Ginger Snapped

An update is long overdue, but it’s taken awhile to get my feet on solid ground—to find a balance between the feeling that we’re-only-here-for-a-year-and-I-must-not-waste-any-time and the sense that if I give in to that, I’ll make myself crazy with either guilt or exhaustion or both. Life is different here, but it’s also exactly the same. The differences? There are small ones like the fact that the toilet is in its own little room with the tiniest sink I have ever seen. The bathroom is across the hall with a bathtub that is lovely and deep, but has no shower curtain. It’s a bit of a splashfest when cleaning up. The washing machine is next to the tub, but we have no clothes dryer, so laundry has to be considered in advance because there’s no quick-dry option. Most days, I carry the laundry up to the roof (er—more like wrangle a flimsy laundry basket around the creaking stairs) and hang it out to dry on a line that the Gingerbread Man rigged up. We also have large wire racks that w...

You have lost count of how many loads of laundry you have done today. You have also lost count how many times you’ve driven past that pond where the geese and goslings are on your way to and from town. In fact, you’ve lost count of what day it is and who you are; you’re simply going on autopilot according to the beefy to-do list you made yesterday for this week: one graduation, one piano recital, one band concert, one car maintenance appointment, one doctor’s appointment, two dentist appointments, four houseguests, one meeting, one book club Skype visit, a road trip to Massachusetts to pick up restored paintings, a senior awards night, four band rehearsals, a festival, a silent movie, a cook-out, a restaurant or two, a seminary graduation, and some sheer panic, and that about sums it up for this week. Besides the grocery shopping. There’s that, too. Next week brings three more doctor’s appointments for various family members in Campaign Let’s All Be Healthy Before We Leave, and a tri...

One of the most vital aspects of being able to fulfill one’s calling as an anguished writer is to have someone who understands. Today’s guest post is brought to you by William Johnson, also known as the Gingerbread Man. Ginger cannot confirm or deny any of the following allegations. From the outside, to a non-writer, there are only three stages to writing a novel. The first stage involves mornings when I awaken to the sound of pencil on paper, scribbling furiously. I see my writer intently pouring her soul into a small notebook. When I venture a question… “Honey, when do you think…?” I am greeted by a “Shhh, not now.” If the muses have been kind, these mornings may involve an hour of ecstatic outpouring, rarely more. The activity sometimes comes in fits and starts, but often seems to most resemble the gush of a firehose from brain to paper. At times, there is transfer of notes to computer with smiles and giggles abounding. It seems that a writer truly enjoys this part of writing...

From the earliest days of married life, you watched from the window as the Gingerbread Man left. You watched him as he left to walk to class. You watched him as he got in the car to drive to work -- the Honda, then the Subaru, then the Saturn, then the Ford. After the Ford became scrap metal, he biked to school. Four years of biking year-round in Michigan -- it's no wonder you watched him back then; he might have returned to you as an icicle. When degrees were granted and school was finished, you watched him drive away in the Toyota as he went to claim the other side of the desk at the university. Sometimes, you watched him commute again by bike, though not in winter. You've watched all these years, catching a last glimpse as your love went away for the day. Coat on, a skip in his step, car door slammed or a bike helmet clipped on. Sometimes he sees you and smiles and waves. Often he doesn't, and you watch unobserved from the window. When you've watched until th...