Here's My Achilles Heel

(Handy Reference Post)

"I'm standing guard, I'm falling apart

And all I want is to trust you

Show me how to lay my sword down

For long enough to let you through.

Here I am, pry me open.

What do you want to know?

I'm just a kid who grew up scared enough

To hold the door shut

And bury my innocence

But here's a map, here's a shovel.

Here's my Achilles' heel."

~"Eight" by Sleeping At Last

Can we just take a moment and appreciate how hauntingly beautiful this verse is?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
All Eights stand guard. Eights who have been burned by love stand guard with an extra sword.

For Eights, this is fine. This is how we are. This is how we prefer to be.

But then sometimes, someone comes along that we actually want to let in, and we realize in horror that we are less in control of that decision than we thought.

The beginning of being with Gabe was me standing guard, falling apart. All I wanted was to trust him. I had decided that he was (relatively, probably) safe and I wanted to trust him, to let him in. But I didn't even know how to do that.

For a long time, I would let him through only to stab him with my sword, then look down at it in horror and wonder why I had done that.

Show me how, I asked him. To lay my sword down for long enough to let you through.

He showed me inhuman patience, unconditional love, and fierce protectiveness for a long time. Eventually, slowly, I began to believe him. I was able to lay my sword down. (Not throw it a way, mind you. I'm not sure Eights can ever throw their swords away—nor do you want them to. We'll get to that in a later post.)

Even after I let him through, I didn't really "open up"; I just didn't stab him. There was a lot of—very welcome—prying open of my heart and mind.

The next line made Gabe laugh out loud when we heard the song a few months ago: "Here's a map, here's a shovel." He told me that was what I had done to him when I finally started to trust him. I had finally invited him to know me, but he was going to have to make the journey himself. I wasn't able to plop the treasure chest of Real Me in front of him. He'd have to follow a map and dig it up himself.

"Here's my Achilles heel."

The moment an Eight lets someone know the things that can hurt her is a strange one. If the Eight is anything like me, she will feel both totally exposed and ready to grab her sword again at the slightest twitch.

My Achilles heel isn't one specific thing, but sort of a state of my mind and heart, I suppose. However, even if I could narrow my Achilles heel down to one specific thing, I still wouldn't tell you here.

When an Eight reveals her Achilles heel and you don't shoot an arrow through it, everything changes.

~Stephanie

When I See Fragile Things

(Handy Reference Post)

"When I see fragile things, helpless things, broken things

I see the familiar

I was little, I was weak, I was perfect too

Now I'm a broken mirror."

~"Eight" by Sleeping At Last

I never realized that my affinity for “cute things” was part of being an Eight.

I know that’s not exactly what these lines are referring to, but it is common for Eights to have a fixation with things that remind them of childhood innocence. Those of you who know me well know that I still sleep with my childhood stuffed animals (known as “bed friends”). While we were dating, Gabe once casually asked, “If we were to get married one day, would I be sleeping with your bed friends?”

I looked at him as if he’d asked if I planned to continue needing food to survive. “Yes?”

Gabe nodded. “Just checking.”

I love cute things. I guess you could say that cute things are one of my more light-hearted Achilles heels.

However, these lines really refer to the Eights’ drive to protect the innocent and vulnerable—which is NOT the same thing as “the weak.” Innocence and vulnerability are states of reality; weakness is something that people choose. It’s like a character flaw. A puppy or a toddler is innocent and vulnerable. A man who refuses to stand up to his overbearing wife is weak. Eights will go unusually above and beyond to protect the former, but may take delight in tormenting the latter.

According to Enneagram philosophy, this is because Eights remember being taken advantage of while they were weak and vulnerable, and wish someone had taken up their cause. The same thing is not going to happen to something or someone else on an Eight’s watch.

I never noticed this about myself until the Enneagram, but once I thought to pay attention to it, I noticed it more often than I would’ve guessed. I do feel a need in my body to intervene when I see wrong or sad things happening to those who I see as vulnerable.

Especially if they are cute.

~Stephanie

My Healing Need More Than Time

(Handy Reference Post)

"I want to break these bones 'til they're better

I want to break them right and feel alive.

You were wrong,

You were wrong,

You were wrong:
My healing needed more than time."

~"Eight" by Sleeping At Last

These first two lines made me want to pump my fist in the air and yell, "YES!" at my speakers.

I've spoken about this a tiny bit before: I enjoy working on myself, whether mentally, emotionally, spiritually, physically. Often, that involves breaking something in order to fix it. I will figuratively break my bones all day til they're better.

I want to break them right.

When I told Gabe how much those lines made sense to me, he frowned.

"But you don't need to break them in order to make them better," he said.

"You do if the bone wasn't set right when it broke the first time," I told him.

No one knew about Heartbreak #1. After Heartbreak #2, everyone basically patted me on the head and me that time heals all wounds. After Heartbreak #3, I was feeding myself that trite line.

But they were wrong. They were wrong. I was wrong. My healing needed more than time.

If the heartbreak isn't set correctly, it can't heal.

I was messed up after Heartbreak #3, which is very hard for me to admit. Anyone who has been in an extremely toxic or emotionally abusive relationship knows what a number it can do to your heart and head. Had I not gotten the tools to help me process and grow as a person, I might never have healed from it.

For one thing, I needed to learn to see myself the way God sees me. God looks at me and sees brokenness, but he doesn't exploit that or use it to condemn me. He wants to heal me, not use my brokenness as a weapon or an excuse to abuse me, make me feel less. God sees my brokenness and loves the good he sees in me through Jesus. He forgives me. He has my best interest at heart. He wants me to be a part of his plan to prosper me, not to harm me. There is nothing I can do to separate myself from his love.

I can't imagine successfully recovering from heartbreak without this kind of healing love.

For another thing, I needed to experience what it was like to have a healthy romantic relationship, one that didn't end in being socked in the stomach, forgotten, etc.

For a long time, I would not have wanted to admit that Gabe played any role in healing my heart. How gross is it to say that a girl needs a GUY to show her what she's worth, to heal her heart? I can do that on my own, thanks, and if you can't, you're weak and sad.

To some degree, I guess I still believe that XD I know that if Gabe had not come along, God and I would have healed my heart by ourselves. However, I am so thankful that God chose to use Gabe in my healing process.

More on that later.

~Stephanie

All That I Have to Lose

(Handy Reference Post)

"Now you won't see all that I have to lose

And all I've lost in the fight to protect it

I won't let you in, I swore never again

I can't afford, no, I refuse to be rejected."

~"Eight" by Sleeping At Last

I love those first two lines. They're so beautifully, paradoxically parallel. How much can you have to lose if you've already lost so much?

Well, for an Eight, the answer is "a lot," because there is just a lot inside of us. There's a lot inside everyone, but Eights cultivate intensity, so when I say "a lot," I don't mean "many things," but "many things, each of which has the depth and intensity of a firework set off inside a lunchbox."

Since John, I have had my heart broken by people two more times. One was deep and simple; one was deep and you'd have to read five years of journals to understand it. Each time, it became harder to let someone in.

The first time I listened to those two lines of "Eight," I felt startled and exposed and teary. It put into words something I've felt for the past decade or so. I wish I could explain it.

What is it I feel that I have to lose? Innocence. My heart.

What is it I feel that I've lost in the fight to protect my innocence and my heart? A measure of my innocence; the tenderness of my heart; the veracity of my feelings. Everything I am, everything I feel is intense. It is exhausting to drag all of that to the surface and have someone set it on fire just because he is cold. After each heartbreak, I began to feel more cynical, more unfeeling, more disconnected from my heart.

As backwards as it sounds, for a long time, I sawed off pieces of my heart and buried them away—away from anyone who might try to access them, but also away from myself. Those are the pieces that I lost in my fight to protect them. As long as I never accessed, acknowledged, or exposed them I knew that they were safe. However, they were also useless. What's the point of saving the perfect little black dress for the perfect occasion if you never end up wearing it? You might as well not have it.

When Gabe came along, it was very difficult for both of us. I was a normal, fun, sarcastic college student—on the outside, based on the pieces of my heart I could still access.

What's interesting is that in the midst of all this, I never felt like one of those movie characters who's become hardened and cold and impervious to hurt. I never felt like the caricatured badass who has decided that she's given up on love. I actually think I would have enjoyed feeling that way, but instead, I thought I just felt like my regular self. I thought I was hard and cold—through and through—and always had been (?!). I thought that was my true and natural state of being. I did not think that warm-fuzzy love was a realistic expectation for me.

I genuinely did not realize that I wasn't letting Gabe in. Even now when I look back, I don't...I don't know what I was doing or not doing. It's kind of the exact opposite of having "the minute" when a switch was flipped.

Refusing to be rejected is a quicker, though trickier, line to examine. I don't know whether I struggle with being accepted/rejected now. I do not THINK that I care very much about being accepted/rejected, but then, am I just in denial? Do I actually care very deeply that you accept me, and I just haven't unearthed/accessed that piece of my heart yet?

I guess the jury's out, though in my conscious mind I can assure you that you are free to react to me however you want and I will not take it personally :)

~Stephanie

I Remember the Minute: Childhood Wound(s)

(Handy Reference Post)

Another disclaimer: I know that what happened to me as a kid is sunshine and rainbows compared to many people's childhood experiences. I know that what happened to me was not true "trauma"—but that's the nature of some childhood events. They're mainly painful due to how they're perceived by the child.

"I remember the minute.

Was like a switch was flipped.

Was just a kid,

who grew up strong enough

to pick this armor up,

and suddenly it fit.

God, that was so long ago,

long ago,

long ago.

I was little,

I was weak

and perfectly naive,

and I grew up too quick."

~"Eight" by Sleeping At Last

One thing that sets Eights apart from the other types is that they can usually pinpoint the moment when they consciously Became an Eight. Everyone is born with a type and it gets solidified as they're very young, but Eights have a moment where they felt something Happen.

I have that moment. (Edit: But before I get to that I'm apparently going to unpack this other small thing for a long time.)

I totally believe that I was an Eight from infancy, from the moment my parents loved me so intensely that I started to subconsciously feel* the threat of...being controlled by love? Hold on. Let me see if I can get this right, or at least better than that.

At intense of love/affection, I find myself narrowing my eyes, whether literally or figuratively. I feel that someone is trying to manipulate me into doing something for them or feeling something toward them that I might not naturally do or feel. I always need to feel that I am acting by my own volition. If I feel you are manipulating me in any way, I will figuratively punch you in the face and walk the other way. (I'm working on this. I recognize that 99% of the time I am not being manipulated at all and it is a form of my Need to Be Against coming through.)

I can imagine this coming into play in my infancy and early childhood. My parents are not manipulative people. I have often noted this, actually. They have never pressured or manipulated me into anything that kids are often pressured into. They did not pressure me into being a Christian, wanting to go to Wake Forest, abstaining from alcohol, or a host of other "big" things. However, they definitely did love me a lot in a very hands-on way that, as an Eight, I found overwhelming and threatening. Hence, I probably stiff-armed a lot of their love. (Sorry.)

But none of that is The Minute when it was like a switch was flipped.

Lots of Eights grew up in a legitimately unsafe environment (e.g., abusive, war-torn, etc.). As we've established, I did not. I grew up with great parents, a great sister, and even had a built-in childhood best friend. His name was John** and our parents were friends before we were born. He was born a week before me, so I've never not known him.

We were best buddies. We played together, we pretended together, we laughed hysterically together, our families went on vacations together. Very early on, I knew that this was The Guy: the guy the universe was setting up to be the childhood sweetheart I would eventually marry. I never had a crush on John; I genuinely loved him from the moment we met and continued to love him as we grew up. We showed each other the waistbands of our underwear when we were like seven and felt SO scandalous.

Sadly, his family moved a couple of hours away when I was five or so (?) and we saw them much less often. Sometime after that, John changed.***

The change was abrupt and utter. One of the next times I saw John, it was like he hated me, and not in an innocent, childish, probably-picking-on-you-because-he-likes-you way. In a way that felt evil and terrible. This transformation completely shattered everything on which I had built my concepts of friendship and love. A person that I loved and trusted with innocent abandon had now turned into a nemesis that knew me with chilling intimacy.

I remember being taken aback, hurt, confused. As kids are wont to do when they don't understand, I sort of ignored the change and tried to carry on as usual. I don't know how long that worked for, but one day something happened and it was like a switch was flipped.

John, his little sister, my little sister, and I were playing in my room. I don't remember what we were playing. John and I disagreed about something, and he socked me in the stomach as hard as he could, and that was it.

I doubled over in pain and shock, wind knocked out of me. I fell over one of these little clear plastic tubs with a blue lid that we used to have. There were plastic dishes inside, and for some reason I can still hear the rattling sound they made when I tipped the tub over.

As soon as I could manage, I was standing straight up again, and I screamed at John. Tears of fury steamed down my face. I balled my fists up by my sides. I screamed words at him. I don't know what I said. Probably "I hate you" among other things.

He didn't care at all. He walked away and I heard him saying gruffly to his little sister, "If she's still crying when the parents come, then we're in trouble."

I don't remember whether or not I told my parents. I definitely didn't that day. If I ever did, nothing came of it.

I know this is a small thing to have happen to a person, but it was big to me. And I never felt the same on the inside after that.

~Stephanie

* I know, Gr'anne, it's a split infinitive. I'm against them too, but I've been reading that sometimes one is supposed to split an infinitive in casual writing if it makes the sentence flow better to the reader.

** I can't find this person on Facebook, but I've changed his name anyway to avoid any possible unpleasantness.

*** Now I wonder if this was a sign that something terrible was going on in John's life. I worry about him in retrospect.

Enneagram Series Reference Post

Disclaimer: I'm not an Enneagram expert. However, I'm no longer the LEAST educated person I know on it, so I've made progress. All my thoughts have some amount of legitimate research behind them. (Translation: I know what I'm talking about, Karen. Unless you find something wrong in what I say, and then I reserve the right to pull the Not-An-Expect Card.)

Handy Principles of Eight-ness:
1) Our Basic Need is "to be against." Even if I agree with you, my INSTANT instinct is to position myself against you or the belief we actually share.

2) Our Childhood Wound is that there was a "rejection experience" with relation to our parent(s). (This DOES NOT mean that the parent was the one doing the rejecting. Sometimes it just means that we felt controlled/manipulated by the amount of love shown us by our parent(s), and WE stiff-armed/rejected the parent's love.)

3) Our Basic Fear is being violated, controlled, or betrayed.

4) Our most accessible emotion is anger.

5) We struggle to be vulnerable because we feel like everyone is out to get us or sell us out.

~Stephanie

A Warning About What's Coming

I don't want to write this series of posts for a lot of reasons.

1) It feels self-centered. Actually, there's no "feel" about it. This series is about to be completely Me-themed.

2) It feels...uncomfortable. I'm shying away from the word "vulnerable."

3) It's Enneagram-driven, and I'm afraid a lot of people are getting rather burned out on the Enneagram.

4) I don't want to be another trend-follower with Enneagram stuff. Apparently it's blowing up on Instagram now too, but I promise I didn't know that because I deleted the Instagram app three months ago (more on that later maybe).

5) I'm afraid no one wants to read a bunch of posts of me just processing stuff.

6) It's freaking ADVENT. How can I start a series about myself at Christmas time? How gross and irreverent.

I have decided to write this series anyway for several reasons as well.

1) If it is "vulnerable," then that's what I need to try to do.

2) This blog is literally called "Becoming Me," so if the post content is about becoming myself, then it's appropriate. If people don't want to read it, they don't have to.

3) I process things through words, so if I'm ever going to work through this stuff, this is how it's going to happen. It might as well be "public."

4) The thoughts are coming to me now. I can write them now and post them now, or I can write them now and post them in a month once it's no longer as close or relevant to me.

5) Honestly, judge away if you want. I'm an Eight. I'm used to it. In fact, I expect it ;)

I'm going to use Sleeping At Last's song "Eight" and the corresponding podcast as an outline for this series. I'm going to unpack the lyrics as they relate to me. I'm thinking it might be helpful or cathartic for me? It may also be interesting for anyone who wants to know things I don't ever talk about.

(I'm sweating as I type this XD)

Here we go. Starting on the next post.

~Stephanie

PSA: The Perfect Chocolate Mug Cake

This mug cake is an ACTUAL. GAME CHANGER. I used to get borderline depressed because the only chocolate cake that satisfies me is from Garibaldi, which is Gabe's and my Valentine's Day restaurant, and one cannot just go get that cake for no reason, because IT MUST RETAIN ITS SPECIALNESS.

But I found a way to cheat the system. I give you, a mug cake so delicious it borders on miraculous:

Ingredients:
- 1/4 cup of flour (you can also do 1/8 and fill the rest with protein powder and it works fine)
- a generous 1/4 cup of sugar
- a generous 2 tablespoons of unsweetened coco powder
- 1/8 teaspoon of salt
- 1/4 cup of water
- 1 tablespoon of olive oil
- 1 tablespoon of butter
- 1/8 teaspoon of vanilla
- mini chocolate chips (I dunno, like half a tablespoon?)

Method:
- Mix the dry ingredients all together. I use a fork.
- Mix in the wet ingredients. Stir til smooth.
- Add in the mini chocolate chips.
- Microwave for about 1 minute and 5 seconds, give or take.
- Top with syrup if you're an outrageous chocoholic like myself.*

Macros (not counting chocolate syrup, not using protein powder)
Calories: 588
Carbs: 80.5g
Fat: 29.5g
Protein: 5g

Is this good for you? Absolutely not. Is it good? Absolutely.

~Stephanie

* This is "one serving," but is actually too much for me to enjoy. I like to either half everything, share with Gabe, or eat it anyway and then regret being born for the next hour.

How's NaNo Going?

- NaNo = NaNoWriMo = National Novel Writing Month = Write 50,000 words in November.

- My NaNo diet has two extremes: 1) I eat 3,000 calories of candy corn, 2) the only thing I eat all day is a can of tuna.

- It's Monday, November 11, 7:15pm as I'm drafting this. I can't even tell you how much I don't want to crank out 1,667 words right now. In fact, I'm avoiding it so hard that I'm blogging here instead.

- There is clean laundry from four days ago that I haven't folded.

- Sometimes I try to write on the couch while Gabe plays video games with his headphones one, but I get distracted by the flashing lights and pictures, so I put on a baseball cap and pull it really far down so that I can't see.

- My Google search history is getting very “serial killer” lately. In the past couple of days, I’ve looked up “face burn scar,” “how long take die of burning,” “punch head unconscious,” and “do mermaids lay eggs” (which is actually thanks to Disney+/The Little Mermaid, not NaNo).

- During NaNo, I pay closer attention to how I read. I am one of those people who sees a chunk of description tucked between paragraphs of dialogue and immediately skip the description, only reading the dialogue. As a writer, I'm offended at my own self. However, as a reader, it's making me write less useless description. I find that even with skipping descriptions, I never feel like I'm wandering around in the dark. My mind supplies what it need to "see" the story. You say "sparse bedroom" and I'm fine; I don't need to know the color of the walls or how many pieces of furniture are in there or any number of other details I'm tempted to bludgeon my readers with. (Of course, for the sake of #WordCount, I may leave some in for now XD)

- I was so preoccupied today (Saturday, November 16) that I started making lunch, including frying meat and making rice, only to notice that it was actually only 10:26am.

- Last Saturday I retrieved the "original" (fourth draft, but still VERY close to the original original) Fire Fairy Story from my room at my parents' house. Reading it now, 30,000+ words into my latest rewrite, feels weird. It feels kind of like reading the book (the original version of the FF story) after seeing the movie (the years-removed version I'm currently writing). I keep face-palming like, "Oh. THAT'S why he/she/they did that. That makes way more sense than the contrived, garbage explanation I've shoe-horned in now." There's something really beautiful and transparent and helpful about the early version that I believe will help me write the final version one day.

- Last Saturday I also went to bed the angriest I've been in a long time.

"What's wrong?" Gabe asked.

"It's my characters," I said, trying not to swear or cry. "I don't know WHY he said that. It literally makes no sense. I can't connect the dots. What's his problem?!"

"Can I help?"

"I don't know. Here's what happened. They were playing Counsel [a Furierite game] and Coal revealed something really harmful about Flare. Out of NOWHERE. Why would he do that?! And then Ember revealed something about him to get even, and he just denied it and got away with it."

Gabe thought for a few moments. "It sounds like he really hates that game."

"Oh," I said softly, anger melting. "You're right. He would hate that game. It's making a mockery of everything he stands for." Tears of relief prickled my nose. "Thank you."

Writers out there: Get you a Gabe.

~ Stephanie

P.S. 35,301 words.

Bettering, Backsliding, Becoming

Ugh, it's happening again. I'm feeling Changes.

However, it's almost more like a return, a reversion.

For a few months there, I was feeling kind of serene and mature. I was using reusable bags, keeping my apartment clean, and stretching before bed.

I'm still doing those things, but they no longer feel like A Big Deal or something I really care to blog about. If more, similar self-improvements descend upon me, I'm sure I'll post about them, but right now my mind is in a more...sarcastic? dark? edgy? place. It's not my FAVORITE version of myself (I really liked feeling serene and mature), but it is—at least historically—more ME, and that is what this blog is supposed to be about: becoming me, whoever that turns out to be.

It might've started with reading Mistborn, getting back into the Fire Fairy Story, and now doing NaNoWriMo.

Pretty soon after those things, my friend Aaron-in-Texas (as he's known to my family) reminded me that Breaking Benjamin exists. Right away I created a Spotify playlist called "Highschool" and filled it with Breaking Ben, Evanescence, Linkin Park, As I Lay Dying, Shinedown, Flyleaf, Skillet, and some random outlier songs like Natalia Kills's "Zombie," Adam Lambert's "Whataya Want from Me" (which is murder to try to spell for Spotify), and a few Globus songs. (Thank you, I did have eclectic taste.)

Then, I injured my right shoulder somehow. I can't do bicep curls, lat pulldowns, or anything shoulder-y. Despite still being able to do cardio, legs, abs, and left arm exercises, this injury has utterly shot my gym motivation. I went from going 4–5 times a week to going 2–3 times. I was supposed to lift legs today [Tuesday, November 5], but it's 5:30pm as I type this and I know full well I'm not going to. I'm still macro counting, but my MyFitnessPal pie chart looks ridiculous because I'm barely trying to stick to my goals.

[Okay, NOW, it's Friday, November 8, and with the help of Gabe, I've been to the gym three days in a row and am starting to feel better about this aspect of my current self. It is amazing how much exercise can affect your mood and mental health. It's so easy (at least for me) to "fall off the wagon" and then just kind of lay there, unable to get up without a lot of help/external motivation.]

On the whole I'm feeling more familiar to myself these days, and I cannot figure out how to put that into words. I'm feeling darker, but not heavier; sharper, but not meaner. I'm feeling more like my "high school self," but minus the angst and drama (I mean, if there IS any high school self left after those are subtracted).

I'm feeling more this,

and less this:

More this,

and less this:

I'm not complaining and I'm not concerned. I'm not looking for reassurance that "it's ALL me, just different parts of me." I know that. I guess I'm just fascinated by the phases. Maybe I'll always be this way, vacillating between new and old, light and dark, peaceful and sarcastic. I recognize that both versions are me, it's just going to be interesting to watch the Old/Dark/Sarcastic I feel returning try to coexist with the New/Light/Peaceful I've been cultivating.

~Stephanie

The Fire Fairy Story

It came on rather suddenly.

I was sitting on the couch, reading Mistborn (for the first time, and I'm still not done, and if you spoil anything about it for me, I will seriously not be your friend anymore), and it hit me, the same way it always used to:

I had to write.

I've said this other places before, but writing inspiration feels kind of like wetting your pants: sudden, urgent, and embarrassing, because I stop being able to human until I either 1) write, or 2) lose the inspiration, which is sad.

Luckily, when the inspiration hit, I was at home with Gabe, and he is excellent at not butting in on things. I got up, got my laptop, and started writing The Fire Fairy Story.

What is The Fire Fairy Story?
The Short Answer:
A story based on my friends and I that I started writing when I was twelve.

The Longer Answer:
It was July 6, 2006. Jesse had a sleepover birthday party and invited me, my sister Sarah, Ellie, a girl named Zoie, and a girl named H...Hailey? Haley? Hayley? I don't know how to spell it, but you get the idea.

We were all AVID imaginers and pretenders. Almost all we did when we got together was play pretend, whether that was with dollhouse or our actual bodies, most often the latter. This birthday party was no different.

I believe it started with the sparklers. As we played with them in Jesse's front yard, we began play fighting with them.

"When I say 'duck,' you duck, okay?"

"Okay."

*dance around, wave sparkler—*

"DUCK!"

*playmate ducks dramatically as the yeller whips her sparkler over the space previously occupied by the ducker*

Pretty soon, play fighting with sparklers led to being creatures who could produce fireballs with their hands. The creatures were fire fairies.

Four of us were also dancers, and really enjoyed playing—try not to judge us too hard—slaves, orphans, and spies. Without any effort at all, The Fire Fairy Story, which incorporated all of those elements, was born.

We served an evil Fire Lord. We were forced to dance for him. Jesse's older brother became a character who was the Fire Lord's most trusted spy.

We each came up with a fire fairy name for ourselves. Mine was Ember. (A dance class friend, Karlye, is the one who introduced me to "Ember" as a potential name.)

We needed a name for the fire fairies' city. We asked Jesse's mom what the French word for "fire" was. She said she wasn't sure, but that it might be furier (FYOR-ee-air). It turns out it's not; it's feu (fooh, kind of with the "oo" in "cook"), but the city is named Furier to this day.

I had a mood ring from The Greensboro Science Center gift shop that I wore ALL THE TIME. From this piece of jewelry came the idea of fire fairy eyes: they change color with the fairy's mood.

I started penning (well, penciling, with an orange mechanical pencil that had a blue eraser) The Fire Fairy Story, with TONS of help from these girls. Evenings, get-togethers, phone calls, any available moment.

I finished the story one night when I was the only kid who had tagged along with her parents to church band practice. I sat in the row of rough church chairs, feet on the back of the chair in front of me, and madly wrote the last scene. My eyes widened.

It was the first—and still only—story I'd ever finished.

What's Happened Since:
For the four best friends (me, Sarah, Ellie, Jesse), The FF Story became part of our identity. We know the world of Jeolotoe and its vocabulary in a way that can only take root in children.

October 2006: Sarah, Ellie, Jesse, and I fashioned fire fairy costumes out of Goodwill findings and poster-board wings and went as fire fairies to a fall festival.

2006–2007: I wrote three or four sequels/books of the series.

April 2007: My family went to Disney World for the first time and I got Ember engraved in a leather bracelet that I wore for years.

2008ish: My youth group did a series on making your dreams happen, so I slowly typed up The Fire Fairy Story (it ended up being maybe 60 pages) and gave it to a friend's mom who was in publishing. All she would say was that "it was very good," though in a tone that told me it was absolutely not and I had a long road ahead of me.

2009–2010: I left the story largely alone, though periodically rewrote it, reread it, started it again, changed things.

October 2011: We had a Fire Fairy Reunion (pictured below). We did another Goodwill trip for costumes and had a sleepover where we choreographed a dance, reminisced, and read over parts of the story (some in notebooks, some in thick, typed stacks held together with alligator clips).

November 2011: I "won" NaNoWriMo (wrote 50,000 words in the month of November) with The Fire Fairy Story.

2012–2019: I kept rewriting the story, rereading it, starting it again, changing things. There are probably 12–15 versions of Book 1 floating around in various notebooks, on various hard drives. This story will not leave me alone.

Today:
It sounds ridiculous, but I don't know how to explain the level of influence The FF Story has had on my life. I don't want to speak for the others, but my identity is inextricably bound to this story. When I posted my wedding photos just three years ago on another blog, I captioned the ones of Ellie and Jesse with "childhood best friend and fire fairy."

Ember isn't "me," but she's a deep part of me. If someone yelled "Ember!" across the room, I would turn. She's the bolder, braver, brasher part of me—and the me I might have stopped at if it weren't for Jesus and glowing up. (Recently took the Enneagram test for her, and she's an Eight too and that makes so much sense given her history.)

The Fire Fairy Story has never left me alone. For some reason, I guess I need to write this story.

So, I'm at it again*. I wrote 20k words in two weeks a little while ago. Then I read it over and was mildly appalled. It's not good. I'm not being down on myself, it's genuinely not there yet. But instead of feeling discouraged like I usually do, I'm feeling okay. So I only keep about 2,000 words of what I just wrote. (There are probably 200k words of the story I've written over the years that I'm not going to use.) If God wants me to write this story, it'll get written. If he doesn't, then I don't want to write it anyway.

Fun Facts For Ya:
A new neighborhood that my family eventually moved into matched the map of the world of Jeolotoe with forests, bodies of water, and appropriate houses/buildings in the exact places as the map drawn in my little red notebook of years before.

Two of the fire fairies' unconventional and unpredictable love stories have happened exactly as written in the story.

~Stephanie

* again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again again.