"Don't get it right, get it written." --James Thurber


This is so blasted hard to learn.

Sigh.

Sailing

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." Mark Twain

Life Happens.

I would be writing a lot more here if I wasn't writing a research paper (due tomorrow).

Not to make excuses or anything; I'm just stating a fact.

Later:

Eh, and maybe once I recover from staying up until 3 to write said paper, too. Nice. :-P

So I love how I manage to write a page on Thanksgiving, when there's supposed to be so much going on, but I don't write one the day after. I didn't even do the whole Black Friday thing either -- I did however see Enchanted, which was muy divertido! But, eh, threw off my groove. (Bwaha.)

You know what else throws off my groove? Being as tired as I am and having spent much time and brainpower reading and writing and working on my research paper. Therefore, I am going to be gentle on myself and say no, I didn't write yesterday, and no, I won't write a whole page tonight. I edge toward a story idea and my brain just sort of dissolves. Meh.

Caleb leaned carelessly against a convenient column, watching the man and his followers. As a successful lawyer, he had no need for this man and his ideas, not with the law engraved in everything about him, but there was such a stir about the man that Caleb’s curiosity had been seized, and so he watched.

People often asked the man questions, often just to see how he would manage to answer it without being blasphemous. Caleb had to admit that the man was very good at what he did; he had never seen him speak without an impressive display of completely unpretentious yet absolutely immeasurable wisdom. The man simply knew.

Caleb had never worried very much about his soul: he went about his business, offered his sacrifices, had never killed anyone and didn’t lie. But this man, this Jesus of Nazareth, seemed to have much more exalted ideas. Caleb found himself unaccountably intrigued.

There was a lull in the preaching as Jesus spoke privately with his disciples, and Caleb, with a smug air, decided to try the man.

“Excuse me, master?”

The man turned his eyes to him with a look of faint surprise. "Yes?"

Holding out his hands in a plaintive gesture, Caleb asked, "Master, what should I do to gain eternal life?"

Jesus appraised him soberly before he answered, “What does the law say -- in your own words?"

Caleb paused, strangely wishing to impress the man. He thought of turning to his vast academic knowledge – he was, after all, a lawyer – and yet he found the words coming out of his mouth going a different direction. “The law is to love God with everything you are: whole-heartedly, with all of your soul, might, and mind, even, and to love your neighbor the same way.”

The man, Jesus, smiled. “Exactly. Do this, and you will have eternal life.”

Jesus began to turn back to turn back to his followers, but Caleb was not ready to end, not without some sort of match of wits. “But master, who is my neighbor?”

Jesus looked up again; this time Caleb’s very soul stood still under that gaze. The deep brown eyes seemed to carry infinitely more burden than the man’s thirty-something years could possibly account for, and infinitely more wisdom than even his answers to all of the philosophical questions had demonstrated. There was something else there as well, something that Caleb could not name.

Taking a patient breath, Jesus began, “There was once a man, traveling from Jerusalem to Jericho. On the way home, he was robbed – the men who attacked him took everything, even his clothes, and beat him mercilessly before they left him there to die.

“Some time later, passing along on that same road, there came a priest. This priest saw the man, bloodied, naked, suffering…and he passed him by.

“Later, coming down the road where the man lay dying, there was a Levite. He paused for a moment and looked at the man, who could not look back at him, so blinded by the swelling and pain. And the Levite rode on.

“The sun would set soon, and the man knew there was little hope of not only returning home, but of even living out the night. As he ached there on the side of the road, with the sun slowly going down, he tried not to think of the animals that could find him there, defenseless. It was then that he heard something, and he braced himself for the worst.

“‘Oh, my friend, what have they done to you?’ They were the most blessed words he had ever heard. His wounds were cleansed with oil and wine – he could smell it, though he was too swollen to see – and so great was his joy that it was not until the man spoke again that he realized his rescuer spoke with a Samarian accent.

“‘If I help you up, can you ride?’ The man nodded mutely, hoping his battered face was still able to show the endless gratitude he felt. The Samarian eased him onto his donkey, and walked alongside it, having a steadying hand ever ready in case the man began to lose balance.

“It was late at night by the time they reached the inn, but once they got there, the man’s bandages were changed and he was given a good bed. In short, the Samarian took care of him. In the morning, the Samarian told the man that he could not stay longer, but that he had paid the innkeeper and assured him that if he needed anything more, it would be provided. And then, the Samaritan left, never to be seen by the man again.”

Caleb noticed, a long moment after Jesus finished, that he had been breathing differently throughout the duration of the tale. His eyes refocused on the face of Jesus, who was looking at him with immense gravity. “Tell me, which of the three, who saw the robbed and beaten man, was his neighbor?”

Caleb couldn’t think of anything to say. Or rather, he knew exactly what to say – “Master, it is the man who showed him mercy.” – but did not know what to think. Caleb, gazing into the eyes of this man, felt understanding wash over him. He knew what the other feeling in Jesus' eyes was, alongside the burden and the wisdom, the one he could not before explain. It was the look of unexplainable love, and the conferring of great responsibility.

Jesus nodded.

"Go, and do thou likewise."

Writing is so unpredictable -- which you notice especially when you look at the clock and honestly think it's lying to you when it says it's two in the morning.

The nice thing is that this is about 1 3/4 pages, and the one I wrote day before yesterday was 1 1/4. I guess that means that yesterdays page was made up for! :-)

Gabryn Renews Writer-Me

This is actually the first segment from this story that I've done in a long, long time. (The setting is Post WW1, in England I think; the genre, fantasy, with lovely bits of political intrigue and romance thrown in, of course.)

There's actually a funny story to how I decided to write this. Last night as I was falling asleep, I had this interesting thought and decided that it would make a great page of writing for today. However, I've been trying all day to remember it and then thought, hey, why not something about memory loss? And then I realized that Gabryn, of this story, had lost her memory. It was quite a breakthrough, and suddenly writing this page didn't seem so hard.

Cindy likes to remind me to ask myself why exactly I write -- is it because I have stories that I have to write down, or because I want to be good at something, or because I really admire my writer friends? I was worried about this earlier this evening. Then I realized that I suddenly wanted to work more on this story, because it was my story, one that only I could tell, and one I could write because I wanted to write it, to come to love the characters and find out how it ends.

I love when that happens.

Gabryn closed her eyes tightly and put a hand to her head. “Ohh…”

“Don’t try to move,” Bastien touched the damp cloth to her forehead. “You’ve had quite the experience; it’s best if you just lay still.”

Gabryn opened one eye. “Where am I? Who are you?”

“Oh – I suppose we haven’t formally met, have we? My name is Bastien Jorn Nicolai Augustine – but please, just keep it at Bastien. And you, of course, are Gabryn Kelly.”

“I am?” Bastien started at that, and abashedly watched alarm wash over Gabryn’s face. “Oh…Why don’t I know who I am? What happened?”

“Calm down, just calm down, Gabryn. What is the last thing you remember?”

“I remember…a dark room…I was annoyed…and there was a blue mist…and a man.” She glared at him broodingly. “That was you, wasn’t it?”

“Er, yes, it was. Now, tell me what you remember before that?”

Gabryn wore a mask of concentration for a long minute. “It’s all a blur,” she answered finally. “Why don’t I remember anything?”

“The spell must have gone awry when the button didn’t take us where it was supposed to. It’s not an exact art, you know.”

“What isn’t an exact art?” Bastien stared at her, thinking very quickly.

“Magic, of course,” he answered casually.

“Magic?”

“Yes, of course, magic. Your memory must really have suffered if you don’t even know what that is.”

“I know what it is…I just didn’t---” She gave him a questioning look. “Do I know magic?”

Bastien sighed. “Not any more, I guess. But believe me, if I know anything at all about you, Gabryn, you’ll get all of it back in no time.”

Gabryn settled back into her pillow. “How did you know my name?”

“I was – ah – sent to retrieve you, and, er, make sure you got here safely.”

“Like a bodyguard?”

“Yes, like a bodyguard.”

“Well, Bastien,” she closed her eyes again, “you failed miserably.”

Bastien had to laugh at that. “Well, no worries, I’m sure your memory will come back soon, and in the meantime you can do what you came here to do to begin with.”

Gabryn’s expression darkened. “You’re awfully nonchalant about this. Don’t you realize that I don’t know who I am, or anything about myself? Shouldn’t that be my top priority?”

Bastien studied his folded hands for a moment. “Honestly? No, it shouldn’t be. Gabryn, I know you don’t have your memory, and I can only imagine how frightening that is. But I only wish I could make you understand how crucial you are to us. You are the one who is going to tip the balance in our favor. You’re going to help us win.”

“Win what?”

“…the War.”

“The War? The Great War? That’s already won, everyone knows that. That’s part of the reason I’ll be out of a job soon—” She stopped short. “How do I remember that?”

Bastien smiled. “See? I told you it would come. In time, you’ll have all of your memory back. But Gabryn, understand something: we don’t have time. Your fellow magicians need you now, and we need you in top enchanting form, amnesia or no. This is a different kind of war we’re fighting.” He sighed, “I understand that it is my fault that you can’t remember anything, and I swear to you, with my life’s blood, that I will do everything in my power to help you get it back. But it is in your power – your significant power, might I add – to help us. That is the reason we brought you here, and the reason we still need you. Will you help us? Will you fulfill your call?”

Gabryn looked into his eyes; he saw her mouth move nervously. At last she looked away, and exhaled slowly. In a small voice she answered, “I’ll do what I can.”

Bastien took her hand and squeezed it. “That’s all we ask.”

“Is there something I can ask, though?”

“Like what?”

She hesitated. “Well…I’m kind of starving.”

Bastien laughed, “Do you think you can sit up, if I help you? I’m famished too. How do eggs sound?”

“Mostly silent, but I’d love some anyway.” Bastien blinked. “Oh, nevermind. Eggs would be wonderful – with catsup, do you think?”

“Eggs and catsup it is. Now here, let's get you upright; put your arm around my shoulders..."

When I asked Cindy to give me a noun, a location, and an emotion, she obligingly provided forks, driveway, and regret.

I won't cop-out and write "I regret killing you with a fork on the driveway." However...

Gerring sat carefully down at the table. "Alright, ma'am, can you explain to us what happened today, from the top?"

She took a sip from her pink, snowflaked glass. "Aren't you just all business? I've told people a dozen times already today, if not a hundred."

Gerring nodded slowly, patiently. "I know, ma'am, but we need you to tell us just one more time, for documentation.”

She folded her arms and squinted into the distance with a tiny sigh. “I loved him once, officer. A long time ago. We went to school together.”

“Ma’am, if you could just—”

“He carried my books for me, too,” she laughed shortly. “We played cat and mouse games for years after that. And then,” her mouth tightened with ill-humor, “I married the man.

“That was my first mistake. Don’t get me wrong, Officer Gerring, I didn’t think so then. I thought we would grow old together, happy as a pair of fools can possibly be. I even knew that we’d have our fights sometimes – hence the fools part – but I always believed that we’d get through them.

“And then she came along. He met her selling kitchenware door to door, just this pretty little thing with a million-dollar smile,” she sniffed derisively. “She came to the door with an apron on and a bowl of cake batter still in her hands. What he didn’t know then was that cake was the only thing she could make: burned everything else to boot leather and ash. But that didn’t matter, apparently…she invited the man in for a piece of cake – my man, mind you – wearing the suit that I tailored to fit him, even.

“He came home late that day, but with the biggest smile I think I have ever seen on his face, talking about how one little homemaker was going to buy about one of everything. More like he gave her one of everything…they were building their little home together while he was still snoring in my bed. I don’t mind so much that he changed his mind; mostly just that he wasn’t man enough to tell me right off. I finally figured it out one day when he came home smelling like a bakery with chocolate on his collar. Woo! I sure lit into him! I don’t think I’ve cussed that much since the boys at school tried to…well. At least he didn’t try to tell me that he’d gotten a new job and forgot to tell me about it or some foolishness like that. But the only thing he could say to me was that he was sorry, so I left it at that and threw him out. Cussing all the way, of course. Do you cuss, officer?"

"Ah, no. Not when I can help it."

"Shame. Sometimes cussing is better than prayer, they say. Anyway, about a week later he took what he could fit in one suitcase, and I went back to the job I had before we were married. I forgot how much I liked it, working I mean, and I came to find out I was good at it. Soon I bought a new house in another part of town, less lonely, see, and mostly just forgot about him. Every now and then a man would pass by with something like the way his aftershave smelled on, and my blood would boil, no matter how kindly the man tried to smile at the crazy woman glowering at him.” She picked up her glass for another sip.

“Ma’am, I’m sorry, could you please just tell us what happened...this afternoon?”

“Look now, sir, if you want me to tell it yet again, you’re going to let me tell it how I want to!” She was still holding the glass, but one long, threatening finger was pointed directly at his heart. She pretended not to notice him fidget as she took a swallow of water. “Now, where was I?”

“I, er, don’t know–”

“Oh, that’s right. Eventually even the smell of his aftershave stopped bothering me. Then…well, I was minding my own business this afternoon, tying the tomato plants out there, and this salesman walked up the driveway.

“He’d lost weight, I could see, and had a shabbier coat on then I would have let him go out in. He didn’t recognize me…tried to sell me a set of flatware, ‘wonderfully sturdy,’ ‘elegant and simple’. They were nice, but all I really saw was how run down he was, how he didn’t care a bit for what he was selling or who he was selling it to anymore, he just wanted to have it over with for the day and didn’t even care too much for going home, either. I’d taken a fork of his, to pretend to look at it so I could watch him for a minute. Then, I think for just a minute, he thought he recognized me, and had the nerve to look scared. What kind of man is scared of a woman he’s done wrong, when she’s so over and past it that she doesn’t even care? I knew then that he was just plain done, a dog kicked too many times.”

“And?”

She gave Gerring a deprecating look. “And I took the fork and I killed him with it. And you know what, I might regret marrying him, but I don’t regret killing him a bit. So you can take me away now, Mr. Smarty-Pants Police-Officer Gerring.” She held out her thin wrists with a pretentious air.

Gerring shook his head at his supervising doctor behind him, who was flipping through her charts. “See? I told you she was gone. Her husband died twenty-eight years ago."

The doctor visibly started. He looked Gerring, his eyebrows almost at the ceiling.

"Of stab wounds."

George Eliot (aka Mary Ann Evans):

"It’s never too late to be who you might have been.”

"The strongest principle of growth lies in human choice."

I am choosing to be who I probably should have been trying to be all along. I am a writer.

Well, I've already sat and stared at my computer screen, done every other thing I can think to do, and I think I have finally reached that certain point:

I have no idea what to write.



But that's okay.

Savannah looked around her empty apartment. Gone. All of it.

Her chest felt hollow as she walked past the place where the TV, VCR, and DVD player should have been. She couldn't bear to stop and check inside the TV stand to see if the movies were still there. As she stepped into the kitchen, it was just that much more painfully obvious that the apartment had been broken into: it echoed now. She hesitated at each bedroom door, wondering if she would find each girl's printer gone. They were. Did anyone have any real jewelry? Is all of that gone too? She twisted her ring around her finger, taking stock of all that was missing -- the knives, interestingly enough, both Jenna's and Rynn's stereos, Chase's laptop and probably her iPod. It was like someone had mistaken their apartment for a 90% off sale, and had a 10% off coupon.

Claire pushed the door open just as Savannah came into the front room again, beginning to cry. "Savannah, what is it? --- oh, my word."

Savannah dropped onto the couch, "I s-swear I locked it!"

"Is everything gone?"

Savannah nodded, “I was so glad I found the key --- and I remember locking the w-window! I had to fight with the blinds, and I’m pretty sure I bolted it ‘cause a guy was out there with his phone!”

“That is so strange – ”

“Everyone is going to blame me! For all of the stuff being gone! People say you almost burned down the apartment, but you didn’t really. I really did let everything get stolen though! That’s thousands of dollars worth of stuff! And everyone is going to be so mad at me!”

Claire sat down quickly next to Savannah. “Hey, hey, freaking out isn’t going to fix anything. You’ll get this figured out. In the meantime, take a deep breath, try to calm down.”

“H-how can I calm down? Some terrible person came and stole everyone’s stuff and it’s MY fault.”

The door creaked. “Feels terrible, doesn’t it?”

Claire and Savannah both jerked their heads to look. “What are you doing here, Kyle?”

“I came…to apologize.”

Savannah laughed chokily, “This isn’t exactly a good time!”

“Well, but see…your note was so without warning. I found it and I was so desolate, like something precious had been stolen away, and I knew it was my own doing. I hadn’t told you enough how much you mean to me, and I knew I’d do anything to get you back.”

“Yeah, well, I can relate.”

“I know.”

Claire watched Kyle carefully for a moment. “Wait a second, do you mean --- ?”

“I got Dave to pick the lock --- he said it was easier since the bolt wasn’t locked --- and all of my roommates and I grabbed everything lightning fast. It’s all in our living room.”

“Why would you do that, Kyle?! Why would you do that?”

“It was the only thing I could think of to get you to see how sad I was that you didn’t want to be with me! Can you see now how miserable I was? We’ll bring your stuff back right away, don’t worry, but can’t you see what I’m trying to say here?”

“You are a psychopath.” Savannah got up and left the room.

You know what else is OK?

Writing total JUNK.

Don DeLillo:

"I've never thought about myself in terms of a career... I don't have a career, I have a typewriter."

"Writing is a form of personal freedom. It frees us from the mass identity we see in the making all around us. In the end, writers will write not to be outlaw heroes of some underculture but mainly to save themselves, to survive as individuals."

I know I don't consider myself a career-writer. But is that maybe what I want? Or is it purely about me and my writing? Do I use my writing to survive as an individual?

Hmm...

And this I wrote tonight. If you know me personally or have read my personal blog, you may guess my thought process behind it. It was just what came when I tried to write something, so try not to judge me for thinking about it too much.

“You don’t actually care about me.”

“Oh come on, don’t say that.”

“No, I’m serious. You really don’t care about me.”

He exhaled disbelievingly. “Why won’t you believe me? You're amazing.”

“No, I believe that…I believe that you enjoy being with me, and you think I’m amazing. But that’s the problem; that’s all it is.”

“What are you talking about?”

She sighed, and stared hard at the ground, weighing whether or not she should hurt his feelings. When she glanced at him, she could see that he was gazing at her, leaning in with attention. That decided it.

“It’s like this,” she spun to face him. “You are lonely. You like for people to listen to you. You want to feel strong and respected. And I have this terrible habit of humoring boring people. I’m not saying I am dying of the tedium when you tell me about work and stuff, I’m just saying that a lot of other people would not sit and listen to you talk about things that you know all about and that they know nothing about. That makes you feel interesting, for one thing, because I listen, and smart for another thing because you know so much more about it than I do. And, interestingly enough, that also makes you feel really good – cared about even. And you want to keep feeling like that, so you want to keep me around. You like being with me not because of who I am, but because how I make you feel about yourself. I’m not saying there’s something wrong with that, but it has to fit into the right place. You need to feel good about yourself -- feel smart and interesting and worth caring about – all on your own, without your ex, without me, without anyone but you and the Lord. I can’t provide that for you. I can’t cater to your neediness just because I like to help people. And you can’t like me just because I fill certain needs that you should be taking care of yourself. Does any of that make sense?”

He was silent for a long moment. “Yeah.”

“Look, I’d say I’m sorry, but I’m not. This is something everyone has to learn. I’m still learning it myself, but because I see it in this case, I have to put a stop to it. I can’t keep you from liking me, but I can be straightforward with you and do what I can to help you get your facts straight. I can’t just stand by and let you like me for dumb reasons without saying anything.”

He gave her a sharp, sly look. “It didn’t stop you the first time.”

She shot him a look of disgusted incredulity. “I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Well it’s true! It’s not like I’m not all of a sudden a different person now.”

“And what if I’m a different person now? I told you, I told you that I’m still learning this. What if I learned it because of you, huh? What if I was lonely and bored and needy myself when I met you, and now I wish I had known then what I know now? What if I wish I knew better than to rely on you, of all people?”

“Why does everyone think I’m the ENEMY?” he leapt to his feet.

“I never SAID you were the enemy! All I said was that you were stupid and needed, for Pete’s sake, to GROW UP!”

He leaned in and stabbed his finger at the air in front of her face. “You are not my mother.”

Slap. “You’re right. She’s entirely too nice to you.”

This I wrote yesterday -- it was less than a page because I just wasn't willing to put the creative energy into figuring out the woman, or the orange, but the first part was a neat exercise of writing with all senses engaged.

She took the fruit firmly in her hands, the pitted surface tickling her fingertips as it gave way slightly to her touch. It was between coral and gold, imperfectly globular, and slightly blemished with brown. The bitter-fresh smell of it was faint, but she could taste its tartness in her memory. Looking inquiringly at the woman, she weighed it in her hand for another moment, and when the woman made no apparent response, sliced through the thick skin with her thumbnail. There was a sharp-smelling spray of juice as she pulled away the skin, letting the pieces of it drop to the floor. When she was finished, she held in her hand a unkempt orb, bits of white clinging to it on all sides.

“Seek its heart,” the woman told her, and once again she forced in her finger, this time to the center of it, and pulled it apart.

A brilliant flash of light blinded her and she recoiled, unable to drop the orange halves. There was a glassy cackle, then silence, then, nothing at all.

This started as an experiment: Cindy, my best friend and the most writerly individual I know, suggested that I begin my attempt at "serious writing" by building short stories off of something I know. Her example was fairy tale retellings. That isn't really my thing though; my first (and just about only) exposure to the classic fairy tales was Disney, and that doth not a writer make -- at least not this writer. However, I have been fascinated by the Old Testament class I'm taking this semester, and thus this thing was born. I would love to add to it, I would love to write about the other Old Testament patriarchs, but I'm trying not to over-structure myself.

Another thing Cindy said I should do was give myself permission to write something terrible. And, well, I did -- this is melodramatic crap. You've been warned.

The Patriarchs

Genesis 15-22: Abraham

“But Lord – how could I kill my own son?”

It was the only thought in my mind, the echo of it pounding my heart into smaller and smaller shards. I remembered that very morning, when I looked into his eyes as he joked over breakfast, seeing for the hundred-millionth time his mother’s laughter in the large, brown eyes I bequeathed him. I remembered the day he was born, remembered loving my wife more than I knew was possible when I took him from her soft, wrinkled hands – a baby of our very own. I remembered the day that I saw those three holy messengers, who blessed our home and Sarah’s womb, promising us that she would, in fact, bear a son to carry on the family name. Every day I lived since then, I had in my heart of hearts praised God for His mercy and miracles, and loved my son more dearly.

We waited decades for the man-child who had finally completed our home, suffered and struggled to have patience and accept our God’s will. We asked all of the agonizing questions of fruitless loins – were we unworthy? Had we sinned against God? We made it our highest priority to serve Him, as perfectly as mortals could. Sometimes we thought we were resigned to childlessness, but mostly we were only accustomed to the grief. Other times, we did recognize it, and felt it so keenly that we stayed up nights and wept in longing. We knew that God had a plan for our family, but the persistent ache taught us equal parts faith and endurance.

I squeezed my eyes shut against the sudden tears. Surely we – surely I – had learned enough about suffering already! My own father had tried to kill me once, but I had been rescued by the Lord from the wickedness that permeated the environment of my youth. But who would rescue my son, if the Lord was the one ordering his death? Why would God command such a thing, after all that He had promised to us?

The question hunted me as I stumbled in a daze down the mountain, where I had gone to pray. From a long way off, I could see the firelight and Sara and Isaac’s silhouettes against the flicker. I had fought my whole life to protect them from pain and lead my family toward God, yet God was asking me to cause them the greatest pain yet.

“Father! Come sit, dinner is almost ready. You took longer than usual tonight. – Father – are you alright?” I hadn’t let go of the hand he held out to help lower me into my usual place at the fireside.

“Oh – yes, my son, I’m just tired. It was a very, very long prayer.”

Isaac laughed – his trademark. “God was particularly demanding tonight?”

He had no idea.

Thank you, Brother Card.

This is the companion writing-blog to Recipe for Happy, my personal blog.

The other day, I got to see Orson Scott Card at an English Pre-Professional Conference. A girl in the audience asked him about writing and getting published, to which he replied, "How many novels have you written?"

"Um, well, none that I've finished."

"Well then you aren't really serious about it anyway."

The thing is... I haven't finished a novel either. And yet I really do want to be a serious writer! Fortunately, he continued.

"Write a page a day and you'll have a novel in a year. Then worry about it."

So I'm trying to take that to heart. It's been going pretty well, but then none of my roommates are home so it'll be interesting to see what happens when they get back.

In the meantime, yes, my writing is part of my life, and personal to me at that. But if I'm going to write a page a day, I have to have somewhere to PUT it. Hence, this blog.