A Rambling Raconteur

I don't like Christmas.
Please don't take this as an opportunity to willfully misunderstand me and begin proclaiming my heresy in disliking the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ. As a Christian, I am ever thankful for Jesus and his birth. Jesus has nothing to do with my dislike of Christmas. I think it's interesting that his birth probably didn't actually occur in what we think of as December, but I'm not a biblical scholar, so that's an argument for someone else. Allow me to reiterate: Jesus's birthday is great. It's very important and I think everyone should devote a time to celebrating that in their own hearts. That's really where my celebration ends though. I'm a textbook introvert. I will read my poetry on stage for everyone to hear, but I'm probably not going to discuss the most intimate moments of my faith with a group of people in ridiculous sweaters. I'm a very private person, and God understands that. He made me this way. I do not like gaudy decorations, repetitive carols, and parties where everyone brings a garishly wrapped, meaningless gift because for me, those things have nothing to do with Christmas. They do not correlate to my own personal tastes so I rarely partake in them.

There is another reason that I don't like Christmas, at least as we think of it as a collective culture. I have very little "Christmas spirit." I don't get jolly. Quite the contrary, actually as I have a tendency to be morose or even a bit grumpy around the holidays. This hasn't always been the case. When my dad was still alive, I fed off of his surplus of spirit. This was the man who would leave the Christmas lights up on the house (and turned on every night) until Valentine's day or so. He used to pretend to be Santa and call the children and grandchildren if his friends on Christmas Eve to talk to them about what they wanted and whether or not they'd been good that year. He loved that stuff. Seeing him so happy made me happy too. But he is gone, and with him went my Christmas spirit it seems. Again, please don't misunderstand. I'm not the Grinch. I'm not out to destroy your Christmas. And I'm not a character in a Lifetime movie; I'm not waiting for that one eccentric person or random event or sappy child to remind me of the "true meaning of Christmas" or help me get my groove back or whatever. I'm good.

So please understand, by my own personal tastes and convictions I do not celebrate the ornamental, over-priced, "wise-men"-at-the-manger, consumer-driven, fat-guy-in-a-red-suit, holly-jolly Christmas. Personally, and mostly privately, I celebrate the birth of a savior born to die, who inspires saints into sinners, and who never commanded tinsel to be placed upon a tree.

These views in no way make me holy or special. Just different. I only ask that my difference is respected.

I was prodigiously saddened yesterday to learn of the passing of Ray Bradbury. To me, he was the science fiction writer. The greatest of the genre, especially of those still living. He is a big part of why I write science fiction, and certainly why I read it. I was first introduced to Mr. Bradbury's work in junior high school. I read Fahrenheit 451. This was before I had read Lord of the Rings. Before Hitchhiker's Guide. The only fantastical or science fictional things I was readily familiar with were the original Star Wars movies and X-Men cartoons. But then I read Fahrenheit 451. It was a game changer. Science fiction wasn't all Star Trek or Wookies. There were other options. Sci-fi could be meaningful and intellectual. It could teach as well as entertain. It didn't have to be about aliens and spaceships. It didn't have to praise the wonders of technology. It quite often warned against dependency thereon. After 451, I bought The Illustrated Man. And then a huge collection of short stories. In these days I also began to explore other "genre" works. I read the Lord of the Rings. I read Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. And so many others. Somewhere in all of this I had decided that I was a writer. Then I decided to write science fiction and fantasy. It seemed like it was what I was born to do. These were the stories that mattered to me.

 Don't get me wrong. I love The Great Gatsby and To Kill A Mockingbird just as much as the next English Major, but to me, they weren't the Great American Novel. For me it was Fahrenheit 451. Or maybe it wasn't even a novel. Maybe it was The Martian Chronicles or The Illustrated Man. Maybe it was a collection of short stories instead of one larger piece. Maybe it was, and is, that Bradbury is the Great American Writer. He's kinda like Captain America, really.

In light of the recent superhero movies, this comparison sprang to mind fairly quickly as I was researching the characters that make up the "Avengers," the superhero group from the Marvel Comic Universe. I was looking at the biography for the character of Steve Rogers (who becomes Captain America) and I realized something interesting: he was born only a month and a half before Ray Bradbury was. Cap was born July 4, 1920. Bradbury was born August 22 of the same year. Captain America was frozen after WWII--and the unfrozen when we needed him to fight the bad guys. In the most recent movies, he has been asleep/frozen since 1945. Much is made of the fact that he is a "man out of time." But Bradbury is the same age. And even though he was never frozen for decades at a time, he still ended up being a man out of time. And space.

Bradbury was known to love and be interested by space travel and rocket ships, but his most well-known work serves as a warning against dependency on technology. He set a standard in science-fiction--and fiction in general--that a writer did not have to write about the way things had been, or were, or would be. A writer wrote about what should be. What should not be. A writer could entertain and warn. Educate and enlighten. In his writing, Ray Bradbury embraced the best of humanity and told us to be wary of the rest. He sent us traveling to Mars, building rockets in the yard, longing for space travel, fleeing our own prejudices, learning from past mistakes, watching the world collapse, watching the world rebuild...and so much more. He was a man from a time that may never be, and a space that might only exist in our dreams.

Thanks for the memories and the futures.

Rest in peace.      Ray Bradbury - 1920-2012

I needed time to think about this before I weighed in on it. I’ve done research. I’ve watched the video, looked at reports, read statements from the White House, letters from organizations, articles by naysayers, and blogs from supporters. I’ve spoken with a few close friends and family members and had a little chat with God.

This isn’t the first I’ve heard of (one of) the situations in central Africa. But I have what is often referred to as an “overly emotional” reaction when I hear of such atrocities done to children. I am not a mother. I have no biological children of my own, but I do have a few that I love with all the fervency that I can muster. I also have my kiddos at the daycare where I work. It is the faces of these children that I see whenever I watch a news broadcast—which is probably why I watch so few. So after a good chat and a good cry, I feel that I am finally able to report where I stand on the current attempts to arrest Joseph Kony.

I support this movement. I support arresting Joseph Kony and having him tried for crimes against humanity.

While I will not be donating monetarily to the particular organization of “Invisible Children,” I do support their endeavor to arrest this war criminal. The main reason that I am not giving money to them is because I really don’t have any and even if I did, the causes I choose to support financially are between God and me. I have looked over IC’s financials and their ratings with certain groups and they are not the money hoarders that many claimed and that I was beginning to believe that they are. They spend much on travel expenses, but that ought not be taken immediately as negatively. They are raising awareness, so that the people with power to do something (I’m looking at you, politicians and law-makers) are knowledgeable enough to make the changes that need to be made. Having said that, I plead for everyone to research any organization that you are considering making a donation to. If donating money is what you can do to help, please make sure that it will actually be used in a helpful way.

My greatest wish, though, in all of this is that the reason behind the cause, this movement—whatever you wish to call it—will not be forgotten. The children. For decades children have been abducted and had unspeakable things done unto them. As an overly emotional childcare provider, I cannot help but see and think of every one of those children as someone’s baby. Someone’s son. Someone’s daughter. They are the reason Kony needs to be brought to justice. They are the reason that I expect every organization attempting to assist them to be as fiscally responsible as possible. Because they are not just victims. They aren’t just numbers. They are children. So let us pray to the Prince of Peace that His love and His mercy might prevail in their lives.

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.

Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father; take your inheritance, the kingdom prepared for you since the creation of the world. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

“Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you something to drink? When did we see you a stranger and invite you in, or needing clothes and clothe you? When did we see you sick or in prison and go to visit you?’

“The King will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me.’

“Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels. For I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you did not invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison and you did not look after me.’

“They also will answer, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison, and did not help you?’ “He will reply, ‘Truly I tell you, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.’ “Then they will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life.”

Matthew 25:31-46

Bruce Springsteen released his new album this Tuesday, entitled "Wrecking Ball." It's amazing. Like so many of Springsteen's other albums, it is full of the cries of the downtrodden, everyday-folk. These are songs for the people, presented in a near gospel-like fashion.

I watched Bruce give an interview on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon on Friday and it got me thinking--as Springsteen so often does-about my dad. He was the biggest fan of The Boss that I've ever met. And he made sure his kids shared his enthusiasm. I always tell people that I've been listening to Springsteen since before I was born--and that isn't an exaggeration. Both my brother and I were introduced to this rock icon in the same way that so many babies hear Beethoven: through headphones laid against their mother's stomach.

My dad was nothing special to those who did not know him. He was from a blue-collar family and worked a factory job. He went to church and played catch with his kids. Knowing what I know about the man he was, I'm intrigued by what he chose as my first taste of music.



Not Yet Born to Run

Wrapped securely
in my mother's womb,
I wasn't aware
of the eye-rolling and
the gentle, indulgent smiling
breezing across her face.
I can close my eyes
--now, decades after the fact--
and almost see my father's surely goofy-
looking expression of delight.
He was pressing his headphones
up against Mom's stomach,
in which I was nestled.
He had heard that classical music would ensure
that the baby was smart.

Smart.
It would make a baby more adept
at science, math, and reading.
The experts never said anything about ensuring the child would be
passionate
or poetic.
There were no statistics that proved
Mozart in utero helped strengthen
your unborn child's sense of
justice
or compassion.
Bach emphasized algebra,
not empathy.
In those exuberant eyes of my father,
that wasn't good enough.

It was late 1987,
when I was still fetal, still becoming
whomever it is I was born to be,
when my father set his headphones
across my mother's stomach,
when the first music I would ever hear
came echoing around me.
It was late '87 so
it might have been "Tunnel of Love"
or "Nebraska." I can't remember
and he isn't around to remind me.
But it is good
--to me, at least--
to think of my father,
eschewing expert opinion
about how to develop a baby's brain
and instead concerning himself
with how to develop it's heart.

I was cleaning/reorganizing my bedroom today and I decided it might be a good idea to go through my shoes and set aside those I don't want or no longer wear. A couple times a year, I round up clothes and whatnot to donate. It's about time I did the same with my shoes.

I knew this particular pair of shoes was in my collection still, even though I haven't worn them in years. They are ugly and ripped and no longer comfortable. But I've been holding on to them for a while. These aren't just any pair of shoes. These are a pair of "Orange Popsicle" (the official name of the color), hi-top, Chuck Taylor, Converse All-Stars. I bought them in the summer of 2002.




I went through a lot with these shoes. They've been Sharpie-d, painted, and white-out-ed to death. A few months after I got them, I took an ultra fine-point sharpie and stared writing on them. Song lyrics, lines from poems, quotes from movies and books and the random catchphrase here and there. They were an everyday part of my 14 and 15 year-old uniform: orange Chucks, knee high gym socks, either a pair of guys shorts (that were baggy and came to me knees) or a pair of jeans with the bottoms rolled up a few inches, and a solid color t-shirt that I had taken a Sharpie to. I had a whole set of t-shirts that I had done myself. Memorable shirts included my "Crazy for Swayze" shirt and of course "Nettleton Dance Team Reject: Too Phat."

I see now, looking at these shoes, that I haven't just been holding on to a pair of old sneakers. I've been trying to hold on to who I was back then.


Who was 14 year old Sarah?
She was a Lord of the Rings fanatic, hip deep in her first research paper devoted to the topic. (Okay. So *that* bit still holds true.)
She wrote poetry all the time. It was almost all thematically the same: cool people are stupid, mindless sheep, nonconformity is awesome and being a teenager sucks.
She was trying so hard to be different than everyone else. Oh, the clothes she wore.
She lived with a mom who was battling breast cancer and a dad who was battling a disease she couldn't pronounce and her brother had started college and never seemed to be awake when she was.
She had panic attacks she didn't know where panic attacks.
She did some stupid stuff and said some stupid stuff, but 24 year old Sarah has made her peace with that. I know now that 14 year old me was doing the best she could with what she had.

Even though I bear her no ill will, it is time for 14 year old me to stop living in the bottom of a shoe bin. 24 year old me needs the space. Because life is here and the future is arriving a moment at a time. I think I'm finally ready.

There are many things I don't remember about the time right around when my father passed away in September of 2007. My memory gets a little fuzzy around the edges and the timeline of events gets screwed up. I've lost days and weeks from that year. But, mercifully, I do remember one thing with absolute clarity: I remember the last conversation I had with my dad.

It was Tuesday. I was walking around campus. I had been to the bookstore earlier that day and had bought him a present. I don't remember where I was going, but I decided to give him a call and tell him what I got for him. (His side of this phone call is in bold.)

>Hey Daddy! I bought you a present today!

> What'd ya get?

> A book. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance."

> Oh, cool! I've always wanted to read that.

> Good! I'll give it to you when I get home, okay?

> You can read it when I'm done.

> Sounds good. I love you.

> I love you too.

> Bye.


Yeah. He had a terrible habit (one my brother tends to share) of hanging up the phone once I said goodbye! Eh, I didn't mind. And I still don't. I don't mind that we didn't get "to say goodbye." Because the last thing my father ever said to me was that he loved me.

I read the book I bought him. "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance." It's good. It's about a guy's theory that his practice of taking care of his motorcycle himself is what truly allows the motorcycle to be his and for him to enjoy it. How fitting, seeing as how I'm still learning from my father that we can't expect everyone to take care of everything for us.

He taught me how to shine my shoes, how to check the oil in my car, how to put a new seat on a bicycle, how to use a record player (and just generally have good taste in music).

That last one I think has stuck with me more than most. Dad's favorite musician was Bruce Springsteen, known as "The Boss." A year or so ago I wrote this poem about my dad and about Bruce Springsteen. (I'm fairly certain that as a young child that I thought they were one and the same, but that's beside the point.) Enjoy.


The Boss
a poem by Sarah Wofford


From inside the womb
was heard a rhythm,
a gentle thump
that sounded like
Nebraska.

She emerged from the darkness
into a familiar stranger's
waiting hands.
Callused palms that cradled her
as he swayed and sang
about a dead dog
who existence
would always bring a tear to her eye.

Together they would
sing the songs
of this six-string guitar god,
some lower deity
descended from Elvis's Mt. Olympus.
They sang of velvet rims,
yellow men,
and racin' in the street.
And no one could touch them.

Not illness nor death,
nor the thick Jersey air.

They were tramps.
Together.
Born to believe.

Religiosity


My religion is that of
Jesus Christ of latter-day Romantic poets.
Love is my religion.
Isn’t that right,
St. John Keats?
I have faith
in what I cannot see.
I am certain
of what I hope for.
The rhythm and meter
of my life
will end
in two perfectly rhymed couplets,
five iambs each.
My eulogy will flow
from the lips
of children and angels
and not a soul will weep
for me
for I will finally be
where I belong.
The Lord will meet me
in the halls of prophets
and etch my name
into His grand anthology
of poets and singers and
various and sundry
rambling raconteurs.
Until that day
I will follow a path
that is not marked,
a trail no map
could plot.
Loving all,
doing harm to none,
teaching generations
of my successors
that free verse
and blank verse
are not the same thing
but that Jesus loves them
anyway.
Reminding saints and sinners
that the grave
knows no denomination
but only asks
“Who do you love?”
Informing intellectuals
that it is the pen
and not the printing
that makes a poet
and that the hallelujah chorus
should not just be saved
for holy days.
My last recitation
shall by my requiem
and I will follow
the Great Bard of Bethlehem
home.

To the Deeping Wall
- a poem of battle and friendship -

Once more,
to the deeping wall we go.
To that stone wall
built
out of the dust
of our insecurities
and second thoughts.
Never will it be crossed
by our enemies.
Too much of our pain
has been mixed
with its mortar.
Too much of our anger
quarried
its stone.
Once more
we stand at our positions,
defending the keep
from an enemy
whose making would probably lead
back
to those of us who villainize it.
But never the matter,
a villain is villainy
when it threatens to burn the gates.
So onward we set
out from our homes
riding our
plastic particleboard horses
to acts of anti-heroism
and deep confusion.
But to the deeping wall we charge!
There our every breath
is the opening note
to our last stand
and stanza.
Our weapons,
merely props from Shakespeare’s
lesser plays,
but our battle cries
echo
all the greatest sonnets.
We will meet you
face to face
and this is our victory!
No matter if we win
or lose.

God Save the Intellectuals
by Sarah Wofford

God save the intellectuals.
Their hard-fought cynicism
certainly won't
do the trick.
Throw a rope
to those over-philosophizers
for they are drowning
and their hope
is too far ahead of them
to help.
They are not-
perhaps-
scoundrels,
but the plot
is slowly slipping
through their grasp.
They have forgotten
the usefulness
of cheerfulness
and refuse to keep their chins up
for fear
of losing their heads.
They are certainly not
the enemy,
but they
bear a resemblance,
do they not?
They have made
Thoughts
their master
and forgotten
they were children once.
Children with faith enough
to climb
the tallest tree
and laugh in the face
of the sunset.
They now confuse
an optimistic disposition
with the blind naïveté
of one
who has never seen the world.
They believe that
to have any modicum of
Faith
with any hint of
Understanding
one must be jaded,
with one's collar
turned up against the world.
Living
is but a struggle
to survive
to the finish line.
They would see the evil
in all but themselves,
ignoring the equality
of their nature.
God save the intellectuals,
before they try to save us all.

I live in the sea,
tossed between waves
of unspeakable sorrow
and overflowing mirth.
This life is a river:
either bone-dry
or lapping wetly
at the underside of the bridge.
Often both.
Often it is a rushing
emptiness
or thunder
booming
from a clear sky.
This is where there is no middle ground.
No port of harbor,
no anchor to settle you.
There is only the faith
that your boat
- this self made
by hands not your own -
will withstand
the belly-fulls of laughter
that leak tears from your eyes
and the body-wracking sobs
that end in chortles
of incomprehensible laughter.
Perhaps you can not know one
without the other.
If joy
is knowing what you have
and sorrow
is knowing what you've lost,
perhaps
those who truly laugh
- at this oft-discussed "life"
and the merry fools
that populate it -
are those
who have learned to grieve.
Having gasping, messy
tears
visibly shake
our crouching figures of flesh
makes us privy
to those moments
when the stillness permeates our noise
and - beyond alive -
we are living.
For we have touched both ends
of an endless circle
and are riding out the storm
under a cloudless sky.

"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." - Henry David Thoreau


Most people have heard this quote, or something very similar to it, and yet we only partially put it into practice - if we do so at all. We tend to roll our eyes and forgive or ignore so-called "eccentrics" when they seem so loudly and purposefully out of step with our own rhythm. Some would see the quotation - from a writer who did so much more than provide us with fodder for repetitious platitudes - as a free-pass for all those with the ubiquitous wish of being thought exceptional. Were he here to discuss it with us, I believe Thoreau would tell us that we were missing the point.

He is not merely telling us not to make fun of the kids on the playground that we think are weird. That's part of it, sure, but not all. What about the person who's thinking track seems to be a little off center from the rest of the office? The artist who's unfinished painting appears to be a detailed rendition of pond scum? The writer who gets so excited at a new idea that you'd think she'd found the lost city of Atlantis under her bed? Okay, that last one is hitting a little close to home...

My point is that I believe Thoreau is trying to tell that we need to celebrate and embrace those that never quit thinking, those that are always imagining, always searching for the perfect rhythm to step to. He isn't implying that we all need to dress like the Lonely Hearts Club Band 24/7, but we oughtn't quiet those who keep the stream from becoming stagnant.

Three cheers for the thinkers, and one for you, Mr. Thoreau.

The first twenty years
of my life
were a fight.
A fight
against everything.
Like a toddler fights
against
every playpen
you put him in
against
every bite of food
that might do him good.
I raged at every turn
without prejudice
and without payment
for what I did
and what I had.
Every iota of energy
was used
against! against! against!

I felt tired
too early
and old
too young.

May the next twenty years
be a slow surrender
to who I am becoming,
whoever that may be.
May the fire in my spirit
be the hearth
by which we sit.
May I live
in quiet revelations.
May I always long to touch
the eternal
with my simple, mortal
hands.
May I breathe
slowly
and deeply
so that every flavor in the air
alights briefly
on my tongue
in a flicker of understanding.
May not a day pass
without learning
or a night
without courage
to face the dark.
May I stave off
stagnation
and always court
change.
May I never be dead
while I am
living.
May I never beg
for more days
than I am given,
whether twenty years
begets another twenty
or not.

-

I wish I could write a poem
as beautiful as a mountain.
Like that mountain,
that morning in North Carolina,
where I was shaking with my usual fear
and filled with my usual dread.
A stream percolated from the rocks
and ran past my feet
as I stumbled through the trees
on the footpath.
I was stumbling away from my
regularly scheduled panic
and fleeing into the
green and brown embrace
the mountain promised.
I sought the voice of God.
I heard leaves swishing
and water running
and realized His voice
was not as loud
as I remembered.

Here's a little "get-to-know-Sarah" video I made. I'd like to think that this is what you might show someone if you wanted to convince them to have me come perform poetry somewhere. In reality, about 2 or 3 people will watch it (my mom will watch it several times, I can almost guarantee) and that will be that. Cest la vie.

One of the criminals who hung there hurled insults at him: "Aren't you the Christ? Save yourself and us!"

But the other criminal rebuked him. "Don't you fear God," he said, "since you are under the same sentence? We are punished justly, for we are getting what our deeds deserve. But this man has done nothing wrong."

Then he said, "Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom."

Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

Luke 23:39-43

For as long as I can remember, I have been captivated by this short passage of scripture. It comes in the middle of the crucifixion, seemingly in between other, more major plot points. But this unnamed man, referred to as "the thief" or "the criminal" gets to play a glorious part in the greatest story ever told.

We don't know this man's story, except for what he tells us. The only information he lets us in on is that he is being "punished justly." He is on his cross for his own sins, and he is well aware of that fact. But he is hanging next to Jesus. If I could trade a moment of vision with anyone from history, it would be this man. What did he see when he saw Jesus? How did he...know?

"Remember me when you come into your kingdom," he pleads.


Is this not our lives? Sinners. Thieves. Murderers. Betrayers. Is this not us? Unable to do anything good on our own. Sentenced to death for our own sins. Pleading with the Lord of the universe to remember us in his kingdom.

Jesus answered him, "I tell you the truth, today you will be with me in paradise."

And so we have salvation. Our sins are laid upon another's cross and we are free to enter paradise.

Glory, glory, hallelujah. We are saved.

I give myself pep-talks constantly. Stand near me long enough and you are bound to hear me talk to myself.

"Keep going, Sarah. You can do this."
"Ignore that. You're above that."
"Be nice!"
"Deep breath, Sarah, deep breathe."
"This is one moment. This isn't your whole life."

That last one goes through my head quite often. I get caught on little things very easily. Little things burrow into my mind and pop up often. It is both my favorite and least-favorite quality about myself.

On the one hand, I can recall random things you say in conversations - even the way you said them, I remember little details from movies I've seen or books I've read. I can remember smells and textures and moments with amazing clarity.

On the other hand I can also recall all those times I did something stupid or said something bratty or insensitive. A lot of times these negative moments like to all pile up and act like they are my entire life. When that happens I just have to remind myself: "That was one moment, not your whole life."

I am, and I suppose we all are to some extent, that little kid in arts and crafts. I'm sitting there, stringing beads onto a necklace one at a time. And such is our life. We string it together, one moment at a time.

Solomon’s Light
Written: November 1, 2007 - February 8, 2010


I’ve heard of many artistic undertakings being called “a labor of love.” I’m not entirely sure that applies to my recently finished novel, tentatively title Solomon’s Light. To be honest it was borne of grief and overwhelming sadness.
In the book, Nova, my main character, is raised by her grandfather. Within the first few pages we learn of his passing and we begin to see the effects this will have on Nova’s life. She is left a rather unusual inheritance and soon takes off into space as the newest Captain aboard the spaceship Solomon.
Nova is an impetuous 16 year old girl when we meet her. She has no friends and no family to help her understand and deal with her grief so she chooses to express it as anger, which is easier for her to handle. She slowly adjusts to life in space and inadvertently makes a few friends and enemies along the way. With the help of her new friend Jack and the journals her grandfather left behind, she is learning about her past as she prepares for her future. When she is barely saved from a kidnapping attempt, she begins to realize just how dangerous her future might be.
The story begins with a girl some people called a captain, who didn’t know where she belonged in the world. It ends with a young woman who is the Captain and who knows where her place is. I feel my own story is very much the same.
I began this novel about 6 weeks after my father passed away. I was a 19 year old little girl, angry at the world. Some people called me a writer, but I wasn’t sure. I just knew that I was in pain and didn’t know how to deal with it.
Very slowly, I began to write. I would go days or weeks sometimes and never write or read a word. Gradually I began to see more and more of the story. The more I saw, the more I wrote. I would occasionally have times where I would slip into my own sorrow and ignore everything else. For 27 months, I slid between deep depression and the light that telling this story brought to my heart. As the weeks and months went on, I slid more towards the light than the other. Today I can say that the light is where I live. I am not under the oppression of my grief any longer. I am a writer, of this I am sure.
“He who was seated on the throne said, ‘I am making everything new!’ Then he said, ‘Write this down, for these words are trustworthy and true.’” - Revelation 21:5
While I don’t think it is the only story I have been given, I believe that right now, this is the story I was born to tell. God has given me a tremendous gift. I’m very excited for the time when I can share it with you.

Much Love,
Sarah Wofford

Things Lord of the Rings Fans Think Twilight Fans Ought to Know
written by Sarah Wofford, a supporter of fandom diversity

- You thought we were weird at the time but we were right about the magic of books, weren’t we?

- If you stop laughing at our elf costumes, we’ll stop laughing at the body glitter you made your boyfriend wear.

- If you *don’t* stop laughing at out elf costumes, one of us is liable to shoot you with an arrow.

- Be warned, our arrows tend to be handcrafted. And sharp.

- Legolas may prance a bit, but he doesn’t sparkle. Trust me. Our fangirls are very much okay with this.

- There is something inherently beautiful about a good death scene. We’re sorry that you’ll never get to experience that. It’s not because your characters are immortal. It’s because your author is kind of a wimp.

- There is a very good reason no member of the fellowship was described as being a “klutz.” Klutzes tend to die really quickly.

- I can’t say that any of us feel very sympathetic when people make fun of your fandom. We’ve been putting up with it for 60 years. Suck it up.

- We know you think Edward and Bella are really sweet and self-sacrificing, perhaps they are, but Arwen gave up paradise to be with Aragorn. And Aragorn, he put his own heart on hold to - you know - save all of Middle Earth.

- Be careful before you try testing our patience. We’re the people who have sat through 12 hours of Extended Edition DVDs. Often in one sitting.

- If you do happen to reach the end of our patience, remember: we have several languages to choose from in which we can call you some very nasty things.

- Do not try to outwit us. We learned from Gollum and a whole Shire-full of hobbits. We really enjoy making people sound like fools.

- Be wary of any Rings fan that wants to show you their “pointy hat trick.” I can’t explain to you why, but believe me when I say that it will be unpleasant.

- We’re pretty certain that Samwise Gamgee could kill a vampire whilst armed with nothing but a cooking pot, relying just on the strength of his heart.

- You may think you’re a fan. You may think you’re a fanatic. You may even think you’re obsessed. You have no idea.