"Not only so but we also rejoice in our sufferings, because we know that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope. And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us."
Romans 5: 3-5.
Sigh.
Now these may be the best two sentences in all 1991 pages of the Bible. Well, at least in my humble opinion.
Now let's just take a moment to read it again. Gah. Beautiful. Squee! So profound.
Okay, now I'll explain to you why on earth I'm going all "fifth chapter of Romans" on you.
But first we pause for a brief disclaimer.
Ahem.
For those of you who are not Christian or don't identify yourselves as religious, please understand that I am not trying to force my beliefs on you. I am sharing my own, so take from it what you will.
Respect on both sides, brothers and sisters, you know what I'm saying?
(Only on blogs am I able to speak like a gangster. Either that or while playing video games. 'Cause I'm down with the hood, y'all.)
And done!
Back to business.
I shall henceforth explain how God and I became tight, yo.
(Man, that's amusing. Carry on.)
Let's scroll back a good nine years. Wait, wait... there!
Stop.
Okay, I said stop. You're supposed to stop.
No, I do not want to revisit kindergarten and my Barbie nap time towel.
Yes, yes. I was cool, okay?
Anyways... so, it was November, sometime in the 1990s.
I was just a young buck then- so full of life and idealism...
Wait, I'm not that old.
(But I am shaking my cane at you across the Internet for implying such. So, har, har, wheeze. I win.)
It was one o'clock in the morning. I'm asleep.
Shocking, but we'll go with it.
My mom gets a phone call. Dad shakes me awake.
Mmpf. Not cool.
I stagger out of bed after a few more rigorous shakings.
My mom, seeing me emerge from my bedroom like a zombie with a real bad wig, sympathizes but doesn't let me go back to sleep.
Despite the grogginess, I can tell that something is wrong in the state of Denmark.
(Shakespeare misquote but hey, I'm just sprinkling in a little culture. Can you feel the high school education there? Can you?)
My parents seem tense, especially my mom. Her voice has an odd note to it that only crops up when she's scared.
Dad is trying to calm her down: he's yammering about what we need to bring.
He sounds funny too- loud for this time of night. Why aren't we sleeping?
What's going on?
My mom has me put on my coat and grab one of my stuffed animals from my bed.
(I'll have you know that there aren't any stuffed animals on my bed now. They're all in my closet now. But don't tell anybody. People have to think I'm cool.)
The two of us get into the van. It's freezing outside and the stars are really bright. I can see the Milky Way right away.
It feels strange to be outside this late at night. I can't hear anything but my shoes on the driveway.
I want to stay outside, look at the stars and breathe in the bracing air.
But we have to go.
In the car, I shiver as I wait for the heater to catch up. I realize that it's only going to get colder from here on in to winter. It's a depressing thought.
(Ha. I thought that was cold. Try walking to class in -20 C weather with wet hair. I thought I was going to lose my ears.)
"Bethany, there's something I've got to tell you," my mom says to me before we pull out of the driveway.
"What is it? What's going on?"
"We have to go to the hospital," she says. Her voice drops a little.
"What? Why?"
There isn't anyone in the hospital that we'd need to visit, is there?
Did one of my grandparents get sick?
Why are we visiting them now? They should be sleeping too.
"The doctor called. She wants you to go to the hospital, right now. It's about the urine test you did last week," she says. The last part comes out slowly.
"What, am I sick or something? What do they think is wrong with me?"
I assume it's nothing. Hospitals are familiar to me. I'm usually in them for a day or two, then out. No big deal.
In fact, I might get a toy out of this whole deal. It's so much easier to weasel your way into a Happy Meal when you're laid up in the hospital.
"They think it might be diabetes, but it's probably nothing. They just wanted to be sure," she says.
This certainly doesn't sound good, but Mom seems pretty confident that it's "nothing."
I sort of believe her. But why did they have to get me up a one in the morning?
"I don't know. We'll just have to wait and see," Mom says.
I don't like that answer.
"But it's probably not diabetes, right?" I say.
"I don't know, sweetie. Let's hope not."
Something big and slimy just took over my entire stomach.
(Stay tuned for Part 2. This post has gotten a little unwieldy and besides, that's a pretty climatic moment to end at right there. Do you feel the suspense, the drama?
Don't worry- it does get better and so do I.
And it will eventually make sense that I threw a verse from Romans in, I promise!)
Thursday, February 10, 2011
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Career Aspirations: Only Three Years of University Left, Time to Plan
Hey-o!
So, I had this crazy idea this afternoon- so crazy that it just screamed "blog me!"
I've wanted to be a writer, in some shape or form, for as long as I can remember. (For most of those years, it was the next Great Canadian Novelist, now, journalist).
In the past few months, I've come to discover how much I enjoy freelance writing. I get to set my own hours, talk to people I admire, and write stories that interest me. Pretty much fabulous!
However, this afternoon, I came to the conclusion that I might not be the best fit for the newsroom. I don't like writing newsy stories all that much. I much prefer to write features and profiles.
I know, boo hoo me. Features and profiles are always more interesting, such is journalistic life.
But wait, there's more!
I'm also better at writing these types of stories. I'm not a news chaser, I'm a story teller in many ways.
And as much as I find news stories exciting, my angle is always the human interest angle. I'm not going to blame that on being a sentimental woman (I'll rant about that some other time.)
So, in my ideal world, I would be:
A) Freelancing for various magazines and newspapers and writing stories that I pitch- stories with a focus on the people behind the news.
i. Writing a novel. (Don't mock me for it. I am so going to do it, if only so that I can
force relatives to read it.)
Yay me! Discovery!
(If you don't hear the sarcasm there, I blame the internet for muffling it.)
But, truth be told, freelancing can mean dirt poor and lonely cat lady who smells funny.
What if I freelanced and did something else! Wowee- now we're getting somewhere!
Now, see, this morning my sociology professor mistook me for planning to be a teacher. I set him straight (I want to be a WRITER... hopefully... followed by an awkward pause on my part), but not before thinking, for the billionth time, "I would make a really good teacher."
Case in point:
1. I love kids.
(As in, if I could play with kids all day, I would. I actually look forward to babysitting because kids are willing to go adventuring with me. I swear I'm a giant five-year-old at heart. I still love snowball fights and jumping in puddles!)
2. Kids love me.
(I realize this sounds horribly conceited. But hey. I guess kids recognize one of their own, no matter how much older that person may appear to be.)
3. I am a learning nerd.
(I go to class every day because I LIKE going to class. Yes, I know that's a shock. I also enjoy doing my readings. Don't hurt me... please.... I guess you could say that I'm curious about everything. Or, if not, I force myself to be. Hello, Grade 12 Functions.)
4. I really like school/being in school.
(The books, the professors, the students all ready to learn (sort of...), the backpacks, the binders, the pens, the paper! Gah... I could go on...)
So, take the four above points and evaluate them. You should get this.
Beth's Career Aspirations:
A) Freelance Writer (Cool, that was easy.)
i. Novelist. (Wow, you were paying attention!)
And for the grand finale....
B) TEACHER! (Squee, you're amazing!)
Now, I only need to find out if I actually like teaching. So, yeah, let's gear up on the volunteering function there, Beth.
Heh. Watch me hate teaching those little boogery brats. What then? The drama! The heartache! The disappointment.
Meh. I'll just go back to planning on a future of eating cat food while checking kijiji for writing jobs. Yippee!
Oh, and, by the way, I do know that teaching prospects look fairly dismal and have for a while. Let's just say that I like dying industries with no jobs on the market. I'm fantastic that way.
No, really. I would plan on being a Grade 7-12 teacher and probably with French as one of my teachables. I can be realistic sometimes!
And I'm not planning on quitting journalism school either. I've gotten so much valuable writing experience here and I do plan on using it in some medium or another.
So, now I've just got to set my noodle on figuring out:
I. Whether I actually want to do this teaching thing.
II. Whether I would be good at doing this teaching thing.
III. Whether I could make money doing this... thing.
IV. How in the heck I go about becoming eduacted for this thing!
This may change tomorrow. I'll keep you posted.
Blessings,
Beth
So, I had this crazy idea this afternoon- so crazy that it just screamed "blog me!"
I've wanted to be a writer, in some shape or form, for as long as I can remember. (For most of those years, it was the next Great Canadian Novelist, now, journalist).
In the past few months, I've come to discover how much I enjoy freelance writing. I get to set my own hours, talk to people I admire, and write stories that interest me. Pretty much fabulous!
However, this afternoon, I came to the conclusion that I might not be the best fit for the newsroom. I don't like writing newsy stories all that much. I much prefer to write features and profiles.
I know, boo hoo me. Features and profiles are always more interesting, such is journalistic life.
But wait, there's more!
I'm also better at writing these types of stories. I'm not a news chaser, I'm a story teller in many ways.
And as much as I find news stories exciting, my angle is always the human interest angle. I'm not going to blame that on being a sentimental woman (I'll rant about that some other time.)
So, in my ideal world, I would be:
A) Freelancing for various magazines and newspapers and writing stories that I pitch- stories with a focus on the people behind the news.
i. Writing a novel. (Don't mock me for it. I am so going to do it, if only so that I can
force relatives to read it.)
Yay me! Discovery!
(If you don't hear the sarcasm there, I blame the internet for muffling it.)
But, truth be told, freelancing can mean dirt poor and lonely cat lady who smells funny.
What if I freelanced and did something else! Wowee- now we're getting somewhere!
Now, see, this morning my sociology professor mistook me for planning to be a teacher. I set him straight (I want to be a WRITER... hopefully... followed by an awkward pause on my part), but not before thinking, for the billionth time, "I would make a really good teacher."
Case in point:
1. I love kids.
(As in, if I could play with kids all day, I would. I actually look forward to babysitting because kids are willing to go adventuring with me. I swear I'm a giant five-year-old at heart. I still love snowball fights and jumping in puddles!)
2. Kids love me.
(I realize this sounds horribly conceited. But hey. I guess kids recognize one of their own, no matter how much older that person may appear to be.)
3. I am a learning nerd.
(I go to class every day because I LIKE going to class. Yes, I know that's a shock. I also enjoy doing my readings. Don't hurt me... please.... I guess you could say that I'm curious about everything. Or, if not, I force myself to be. Hello, Grade 12 Functions.)
4. I really like school/being in school.
(The books, the professors, the students all ready to learn (sort of...), the backpacks, the binders, the pens, the paper! Gah... I could go on...)
So, take the four above points and evaluate them. You should get this.
Beth's Career Aspirations:
A) Freelance Writer (Cool, that was easy.)
i. Novelist. (Wow, you were paying attention!)
And for the grand finale....
B) TEACHER! (Squee, you're amazing!)
Now, I only need to find out if I actually like teaching. So, yeah, let's gear up on the volunteering function there, Beth.
Heh. Watch me hate teaching those little boogery brats. What then? The drama! The heartache! The disappointment.
Meh. I'll just go back to planning on a future of eating cat food while checking kijiji for writing jobs. Yippee!
Oh, and, by the way, I do know that teaching prospects look fairly dismal and have for a while. Let's just say that I like dying industries with no jobs on the market. I'm fantastic that way.
No, really. I would plan on being a Grade 7-12 teacher and probably with French as one of my teachables. I can be realistic sometimes!
And I'm not planning on quitting journalism school either. I've gotten so much valuable writing experience here and I do plan on using it in some medium or another.
So, now I've just got to set my noodle on figuring out:
I. Whether I actually want to do this teaching thing.
II. Whether I would be good at doing this teaching thing.
III. Whether I could make money doing this... thing.
IV. How in the heck I go about becoming eduacted for this thing!
This may change tomorrow. I'll keep you posted.
Blessings,
Beth
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
Loquacious: meaning- wordy!
She still has more to say?
Why, yes. Yes, I do.
I think I'd like to start with: good heavens, what do you mean when you say that you're a writer?
Do you have a book published or something?
Uh, no. Unfortunately, I do not. I do, however, have several articles published.
But, let's get serious now, being published doesn't mean you're a writer. Nu-uh. Not true.
In my personal, modest opinion, being a writer means that you LOVE to WRITE. That's it.
That is the grand answer to the pernicious "Am I a writer" question, which, may I say, plagued me from the ripe old age of twelve.
See, I always knew that I loved to write. Duh. I've got several full and very embarrassing diaries to prove it.
In there, my writing ranged the gamut: fiction (a lot of light romances and tragic epics- let's just say I liked dichotomy), non-fiction (angst-laden tales of angst), to a literal report of events ("Today, I went to school. We learned math.")
A particular treasure is my non-rhyming poetry.
Yeah...
But I was always inordinately concerned with how good my writing was. It had to be perfect or I would never be a writer.
It didn't matter that when I put my pen to page, I could be counted on not to care about the shape of my paragraphs or the flow of my words.
Nope, I had to write the next great Canadian novel and I had to hone my talent now.
Well, um, that worked well. My writing became more and more stop-and-start as the years went by.
I tried to schedule writing in, but that only caused stuffy prose and panic.
So, somewhere between writer's craft class and applying to journalism school, I gave up and just let it be.
And, I swear, I have never been happier as a writer.
I've started a novel. I've had articles published.
Trust me, the gains have been minor but now I know that I can let myself be content with my own talent.
I don't have to live up to the standards of Margaret Atwood, Tolstoy, Hemingway, etc.!
When the ink dries, I just get to be me. Flawed, but funny, corny but charming, strange but relatable, descriptive and loquacious me.
Hey, you writers out there! I'll tell you to enjoy what you have because there is no better hobby- in my humble opinion. Or profession for that matter...
Blessings,
Beth
Why, yes. Yes, I do.
I think I'd like to start with: good heavens, what do you mean when you say that you're a writer?
Do you have a book published or something?
Uh, no. Unfortunately, I do not. I do, however, have several articles published.
But, let's get serious now, being published doesn't mean you're a writer. Nu-uh. Not true.
In my personal, modest opinion, being a writer means that you LOVE to WRITE. That's it.
That is the grand answer to the pernicious "Am I a writer" question, which, may I say, plagued me from the ripe old age of twelve.
See, I always knew that I loved to write. Duh. I've got several full and very embarrassing diaries to prove it.
In there, my writing ranged the gamut: fiction (a lot of light romances and tragic epics- let's just say I liked dichotomy), non-fiction (angst-laden tales of angst), to a literal report of events ("Today, I went to school. We learned math.")
A particular treasure is my non-rhyming poetry.
Yeah...
But I was always inordinately concerned with how good my writing was. It had to be perfect or I would never be a writer.
It didn't matter that when I put my pen to page, I could be counted on not to care about the shape of my paragraphs or the flow of my words.
Nope, I had to write the next great Canadian novel and I had to hone my talent now.
Well, um, that worked well. My writing became more and more stop-and-start as the years went by.
I tried to schedule writing in, but that only caused stuffy prose and panic.
So, somewhere between writer's craft class and applying to journalism school, I gave up and just let it be.
And, I swear, I have never been happier as a writer.
I've started a novel. I've had articles published.
Trust me, the gains have been minor but now I know that I can let myself be content with my own talent.
I don't have to live up to the standards of Margaret Atwood, Tolstoy, Hemingway, etc.!
When the ink dries, I just get to be me. Flawed, but funny, corny but charming, strange but relatable, descriptive and loquacious me.
Hey, you writers out there! I'll tell you to enjoy what you have because there is no better hobby- in my humble opinion. Or profession for that matter...
Blessings,
Beth
Another Way to Say Hello
Hey there!
Since this is the auspicious beginning of Becoming Beth, I figure I should introduce myself.
You can get a condensed version of the who-I-am speel on the side bar. So, if you aren't one for long reads, hop on over there and we'll catch up later.
But if you're like me and crazy enough to give Leo Tolsoy and JRR Tolkein several hours of your day, then sit tight and let's get started.
The name's Beth, nice to meet you.
I should tell you this up front: I'm a writer. Whatever that means.
I'm a university student, studying journalism. I may be insane, just on the basis of this last sentence.
(For those of you who don't know, apparently the media is dying- especially print media. I want to work in newspaper or magazine journalism. Hence, the previous statement, dangling there outside the parentheses.)
I live in a big, bustling city in a very small apartment. Tripping over my desk chair and various piles of laundry and books has become a way of life. So has paying $6-$9 for cheese, depending on if you want the good stuff.
I grew up in an even smaller town. Well, not geographically, but you know what I mean. There were two streets to roam, a feed store and museum for fun, and enough churches to fit the entire population. I love that strange little place.
However, I also love being able to walk to the grocery store. So you could say that I'm caught between two places at the moment- the quiet and the loud, the lethargic and the energetic, the cozy and the exciting.
Okay, I've finished with the adjectives now.
I'm a Christian. I grew up in the church and I still attend the same church today. The folks there babysat me in the nursery, taught me in Sunday school (when I managed to make it on time), and have seen me somehow survive adolescence.
It wasn't all pretty, but they're my family. I'm stuck to 'em like dog poo to your shoe.
God is my best friend. He's been there through it all- and I mean, it all.
That's the basics. For those of you still with me, congrats! You've passed Beth 101.
More to come.
Blessings,
Beth
Since this is the auspicious beginning of Becoming Beth, I figure I should introduce myself.
You can get a condensed version of the who-I-am speel on the side bar. So, if you aren't one for long reads, hop on over there and we'll catch up later.
But if you're like me and crazy enough to give Leo Tolsoy and JRR Tolkein several hours of your day, then sit tight and let's get started.
The name's Beth, nice to meet you.
I should tell you this up front: I'm a writer. Whatever that means.
I'm a university student, studying journalism. I may be insane, just on the basis of this last sentence.
(For those of you who don't know, apparently the media is dying- especially print media. I want to work in newspaper or magazine journalism. Hence, the previous statement, dangling there outside the parentheses.)
I live in a big, bustling city in a very small apartment. Tripping over my desk chair and various piles of laundry and books has become a way of life. So has paying $6-$9 for cheese, depending on if you want the good stuff.
I grew up in an even smaller town. Well, not geographically, but you know what I mean. There were two streets to roam, a feed store and museum for fun, and enough churches to fit the entire population. I love that strange little place.
However, I also love being able to walk to the grocery store. So you could say that I'm caught between two places at the moment- the quiet and the loud, the lethargic and the energetic, the cozy and the exciting.
Okay, I've finished with the adjectives now.
I'm a Christian. I grew up in the church and I still attend the same church today. The folks there babysat me in the nursery, taught me in Sunday school (when I managed to make it on time), and have seen me somehow survive adolescence.
It wasn't all pretty, but they're my family. I'm stuck to 'em like dog poo to your shoe.
God is my best friend. He's been there through it all- and I mean, it all.
That's the basics. For those of you still with me, congrats! You've passed Beth 101.
More to come.
Blessings,
Beth
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