The Trouble With Being Multi-Talented

I can't dance.

I also can't play basketball.  Or baseball.  Or football.  Or soccer.  Or tennis.  Or ping pong.  Ok...let's just rule out anything that involves coordination.

I have lousy organizational skills and math and I are mortal enemies. 

I have no idea how to properly operate an iron--unless it involves melting fuse beads.

The only people I can impress with my drawing skills are under the age of six.

My cooking is hit or miss--usually miss.

I am a notorious plant killer.

I can't do a thing with hair...which is why mine usually just hangs there...threatening to eat small children.

With all the things I am BAD at, I have to admit, due to very little (or no) effort on my part, I'm also really good at a lot of things.  I also have a lot of interests.  I consider myself a decent writer, since, you know, I'm trying to sell a book and stuff.  I can sing--even if the only two vocal styles I have mastered are "the opera diva" and the "bad hippy."  My guitar skills leave MUCH to be desired, but I can fool a lot of non-musically-inclined people into thinking I'm a decent guitar player.  I write pretty good songs, too--at least they're good for someone who stinks at guitar. 

I'm good with kids, too.  For some reason, they seem to like me.  I think it's because they can tell I like them.

I'm a good listener, and I'm compassionate.  I'm an encourager  I know this because it's something people have consistently told me over the years.  Not braggin', just sayin'.  That's just the way God's made me.  I can't take credit for any of it.

In the past six months, I've discovered I like to run, too.  I'm not good at it, per se, and I have had to put effort into it, but I enjoy it.  And I'm starting to think there's a reason that all of the sudden I've gone from a pansy who vowed she'd stick with speed walking, to a pansy who is entertaining the idea of training for a half-marathon.  It's weird how things work out.  God's got a sense of humor, and that's all I'm going to say about that...for now.

I'm also an EXPERT in the fine art of sleeping.  I love me some sleep.  I don't get as much of that as I'd like, but yeah--sleep is definitely on my list of talents/interests.

See, I think life would be a lot easier sometimes if I was only good at one thing.  What's that old saying?  "Do one thing.  Do it well."  I've never been able to pick just one thing to do.  That's my problem.  I remember sitting with my advisor at my first college--the advisor they assigned to all the students who were too wishy-washy to pick a major.  He told me, "Ruth, your problem is that you're good at too many things.  You like to do too many things.  If you only had one interest or if you were only good at one thing, then we could narrow down your choices for a major." 

Long story short, I dropped out of school (partly because I couldn't pick a major and at that point they were forcing me to pick a major) and eventually transferred to another school where I graduated with THREE areas of study.  I majored in Interdisciplinary Studies with concentrations in English and Christian Studies.  Then, for good measure, I tacked on a Psychology minor.

And now, I have a wishy-washy degree that is next to useless for getting me a real job.  But that's okay.  I got an education (which is really what I wanted), and I get by.

The thing is, that advisor was right.  I have too many interests.  I have too many things that I'm good at doing.  And while I'm not needing to pick a major or career path at this stage of my life, I'm wondering if it's good for my writing that I have so many other things that I want to do.

I guess there's a couple of different ways I could look at it.  On the one hand, all these other activities I'm involved with are taking up a lot of the time I could use to write.  If I didn't make time to go out and run, or if I didn't do choir at church, or if I didn't take time to write songs or play the guitar, or if I didn't go voluntarily spend my time with kids that I love, or if I didn't make time for my friends, or if I didn't sleep, or if I didn't do all these other things I do, I would have a little more time to write.  And I could always use more time to write.

On the other hand, maybe all these other things I do might actually make me a better writer.  When I spend time doing a lot of different things, not only do I more greatly value the little time I do set aside for writing, but I also have more life experiences to draw from.  I think that the more I live, the more I experience, the more I have to write about.  Running gives me time to think and clear my head.  Talking to people gives me different perspectives.  Music gives my soul extra inspiration.  Spending time with kids help me see the world through a much younger set of eyes.  Even sleeping gives me the opportunity to dream.  All these things make me a better writer. 

So, I'm not about to drop any of these things the Lord has given me to live and love.  I have reason to believe that everything He's given me to do right now, everything He's given me a talent and/or passion for is something that is worthwhile.  It's annoying sometimes, because it's hard to have time to complete tasks when there's SO much I want to do.  But I just don't think God ever intended me to be the sort of person who does just one thing well. 

Sometimes I try to do too much at once.  I know I still need to work on balance.  But all in all, I'm really enjoying life.  Writing is a major part of that life.  It's probably one of the most major parts of my life.  It's just not the only thing.  So it's not the only thing I'm going to do.

I still pray I do it--and everything else my hands/feet find to do--well. 

Shiny Objects

I used to have chubby fingers.  Compared to my mom, I still have chubby fingers.  I think she wears a size four on her ring finger.  I don't even think a size four would fit on my pinky.  My parents used to tell me not to crack my knuckles because it would give me fat fingers, but I didn't listen.  I wanted big fingers (for whatever reason--I was a strange kid).  Well, recently I've lost a lot of weight, and as a result, the vast majority of my rings don't fit anymore.  I'm too lazy/broke to go get them resized, and that's okay, because I really don't wear rings that often anyway.  Of the three women from my family of origin, I'm the least sparkly one.  I always wear a thin rose gold band ring on my left middle finger as a reminder that my life doesn't belong to me (it belongs to God), but other than that the only ring I wear often is my mood ring.

I'm 31 years old.  Even if I don't look my age (someone told me the other day that they thought I was about 23...nice!  I'll take it!), I've made a few age appropriate fashion sacrifices.  I've given up my graphic tees and generic Converses.  But I refuse to give up the mood ring because I like it.  And recently, I've been wearing the mood ring every time I remember to put it on (which is about 4 days out of the week--I'm forgetful).  The reason for this (besides the obvious awesomeness of wearing a mood ring) is because a mood ring plays a small role in the book I'm currently trying to write, and I want the mood ring with me for inspiration and such.

I am sad to say that the mood ring I wear is not the one that originally inspired my story.  I have misplaced/lost that particular mood ring.  It makes me sad because this mood ring had a really cool wide band that had swirlies of color that reminded me of the Elvin language on the One Ring from LOTR.  I liked to put this ring over the air vent in my car to make it change all sorts of different colors.  One day, as I was doing this, I came up with a concept for a story.

This is not the first time I've come up with a story idea from a piece of jewelry, and I'm fairly sure it won't be the last. 

In fact, my first book would have never existed if I didn't have chubby fingers. 

One Christmas, my dad gave me this gaudy fake men's ring that came as "surprise" in one of those "cheap crap catalogue" orders.  He said he was giving it to me because it was too small for him, but too big for anyone else in the family.  And sure enough, the ring fit me perfectly.  And I liked it.  I liked it a lot.

Now, this ring was originally goldtone.  In a few weeks, the goldtone faded to silvertone.  A few weeks later, the silvertone began chipping off and my finger started turning green.  The stones in it were obviously glass, but that didn't matter.  Even though the stones were glass, they were arranged in a way that intrigued me.  There was one large round clear stone in the center, surrounded by a diamond shape of fake rubies.  You know what?  I'll just post a photo because that's easier:

I think was 12 when my dad gave me that ring (I remember wearing it in my sixth grade class, but my memory could be faulty).  As much as the finish chipped and as much as it turned my finger green, I continued to wear it occasionally even into high school and college.  When I eventually dropped out of college (the first time around--I transferred to another school later and graduated), I still wore the ring a lot.  The design of the fake stones still intrigued me.

And one day when I was wearing the ring, I had a mental image of a goblin jumping out of a tree in a forest and stealing this ring from a girl.  That was the first scene I ever envisioned from what would become my first book.  I started writing it in those 2 years between colleges.  Over the years, A LOT of details changed--the stones in the design changed from "rubies" to "sapphires" and the ring itself was changed to a dagger, but I can honestly say that a piece of awful fake jewelry inspired my wonderful first book--and the sequels that I hope will follow it.

Even though I'm probably going to have horrible arthritis one day when I really do grow up, I don't think I'll regret popping my knuckles...

Has jewelry ever inspired you?

Breathing

I have two favorite definitions for the word "inspiration." The first is the obvious one that most people think of when they think of inspiration. It refers to that influence that causes a person to think or act a certain way. The other definition I like is a more scientific term that refers to the action of inhaling air into one's lungs.

The thing I like about both of these definitions is that I can understand perfectly how both definitions can apply to the same word. I think that, in some ways, the defintions mean basically the same thing. As a Christian, I believe that I am nothing more than animated dust--inspired dust. God has breathed in me, and that is the only reason I am able to breathe.

As a writer, I believe the breath of God is the inspiration behind everything else I do. I can't claim my writing ability as something I conjured up inside myself. In most cases, I can't even claim credit for a story idea. Every book I've written so far has been partly inspired by a literal dream--as in, I'd go to sleep and dream something that I've used as a story idea. A lot of more modernized, good happy little Christians are uncomfortable with the idea of God giving dreams and visions in this day and age. I guess I make people uncomfortable too, because I am okay with the idea of God giving me dreams and visions whenever He wants to.

I'm definitely okay with God breathing in me. He doesn't breathe in me the same way He breathes in others. There are many gifts, but one Giver. Writing isn't the only gift I have, but I can't deny that it's something I only possess because the Lord willed to give it to me.

It's kind of lame, but I first saw this quote on a "Piece of Flair" from that silly Facebook application. The quote reads: "God breathed the breath of life in me. When I write, I exhale." That silly "Piece of Flair" sums me up fairly well.

I also find it interesting that the word "expire" has some different/same definitions. It refers to the act of exhaling, of expelling air from one's lungs. And if one were to fail to breathe in again, that expiration would lead to another definition of expiration--death. At the same time, if someone were to somehow fail to expell air from one's lungs after breathing in, they would also expire. They would cease to live. And figuratively speaking, if we're not breathing as the Lord intended, then we're not really living--we've expired.

God breathed in us so that we would breathe. He inspires us and calls us to expire. We so often get all worked up over purpose and meaning in life. Well, I pretty much know the meaning of life. It's to live. It's to live abundantly to the glory of the One who breathes in us. All of us have different gifts, but we're all pretty much called to do the same things.

We are called to seek God and His Kingdom. We are called to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength. We are all called to love our neighbor as ourselves. We're called to be peacemakers; we're called to be poor in spirit; we're called to be pure of heart. "He has shown you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you but to act justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God." -Micah 6:8. If we're doing those things and trusting the One who gives us breath, the rest is going to fall into place.

But after 30 years of breathing, I think I've finally figured out that God really likes me to exhale His breath through my writing. That's pretty much the purpose of this blog.