Last night, during a lapse of sanity, I sorted through a closet-shelf stacked with old manuscripts, publications, and research files. God-a-mighty . . . didn't know I had kept half this stuff.
I discovered, for example:
Contributors copies of all the magazines I have written for over the past twenty years, including:
* My bridal magazine columns on love, sex, and marriage (Becky's gotta read these!)
* Other magazines as diverse as The Wittenburg Door (religious satire); American Fitness; YouthNet; Group Magazine, Jr. High Magazine, and The Ohio Writer (the Ohio writer? Yeah, I'm in there . . . an article on Mark Twain)
* A book proposal on men's spirituality; a children' YA novel entitled Captain Computer; two other novels I wrote when I was in my late twenties and had a moustache; a huge file on Andy Griffith (for a biography?); essays, stories, photocopies of other columns and early writing.
I boxed all of this junk up again (though neater) and stashed it away as part of my children's inheritance. They'll discover this box, among others, in the basement next to the golf clubs and the stuffed weasel when I am eighty-nine and Chelsey will ask, "What the heck is this junk?" Logan will say, "Let's burn it."
Amazing thing how a life's work can go up in smoke, isn't it?
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