Home Again:

I write from another of my favorite places in the world: the Teahouse Kuan Yin in dear old Wallingford.

I've been Stateside now for just over two weeks, and I'll admit that there's a lot of readjusting I need to do. There're a lot of blondes here, for one. It's also strange to share space with familiar faces again and to be expected to settle back into the routine of the life I'd built myself here before leaving.

I apologize for not having written in so long. The last few months of my stay in Turkey were taken up with travel, final exams, and various applications for study and work. But I'm happy to catch you up now.

On the return from the Black Sea the last weekend in April, we took a detour and discovered several underground caves that had been lighted and made ready for touring by the locals. Our tour guide was also an accomplished aerialist.

I stayed put in Bolu for a couple weekends, and I was lucky enough to receive some visitors. We spent a lot of time outdoors that weekend, and the boys tried out the lake.

We went to Trabzon, the girls and I. We stayed at Duncan's with Will, Jeremy, and Wyatt, and met up with Kate, Erin, and Mackenzie for a trip to Sumela Monastery and a most excellent pide joint. There was also Turkish coffee, but you aren't surprised about that.

After that, I spent June mostly in a blur of giving final exams, grading, applying to METU, and traveling to Ankara to do so. It got really hot. Politically as well as barometrically, but you can read about that on your own. (The Editorial Board of The New York Times has this to say, Al Jazeera featured this, and Anne Applebaum of Slate posted this yesterday.)

I flew home, and Mom drove me to meet Erich in the Tri-Cities. When we finally got to Walla Walla, I was already a couple hours late to the joint bachelor-bachelorette party for Seanacey and Kojiro. My first real meal back home was a slice of pizza from Sweet Basil.

The next few days were an actual blur of wedding preparations: cutting and arranging wildflowers for bouquets, boutonnieres (yes, that's how it's actually spelled!), and vases; readying lawn games; rehearsing; getting nails done; cutting muffins and arranging cold cuts; and more fun. It was an incredible blast, and Kojiro and Seanacey are one of the most beautiful couples I've had the privilege to stand for.

Erich took this picture. It's lovely, right?

After the wedding party left town, so did Erich and I. We went to Portland for the 4th of July holiday and stayed until the U.S.-Belize Gold Cup match on Tuesday. In between, I finally got to meet Ruby, my incredible niece. She's five months old and already better than the TV.

I also got in a couple games of Bananagrams in the park with Michael. We both won a game each, so we're due for a tiebreaker the next time I'm in Portland.

I came home to Walla Walla for a night and then drove to Seattle the following morning-- yesterday. I've found out that I won't be able to return to Turkey as I'd initially planned, but there may be something in the works for a much later date. Right now I'm trying not to worry too much about it. So I'm applying for work in various fields, trying to catch up with family and old friends, and keeping busy enough to keep my mind off the fact that so much is up in the air for me right now.

Thank you for reading and for caring. I wish you the best and that we may meet again soon.

Children's Day, A Beautiful Day

Yesterday was a celebration of children as well as of the establishment of Turkey's Grand National Assembly (1920, yes?).

I took two walks: one in the morning, and one in the evening, just after coming home from city center to talk with Erich.

I've been feeling a bit inadequate in most areas of my life (being a sister, daughter, partner, pen pal, and friend), but it's helped to see his face and discuss-- among other things, including a frightfully intelligent new smart phone-- his parents' upcoming visit, too.

It's eight short weeks before I come home for the summer, and part of me feels like I can't get back to Walla Walla soon enough while the other part of me wants to suck the marrow of this remaining time-- especially with Claire and Stephanie. We have a Trabzon trip planned that we're really looking forward to when classes are over.

My last walk took place at about sunset. I hope you find me looking healthy and happy.

Oh! What do you call it when...?

So obviously today was going to be a Des'ree day. I've heard this video called "passable", and I'd like to take a wider survey.

It's black and white, with the loose yet striking shape of the female form. No props except perhaps the fingernails. And I've been trying for the last several minutes to figure out the word for it. Who's got this word? I can't think of it! (I have a suspicion that Dustin, advocate of The Art of Seduction, would know this word.)

What do you call it when...

• you could watch someone/something with your complete attention
• you could watch this thing at least three times through
• the audience is enthralled
• (this is also like a spell bards in D&D can cast)

To be fair, I just spent a very long time trying to research "Britney Spears chair dance", because when I was sixteen this video seemed like the limit of cool (and I'd originally been comparing these two videos in my mind). I don't think there's actually any comparison. Where Des'ree is cool and sufficient, Britney is, well...

Other videos that do this same thing? I think Beyonce takes what Des'ree was doing 15 years prior and loads it up with steroids and cyborg arms. Lovez.

Seriously, though? What is this word? Dustin? Seanacey? Sarah? Ooof. What is it?

Spring Awakening

"I hope you're feeling a lot better since writing the last post I read, which notably featured your body in closer proximity to the bathroom floor than is fun."

Yes. I'm feeling a lot better.

And no, this isn't about to be a post on childhood tragedies in provincial Germany circa 1891.

It's Spring, and it finally feels like Bolu's caught on (cross your fingers for me!).

I'm going to bed now, which is only an hour later than I promised myself, and because I have no morning classes tomorrow, I'll run!

It's Spring, and I might've caught on.

Competing, Losing, Failing.

Most of my American cohort here are applying to and receiving word from the same International Relations graduate programs.

Most of them have spent their lives successfully competing for sports teams, school admissions, internships, jobs, and grants and fellowships. For many, this may be the first time that they're hearing "no" or seeing their dreams hindered. (Or that may come later still. Or never.)

I'm finding myself in a different situation: one in which so many of the things I have wanted require little competition-- in fact, much more cooperation than competition. But it's March Madness among my American peers, and I'm surrounded by wins and losses. And, as you know, I've had plenty of time and opportunity to think about loss and failure in my life.

I think you might be laughing at me (or with me or whatever).
Maybe you're thinking that I'm implying privilege in my peer group without applying it to myself.
Maybe you're wondering what failure I could possibly know compared to some of our mutual friends.
I get it. What do you want me to say?

We all only have our own problems, and hopefully we can see with and through and beyond them to be empathetic, sympathetic, compassionate, and good to each other.

And this was one of the first things my father taught me: live by the Golden Rule. Do your best, do what's right, and live by the Golden Rule.

I have a very specific memory from Kindergarten, one in which he was taking me to school (which would have been unusual, because at that time in my life he was the one to pick me up from school-- but it might have been the first few days, so the occasion might've called for his presence; also, Mom had just had Spencer, so she might've been laid up). I am in my uniform, which is a bit scratchy, and I have bangs (truly-- I had bangs in Kindergarten and haven't had them since until now). I am particularly proud of my new glasses and my saddle shoes: I feel like a real school girl. I'm not nervous about school, except about math. I'm not even nervous about making friends (this doesn't come until later in my life). It must be the first day, because Dad makes a special point to squat down so that we're at the same eye level, and he puts his hands on my shoulders. "Now, you remember our three rules?" And he says them with me as I repeat this mantra. Do your best. Do what's right. And live by the Golden Rule. "And always say your 'please's and 'thank you's."

I don't know if it's because of the rhythm of the rules, but "do your best" always came first. More on this later.

Another specific memory comes from age seven and Fred Meyer. I don't even remember what I wanted, but I remember when Dad told me, "you can't always get what you want, but [...] you get what you need." This was a big idea for me. Awesome in the strictest sense of the word.

These tenets, and perhaps a few other things, set me up to expect few handouts and a lot from myself. I knew that my parents expected a lot from me, too.

So, when I began to experience loss consciously, at about age fifteen, I framed it in terms of "did I do my best to achieve it? Did I do what's right? Did I live by the Golden Rule? Had I expected more than what I needed?"

[There is documented loss in my life before this-- but mostly it's surreal, hazy, and something about which I have very little understanding.]



Loss: loss of innocence, giving up a position on a team, losing that boy to another girl, growing apart from a childhood friend, losing faith in your role models, losing faith in your religion, being second-or-third-string, quitting what you love, running away, losing sanity, becoming an adult, betrayal, violation, failing two semesters of graduate school, knowing you can lie to your talk therapist without her realizing it, giving up on a long-term and deep friendship, regret, missing a single day with the one you love, knowing that others who love it less are better at what you love to do, finding out that choosing one thing means not choosing another, or rather, that every opportunity taken is another opportunity left behind. You cannot have everything. You cannot experience everything.

I would-- and consistently still do-- frame my losses in terms of not having done my best or even enough. That when I lost, that was tied up with me, that by doing better next time I could achieve what I wanted. That my best wasn't just what I'd managed to do, but it was a measurement of potential that often exceeded what I'd done that day. That the loss that I was experiencing was within my control.

I've lost at backgammon a lot here. I think of the days I spend here with the cooking that I can bring myself to do and not in the company of the people I love most, and I wonder. I wonder especially about jealousy.

Why do we compete (try?!) when we know that loss is at stake? That we may have to experience the jealousy of those who didn't do so well? Who achieved second place? Can we divorce competition from jealousy? Or, can we divorce achievement from competition? There are competing views on this.



The people who're studying performance seriously these days are finding a connection between performance and a combination of cooperation and competition: it's important to be on a team (something bigger than yourself) and critical to strive-- not for the win, but for mastery. Thus, performance becomes more closely tied to the process of learning than to the ends of achievement.


And so I've been trying to think about how to shift my perspective away from getting what I want or even comparing those wants to what others have achieved towards learning from the process of mastery. I mean:

• Why am I participating in this? Is it because of an end goal I want? Is it to learn?
• How do I treat myself if I experience disappointment in the process? Do I blame myself? Do I see what's in my control and what's outside of my control?
• What I want: is it what I need? Or am I driven by the ambitions of the people I'm surrounded by? Will it actually contribute to my happiness?
• Is there more than one satisfactory option?
• If I feel like I'm losing, or failing, can I see what benefit can be reaped from the situation? Does my failure in one area of my life indicate a necessary redirection of my energies into another?

I saw this strange video from Solange (yes, Beyonce's little sister) several months ago, and at first I could not make sense of it. I'm still not sure I can. I was bewildered by the tone of the video in the face of the loss described in the song. She seemed so cool, even good-humored about it (I mean, the woman's got an infectious smile).

But then! I thought,

• if I can take into consideration that my loss in competition is a result of things not entirely within my control,
• if what I can do in a day is actually my best and that my best is being who I am,
• if who I am doesn't want all the same things everyone else wants,
• if loss doesn't necessarily exclude learning,
• and if loss may indicate the need to refocus my energies on some other pursuit that may be better for me

why shouldn't I be good-humored about loss? Why can't I acknowledge the [socially-ingrained] desire for achievement, the painful pang of loss, and then see where that loss leads me? See achievement as taking care of my needs, not as a reflection of what others have or want.

We can't avoid competition, and we can't cut other people out of our lives entirely, but I think we can eradicate jealousy and a lot of the pain of loss by acknowledging our differences from others and seeing that their needs and wants are not our own.

I have lost some things this year; it's not because I didn't do my best, either. But in taking care of my needs, I've realized that losing things I've wanted (or have been ambitious about) means the opportunity to point myself in another direction. It doesn't mean that I'm getting any more control (in fact, I hope I'm not!), but it does tell me more about who I am. And that's worth smiling for.

So, my cohort: I hope that you can continue to strive for mastery, but that if you are experiencing loss right now, that you can recognize it as a chance to learn more about yourself. That you can be good-humored enough to see that many factors influence a win and that it doesn't all depend upon you. It doesn't always depend upon you. Be freed by this.

Things that are humbling...

I spent most of Sunday night, Monday, and Tuesday either in bed or on the bathroom floor. It's an incredible thing when your body resists you.

I was reminded this morning of how humbling it is when, after setting my visitors up to watch my favorite David Blaine video, I found myself again on the bathroom floor, a thin sheen of sweat covering me completely and leaving an imprint of my body on the tiles.

Then, just now, I was reduced by my internet connectivity to simply watching my beautiful mother's face and listening to her type messages to me. Skype doesn't work here anymore, and Google Hangout is a poor excuse for an interaction. I hear only about 40% of what happens in Hangout. So tonight, I had to satisfy myself with hearing my mother's staccato typing and watching her sunlit face smile as she considered what to write me. Mostly a message of love.

Is it sunny in Seattle? It snowed again this weekend just in time for my visitors.

Even Mother Nature is bent on reminding me just how small I am, how small my will and determination are against things like bacteria or body processes or internet connections or lack thereof or the weather.

Okay.

Speaking of Motherhood...

Slate.com pleasantly surprised me this afternoon by providing additional material-- "Motherhood: Six great articles on older moms, surrogate moms, moms who drink and more". So, there are some more thoughts on the topic. Dig in.

When I got here, one of my best friends had just given birth to her beautiful daughter (whom I didn't get a chance to meet, due to my cold), another couple friends were trying to conceive and subsequently succeeded in doing so, and yet another friend was a few months along in her pregnancy.

I have any number of friends who've been parents for years whether they've adopted or given birth to their children. I've heard about and witnessed all kinds of parental (and specifically maternal) misadventures.





I don't know what it's like to be a parent. But I think I've been around long enough to realize that should you choose it, parenting is the most important task/joy you can undertake in your life.

I might blame my dear friend Christopher for having posted this on his Facebook wall on 17 November 2012: "The plain fact is that the planet does not need more successful people. But it does desperately need more peacemakers, healers, restorers, storytellers, and lovers of every kind. It needs people who live well in their places. It needs people of moral courage willing to join the fight to make the world habitable and humane. And these qualities have little to do with success as we have defined it. -David Orr"

Well? I don't think we can meet this need without exceptional and giving parents. We can't do it without parents who're willing to put the needs of their families (themselves included) ahead of desire, want. Now, I've taught in a classroom, and I know that while teachers can do a lot, I know that most of us (in a given American high school, for example) only see our students five hours out of every week. It's not an ideal chunk of time for teaching peacemaking, healing, restoration, storytelling or moral courage.

So who gets that time with Our Future? Their parents, hopefully.

And this is where I'd like to posit, again: if you choose to be a parent (to raise children), there's nothing more important to be doing than that. All the things you do-- whether that's pursuing a successful, lucrative career or making yourself happy-- should be in the service of your children and family.

It's a really serious undertaking.



I began thinking about this when I started wondering whether my career pursuits and my hope to raise children someday were mutually exclusive. I have decided, for now, that they're not.

But I think some career pursuits might be. I hope, for example, for the sake of his children (for those two lives!), that Barack Obama is a better parent than he is a president. And I don't mean this to be a criticism of the man's administration; rather, I mean to say that I hope he loves being a dad more than he loves being the leader of the free world. I hope he gives more to the first undertaking than he does to the latter. And frankly, I have my doubts. The man hasn't got much time, but I hope he gives it to them when he can.

Because I have a sneaking suspicion that if more people were to focus on their loves, their children, and their ethics instead of their ambitions (regardless of the purity or motivation), the world would look much more like the place for which David Orr hopes.

I might have the huevos next time to get into the case of Aung San Suu Kyi, 1991 Nobel Peace Prize winner and Burmese opposition politician noted for her fifteen-year-long house arrest. She has two children. How much participation did she get to enjoy in their lives during this period?





What happens when we choose work (however ambitious, White Collar Criminal, noble, low-paying, average, peacemaking, prestigious) and prioritize that over the needs of our children and families?


Or, what happens when we choose work that serves the needs of our children?

It's the Vernal Equinox,

So I guess it's about time to make some New Year's Resolutions. At least, that's what some other people I know around here are doing. And this happened here today.

While celebration ensues, I take the cue to reflect. The list:

• 22:00 bedtime, excepting Wednesday nights and the weekend
• ninety minutes in the morning for running or writing or both
• don't live like a dude-- keep the fridge properly stocked with produce
• more Love Notes home
• five new dance moves
• determine a name for plant (flowering in the window since November)

Comparing Other American Things... Tomorrow, Motherhood!

The Grapes of Wrath and Little Miss Sunshine.

I've been thinking this for years, and apparently the following people have already done it:

• the author at A Fool's Gambit
• Sophie Maarleveld
• and JWD of Blanket in the Grove

And they've also supplied images.

Tomorrow, really, Motherhood!

Tonight's Reflections on American Music... Tomorrow, Motherhood!

Well, Justin Timberlake, on the night of your long-awaited album's release (seven years-- have we grown up so much?!), I'd rather be listening to Bonnie Raitt.

I won't even get into the high expectations that I had for you, except to say that I've been waiting for you to make the magical transformation (that was so easy for a monstrous talent like Leonardo DiCaprio) from pretty-faced legitimately talented twentysomething to a substantive artist. I'm not seeing it.

Of course, "Suit & Tie" was billed as the stinger, and it's not bad-- slick, catchy, and snappy. (Seriously though, if you're one of my gentle readers who doesn't want to watch a 'sexy' video, don't press play below.)

But really, JT? You're "gonna show [me] a few things about love"? Granted that as a certain kind of woman in her twenties I'm one of your main audiences?

I get it's pop music-- but the man's got the talent to step it up and make it more interesting: give us another vision of how people can relate to each other. On a related note, my last beef is Timberlake's persistence in using "girl" and "little baby" to denote his romantic partners. I mean, really, are you thirty-one or what?


Definitely throwing JT out of bed for the incomparable Bonnie Raitt any day.

----

OK, I'm not going to take it all back. I'll just add: it's not fair that this is such a goooood-sounding album.

Justin Timberlake, you've taught me another thing in the last few days: just because you wrap average (stereotypical, even) ideas in some pretty delightful and incredible music doesn't make the former exceptional. But you know what? I'm far from home, far from my love, and far from my books, so I'll take it.

Also, "Mirrors" might just be something interesting. I'd like to hear what you've got to say, Mr. Espinoza, on that subject.

To A Friend Before An Interview,

or Why The Foreign Service Needs More People Like You.




My Dear (Hey, Boo):

You're about to head into an interview. A big one. Maybe, you think, one of the most important interviews of your life. You have read the news. You have brushed up. You're nervous because you don't think you stand out. Your competition is an exceptional group.

Please don't forget that you are exceptional, too.



What makes you exceptional is not your work ethic, although that is incredible. You're broadly read (excepting J.K. Rowling, and this I don't hold against you), but you have developed focus, too.

It's not your cool intelligence under fire, either. When I haven't had words, you have spoken eloquently to advocate for me.

And it's not your natural gift for languages (yes, you polyglot, you).


What sets you apart from other candidates is your great, open heart.
You are one of the most loyal friends I know. Your love for your friends defends us from difficulty, difficult people, and even our difficult selves. You will stand by me and believe in my best self.
You don't engage in gossip, and you don't prejudice yourself against others. Your response to rumor-mongering: "Do you really know that person? How can you judge? How can we know what goes on with another person?" You allow yourself to be open to even the most socially marginalized people.
You are honest.

You can't put these things on a resume. So you're lucky it's an interview, because I know that you can remember all those things about "cones" and the current events, and you can remember who you are: the kind of open-hearted, steadfastly loyal, deeply caring person that is so desperately needed in the U.S. Foreign Service right now. People can learn languages, and they can memorize what's in the news, but they can't so easily learn what you've got.

Don't forget that. I only wonder: do you need the U.S. Foreign Service?

They Told Me Thanksgiving Would Be Hard...

... and it was. But February was much harder. I anticipate that (because I haven't solved my Skype issue-- internet connectivity too slow at my apartment, now) March may be, too.

There are a lot of things for which to be grateful in Bolu right now.

• My students
• The occasional sunshine
• The textbook I'm using
• The moon rise over the mountains

There are more. But it's late, and all that I really want to think about are:

• Ruby, Nora, and the rest of my family and friends
• My soccer team in Walla Walla
• Homemade preserves from Gleaner harvests
• My big book shelf
• What Erich's going to do with the rest of that facial hair
• My cats
• A lot of important birthdays that I'm going to miss
• A slice of Brooklyn Bridge pizza from Pagliacci
• A Dick's Drive-In cheeseburger and fries
• Taste of India
• Fish tacos from The Green
• My public library
• Looking at Lake Union from Gasworks Park

I miss you guys so much. I got two more letters in the mail today: one from Lynnwood, and one from Anchorage. Thank you so much for those. You are in my heart.

Mid-February:

It's late, and when I'm not listening to Turkish radio, sometimes I sing the blues in my apartment. Tonight I forgot the lyrics to my favorite song.

Working, Writing...

This was very nearly to be my last blog post.

Then I received an incredible letter from one Christopher Robison, and I've decided that what I can do to keep up with those of you who show me such good love (aside from letter-writing back to you), is keep up this blog in as faithful and entertaining a manner as possible.

I am going to say this: writing a good post takes me a long time. So, in the next months, as my schedule changes slightly at work, I hope to balance the quality and quantity of the writing.

Erich and I talked, and I am going to apply to renew my grant so that I can stay in Turkey another year and work on exam-writing and planning a conference in Bolu for the fall. I love it here, and I love the work that I get to do, and Erich loves me so generously that he can appreciate how much the work and language-learning mean to me.

We had an incredible time during his visit here. That said, we were so busy traveling and having adventures that I didn't take the time to train for running a half marathon. I am going to contact the race organization to have my registration changed to the 10km, which is a run I know I can do already. So I'll be in Antalya the weekend of that race, but I'm going to take it easy instead of punish myself.

I hope all of you have a lovely Valentine's Day, and I hope you know that I am thinking of you!

Erich is here! (And has been, for almost a week!)

Yep! I could hardly believe it myself.

And what with my new haircut, the man barely recognized me at the airport.

On the ferry between Kadikoy and Kabatas in Istanbul.

Safranbolu.

But he's here now, seeing some of what my life has looked like these past few months!

So! You  may not hear much over the next few weeks, but I'm sure he'll come home with stories of tasty food, good long walks, and making friends with blacksmiths in Safranbolu.

You Didn't Peak in College (or High School) Unless You Want for It To Be That Way.

"They were the best four years of my life!"

Somebody told me this about high school, some other body later told me this about college, and even later a bunch of people like these two (or more) tried to impress upon me the difference between places like high school and college and the real world. You're out in the real world now, kid: hold onto your memories of the Glory Days, and watch out for piranhas.

Sure, sometimes I miss the trust I had in the world before I hit twenty-one. But I don't miss having a curfew or getting caught (by my brother!) sneaking out of my parents' house! Those certainly weren't the best four years of my life. Not that they weren't great: some of my best friends come from that time in my life.

And shoot, the metabolism of a fifteen-year-old isn't something to scoff at. But I'm going to be running a half marathon in seven weeks, and at twenty-eight I'll be in the best shape of my life to date.

It's nice not to pay bills, but it's more satisfying when you can be self-sufficient.

Really, what they're saying when they say, "they were the best four years of my life!" is "I'd like to go back to being irresponsible and selfish." Because it's true: at few other times in your life (and here I'm just looking at norms) are you

• un-tethered enough to be totally self-involved (no kids or grandkids, no partner, possibly no full-time job to be on time to, or community to be accountable to)
• yet old enough to realize how luxurious it is to be so self-involved. But we don't live on luxury.

You only peaked in high school or college if you plan to do nothing more satisfying with your life than be self-involved. But I hear that finding work, a community, or a hobby you love; being independent enough to pay bills; or, if you don't want to pay bills or taxes, being a dumpster diver; even having kids to love unconditionally can be satisfying pursuits. Satisfying in ways different from self-involvement.

So, may my Glory Days be those from now until I expire.

Who Doesn't Want To Live By The Ocean?

Do you know anyone who, if ze had the means and choice, wouldn't want to live by the ocean? Or sea?

If your life could remain mostly the same but for geography-- even your job and loved ones would re-locate near to you-- of course you would live near the sea. This isn't a question; it's the great secret of humanity.

We all want to live by the ocean.

We want a view of the ocean every morning and evening.

We want the option of walking to it when there's a little extra time in the day.

We want to stand near it to realize simultaneously that we are small and that we are significant. That our bodies are made up of this stuff and that our souls-- well, of something completely different. We want to be reminded that a steady rhythm lies under the beastly chaos that rushes up to our bodies.

We want to know a horizon.

Mountains are important, and so are deserts, and many other geographical formations-- but I am not willing to accept others' claims of bias here: it's objectively true that we'd all live near the sea.

Ask (or, I'm asking now). Find me someone for whom this is not the case.

Always, Mail Helps!

I am lucky to have such friends and family!

Thank you, loves in Walla Walla, Portland, and Seattle,

for keeping me in your minds and hearts.

You're in mine.

I'm going to get everyone with the finger-trap.

A Letter from the Fourth Grade

Last week, thanks to Connie Fraser, Mom and Dad received a letter I'd written myself when I was ten: "I really don't agree with math."

Reading, Consumption, Nutrition

I'm prefacing this post with a warning:
It's depressing when people you've known your entire life, who know you quite well, call you a snob to your face. I realize that a couple of you back home are going to think this word in your head at me at least once before the end of this post, and I don't know how to defend myself against it. Probably I haven't learned how to present a passionate plea for that which I love without sounding like a snob. The aim here isn't to be mean or to call people or industries stupid: it's to be discriminating, it's to separate nutrition and quality from the superficial and worthless.

I happen to find myself in a really captivating book right now; it's called Cassandra at the Wedding, and it's by Dorothy Baker, who wrote four novels and succumbed to cancer at the age of sixty-one. She writes: "She knew what she wanted, she said, at least she thought she did, and it wasn't anything very hard and specific like giving concerts and having people pay to hear her. It had more to do with belonging to a tradition in music and staying in it and working at it in any capacity you can fit into-- playing what's being written, and what's been written, composing too if you want to and can, but mostly trying to keep it alive and separate the chaff from the grain and keep them separate. Know which is which, and care, and that's a life work" (Baker 12).

Some people are involved in the tradition of writing, of keeping it alive. Some people are killing it.



I read two-in-one [sic?!] really bad books during the holidays with my family. Don't ask me why I did this: unless I've miscounted, I have here forty-three English language books (and one Kindle).

I've probably miscounted. But the point is that I forsook extra clothing in my luggage to avoid such a situation.

These books include my favorite theology books, my favorite philosophy book, several works of fiction I purchased in Antalya that I haven't read yet, and two presents from Andreas and Nina:

• J.K. Rowling's The Casual Vacancy (Reviewed by NY Times's Michiko Kakutani, Rachel Wilson for policymic)
• Fairy Tales from the Brothers Grimm: A New English Version by Phillip Pullman (Reviewed by The Guardian's Sara Maitland, Maria Tatar for The New Yorker)

The new books are hardbound and thick, and I didn't have the foresight to plug in and charge my Kindle. This might be my greatest regret of the holiday.

So Mom and I tore this paperback (with a bonus book!) in half and swapped when she finished her section. I didn't have it in me to finish reading the one before swapping. I'll say this: I don't generally hate on genres, but I think that Christian Romance is actually too contradictory to work. Romance readers want to enjoy scenes of pre- or extra-marital sex, and Christian authors simply can't get away with writing those-- they can barely get away with intra-marital sex that's not about procreation. I can't name an exception to this rule, and if you'd like to get in a fight with me about this, leave a comment, and I might expand upon my point.

I've got some residual anger about this. Anger and not a little inspiration. One of the authors of this two-in-one is a #1 New York Times Bestselling Author, and the other is a Whitman College alum. I'm disgusted by these authors until Spencer says to me, "write a novel. See if you could make millions."

Here's the deal: someday, I would like to write something that'd be worthwhile for other people to read. It'd also be nice to earn money at it, too. So often the two don't go together. I used to think that people could earn money by working well and hard at their passions, but perhaps the cynical lesson I've learned from this Bestselling Author is that good work doesn't necessarily earn money, and money doesn't necessarily produce good work. You know this, I know this, so why do we keep paying for bad books? Who keeps buying them?

I think I've just realized my late resolution for 2013: I won't buy any books before I read them. I'll check them out from the library, and if they're worth a second read, I'll buy them then.

It's not as though there aren't other, larger problems in the world. It's just that this one is really personal. You could pay me to read and edit all day.

What we take into ourselves-- by eating, drinking, reading, listening, watching, touching-- must sustain us. This isn't a question of should. And companies know it's a bad business model to sell an insubstantial, unsustainable product-- just ask Hostess, and this guy at The New York Times who's saying goodbye to the Twinkie: "[Hostess cake company's] demise has been a long time coming. After all, we're not supposed to eat like this anymore [...] I swear that I have not tasted a Twinkie in years. I would not feed them to my kids."

When did it become acceptable to write and publish bad work? When did it become a worthwhile use of time to read this? I would not feed Christian Romance to my kids: would you?

Not everyone's going to be a Dostoevsky or even a Dorothy Baker. But it's not just about literacy, either. Stephen King, in a 2007 review of J.K. Rowling's magic, points to R.L. Stine (the Goosebumps guy!) as an important predecessor to Rowling-- because he got kids reading! Literacy is one of the most important skills we have today, and entertainment is a key path to enhancing this. It's critical to be entertained by reading-- how else do we hang on? But the writing's got to be good or our literacy serves us no purpose-- we learn nothing, are nourished not at all, by what we read.