretty pink plant). They do make a lovely sandbox for our toddler, though.

Anyway, back to my main point. Is my lack of skill with plants indicative of my skill - or, more aptly, my identity - as a writer? Can one be as in touch with the inner muse in a life-less concrete skyscraper as in a country home filled with the aroma of freshly-picked flowers and tomatoes waiting to be canned? Not that I live in a skyscraper ... but somehow I still feel that there is a connection between the ability to nurture plants and the ability to nurture words. Which means a trip to the gardening centre is in order ...

In other news, I was very domestic yesterday. I cooked and pureed and froze broccoli, asparagus, squash, and sweet potatoes for my baby, made 2 quarts of yogurt, and made 4 dozen jars of raspberry jam with my sister-in-law.

In very very sad news, I found out that one of my friends' husband has a cancerous brain tumour. He's only 31 and has a year-and-a-half-old son. If you pray, please pray for him.

And in "that's just plain weird" news, I called my parents the other day, only to have my mum answer and say that she couldn't talk right now because they had company. "Oh, who do you have over?" I asked. Long pause on her end. "Oh, just Phillip and his wife and kids," she said. Long pause on my end. "Oh, well, that's nice," I said out loud. "Tell them I said hello." But in my head, I was saying "WTF???" You see, Phillip is my ex-boyfriend ... and ever since he and I broke up when I was SIXTEEN YEARS OLD, he and my mum have kept in touch and have had a rather dodgy relationship, in my opinion. I won't go into the details, but it's just plain weird, especially considering he and I have said maybe ten words (all of them nasty) to each other in the past 14 years.

Meme

Tue, 15 Jul 2008 23:06:49 GMT

My first meme, courtesy of gilpin25! The only problem is, I don't think I can tag 8 others because I don't know 8 other LJ users who haven't already done this ... :) Give me a few months to build up my friends list!

A) People who have been tagged must write their answers on their blogs and replace any question that they dislike with a new question formulated by themselves.

B) Tag eight people to do this quiz. Those who are tagged cannot refuse. These people must state who they were tagged by and cannot tag the person whom they were tagged by.

1. Which book would you like to jump into and why?
The World's Most Dangerous Places ... it's a travel guidebook to places like Burma, Afghanistan, and Columbia. I love it, because I've always been a Lara Croft wannabe ... but it's not really practical to go clear landmines and fight baddies with a comfort-loving husband and two kids.

2. What do you do before bedtime?
Well, let's see, after I put the kids to bed, I usually do the dishes, pick up the toys from the living room, throw in a load of laundry, fold another load of laundry, do all the necessary bathroom stuff like contacts, brushing teeth, removing makeup, etc, possibly feed the baby if she's up again, and maybe - just maybe - have a cup of tea and read in bed for a few minutes before checking on the kids one last time and finally going to sleep.

3. What will your dream wedding be like?
Why does this question assume the answerer is not already married? Is LJ limited to singles and/or 16-year-olds? Anyway before I was married, my dream wedding always involved myself, my husband, our immediate families and a pastor standing on a cliff overlooking the ocean at dawn, then heading to an art gallery for brunch. In reality, we got married in a church in the evening and had a stand-up reception in the church basement. Still, it was lovely - we had tall white candles everywhere and a four-piece string ensemble playing a mix of classical and celtic tunes ... and a jazz trio for the reception.

4. What is the city of your dreams and why?
I've always wanted to go to Prague - I'm attracted by the history, the culture, and the extremely strong vodka ... Closer to home, I can't imagine a place more wonderful than Vancouver (I live in a suburb of it) - ocean, mountains, forest, and sushi on every corner.

5. Are you an introvert or extrovert?
Introvert ... I once had a job as a fundraiser where I was required to get to know people and then ask them for money ... I lasted about 6 months and managed to avoid meeting a single person because I was terrified at the thought.

6. When was the last time you checked out a book from the public library, and what was it?
A couple of weeks ago, according to my renewal notice. I got Toilet Train in a Day, The Constant Princess by Phillipa Gregory (on cd so I can listen to it while I work out ... but I couldn't into it and returned it mostly unlistened-to), a handful of Writer's Digest magazines, a bunch of kids books for my 2-year-old, and A Companion to Historiography for my husband, who is finishing up his M.A.

7. Are there any dreams you've given up on?
I've always wanted to be an international relief worker in wars, famines and the like in hot spots such as the DR Congo, Rwanda, Cambodia, etc. But I've realized that although these crises are indeed dreadful and capture the world's attention (often when it's too late, but that's another rant), only 10% of the world's preventable deaths occur because of such natural and man-made disasters. The other 90% are caused by things like chronic poverty and the accompanying diseases such as malaria, typhoid, and diarrhea. So I've revised my dream and am now working to solve the problem of chronic poverty - the silent killer.

8. If the person you secretly like is already attached, what would you do?
Ouch (painful memories surfacing). All I can say is RUN LIKE HELL!

9. Is there anything that has made you unhappy these days?
Besides remembering the above? :) Continuing in that happy vein ... my marriage has made me a bit unhappy. It's not in any real danger, it's just ... a slump, I guess - to be expected when both parties are having an identiyy crisis and there is a 2-year-old and 8-month-old in the picture. But it does make me a little sad, and I hope it's not always this way.

10. Do you have a good body-image?
Not really, no. I've been told that I'm attractive, but I can't seem to wrap my head around it. All I see are stretch marks and cellulite.

11. Is being tagged fun?
So far!

12. What are your guilty pleasure shows?
We don't have a television, so any shows we watch we get online or we go to friends' houses ... the only three we follow are Lost, Heroes, and Battlestar Galactica.

13. What is one of your biggest pet peeves?
Errors of grammar or punctuation in advertisements or on signs. I have a rule that I will not buy from a company which can't even proofread their corporate materials.

14. What kind of person do you think the person who tagged you is?
Well, I've not really know her that long ... or at all, really, but I've been reading her LJ and would have to say wise, easy-going, funny, and kind. Does that fit?

15. What’s the last song that got stuck in your head?
Itsy-bitsy spider - the Sharon, Lois and Bram version (pathetic, I know!).

16. What’s your favorite item of clothing?
My new black suit. I love suits - I used to wear one to the office almost every day, and now I'm home with the kids I hardly ever get to. This one I bought just last week because I had a meeting with a potential client (I'm freelancing as a marketing consultant) and for some reason thought that warranted a new outfit. :) It fits perfectly - the jacket has beautiful clean lines and gathers in the back. And I got a slinky red lacy tank top to wear under it - the red matches the red steaks in my dark brown hair.

17. What's better: to give or to receive?
Well, to give, I think . Storing up treasures in heaven and all that.

18. What's the first thing you notice in people?
I'm ashamed to say it, but probably weight and body shape, since that's what I'm so self-conscious about myself.

19. Would you bungie jump from the Empire State Building for $10,000,000?
There aren't many things I wouldn't do for $10,000,000.

20. What were your parents going to name you if you'd been born the opposite gender?
Marty. Which I dislike only slightly more than the name they went with.

Here are the folks I'm tagging (sorry if you've done this already): girl_rides_on, godricgal, jesspallas, shimotsuki, sortofnormal, somerled

Wah-hoo!

Mon, 14 Jul 2008 16:43:16 GMT

My story won some awards ... being such a fan fiction and LJ novice, I'm not sure if it's kosher to put my lovely new banners here (but maybe that's what they're for?) ... but here they are anyway!

Here's the link to the fic in case you missed it the first time:

http://mssarajevo.livejournal.com/4208.html

A Wasted Morning?

Fri, 11 Jul 2008 03:21:35 GMT

It was an odd morning - one I did not take full advantage of. My baby got up around 7 and decided that she wanted to go back to bed at 8. My toddler slept in until 9 - very odd in and of itself - and then proceeded to play nicely in her crib until 10:30, at which time I went in and changed her diaper which had leaked all over the bed. I thought she would be starving, but she didn't seem interested in coming downstairs with me and the baby, so she stayed in her room and played by herself for another hour. Now, had I known I was going to have practically the whole morning by myself, I would have been much, much more productive. Beds would have been made, laundry would have been folded, baby food pureed, dished washed, queries written, emails answered ... but because I was expecting my toddler to wake up at any moment, I merely whiled away my time by reading Cassandra Clare's Draco Trilogy, which is too full of teenaged angst for my liking but still strangely compelling. I suppose I can't consider the morning completely wasted, since reading of any sort must hold some modicum of value (mustn't it?) ... and I'll even go so far as to posit that I deserve a wasted morning now and again.

Too many books

Wed, 02 Jul 2008 05:40:44 GMT

Tonight Mr. Sarajevo and I discovered something we never thought possible - we have too many books. We moved into our new house back in October, but being 8 months pregnant at the time and not having proper office furniture, we decided to postpone unpacking our new home office until ... now, 9 months later. One of our bookshelves had broken in our move and we loaned another to a friend, so I knew we wouldn't be able to unpack all of our books onto our three remaining bookshelves. So we opened and sorted through the piles of boxes stacked in our front hall, only putting our most prized books up on the shelves until they were full (my hubby and I also came into our marriage with a lot of doubles - we have two copies of the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, four copies of the Lord of the Rings, and doubles of several religious texts and university textbooks). Then we divided the remaining books into two piles - some to keep in storage until we have more room for them, and some to give away to the church and the library. All in a good night's work, I thought. Then, as we were sitting down and gazing serenely around our cozy little office, my husband happened to glance into the small bathroom in our front hall. "Um ..." he said. "What are all these boxes?"

Frack frack frack. I had forgotten that last week, when I was moving the boxes out of the office so I could set up my new desk, I had piled several of them out of the way in the bathroom. And when I say "several", I mean "fourteen." Fourteen more bloody boxes of books! After staring unbelievingly at the piles which stood mocking me beside the loo rolls, I took a deep breath and formulated a plan. Not rocket science, really. Tomorrow I'll take all the books off the three shelves in our office and move two of them upstairs into our bedroom. That's where our religious and self-help books will go. Then I'll go to IKEA, land of the 5 cent plastic bags, and buy two (or three) new shelves for the office (colour coordination is an issue here), where our fiction, politics, philosophy and current events books will remain. THEN, I'm going to go get us both library cards.

Tue, 01 Jul 2008 16:10:56 GMT

Happy Canada Day!

Enviro-posers

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 22:46:34 GMT

Before I start my rant, let me say this: I love our planet. I love green spaces and clean air and want more of these things for my children. I'm not an anti-environmentalist, except when environmentalists are (a) idiots and (b) capitalists posing as environmentalists. Such is the case with IKEA, which I discovered yesterday. I'm waiting in line to pay for my bookshelf for my home office, and a new sign is posted at the cash, saying something to this effect:

"At IKEA, we are doing our part to protect our environment. Because of this, we are now charging 5 cents for every plastic bag you use. All proceeds will go to Random Tree Planting Foundation."

See, I think if IKEA really cared about protecting the environment, they would make a donation out of their own profits to random tree planting foundation - instead of making me do it. By passing on these costs to the consumer, they are doing absolutely nothing as a corporation, but still feel that this gives them some sort of environmental platform to boast of. How does me paying 5 cents for a plastic bag make them into enviromentalists? All it does is force me to donate to random tree planting foundation, and the large multi-national corporation doesn't have to donate a penny.

That's my biggest problem with this new environmental movement, especially Dion's proposed carbon tax and the one coming into effect in BC on Monday. Sure, the "carbon producers" get taxed, but do you think they're going to let that affect their bottom line? Of course not! They're just going to pass the costs down to the average joe who buys their products, because that's how a market economy works. And so the large multinational corporations will continue to rake in the profits, while the average working family will pay for it.

The Big Read

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 16:39:24 GMT

Borrowed from jesspallas. The Big Read reckons that the average adult has only read 6 of the top 100 books they've printed.

1) Look at the list and bold those you have read.
2) Italicise those you intend to read.
3) Underline the books you LOVE.
4) Reprint this list in your own LJ so we can try and track down these people who've read 6 and force books upon them ;-)

1. Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
2. The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien
3. Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte
4. Harry Potter series - JK Rowling
5. To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee
6. The Bible
7. Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte
8. Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell
9. His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman
10. Great Expectations - Charles Dickens
11. Little Women - Louisa M Alcott
12. Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy
13. Catch 22 - Joseph Heller
14. Complete Works of Shakespeare
15. Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier
16. The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien
17. Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18. Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger
19. The Time Traveller's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
20. Middlemarch - George Eliot
21. Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell
22. The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald
23. Bleak House - Charles Dickens
24. War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy
25. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams
26. Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27. Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28. Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
29. Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
30. The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame
31. Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy
32. David Copperfield - Charles Dickens
33. Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis
34. Emma - Jane Austen
35. Persuasion - Jane Austen
36. The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis (why is this not included with the Chronicles of Narnia? I feel like I'm cheating by counting it)
37. The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38. Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Bernieres
39. Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden
40. Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne
41. Animal Farm - George Orwell
42. The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown
43. One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
44. A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving
45. The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins
46. Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery
47. Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy
48. The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
49. Lord of the Flies - William Golding
50. Atonement - Ian McEwan
51. Life of Pi - Yann Martel
52. Dune - Frank Herbert
53. Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54. Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen
55. A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56. The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57. A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens
58. Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
59. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon
60. Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
61. Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck
62. Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
63. The Secret History - Donna Tartt
64. The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold
65. Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
66. On The Road - Jack Kerouac
67. Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy
68. Bridget Jones' Diary - Helen Fielding
69 . Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70. Moby Dick - Herman Melville
71. Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens
72. Dracula - Bram Stoker
73.The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
74. Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75. Ulysses - James Joyce
76. The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath
77. Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78. Germinal - Emile Zola
79. Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray
80. Possession - AS Byatt
81. A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens
82. Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83. The Color Purple - Alice Walker
84. The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro
85. Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert
86. A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87. Charlotte's Web - EB White
88. The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom
89. Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
90. The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91. Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad
92. The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery
93. The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94. Watership Down - Richard Adams
95. A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96. A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97. The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
98. Hamlet - William Shakespeare (why is this not included in with the Complete Works of Shakespeare?)
99. Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl
100. Les Miserables - Victor Hugo

32 - not as bad as I thought when I first read the list.

Faint Hope for Burma

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 22:05:33 GMT

Well, my op-ed didn't get published, apparently ... so here it is for you!

To the casual observer, Friday was a good news day for Burma. Its military rulers announced they would allow foreign aid workers into their cyclone-ravaged country. Hours later, the Canadian government increased its humanitarian aid package by $12 million. All good news – on the surface. Unfortunately, no matter how hard one looks for the silver lining in this situation, the difficulties faced by potential humanitarians remain all but insurmountable.

But let us at least try to find something positive here. One encouraging observation which can be made is that CIDA has allocated almost half of the total $14 million in aid to non-governmental organizations such as CARE Canada and Save the Children Canada, and will also match private donations to these and other qualified NGOs. Most of these organizations have already-established networks and local staff in Burma who are familiar with the terrain, the culture and the political minefield of doing anything in what is arguably the world’s most corrupt and paranoid regime. The Canadian government’s contributions to these NGOs is money well-spent.

It seems our government is learning from the various polls and surveys in recent years which have shown Canadians are growing increasingly cynical about the effectiveness of their foreign aid, even though they remain generous in their desire to help the world’s needy. A CIDA-sponsored poll in 2002 indicated more than half of the population would be willing to pay an extra one percent on their taxes for foreign aid if all the money was spent on the poor. Another survey in 2005 indicated seventy percent believe the government should set aside more money to give to aid agencies for disasters. So it is therefore good news that, of the nearly $14 million Canada has committed to the Burmese disaster, $6 million is being given to NGOs and aid agencies with proven track records for efficient and accountable relief efforts. The other $7.8 million is being given to various UN agencies, which, while not as efficient and certainly not as accountable as the other organizations, at least have the capacity to transport large amounts of aid and to assist in the coordination of the other agencies on the ground.

Now for the reality check. Despite CIDA’s efforts to funnel this aid money through the best possible channels, there is still the very real possibility that little if any of it will reach those in need. It is hard for those of us in the West to comprehend the lengths to which the Burmese generals will go to retain their vice-like grip on the country. The junta has ensured that the Burmese people have only two options in life: toe the line or, if you’re lucky, languish in jail. There is zero tolerance for dissent – in any form over any issue. It is an absolute police state, flush with spies and informants. The military knows – and controls – what everyone is doing at all times. It is illegal to own a fax machine, modem, or even a walkie-talkie, or to stay at another person’s house for the night without the prior permission of the local military authority.

The junta has proven many times that the welfare of its people is its last concern. The generals refused outside aid when the 2004 tsunami devastated areas of Burma. Instead, they closed off the affected areas and made it illegal for anyone to help those whose lives had been ruined.

Knowing all this, do we honestly believe these same dictators are going to open up their arms and their country to a tidal wave of foreign aid workers? While aid agencies are expressing initial optimism following the military’s apparent concessions to the UN Secretary General, no one in the international community seems to know any details as to how it will play out. Who will be allowed in? For how long? To do what? One thing we can be almost certain of is that every truck, every boat that passes into Burmese territory will be accompanied by a member of the Burmese military. They will be the ones calling the shots and telling the aid workers where they can go and how much aid they can distribute to whom.

The most likely – and depressing – scenario is that it’s all just propaganda. One could even speculate that the generals have seen this cyclone as a blessing. Could it be that this latest announcement is just a way to draw in the international community and increase the aid flowing into the country – aid that can then be siphoned off at every opportunity? There will no doubt be several photo-ops to showcase the military cooperating with international workers, but it is just as certain that most if not all of these will be staged, another cog in the propaganda machine. Signs that this is all just a show are already surfacing. The military made a big deal about allowing cameras into a camp for displaced persons, complete with bright blue UN-issued tents. But as soon as the cameras left, the tents came down, and the people were sent back to the wreckage that used to be their homes. But the photos made the evening news, and we in the West believed something was being done.

There are some observers who are even more cynical, who posit that we should just leave the Burmese to sort it out themselves. Surely, they say, if the people are trodden on enough they will rise up and topple the military dictatorship. However, the truth is that a full-scale revolution by the Burmese people is virtually impossible – the leaders have seen to that. Their people are starving, disease-ridden, and often pressed into forced labour. It is all they can do to just survive. Thousands of protesters were slaughtered in 1988, when the military overturned the results of the elections it itself had organized. What little resistance remained has since been crushed or bought off with a share of the lucrative opium trade.

With that said, I am not yet among the most hardened of skeptics. Despite the small chance of success, I applaud Canada’s decision to send aid, and I encourage the Canadian public to donate to the organizations who will receive CIDA’s matching funds. There is a possibility – however slim – that these NGOs can save lives, despite the junta’s best efforts to prevent this. Most of all, we can show the Burmese people that they are not forgotten by the outside world, and that there are rulers and leaders in the world who are not criminally insane. The compassion demonstrated by our aid workers may give the Burmese something more valuable than food and shelter – it may give them hope. And this may be the junta’s biggest fear.

First fic

Sat, 14 Jun 2008 20:29:07 GMT

I've never actually written much fiction, prefering to focus on non-fiction. However, I'm toying with the idea of starting a novel, so I thought I should brush up on my non-existent fiction-writing skills. And so I've delved into the world of fan fiction with my first entry at metamorfic_moon .

Title: Time Heals All Wounds
Author: mssarajevo
Rating & Warnings: PG-13; none
Prompts: "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?" (Othello); “parchment”

Word Count: 2040
Summary: An empty bed and a note on the table make Tonks think her worst nightmare is being repeated.
Author’s Notes: Takes place just before the Battle of Hogwarts. This is my first fic, so I’m looking for honest critiques of both style and substance.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Tonks swore softly into her pillow, trying to block out the sound of Teddy crying in the next room. “I feel like I just fell asleep,” she muttered as she groped for her wand on the bedside table.

“Lumos,” she whispered, pointing the wand at the clock on wall. It showed 10:30 p.m. “Ugh. I did just fall asleep. How about you feed him this time – ha ha, lucky you, you don’t have breasts.” she said sardonically as she sat on the edge of the bed and fished around for her slippers. Not hearing the usual muffled response, she glanced over at Remus’ side of the bed. It was empty.

Tonks stared at it for a moment, perplexed, then glanced around the room. “Remus?” She knew he had come to bed shortly after she had – indeed, he was nearly as worn out as she was these days by the demands of parenting a newborn. She padded out into the hallway and peeked her head into Teddy’s room. His cries became even more pronounced at the sight of her, and she quickly crossed over to his crib and picked him up. “Shhhh, little man, Mummy’s here,” she whispered as he snuggled into her chest and started gnawing on her collarbone. She gave him her knuckle to suck on. “In a minute,” she said. “We have to find where Daddy went.”

“Remus?” she said, louder this time as she walked past the empty bathroom and entered their combined kitchen and sitting room. She flicked her wand at the lamp in the corner, which sputtered for a moment before reflecting off the kettle on the stove and casting shadows at odd angles throughout the room. She had expected to see him sitting in his robe at the small table against the far wall, hands wrapped around a mug of tea. But there was no one there.

The clock on the wall ticked morosely, and the sound of a car door slamming made Tonks start. She moved over to the window and peeked outside. Of course it wasn’t Remus – as far as she knew he had never been in a car, let alone driven one. There was no sign of movement from the street below.

Tonks turned away from the window and stood still for a moment, the fog in her brain clearing. “Remus?” she called again, turning around. There was no where else he could be; their flat was tiny, consisting of only the two bedrooms, a bathroom and the kitchen/sitting room in which she now stood.

She sat down on the sofa and began to nurse Teddy, who had given up on getting anything out of her knuckle. It was 10:30 at night – where could he have gone? He had recorded a PotterWatch show with Lee earlier in the evening, but had returned hours ago. It’s true he had been quieter than usual, but she wasn’t exactly a bubbling conversationalist these days either and she had just chalked it up to exhaustion. After a few weak attempts at tidying the flat, they had put Teddy down for what would hopefully be a few hours of sleep and had crawled into bed themselves.

Tonks cast her bleary eyes once more around the room, and this time they caught on something that hadn’t been present earlier in the evening – a folded-up piece of parchment on the small kitchen table. Her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. “No,” she whispered. There was a sick feeling in her stomach that had nothing to do with the lack of sleep. “No,” she repeated. “Not again.”

She detached Teddy unceremoniously from her breast, ignoring his loud protests, and crossed the room to where the note sat amidst the unwashed dinner dishes, which she had been too tired to even scourgify. Gingerly, she picked up the note, then made a convulsive movement and dropped it back on the table as if it had burned her hands. She took a step back, her heart pounding, still staring at the folded parchment.

It’s just a note, explaining where he is, she told herself. Pick it up and read it.

But what if …

No, she shook her head. He wouldn’t do this to you again.

Would he? What if it was the same note she had awoken to a few days after Bill and Fleur’s wedding – the same excuses, the same baseless concerns for her safety, the same protestations she had been fighting against ever since she first set eyes on her beloved Remus? She had honestly believed he had put those fears behind him when he came back, but what if …?

No, she could not read it. She could not bear to see those words again. Thoughts of what her life would be like without Remus began to swirl around in her head – thoughts she had hoped she would never have to think again. How could she possibly go on without him? Before Remus, she had considered herself an independent woman. She had dated, casually, but preferred the freedom that singlehood provided. That all ended the day they sat next to each other at her first Order meeting. Her love for him had become so strong, so overwhelming, that she found herself completely devoted to him – and completely intertwined with him. She was no longer just Tonks; she was one with Remus, and the possibility that half of herself had just walked away for the second time ripped through her like a physical pain. Her breath started to come in deep, quick gasps as she fought to hold back the hysteria that welled up within her. She caught a glimpse of the tips of her hair flashing every colour of the rainbow as her morphing abilities were carried along by the tidal wave of emotion that swept her.

She crumpled onto the sofa, her body bent over Teddy, who – oblivious to the world crumbling around him – had reattached himself to the breast and was munching contentedly. Her mind was whirling – was it something she had done? Or did he still honestly believe that she and Teddy would be better off without him? Hadn’t she proven over and over again that the poverty, the danger, and the scorn they faced didn’t matter to her? Didn’t he realize that she would rather die than be without him?

Teddy’s weight in her arms was the only comfort left to her, the only thing that held her together – a tiny, fragile link to sanity. She watched as his eyelids drooped and closed, but she did not take him back to his crib. Instead, she held onto him for dear life, fearing that if she let him go she would dissolve into nothingness.

She tried not to look in the direction of the note, but it kept drawing her gaze like some morbid spectacle. She knew she should read it – at least then she would know for certain if her life was to become utterly void of meaning … but she could not bring herself to even touch it. And so she sat, wide-eyed and terrified, curled up in a corner of the sofa, and did nothing.

When green flames burst into the fireplace, the shock was so great she temporarily forgot to breathe. As the man in the fireplace stopped spinning, she laid Teddy down beside her and stood up, staring as if she couldn’t believe her eyes.

“You …” she started.

Remus looked at her quizzically. “Of course it’s me – who were you expecting?”

“You came back,” she finished. “You didn’t leave me.”

“I didn’t – what?” Remus looked shocked, quickly crossing the room and grabbing Tonks by the shoulders. He crouched down and looked into her eyes. “You thought I had left you?”

Tonks buried herself in his arms and didn’t reply for a moment, breathing in his scent, his warmth, his presence. “I woke up,” she said, her voice muffled against his chest, “and you were gone … and there was a note … just like last time.” She felt his shoulders slump at those words.

“My love …” he whispered. “Oh, my love, I am so sorry. I’m such an idiot. I didn’t even think … but didn’t you read the note?”

Tonks shook her head. “I should have, I know … but I was too scared of what it might say. I just couldn’t do it, and then my imagination ran away with me and I started thinking all sorts of horrible things …. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he said. “This is my fault – of course that’s what you would think – if I could run out on you when you were expecting our child, why wouldn’t I do it now?” Remus’ voice was thick with remorse. “But you have to believe me,” he said earnestly, pleading. “I will never, ever leave you again.” His voice cracked as he rested his chin on the top of her head. “It was the most horrible mistake I have ever made and I would die before I would let anything come between us again – including my own stupidity.”

At this Tonks managed a watery smile. “I trust you, and I trust your love for me,” she said quietly. “It’s just … well, they say time heals all wounds, and I guess it hasn’t been enough time for me yet. You just need to keep reminding me that you’re here for the long haul.”

Remus sat down on the sofa, careful not to wake the sleeping Teddy, and pulled Tonks onto his lap. “I will remind you of that every minute of every day, until you’re sick of me,” he said, kissing the top of her forehead. “I’m going to be there for Teddy’s first steps, and for the first steps of all his little brothers and sisters, and we’ll see them off to Hogwarts together, and then, when we have the house to ourselves …” with this he began kissing the nape of her neck, but then looked up and fixed her with a solemn gaze. “Believe me, Tonks, I’m with you until the end.”

“I know,” she said. There was a pause while they looked at each other, then Tonks asked, “So where were you, anyway?”

He swore softly. “I almost forgot – I need to hurry. I was at the Burrow; there was an emergency meeting of the Order –”

“Why didn’t you wake me?” Tonks asked indignantly. “I’m in the Order!”

“Because you haven’t slept in three days,” answered Remus firmly, “and so I thought I’d see what was going on and let you get some sleep. Listen,” he continued. “Something is happening at Hogwarts – we’re not sure of the details yet, but we need to be ready for anything. I need to go, and quickly” he said, quelling her imminent protests with a raised hand. “You have just given birth, Dora – no one expects you to come. You need to stay with Teddy. Take him and go to your mum’s – that way you can wait for news together.”

“But – what’s happening at Hogwarts? Is it him?” she asked, concern creasing her face.

“I don’t know,” he answered. “Go to your mum’s and I’ll send word as soon as I can. I love you,” he added as he grabbed a handful of floo powder. “Don’t forget that.”

Tonks stood and watched as he stepped back into the fireplace and disappeared in a whirl of green flame. She picked up the sleeping Teddy and was about to step into the fireplace when her eye fell once again on the piece of parchment she had been so afraid to read. She picked it up and opened it to reveal Remus’ fine handwriting.

Dora,

Gone to Burrow – will be back shortly. You looked so peaceful

I didn’t want to wake you. Try to get some more sleep! I’ll tidy

up when I get back.

- Remus

P.S. Although these are sad and uncertain days, I have never been

happier. I love you. Kiss Teddy for me.

Tonks smiled at the note, and kissed the top of Teddy’s head. “That’s from Daddy,” she whispered, before stepping into the fireplace and disappearing into the flames.

On turning 30

Fri, 06 Jun 2008 22:57:43 GMT

They say that women don’t really know who they are until their 30s. So it is with joy and not sorrow that I celebrate my 30^th birthday, because I’m hoping this magic number will unlock the deep mystery surrounding who I truly am.

So much happened in my 20s, most of it regrettable. I escaped my small town and traveled to England, Northern Ireland, Manitoba, Toronto, and then as far west as I could get while staying in the country. I had a child and lost him. I indulged in sex and alcohol and experimented with drugs. I craved power and gained it in unseemly ways. I teetered on the brink of alcoholism and despair not once, but twice – rescued the first time by my unborn child and the second by the man who would be my husband.

The last four years of my 20s were much, MUCH more positive, although still full of challenges and changes. I was exposed to new ideas and convictions which I have embraced. I have been forced into responsibility by my love for my husband and the birth of my daughters – and have found that I quite enjoy it. I have returned to the values of my childhood. I have learned more than lip service about God’s love for the poor and the need to act out our faith. I have strived to make our home into a place of rest for the weary and welcome for all those who need it – modeling it after the many homes that received me during my struggles. And I have very recently seen with clarity that my childhood dream to be a writer survived the many years when I was soul-dead. In short, I have matured at light speed from where I was a decade ago.

I am still struggling with the way forward from here. The transition from VP to stay-at-home mom has not been an easy one. My identity has taken a severe beating, but I’m hoping this is God refining me by fire, so that my true self can emerge whole and pure, unmarred by ambition, greed and an inflated sense of self. Intellectually, I believe that one doesn’t have to be involved in full-time “ministry” in order to be serving God, that there is no distinction between the secular and the sacred since God is Lord over all, and that the world needs Christian doctors, lawyers, filmmakers, teachers … and writers. But I still feel guilty when ever I consider writing for a living – although the idea thrills me at the same time – because I can’t help but think of the poor who need cared for, the unsaved who need loved, and the non-profits out there who could honestly benefit from my marketing and fundraising expertise. My husband asked me the other day what I would do if I didn’t have to work – if he made enough money to cover our expenses. He said, “Would you just do your consulting and contract work for free?” My answer was immediate, and I think it surprised him. I said, “I would write a novel.”

But, the reality remains that we have bills to pay and, according to the Canadian Writer’s Market, the best way to starve to death in Canada is to be a freelance writer. I am hoping I can find a compromise – enough corporate and higher-paying writing and consulting work to allow me to spend at least part of my time on my own writing, until I can build up that side of the business enough to stop doing corporate work altogether. It’s not that I don’t enjoy that kind of work – and it’s not really fair to call it “corporate”, either, since most of my clients are non-profits – it’s just that I am so bursting with ideas for articles, editorials, and both non-fiction and fiction books that I’m finding it difficult to sleep at night – or to concentrate on any one piece at a time.

Fortunately for now, I still have a few months of maternity leave left so the pressure is off, and I can indulge myself in volunteer work that I soon won’t have time for and amuse myself by writing fluffy Remus/Tonks drabbles to hone my pathetic fiction-writing skills. I will perhaps spare you the pain of having to read any of them ... or maybe not.