Full Of It

It's no secret now that I intend to be buried in a Chock-Full-O-Nuts coffee can. I hope Becky can join me. Be a great eternity in there, kind of cozy, intimate . . . .

Well . . . but as I think about what I'd like to have written as an epitaph, several come to mind. I'll keep these handy . . . they'd fit perfectly on the sixteen ounce size.

It's true--death comes to every man.
But he's not gone, he's just visiting the can.

OR

He was a writer who never knew ruts . . .
He never burned out, he was just chocked-full-o-nuts.

OR

Becky always said, "He was a great lover."
But how would she know, never having another?

OR

He wrote his own words and his own epitaph
Just so he could say he had the last laugh.

OR

Inside this can you'll find the man
But he's gone for eternity.
And all he can say on judgment day
Is he's shorter than he used to be.

OR

There's nothing left of his charm and good looks
After we bury the can we're burning his books.

The Bible Poem

I had one more of these zany things that I'd written a few weeks back. Enjoy.

It's In the Bible

Whenever you're down

Or depressed with a frown

And you need a good word at the end,

Then open the book

And have a quick look

For it's all in the Bible, my friend.

Or if you've got worms

Or your stomach's in turns

And you're rejected by kith and by kin,

Don't give it a thought,

Your worry's for naught,

For it's all in the Bible, my friend.

There's juicy stuff here--

Some cloudy, some clear,

And more that is swift as the wind.

There's parable truths

And prophets and soothes

For it's all in the Bible, my friend.

And the more that you read

Or feel you're in need

For something that won't flex or bend,

Just pick up the tome

And read it at home

For it's all in the Bible, my friend.

And at last, where you're weary

Or feeling quite dreary

And you have none upon which to depend,

You might think it odd

But you always have God

For it's all in the Bible, my friend.

Reading Isaac

The last few evenings I've ended my day by reading bits and pieces of Isaac Asimov's single-volume biography entitled: A Memoir. Here, Asimov--the lamb-chopped, bespeckled, Cro-Magnon renaissance writer of over 600 books--takes the reader through a dizzying array of experiences, mostly of the writing and publishing variety. (I wanted to paste a photo of Asimov in this blog, but his photos and images are carefully guarded, protected, and copy-righted by his estate, so I just pasted my own decade-old photo here .)

I read this little Asimov memoir at least once a year, just to remind myself that it's the act of writing, not necessarily the production of books, that must remain at the heart of a writer's choices and efforts. Asimov was always at the typewriter. He rarely traveled (never by air), rarely participated in book tours or marketing campaigns, and spoke only occasionally (usually at science fiction conventions).

Reading this memoir for perhaps a fifth time, I found some new nuggets. Early in Asimov's writing career (while he was still teaching Chemistry in college and had not yet made the jump to full-time writing status), he had already produced dozens of books. But in that first eleven year span, all of his royalties totaled $7,700. Breaking that down, he made $770 per year from all of his books, articles, essays and royalties combined. Chump change.

I also noted that, in the appendix, which lists all of Asimov's book titles by fiction/non-fiction and all things scientific--in 1988 Asimov wrote 14 books for one publisher. And that was just ONE publisher. Looking through the rest of his publishing history for that single year, I noted that he wrote a total of 33 books in 1988 alone, which may or may not have been his most productive year.

Astounding. Humbling.

Maybe I need to grow my sideburns!

Editors

They say that we experience life in bunches of three . . . and sometimes I wonder if that's not true.

Last week, when I sent out three batches of manuscripts to editors in places as far-ranging as New York, Chicago and Nashville, I later received three batches of mail in return from another set of editors who promptly told me, "No, we don't want your writing. You stink! And we can smell you all the way over here!"

Most of these rejections were just form letters (or actual slips of paper), but there was one rejection that gave me hope. A female editor of a Virginia historical magazine wrote this nice letter on one of my manuscripts: Well done . . . unfortunately, I can't use this right now. However, please do send me more of your work. And just so we stay in touch, I'm putting you on my e-mail list.

Okay, now that's what I'm talkin' 'bout . . . an editor who loves me, and a southern-belle to boot!

Writers don't get many accolades, and few people read anymore . . . and so it doesn't take much to make a writer's heart jump a bit with excitement. This woman actually appreciates me, I thought. She sees my potential. She likes the cut of my jib. And if she likes the way I string ten words together, I wonder if we should meet on Facebook?

Nah, I've got enough friends out there. What I need is an editor who will say "Yes!" and then write me a large check.

The Prodigal Returns

On Friday night I finished reading Henri J. Nouwen's book, The Return of the Prodigal Son--a classic Christian work centered around reflections of Rembrandt's painting of the Biblical parable. The fact that I finished reading this book on a Friday night is also indicative of how totally boring my life really is.

Still, Friday, on the whole, was something of a treat for me . . . as I felt like the prodigal returning home--at least in terms of writing.

After a hardcore workout at the gym early Friday morning (a pectoral and upper back day!), I purchased groceries , mailed some Christmas letters, and then returned home to settle in at the writing lab, where, over the next six hours, I hammered out a half dozen cover letters to various editors, emailed work to a half dozen others, and even submitted a small pile of poems (which is something I rarely do). I returned to my roots--and brainstormed my way to an eclectic blend of submissions in large thick packages that ranged from:

* An essay about Thomas Jefferson's last will and testament

* An essay about Gerald R. Ford

* An essay about the pileated woodpecker

* A personal opinion op-ed piece about the current sad state of publishing in America

* Six poems

* A personal essay about being a one-woman man (which I sent to the Atlantic, Harper's, and Outlander)

* Two book proposals (one to The Upper Room, and the other to Group)

And, what's more, this prodigal also returned with a vengeance and finished three Christmas stories that he hopes to publish NEXT YEAR. All in all, not a bad afternoon and not a bad return on an investment of six hours.

Which leads me back to Nouwen's little book. Guess I was just tired and my brain was fried. Thanks, Henri.

Going Without Glasses

A few days back I ordered a new set of prescription eyewear, and when I arrived at the office to have them fitted, the technician asked me, "Do you, by chance, read a lot?"

Do I read a lot? Does a Ozzy Osborne have a nervous tick? Do cows make pies? Does Peyton Manning throw touchdown passes? Does Tiger Woods cheat on his wife?

Yeah, lady, I read a lot. What about it?

"Well," she said, "these glasses are for distance only. Have you considered getting a pair of bifocals, or perhaps a pair of reading glasses?"

"No thank you," I said. "I enjoy holding my reading material at arm's length. Holding a book four feet from my face helps me to develop my deltoids."

"You might find that some reading glasses would help you."

"Listen, lady, there's a lot of things that could help me. Having a sixteen year old who would take out the trash would help me. Having a cat that doesn't puke on the rug would help me. Heck, my situation could be helped if Dunkin' Donuts called to offer me a job so I could make double tuition payments to IU and Ball State . . . but you don't see me complaining. I'll just squint."

That shut her up.

Next week, however, I am going down to CVS pharmacy to look through their reading glasses. I'll try on a pair. Of course, I'll need a pair that will make me look like Ricardo Montalban.

Otherwise, they won't help.

Googling Me . . . Again

It's weird . . . but every now and then I "Google" my own name. Yesterday, however, when I typed in "Todd Outcalt" in the image search, I found over 2400 images that were attached to my name. Most of these images were book covers (my books), or book reviews, or web sites associated with my books, or magazine articles I had written over the last 25 years.

But this guy also popped up. Wow. I have a twin out there. There's another "Todd Outcalt". Can you believe it?

Turns out (when I did further research on this impostor) that this fake Todd Outcalt is a graduate of Emory and Auburn University, that he also has a business degree, and is a General Manager at Airline Transport Professionals in Jacksonville, Florida.

Not too shabby for an impostor.

But, just in case people are getting the two us confused, let me set the record straight. The real Todd Outcalt lives in Brownsburg, IN. He used to be 6, 2" tall, at his best weighed in at a whopping 240 pounds, but has now shrunk to a paltry 6, 1" and weighs a measly 220, even while consuming a dozen donuts per week. He is a graduate of Indiana State and Duke. At forty-nine years of age, he pees about a dozen times a day and still doesn't drink enough water. He writes an average of five pages of material per day (about 2500 words).

And his goal in life? To move to Jacksonville, Florida, where he longs to become an airline transport expert.