reflection

RCIA – First Day

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This morning was my first day as an RCIA teacher. It took me until last night to finally sit down with the readings and the notes from the Breaking Open the Word book that I’ve had sitting in my Adobe file for the better part of a month.

It’s not that I’m lazy – not when it comes to reading anyway, but in my subconscious I thought that if I prepared and read the readings and the papers, then I would have to go through with the class. Now, keep in mind that I was a teacher for over ten years, but those were kids, and in the end, it wasn’t for me. By last night I realized that whether or not I did the homework, the assignment wasn’t going away. I call it an assignment, but I did volunteer for it. To be honest, I want to do it. It wasn’t that long ago that I was on that side of the table in the RCIA program. Just like I brought something from my background as a catechumen, I think that I can offer something in return. I have a unique perspective, and I think everyone on the team has something special to bring to the new people.
They’ve been doing this since the fall. I was the new one again.

The catechumens are dismissed by the presider right after the Gospel is read and with me we go across the parking lot to the parish center. I glanced at my watch as Father C began his homily and tried to determine how much time I would have with them before they went on to part two of their weekly learning. Forty-five minutes. What would I say for forty-five minutes? I should have guessed that I overestimated my time when Father C said he doesn’t get to do this that often and he was going to use his time to talk about Mary.

I must admit that when he got to his fourth or fifth point about the Mother of G-d, I was almost gleeful at how much of my time had whittled away. Here I was worried that I’d run out of things to say before I ran out of time.

When we finally arrived at the parish center, the other team members were wondering what had happened to us. Father J was also there, asking if he could sit in.

Um, sure.

As it turned out, while it seemed as though he did a lot of the talking, it really was an even split between the four of us. And in retrospect, the point of breaking open the Word is to get the catechumens to think and to talk about their interpretations of the Scriptures and the Readings and to ask the questions that most concern them.

We talked about the prophet, Micah, and wondered why he wasn’t given more playing time so to speak. He’s the one who prophesies that the Messiah will come from Bethlehem. That’s a pretty important piece of information. We talked about the liturgical year and the three cycles, A, B, and C that the church follows. I didn’t get to add that this is my first C cycle. I started in A with Matthew.

We talked about Mary and Elizabeth. I added my own two cents about how through Advent, we’re waiting in our modern lives, and we know what we’re waiting for, but right there in the moment, Elizabeth also knew that she was waiting for her Lord and Savior, and was astonished that His Mother came to visit her. It’s kind of amazing to realize how they watched the prophesies come to fruition.

The one thing I didn’t get to say was about how the Incarnation is in tandem with the Death and Resurrection of Lent and Easter time. Jesus is born so that he may die and be reborn. Sometimes, it’s a lot to understand. That’s one of the reasons that I enjoy going over this with the catechumens and each year as we get another Gospel writer’s point of view.

I think having Father J at this, my first class and having Father C take up so much time before dismissing us was just the icebreaker that I needed to begin my role in this ministry. I will be better prepared, although I was ready today, but next time I won’t be as full of anxiety. I’ve already met the two women, and as I walk with them on this path, I am still learning and growing in my faith.

We also talked about the interconnectedness of everything that we do and see and how it all relates around us. Father J mentioned the Star Wars connection this week in his homily, and I’ve seen things on my journey that relate back across my entire life. I’ve been wondering what I was looking for with this year of mercy, and our parish’s holy doors. I still don’t know what I want for this year, not entirely, but tomorrow is when I’ll walk through the doors. I’ll have more about that tomorrow.

From Death into Life

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There is a line in a hymn, I think it’s sung at funerals or as they’re called in the Catholic church, Mass of Christian Burial. It goes, “from death into life.”

I began attending this celebration of life by accident in one of my early days of attending Mass. I was there, and I couldn’t leave without drawing unnecessary attention to myself, so I remained, hidden in plain sight, in one of the back pews, wishing I was invisible, feeling as though I didn’t belong in such an intimate family gathering. I was, however, wrong – this mass invites the community members, the congregation; to be in communion with the family, to send their loved one on their next journey. I followed the program, I sang along, I prayed, and I found something in that service. I think my first funeral service was for a woman named Dottie. I still have her program in my church papers that I’ve collected and saved.

After that first time, I continued to go to the Rite of Christian Burial when it occurred during the daily mass time. I almost never knew until I arrived at church, and after one or two more, I found great comfort in this Mass.

But I still didn’t get it – that death into life bit.

I could never understand that phrase. How can you go from death into life?

It wasn’t until after my spiritual conversion, and after passing this tree, always on my way to my writing workshop.

On the way to the library, I passed the church adjacent to this tree, and the cemetery that surrounds this tree, and one spring day it was gloriously sunny and bright, and the green leaves had sprouted and grown.

I could see them bright against the white of the siding on the church building; this delicate new growth rising from the fallen tree, its life long thought buried and gone.

This was when I could grasp death into life, life from death, the infinite from finite, everlasting life from our journey on earth.

Now, when I sing the hymn, I picture this tree when I sing death into life.

Vocations and Saints and Good Days, Oh My

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I’ve spent today with so many thoughts running through my head. I started today in a weird place. I showered yesterday so I was able to sleep in a little, but I had forgotten to change the clocks back, so when I awoke this morning, they were all wrong except for my cell phone and my kindle. I hate waking up to wrong clocks on the time change Sunday. I find it so confusing. If I don’t realize the change I’m fine, but throwing it in my face just irritates my senses. That’s why I try to change them all before I go to bed, and avoid them all night.

Today was one of those days that was good in retrospect. It’s hard to pay attention to life as it is happening, but it is in looking back that we see what was there. This was something John Boehner said this week after he left Congress. He was asked if the Holy Spirit played a part in his decision to leave, and he relayed that he was told that we only see the Holy Spirit in retrospect.

It should say something that I’m paraphrasing John Boehner!

But it’s the same with good days. They are simply not bad days until you look back and breathe that sigh of relief and announce to yourselves, hey, that was a good day.


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The Day After the Day After

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[Author’s Note: This isn’t meta per se, but it does contain spoilers, however vague for The Walking Dead and Harry Potter. If you have not seen TWD 6:3 or read Harry Potter: The Deathly Hallows, you might want to skip this.]

For those of you who are fans of an ongoing series, whether it be movies, books or a television series will understand the emotional upheaval that comes with the loss of a character so integral to the story; at least in your mind’s view of the characters and the story. Now, I’m almost positive (about 98% sure) that this character is coming back in two weeks, but that doesn’t change the initial feeling of seeing someone you have come to love over the past five years suddenly, and unexpectedly die. Horribly.

The initial ‘oh crap, he’s in a real pickle’ to ‘wait, why isn’t he getting out of said pickle’ to ‘OMGWTFISHAPPENING?! NOOOOOO! NOT HIM!!!!!!’ can suddenly propel you into a deep sadness and sense of denial; deep denial.

I’ve been there, in denial, since the episode aired, and I’m going to stay there for a bit longer. It was one of the reasons I didn’t post yesterday; I just didn’t feel it. I’m only know coming back.

That is the only way I can explain what happened to me between approximately 9:45pm on Sunday night and pretty much right now.

The last time I had this happen so intensely was in the summer of 2007 when JK Rowling killed Fred Weasley. I don’t care who actually said the spell, the Killing Curse, JK’s responsible and she knows it. And no, JK, if you’re reading this, I still have not forgiven you. That emotional upheaval sent me to Live Journal and down the rabbit hole of a world of fan fiction and meta and other passionate fans of all stripes, and it’s safe to say my life will never be the same.

I wouldn’t call what I’m feeling depression. Despite the lethargy, the not wanting to get out of bed, loss of appetite except for the cheese doodle craving, the rewatching of the offending episode, the constant thought processes figuring out his last minute escape, I know that this isn’t a clinical depression or even a situational one. However, that doesn’t mean that these feelings are not real.

It’s very real.

Especially for those who have little by the way of in person family and friends, who find comfort in the escape of a television series that they love, who find a strong support network in fandom.

For some of us, it’s just plain fun. For others, it’s escape; it’s coping; it’s so many things that unless you experience it, you can’t begin to name them all, and they come in multiples as well: fun and escape. Fun and coping. Coping and inspiration.
For me, it’s many of those things.

For those, even those in my own household, who say it’s only a TV show, yes, it is, but it is also more, even to them. Why else would they block out at least an hour each week to watch it? I’ve mentioned that in our family, this is the biggest fall season I can ever remember. My oldest son does a lot of his watching on the internet, but for the rest of us, we have our shows and we love them and we get together practically every day to share in the experience of a new episode.

We watch; we predict; we laugh; we cry. Sometimes we live vicariously through them. I wouldn’t want to experience a zombie apocalypse but I’d like to think that I have the will and the ability to survive it; to continue to live my life; to not lose myself in this new chaotic world.

That is one of the things this character in particular embodied. While other characters changed for the worse, and others have changed for the better, and we learn something from all of them, this character has an inherent goodness that is needed in this seemingly no good future world. He is good, and he’s kind. He’s compassionate and he shows mercy; sometimes when maybe he shouldn’t. But he’s kept his moral compass focused, and to lose that is to lose something special and significant.

I know he’s coming back.

But he might not. Or escaping this, he might die later on in the series.

That’s what I’m mourning these last two days. We’re going to lose him, and we’re going to need to cope with that loss. This was a test of some sort, but all it showed us is how ill-prepared we are and we will be when this character and others like him don’t make it.

What happens when he’s really dead?

The other characters will move on. They’ll mourn, and they’ll cry. They’ll be angry and take their frustrations out maybe where they shouldn’t, but they, along with us will get through it somehow.

We’ll always get through it somehow.

Life isn’t a dress rehearsal, but in recreating lives on television or in books, we get a little bit of a dress rehearsal where we can see our reactions to losing someone we love, to seeing the good in people, and in being able to change our own selves for the better while we still have the chance.

It’s one of the reasons we gravitate towards characters that are both so alike and so different from ourselves. Just in the episode, we saw a character change for the better even if he couldn’t handle the realities of this world.

But that doesn’t mean we give up on the rest of those characters who need to change; who want to change and are changing right before our eyes.

He’s is the only one with enough heart to take them under his wings and teach them to fly; teach us to fly. There is still much to learn and much to do. We need him to guide us there.

While I know he’ll be back, I’m still also mourning. We still lost something. Only time will tell what that is.

Retreat, Day 2: Anointing Mass

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My church has a twice yearly Anointing Mass for anointing the sick. It is also called a Healing Mass. Everyone is welcome whether for a physical or a mental ailment. Many of the neighboring nursing homes and assisted living centers bring in their residents for this special mass. This was my third one. I go for both my depression and my knee pain.

Obviously this is for people of the Catholic faith, but belief or not I still think it is a wonderful experience of community and sharing our joy which halves our pain*. Seating is every other pew so the priests can move through to anoint and offer the Eucharist.

There is music and singing; there are prayers and scripture reading. It’s a Mass so it includes the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist.

The Mass is followed by lunch. I usually attend alone, so it’s always a surprise who I will be sitting with. So many people go to so much trouble, cooking, setting everything up, decorating. There are prayer cards and a favor to take home. One of the volunteers makes them. They are so thoughtful and creative; it makes me want to go home and create something.

In yesterday’s writing, I mentioned having an object to help with meditation and contemplation. Today we were given a small medal with a cutout of a cross. I have been given this week’s object, I see.

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I encourage you to look up today’s readings. They are always a link from the past history to our daily lives. One of the things I enjoy about going to Mass so often (usually four times a week) is that despite the words being thousands of years old, they still speak to me. I relate to them on a regular, almost daily, basis.

First Reading: Lamentations 3:17-23

Second Reading: James 5:13-16

Gospel: Mark 7:31-37

My prayer

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Julian of Norwich is one of my favorite mystics. Her work is said to be the first one written in English by a woman (1395).

One of my favorite of her quotations struck me when I first heard it. Ironically, when I am in a pessimistic mood, I will still often say that everything will work out; it will be okay.
Her words:

“All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well”

is so close to my own sentiment that I did a double take the first time I heard it, which was appropriately at my first healing mass.

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[Borrowed and paraphrased with permission from Dumbledore’s Army and the Year of Darkness.]

Retreat Week, Day 1

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My family went away this morning and have promised to return before The Walking Dead’s second episode of the season. This is probably the first fall television season that we’re watching so many shows as a family. Our oldest son usually skips out, but he did spend six weeks with us watching the premiere season of Fear the Walking Dead. Considering that he doesn’t watch the main show anymore,  this was quite an achievement.

Well, it’s retreat week again. It’s funny how it always seems to fall during this week in October. I really don’t plan it that way. I make some kind of a preliminary plan of activities, and when I look at the calendar, it’s this week again. It seems to have moved from psychologically necessary for my mental health to traditional week that is necessary for my mental health. Regardless of the changes in my reasoning behind the retreat, it is still important to me, and a necessity to keep me going until the next retreat.

My retreats vary from writing to spiritual to creative to a combination of all of those things.

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My Fandom History, Abridged Version

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In high school I wrote fan fiction (although we didn’t call it that then) for The White Shadow.; Mary Sue self-insert. I wrote RPG spy fiction. Again Mary Sue self-insert, but with a little more character development. I wrote band fic; less Mary Sue, more career exploration. I was a photojournalist for the opening act, and I guess except for the band, I kind of try to do that now with my blog. It reminds me of the inspiration and the you can do anything feeling that I forgot about in my thirties.

I like to think I’ve gotten better, both as a writer and a creator of original content. Those three examples are not something I usually share. It’s in the embarrassing box of teen angst, and hiding my fan side in the closet. It’s okay with certain people, but not others, and that’s how we give off the aloof, quiet, introvert vibe. Some of us are those things, but as a whole, fans are exuberant and fun and loud; very loud.

My first fandom was Star Trek. I was in every aspect of fandom. I watched every episode multiple times, I knew every episode by heart, I learned Klingon, I went to conventions. I bought the books and set my clock by Starlog’s publication date. Star Trek led me into every other science-fiction/fantasy from space to dragons to magic to time travel. There were watching parties, and special menus for mystery dinner nights. I could recognize later generation actors out of their makeup by their voices or body language. I’ve stood hours in line for autographs, but in those early days, we didn’t pay for them.

As a TV junkie, I’ve followed many actors on their careers. Shaun Cassidy for one; William Shatner and George Takei for others. I’ve gone in and out of fandoms, although most of them continue to have a place in my heart. I was recently reminded of H.R. Pufnstuf, one of my favorite shows and Land of the Lost by the same team of Sid & Marty Kroft.

I belonged to the SCA, which in and of itself is its own fandom; the fandom of medieval history. I’d claim to be a history buff and a political junkie, but those are just different words for fan and for the fandoms.

Fandom now is far more extensive and out in the open than I ever imagined it would be. There are mainstream stores in the malls dedicated to them: Hot Topic, and you can find licensed merchandise from Minecraft to Lego to DC and Marvel Comics franchises in Wal-Mart and Target. You can’t get more mainstream than that.

When my daughter was three, I found a beautiful, mostly historic rendition of a velvet scarlet Spanish Renaissance gown with a matching velvet tiara for Halloween. That was in Target, and it was less than $20. It would have cost three times that or more for me to make it for her. The only princess costume I could ever wear as a child growing up were those plastic ones of Sleeping Beauty. My face still gets hot when I even think about it.

We’re not embarrassed to say our pop culture loves, and there is no wrong way to be in fandom. Many of us wax and wane on our involvement, and which fandom gets the most attention at one time.

Harry Potter was the book series that brought me into today’s fandom. It was loaned from a friend who thought I might like it. I did. With Harry Potter came movies – in fact, Prisoner of Azkaban was the first movie I ever attended alone. In addition to the movies, I discovered a whole new world on Live Journal of fan fiction, and from there found other fans, and groups, and sub-fandoms, and meta – the analysis of the details. No longer would the minutia of details be relegated to small groups meeting in basements and youth centers once a week or month. Now, the minutia is everywhere. There are headcanons and alternate universes (AUs). There are wikis for individual television shows, movies, and comic book characters. There are kinks and squicks, which aren’t always sexual in nature, but preferential, and their are triggers and spoiler etiquette.

I hear my non-fandom friends expressing fandom sentiments like canon and ships. Many of my closest friends are originally from fandom. What we’ve discovered in fandom is that in addition to our mutual love of fandom, we also have families and jobs and our mundane life doesn’t need to be so mundane as our friendships broaden and include people from across the country and around the world who we never would have met if not for our intersecting fandoms. In turn, we share our views and our values, we accept and learn.

I would say that the fandom I am most involved in is Supernatural. I’m sure most people would have guessed The Walking Dead, and while I do consider myself in that fandom, I don’t get to meet and know the people who are also in it except for Norman Reedus‘ Facebook and Instagram.
With Supernatural, there is tumblr, conventions (even though I don’t attend), watching parties, meta, fan fiction, discussions, speculation, compassion and kindness. Every day I witness those last two in the fandom. It was there already, but is even more pronounced with Misha Collins’ charity, Random Acts and gishwhes, his annual scavenger hunt.

Supernatural showed me a literal whole new world, and was instrumental in my recovery from depression. I love the shows, I love the plots and the characters and the fan family, but I also keep Supernatural on as my background noise. I know many of the episodes so it doesn’t interfere with my writing or my living for the most part, but the voices give me the soft comfort, the hand on my shoulder, the short, quick hug when I need it. We all must have something like that in our lives, and for me, Supernatural is it.

Fandom is here to stay, and I for one, am glad of it. It is so much of my life that I forget when I’m talking to a non-fandom person that they don’t know the details; that the casual viewer doesn’t recognize the reference back three seasons, or the foreshadowing.

Fandom is a life unto itself, and a life unto others. It is supportive and comfort in a loud, sometimes angry world. It can be hope and faith, some of the things that most of my fandoms ascribe to be; a better world in the future, a future of exploration and creating; of ideals and compassion, and so many of the things we embrace and try to emulate in our own lives.

My Shrine Visit

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I’m still not sure what to call my Shrine visit. Since I live so close, about an hour, it feels odd to call it a pilgrimage, but really what else was it? Retreats have leaders and in my mind, they last more than one day or part of one day. It was a few weeks ago that I went on a day pilgrimage to the Shrine of North American Martyrs in Auriesville, NY [Technically, it’s the Shrine of Our Lady of Martyrs]. I couldn’t believe how close it was, practically in my backyard. It is so much of what I run away from home looking for and all the things I picture a shrine should be: pastoral, bucolic, natural, historic. Should I use serene? That seems cliche but it does fit. Strolling the grounds costs nothing but time, and it’s beautiful and quiet, and yes, serene, thoughtful, and thought-provoking. It is the perfect place to think and to pray and to reflect and contemplate on anything; everything.

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A First Day of School Reflection

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This morning at Mass, our priest spoke during his homily about the nativity of the Holy Mother, which is today. Would that be Marymas? One of the things that he mentioned is that in the today’s readings and Gospel, instead of talking much about Mary’s birth that we are commemorating today, it’s all about Jesus. It’s about how she’ll be bringing the Christ child, the Lord, Jesus into the earthly world that she, and we, live in.

That struck a chord with me as I sat down this morning to write about the first day of school. I thought I was going to write a few hundred words about my feelings on returning home to an empty house; the quiet, the little sounds in the basement of the furnace that I can hear so clearly now that the television is off and the summer screeching has stopped. I thought it would be lonely, but would still give me that renewal that I tend to get in the fall when everything starts up again.

It was supposed to be about me; my coping with what to do for the full days, getting re-organized, and catching up on the summertime neglected me.

Instead, like Mary’s birthday, it’s all about the kids.

And today’s that day. The first day of school in our neck of the woods has finally arrived. From what I’ve seen, we’re one of the last regions to return for the fall session. My nieces went back last week, my nephews the week before that. My Colorado friends even started in mid-August.

Here and now, though today’s our day.

Last week, my middle son went to middle school orientation; my oldest went to college orientation and attended his first day of classes.

My little girl got on the bus alone for the first time this morning, mere hours ago. No big brothers to lead the way; not that she needs any more independence. Yesterday’s argument was if your lip balm is colored it is still lipstick and you’re not allowed to wear it. Because; that’s why.

They’ve all had their moments when the toddler disappeared even if for only one day. It’s a long transition for everyone; two steps forward, one step back.

One day my baby is cuddling in bed and the next she’s painting her toenails. I don’t want to let her grow up. She screams like a banshee, in happy times and angry, but she’s barely above a whisper when my priest says hello to her.

My oldest seems to have crossed the threshold from confused to his family standing to a comfortable big brother. He’s asked for help and advice more times in the last two weeks than in the last two years. He’s reached that trusting place where we’re becoming friends; kind of. He’s eighteen, he drives his own car, he’s a firefighter, he’s in college. He runs errands and cooks dinner. He babysits, which means if he can’t hear them and they don’t blow up the house, it’s all good. He waggles his eyebrows and smirks when he’s trying not to laugh.

About a month ago, my husband tried to clean his room. My son got angry and yelled at him, “Don’t! Leave me alone!” He forgot to pause between ‘don’t’ and ‘leave’ and so it came out, “Don’t leave me alone!” I was in another room laughing and even child#1/adult#3 couldn’t help but laugh. He also forfeited a hug. Much like the one he gave us this morning as he left on his second day of college classes.

My middle guy loves Lego and Minecraft, Star Wars and Batman. He is the curator of my husband’s comic book collection and the comic shop clerks know who to talk to about delays or up and coming specials. He’s very organized and doesn’t like change. He needs timely warnings to prepare him for weekend adventures. Don’t ever tell him something will take five minutes if it will take six. He doesn’t mind waiting if he knows how long the wait will be; exactly how long the wait will be.

It’s taken almost eleven years for him to barely get used to the fact that we do not eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the weekends. Sometimes it’s barely one real meal. This used to take a change in our expressions and a visit to my lap for a hug and whispered explanation. If I want something done properly, however, he’s my man.

#3 is the girliest girl to ever girl. She loves pink and lace, tights and leggings, hats and fancy shoes. She polishes her nails and designs her clothes. She sings and dances, takes care of her babies, and does her hair about about ten times a day. She wants long locks like Rapunzel. She was enamored when I showed her a picture of Crystal Gayle. She works that messy ponytail so well that she puts Scarlett Johanssen and Kristen Stewart to shame. And her feet and hands are the dirtiest I’ve ever seen on anyone. She wears that lacy pink dress and climbs trees. She kicks off her flip-flops to go kick a soccer ball across the yard. She’s got the personality of an entire theatre troupe. She’s a special one.

They’re all special in their own ways and watching them grow into themselves is a double edged sword of privilege and pain.

They are more than my legacy; they are their own. Picking and choosing from their parents and grandparents, their friends and television friends.

They’re becoming.

As they watch their mom, me, in the last few years, converting to Catholicism, finding my way as a Christian and as a writer, adopting compassion, speaking out on all manner of things, and having fun at my “advanced age” I hope they see that their becoming never ends. It grows; it ebbs and flows, it continues and the path darkens and forks, but we are always changing, and whatever path we start on, there are many detours and many opportunities to change our path if the one we’re on doesn’t work out the first time.

The most important thing I hope I’ve taught them is that their lives are not etched in stone, but in sand. One swipe of their palm, one grabbing up of a stick or use of their finger and they are able to draw a new future. Tear the page and throw it in the fire. And most importantly, be you.

Who you may be, become you, my babies.

Writing vs. Posting

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I have been writing on three posts somewhat simultaneously. I start one, move to the next one, stick a thought here or there, save, and continue. When I went on my pilgrimage, the third came to life. Now, I’ve started a fourth that seems to have taken over.

As many of you know, I usually write on my Kindle; my finger and Swype. For something that takes a little more thought and words I use my keyboard. But then there are those doozys. The ones that go over 700 words just in the head space, and I know that I need something a little bigger: my laptop.

For the fourth wip (work(s) in progress), I need to watch a four+ minute video for my analysis; my meta. I can’t really watch a video of that quality and type notes in a first draft format without my laptop. I’ve been watching, and writing, saving to my dropbox to edit on my Kindle, lather, rinse, repeat.

For the third wip, I typed my handwritten notes with the kindle keyboard, dropbox’d it, and continued in the laptop.

The combined word count so far for three and four is well over 2500 words. Truth be told, they’re closer to 3K and nowhere near finished.

I really, really want to post them both.

Like right now.

But they’re just not ready for prime time, and sitting here listening to my fandom playlist, I was reminded that whatever name I give myself – writer, author, blogger – at no point have I ever said I’m a poster.

Posting is the publication, the end result of the work; the time put in, the research, watching the damn videos, adding the damn links, checking the damn facts, honing the opinion, the WRITING.

WRITING.

However long it takes from thought to page to post, it goes nowhere without the writing. So, if the first one takes five months, and the second one takes three months, and the third two or three weeks, and the fourth one and a half months, no matter. No worries.

The writing is the thing.

And the thing is the most important thing.

The thing is the writing.