"Tough love" doesn't feel very loving, Void.

I suppose that's why the adjective is "tough." And a master of tough love--and, really, Christian loving in general--is indubitably my older brother.

Like any good brother who works at a gym, he pointed out to me that I am woefully out of shape. "I am not!" I protested. "I'm skinny! I...move around a lot!" But lifting household groceries does not really mean that I am in shape, and he pointed that out to me. "I don't intend to lift anything heavier," I said. That did not fly.
Having guilted me into realizing that I am a lazy, obese schlub on the inside, however model-esque my exterior may be, he moved to step 2 of tough love: addressing the problem. I now have a gym membership. I haven't used it yet; I only just got it. But come Monday, I expect I shall be melting into a little puddle of sweat and whine at his feet, while he bellows at me, in his finest imitation of a drill sergeant, "ON YOUR FEET AND LIFT THOSE WEIGHTS, YOU WHINGING* LITTLE BRAT!" *whinging: British: to complain fretfully, to whine. Courtesy of Merriam-Webster.com

Well, that's still to come. But he gave me a foretaste today, by telling me that most people cannot hold the "plank position", the "up" point of pushups, for two minutes. I gave it a shot. The first time, I lasted for about fifty-four seconds before plopping into a sore, sorry bundle. The second time, I managed to hold for an entire minute. After I had done that, he cheerfully informed me that I had better not do any more, because I'll be sore tomorrow!
What? Holding still for two minutes (less six seconds) and I'll be sore? What sort of fiendish trick is this?! Tough love, he tells me cheerfully. And then, to drive home how out of shape I am, he then proceeded to hold the plank position for three minutes and one second.

Well. The showoff. But I'll show him! Monday, I shall go to the gym and work out! Ha! That'll show him, all right!

...right up until I collapse whimpering.

I'm going to tell you about a story, Void.

About the evolution of a story. It started when I was sixteen. I had been reading about the Roman emperors: Octavian, Caesar Augustus, and all the fellows who followed. And I came across an unusual name: Flavian. The Flavian emperors, who ruled Rome for a time. For a while, I stared unseeingly at my history book and revolved the name around in my head. Flavia...like the lady in The Prisoner of Zenda. It continued revolving, and then formed into Favian. Simple enough, just take out the el, not a bad name. But it was a little more than a name. It was a seed.

Over the next several days, I evolved more names and a story, which turned into the tale of Favian Windlow, a half-elf who learns he is the heir to a duchy in the Faery Realm.

It was dreadful. In a whole lot of ways.

I had two villains. One was a psychopathic megalomaniac and one was a shambling lout whose chief distinction was his deep and sadistic hatred of Favian, his cousin. I had a comic relief duo, I had stuffy older elves, I had a dashing captain of the guards. And, of course, I had a beautiful lady love, with whom both Favian and the shambling lout fell in love. I wrote a good sixty pages and went nowhere. And I plagiarized about half the names from Tolkien, with the innocent assumption that he wouldn't care, since he is dead.

Well. It petered out, as I said. And for a year, perhaps two, it sat there: a behemoth gathering figurative dust.

I think it was two years later when my late epic began nudging me in the back of my mind. Favian Windlow. Really not such a bad name. And the core idea: a half-breed faery struggling to fit into an upper-class society, woo a lady, battle his uncle? Not bad at all! I listened dutifully and decided to try to resuscitate the story.

I changed some stuff; Favian turned from a pitiful orphan being raised by his hateful uncle to a young man in the army. The plucky comic relief stayed, in a sort-of subdued way. (They were kind of necessary to the story.) The dashing captain stayed, and acquired a sidekick. The stuffy older elf became somewhat cooler. And the villains evolved into interesting people.

The psychopath, Favian's uncle, remained his uncle, but he turned into an elf with a genius for administration, who tries to take over the throne with the belief that he would be a better ruler than his brother--a coup more in the interests of the people than of the love of power. The hulking cousin quit being a cousin and became the uncle's loyal companion and the captain's nemesis. And then I hit a new problem. I fell in love with my villains.

So now my story of Favian Windlow has become the story of Valtimer, devoted servant and surrogate son to Felsar Windlow, the exiled duke. Maybe there's still hope for Favian's tale: the half-breed trying to fit into a strange society. But probably not as long as Valtimer is around.

And the dragon. Valtimer has a dragon.

Times change, Void.

In the old days, a woman who felt out of sorts, weary, or upset, could tell her gentleman, "I have a headache." The gentleman, being gentlemanly, would say sympathetic things and watch her retire. It was a fine code phrase; it could mean she was upset with something that had happened, or it could mean that she had a headache. It allowed her to maintain dignity before guests.
I have my own code phrase. I don't get headaches. I get tired. And like the headaches of yore, my weariness covers everything from hormones to exhaustion.
It can mean "I stayed up too late last night, worked hard all day, and now I feel like screaming because you just asked me to wash the dishes."
It can mean "I have been working and you've been sitting on the couch, but I don't want to say anything because I think you were working earlier when I wasn't around, and anyway, I don't want to seem petty."
And it can mean, "You're telling me of the grand trip you're going to take soon, while all I have to look forward to is work and church and hearing of the fun you're having, and I feel depressed and petty, and I should be grateful to have this job, and it's a wonderful job, but I don't--I really don't--want to be mature right now, I want to have my job and a wonderful six week vacation to travel wherever I want to in the world."
And it can mean "I'm just weary."

And all of these meanings will be covered by three words: "I'm just tired." So might the women of old have said, "I have a slight headache."

A blank verse for you, Void:

We are the dreamers
and we are the creators of words
and the builders of worlds.
Sometimes we rebuild this present Earth,
sometimes we journey beyond the stars.
We lift up societies: Utopian, dystopian, ideals,
a world of faeries, a world of vice,
a world of little people growing.
Let us draw you in,
let us take you past the stars,
let us place you in our worlds.
And when we have done, and you have seen
the societies we created,
go home
and look around
and see what world you live in.

I've been reading, and thinking, Void...

Specifically, I've been reading the Harris twins' book Do Hard Things. It's a challenge to teenagers in particular and Christians in general to rise above what is expected and accepted. It's a challenge to push out of our complacent comfort zones and into daring. And it is forcing me to think about my comfort zones. I have many.
Let's start with cooking (mainly because I'm eating dinner, so food is kind of on my mind.) My mother has been cooking for some forty years, and can tell what minute portion of what spice a dish needs by tasting it. Seriously. "Okay, just add 1/4 teaspoon of red wine vinegar and another tablespoon of brown sugar." [I add the requisite ingredients...and work requisite into my post.] "Yep! Perfect!" And suddenly, the dish has gone from "oh, tomatoes" to "ooh, tomatoes!" My older sister: gourmet chef, exotic flair, phenomenal baker, made her own wedding cake. Yeah. My younger sister: tastes a dish and knows what it needs, cooks everything perfectly on her first attempt.
I'm not exaggerating their abilities. (Not much, anyway.) I live with these three women in my life, and frankly, it gets a little depressing. Because I'm no gourmet chef. I am not a taste-and-change-it cook. However. As of today, as a direct result of reading Do Hard Things, I am going to endeavor to change this. Because the Harris twins advocate doing things that are personally difficult for you.

Go read the book.

You know something, Void?

There is something immensely satisfying about someone accepting your recommendation for a book or a movie. There is something very pleasant about a friend saying, "Hey, remember telling me to read The Scarlet Pimpernel? Well, I did." It's nice because it means that your friend actually listens to, and values, your opinion, enough to investigate the book or movie in question. But it is best of all when the friend becomes as fascinated with the story as you yourself were.
This has happened to me twice lately. My little brother and I are reading The Scarlet Pimpernel together; it's maybe the fourth time I've read this book, but for the Bug, it is the very first time. And he is most definitely fascinated. (I think the best part of reading this book with the Bug is allowing him to read some of the dialogue with me. That kid performs the most hilarious British accent I have ever heard...an accent, might I add, that is much better than anything I could do.)
I also got my sister-in-law to watch BBC's modern update of Sherlock Holmes. It had the unexpected title of Sherlock. It is indisputably, indubitably brilliant. (All three of those long words are awesome. I really like words.) She watched eighteen minutes of it and stopped, so that she could finish watching it later with her mother and husband. One recommendation: three people hooked. That is lovely.

I think I'll go outside now, and indulge my pyromaniac tendencies.

Good morning, Void.

I've been considering my reasons for beginning a blog. I suppose it's a sort of on-line journal. I've tried keeping a journal before. I even have one on my bookcase; it's very pretty, and barely used. I suspect I'll write on a blog more than I would write in a pretty journal. Because one doesn't technically write on blogs. One types. Much easier, I assure you, easier on the hand, easier on my patience (I can never write quickly enough to keep up with my thoughts). So, there you are.

I really do like the idea of a blog. I can simply type down whatever random thoughts stream through my head, share whatever was interesting about my day (whatever interested me about my day!), muse on books I'm reading. And words. Words are fabulous. Fabulous is an excellent word.

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