Christmas Survival 101

There are two weeks left until Christmas, so in the interests of emotional preparation, today's blog post is full of strategies as to how to survive a chaotic Christmas. Just as a quick background comment, last Christmas at my parent's house was completely outrageous for reasons that lead into a freakishly long story and, when told, lead into a very angry Kaycee. Just rest assured it wasn't pretty. Then all year long, I swear, at least once a week, there was some reference to Christmas. It never went away. So the goal this Christmas for me is to enjoy it beyond the chaos of my family (who I really do love to death, don't get me wrong; I just want to choke them sometimes).

So, Christmas Survival Strategy 1: Get a phenomenal sister-in-law. The lovely Rianne has had her share of family dysfunction as well, so she is completely understanding of me and my issues. I can vent, I can call, I can show up at her apartment and she'll make my brother let me in, she's amazing.

Christmas Survival Strategy 2: Get Busy. My phenomenal sister-in-law and I decided that this year, as both of us are further discovering our artsy-fartsy sides as we get to know each other more, that we are going to make every body's presents this year. Well, that means both of my brothers, both of my parents, two pairs of grand parents, aunt uncle and cousin, and then each other. Then job stuff happened, and school happened, and we don't see each other as much... we're kinda behind. There will be no time to dwell on the errors of last year, I'll be having too much fun hanging out with Rianne making stuff!

Christmas Survival Strategy 3: Avoid the house. Wait... I already do that. Working two jobs and being a full time student has its perks.

Christmas Survival Strategy 4: KAT 103. KGBI has been playing nothing but Christmas music since 3 AM paper route the day after Thanksgiving.

Christmas Survival Strategy 5: Christmas cookies. I've never done Christmas cookies before, but I've always wanted to try. As my phenomenal sister-in-law has been teaching me how to cook, cookies will most likely happen at her apartment, we will most likely be in a very silly mood, we will most likely laugh a lot, and the experience will produce happy memories to associate with Christmas.

Christmas Survival Strategy 6: Keep track of the honest to goodness reason for Christmas. Contrary to popular belief, Christmas isn't about time with the family. Christmas is about God sending His Son into the world so that He could walk in our shoes, lead a perfect life, and then die as the perfect sacrifice we needed to be able to spend eternity in Heaven. Family just happens on the side. The holiday shouldn't be consumed in the image of what doesn't work in my family, but instead in how much I am loved by a holy God.

So tell your big brother to hurry up and get married, find something productive to consume time, avoid the house, don't drown yourself in Christmas music, make some fond memories, and to use one of those cliches that actually hold a lot of truth, keep Christ in Christmas. Merry Christmas, blogging world!!!

November has come to an end, and with it, NaNoWriMo (which I epicly failed, but it's okay. It was a learning experience, and now I'm ready for next year!). One might look at this statement and reason, "So now Kaycee has her life back and will actually post a blog every now and then!" Oh ye of too much logic. Thou must open thine eyes to the insanity that is my life.

I'm working two jobs. I never turned in my notice for route because I'm waiting out the first six weeks of my new job where they can can me any minute. Between the two, I work 39 hours a week. I am also a full-time student. I'm also moving out in a little over a month, just so long as we can pull it off.

So you freakishly logical folk who believe that I have more time this month, you were sorely mistaken.

I do, however, have two topics that I could blog about: we have the History project, which is researching the family tree, and we have How To Survive Christmas: A Guide to Protecting Sanity in the Midst of Chaos and Turmoil. So it's up to you: Drop me a line, and cast your vote!!!... and then add some more blog ideas, because two will only last so long!

MUST... POST... BLOG!!!

Brand new job (that's right ladies and gentlemen, kids of all ages, Kaycee has started her brand new job! Woot!) plus freakishly behind on NaNoWriMo plus stupid stomach issues equals low quantities of blog posts. So, for lack of anything freakishly exciting to discuss, here's the first scene of my NaNo Novel... which is still lacking in a name. All in good time, my friends; all in good time.

Katy’s blue truck’s bed was packed more so with her mom’s things than her own. Her dad and her older brother Cody were tying everything down while her nineteen-year-old brother, Joey, was leaning against the driver’s door. "Don’t miss us too much now," he said.

"Don’t worry, I won’t," she said sarcastically. She added an extra scoff for good measure. For this moment, she would pretend it was true.

"After all," Joey added, "it’s not like we’ll be missing you."

"Uh-huh. How many weeks ‘til harvest?" she asked. "Tell me that one more time once it’s just you three doing the same amount of work."

He chuckled. "Definitely won’t miss you," he teased. "You never made that big of a difference in the work load anyway." She punched him in the arm.

"All set," Cody said, patting the side of the truck. "Easy on the brakes."

Katy nodded. "Will do."

"And don’t let those city guys get away with anything."

"I won’t."

"And don’t make me come up there," he added. "Behave yourself."

That wasn’t something she wanted to promise. "I’ll try." Cody laughed and pulled her into his big chest. When he stepped back, he roughly cleared his throat in a classic attempt to preserve his hard, masculine image. Katy prayed that her own tears would stay at bay, too.

Her mom emerged from the white farmhouse and descended the creaky steps with grace and speed, big black purse over one shoulder and a plastic sack of various things she had forgotten in her other hand. She wore big, rhinestone-studded sunglasses, a cream blouse, flowing black pants, and black designer boots. Her appearance, her dramatic exit of the house, her lack of any backward glance, the pristine black SUV that she was headed for—she didn’t belong here. She had no desire to. It made Katy’s hands ball into fists. "We’ll call when we get there," her mom told her dad as she flung her things into the passenger seat without even meeting his eyes. "Katy, are you ready?"

"In a minute," Katy said, then turned to look at her dad. He was leaning against the back corner of the truck in jeans and a red flannel shirt with the sleeves pushed up. This picture belonged in a dictionary next to the word "Farmer."

When he spoke, his voice was rough. "You take care of yourself, Katy Belle." She nodded and knew that she should say something, but knew that her voice would betray her secret tears. But suddenly, her feminine side won over for a moment just long enough for her to run to her dad. His body absorbed the impact and caught her in his arms as she hid her face in his shirt, breathing in his scent of sweat and straw. She never wanted to leave this place.

He kissed the top of her head and pushed away, scooping her white cowboy hat off of the back of the truck and dropping it on her head. He cupped her chin it two callused fingers and lifted her gaze to meet his. "And don’t you ever forget who you are."

"Katy," her mom called, firing up the SUV. "Time to go."

It was a very subtle exhale and drop of his gaze, but Katy caught her father’s frustration, and related. "You’d better go," he said. Katy nodded and a tear spilled from her eye. Her dad quickly dried it with a quick stroke of his thumb. None of that, now. Be a man about it." She smiled. "I love you."

Instead of answering, she just nodded again, straightened out her hat, and adjusted her posture so that she was standing a little taller, her shoulders thrown back. She turned, flinging her braid and feeling it thump o her spine, and swung her tips with her stride. Joey gad the truck door open for her, so she didn’t have to break her step to swing herself up behind the wheel. Joey shut the door. "Don’t crash and die," he said, stepping back.

She stuck her tongue out at him, and then smiled. "Don’t kill the tractor while I’m not here to fix it for you." His argument was lost in the sound of the truck turning over and the radio blaring. Katy shifted into drive and followed the SUV down the long gravel drive, watching her home in the rear view mirror.

The Official Diagnosis

I can just picture walking into the colorful office of a shrink, plopping down on his couch, and he looks at me over his reading glasses and says, "So, Kaycee, what seems to be your problem?"

"Well I'm not sure, Doc. I was online one night and spontaneously decided to take part in this thing where writers everywhere write a fifty thousand word novel in thirty days. It sounded like fun!

"But then I was working on my psychology homework one evening, and I just couldn't focus, because my character, Brett, has been really shy and hiding in the shadowed corners of my mind, and I can't seem to drag him out to figure out what his story is. I'm about eight thousand words behind now, and the days just keep marching on and I still don't know what his problem is! I'm certain that he's doing it just to torment me. He's going to wait a week or two until it's too late to catch up, watch me fail NaNoWriMo, and laugh.

"So to cope with my frustration, I went to the NaNo forum and went into the Spork room where I grabbed my cyber spork and, instead of prodding Brett out of the shadows with it, I just jumped up and down screaming "WHY ARE THERE ONLY 24 HOURS IN A DAY???!!!" almost hoping that I'd poke my eye out with the spork. And in all this frustration, I didn't have time to finish my psychology chapter on psychological abnormalities.

"What do you think, Doc, am I crazy?"

The shrink will look at me and smile gently, trying to mask the horror in his eyes, and say "Don't worry Kaycee, I know some friends who wear white coats who would love to help you with your problem."

That's right, folks, NaNoWriMo is eating my sanity. Or whatever sanity I had. And you wanna know something?

IT'S A BLAST!!!

A Quiet Art

I would like to take this opportunity to walk you through the carefully refined steps of a modest art form that has been learned and perfected by high schoolers and college students across the nation:

Procrastination.

First, we have the assignment. A paper, project, or list of problems; the intensity, quantity, or form that it takes on makes small difference. But that assignment looms in the consciousness of the student, flashing in brilliant red lights: "Must Be Done, Must Be Done, Must Be Done." In more dreaded or intense instances, the lights are accompanied with a constant droning noise.

For argument's sake, let's call the assignment, oh, how about Psych chapter 11 and 5.4 homework on logarithmic equations?

Well, I hate math, so I'll procrastinate Psych first. Which is perfect, because I do my psych notes on my computer! Like any art, there are many different forms. Dance can be ballet, hip hop, river dance, or ball room. Visual art can be paint, oil pastel, sculpting, or pottery. Music can be flute, guitar, vocal, or piano. Procrastination can be physical, mental, or cyber. Or, for those students who are versatile in their art, all of the above.

So the lights are on, the sound is droning, but you know? It's been a whole entire four hours since I've been on Facebook, something may have happened while I was away!!! Wow, my status is out of date by four hours, better change it! *gasp* So many things to comment on! (ten minutes later) Hmm, no one has commented on my status yet, maybe if I word it this way... You know? I want to level up on FarmTown, so I'm gonna go plant a whole slew o' Raspberries!!! (For those of you who still remain safe from the evils of FarmTown, Raspberries are ready to harvest in two hours as opposed to 4 hour grapes, 1 day potatoes and wheat, 3 day blueberries and pineapples, or 4 day peppers and cotton.) Oh look, someone commented on my status! I should reply. *POP* Why look, someone wants to chat! Sure, I can multi-task, uh-huh!!! Wow, raspberries are ready to harvest already? Hmm, nothing else to do on Facebook, what a shame. *scroll up and down five more times just to make sure* ... *change status to see if anyone wants to comment on this wording of essentially the same thing* ... *comment on twenty more things*

When the Procrastinator finally gets off of Facebook, there is also e-mail, student e-mail, random e-mail accounts that nobody uses anyway, and on particularly intense episodes of procrastination, the MySpace that hasn't been touched in months (which then also burns the time it takes to remember the pass word). Then there's blogging... reading the blogs you follow, looking at extra blogs on the side, writing a blog on your own blog (Hey, maybe you can write a blog about procrastination!)...

You get the picture.

But in the mean time, while procrastinating via the Internet, the lights are still flashing, the sound is still droning, and half of your attention is still held captive by that(those) foreboding assignment(s).

Which is why I shall sign off of the Internet for now... but you know I'll be back later just to see if that status has gotten any more comments. But I really will sign off. And I will appease the flashing lights and droning sound... You know, that NaNoWriMo story it minimized on my task bar, and writing tends to suck in ALL of my attention...

I'm sorry, College Algebra, but I just don't love you that much. And Psych, you know, patience is a virtue. And Final Projects For Both Psych And Info And Systems Lit Classes, before you turn on your lights and sounds for tomorrow... well... I'll deal with you later. I have more procrastinating to do!!!

Such a Lovely Problem

It is such a lovely problem... but a problem, none the less. It is one of two problems that occur during that in-between times when a writer is finishing up one novel and starts thinking toward the next. The hideous problem is when the ideas cannot be forced into story, and the fear arises in the back of the writer's head as she stares at the blank page (or, in my case, screen): What if the stories never come again?

Then there is the lovely problem, the one that I struggle with now: too many ideas. I have five novel ideas and one short-story idea (which I started writing but then got slightly stuck, so it's like a deep shadow in the back of my mind that needs the right angle of light before I can finish it), all of which still thus untitled, just nick named.

We have (in no particular order) "The Red-Neck Girl Story," where Katie has to move with her mother away from her father and brothers and the farm that she grew up on to finish High School in the suburbs of a different state.

Next is "The Cinderella Complex," where Emily, Lia, and Bianca all come from dysfunctional families and their journeys to escape those households (one marries out of it via an other's brother and the other two move out together).

Then there's "The Artist Story," in which the "Artists" (who can be musicians, actors/actresses, painters, writers *giggles*) have this power to engage their audiences and captivate them in this incomprehensible, super-natural way, and they use it to show their audiences deeper things of God's glory. But then there are also the "Liars," who have the same ability, only instead of using them to God's glory, they use their gifts to draw attention to selfish human emotions.

And then there is "The Castle Story," in which a married woman with, like, 5 kids moves into a big house that still needs some work, but they turn it into the house that she's always dreamed of. A couple of days after they move though, she finds herself the legal guardian of her teenage, bitter, closed-off niece.

The most recent addition to the mess in my head is "Pain's Child," nine-year-old Abigail who doesn't have the ability to separate the things she hears about on the news or sees happening to others from her own experiences. She's developing an eating disorder, has nightmares, becomes very frightened for no apparent reason, and it's all because she doesn't know how to cope with these things that aren't even happening to her.

The short story was inspired by the country song, "A Long Line of Losers," (which, as of yet, is the story's nick name), about a college student who lives out of hotels during the summer trying to break the cycle of failure that is her family.

And then we arrive at the problem. I sit down to write and suddenly they all break out of the confines of their stories. The Artists and the Cinderellas all line up for battle, Katie and Jessica duke it out, the short-story collegiate and the mom from the Castle Story debate about life goals... luckily everybody feels sorry for Abigail and leaves her alone. But suddenly an epic battle unfolds in my mind, and suddenly all I can do is more editing the snot out of Speechless.

Out of the Dust

I am taking a moment to take a breather from the ridiculous task of "prettifying" the basement. (Word for word, that is the assignment I was given this morning, I kid you not). So I got all of the books perpendicular to the floor, which always makes me feel better, then looked at the wall with the fire place... and almost cried. The entire wall is stone-- jagged stone that protrudes from the wall. As I was vacuuming up all of the dust and cobwebs, I remembered my older brother and I playing with cars and Lego's and finding ledges for our little pretend people to climb.

Then came time for the mantle. No joke, I would hold the nozzle of the Kirby two inches away and the dust bunnies would crawl. This entire wall and everything on it hasn't been touched since before the basement became Mom and Dad's room, which was six and a half years ago now. I was vacuuming the pictures just to see who was in them. The whole entire task was rather outrageous.

There were baby pictures. There were pictures of grandparents, great grandparents, aunts and uncles. There was a picture of me in my polka-dotted pajamas, blending in with the matching sheets. My big brother when he wasn't quite so big holding baby me. Gramma holding my baby brother. My mom's senior pictures. Smiles, family, happy times, life.

Then I found a box that after vacuuming it I discovered to be blue. It was full of my parents' wedding pictures. My mom was so young, and she was glowing, fingering her bouquet, smiling in every shot. My dad was hardly recognizable: he was thin, all of his hair still jet black, and with this goofy grin on his face that said, "This is exactly where I am supposed to be, and I'd like to see you try to challenge it." Mema and Papa (my dad's parents) were happy-- honestly happy. Two of my great grandmas were in those pictures.

But they were stuffed in an unmarked box and buried under dust bunnies that hadn't been disturbed in six years, and I found them playing Cinderella while my parents and little brother yell at the Huskers upstairs. The mass-cleaning is in preparation for a family reunion tomorrow (which was an impromptu event, Mom just kind of said on Thursday, "By the way, we're having 20 people over on Sunday, hope nobody minds!" not only to my little brother and I but to my father as well). I haven't seen these people in years. I hardly know them, they don't know me, but we're all vacuuming up the dust bunnies and putting on big smiles to see each other and pretend for a day that it matters.

Plastic smiles frustrate me to no end, and I'm claustrophobic and anti-social anyway. I think I'll hide in my office with my psychology homework.

"Speechless"

Sorry folks, nothing sparkly. (Well, the bathroom is sparkly... again... I swear, I'm never scrubbing that room again if it only takes half a week to be ridiculously messy again. Wait, I've said that before.) As a matter of fact, outside of homework at the moment the only other component of my life is editing my novel, "Speechless."

America has reformed its education system, and now high schoolers have to go to massive boarding schools, or "Youth Education Centers." In these facilities, it is believed that Christians don't allow for anyone else to be right. It is said that Christians don't believe in anyone else having a freedom of religion, so they don't deserve that right themselves. When Christian students are separated from their parents and sent to this school with these brutal ideas and where unbiblical activities run rampant, it seems like a losing battle simply to cling to a faith that everyone tells them is foolish.

Until Jackie arrives. Her older brother Jeff, who has been there for two years now, catches her off the bus to save her Bible from the inspection, and then watches in wonder as his little sister reminds him of the passionate faith that he feels he has lost. His new roommate Matthew arrives and only brings more light into the darkened campus. They inspire the silent Christians on campus to live like they mean it, they bring the Gospel to their new friends, and they stir the stagnant waters until their safety is no longer a certainty. But when they hatch a risky plan to expose what truly happens within the fences of the Thomas Jefferson Youth Education Center, how much are they willing to lose?

The Wonderful World of... Homework.

I think I was just doomed from the day I was born: my life was simply destined to be dominated by homework. A math test, working on a paper for my computer class, a test and a paper in Psychology... my weekend was eaten before it began.

Unfortunately, the sources for the psychology paper have to be primarily journals. My topic is human creativity as it relates to self-expression. And the school's data bases hate me. Upon the very rare occasion that I actually find something that remotely pertains to my topic, well, it's a journal. Have you ever tried to read one of those, seriously? Eyes bugging, jaw dropping, yawning, must... pay... attention... wait, what language was that? Seriously, you've got these people who live in universities trying to describe creativity in the least creative ways possible. And they aren't even giving me the information that I need.

I got the computer paper to the point to where I can leave it alone for the moment, and studying for the tests won't be difficult, just time-consuming. Psychology is open-note (which is code talk for read the question, find the answer in the notes, move to question 2 and repeat, and still finish an hour early. I love psychology!), and my math teacher is one of the best math teachers on the face of the planet... and coming from me, that's saying quite a bit. Math and I do not get along.

All of this being said, I hope to blog again in the very near future... and it will be something creative, bizarre, off-the-wall, fascinating, entertaining, and sparkly! Why sparkly you ask? Well, I'm not really sure, it just sounded like a good idea at the time. Not to mention that nothing academic is sparkly, so it will be a relief when I finally finish all of this homework!

A Child-like Honesty

I love little kids. Just thought I'd throw that out there. I taught Cubbies tonight, and as I was preparing the lesson (and trying to hunt down those little terracotta pots that are a pain to buy in bulk anymore), I started thinking about why.

Preschoolers have no formulated ideas or preconceived notions as to social norms. Society has not yet taught them things like it's weird for a graduated high school student to color, that when somebody stutters it means they're stupid, what people should look like in order to be pretty. They haven't learned to put up a front in order to look cool until they become a completely different person. They question the important things: why God does what He does and how He does it. They don't question the things that should be certain: who they are and that God loves them.

These little kids want to learn and thrive and love and be loved with the purest, Godly love. They are who they are, and it's not something to be questioned or hidden. If they want to jump around like a monkey, then by golly they're going to jump around like a monkey and it doesn't matter what it looks like. If they have a question, they'll ask it, because they want to know and they don't care if they'll look stupid or not. These little kids are so transparent, flawlessly open and honest.

I want to look at people without those preconceived notions. If I don't know something, I want to just ask. And if I want to color, then darn it, I'm going to color! I'm sick of altering what I look like for the people around me until I've lost who I originally was. I want to ask the questions of God that will lead me closer and closer to a pure relationship with Him rather than fester and produce doubt. I'm tired of living in this jungle tangled in the vines of what I have learned growing up from that little-kid-age. I'd rather jump back into that coloring book page of wide meadows with the great, blue sky, with everything open and pure and free.

My Lovely World of Editing

A first draft is simple, easy. A first draft is when the story leaps out of your mind and onto the page, stepping clumsily and leaving muddy footprints in the hallways, running into walls, falling through railings, that kind of thing. When it is finished, I usually allow myself maybe 30 seconds to ooh and aah at the saved document, I get it printed out and flip through the ream of papers full of my words that hold my story and my characters and my world. Okay, so after the printing it's more like 60 seconds, especially seeing as how I have to do that printing at Kinko's because my printer is lacking in oomph, so I'd darn well better get some pleasure out of blowing twenty bucks.

But once that minute and a half of "Holy cow, it all survived the journey from my head to the paper!!!" it is on to-- cue the ominous music-- editing. I start to see just how much of the story really and truly survived the journey. I have to choreograph its steps, clean up its muddy footprints, scrub down the walls, repair the railings. I have to check the technical stuff-- the story consistencies, the grammar, I have to have my editor cross out half of my commas (I was writing before anyone ever taught me punctuation; all I knew was that, when reading out loud, you make your voice pause at a comma. So if I pause in my head while I'm writing, doesn't it make sense to stick a comma in there? Don't look at me like that, you know that it's only logical!). I have to tear it all apart to make absolutely certain that it is all put together correctly. I have to make sure that it isn't stupid.

Editing is an extremely complex process! Which is why Speechless, my poor ink-and-paper-child, is being edited-- oh, about a third or fourth time now. Dang it, Jeff, can't you just grow up and be a man already? And Alishia, speak up! I can't hear you over Jackie! Not to mention that Speechless is about a reform in American Public High Schools, so there's a bunch of politics and technical stuff that has to be explained without distracting from the story. And I still hate commas.

So, chapter by chapter, sentence by sentence, Speechless is being dismantled once again. Oh well, it's a nice excuse to avoid actually starting the Cinderella story, the Castle story, the Artist story, or the Redneck-girl-moved-away-from-the-farm-and-getting-looked-at-funny-by-the-kids-at-school story that have been running through my head and stealing my consciousness in everything I do. I'll have to pick one to start on eventually, but for now I shall simply edit Speechless.

Need to Read!

A good writer must also be a good reader. It's the same as the principle of "garbage in, garbage out," in a way. To be an effective artist with the written word, one must take in the written word, see how others use their craft. It's like a child listening to others speak in order to learn how the sounds form words, an apprentice watching his master work, or Christians studying the Bible together in order to sharpen each other.

Unfortunately, homework dominates my life. Over the past couple years, I haven't been reading nearly as much as a good writer should. I decided that I was going to read a lot over the summer... but I ended up job searching instead. I got the Twilight series (Stephanie Meyer) read, I get credit for that, right? I also just started Pride and Prejudice (Jane Austin). Next comes Host (Stephanie Meyer), Inkheart (Cornelia Funke), and Black (Ted Dekker), obviously followed by the rest of the series since Ted Dekker tends to have that affect on me. Then I'd like to read some Shakespeare and then get into some more of the classics...

Not to mention that I am considering joining a book club through the local library. Now that I am no longer in high school where I see my friends and close acquaintances every day, I am discovering that I don't socialize enough anymore. It's time for the ever-so-quiet Kaycee to get out there and meet new people; what better way than through a book club?

Any other books that every writer should read? If you come up with one, let me know! Perhaps some day I'll be able to read as much as I need to.

Everyone Has a Story

My name is Kaycee; I am a product of my mother's "creative spelling," a Christian, a writer, and a college student as of this week. As I am but a simple little freshman, I am not yet taking classes that require creative writing (which is code-talk for "give a valid and unignorable excuse to creatively write"). However, like every human being on the face of the planet, I have a story to tell. Hence this blog. Through this blog, I wish to write on a consistent basis and share bits of my story.

Like I said, I am a Christian, and that is the core of my existence. I was saved when I was eight years old because I was raised to think that it was the right thing to do. Then when I was 13 I went to a church retreat. We were in worship one night, and something just shifted into place in my life in a way that is impossible to adequetly describe with words. It was like I was suddenly aware of something that had been there all along, but now that I recognized it, it suddenly meant so much more. That was the first night that I really, truly felt God, and suddenly being a Christian meant so much more than all of the head-knowledge that I had been taught. God has been a huge part of my life ever since that night; He is my most patient and reliable friend and I know that He will never leave me or forsake me, even when I'm dumb enough to walk the other way.

When God created me, He gave me a link to the pencil. Writing for me is very similar to breathing, only if I had to choose between the two I would use every word I possibly could to describe that last breath. I write novels, short stories, poetry, creative essays, letters, journals, and random little paragraphs on the corners of Ravioli boxes (true story!). You will never find me without a writing utensil, and you will rarely find me without a notebook. It is on the rare occasion that you find me without a notebook that I resort to cardboard box flaps, invoices, reciepts, napkins, my hand, etc. Dry erase markers will write on mirrors and windows, and eye- and lip-liner pencils will write on shower walls.

I was raised in a... well, we'll call it an interesting home. There are many ways that I am very blessed: my parents are still married, we have a house, my parents are also Christians, I have a little brother that I love very much (despite the days that he doesn't believe it), and my older brother is now married to a Godly young woman who I am very greatful to be able to call my sister. Like all families, however, we have issues. We then proceed to take those issues and either blow them freakishly out of proportion and become extremely angry over them or sweep them under the rug and pretend they aren't there no matter how out of hand they get. My childhood was full of a lot of anger and not very many coping skills, and it took years before I ever learned that my parents' fights and my brother's behavior (back then) was wrong. I fell into a role of a peace-keeper, a people-pleaser, almost a counselor at times, and we all lost sight of my role as a daughter.

As time passed, we started to recognize problems and seek help. We've grown a lot, we've changed a lot, and we've realized a lot. But the problems didn't really go away or get better, they simply changed. Perhaps some day I'll write a blog to psyco-analyze what my family is now, but that would take a very long time. There is physical chaos, there is very little respect, the "respect" that does exist is a very unhealthy idea of respect, there are no boundaries, there are control issues, and there is emotional baggage that has been stuffed into closets and will not be dealt with within these walls.

Through it all, I have quickly learned to call this house "my parents' house," and the place I call "home" is my church. My church family is my "family that works" as opposed to "my blood-family." On the nights that I am at church late, when I return and knock on my parents' bedroom door to let them know I didn't die on the way back, I will say, "I'm here," rather than "I'm home." These code words will freaquently appear in this blog.

I am now begining college, because in this day and age that's what it takes to do anything of any meaning career-wise. I have every intention of moving out in a few months to better survive college as well as to no longer be trapped in this house anymore. Currently, I am attending a community college and seeking a job, a real job, to replace my newspaper routes. I have been delivering papers for six years now-- I make under minimum wage, but since I'm an independent contractor I'm technically self-employed so I pay twice as much in taxes and, due to my age and the state I live in, I don't get any of the tax breaks or our lovely government's stimulus pakages (which I read the other day that they accidently sent THOUSANDS of those stimulus checks to prison inmates by accident... now why can't they accidently send one to me?). Meanwhile, I work every single day, holidays included, weekends at ridiculous hours, all to be further finantially abused by the newspaper who thinks THEY'RE having a tough time in today's economy. I adore paper route; it's fun, I love interacting with the customers, and I've got a boat load of incredible stories, but it's time to move on.

Once I get my new job, I'm going to move out with a friend from church, finish community college, and then I hope to move on to the University of Iowa to take advantage of it's phenomenal creative writing program, meet my future husband whoever he is, get a master's degree, get married, having kids, and write for the rest of my life (possibly teaching creative writing at the college level between finishing school and writing for the rest of my life if absolutly necessary, depending upon finantial status). This plot is obviously subject to change. I haven't experienced real adulthood yet, I have no clue where my future husband is, and they say that the best way to make God laugh is to tell Him what your plans are. But for now, that's the direction I am headed.

Now you have sufficiently met Kaycee in a nutshell, and I have sufficiently met the Blogging world in a nutshell. Feel free to drop me a line, ask me questions, and share your thoughts. After all, you have a story too! I pray that my story will be of some kind of encouragement, comfort, maybe even inspiration, to you as you read Kaycee's Chronicle.