And Again

So, technically, y'all will be getting two posts on this date. Oh well. I stay up too late.

So far, I've faithfully taken some time every day, before I go to bed, to write a blog post and work on the book. It's honestly getting a little harder, but I like filling out the chart, and knowing I can each night is really cool.

I know, it's sad, isn't it?

Anyway, it's really getting good. Because I've exclusively been working in pen and paper, writing is fun again. I feel like there's no such thing as writer's block when I'm doing it the old-fashioned way. I don't sit and stare at a blinking cursor or scroll desperately to look for things or get distracted and start editing. I just write, and it feels good to be doing that again. It would probably be a whole lot quicker to only write on the computer, but that's not me.

When I'm working on the novel, I use a speckled composition notebook and a Pilot pen. I don't use anything else. I even replace the cartridges, because it is cheaper than buying new pens, and Walmart started carrying blue again. I think it's the little ritual there that feels so good, or maybe the way the ink flows so well and how the blue just jumps off the white page.

The first version of this book, for the first and second drafts, were completely handwritten in whatever ballpoint I could find, on stacks of paper stapled together. Literally. I kept the sheets in my pocketbook and I carried backups. I still have the paper, and I have no plans to get rid of them. Most of the book was written in my ninth grade World Geography class. When the second draft was finished, I typed it on my family's Gateway desktop.

Things have come a long way since then, but there's still nothing quite like putting pen to paper and just writing. Such a good feeling.

How to Pray Poker at Bob Jones University

No, that's not a typo. When I was at Bob Jones University, I learned how to pray poker.

In January, my fiance taught me how to play a simple game of poker. Just recently, my brain realized how similar a game was to the nightly prayer groups at BJU.

BJU is a fundamentalist university where giving prayer requests is the way to get the best gossip. Each night, except for Saturdays, the students gathered at 10:30 (and yes, there were two bells to tell you when it was and when you were late) to pray together. There's really nothing wrong with that, except for the whole bell thing, and it was a really good way to get to know people on your residence hall, because there would always be a lot of socialization. It was also a good way of uplifting your fellow students.

But, especially in a place like BJU, human nature prevails hard. People love to hear themselves talk, even the shy little missionary kid from Brazil (who speaks no Portuguese, oddly.) And we, as the human race, are fascinated with gruesome stories.

Here's how it starts.

Imagine you're hanging out with your friends, and you start telling them a story about this massive papercut you got from a book jacket once. (That actually happened to me when I worked at BAM. It hurts more than you'd think.) For some reason, the papercut story seems to give others both permission and fuel to share their numerous injury stories. It will escalate, usually with "well, I sawed my finger open while peeling a mango." (That happened to me too. By the way, I also used to play Monopoly alone.) Then a third friend will share the time he was running and tripped and gashed his knee open on a rock and needed like 58 stitches. Eventually it comes to a point where someone gets distracted and the conversation turns to other things that don't belong in any of the Saw films.

The same thing happens in prayer group at BJU, and I am not kidding. It's tweaked a little, though.

Let's just say I had, like five papers due in a week. (It was actually possible during my studies, as one semester I took 20 hours.) In prayer group, I'd say something like "I'm feeling kinda tired this week and I have a ton of projects coming due, so just I'd appreciate some prayer." Simple, right?

So the next prayer request would be a little worse. "My allergies are really acting up, and I can't see and it's driving me crazy, and I have projects due too."

And that's where the poker part came in.

Because the next one would be something along the lines of "I see your allergies, and I raise you the flu, plus my gramma has a cold."

And the next one. "Flu? Yeah, I've been really struggling with accepting God's will in my bronchitis this week. It's just...so hard..."

Each prayer group averaged about 12 people, so you can imagine how long this would go on, and people would really stretch, with things like my best friend's down the street neighbor might have skin cancer, because cancer wins points in the contest. Eventually, it'll get to "my dad's fifth cousin had his face chewed off in Miami, so just pray for him."

I finally figured out this game in the spring semester of 2009. It was my return to school after taking a semester off and working at BAM. One night, I was in prayer group after a phone conversation with my mom. Some friends of my brother had been in a pretty bad car accident, and one of them was airlifted to a trauma center with, among other injuries, a fractured skull and a ruptured spleen. My brother was pretty upset, according to my mom. The guys in the accident did end up okay, but that night, it was a major thing.

So after the obligatory requests about projects and allergies and struggling with stuff, it was my turn.

I mentioned the guy who'd been badly injured, making note of the ruptured spleen, because it is a serious, very traumatic injury.

Everyone in the room, seriously, went "Ewwwww."

You really would think I'd just eaten a booger in front of them.

But I was the last to give a prayer request.

I won the game with the mention of a ruptured spleen.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you pray poker at Bob Jones University. 

It's Got to be On Purpose

I opened the local paper recently to a story about a local comic book artist, Brian Wingrove (here's his site!)

My post is not on this. It's more about the local paper in question. Now really, I have nothing but love for the publication. It's pretty informative, if small, but I still read it mornings at work and try to see what's going on in town. Even though the size has shrunk in the past years (like literally the paper is not as wide) I continue to be a reader.

But dang, they suck at proofreading. 

I think it has been getting better lately. Maybe. The writing's certainly improved, because they used to have one article writer who probably could have used a writing class. I haven't seen her name lately, but when her work appeared in the paper, a typical paraphrased quote looked like this.

"Mr. Smith said that his wife had said that her aunt said that the intruder had shown up around dinnertime."

And see, that's okay. Easy mistake, just takes a little work to correct.

It gets better.

There's also the section for letters to the editor, written of course by the community, on various topics. I will never forget the one that was printed a couple of years ago.

The letter was praising this medical facility for being so helpful and caring during a patient's last days. She'd had a terminal illness and the family was sincerely thanking the staff at this place.

According to the paper, the deceased was afflicted with lunch disease.

I must say, I have never heard of lunch disease.

Okay, you say. Typo. Sure. Someone was hungry when they typed that.

Now, Brian Wingrove's comic series is called "Intermezzo" and is a reference to the humorous content. This short article that appeared in the paper had a picture of Mr.Wingrove holding up a couple of copies of his comic, upon which is clearly printed "Intermezzo" across the top. In big letters. Yellow ones.

And sure enough, next to the picture in the paper, they talk about his Intermezza comic series.

That is not a thing.

I have therefore come to the conclusion that it's done on purpose, to add "charm" and "quirk" to the local paper.

I applied once for a proofreading position and was never called.

I like to think it's because my resume was too perfectly spelled.