When I was a kid, my parents used to call me Chatterbox. Because I could talk. A LOT.

(Still can, still do. Just ask Andy.)

Sometimes my rambling was so bad that my dad would say, “If you can’t tell a story in two minutes or less, then I don’t want to hear it.”

And yet I still grew up to be a novelist.

If you couldn’t tell from the last couple posts, my friend and I took a bajillion pictures in Nashville. Even pictures of taking pictures! How very meta of us.

I have to admit, it got a bit tedious to stop and pose and smile every five minutes. But I’m so glad my friend made me, because now I have a wonderful record of all the things we did and saw. And for someone with a lazy lousy memory, that really comes in handy!

I’m also glad I wasn’t the only one carrying a camera (as I often am). My friend managed to capture several great shots of me and Andy, something I always wish we had more of. In fact, I’ve told him before, even though we don’t want a “real wedding” (in the hundreds-of-guests, big-poofy-white-dress sense) I most definitely do want engagement and wedding photos. Fancy ones.

These will do for now though.

On Thursday night, Andy and I drove to Nashville to visit one of my best friends. For three days we enjoyed good food, live music, and great company. As much as I love writing, and am looking forward to finishing my manuscript, it’s always hard to come back down to earth after a fun, carefree weekend like that.

What helps, though, is how inspired I was by the trip. Big softie that I am, I actually cried a bit at the Grand Ole Opry. They showed clips of Blake Shelton and Carrie Underwood being invited to join the Opry family. They led us through the artist’s entrance, over to the dressing rooms, and then onto the stage. Standing on the infamous center circle, looking out into the auditorium, I imagined what it might be like as a young country singer. To see a full house. To hear the thundering applause. To feel all that history paired up with all those years performing for free in smoky bars, sending out demos to record labels, eating nothing but ramen, writing song after song at three in the morning. And then, if you’re lucky, to be singing at the Opry. A dream come true.

Later that night we went to the Bluebird Cafe. It was like going back in time, to those smoky bars I was talking about. (Except there was no smoke, and I think these guys get paid.) Four songwriters, plus an amazing accompanist, played “in the round” — an unmarked circle in the center of the cafe. We sat close around them, practically elbow to elbow, while they took turns sharing their songs and their stories. Again I was struck by the passion, the heart, in their music and their words. It reminded me of my own journey, my own heart.

From L to R: Shannon Cain, Bill Maier, Robert K. Wolf, and the accompanist, who I think is named Jack Otts. Unpictured is the fourth singer/songwriter, Michelle Hemmer.

They sang of love and laughter, of heartbreak and regret. They sang from a place of honesty. The clarity of their vocals, the purity of their guitars… Genuine emotion poured out of both the musicians and the audience, like so much magic.

That’s what I want to do with my writing. I want to stand on the Opry stage, and I want to sing at the Bluebird Cafe. I want to achieve my dream without forgetting where the passion started. I want to bring readers in the round with me.

Your day starts at 6 AM with a dog retching beside your bed. The noise rouses you from dreaming, and you stumble out of the room, urging the dog to follow you to the kitchen and its tiled floor.

Unfortunately, he doesn’t quite make it.

Still half-asleep, you clean up the carpet and then fall back into bed. The dog lies down next to you, wide-eyed and sad, as if he can’t believe his stomach has betrayed him.

An hour later, the alarm goes off, and it’s much too soon. But what can you do? It’s time for breakfast, emails, and work. Not long after that, it’s time for lunch, errands, and work. And a little later, it’s time for dinner and chores, and maybe some more work. The day rolls on, no relief, layering its stresses upon you one tick of the clock at a time.

Finally, when most of your to-do list has been checked off — the rest will have to wait until tomorrow — you settle on the sofa, curling into the corner and sinking into the cushions. The TV is on but you barely hear it. Your eyes are open, but your mind is in Sleep Mode. You feel… nothing.

Minutes pass. Then something moves in the corner of your vision. A paw.

You turn to see your dog tucked into the opposite corner of the sofa, a furry ball of sleep. You watch him. His little belly rises and falls with each slow, soothing breath. His nose twitches. His ears are askew. His eyes have disappeared into the black spots that surround them. His tail is wrapped around him like punctuation mark, and his head is nestled between his front legs.

You smile.

Peace settles over you like a warm blanket. You feel grateful for this one tiny moment, this perfect picture of serenity. You realize that life is a two-sided coin: everything is balanced. Suddenly you don’t feel so stressed.

When you get up, the dog follows. He stands in your closet while you change into pajamas. He sits at your feet while you brush your teeth. He looks at you hopefully when you open the fridge for a glass of water. He jumps onto the sheets when you turn off the lights and slip into bed.

At 11 PM your day ends with a dog resting his head on your leg. You both sleep soundly.

Don’t forget to comment on the July giveaway for your chance to win HALF A LIFE by Darin Strauss or THE LOVE GODDESS’ COOKING SCHOOL by Melissa Senate.

…

Not to be a downer, but death has been on my mind lately. A week ago, a young alum from my college died in a car accident. A few days later, a girl I knew from high school dance team passed away. Then of course there are the high-profile deaths: the tragic bomb and shooting in Norway, the train accident in China, Amy Winehouse.

Like that list, this post is going to be a bit disjointed. I’m going to jump from thought to thought, the way I do in my Reading Reflections. Only this time, I’m not responding to the lines of a story; I’m responding to life. To death.

• I feel a responsibility to remember. I feel guilty because I didn’t know the guy, despite our mutual connections. I could have known him, but I didn’t. I feel worse, I think, because I did know the girl, and she was a lovely person. But in many ways I didn’t know her well “enough” — I don’t have a right to real grief.

• We wish we could make sense of it all, wish that the deaths had a larger purpose. Maybe for some people they do. Me, I’m still mulling it all over. Is purpose something we are given, or something we create? Does it make a difference?

• I cannot imagine what that 90 minutes was like for those kids. Or maybe the problem is that I can imagine, and it’s beyond terrifying. (Side note: I couldn’t help thinking, And that WSJ book reviewer doesn’t think kids live in hell? Hah. I know it’s not a typical situation, but still. Shit happens. All the time, all over the world.)

• More people on Twitter and Facebook posted about Amy Winehouse than Norway. Then came the backlash: why does a celebrity with a history of drug abuse get more attention than innocent children? On the one hand, I understand that sentiment, but on the other, everyone is allowed their opinions, their feelings. Sorrow shouldn’t be a competition.

• A recent piece in New York Magazine talked about how Twitter and Facebook may be more “lifelike” than books or articles,because of their lack of narrative structure. They don’t give happy endings or closure. They just simply record our natural timeline, reflecting our reactions as they unfold. Maybe that is more like real life. Maybe that’s never more clear than when we’re faced with death.