NaNoWriMo Profile

Location: Southeast United States

Home Region:
United States :: Georgia :: Atlanta


Favorite novels: The Gunseller (Hugh Laurie), House of Mirth (Edith Wharton), and Northanger Abbey (Jane Austen) to start.

Favorite writers: Roger Ebert, Jane Austen, my brother, and myself.

Favorite music: Chet Baker, Turtle Island Quartet, Red Garland

Non-noveling interests: critiquing films, baking brownies, playing the piano and singing (with the windows open)

Joined: October 31, 2008

This Year: Official Participant

NaNoWriMo History:

NaNoWriMo posts: 0

NaNoWriMo buddies: 0

Brief Author Bio:

After a long sojourn in the academic system, Reisytal has finally decided that she has learned all she would like to learn for the time being and plans to graduate with a Bachelor of Arts in English (Writing and Publications) next spring. Between now and then, she looks forward to actually watching more than one Netflix rental a month (even though a foreign or classic film can actually be worth the whole $8.99 sometimes), earning some spending money working in “detailed retail”, and lingering in the sanctuary of a house of prayer. She may even decide to write an undergraduate thesis for the pomp of it.

The Color Red

For my American literature class, we are reading The Color Purple, by Alice Walker.

My heart has never hurt so much while reading a book.  It is literally so painful to me that I have considered simply disregarding the assignment and not finishing it.  But then I think to myself, although it is fiction, is it not a representation of some[one][thing] that could really exist?  This pain is real.  This sin is real.  This injustice is real.  I think of all the girls in sexual slavery.  I think of all the girls that cannot even identify the intimacy their hearts long for.  I want to cry.  I want to lay the book down and never pick it up again.  I want to soak in the prayer room for hours and hours and wash away all the sadness and confusion and depression and oppression…

I cannot handle the color red.  Christ shed His blood.  He encountered sin and absorbed its wounds, His flesh stripped from His body and His face forsaken.  He was “Desolate” because “He delights in her”–the joy of His Bride set before Him. Who could ever accuse God of being a perverted Lover, anything but Love itself?!  He is the very reality of love.  His love is perfect in every way.  Truly, He is worthy because He was slain.  He deals in the color of blood, the color of life, not the purple of death, the bruising of our souls.  He brings life and life abundant!

How can I continue to encounter all this sorrow?  I am accepted in the Beloved.  A partaker of the Divine nature.  My beloved’s: and His desire is for me.

Carving Out a Personal History

God, it hurts.

Carving out a personal history is sometimes like Shylock’s pound of flesh.

God provided the blood so He can kill the flesh and give you a HEART.

He doesn’t lie like Shylock.  He loves.  But His love is a burning fire…



BurnI disagree with Rejection.I disagree with Bitterness.I disagree with Lust.

You shall have no entrance in me or our Body.

I am accepted in the Beloved.

I am a partaker of the Divine nature.

I am my Beloved’s, and His desire is for me.









Around the Throne

Yesterday I watched Schindler’s List.



It was hard.  But not as difficult as I had anticipated.  I felt distanced.  Disconnected.  I felt; but I couldn’t cry.

Then I thought–as I shuffled back into my room to go to sleep–

They sang “Holy!” during the Holocaust.

The Elders.  The Living Creatures.  The Angels.  The dead in Christ.  They sang “Holy!”  While it happened—they were there, continuing the perpetual dance of adoration.  Up and down.  Face lifted, face falling, face lifted, face falling.  Because He is holy.  And as He presided over the human affairs, the demonic affairs, the demonic affairs that culminated in the death of six million people and the continued life of a globe that had rejected His perfect leadership–there He sat.  In the beauty of His holiness.  Unchanged.  Moved, yes—as He always His by His beloved ones; humans, I mean.  And He sat.  And the LambLion interceded.  And angels ascended and descended…

the Warmth of rhythm

I am a creature of rhythms.

Each day I like to play my piano.

To eat good food.

To turn on a warm light and linger for a moment, pausing before the immensity of busy life.  To hide away in the startling edges of life, inside the mind and tucked away in the folds of my own experience.

I shall retire.