PerGoSeeMo Psalm 1

I’ve decided that I’m going to start giving each of my PerGoSeeMo psalms their own posts, consolidating the page that hitherto hosted them into a list of links to aforesaid posts.

            I held off on this originally, because I doubted my motives – what with there being greater visibility for posts vs. the page, perchance leading to more views and potential Ever On Word subscribers. I didn’t want to do such a thing for a selfish reason, when that’s not what this November’s about. (For those who may be wondering what it is about, here’s the scoop.)

            But upon further reflection, I do want the psalms to be more visible – not for me, but so others have better odds of gaining something from them. And on another hand, it might almost be considered an inconvenience to me, since my home page would now be covered with a backlog of psalms. It would be like plastering God all over my face, and meekly daring anyone to be turned off by it; putting my blog where my mouth is, or my mouth where my faith is, or something like that.

            Well, so be it. “For I am not ashamed of this Good News about Christ. It is the power of God at work, saving everyone who believes…” (Romans 1:16)

            So, fair warning, my current wonderful subscribers: Your email inboxes will be temporarily flooded with psalms while I get caught up. If you’re like me and start to stress when there’s a pile of unread posts staring you in the face, feel free to trash them; they’ll still be around here when you’re good and ready to deal with them. And of course, you’re also free to read them – or reread them, if you’ve been visiting the page. Do what you will. I’ve no expectations; just doing what I feel called to do.

            To get things rolling, then, let’s take it back to the beginning…

* * *

Psalm 1. John 1:4, 14; John 3:19-21

            In the beginning, a single word

A word of all others and life and light

A story in full, you spoke into being

Anthologies springing from wakening singing

A tale with a prologue that is, with no start

And an epilogue that, once begun, will not end

And chapter by chapter, the middle unfolds

‘Long a plot line planned down to the smallest detail.

            Onto the blankness, the wordsmith inks

The opening phrase, story line’s genesis

An author, of course you would draw on yourself –

On your light, on your life — and infuse your world with it

The words tumbling faster, you set up the stage

Backdrop of perfection you knew would not last

For it’s character nature to stumble their way

To the ever after they have no way of seeing.

            But you saw from the first how they’d cling to the darkness,

No matter provision of heavenly dawn;

So many predestined to choose to ignore you,

Backs turned on the glory of the risen son.

“Immaterial”

This is no longer your world, Jones. The immaterial has become… immaterial.

            Ah, Lord Cutler Beckett… how I love to hate you. For those who don’t have the pleasure of knowing, that’s a quote from one of my all-time favorite movies, “Pirates of the Caribbean: At World’s End”, spoken to another incredible villain of the franchise, living myth Davy Jones. Hats off to the script writers, because that’s actually a rather clever line, incorporating both definitions of the word at once:

1. Having no material body or form.

2. Of no importance or relevance; inconsequential or irrelevant.

(Dictionary order reversed for the sake of neatly matching the order presented in the quote, FYI.)

            Now, it’s time I confessed to something, readers: On occasions where I mention my “friends” in this blog, chances are I’m including comrades that most sane people would consider strictly imaginary. Fortunately (or not, according to my sisters), I don’t consider myself particularly sane; many writers of fiction don’t, you know.

            Mind you, I don’t refer to these friends as “imaginary”. Jacquelina, the invisible girl I danced with in my first (and only) ballet recital and who later was a horse – she was an imaginary friend, as were her fellow horses, Jacquo and Jacqueliese. (This spelling is total guesswork, by the way. At four years old, I never bothered to work out what to write on their nametags.) Blobbermouth, the man in the top hat who later became a genie and lived in a little gold-painted plastic bottle on my dresser – he was an imaginary friend. My minstrels, my tailor, my Dream World Deliverer… – these friends are not imaginary. They are merely immaterial.

            “Imaginary”, see, means “having existence only in the imagination; unreal”. Who wants to think of their dear friends that way? That would be depressing, and suggestive of mental problems (as opposed to mental peculiarities, which sounds much less worrisome, don’t you think?). But to say that the friends are immaterial does not impugn their reality in the least. They’re real enough – they’re just invisible, and incapable of physically manipulating our material world, except through possession of a willing vessel. …Okay, that did sound worrisome. As well it might. Any other authors out there who’ve had emails hijacked by characters who felt they had more important things to say to your material friend than you did? Any of your voices slip unconsciously into the accent of your primary antagonist during a phone conversation? Any of your tailors make you overdose on peanut butter? (Not to make mine feel bad by harping on that. But I digress…)

            I like to think that there are several planes of reality, all no more than an elusive cross-dimensional rift away. And one of those planes is a place where immaterial versions of ourselves can go to meet with characters out of the stories we write. And the whole gang can get into shenanigans like Fantasy Tug-o’-War, and battles against the equivalent of a pride of mutant lionesses, and the rougher-than-rugby brawl we call Super Soccer.

            Not exactly the kind of thing non-authors would necessarily expect of a twenty-something, I know. And I’m sorry if people like my sisters are occasionally annoyed by it. But I’m not about to ditch my friends any time soon. The immaterial are more than immaterial to me.

“Blog”

People have been saying that I need a blog. Not so much saying it to me directly, in more cases than not, but to me as one unknown writer among the many with loftier aims. It seems everyone in the writing industry recommends it – the publishers, the literary agents, the writers themselves, all hammering home the same idea: “Have a blog!”

            So eventually, I get this random thought: Maybe I should have a blog…

            I recall the first time I ever heard the word “blog”. It was at the end of an episode of “Postcards from Buster” (a spin-off of the “Arthur” PBS series, one of the TV shows of my childhood, based off of the children’s books by Marc Brown). The anthropomorphous rabbit star of the cartoon invited the kids watching at home to check out his blog via the station’s website. Since the show’s premise involved Buster flying all around the country with his pilot father, I initially assumed that the word “blog” was meant to be something like “Buster’s Travel Log”, cleverly abbreviated. How my mind works in a nutshell, folks.

            Some five years after the rest of the world, I became aware of the fact that you don’t need to be a globetrotting bunny to have a blog (abbreviated form of “web log”, so you see, I was sorta-kinda-on-the-right-track-ish). That’s a relief; imagine the stress of aspiring to be both that and a reasonably-popular author of YA fantasy. I continued to drag my feet about starting a blog, though, primarily out of fear of my arch nemesis, affectionately called the Technology Fiend. You’ve met him: That glitch that spontaneously pretends not to recognize the password for your email (right when you really, really want-slash-need to check your email), or that freezes your YouTube videos mid-view, and then refuses to acknowledge your efforts to refresh the page (or even to try to restart the whole computer), or that lets everyone in your family create a Facebook account without mishap, but gives you three days’ worth of trouble before finally allowing you to join the fun…. That Technology Fiend. He hates us all, but I truly feel like his perverted favorite. I really didn’t want to have to deal with a blog when there was already a war on just trying to maintain an internet connection.

            But the industry has spoken: Writers with blogs have a better shot. It offers them increased visibility, and a following, and a platform, as well as demonstrating that they’re capable of stringing a few lucid paragraphs together. All good things.

            In the interest of good things, then, here I am, adding “blogger” to a list of appellatives which includes “author”, “artist”, and “minstrel wannabe”. The characterization I intend to milk the most in this forum? Wordsmith.

            Tech Fiends and itinerant hares, watch out.