"There's plenty of sense in nonsense sometimes, if you wish to look for it."

- Cassandra Clare, Clockwork Angel

I love receiving things in the mail, especially random packages. I still remember one my friend Amy sent me my senior year of college, one Emily sent me toward the end of our MFA, one Dani sent me last fall. My derby wife often sends me random things (usually with some connection to garden gnomes).

Because these deliveries have brought me such joy, I try to remember to send people random things in the mail, too. Sometimes, it's just a little plastic monkey from a gumball machine (or, in one case, an envelope FILLED with little plastic monkeys). Sometimes, it's a whole box of stuff aimed at each of the senses (except smell -- I have almost no sense of smell and it's a pain in the butt trying to track down something to represent smell anyway). I can't even remember all the ninja socks I've mailed people when it seemed like they were having a hard time (it's a scientific fact that you feel braver with ninja socks on).

Yesterday, a link to this article came across my Twitter feed, and I was struck dumb with delight by this:

The boxes! I’m always looking for clever, novel things to send but my favorites are boxes of chocolates. They seem like such a luxury. The oddest thing ( thing? ) was some of the cremated remains of the writer Shirley Jackson, who wrote “The Haunting of Hill House.” Her daughter sent me the ashes, and I sent them ( in a carved antique box ) to my editor, Gerry Howard. I wish I had more of the same to send my editor at Byliner, Amy Grace Lloyd. She deserves some baked writer ashes … Sometimes I takes me days to compile a box. Usually — and I’m getting more careful about this — I look for clever, useful, beautifully packaged things. My theory is that if I vary them it’s more likely at least one thing will occur as a delight for you.
( secret? I try to send smells, sounds, flavors, and i avoid sending more words. gosh i hate to type. )

And now I feel like I want to make friends with Chuck Palahniuk. (I've never even read any of his books -- lots of my friends love him, have recommended him, quoted him in ways that make me think I'd love his writing, but I've just never picked up a book of his.)

Oddly, the same day friends of mine who have been hit by a grief train this year received my latest box of fun stuff and right now I've got stuff for three little mailings ready to go. 

It's just a coincidence, but I feel like I experience way more coincidences and fewer deja vus than, apparently, is normal. 

Well, okay then

First grade. That's when I decided I wanted to be a writer (when Mrs. Bauer let us practice our letters by making up stories on that fat gray paper with the turquoise lines). I've been telling stories since before that, but it wasn't until I started writing them down that I knew the power that words have over me.

Few of the adults in my life took that desire seriously, even as I got older and spent most of my free time writing. It wasn't until I got my MFA in creative writing that it seemed like all the grownups in my life finally had this moment of, "Oh, she's really serious about this."

And then it got complicated, because the grownups had all these expectations that I would write a book and it would magically appear at the bookstore and I would be famous.

My mom used to say things like, "When you sell your book, you can buy...."

And I'd say, "Ma, I'm going to have to publish about 50 books to afford all the things you think I'll be able to buy after publishing one." I would tell her all the depressing stats I'd learned about the publishing industry, how few manuscripts ever get out into the world, and how much writers really make. (I didn't mention all the other things I let get in the way of ACTUALLY WRITING, which is the first step in getting a book finished, much less published.)

The last time we talked about it, she stunned me to silence by saying, "Other writers don't have your talent." (It was so surprising because my mom wasn't a gushy lady. The joke in our family was that she only told my sisters and me that she loved us when one of us was getting on a plane.)

I spent this weekend at my grandma's house. Gram will be 90 at the end of May and her memory isn't what it used to be. In the two hours between when I woke up on Saturday morning and when my sisters arrived for lunch, I must have told her ten or twelve times that "the girls" were coming for lunch at noon.

This morning, Gram and I had breakfast before I hit the road back home. Over the course of the weekend, we'd talked a little about work, about derby, about what's going on in my life. She'd already asked about my writing, and I'd told her how I've written every day since Nov. 1, how I want to get the book I'm writing done by the time we scatter Mom's ashes in July.

I was halfway through with my breakfast sandwich when Gram looked at me and said, "When are you going to publish your book?"

The tone of her voice reminded me of the time we were visiting Mom in the hospital just before she died. Gram leaned over to me and said, "You know, I'd like to go to a wedding BEFORE I DIE." I told her she'd better talk to one of her other single grandchildren (only two of the seven of us are currently married), because I have no intention of ever marrying. (At least this time she didn't mention the fact that she'll be 90 next month and, well, if I want her to see a book I've written in print, I better get moving....)

I explained that the publishing industry is in a weird place right now, and that I doubt I'd be able to sell the first book I wrote in the traditional market (it's just not commercial enough). I do think I'd have better luck with the pair of books I'm working on now...I just need to finish.

And, I guess I just got another reason to stick to this crazy timeline and get Ramona's books done....

"There are melodies that speak as eloquently as words, that flow logically and inevitably from a single, pure emotion."

- Rachel Hartman, Seraphina

(That was a really, really good book, by the way.)

I keep getting the song "We Are Young" by fun. stuck in my head. It's a catchy tune. Even the (very attractive) hygienist who cleaned my teeth couldn't help singing along a little when it came on.

But this song is pretty much the antithesis of the title quote. And I don't want to like it. Here's why: In the first verse, the POV character says that some guy is asking his girlfriend about a scar and then goes on to say: "I know I gave it to you months ago / I know you're trying to forget / but between the drinks and subtle things / the holes in my apologies / you know I'm trying hard to take it back."

Um, really?

I guess it's possible a guy could accidentally scar his girlfriend, but if that's the case, you'd think there wouldn't be any holes in his apologies. You'd think he'd feel pretty damn terrible. So, the only conclusion I can draw here is that there's some kind of abuse going on, and it just doesn't seem okay to like a song about that.

(It's worth mentioning that the whole idea of carrying this girl home could be a lot less than chivalrous, especially given the context.)

I think in pictures (a fact some people abuse). As much as I'd like to say I feel in words, I think that's not true -- I think words are how I understand things, including the things I feel. The truth is, the only thing I've ever encountered that can skip my brain entirely and go straight to my heart is music.

...And maybe that's why it bugs me that I can't think my way out of liking this song.