Good writing

There are a few things that pierce straight to my soul. Good writing is one of those things. It's so powerful that sometimes it captures me and pulls me in and drowns me in sea of emotion I didn't even know I had.

This piece of writing did that to me today. Last June this post also did it to me. And the previous year this story and its sequel tore at my heart as well. I don't know what it is about the country of Tchad, but much of the writing coming from the Béré Adventist Hospital there jolts my emotions awake. The true and current stories of missionaries are portrayed with complete honesty and devastatingly simple words.

I wish I could write that way. But I also don't. Because writing like that only happens when one experiences overwhelming loss.

I never have. And for that I am truly and continually grateful.

Energy tips

This morning I found The Energy Project, a website dedicated to reenergizing unenergized people. It's an intriguing concept and the whole website is interesting, but I like the Tips page best. When I stumbled upon it I realized it could be a great place to get new creative writing ideas. I know that I've neglected this blog for much of this year but I hope once I'm back home I can commit more time to creative writing practice. The Tips page lets you drag a slider from less important to more important in four areas: physical, emotional, mental and spiritual. From there you get a customized list of energy tips you might be interested in. Check it out yourself. Maybe something you see will trigger a new creative writing post. I hope it will for me.

Novel writing

It's been more than a month and a half since I last posted on here. Even though I'm not using this as my primarily blog while I'm overseas, that's pretty bad. I thought I would at least post once a month or so. Oh well, I haven't even been doing that great on my SM blog and am now trying to post retroactively.

I found something I almost wish I had known about a month ago. I say almost because, while I love the idea, I don't think it really would have been feasible for me to undertake this November. We've had too many evenings without power (as evidenced by my lack of SM blog posts) and I've been spending a lot of time at the baby home and with the other volunteers after work.

So, have you ever wanted to write a book? I have (and I suspect most of my readers, at least the ones who are subscribed to my blog because of the requirements for Creative Writing and Adv. CW classes, have too). And next November, I think I will. That's right, I think I'm going to join in on National Novel Writing Month and write 50,000 words in the month of November. Now that I've committed to it, its up to you guys to hold me accountable. And to remind me that I made this commitment in the first place. I mean, it is another 11 months until November rolls around again. Who know what other things will be filling my mind until then? So are you up to it? Will you remind me? Hey, better yet...maybe you should just join me and write a novel as well! Yeah, I think you should do it...or at least consider it.

Artist's longing

A lake sped past my window and I looked up quickly to see the tail end of it disappear from view. I was torn. Finish my book or stare out the window at the gorgeous Newfoundland wilderness racing past the shuttle? I kept my eyes up for a few more minutes reveling in the stubby, wind-shaped evergreens, rocky hillsides and glistening waters painting ever-changing pictures through the glass. But soon my head dropped again to the book I held open in my lap, "Chenxi and the Foreigner" by Sally Rippin. I wasn't thoroughly impressed with the book's premise or language, but wanted to finish it before starting a new one. Just a few pages later, when I came across a passage that fully captivated my attention, I was grateful that I hadn't discarded the book earlier.

In the following paragraphs the main character, Anna, a teenager visiting China for a month, is talking to a fellow artist, Chenxi, from her fine arts college in Shanghai. I've taken out the extra words as much as possible, so just the essence of her longing remains.

"I think an artist's responsibility is to show a different world to the viewer. No, not a different world, the same world, but a different way of looking at it. It's an artist's responsibility, and I'm talking about writers and musicians too, to take the smaller paths that come off the main road. To go down them and to bring back what they find for those people who never dare to go themselves. Or never have the chance."

Anna goes on to voice one of my own deepest desires, although hers is for painting whereas mine is for writing.

"You know, if I painted one painting that changed the life of one person, affecting them deeply enough to make them see something in a completely different way – even if only one person – I feel like I would have achieved something."

I read those words over and over again for the next fifteen minutes and then put my book away to gaze out the window and think them over for the rest of the trip from St. John's to Grand Bank, NL.

Six-word memoirs

Last night, my mum was getting her Sabbath School program ready (at our church we meet in the sanctuary and have a twenty-minute program together before breaking up into Sabbath School study classes) and asked me for ideas. I had just found an article online written in February for the Adventist Review by one of my Southern professors, Andy Nash, and suggested that she talk about that for part of the time. She conscripted my help. So this morning, I read the article to my church. It starts like this:

"If you could sum up a formative period in your life in six words, what words would you choose? I recently posited that question to two different groups of people - Adventist college students and Adventist retirees.  I got the idea from the chunky little book Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Famous and Obscure Writers.  The book's editors got the idea from Ernest Hemingway, who once wrote: 'For sale: baby shoes. Never worn.'"

Following, Dr. Nash gave a small sample of the six-word memoirs from the book and then, some from the Adventist college students and retirees. (I strongly encourage you to read the whole article.  It's not too long and very good.)

After reading the article to my fellow church members, I told how Dr. Nash began my Publication Editing class last school year by explaining six-word memoirs and then had us students write our own and share them with the class instead of just the same old name-major-hometown information.  I remember my six-word memoir: For international students, I-20 means everything. (I had just come back into the States after Christmas break and had had a problem with my I-20 student visa, so this was on my mind during that first class period.) Then I shared another six-word memoir that I had written last night: Filled out SM application.  Still waiting... This was a nice segue into the next part of my mum's Sabbath School program, where she asked Bryn to tell a little about her upcoming year as an SM to Egypt.

This afternoon my grandparents invited my family, along with my mum's sister and her daughter and granddaughter who are visiting from Alberta for the long weekend, over for Sabbath lunch. Later on, we had a worship together and my grandma asked each person to participate by coming up with one part of the worship. When my turn came, I handed each person a piece of paper and a pen and asked them to write their own six-word memoirs. Here they are (and yes, we had a French immersion student in our midst):

Anticipating the future, missing the past.
École le violon domente le piano.
Sweet dog. Lived, loved, and died.
Fell hard. Broke wrist. Much pain.
Traveled far. Arrived safely. Visited family.
The eastern USA is really terrible.
Work, work, work, eat, sleep, repeat.
Nearer to 90 than 19 years-old.
Wind, wind, rain, rain, bang, bang.
Transferring to Southern opened new opportunities
Family, friends, flowers, fun, free, photos.
Life gets better day by day.

I love trying out new writing ideas and seeing the variety of each person's tastes and experiences.  So, now it's your turn.  Why don't you try writing a six-word memoir? I'd love to read them!

Completion

I'm done.  I did my final speech.  I finished my 20-page Literary Journalism project on literacy in the Chattanooga area and handed it in.  And, other than exams and finishing an article for the Southern Communicator, I'm done.  It feels great.  I hope I'll never have to stay up all night to finish another assignment.  I think it's time I take a short snooze.

Need more time

I have to figure out how I can make my Literary Journalism project reach 20 pages.  If ONLY I could go observe a reading intervention session at one of the area public elementary schools.  But alas, they've been on Spring Break and then they were getting ready for some major standardized tests and this coming week they're actually taking those tests, so the reading intervention sessions are on hold until next week.  That isn't very convenient since my project is due on Wednesday.  I need more time.  Why can't the project be due during finals week?  I officially hate standardized tests, which is strange cause I always enjoyed doing them when I was in school (they took away from regular class time which, for the most part, was extremely uninteresting).  Anyway, I think I'll stop stressing about it and just go back to my notes and include more dialogue and description from the adult reading class I was able to observe.  Wish me luck.  And the ability to stretch short scenarios into long ones.  Oh wait.  I already have that ability.  I guess this is one time where it might come in useful.

Last Accent

Bryn's recital was awesome.  Of course, I'm a biased big sister, but I heard other people say similar things about it, so my opinion must be right.  I especially loved seeing her in the Green Room getting ready for the event.

After the recital and talking to Bryn and my other family members and friends for a bit, I headed back to the Accent office to finish editing the last issue for this year.  It was a strange feeling to be at work tonight and know that I won't ever have to rush from orchestra on a Tuesday evening to get to the office and start working.

Ack, this year is really and truly coming to a close.  I remember the first Monday of the school year when Emily (the editor) and Emily (the photo editor) and I met in the office to discuss what we were going to be doing for the news section this year.  I was completely overwhelmed with having to get eight stories for the first issue without the help of the News Reporting class.  But somehow that issue came together, just like all the rest have throughout the rest of the year.  And now, suddenly, it's all over.  How does time go by so fast?  One summer day I'm reading a list of scheduled events that we will have to cover during the school year and then, all of a sudden here I am, just back home from my last night in the Accent office.

I'm really going to miss the fun and camaraderie of hanging out (and yes, working too) with the staff.  I think part of what made it so much fun was that most of the staff are journalism majors and, while I knew all their names before working on the Accent, I actually got to know them by being in a room together for hours each week.  I know I won't miss the stress of working with the News Reporting class or trying to find writers for last-minute articles or doing deadline writing myself if no writers could be found, but I'll definitely miss the people.  Emily, Katie, Adrienne, Emily, Stefan, Aimee, Matt, Aimee and Mr. Lale (and other staff members who occasionally dropped by the office), thanks for all the memories you've given me of a great year as a newspaper-creation team.  It's been an awesome experience!

SM screening

Apparently I have become so used to giving interviews that I can anticipate upcoming questions when I'm the one being interviewed.  I had my SM screening today with Andrew Dormus, the assistant chaplain.  First I commented on his large Canadian flag hanging in his office and he told me that he had just put it up and then said that he was born in Canada, but hasn't really been back since he was 12.  Then we got into the screening.  Most of it was stuff that was on the application, and I remembered many of my answers from that, so it worked out well.  And then I talked so much for some questions that I happened to answer the next question or two within my answer for the first one.  "Wow, you're just knocking these down in record time," Andrew said.  After the last question he told me that it was the fastest SM screening he has done so far.  So I guess doing all those interviews for Accent articles this past year has helped my being-interviewed skills as well.  I'm not sure if that's a skill I'll need to have in my lifetime, but I guess it can't hurt.

Later I met my parents who just arrived this afternoon for Bryn's senior violin recital tomorrow.  The three of us took a quick trip to Soddy Daisy to visit my sister-in-law and niece and nephew.  Then we drove back and now I'm quite ready for some sleep.  Yes, I did stay awake all night to write my research paper and I think I'm writing-ed out for this semester, which is too bad because I have 10 more pages to write for Literary Journalism and I have to finish my Adv. Creative Writing story, too.  Somehow I'll make it through.  I hope.

Towering voices

When I read, I hear the character's voices in my head.  Probably everybody does this when they read.  Anyway, today in Adv. Creative Writing Janelle brought her drama from Creative Writing last semester and Robby read it.  It was awesome because he used voices.  They were different than what I'd imagined when I read her drama months ago, but they also worked.  It's interesting that the voices you hear can be different than the ones other people hear, but both can be right.

Also, I did something today that I wanted to do last year, but didn't actually try out to see if I could.  It looked hard and I didn't want to get physically injured so I didn't even try.  But this evening I did and it turned out to be not as difficult as I'd thought it would be.  It definitely helped, though, that I had a spotter and I knew I wasn't doing it all on my own.  Oh, and the view from the top was exceptionally amazing!

Nothing to say

My blog posts are getting boring.  But forgive me.  I'm in three W classes and two of them (plus the pointless SM class) have major writing assignments due before I can graduate.  I don't have time for extra words.

Only interesting thing I can think of: for about 40 minutes tonight I was the only person in the Accent office.  Emily (editor) and Katie were at their soccer game, Emily (photo editor) was finished her job for the evening and left, Matt left to change for his soccer game, and Adrienne and Stefan hadn't got out of classes yet.  Andrea also hadn't come by the office.  It was very different to be in there alone, but it was nice and quiet and gave me time to thing about and write my article.  At least that's one writing deadline that is finally over.  I did the main interview for that piece around the end of January and have been putting off writing the article until tonight.  I'm sure it could have been better, but oh well.  At least it's finally done.

Health-care bill

She drops her backpack and slides into her seat. The professor enters the classroom and writes the day's agenda on the whiteboard. She watches without interest. Another Monday, another senior-level communication class to sit through. Not even a lively discussion about the health-care bill passed by the U.S. House of Representatives the evening before captures her attention. Why would it? She is Canadian after all. She can't remember a time without universal health-care. What is the big deal about the whole thing anyway? She doesn't know and she doesn't care to find out. She looks at the clock. 10:09. Still another 41 minutes to go. She unzipps her backpack and pulls out today's newspaper. Centerpiece is a monotone picture of the bill being passed. She flips to the Lifestyle's section and opens to the Puzzles page. Doing the word search and sudoku will help pass the time.

Spring is here

Brilliant blue stretched across the dome of sky above her. She walked down the sidewalk listening to birds chirping and leaves rustling in the warm spring breeze. Today would be a perfect day for a ride in a convertible, she thought as she swung her backpack up onto her shoulders. Too bad I don't have a convertible.

Sports page

I wrote an article for the Sports page in the Accent, which makes me happy because I've been telling Emily for more than a month that I was going to. And now I have and the best thing is, no one (except you guys) will know that I just stole it off my own blog, edited it down by a few words, wrote a tidy little intro and conclusion, and sent it in to the sports editor. Am I sneaky or what?

Phydralcs

He couldn't understand the mess of words. They hung in the air for half a second after the physical therapist spat them from her tight-lipped mouth, but that wasn't long enough for him to grab them, hold them, look at them, understand them. How could he figure out what was happening with his own body if he didn't know what this woman was saying? He had been assigned to her, had to trust his health with her, but couldn't even follow her words, let alone her sentences.

"And then we'll put you on the Maltya to get your phydralcs working again, how does that sound?" She ended her tirade with a finger pointed at his heart. Or maybe it was pointing at his arm. What was a phydralc? A tendon? A muscle? A molecule of blood?

"So what are you saying is actually wrong with me?" He was almost afraid to even ask, but he had to know what was going on. He had to take some control back.

But his question came too late. She was already turning to lead him down the hall to the room where he'd have to face the Brokquare, the Yevjen, the Powhale, and the Maltya. Whether he could conquer those beasts like the dragonslayers of old was still very much yet to be determined. Sighing, he limped along behind his trainer, hoping his grammals, his lurcides, his tepucepts, and his phydralcs could survive the upcoming battle.

*Inspired, once again, by a word verification when commenting on one of Janelle's blog posts.

Derby Square Bookstore

"Oh no, a bookstore. Don't let me go in there," I turned to Jonathan who was walking beside me.

"OK, he responded and grabbed my arm as we started walking by the bookstore on the corner of Essex St. and Derby Square in Salem, Massachusetts.

But the lure of the quaint-looking brick building was too much for me. As we neared the store, I slipped my arm from Jonathan's grasp and ran up the steps to peer inside the window in the front door. The sight that met my eyes shocked me. "Umm, maybe we shouldn't actually go in there," I said, stepping backward down the stairs, my eyes still round from what I'd seen through the window.

"Why? What's wrong?" Jonathan asked.

"Just look," I responded.

Jonathan's brother David decided to check out the store. "Whoa, that's crazy!" he exclaimed, staring through the window. "We have to go in there!" David pulled open the door and disappeared inside the store.

With David already inside, I decided maybe we should investigate further. I climbed the steps again and followed David into the store. Jonathan, Bryn and Ty were right behind me. Inside the store was even more impressive, or maybe the word was intimidating, than it had looked through the glass. Books, thousands of them, were stacked from floor to ceiling, filling the entire store. Thin walkways between the walls of books let browsers move from the front to the back, but every other surface was entirely filled with books. I wondered how often the whole lot came crashing down around poor unsuspecting shoppers as they tried to reach a must-have read they had spotted near the top of a stack.

"Whoa, this place is awesome!" Ty walked behind me between two book-walls, gazing at the spines covered with titles and authors. "Did you hear what the guy at the front desk said when we came in?" I didn't have time to answer before Ty continued. "He said that every book in here is 50 percent off!" That's amazing. I'm going to find some books to buy."

I agreed. Despite my misgivings about being buried in an avalanche of books, this place was amazing.

For the next 15 minutes, the five of us, as well as various other customers who ambled into the store, crowded the small store, looking for books to buy for cheap. David had a chat with the owner, a short man wearing dirty clothes who had long yellow fingernails that looked as wrinkled as prunes and was almost completely hidden by more stacks of books towering above the front counter. The man said that he goes to large bookstores that are going out of business and buys as many of their books as he can. That's the reason he can afford to sell each book for half price. Many of the books in the store looked quite new and even the ones that were obviously used weren't in terrible condition. In the end I found five books to purchase, but wasn't sure if I had enough money to buy all five.

"Can I just leave this one out until the end to see if I have enough money?" I asked the owner as I passed four of the books through the small opening between the book stacks on the counter.

He motioned for me to pass the fifth book to him as well. "Didn't you know? If you buy four books you get the fifth one free."

I blinked. "Is that a real thing?" Wow, that was about the dumbest thing I could have said I thought. Before I had a chance to reword my sentence, he nodded. "OK," I said, still a little unbelieving at this new deal as I handed the last book to him.

He flipped each book over, reading the price on the back cover and then using a calculator to figure out the half-price cost. He wrote down each price then crossed out the cheapest book, added the figures together, included tax, and jotted down my total. Then he handed the handwritten receipt back through the stacks of books to me. I gave him my bill and he returned my change and gave me my bag of books.

Tyler and David finally made their choices and went through the same process. Bryn, Jonathan and I went outside to wait. Inside was a getting a little too mildew-y smelling.

"Good thing I got out of your grasp and went to look in the window," I grinned up at Jonathan. "Look at the great deals I got."

"Yeah, but just remember that you'll have to find a way to get all your books home at the end of this semester," he grinned back.

Not even the thought of packing up my apartment could pull my spirits down from their book-buying induced high. What can I say? I just love books.

Voice Competition

She grabbed the mike from the volunteer's wrinkled hand and marched up the seven steps to the platform. She strode to the middle of the stage, turned to face the audience, and positioned herself at the very edge of the stage. The child stood so near the edge that the tips of her black patten dress shoes hung over into space. With a movement surprisingly fast for one so small she shifted the mike into one hand and smoothed the front of her bluebell-sprinkled dress with the other. Then she held the mike in both hands again and lifted it to her mouth. She flashed a huge grin past the judge into the silent audience and then closed her dancing green eyes, let out a small barely audible breath, and sang. The judge, who had given the four-year-old an encouraging smile just seconds before, dropped the red pen in her hand. It clattered against the oak table but the child didn't open her eyes, break her rhythm, or lose her concentration. Her clear sweet voice echoed through the auditorium and the audience sat enraptured. She stood perfectly still on the edge of the stage, moving only her head as she sang. Brown ringlet-curls framed the small tanned face and swayed with the movements of her head. The notes floated up into the rafters as the minute singer ended her song. For one second after the last sound faded the child kept her eyes closed, standing as still as if she were a statue in a store window. Then her eyes popped open and she raised the mike back to her lips. "I have to go to the bathroom," she announced emphatically. The crowd, judge included, burst into a swell of laughter and the girl returned a soft giggle, the only shyness she had shown since her name had been called. She rocked back and forth on her shoes until the volunteer walked across the stage to grab her hand and lead her to a back stage bathroom.

Forder

"Harmon, I need the forder for the Yansy job."
Harmon looked up from his cubicle. His boss leaned into his personal working area. Harmon hated it when Vanrall did that. "Forder, sir?"
"Yes, we've got to get that finished today. You do have it, don't you?"
"Sure, it's right here." Harmon reached for a pile on top of his hip-high filing cabinet. He opened the folder, leafing through the pages. "Yeah, it's all done, sir, at least that part that I can do. Here."
Vanrall took the folder and opened it, scanning the first page. "Looks good. That's what I like about you, Harmon. You get the job done."
Harmon, unimpressed by his boss's praise, turned back to his work.
"Well, I'd better get this off to Reimer. What are you working on now?"
"The Bodrew project." Harmon didn't look up from his desk. He had work to do and Vanrall would stay around and talk forever if you let him. He needed a hint. He always needed hints. "Well, I'd better finish this. Glad I could get that folder to you in time, sir."
"Folder, Harmon?" Vanrall laughed and punched Harmon on the shoulder. "You need some English classes? It's FORDER. I thought a smart guy like you would know that." Vanrall walked down the row of cubicles, pausing every few steps to talk to an employee or make a joke.
Harmon watched him leave. "Forder?" he muttered to himself. He shook his head and turned back to his work. "I've got to get out of this place or I'll become one of them."

*Inspired by a word verification after commenting on Janelle's blog

____________________________________________________

Tonight is the women's figure skating long program. I'm cheering for Joannie Rochette (read yesterday's post for more info). I'm done my three W midterms. I'm done half a semester. I only have half a semester to go. I'm happy. I'm leaving for Maine with my siblings and Jonathan today sometime after Adv. Creative Writing class. I can't wait to leave Collegedale. I hope you all have a great time during Spring Break!

Short program

She skates onto the ice for the pre-skate warm-up. The camera focuses on the woman whose blond hair is pulled tightly back into a bun as she skates around the rink. A camera shot shows a man sitting in the stands wearing a red long-sleeved shirt with the stylized word "believe" incorporated into a maple leaf. Her father. He, unlike other parents of Olympic athletes, looks somber, almost sorrowful. The camera moves back to the skater. She bends to retie a lace, then straightens and continues her warm-up skate.

The three NBC commentators exchange dialogue but viewers tune out the comments as their eyes are fixed on the figure skater, until one sentence breaks through. "And she hasn't missed a practice since this has happened. It's like she's found solace on the ice." The announcer tells the skaters that the warm-up has concluded and to please clear the ice. Then the crowd starts cheering their encouragement to the one skater who remains in the rink. "I can't imagine . . ." another commentator trails off.

She skates over to the boards and exchanges high fives with her coach. The cameraman focuses on her face as her eyes tear up. She reaches for her water bottle and swallows down her emotion with the water. The camera cuts back to her father, who claps with a small sad smile on his face and adjusts his earpiece. She gets one last pep-talk, one last bit of advice from her coach, and then she pushes off the side boards and circles to centre ice. She stops and sets up her starting pose. For one long moment she is perfectly still. And then the music starts and she beings with sweeping arm gestures.

For the next two and a half minutes the crowd in the arena and the viewers watching at home sit spellbound, captivated as the dynamic woman skates her way into their hearts with precise jumps, complicated footwork, stunning spins, and a passion that shines through every element of her short program.

She finishes with a flourish and then bites her lip to keep from sobbing as the crowd, cheering wildly, gives her a standing ovation. She bends, hand to her face, unable to mask her emotions any longer. She straightens and skates, hand moving from her face to her neck, face contorted as she tries to regain her composure. Her father is once again shown on the screen, standing and clapping, his smile a mix of grief and pride. She returns to the Vancouver 2010 Olympic logo in the middle of the rink, and bows to the audience on all sides.

Finally the commentators speak. "There's no bigger stage than the Olympic games, but," Scott Hamilton, voice cracking, pauses to regain his composure before continuing, "this skate and the moment means much more than the competition."
"Such a touching moment," says Tom Hammond.
"What a gift she's given us," adds Sandra Bezic.
She skates from centre ice to the results area, her coach enveloping her in a hug as she finally lets out a sob.

She sits down to wait for her score and her coach asks, "How are you?" in French. She responds, "d'accord," OK. Her score is announced: 71.36, a personal best that puts her in third place, which she remains in at the end of the night. She was fifth at the Turin Olympics in 2006 and, until several days ago, her main focus in these Olympic games was to move up from that spot and claim a medal. Her name is Joannie Rochette, six-time and current Canadian champion figure skater, and last year's world champion silver medalist. But none of that, not even her impressive score, matters tonight. Her skate meant so much more than numbers or a medal position because on Sunday morning her mother, who had traveled from her hometown in Quebec to Vancouver to watch her skate, died of a sudden heart attack. It was her mother Rochette was skating for.

Video: Emotional Rochette in third
Article: Rochette fights through grief

OCD?

Kaitlyn held her towel up with one hand and jerked open her closet door with the other. She didn't even have to look as she grabbed a shirt off its hanger. Today was Wednesday and that meant she would wear a solid-coloured shirt. Her closet was impeccably organized into sections. All her dress clothes were hung on the very left hand side of the closet. Then came a section for each day of the week. Monday's shirts were striped, Tuesday's were plaid or checkered, Wednesday's were solid colours, and Thursday's were polka dotted. Friday's section held all Kaitlyn's patterned shirts that didn't fit into one of the other categories. After the Friday section hung all her other shirts, the old and baggy ones that she wore on the weekends.

Kaitlyn's closet had been organized this way ever since the week before she started kindergarten. Before that she had been content to let her mother organize her clothing and pick out what she would wear each day. But that week, just before beginning school for the first time, a snow plow driver had unknowingly sideswiped her mother's car as she drove down their street on her way to work. She died instantly and Kaitlyn's world changed just as fast. Her father, deep in his own grief, had left choosing clothing up to Kaitlyn and she took charge of her own life for the first time ever. That Monday just hours after being told the news, she stood in front of her closet, still in her pajamas, and looked up at the clothes haphazardly tossed onto hangers and shelves by her hurried mother late the evening before. As Kaitlyn gazed into the unorganized mess, something deep within her shattered. She had to do something. Needed something to occupy her so she wouldn't give in to the confusion and chaos swirling through her body. So she became a whirlwind, yanking shirts from hangers, pulling pants off shelves, tossing shoes out of her way. When the closet was empty she moved on to the dresser, tugging the heavy drawers from their mounts and dumping socks, underwear, belts, hats, mitts onto the growing pile of clothes in the middle of her bedroom floor. Every shred of clothing ended up in the pile and then, with a sniff to keep the tears away, she grabbed her swimsuit from the top of the heap and started to reorganize her clothes, first the dresser, than the closet.

Kaitlyn had kept her clothes organized exactly the same as how she put them away that afternoon twelve years earlier. She had even added more structure to her clothing-management plan as she grew older. Each night, she would put the shirt she had worn in the back of that day's section. She only wore that particular shirt the next time it got to the front of the section. Kaitlyn loved her method of organization. She was tied to it. Couldn't function if someone else came into her room and messed up her clothes-order. She had gone into a fit of rage when her younger sister tried to borrow a T-shirt a few years earlier. Amanda had learned her lessons and never did that again.

Now, as she reached for the sky-blue shirt in the front of her Wednesday-pattern section, she smiled. Everything was as it should be. Her closet was in order, so her life was too. Nevermind that Gyspy was yapping his head off and scratching at the front door to go out. Nevermind that in the kitchen right down the hallway her thirteen-year-old sister was whining to her father about needing more allowance. Nevermind that one of the twins was screaming that he hated Shredded Wheat and the other one was singing "This is the Song that Never Ends" at the top of his voice while banging his spoon on the table. Nevermind that her step-mother's high heels were, at this very moment, clacking down the hardwood stairs to tell them both to hush up and eat before their carpool ride arrived to cart them off to R.O. Harvey Elementary. Kaitlyn blocked out all those sounds as she pulled the solid-coloured shirt from the hanger, slipped it over her head and got ready for another organized day of school.