2010 Blogs

For the past three years I've written this blog, "Between Pages"--a crazy blog offering a sneak peek into my reading and writing endeavors. But I've written other blogs, too. And 2010 offers me a new opportunity to leave behind my blog about reading the Bible through in a year and now taking up a new blogging endeavor. I'll still be blogging on Between Pages, but I've been thinking about one of the following. Have an opinion? Send in your vote.

Readtreads

I suppose this is my favorite idea: a blog that would revisit some of my published writing (articles, essays, stories, columns, etc.) and reprint them on the blog along with some of my comments, including when, where, and how the work came to be published.

PulpitPrep

A blog offering a peek inside the working mind of a pastor preparing a sermon. Would pastors be interested in this one? I don't know. It could be very boring stuff, but I might have to spice it up with some zaniness.

And, if neither blog idea works, that's okay, too. I've got plenty of other insanity I can dream up.

My 2010 Reading List

I'm already hard at work making out my reading list for 2010 . . . and I've already found a rather large stack of books I intend to pile on my desk very soon. But here's a short list of some of the odds-on-favorites right now:

The Great Fire--a history book about the largest fire in U.S. history during the days of Teddy Roosevelt. Sounds hot!

And Here's the Kicker--a book by Mike Sacks featuring conversations with comedy writers.

This Odd and Wondrous Calling--a book about two pastors (one male, one female) and their public and private lives. This could be really good or really awful. But I'll reserve judgment until I read it.

A People's History of the United States--sounds interesting to me.

Beavers--a book about the critters that are chewing down my trees along White Lick creek. I want to write about beavers in 2010.

When the Game Was Ours--a book by Larry Bird and "Magic" Johnson about their games through college and the NBA.

Pops--a biography of Louis Armstrong, one of my favorite singers

Look at the Birdie--a posthumous collection of unpublished stories written by Kurt Vonnegut, a writer I read religiously in college, and an Indiana native.

This is just a start . . . but I'm ready to get going on my new reading list. And as for writing . . . I've got a list there, too. But that's another blog.

2009 Review of Books

I'm not sure how many books I read in 2009. Thirty? Maybe?

But now that the year is winding to a close and I'm able to offer a retrospective, I thought I'd select some of my favorite titles, perhaps by category. Instead of an Oscar or a Tony, however, I'll call these a Toddy (my personal choices among the books I read this past year).

In the category of History . . . the award goes to The Path Between the Seas, by David McCullough.

In the category of Science . . . I'll have to go with The Omnivore's Dilemma, by Michael Pollan.

In the category of Biography . . . the award goes to Built of Books: How Reading Defined the Life of Oscar Wilde, by Thomas Wright.

In the category of Sociology/Culture/Opinion . . . I'll have to swing with Digital Barbarism, by Mark Helprin.

In the category of Collection (Essays or Short Stories) . . . I'll give the award to What the Dog Saw, by Malcolm Gladwell.

In the category of fiction (novel or stories) . . . I'll give my Toddy-okie-dokie to Life Among the Lutherans, by Garrison Keillor.

In the category of theology/Bible . . . the award goes to The Bible, by Karen Armstrong.

In the category of poetry . . . the award goes to Collected Poems, John Updike.

And, finally, in the I-don't-know-how-to-categorize this department . . . the award goes to Writers at Work (any of the 6 titles in the Paris Review series that I read this year).

Now, come to think of it, I did read more than thirty books in 2009. I just can't remember what I read! But the longer I stare at the shelves in front of me, the more the titles jump out at me.

Next blog: what I hope to read in 2010 . . . a starting point, anyway.

All I Want For Christmas . . . Part 3

Today we drive. And we experience a second Christmas of flying wrapping paper and unbridled avarice. Me? I need more underwear and typing paper. So please, Santa, have mercy.

As for reading the galley proofs of The Ultimate Christian Living . . . coming along nicely, thank you. Tonight, if we don't return too late, I'll read more, make notes, enjoy.

I've got to get this thing completed. The deadline looms (Jan. 4) but I'll be ready. So far I've only discovered a couple of typos in the first 200 pages and, well, I've got the full 12-days of Christmas to complete the remainder.

Should be a piece of cake, since I've already given my five golden rings and my drummers drumming.

All I Want For Christmas . . . Part 2

For those who may be wondering . . . we had a total of 1126 in worship on Christmas Eve (four worship hours). Great music, wonderful spirit, and hopefully a connection with God that won't soon leave us.

Now I have a Christmas afternoon to continue reading the galley proofs of The Ultimate Christian Living. It's a great book (to be published March 1, 2010). If I don't get too tired, I may begin writing the Introduction--the final piece of the book and my last contribution to make the book complete.

I'm very impressed with this book . . . but I also recognize that I'm not as spry as I used to be. I'll read and write for as long as I can, but after that, if I fall asleep . . . well, everyone at my house has already fallen asleep anyway. I'll just join the party.

All I Want For Christmas . . . Part 1

For the past three months I've been waiting on the good word from Health Communications (my publisher in Florida . . . and oh, how I'd love to be in Florida now that winter is here!). At long last the word arrived yesterday . . . dragging along with it some additional work. But that's okay, I'm glad to do this work because I'd been asking for this Christmas gift for some time.

As it's shaping up, I'll be reading galley proofs of my next-to-be-published book: The Ultimate Christian Living. I'm very excited about this one. The book will hit bookstores on March 1, 2010 and will include essays by or about such nationally-known luminaries such as Rick Warren, Max Lucado, Bill Graham (written by yours truly) and Bishop Will Willimon. I also solicited some fantastic essays from others like Rev. Linda McCoy (who pastors The Garden, St. Lukes, Indianapolis).

So . . . I'll begin on Christmas day, after giving my gifts to the kids. One of the great things about having older children now is that they don't care about opening presents any more, and we actually have to rouse them out of bed on Christmas morning. They'll open their gifts, and then go back to bed for the rest of the day. Hurrah! Free afternoon for me and Becky!

Once the excitement is over, I'll begin reading the galleys for the book . . . I'm the first reader!!! I get to proof it, but most of all, enjoy it.

Revisit me on Christmas day and I'll tell you how I'm coming along with my work on The Ultimate Christian Living. Jesus would be proud . . . I'm gonna work my butt off on his birthday sharing this gift with others.

The Christmas Eve Sermon

Tonight I will be putting the finishing touches on my Christmas Eve message . . . a short story, or parable, that I have been working on for about a year. What's been tough about this one is the trimming (just like trimming a tree). I had to continually cut off the dead ends of the story, all of the excess words, all of the sentences that didn't belong.

But I think I have a nice piece that will read well and will, hopefully, be inspiring and insightful on Christmas Eve. Anyway . . . it should be fun.

As my schedule is shaping up now, I may also have time to write on Christmas day. But should I? I think I started this year's Christmas Eve message last Christmas . . . so maybe this year, Christmas 2009 . . . I'll get a head start on 2010.

If the fates allow!

Christmas Kringles & Jingles

Okay, I couldn't help it. A few weeks ago, I penned these limericks for Christmas. Enjoy them. And if you are offended, just read on to the last limerick. (At least you'll know I am aware of my own deficiencies.)

Two elves from the region of Clay

Went on strike to protest their low pay

Said one, "I'm intent

To blackmail The Gent

And hold as collateral his sleigh."

On the night before Christmas Eve

Mrs. Santa said, "Hey, I believe

That I'm pregnant or I'm

A bit late for my time,

But I didn't know I could conceive."

Elves say (though with some remorse)

That the Claus is a sexual force:

And yes, it is true,

Saint Nick's fathered a few.

(Which is why he's so jolly, of course!)

This author wrote verses--some slick--

And others penned terribly quick

To make some folks coo,

"I'm offended by you

When you poke fun at jolly Saint Nick!"

Sunday Sabbath?

Sunday was, as it usually is for me, a free-wheeling non-stop ride. Great worship, with some very inspiring moments led the way, and then in the afternoon, I made a wide sweep in the car and visited several people in three hospitals. On the way home, I picked up my son at a football game at the park, and then finally, at home by four p.m., I ate a quick bite and prepared for the arrival of our Calvary Christmas carolers. These kids did a great job, and our whole family enjoyed them very much!!!

At last, when it was time to settle down for some writing, I made it count. I first whipped out an essay I've been writing in my head for over a month, but in an hour, I'd completed a fairly nice 2500 word first draft that I have entitled "Road Kill". I hope to sell it to an outdoor magazine.

As soon as I had completed that essay, I dove head first into an absolutely insane piece of humor that I entitled, "Chasing Tiger Woods". It's a zany piece about the products I would like to endorse (in the event other companies pull the plug on Tiger). I whipped this one out and sent it immediately to an editor at The New Yorker who seems to enjoy my insane brand of humor. So we'll see about this one . . . it's timely, but it might be just a bit too edgy for The New Yorker.

Finally, by ten, I was ready for a long-winter's nap. No more writing to do. Just sleep, and dreams of other essays, other nutty-work, that I fully intend to begin on Monday night!

Another Friday Night . . .

Another Friday night. My wife is attending a teacher's staff party. My son is going to bed early to prepare for a weightlifting meet on Saturday. And me . . . I'm doing what every serious writer in America is doing on a Friday night. I'm licking stamps . . . or, perhaps more accurately, I'm sticking stamps on envelopes. Piles of them. Mounds of them. Great heaping masses of them.

I have my index cards on the table, ready to record where I am sending my latest supply of essays, magazine articles, and proposals. I'm sending material to such illustrious magazines as The New Yorker, and also to obscure literary journals like Pleiades and The Kit-Cat Review (no, this is not a pole-dancer's magazine).

Earlier in the day, I prepared for this onslaught by taking out a new mortgage on the house so that I could afford to buy stamps. What is it now . . . 44 cents for a small letter? But these ain't small letters . . . these are massive envelopes stuffed full of sheaves of paper. That's a mountain of stamps (and MOST of the manuscripts will be rejected and the stamps wasted). But that's the gamble writers engage in daily, weekly. Day after day. Week after week. Lots of stamp-stickin'. Lots of envelope lickin'. Better believe it.

A Friday night. Exciting.

But hey, if you're a writer, you understand. Friday nights are for licking stamps, stuffing envelopes, addressing mailing labels.

Turn off the TV. Get crackin'!

Laughing Matters

Some time back, my wife took notice of my writing proclivities: "Whenever things aren't going well, or whenever you are stressed, you write a bunch of idiotic humorous junk."

Very interesting. Insightful. Perhaps even spot on psychologically correct.

But then, there has always been a correlation between humor and drama, between the need to laugh and the realities of the human experience. There was a movie entitled, Punchline, starring Tom Hanks and Sally Field, which dealt with this reality. And writers like Woody Allen and Jerry Seinfeld have also noted the long-standing intersections between humor and real life. In other words, we want to laugh about death, suffering, and hardships because it's one of our coping mechanisms.

Okay, enough psychological mumbo-jumbo.

I've been writing scads of humor lately . . . in fact, some of the best laugh-out-loud material I've composed in years (but that's just me), and I have about a dozen essays now that I feel compelled to send to publishers for a look-see. Trouble is, every magazine editor in America says she wants more humor, but humor is notoriously difficult to place (and sell), and it is also the most difficult form of material to write. Every editor, every publisher, every movie producer, every writer, will admit this.

When I read a book, or go to a movie, and I end up crying at the end, I'm never as impressed with the narrative or the screenplay for a drama as I am with a knock-down piece of humor. Humor is far more difficult to pull off, and those who can do it well always amaze me. When I read something that is incredibly funny, I often study it for weeks, reading and re-reading the words, the sentences, the flow, to get a better perspective on why it works and what makes it work.

Funny . . . but I just work that way.

Writers Block

Last week a friend sent me a Christmas card that read: "Did I see that you had three books published this past year? Don't you ever suffer from writer's block?"

In short: no. Never.

Truth be told, I've been churning out drivel since I was ten years old. In my closet, I've got notebooks filled with ideas for stories, novels, essays . . . . It's been years since I've tapped these ideas, however, since I'll never get around to needing them.

Sure, there have been many times when a story has stalled, but if that happens, I just stop writing on that piece and move onto something else (or, in my case, click on another file, another novel, another essay, or I begin something new entirely). There have been times when I've tried to write a piece, say, with a certain tone or tenor, but I couldn't get into the drama. No problem, I just start writing something that strikes my mood at the moment, be it humor, poignant, or idiotic.

Just looking back on the past seventeen days, I've turned out the following (and not always in a steady flow, but often working on several of these at once):

* Two travel articles about non-Napa valley California boutique wineries

* The initial stirrings of a new book proposal to be entitled: The Seven Deadly Virtues

* A reworking of a science fiction story about a viral disease carried by the common house fly

* Scads of limericks; a peck of poems; a rickshaw full of rhymes

* At least a dozen letters to editors pitching other essays I'd like to offer to their magazines

* At least a half dozen emails to editors pitching other book proposals I'd like to offer

* This blog each morning

* Three humorous essays, each of which I turned out in thirty minutes flat, and which are some of the funniest crap I've written in decades

* Sermons, newsletter articles, Post-it notes, business letters, Christmas cards & handwritten love letters to Becky (which she receives DAILY).

Okay, so maybe I do get writer's block when it comes to writing love . . . but Becky doesn't care. She gets to read all of my other stuff. And that should be enough for any woman.

By the Books

Sitting above my computer I have a small library shelf of books. These volumes have been important to me through the years (and I frequently buy new, up-to-date editions).

I have six of these books, to be exact: a Bible, a Biblical concordance, a dictionary, a thesaurus, Jeff Herman's Guide to Publishers and Literary Agents, and The Writer's Market. These six books form the double-trifecta supporting my writing efforts.

I'm rather serious about these six volumes, and if one of them is missing from the shelf, I go looking for it. I might yell, "Hey, who took my thesaurus?!" or "Where's my dictionary?!"

And usually a voice will call back, "Hey, don't blame me! You left it in the bathroom on the floor!"

Okay, so maybe I did . . . but that's all the more reason for people to keep their grimy little mitts off my books.

Last night, I used the Writer's Market for two hours . . . emailing editors, addressing envelopes for future submissions, perusing new and untapped markets out there which have not yet come into contact with my version of insanity. But hopefully, with the help of a few stamps, some of these editors will very soon read my work and ask, "Where have you been all my life?"

Just Another Manic Monday

When I dropped into bed on Monday night, I looked back on the day with something akin to awe and wonder. Having spent most of the day darting from hospital to hospital, I eventually made my way back home where, in my usual fashion, I fixed dinner for the wife and the sixteen-year-old munchkin. Then Becky said it: "I'm exhausted, and I've got papers to grade, grades to enter, and cookies to bake for a school party."

Then I said it: "Go take a refreshing nap. I'll bake your cookies." And so, I mixed a scratch batch and baked up the three dozen. But realizing I had a few hours to be productive in other ways, I darted into my library between bakings, removed two books, and was able to read two chapters from Kathryn Stockett's new best-selling novel, The Help (a real chick-novel if ever there was one), as well as an early John Updike short story--an epistolary concoction about an African boy who is adopted by an American couple, a story that Updike wrote in his upper-level writing apartment while chain-smoking in his younger days. All this while I baked cookies.

And then, in a sudden burst of inspiration, I fired up Old Sparky, my twelve-year-old writing companion, and in twenty-five minutes I'd written a thousand-word essay that I intend to send to The New Yorker (following some subsequent polishing). The essay, including the title, was EXACTLY 1000 words--a good sign, I thought, almost Biblical in proportion.

And then, on to the stack of mail, where I discovered a rejection from Harper's magazine stashed among the Christmas cards. And a bit later, on the laptop, I discovered another rejection from an editor at West Branch, a literary journal that was looking at some of my essays.

Further down in the email list, however, I discovered an invitation from another editor who was interested in reviewing one of my book proposals. "Sure," he wrote, "send me the proposal. I'd be glad to look at it."

Fantastic. I managed to find the proposal among the harem I have stashed on floppies and hard drives and, for the first time in over a year, re-read my own work from top to bottom. It was flawless, and having forgotten what I'd done twelve months ago, I was actually quite taken with the guy who wrote this junk, my younger-self. And, for a forty-page proposal, it was compelling.

Click. Done . . . . and done. Not a bad evening all things considered.

Now, I wait. But in the meantime, I'll keep baking.

Julie & Julia & Me

Over the weekend, I rented the Julie & Julia DVD. For weeks, Becky had insisted that we go to the movies to see this over-hyped chick-flick, but every time we checked our entertainment budget we discovered that we'd sent all of our money to Ball State or to Uncle Sam.

"Nothing left for entertainment?" Becky would ask.

"Nothing in the budget for a movie," I would say, "But if it's entertainment you want, I could disrobe."

And thus I was led to the DVD in the hope that watching this movie on the couch might lead to some necking . . . but, alas, sixteen-year-old Logan was always standing behind us sniping, "How can you watch this stuff? I've got a Jackass movie playing downstairs if you'd rather watch that!"

But here's the kicker. I actually enjoyed this movie. And why? No doubt because it was about two women who wanted to write (Julie and her blog and Julia and her first cookbook) and was also about two great marriages (Julie's and Julia's). This movie was cleverly produced and it also offered up some serious questions about the significance of love and the power of following one's passions while staying true to one's deepest commitments. In short, it was about setting goals, following one's heart, and plodding forward against great odds and numerous setbacks. Not really a namby-pamby movie. I'll tell you, that Julia Childs was really something, and boy could see cook (and I'm not just talking food ).

I enjoyed the DVD. And I hope Becky also enjoyed my attempt at entertainment.

Quoting Andy Griffith

Last week I had lunch at the Mayberry Cafe in Danville, Indiana. I was escorted to the Earnest T. Bass booth, where I found this quote on the wall: You know something Sheriff . . . as talented and as good-lookin' as I am, I just cain't get a girl.

Reading that quote brought tears to my eyes. I felt blessed, having already bagged my woman.

Still, I can't help finding affinities with my life throughout The Andy Griffith Show. I can identify with most every character on that show, and, of course, I have my favorite quotes, too. For example, here are what a few of my favorites mean to me:

Hey, Al . . . those hamburgers are ruined! I won't be responsible!

(Floyd the Barber speaking to Barney Fife in the wake of capturing three escaped women convicts.) Significance in my life: Becky shouldn't complain if I burn the Hamburger Helper. I mean, I do most of the cookin', so stop bitchin'!

Well, Op . . . I've tried to teach you that there's some good in everybody.

(Andy speaking to Opie about the awful possibility that they might have a new uncle.)

Significance in my life: I've tried to teach my children the same thing. But really, what good person can you find in Washington, D.C.?

If you wanna run with me, you can run with me, and if you wanna run with him, you can run with him. Just sorta make up your mind!

(Andy speaking to Helen on her front porch about her relationship with the new male teacher.)

Significance in my life: My wife works with scads of male teachers who are more intelligent, lively, humorous, and promising than I. But I'm not jealous. Really, I'm not. No really. I've been runnin' with the old broad (counting high school) for over thirty-five years and I just can't run any more. I can walk, hike, and kayak. But my runnin' days are over. I mean, I ain't Forrest Gump. So, yeah, if she wants to run with someone else, go ahead. But she won't get far. None of our cars will run past the county line. She'll be back wanting a jump start or something. And, of course, I'll be glad to give her a jump.

Mom's Christmas List

It's a ritual I go through every December . . . . Mom calls. She asks me about books. "What titles do you want this year?"

Then, we dance.

I tell her I have all the books I need, but could really use some new underwear. She says, "I'm not buying you more underwear."

I sigh and tell her that she doesn't need to bother getting me anything (and I really, truly mean this!). I could have Christmas without gifts, VERY EASILY! "I have everything I need," I say.

"Well, then tell me what you want," Mom says. "What are some books you'd like to read?"

Okay, so to appease old mom I break down and give her a couple of titles. "I'll read anything from the Best American trade paperback series," I tell her.

The next day, mom calls back. "They have a lot of those books," Mom says. "Do you want the 2009 titles, or the 2010 titles?"

"Mom," I say, trying not to sound too intellectual. "It's not 2010 yet. Those books haven't been published. So, I guess I'll go with the 2009, since they are actually sitting on the shelf now."

"And where can I find them?" she wonders.

"In a bookstore, mom," I say. "In a bookstore. Just ask for anyone named 'Nancy' and she'll help you."

Mom doesn't need to be shopping for books. She needs something simple like underwear: solid colors, boxers, or maybe a pair that says: "World's Greatest Son"

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.

Writing from the Trunk

Last night I stayed up late and read for about four hours, and one of the titles was John Grisham's new collection of stories: Ford County Stories. This is Grisham's first short story collection, and I believe all of these are originals, as I did not see any indication that these stories had been previously published in magazines. I'm not a huge Grisham fan (although I do have a surprising number of his books on my shelves). I do usually take a Grisham novel to the beach with me, however, just so I can toss it in the trash after I've read it.

But I was taken with the paragraph that Grisham included in the flyleaf of his new book.

Here, Grisham recounts his experience with his first book, A Time to Kill. Evidently, when his first book was published, he purchased 1000 copies, loaded them into his trunk, and attempted to hand sell them at libraries, reading groups and conventions. Few people bought a book and Grisham found himself in debt, loaded down with copies of his own book. And as he states, that first experience taught him that there was a world of difference between the writing of books and the selling of books. Wow, can I relate to that experience! That's why I decided a long time ago that I would just buy the books myself and give them away. Few people were going to purchase my titles, anyway, and I might as well have fun giving them as gifts.

A few weeks ago, while I was thumbing through another title in the bookstore, I happened upon another writer's observation along these very lines (and a very successful writer, to boot!). He stated it this way (my paraphrase): People hear the word "writer" and they assume that anyone who writes a book is wealthy. What they don't realize is that writers actually deal in pocket change and are, by definition, busted before the first page is printed. Every time a book sells, the writer gets a few nickels and dimes, like someone actually dribbling coins into the palm. Anyone who writes a book under the influence or with delusions of wealth or grandeur should get used to being in debt and surviving on half-priced cans of tuna fish.

Indeed, writers should get used to writing out of the trunk of their car. That's where their books are going to be stashed (just look in my trunk!). And after a few months of being broke, a writer can eventually take those books to the landfill, dump them, and return home to try again.

Eating Corn

I'm reading a fascinating science/culinary/sociological book right now by Michael Pollan: The Omnivore's Dilemma. Here, Pollan offers us a fascinating study of the American diet . . . the stuff you and I put into our bodies every day, without stopping to think about what we are really eating.

As it turns out, most of what you and I consume is corn. In fact, about 1/2 of all the calories you and I consume every day comes from the cornfields of Iowa, Nebraska, Illinois and Indiana. Corn is in most every food sitting on the supermarket shelf--most certainly anything that is packaged, bottled, canned, or wrapped. We just don't think about it that way.

For example, here's a breakdown in calories of the typical lunch from McDonolds (almost all corn): Soda (100% corn calories from corn syrup), milk shake (78% corn); salad dressings (65% corn calories); chicken nuggets (56% corn calories from corn oil, corn starch, and not to mention the corn the chickens ate to become chicken); cheeseburger (52% corn calories. How? From the ketchup, mustard, bun...which is almost all corn calories); French fries (23% corn calories from the corn oil they are fried in).

See what Pollan is getting at? Corn everywhere.

And, since I'm eating and drinking all of this corn everyday in my donuts, bread, soft drinks, bottled teas, and processed foods, it makes me wonder: why in the world would I ever actually eat CORN or corn on the cob or corn out of a can? Our bodies, just like the cows, chickens, swine and turkeys we eat, are essentially corn-fed protein and are remarkably different than the beef, chicken, pork and turkey our grandparents' generation enjoyed. In fact, none of these meats taste the same as they did just a generation ago. We just think they taste the same, but what we are really enjoying is the corn.

Wow . . . all of this talk is making me hungry. What's for lunch? Think I'll fix some popcorn and wash it down with a soft drink. (Total calories from CORN . . . 100%.)

On Dasher . . . On Cupid . . .

Amazing the images you can find on Google when you type in the word "Christmas". So, here's my little offering to your Christmas cheer! (No, this is NOT me!)

Now that Thanksgiving is past, I've started thinking about my annual Christmas letter to friends and family. What should I say? How many lies should I tell?

Well, just to keep things fun, I'll include a short list of some highlights below and I'll let you pick out the truths from among the Christmas whoppers.

Logan

* Qualified for a spot at the national olympic-lifting event in Atlanta, GA.

* Turned 16

* Ate his weight in ring-dings in 2009

Chelsey

* Began second year at Ball State in Elementary/Special Education

* Was elected to a leadership role for the international Free the Slaves ministry

* Didn't need any tuition money from old Dad in 2009

Becky

* Took a 25th Anniversary cruise with Todd this summer

* Decided to go back to school so she could become a principal

* Thinks that the absence of Todd's mustache makes him an even better lover

Todd

* Had three books published in 2009

* Lost 5 pounds on his anniversary cruise

* Never stretches the truth

Gladwell? Well . . . Glad

This weekend I completed my reading of Malcolm Gladwell's latest book (and the NY Times #1 Bestseller): What the Dog Saw. Gladwell, the towering-haired writer for the New Yorker magazine, has written four consecutive bestsellers, including The Tipping Point, Blink, and Outliers. I've enjoyed, and learned from, each one.

What the Dog Saw is a collection of Gladwell's New Yorker essays--an eclectic blend of work that demonstrates Gladwell's incredible range as a writer, interviewer and researcher. Gladwell always captivates.

Although I enjoyed the first three of Gladwell's titles, I especially appreciated the blend of topics found in What the Dog Saw (the title of which comes from Gladwell's essay about Cesar Millan, the "Dog Whisperer").

This was a great book . . . and I'm glad I saw it.

Another CD

Last week I received copies of my latest CD, The Christmas Collection, which includes several Christmas memoirs. And, should anyone want a copy ($10), I'm giving 100% of the proceeds, royalties . . . the whole shebang, to mission. Always have.

Get 'em while they're hot.

Of course, Christmas is still four weeks distant, but it doesn't hurt to begin some gratuitous panhandling now, even before we've stuffed ourselves with turkey. So, here's my pitch. And here's what other people are saying about The Christmas Collection, by Todd Outcalt.

I was really down in the dumps. And then I listened to Mr. Alleycat's hilarious CD. I decided to purchase my husband, Herb, a Christmas gift this year (deodorant bar). Thanks, Todd.

(Mrs. E.W. Shwartz, Chutzpa, NY)

Never heard anything like it. Mr. Outcalt's sonorous voice lulled me to sleep, and I've been suffering from insomnia for the better part of forty years since I work nights as a pole dancer. In fact, I can't even think of going to bed without his voice at my side!

(Honey Money, Chicago, IL)

There are millions of people who need to listen to this CD! I was one of them. I was ready to give up on Christmas this year and convert to Buddhism, but I reached Nirvana by listening to this CD and decided I'd give the gospel of Luke another try. This CD is the real Christmas miracle!

(Bob, from Toled0)

Once in a lifetime a CD comes along that can rock your world, man! Mine got smashed. Like, totally blitzed. Incredible, dude. Buy this sucka!

(Razor, drummer for the band Hot Nuggets 'n Fries)

Why did you put me on another one of your CDs, Todd? It's embarrassing. Can you tape over the top of that one track?

(Todd's mom)

Yes, Dear

Since I have written for many women's magazines over the years, I certainly know my stuff when it comes to the fairer sex. Heck, what am I saying . . . I'm an expert! But in case there are men out there who haven't learned the secret of marriage . . . read on. Live and learn, my brothers. Live and learn.

Yes, Dear

There's a secret to marriage

That we dare not disparage

And men know it by heart (though it's queer):

That a man can stay sane

If he's content to remain

In the harmony of saying "Yes, Dear!"

Some men, of course, lapse

When they try to take naps

Or attempt to push man-strength or fear.

But in the end, brother,

Your marriage will suffer

If you don't acquiesce to "Yes, Dear!"

Those men are most happy

Who have learned this (though sappy):

That marriage runs best in the gear

Where the man takes the seat

In the rear where the heat

Can best by cooled down with "Yes, Dear!"

When the woman's in charge

A marriage looms large

And a man gets more "nookie" than beer

When he gives her the wheel

To do what she'll feel

Is best when she hears the "Yes, Dear!"

Sure, some might get mad

Or think it's too bad

That a man is more virile in tear,

But listen, my friend,

You'll find peace in the end

If you learn how to whisper, "Yes, Dear!"

And while some men feel "clipped"

Or "neutered" or "whipped"

If they follow their woman with cheer,

You can bet your life, Binky

That their marriage ain't stinky

'Cause they've learned how to holler, "Yes, Dear!"

When you learn this one key

You'll be able to pee

And plop the seat down on your rear,

Because you've been trained,

Reprogrammed, ingrained

By those two words she taught you: "Yes, Dear!"

And you'll sit there and stew

As many men do

Wondering "why in the world am I here?"

But the answer is heard

In the peaceable word:

"Whatever you want" and "Yes, Dear!"

More Methodist Madness

Actually, I've written too many of these lately . . . but here's another ditty about the Methodist church. Enjoy.

Methodists

If you love to sing

Or hear bells when they ring

And you shake hands far more than you kiss,

Well, if this is your stance,

There's a pretty good chance

That, my friend, you're a Methodist.

And if you commune rarely

And give money (though barely)

And your Bible is oddly not missed,

And you've heard of John Wesley

Or boycotted Nestle

Then you're probably a Methodist.

If you drive a junk car

Rarely sit in a bar

And there's few things that make you feel pissed,

Though you follow the laws

There's still probable cause

To call you a Methodist.

Yes, some like John Calvin

Or Luther or Benen

And I could go on with the list . . .

But if you like boring meetings

And warm, friendly greetings

Then you're likely a Methodist.

And while others like Lent

Of the Council of Trent,

And you're pulled toward the pluralist,

Or while others preach hell

When you're feeling quite swell,

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If you know nothing of Barth

Or of Augustine's heart

And you're not a staunch dogmatist,

And you don't think it odd

To speak rarely of God

Then you're likely a Methodist.

And if you are quick

To comfort the sick

And you're just an idealist,

Of if you don't care

What your pastor might wear

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If most of your friends

Live by middle-class ends

And you know few philanthropists,

And you rarely feel guilty

Convicted or silly

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If you've got just enough

Of religion and stuff

But you're not a sensationalist

And you don't like the strange

Or the newfangled change

Then you're likely a Methodist.

If you like status-quo

And just go with the flow

But there's nothing to which you'd insist,

And you don't feel a slight

To the left or the right

Then you're likely a Methodist.

And finally, my friend,

If you know that you've sinned

But you're not a deep moralist,

Then you've likely deduced

That you've come home to roost

In the church of the Methodist.

Lollygag

Being a writer (and a pastor/speaker) I would say that I spend a great deal of time thinking about words: written, spoken, communicated. Words are important, and words convey not only ideas but feelings, memories, and intellectual weight.

That being said, I also find myself focusing on certain words from time-to-time. And recently that word has been "lollygag". It's an odd word, really--an onomatopoetic feast for the lips that not only sounds funny in the mouth, but sounds funny coming out, too. And it's words like lollygag that help me to create (or even coin) new words for stories and essays.

For example, a person who is lazy might be considered a lollygagger. That's a noun. A person who is caught in the act might be described as lollygagging. That's a verb. Or, perhaps, the word could even be used as a gerund, as in the sentence: "Lollygagging is my favorite activity."

One thing for sure . . . I don't want to be considered a lollygagger, and I don't want to lollygag, and I don't want to do anything lollygaggingly (adverb) either. Nor, I suppose, would I want to be described as "the lollygagginglyiest person in Indiana."

That being said . . . excuse me while I go upstairs and take a nap. All of this writing is making me sleepy.

The Silence of the Editors

For the past six months I have been in a game of cat-and-mouse with several editors. Or, I should say, it's just been cat . . . . I email, and get no response. I phone in, leave a voice mail, and get no answer. I write, but no one writes back.

Odd, really . . . given that I've had a good relationship with these editors in the past (or is it just me?). Which sets me to wondering: Is this an editor's way of saying, "We really don't desire to work with you anymore" or "At last, we've figured out that you are a loser and we're eschewing all contact with those on our loser-list" or "Hey, you're trying to contact us, but we don't work here anymore!"

Regardless, the silence of the editors has become a real mystery to me. Perhaps some of them are reading my blog and have come to the conclusion that I am warped or need psychiatric help (or perhaps a better donut). Others may be saving their communication for one big announcement such as: "We've decided to publish all seven of the book proposals you sent us, one for each of the dwarf personalities in Snow White. And we loved your book on Dopey, especially!"

I'm not sure . . . but I do know that I'm going to keep writing. All you editors out there who have gone into hiding . . . you'll hear from me again. And I don't care what cave you're hiding in. I'll find you.

But if you did happen to get my letter of last Tuesday, why not write me back? I'll be obliged and will gladly send you a small tin of mixed nuts.

What Time Is It?

Some weeks back I found myself on a Henri Nouwen kick, and I purchased a batch of his book titles in one fell-swoop. Nouwen was, in case you don't know, a Catholic priest who wrote some amazing books for pastors and lay persons alike--devotional titles, as well as theological works that have held up over time. He worked as a cruise ship chaplain (what a gig!), a parish priest, and also a chaplain to the mentally and physically disabled. A well-rounded guy.

Last night I began praying his The Book of Hours, which is actually a compilation of his work fashioned into a Cistercian model of daily prayer: where monks rise at 3 a.m. to pray, and close their day at 7:30 p.m. with vespers to the holy Mother.

I've never been an hours kind of guy (what idiot, for example, would rise at 3 a.m. to do anything?) and the thought of praying through the day on the hours isn't something I've ever done . . . coffee each hour, well, that's another story. Still, Nouwen's little book has some nicely-woven thoughts and prayers and I will use them (though on my schedule, not the monks').

I wonder if Nouwen wrote any of his book after midnight, or was he sleeping so he could get up at 3 a.m.?

On File

Last night I began searching for some essays I had written a few years ago. I have yet to find them. They are stored on a floppy, perhaps, or in one of my voluminous "folders" inside my twelve-year old computer. There's so much inside the machine now, I can scarcely locate anything I've written.

I'm still old school in many ways. For example, I keep an index card file/box for all of my submissions . . . one essay/story/proposal etc. per card. I write down where I've sent each one, alongside the date and year. This little card filer has been with me since grade school. It is rusted, completely outdated . . . but I still use it.

Flipping through my card file last night in search of the essay didn't help me either . . . but I did discover that I have stories out there that have never been returned, proposals that are (reportedly) still being considered by editors. Some have been floating out there in the ether for a year or more. I doubt I'll ever see them again . . . and I just forget about them, and also chalk up the loss of postage as one of the costs of doing business.

Should I ever croak, I've told the wife and kids to search the card file for my submissions. That will tell them what else is out there.

With my luck, I'll probably die the same day the highbrow editor calls to inform me that he is moving forward with the publication of my great American novel . . . but then, there are a great many significant works that have been published posthumously.

F. Scott Fitzgerald

An intersting essay in the most recent issue of The New Yorker about F. Scott Fitzgerald. I knew that Fitzgerald achieved early fame and success as a writer, and then "flamed out" over time, but I didn't realize that Fitzgerald was a total failure as a screenwriter in Hollywood. Evidently, he didn't write a single successful script, as he could not make the leap from literary dialogue to screen dialogue.

Well, dialogue is important in any type of work. We dialogue every day, but don't think about it.

Here's a dialogue I had just last night:

Becky: Why is it so cold in the house?

Me: The furnace isn't working.

Becky: Well, why don't you call and get it repaired?

Me: I did.

Becky: When were you going to tell me this?

Me: When you recognized that it was cold in the house.

Becky: When will it be repaired?

Me: The guy is coming over in the morning.

Becky: Then what do we do tonight?
Me: Freeze.

See how this dialogue works? See how well we banter? See how her questions are peppered with my smart and snappy answers?

Heck, Fitzgerald couldn't have created it.

Columnist

For the past seven years I've written a column for our Indiana area newspaper (title: Together) of the United Methodist Church. And every year I wonder, will the powers that be want me to continue writing the column, do people read it, and is there someone out there who can do it better?

It's an odd assortment of questions, particularly since the column (or, actually, my photo in the paper) elicits any number of questions, raised eyebrows, and comments like: "Hey, aren't you that guy who writes that little ditty in the paper?"

But there are still many misunderstandings about my columnist status . . . particularly among my fellow clergy, and so I set the record straight here with this mock interview.

Q: How the heck did you merit the privilege of writing a column when that's what I've wanted to do my whole life (and I'm going to kill myself if I don't get to write one of those columns before I die)?

A: I was asked to write it.

Q: How much longer are you going to be allowed to write the column?
A: Until the bishop dies.

Q: Where do you get your ideas? Does the editor tell you what to write?

A: Sometimes the editor does ask for a column on a particular subject. But most of the time I get my ideas from my wife, who tells me what to think about all subjects. And/or I find these ideas in Crackerjack boxes or at the bottom of pickle jars.

Q: How long does it take you to write one of your columns?

A: Five minutes (if I'm having a good day typing) . . . or an hour (if I'm dictating what my wife wants me to say or if we are engaged in other fun aerobic activity).

Q: You think you're so important don't you, writing this column?

A: Sure. Wouldn't you? Everywhere I go, people kneel before me and kiss my shoe laces.

Q: What are you going to write about next month?

A: I've been working on a couple of ideas, but they are so top secret, and of such vital importance to the future of our annual conference, I'd have to stab you with my John Wesley letter opener if I revealed them.

Q: When are you stepping down, so I can write the column?

A: Ask my wife.

The Writing Break

Last week I was reading the acknowledgements in a thin little book written by a pastor. I felt my temperature rise when I read the line: "I would like to thank the congregation for giving me six month leave in which to write this book."

A six month break? Are you kidding me? Flipping through the pages again, I realized I could have written the book in six HOURS!

I've read more than my fair share of books recently where the authors thank someone for giving them a break from other responsibilities so they can write. Well, sure, I get a break some evenings from helping out with the dishes (but then, we don't do dishes at our house, we just let them moulder and then put them back in the cupboards after the dog has licked them clean), or I might get a break from mowing the lawn (if I can seduce my sixteen year old into mowing two acres for $5 with an eighteen-inch push mower).

But a break from work, from life, from marriage, from parenting . . . in order to write a book? Who are these prima donnas who need their precious silent space and seclusion in order to work for six months on a 120 page book? I'd like to meet them.

My realities have been much different. I've written entire books in weeks, all the while holding screaming children on my knees, or tossing them dog biscuits while I say, "there, chew on that while daddy writes another chapter!" or writing late at night while the wife hollers down from the upstairs bedroom, sounding like a Jewish mother: "When are you gonna kill that light and come to bed already?"

Six months to write a book? Okay, I can buy six months for a monster volume of 500 pages, or perhaps six years for a book written inside the terrible crush of research, travel or interviews . . . but six months for a book about praying the Psalms or how to tend to an ingrown toenail? Give me a break, pal!

Someday . . . I'd love to have six months to do nothing but write . . . all day, all night, seven days a week. But my family would hate me. I'd fill an entire shelf.

Pieces of My Mind

From time to time, I like to offer people some of my wisdom . . . you know, little odds-n-ends I've picked up over the years, but which might add up to something life-changing.

For example, last night I was giving some of my wisdom to Logan, who was asking me questions about the stock market (yes, he's already started investing in high school, just like I did) and about how to start his own business without going to college (the kid is definitely entrepreneurial, though stupid and stubborn).

But I was trying to make him think. For example, did you know . . .

. . . that if it were not for electricity, we would all be watching television by candlelight?

. . . that if your parents did not have children, there is a very good chance you won't have children either?

. . . that morticians have wonderful lay-away plans?

. . . that you can buy most things with cash, which is just as good as money?

Think about it!

Writing for Guatemala

Some months ago my friend, Tom Heaton, sent me a small supply of cloth wristbands which had been made in Guatemala. Tom and his son, Manuel, are serving as missionaries, caring for the people of Guatemala through a health clinic that provides medical assistance, nutrition and care. And me . . . I have been wearing one of these "prayer bracelets" on my wrist since I received it.

Every time I think about the bracelet, or feel it, I offer up a prayer for Tom and the work. And I've found myself whispering prayers in some unique places: in the grandstand at a high school football game, in the car, or while lifting a cup of coffee to my lips.

We don't have to say flowery or lengthy prayers to remember God's work and we certainly don't have to set aside days or weeks in order to remember others. Rather, our prayers can be whispers and sighs.

I'm also remembering Tom and Manuel and their work through my writing, as I have been giving royalties from my books and CDs to their work. Everyone has something to give. Our creativity, time, and effort can have an impact on others . . . even those who live in another hemisphere.

So, do what you do best. Give as best you can. Pray. Hope. That's something to write about.

A Mary Heart

My pastors covenant group is now reading Having a Mary Heart in a Martha World, by Joanna Weaver. It's definitely a woman's book, but has some nice crossover for men, too. Do men work too hard?

Reading this book has provoked some other possible titles, however:

Having a Coffee Heart in a Donut World

Having a Worker's Heart in a Lazy World

Having a Paper Heart in a Digital World

I'm sure I could think of a few others, but I've got to make some coffee first.

Good Morning?

It has happened again. This morning (was it morning?) I awoke from a dead-head sleep with a head full of book titles and ideas. And so, here I sit, having already written my mandatory emails to the powers that be and taking a break after typing like a madman on two new book proposals.

First, I was startled from sleep when I realized that I'd been trying to write up a new book proposal under the wrong title. I dreamed the new title, and I wrote my editor to say, "Hey, I've thought of the new title, and this has to be it. After all, I dreamed it!" She probably thinks I'm a fruitcake, but so does Becky (who is still asleep) so what else is new?

And I also thought of a new youth ministry book title that would be perfect for GROUP. I've gotta get this one done pronto . . . as in hours, not days . . . and when I send the idea along to my guys in Loveland, Colorado, I know they are gonna go ga-ga. Hope they'll pay me!

But, by God-of-brown-gravy, I'm up so early this morning (is it morning yet?) that I've got time to go to the gym to hoist a few tons of weight when the gym doors open at 5 a.m., get back home before Becky rises, and I can even make another pot of coffee.

Anyway . . . good morning. Welcome to a new day.

Hey, Don't I Know You?

Last week, while reading Mitch Albom's book, Have a Little Faith, on the return flight to Indianapolis, I overheard a conversation between the two men who were sitting behind me. I couldn't help but listen in.

One of the men turned to the other and said, "Hey, don't I know you?"

The other said, "You might know me. I am an actor. I've been on many television shows and I'm driving back to Chicago in a few days to be on Oprah. She's doing a whole series of shows about me."

The other guy seemed dumbfounded: "Really!! Holy Cow. I thought I knew you!"

So anyway, this guy waxes on for the next hour about all of his television roles, his career highlights, his up-n-coming appearance on Oprah, etc. And the guy sitting next to him is buying all of it.

Finally, when the plane lands, I get an opportunity to look behind me. The "actor" is some kid who looks to be about eighteen years old. But he's clearly no actor. When I stand up, he looks at me and smiles as if to say, "Can you believe these people? They'll believe anything!"

Anyway . . . it was quite a story, and the kid was a great sideshow (though he, obviously, was no actor at all). He was just making great flight conversation and seeing how far he could push the buttons and the boundaries.

But you know, people believe and see what they want . . . but I'm still waiting for that person to turn to me and ask, "Hey, don't I know you?"

Lord, are they going to hear some tales! Not everyone knows this, but I was once the king of Lithuania, and I am heir to the throne of Transylvania, and I once bit the head off of a lion, just for fun.

Should be a great flight.

I Need You!

Last week I received an acceptance letter in the mail . . . a rather formal note from an editor who was passing along the good news that she was accepting one of my articles for publication. I yelled, "Whoopie" and then pocketed my twenty-five dollar check, which I intended to cash later in the day so I could buy lunch for a friend. (Heck, what else you can you do with twenty-five dollars anyway?)

But I did happen to notice that at the bottom of the letter the editor had also included a handwritten line: "I really like your stuff . . . I need to see more from you!"

Wow, and this from another woman!

Later, I showed this to my wife and asked, "Do you think I should call her and see what she has in mind? I mean, it's not every writer who gets an invitation to earn another twenty-five dollars by performing."

"Don't flatter yourself," Becky said. "It's just a lousy twenty-five bucks, which is the story of your writing life. Think of all you'd have to do just to earn a hundred dollars."

"I can stand on my head," I said. "And you know about some of my other tricks."

"Yeah, I've seen 'em"," she said. "Believe me, she won't even pay twenty-five dollars for one of your standard performances."

"I'll improvise."

"Just get in there and type," Becky said. "That's the best chance you've got of earning enough money to rotate the tires. And don't bother me any more, you weirdo. I've got papers to grade."