How I became a songwriter

Dear Molly,

One of our conversations on Friday made me start thinking about my journey of writing songs, and I thought, "I should write this down so I'll remember it."  So, since you're probably the only other person who's also interested in hearing it, you are the recipient.

I remember distinctly when I first became a songwriter, although I can't remember exactly when it was.  However, based on other events that happened before and after this one, I believe I was either seven or eight.  In other words, my statement the other day that it started before I knew you was most likely false.  I'm sorry.  Anyway, I believe I had just gotten out of the shower.*  Rushing to my room, I grabbed a pencil and started writing furiously as the lyrics appeared in my head.  When I had finished that night, I counted up my songs and discovered that I had written six.  I tucked my notebook into my the case of my NIV Adventure Bible so that I wouldn't miss it if inspiration happened to strike during church the next morning.  Sunday night, I persuaded my best friend to "write a song with me," which consisted of me writing a few lines and then asking her what she thought.  I sent it home with her that evening.

Sadly, as far as I know, none of these precious manuscripts were preserved.  However, I can remember the chorus to my favorite one.  It went something like this:
"You are awesome, Jesus
Awesome, Jesus,
Awesome, Jesus,
Awesome."

Get the point?  :)

The songwriting craze faded out as quickly as the fervor that had driven me to write those first songs had arrived.  In fact, in fourth grade, my friend found the song that I'd written with her input, taught it to her younger cousin, and sang it for me.

"I like it." she told me.

I shrugged.  Since I was no longer consumed with enthusiasm over the fact that I could write songs, I was able to listen objectively.  And, in case you were wondering, I wasn't impressed.

"It's okay, I guess." was all I could say.

Several years passed.  In that time, I never thought I'd go back to writing songs.  I was, however, steadily becoming more and more enamored with writing in other genres.  If you were to shadow me in any of my social interactions, you'd find me critiquing grammar or rephrasing sentences in order to make sure I understood what the other person what saying.  My head was full of characters, plot-lines, and words, and I liked it that way.  If you'd asked me, I would have freely admitted to you that I loved writing.  But writing songs was out of the question:  I didn't consider myself to be a good enough musician.

My second attempt to write songs came when I thought I was going to be in a band with some of my friends.  One of them said, "I can put chords together, but lyrics are really hard.  Do you think you could come up with something?"

"Great!"  I thought.  "If I'm the lyricist, then our songs will always have correct spelling and grammar."

I also had some other thoughts that were not quite so positive.  Thoughts like, "How do you write songs, anyway?" Or, worse yet, "What if I can't write anything worth singing?"  Honestly, these thoughts outnumbered the positive ones by such a large margin that I usually forgot how much I loved correct spelling and grammar.

Although I was terrified, I started writing lyrics again.  Most of them were awkward and faltering attempts, but I was at least trying again.  In the process, I figured something out: songs were good stress relievers.  I already knew that listening to music could change my attitude, but when I was angry or sad or lonely, I found myself searching for my songwriting notebook.  Putting the feelings into words lessened their intensity, and allowed me to look them in the face. I'd think, "In a few months, this song will make me laugh because I'll think it's ridiculous." and I'd start to feel better.

For a while, that was all songwriting was for me- an escape, a coping mechanism, and something so personal that I would have shuddered at the thought of ever showing my songs to anyone.

The story gets fuzzy here, because I'm not sure exactly what prompted me to start sharing what I'd written.   Anyway, at some point I realized that I wasn't going to get any better unless I let someone else see what I'd written.  I do know that I chose to share one with you because:
1)  You write good songs
2)  You are kind, so I figured your opinions wouldn't come across as harsh.
3)  You had been hinting that Allison and I should start writing songs.

Of course, I still wasn't very enthusiastic about the idea of sharing songs that I'd written while I was in a bad mood.  Instead, I decided to write a worship song, and in the process of creating something that wasn't inextricably linked to unhappy memories, I discovered that songwriting was fun.  It still is.

That's the story, and one that will probably keep evolving as I keep writing.  Hope you've enjoyed!

Love,
Julianne


*Why is it that good ideas always come to me in the shower?  It's awkward.

The Story of My Stationery

OR,

Imposters, Stalkers, Hampsters, OR WORSE.

(A guest post by Molly, for Molly.)

2-28-2012

Julianne,

Do you like my new stationery?  During our last homeschool group while someone was talking, I began doodling (as normally happens in the aforementioned circumstance).  I drew a nutcracker using the one on our mantle as a model and I drew a butterfly and some random wavy lines.  When I rediscovered the notebook today, I decided it would make pretty stationery.  I made copies and voila! now you know the story behind the paper you are now reading!

Anyway, so excited to see you later today!  Miss you!

BTW- today is National Pancake Day!

See you soon!  YPPAF,

*it should be noted that the original does, indeed, include my full name.  However, due to previously stated concerns, I am not going to publish it here.

Since I'm interrupting anyway, I'm going to explain my abrupt change in backgrounds on the next one...  #8 was much too long to type onto my picture of her stationery, so I took a little creative license.  :)  Don't panic, the regular formatting will return very soon.

I hope you have enjoyed this book.  I also hope that you have learned

1. There's no such thing as a normal stalker
2. A hampster is not necessarily an impostor unless it claims to be a guinea pig.
3. Beware stalkers, impostors, facebook stalkers, hampters, enemy spies...

A guest post by Allison and Julianne's past self

When Julianne was maybe eight or nine, and I was maybe six or seven, we invented the time machine.  We made it out of a huge cardbord box that had held the dryer our parents purchased when the old one broke.  The time machine had small windows with shutters, crayon artwork inside and out, little pieces of paper dangling from the ceiling via little pieces of yarn, and even a "television".  Each paper had the name of some place we could travel to written on it.  If we wanted to go someplace that wasn't already  on the ceiling, Julianne would write it out on a blank piece, tape it to a piece of yarn, tap that to the ceiling, give it a gentle yank, and off we would go.  It was high tech, I tell ya.  The "television" consisted of a rectangle drawn on the wall with some scribbles inside it. Julianne carefully recorded everything that happen on our adventures in her notebook. This is what she wrote on our very first adventure in time travel.  Original spacing, punctuation, spelling, and capitalization has been retained as much as possible. 

It all started the day before Easter.  I was tired, no, not the tired as in sleepy, no, I was tired of studying, tired of drywall dust, tired of just about everything that was at our home in Michigan.  So, My sister, Allison and I went into our box, that we call the time machine.  It's the day before Easter, so we are going to the first Easter. Right now, we are traveling though darkness complete dark ness ecept for a few multitudes of stars.  My sister, is watching movies, and entertaining herself with strings, & tying my hair into knots.  Oh, I'm sorry, she is reading over my shoulder and insisting that she was only braiding my hair.  Whatever, I think she is making excuses. 

We have three more hours left to go.  

I hope my sister gets over this coocooness she is goin through.

When we got off the time machine we got off at mary Magdelene's house.

She came out , and seeing us said, "My, you two are very young to be out this late".  My sister replied, well your out late too. [-Somtimes she is so rude!] Mary Madilene after looking at Allison turned to me an said,"thats a very cute little sister you've got there".  "Thank you" I said.  So, Mary Magdelene and Allison went went to the tomb together, and I lagged behind.  

When we got there Mary Magdeline exClaimed, "Someone has stolen Jesus' body!" My sister said, I will catch the thief!  And she marched in the tomb.  When she had just went in she came running out.  "There's a man in there" she said, before getting behind me.  Then, the angel [Who was what my sister thought was a man] came out, and said, "I know you are looking for Jesus who was crucified, he his not here, he has risen, come and see tho place where he lay.  Thon go tell his diciples."  So, Mary Magdeline, Allison,& I ran back to town.

My sister ran up to a high priest and said, "hello, disciple, He has risen!" I whispered in her ear, "That's a high priest, not a disciple!" Oh, she said.

Right now, she can't wait for our next adventure, I remided her we have to color easter eggs, she still doesn't understand.

Well at least she doesn't call me mom anymore.

Contrary to what this story would have you believe,  I was, at that time, familiar enough with the Easter story to know that Jesus' body was not stolen, and therefore would not have volunteered my detective skills.  I would know the man in the tomb was the angel. I also probably was not bold enough to witness to a high priest.  Apparently, making me look bad in her story was her way of venting her irritation toward me. You see, when you are traveling back in time, it is essential that you remain in the time machine until you arrive safely at your destination, and you cannot arrive at you destination until Julianne has finished writing down everything that is going to happen when you get there.  Now this may not look like very much to write, but in the notebook it takes up three pages, and took quite a long time for Julianne to think of and then write down..  I was extremely bored while she did it (Did I mention that the television she says I was watching was drawn on the box with a crayon? It held my attention for maybe one tenth of a second.  Maybe.)  Anyway, it frustrated her that I kept interrupting her to insist that we were still in her room and it was therefore possible for me to go get _________ toy from my room.  She did get one thing right, however.  I don't call her mom anymore. 

This post has been read and approved be Julianne's current self. 

When in love, one must suffer

     He sat by her bed, holding her hand.  The doctor came in, followed by his assistant, a fellow from the hospital's medical school.  They did their best to be cheerful, but he knew his wife was dying.
     "Is she in pain?" he asked.
     "She's as pain-free as is humanly possible." the doctor replied.
     He stayed with her all night.  It was the least he could do.
     "I've heard that question a thousand times." the doctor said when they were out of the room.
     "I can imagine." was the reply.  The elderly man's face had been seared with pain as he'd asked about his wife's, but his pain was of the sort that the doctor could not treat.
     It was sobering, but he didn't have much time to think about it.  Soon, they were visiting the next patient, and the next, and before long it was time to head home.  His wife was waiting for him.
     He was a lucky man.  No one understood why she had married him.  Her friends thought she was crazy to trade the best L.A. had to offer for a shabby apartment in Detroit.  Her parents said she was foolish for not waiting until he graduated.  When she was reading the user's manual for the vacuum, or puzzling over basic cooking terms, even he could not help wondering why she'd ever chosen their life together over the luxury of her parent's lifestyle.
     She always smiled whenever people said anything, but she knew it was useless to explain.  She loved him.  It was as simple as that.
     When the assistant left, the doctor still had paperwork to do, but he finished it as soon as possible.  He was anxious to get home.  It was rather tumultuous at the present moment, but he knew that it was soon going to get too quiet.  His daughter was leaving in a couple weeks, heading to Haiti to teach.  He shuddered when he thought of her living alone in a country rampant with poverty and disease.
     She only laughed when he asked her- again- if she was sure that she wanted to do this.
     "Yes, Daddy."  she said.  "God is calling me, and I love Him.  I must obey."
      "And when in love, one must suffer, I suppose." he replied.
      Her eyes grew thoughtful, and she fingered the sterling cross around her neck.
     "Yes, I suppose so."

True Story

     We've officially reached one of the most reflective times of year.  Christmas is over, and we're preparing to usher in another year.
     In the spirit of the season, I have a little story to share with you.  It happened about a year ago, and I had kind of forgotten about it, until I rediscovered the following letters:

Letter #1

December 26, 2011

Dear guy who shelves books at the library,

     By now you probably think I’m a stalker, or a creep at the very least, since you caught me looking at you for a rather extended period of time, trying to figure out where I knew you from.  Then, of course, we had to see you at a completely different store within a half hour.  Please believe me when I say that it was completely accidental.  If I had been trying to follow you, I wouldn’t have looked for you in the make-up section.

Sincerely,

All I wanted was nail polish.

Letter #2

 

December 29, 2011

Dear guy who shelves books and also picks up litter in the library’s parking lot,

     I never expected to have to write you another letter.  Actually, I’m hoping that you didn’t see me at all today.  However, in case you did, I can explain.  You see, the only internet we have at our house is dial-up, which is   s…….l……o……w……..  My mom and I were in the parking lot today, not to watch you as you picked up trash, but to use the internet on our portable devices.

Sincerely,

I just wanted to check my notifications.  Seriously. 

1825

When I was seven and Sarah was ten, we spent all our time together.  People used to comment that we acted like twins.  We would laugh in unison, and she would protest, “We look nothing alike!”  It was true.  I was tall for my age, with lanky limbs that greatly contributed to my overall clumsiness.  More often than not, by face was dotted with freckles, and my hair was windblown.

     Even at ten, Sarah was far more graceful than I.  Her hair and dress were always spotless and tidy, just like the bonnet that she always wore to keep the sun off her face. 

     Mama used to sigh after having to clean up one of my messes.  “Why can’t you try to be a little more like your sister?” she’d ask.

     I would shrug.  I adored my sister, but it was extremely difficult to live up to her example.

     Once, Papa told Mama, “Annabelle’s just fine.  She’ll grow out of this eventually.”

     “I know she will.”  Mama said, “I just wish it would happen today.”

     I was not terribly hurried to make my mother’s wishes come true.  I was constantly coaxing Sarah to play with me in our woods.  She would walk, very sedately, holding up her skirts.  I would run ahead, braids and skirt sailing behind me.  I waited for her, seated on a patch of moss.  I’d listen to the birdsong and the chatter of the squirrels in the trees.  Rays of sunlight danced along the ground, sometimes creeping into my lap.  I would smile, not daring to break the magical silence with my voice. 

     Eventually, Sarah would arrive with our farm dog, Blue, trotting along beside her.  He would chase the squirrels, and the sunlight.  I would laugh.  The spell would be broken, and we would play.  Sometimes we fought.  She always wanted to pretend we were great ladies in horse carriages, going to a ball.  I came up with other ideas.

     “Let’s play ‘house’” I’d suggest.

     “How?”

     “Well, we can make pies with mud to bring to the quilting bee, or churn butter, or…”

     “Those things are boring.” She would say.

     “No, they’re not!”  I would exclaim, not understanding why she was so disdainful.

     Years sped by, and I stopped imagining that I was making butter, and started actually doing it.  Then, the year that I was fourteen and Sarah was seventeen, I finally convinced my father to let me help him plant the fields.  That summer, I checked them regularly for pests and invasive weeds.  I groomed the horses, and talked to Blue while I milked the cows.  I loved every minute of it.

     I was far less clumsy now, and Mama didn’t mind so much if I did make a little mess.   We’d laugh together while we made pies or mended socks.  She never asked me to be like my sister.

     I knew why.  I had discovered that growing up was everything I dreamed it would be.  Every new job delighted me.  Sarah was not lazy, but every time she could get away, she would grab a book or a newspaper and curl up and dream.  The farm had no joy for her, because her dreams were different than mine.  She was still staring longingly at her castles in the sky. 

     Mama worried.  Papa said, “Sarah’s just fine.  She’ll grow out of this eventually.”

     If Sarah had been born a couple generations earlier, Papa’s prediction would have been just as right as the one he made about me when I was seven.  However, these were not our grandmother’s childhood days.  This was 1825.

     One evening, Sarah, Mama, and Papa stayed up late, talking.  I was exhausted, so I went to bed.  The next morning, Sarah told me the news: she was going to start a job at one of the textile mills in Lowell the next week.

     “Lowell is so far,” I said, “You won’t be able come home in time for supper every night.”

     “I’m going to live there.” she told me, “They have rooms for the workers, called dormitories.”

     “You do not have to work there,” I protested.  “We can get a spinning wheel and a loom right here, and sheep, too.”

     “This is not like that.” She said.  “I’m going to do the same job, every day.”

     It sounded boring to me.

     “I’ll make money” she continued, “And then I can buy dresses, nice, new dresses for all three of us- you, Mama, and me.  Wouldn’t you like that?”

     Her eyes were so bright, so hopeful, that I couldn’t tell her no.  I could not tell her how I honestly felt; how I knew that no amount of dresses in the world would be able to replace my sister.  She would not have understood, anyway.  We were so different.

     All of us cried when she left the next week.  “I’ll miss you.” she said.

     “Not as much as I’ll miss you.”  I thought, but I just hugged her one more time.

     She came to Mama.  “I promise I’ll write.” she told her.

     Mama cried some more and said, “You’d better.”

     Sarah was smiling through her tears as she adjusted her hat and stepped into the horse-cart, where Papa was waiting to take her to Lowell.

     As soon as I could, I ran to the woods.  I laid down on the moss.  All my old friends were still there: the birds, the squirrels, the sunbeams.  Even Blue arrived after a while, except that he was too old to want to chase things anymore.  I wanted to cry, but somehow I could not bear to break the lonely silence.

     Instead, I thought about Sarah.  The mill had sounded strange and ugly to me, as she described it with an excited glimmer in her eyes.  I wondered what she would think of the mill after a couple weeks.  Then Blue started tickling my ear with his breath.

     I laughed, as some of the loneliness dispersed.

     Now I’m seventeen, and Sarah’s 20.  She comes home at holidays, in pretty dresses, with gifts for everyone, and talking about all her friends in the city.  When she is here, everything seems brighter, but she’s not coming back anytime soon.  She loves her job.

     I still love the farm.  You can usually find me milking cows, plowing fields, or in the kitchen with Mama.  Or, if those tasks are done, there’s a certain clump of moss in our woods, where I go sometimes to think about the past and smile at the beauty all around me.

The promised story. :)

     "The Sanhedrin was assembled, but there was no one to judge."  The man laughed.  "As you can imagine, that didn't make the men's tempers any better.  Finally, someone reported that they were in the temple courts again, teaching."
     Luke nodded, and the narrator proceeded.
     "When the guards brought them before us, Annas was the first to speak:
     "'We gave you strict orders not to teach in this name, yet you have filled Jerusalem with your teaching, and are determined to make us guilty of this man's blood.'
     "His voice was high and haughty, but that was understandable.  After all, we thought that he was the only man who could intercede between us and God.
     "The men were not disturbed at the high priest's accusation.  They replied, 'We must obey God rather than men!  The God of our fathers raised Jesus from the dead- whom you killed by hanging him on a tree.  God exalted him to his own right hand as Prince and Savior that he might give repentance an forgiveness of sins to Israel.  We are witnesses of these things, and is is the Holy Spirit, whom God has given to those who obey him.'
     "With that, cries of 'Blasphemy!' rang out across the room and in my own heart."
     The storyteller paused here.  Even if Luke hadn't been one of his closest companions, the agony on the man's face would have been evident.  Several minutes passed before he began to speak again.
     "Of course we were angry.  Everyone's tempers had been on edge before the men got there, and the speech did nothing to calm us.  How dare these men tell us that what they had seen- if indeed they saw it, a fact which I highly doubted- was greater than our law.  A carpenter from Nazareth could not forgive sins.  No, we, God's chosen people, Abraham's descendants, we were the ones who obeyed God.  We brought sacrifices to the temple each year and took great care to follow the law.
     "As these thoughts raced through my head, waves of fury broke over me, and indeed, the entire room seemed to be vibrating with hatred, fear, and self-righteous anger.  There were whispers that the men deserbed to die immediately- a solution I found immensely to my liking.  Then, among the confusion, my teacher stood.
     "'Put the men outside.' he thundered.
     "His name was Gamaliel.  The people loved him and esteemed him highly.  I was fortunate to have such a rabbi, and I knew it.  Still, I wriggled uncomfortably in my seat as he stood there.
     "'Men of Israel,' he addressed us, 'Consider carefully what you intend to do with these men.'
     "Just as I had expected, Gamaliel had remained calm.  His voice was under control, and his wisdom, which had won him favor among the people, had not forsaken him.
     "He began his lecture.  'Some time ago Theudas appeared, claiming to be somebody, and about four hundred men rallied to him.  He was killed, all his followers were dispersed, and it all came to nothing.'
     "Some of the older heads were nodding.  He continued,
     "'After him Judas the Galilean appeared in the days of the census and led a band of people in revolt.  He, too, was killed, and all his followers were scattered.  Therefore, in the present case I advise you:  Leave these men alone!' his voice rose louder, 'Let them go!  For if their purpose or activity is of human origin, it will fail.'
     "No one could disagree with him.  By this time, it seemed that most of the men had been persuaded.  I was too, but, unlike them, I continued to listen.
     "'But if it is from God, you will not be able to stop these men.'
     "The message was simple:  Let's let Rome deal with the radicals.
     "Something inside me rebelled.  I refused to sit there and let out traditions and faith be blasphemed everywhere.  'Gamaliel might be content to sit back and wait for Rome to come to the rescue,' I thought, 'But I will fight for God.'"
     The old head sagged.  "I was so young, and so foolish."
     Luke looked into the kindly eyes of the man who had been his traveling companion and father in faith- the very faith that he had once persecuted.
     "Yes, but God has used that ugly story in powerful ways."
     Paul smiled.  "His grace to me was not without effect."

Epilogue
Gentiles everywhere praise God that Jesus is the only man who can intercede between us and God...  And for the testimony and encouragement of this godly man.

That's all I've got, folks.  If you want more of Paul's story, Read Acts 9, or any of his letters in the New Testament.  They're pretty awesome.  :)