Between Pages

Pulp Fiction

2012-01-26T04:28:00.000-08:00

Some months back I began collecting and categorizing the short stories I have written over the past thirty-five years (at least the ones I could find on hard copy or disk). My thought was: I certainly have enough published stories to produce a "collection", and I do. In spades.

But my problem goes deeper than just collecting these pieces. I'm finding, as my agent has always pointed out, that I defy categorization. What type of work do I produce, anyway?

Well, as far as short stories go, I've got traditional and literary, science fiction, mystery, fantasy, western, horror . . . even romance. And even among these genres, I'm difficult to stereotype. Editors have always pointed this out. "Like your work," they'll say, "but this seems to be a hybrid of science fiction and horror." "Very moving and touching story," some say, "but I'm not sure our readers would want to cry this hard." "Send me more," others write, "but not so edgy . . . this is too eclectic." "Very funny piece," they say. "Love your humor."

One editor, not long ago, even said she would publish one of my science fiction stories if I turned it into a novella (over 20,000 words), as she thought my 5,000 word tale wasn't long enough. "You didn't write far enough into the piece," she said. How long does it have to be? She wants 20,000 words? Heck, I could give her 80,000, too!

Writing fiction is also frustrating because, among the dozens of pieces I've had published, I always feel that my best work is sitting at home in a box or on a disk. Why can't editors see that this story is superior to the one they published? It's a mystery to me. One, I think, I will never solve.

Last week, in a lengthy phone conversation with my agent (thanks for representing me, Cynthia!), I discovered that I am the anomaly on her client list.  She wanted me to decide who I am as a writer. What is my niche?  Do I write non-fiction in categories of self-help and religion? Do I write theology? Do I write history? Do I write fiction? And if so, is my concentration more on shorter forms or novels?  Do I write mysteries, thrillers, literary, romance? Am I a humor writer? Why do I write so much that is poignant or moving or personal or informational--but on the other hand write so much that is totally warped and off-the-wall insane?

The fact is, I know I defy categorization. But that's just me. Only a handful of people on this earth actually know me! Most folks relate to me as either a stereotype, an image, an idea of a person (or pastor) or as someone they think they know.  But few know me. I have always written what I want to write . . . every day. And that's broad. Just as my interests are broad.  Complex. Just like me.

No, I defy categorization.

I'm as much at home doing research and writing history as I am writing an insane, spur-of-the-moment blog about hemorrhoids. I can make my wife cry over a poem, or write one that can make her howl with laugher or cause her to threaten to disown me for my brutal honesty. I write deep; I write shallow. I write heart-felt; I write parody and satire. I write novels of all variety and persuasion. I have published pieces of history, works about cancer, helpful tips for couples planning a wedding/marriage, works on nature and science, personal observations about life, essays on fitness; I write columns, blogs, poetry, and slice-of-life.

I now have a sizeable mound of published work (and growing quickly) and a file cabinet full of published tear sheets.

In short . . . I guess I just write.  That's my category. And how I would define myself beyond the concept of "writer" is anybody's guess.

Categorization? Heck, I'm still trying to figure ME out.  And writing is how I do it.

From the Archives

2012-01-25T03:36:00.000-08:00

Here's another piece from my now ancient children's book: One Strange World. This one was easier to draw. My kids seemed to enjoy it along with the other poems about hemorrhoids, hickeys, and hobos. They may not remember the book now, but they seem like normal kids to me. Guess I didn't warp them too badly as they prepare to leave home (for good?) and leap into life.

Two Clams

Two clams washed up on a sandy beach
And both of them talked for hours.
They talked until the sun went down
And when the clouds brought showers.
Both clams talked as long as they could
In their shells that looked like a cup.
How sorry they were when the tide came in
And they both had to clam up.

Say It Again

2012-01-24T06:22:00.000-08:00

Some have been asking about He Said/ She Said: Biblical Stories from a Male & Female Perspective. Well, I'll say it again, this time for certain: the books are finally available. My first Amazon shipment arrived yesterday. I hope folks will like this book, as it is offered in one of the most unique formats you'll find anywhere. Tell all your friends. Hand out copies at work. Kick the drunk in the gutter and tell him his copy has arrived.

My wife even told me last night that she might read portions of this book . . . and she rarely reads anything I write. I'm getting somewhere.

Last night, late, I did tell my wife about one of my latest "love" poems that had also been published on Monday in The Christian Science Monitor. (Yes, you can read this, too.)

I was wanting to surprise her, as I always do, with another little romantic ditty. She read it. Said, "That's nice, honey." And then went back to writing her school reports. Once again, the world's most boring man.

Okay, I get it. Too much of me in one day. Should have waited until today to surprise her with romance.

I just can't wait to get rid of all these copies of the book. I think they are cluttering my style.

More Fan Mail

2012-01-23T04:22:00.000-08:00

In the first 20 days of 2012, I've received a number of new pieces of fan mail. Some have arrived via facebook or email, and others via letters to publishers concerning some of my pieces/contributions. I thank all of these friends for their kind words of affirmation and encouragement and, yes, I hope you'll keep reading.

One piece of fan mail arrived from a young lady who had discovered my "old" book, The Best Things in Life Are Free, and shared with me how this book had impacted her life and helped her gain some new insights. She even wrote a book review.

I've also received tidbits from folks who have appreciated some of my recent essays on youth ministry or the changing face of transportation and communication, and one of my editor friends keeps sending me updates on his readers' favorite poems and inviting me to send more verse.

Another dear lady in Massachusetts wrote to inform me that she had just recently discovered some of my poetry, enjoyed it, and had become addicted now to my various blogs. I'm grateful for her addiction and hope she'll keep tuning in for more doses of my warped attempts at male/donut humor.

Likewise, for all of those who would like to send fan mail, my mailbox is always empty. I get out there every morning before sunrise to retrieve the newspaper, frequently ill-clad and shivering, and it would be a real boost to my low self-esteem to find letters from admirers. Especially more female admirers. I enjoy telling my wife about these chicks and reminding Becky that she doesn't have to go "looking for love in all the wrong places" . . . "she's got me, Babe" "six days a week" "all through the night" "until the morning comes" and "the last dance."

Many of my poems are like fan mail to my wife. She rarely reads my poems, however, though I usually write her several a week. I'm just holding out hope that she will write me back someday. After all, I'm her biggest fan!

The Numbers Game

2012-01-20T04:42:00.000-08:00

I have far too many numbers in my life. And, although I completed every math class my high school offered--including analytic geometry, trigonometry, and calculus (1 & 2)--I am essentially a mathematics nerd. I have difficulty balancing my checkbook and I frequently forget my home address and my cell phone number. When people ask me how old I am, I often bumble the answer and scream out, "Forty-five!"

Increasingly, it seems, I am being asked to remember far too many numbers to be a writer. Recently I submitted a piece to an editor who promptly shot the piece back to me along with a curt note that read, "It's only been two weeks since your last submission and our policy is you must wait sixty days to submit again!"

Sixty days? What are we . . . living in Biblical times? I could probably remember forty days and forty nights, but sixty?

Now it's commonplace. I've got other numbers to remember like:

A day next month when an editor asked me to contact her about an essay she is interested in discussing.
A publication date for a magazine piece I wrote about beavers.
The phone number for my agent.
The phone number for a local Chinese restaurant (I sometimes eat and write there).
Pass codes for online submission guidelines and the days I can submit.

You see what I mean? I wish I had one number that would fit all . . . kind of like a gigantic pair of sweat pants. I could just plug in the same number and get to where I'm going.

And no one would ask me my phone number or my age. I'm tired of being forty-five, and I'm really sorry for giving out the number to that Chinese restaurant to so many editors.

Hit Me!

2012-01-19T05:13:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was a big day for my blog. For the first time I surpassed 300 hits, with a total of 345 hits in one day.

I'm not sure what this means, but I guess I had 300+ visitors yesterday who wanted to read this tidbit of humor. I hope they found a laugh.

I'm never sure why folks want to read this blog, but I'm assuming they either like reading and writing or they enjoy a chuckle. I am glad to serve.

Funny thing is, absolutely nothing happened to me yesterday that was humorous. My day was basically a bucket of boredom. I spent time in a restaurant, the car, a campus lunchroom, the hospital, and the office . . . and what's funny about that? I always have to search for humor like a diamond in the rough.

Perhaps that's where my cooking comes in. I did cook dinner last night. Chicken on the grill. Mashed potatoes from a box. Green beans from a can. My kids thought that was funny. But they weren't laughing so much as gagging. I also brought home three slices of three-day-old stale chocolate cake and a donut in a bag for dessert. But no one gave me a kudo.

I'm not sure, exactly, how many people re-visit my blog on a daily basis, but I'm grateful to the 300+ who do read from time to time.

Bless you. But be gentle with me. Don't hit me too hard. I'm older now and I could easily break a hip.

More Mixed Nuts

2012-01-18T13:45:00.000-08:00

Last week, armed with a full day at the keyboard, I managed to whittle out an auspicious amount of material that should be, even as I blog, on its way to publications far and wide. Among the various acceptances I procured and wrote in an afternoon were:

* A book review
* A column for our Indiana area UM Church publication
* A 1500 word essay and sidebar on grant writing that is slated for publication later this winter in a leadership magazine
* An essay on donuts for a teen magazine

I also wrote several blog posts, a handful of poems, and continued work on a book proposal that I intend to title: Debt-free Wedding Ideas. As father of the bride, I've got a lot of opinions about the latter and I eagerly share my knowledge with any or all who will listen! This book is more than a proposal however, it's approaching 200 pages and getting thicker. I'll have the entire book written in a matter of days.

Finally, my day of mixed nuts also gave me ample opportunity to finish a sermon, draft letters of appreciation to several family members and friends, and read a few chapters from various books.

It was a nice day. And when I grow up, I want to be a writer.

Tip Top

2012-01-17T03:47:00.000-08:00

Now here's an interesting turn. Last week I noted that my book, $5 Youth Ministry, was chosen for inclusion in a list of 40 Books Every Catholic Should Read. Among some of the other top titles were The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People, Who Moved My Cheese?, and several other best-sellers. My book was included as the one youth ministry book that would be most impactful in today's tough economic climate.

Well, $5 Youth Ministry is not a best-seller (far, far from it). But I am a bit surprised that more people haven't discovered it. I'm especially confused by folks who overlook it in today's tough economy. Who wouldn't want to save money?

Some months back, I did get one piece of mail from a pastor who was complaining that, while the book advertises a $5 Ministry, it cost him $9.95. His point, I guess, was that the publisher should price the book accordingly and, essentially, give it away.

I'm all for freebies, believe me. In fact, all of my personal copies of the book have been given away over these years, and I've purchased many others at my own expense and given these away, too. What little royalties I have received, I have given to others in the form of cash, more books, or checks to charities of a wide assortment. Always have.

Every time I write a check, my wife wants to know when I am taking her to dinner. I remind her that I cook most of the meals and this is her payback.

I don't know if making this list will impact the sales of $5 Youth Ministry, but I can still dream of earning more than $3.76. I have however promised my wife that, the next time I get a royalty check, I'll take her out to dinner at Wendy's instead of giving the cash to some guy on the street who is holding up a "Will Work for Food" sign.

I guess I've earned a break from the kitchen. And it will be nice to have someone waiting on me for a change instead of slaving over this hot stove. I can't wait to hear the waitress ask me, "Do you want fries with that?"

World History

2012-01-16T05:48:00.000-08:00

Like the Energizer Bunny I'm still going on J.M. Roberts's, A Short History of the World, which I began reading back in November, 2011.  But the book, as one might expect, is anything but short.

Having entered the world of the Egyptians, the Babylonians and Assyrians, the Persians and Phoenicians, I am finding myself in familiar territory, having succumbed to the stacks of the Duke University library some thirty years ago while consuming large doses of Ancient Near Eastern history, lore, and art.  The Phoenician language--regarded as one of the earliest written--is a distant cousin to other Semitic tongues like Assyrian and Hebrew and is the language from which we get the word "Alphabet" . . . a phonetic rendering of the first two letters, Aleph and Beth. (And much akin to the later Greek rendered as Alpha & Beta.)

I may never finish A Short History of the World in a short period of time.  This is the type of book that requires snatches of concentration snuggled in between other reading and writing.

Considering such a long history of existence, one wonders why we even bother to consider ourselves of much importance. Thousands of generations have come and gone, and like the writer of Ecclesiastes once observed, "A generation comes and a generation goes, and the latter do not remember the former. They are soon forgotten and pass away."

Depressing thought for a Monday . . . but then one also has to remember that the ancient Babylonians didn't have a Dunkin' Donuts nearby. It's amazing how encouraged one can become after a short walk for a donut and cup of coffee. Dunk 'em if you got 'em.

Buying Candles

2012-01-13T04:27:00.000-08:00

Every writer has a favorite creation, and thus far, I consider my best book to be Candles in the Dark (John Wiley & Sons, 2002). I hate telling people that the book has long been out of print.

This past year, however, I've been buying up used copies. Most of these, I've discovered, are well-read. In fact, I've not been able to locate a pristine copy of my book for some time now, which tells me that those who bought the book seemed to enjoy it and they actually used it. The pages are frequently dog-eared or tattered, and on many occasions the owner wrote his or her name inside the cover. I feel like calling these folks or trying to locate them on the internet, but they probably wouldn't associate my name with any book they have read. I'm not memorable. And people aren't standing in line to purchase my next title.

Candles in the Dark is a good book and I'm glad I wrote it. It was by far the most ambitious project I have written, was years in the making, and actually cost me pocket money securing certain foreign rights (which, for some reason, fell into this author's lap and required that I make numerous overseas phone calls and talk to people who answered the phone: "Hello, much pleasure to help you . . . my name Peggy!").

With the advent of Kindle, however, Candles is still available. That's a good thing about electronic media. And I've noted that some people have actually purchased copies of Candles in the Dark in Kindle format. God bless 'em.

I wish that Candles hadn't blown out of print so soon. Sometimes I'd like to light it up and lead a sing-along.

But book publishing, alas, is mostly a fleeting thing. Like a candle in the wind.

Announcing My Upcoming Engagements

2012-01-12T04:04:00.000-08:00

I would hereby like to announce my upcoming engagements.  I don't usually say "yes" to these things (as I've turned down many proposals over the past six years and have spurned all available suitors). But in the past week I've said "yes" twice. Does that mean I'm easy?! Have I been playing "hard to get"?

First, I accepted an engagement to speak to a group of women next month.  This was an easy "yes"! A room filled with women?! Heck, yeah!  Of course, I haven't told my wife about this engagement yet. At this engagement I am supposed to be entertaining and enlightening. My wife will have all of these women believe that I am neither, but that's just her opinion.  Becky has never really seen me in a room filled with estrogen. And she sure hasn't seen my yo-yo routine. I'm also planning on spinning a few plates and spritzing myself extra heavy with aftershave. I'll add Jesus in there somewhere for the enlightening portions.

A few weeks later I'll be speaking to a group of historians from the far ranges of North Dakota, Michigan, Minnesota, Illinois, and some other states that I can't pronounce.  At this gig I'm being asked to be both humorous and historical, with copious references being made about dead United Methodist bishops and the sacred role of the local church archivist. I'm not telling my wife about this one, either. She couldn't tolerate the idea that I know anything about church history or that, even in some perfect world, I could actually keep an organized filing system or remember an anniversary. I'll let Becky continue to think of me as the guy who piles his dirty underwear by the bedroom door and who, when screamed at for his untidiness, can quickly pick up socks or create perfectly organized stacks of magazines on the coffee table . . . including National Geographics by month. You should see these piles when I'm through. Very organized.  And I often weep at the sight of them.

I have other engagements, too. But these are the marriages that should be the most fun.

I just hope none of the organizers read my blog. They might back out of these commitments when they learn that I ain't that funny or that my yo-yo and numbchuck skills have evaported over time. They might decide to leave me at the altar. However, I've been jilted many times. But believe me . . . it still hurts and the welts still linger. A guy like me can only take so much rejection.

If they do cancel, however, they should expect a tussle. I'm not giving back any rings.  Plus . . . I really want to keep these dates on my calendar, as I've once again forgotten when my wedding anniversary is and I'm assuming my wife is expecting a really hot evening.

On the Job

2012-01-11T04:24:00.000-08:00

These first two weeks of 2012 have been a whirlwind of activity. I've had lengthy conversations with a few editors, with my literary agent, and have also shipped out boxes of books for review. I've also picked up some new writing jobs, including a commissioned essay (and sidebar) on grant writing. I'll take it.

Of course, I rarely share the news of my good fortunate at home. My wife is too busy, my daughter is wrapped in the throes of student teaching and wedding plans, and my son doesn't care. All in all, the writing gig is just a private affair and (when or if) I do get a small paycheck I usually end up buying groceries or gasoline. The food is consumed overnight by the boy. The gasoline goes up in fumes, burned in the frantic drive-time rush of dawn and twilight in four rattle-trap automobiles.

But me? I write calmly on.

There's something peaceful to be found in the writing, hunkered over a pot of coffee at five a.m. or with a glass of milk at midnight. A guy could do worse.

And this week I also received two other accolades that have pleased me deeply. An editor informed me that one of my poems was the most-read piece in his magazine in 2011. And another editor wrote requesting that I write a short piece every month for her publication . . . not a column exactly, but enough to keep me busy for fifteen minutes.

And I've got my next job lined up for tonight, seeing as how Becky isn't in the mood to read one of my new romantic poems. I'll save these for another day when I need to earn a point with the little woman.

Until then . . . write on.

A Visit With the Old Man

2012-01-10T04:02:00.000-08:00

On Christmas Eve I read The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway. It had been years since my last reading (in college), but this very short novel lends itself well to a single sitting and to various interpretations. Me . . . I just like the old man. He's macho. A tough SOB.

Becky, of course, knows I'm a wimp. I cry during chick flicks. I weep when my wife spurns my advances. My daughter will not allow me to officiate at her wedding because she says I will sob uncontrollably like a child.

That's why I like to write about tough characters. I've got a new science fiction story, for example, about some macho men who tap radiation leaks at nuclear power plants. I have written many mystery stories about tough cops and even tougher private eyes. And whenever I write memoirs of my life, I paint myself into a good light by fabricating tales of sewing up my own gaping wounds with catgut or performing abdominal surgeries on myself without the aid of an anesthesia.

In reality, about the toughest thing I do each day is work out at the gym and grit my teeth through my arthritic shoulder pain. I've been conditioned, through marriage and parenting, to ignore little aches and pains and to shy away from rejection . . . which happens often. I write in the dark so my wife won't make comments about how old I'm looking these days and so she won't be able to get a decent glimpse of me in my new Christmas underwear.

Come to think of it, The Old Man and the Sea might be a parable about my life. I always think I've landed something big, but by the time I get home to tell my wife, my good news is usually chewed to pieces.

So much for Hemingway.

Discount Double-Check

2012-01-09T04:56:00.000-08:00

The advent of a new year has also brought new blessings--including a cluster of "lead-off" acceptances and a thicket of small paychecks for various essays and poems. In most cases, if I decide to subscribe to the magazines that gave me the nod, I get a discount as one of their contributing authors.  Discount double-check? I guess so!

I've also had some nice correspondence with editors of late who have, while rejecting my work, also made a personal plea for me to write other work for them, or to submit additional material. Okay, that's a nice beginning, too.

The new year has also brought new questions from a number of folks around a common theme. Most notably: Where do you find the time to write so much?

January is always a good month for explanation, so let me try to elucidate. Here's my prescription (which I have, essentially, followed for the past 40 years).

1. I rise early. Some days, very early. Like the Marines, I can write more before 7 a.m. than many folks do in an entire day.

2. I write most evenings also. Sometimes this writing doesn't begin until eight or nine o-clock; it depends. On a good night, I can put in another five hours or so.

3. I try to take Fridays off. On my day off, I might write ALL DAY. Again, depends. Or I might do re-writes or mailings or submissions. But generally, I might put in a full day, or even a double-helping of writing for a full sixteen hours.

4. I write in my sleep. I keep a notepad next to the bed, and I often wake in the middle of the night (see my Manopause blog on why I must rise three times in the night!) or first thing of a morning, and I write down phrases, ideas, and (yes!) sometimes fully-developed paragraphs or poems or sermons. Don't ask me to explain this, I just know that it happens and it drives my wife nuts.

So . . . this is my life and welcome to it.

Going to keep reading? THope so. Just double-checking.

Christmas Cards

2012-01-06T04:54:00.000-08:00

What a day to savor Christmas cards. Among my favorites of the year include:

Two cards from my English teacher, senior year, high school. Thanks, Miss Wallace for writing me yet again, reminding me of why the study of literature and the English language has always been such a joy in my life. I know I don't write often enough, but in case you are wondering, I like verbs best. I try to give special attention to my verbs, especially when I'm talking to Becky. You remember her? The girl who sat next to me while we read McBeth? Well, I married her. Sure, she was as plain as a mud fence back then, but you should see her now. She likes adjectives. Describes everything non-stop! I act, she tells me what I've done wrong. It's a perfect marriage! And your cards meant a lot to us both!!!

And get this: I also received a card from my literary agent. The first time this has happened in nearly forty years of writing. Thank you, Cindy! I'm grateful for the confidence and the encouragement. Indeed, I do pray that 2012 will be the year! Hope springs eternal.

Now that I've read all of these cards, I'm not sure what to do with them. Toss them? File them? Sautee them in onions?

Becky says we keep them until next Christmas inside the ornament box and replace the new with the old. This sounds like a plan. And from the way she describes it, I don't really have a choice. But that's an adjective for you . . . .

Winter Cleaning

2012-01-05T05:39:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend, at the insistence of my wife, I agreed to "clean" my home office/library . . . a feat I had not undertaken for nearly two years. And I use the word "undertaken" literally, as I unearthed items I had long thought dead and buried.

For example, over the past two years I had simply piled manuscripts and letters and rejection slips into several heaping piles: some on the windowsill, others on the floor or on top of a filing cabinet. Sorting through these took hours, and based upon the amount of mouse poop and other defecation I uncovered in some of these piles, I'm rather certain I have now resurrected the bubonic plague.

I also "discovered" plagues of poems I had long forgotten about, swarms of short stories, and herds of cover letters and mailing envelopes (many with postage still affixed but unmailed).

One of my best discoveries was a science fiction story I had written--and a rather good one once I sat down to read it. But for the life of me I can't recall writing it. I must have, however . . . as the story has my name and distinctive tone to it. I'll be sending this one along to an editor very soon. Glad I found it.

Most of the material I unearthed in my office, however, was cartoned into boxes and is now making its way to the recycling bin. I had several heavy boxes of material (duplicates, rejection slips, notes, letters, printed emails) that I simply don't have any place to store. I nearly broke my back loading the stuff into the car.

My office now looks rather clean and polished. Once I lift the other stacks of books off the floor and shelve some of the hundreds of books I've brought home in the past two years . . . the place should look good as new.

I need an office.

A Writing Retrospective

2012-01-04T05:35:00.000-08:00

Each year I try to make an assessment of my growth as a writer (among many other goals and objectives). And, although I'm not one to look behind (except at my wife), it is always a good practice to take stock of one's accomplishments. Here's what I completed in 2011 on the page . . . and I can see that it's been a very good year.

Project           # Completed   #Accepted for Publication

New Book Proposals   5                         0
Novels Submitted       2                         0
Columns                   10                       10
Essays                     15                        3
Poems                      143                      11
Blog Posts                346                      346
Stories (Fiction)         14                        3
CD                           1                          1
Kindle Books              2                         2
Various & Sundry?                              ?
Letters to my wife      2                         0 (PWAK--Paid With a Kiss)
Humor (or Satire)       7                          1
Sermons                   48                        48

I have no idea what this output represents in terms of number of words or number of pages. Let's just say I've typed my fingers blue.  And I can think of a few occasions when I typed so fast and so furiously for so long that my wrists went numb.

As I look forward to 2012, I anticipate a better year. A banner year. Always do. And I'll be setting my goals to achieve all that I can.

I'm also looking forward to writing two new blogs.
Manopause: my blog about one man's experiences in mid-life (http://www.manopauze.blogspot.com/)
The Donut Diary: my blog about my search for the perfect donut experience (http://www.thedonutdiary.blogspot.com/)

I will, of course, be writing this same blog every day as well. Hope you'll keep tuning in. And THANKS FOR READING!!!!

My First Paycheck of 2012

2012-01-03T05:21:00.000-08:00

I had planned to publish my writing stats for 2011 today, but my reflections were preempted yesterday (January 2) by an editor who wrote to inform me that she was accepting yet another of my poems for publication (thanks, Susan, you've provided a great start to the new year). For some reason Susan loves my love poems, but when I told Becky about my acceptance she shrugged it off with a casual, "That's nice, dear."

I quickly pointed out that the editor was also going to pay me.

"How much?" Becky wanted to know.

"Enough that we can have a nice dinner at Bob Evans," I said, "or the check could swing a real humdinger of a meal at Wendy's, complete with Frosties for dessert and maybe a couple gallons of gasoline to get us back home so you won't have to walk on your bunions."

"What kind of poem is this? Anything I've read?"

I pointed out to Becky that she rarely reads anything I write. "I wrote it for you some weeks back," I said. "No, you haven't read this one. It's not the type of writing that interests you. It's a love poem. A real hottie.  A poem full of passion and sweat and swirled silk sheets. I really had to use my imagination!"

"It's got to be fiction. After all, what do you know about love?" Becky asked.

"What do I know about love? Heck, what does a woodpecker know about rotten wood? What does Paula Dean know about cooking with pounds of butter? What does Simon Cowel know about talent?"

"I should read this," she said. "If it's going to be in print, will it embarrass me?"

"Of course the poem will embarrass you," I said. "That's why I wrote it. I'll send it to your mother as soon as I get a tear sheet copy."

"How many of these love poems have your written, anyway?"

"Last year? Dozens just like it! And I'll write a hundred more in 2012. How's that for romance?"

New Year's resolutions. Priceless.  2012 is off to a great start. My first paycheck of the year.

And thanks again, Susan, for agreeing to pay for the love my wife won't read. Makes me feel tough. Like a gigolo.

Goodbye 2011, Hello 2012

2012-01-02T08:04:00.000-08:00

It is difficult to believe, but in the past year (2011) I have written 280 "Between Pages" blog posts. I've also been taking inventory of my writing goals of the past year and making a summary of what I have written. I will be posting these results tomorrow.

In the meantime, I'm also setting new goals for 2012 . . . some involve writing, others pastoring, and still others are family and personal goals. I usually set my bar so high I end up failing at most of these goals, but I would rather aim too high than settle for too little.

As I look ahead to 2012 I see many enormous changes looming on the horizon. A high school graduation (please, Lord!), a college graduation (sweet Jesus, financial relief!), and a wedding (good gravy, more money needed!). My wife also has a new position and is working very long hours, and I may also have other extended family issues to deal with in 2012. Still, it's all good, and through it all I'll be writing my guts out--rising early and working late to accomplish my goals.

I'm also going to be writing two new blogs starting later this week:
Manopause: Musings of a Mid-life Male (a blog that I hope to turn into a humor book of same or similar title)
AND
The Donut Diary (my personal search for the perfect donut experience along with history, recipes, and weird conversations about pastry)

Naturally, I'll still be right here at Between Pages every weekday also, writing about writing and reading. So YOU keep reading, too. And watch for the two new blogs later this week.

It All Ads Up

2011-12-30T06:37:00.000-08:00

I had a bit of a surprise earlier this week when I noticed a pop-up advertisement for my book, $5 Youth Ministry, on Google. I say "surprised" because this was the first Google ad I'd ever seen for any book, but it was nice that the publisher deemed it worthy of some year-end advertising. The idea of the ad was that youth ministries could make 2012 a great year by purchasing a copy.

Amen!

Book advertising has always been risky business for publishers. And most publishers prefer controversy to rake in the bucks.

But what controversy can I create with my titles?

About the only thing I can offer in that vein would be my humor. People might buy my books, for example, if they knew that my mother gave me some very sexy underwear for Christmas this year and that I have already modeled them for my wife who promptly laughed me out of the bedroom. Others might buy my books if they realized that I frequently talk to strange women at the gym and offer them advice on how they can get buns of steel ("like mine!"). Or, perhaps, I could spike book sales by confessing that, many years ago, I won a contest on a youth mission trip and was crowned, "Miss Luncheon Sack" (ask me about it!).

Outside of these hot controversies I'm afraid my life lapses back into a vein of total boredom where, in a good year, I might have two nights of hot fun and one afternoon delight and, perhaps, retell one raunchy joke. I also eat lots of donuts, which some people might find provocative, but when they realize I'm a dunker, they let it go.

I am, however, eternally grateful for the four people who have purchased copies of my book from the Google ad . . . and I hope to create a bigger stink in 2012 so my publishers will think I'm doing my job.

With Every Christmas Card I Write

2011-12-28T08:06:00.000-08:00

Christmas Eve has come and gone...and now during the 12 days of Christmas, I am discovering that I still have Christmas cards to write. But it is tough business, this writing of Christmas cards.

Although some people are dreaming of a White Christmas, I am already dreaming of summer.

Toward that end, here's a poem I wrote last year that asks the question: what happens to the snow man when he melts?

The Snowman in Summer

He dreams deep dying of leaf to frost,

The windshields covered with hominy dew,

When the sun consumes in its holocaust

The remains of an old year not yet new.

With coal-black eyes, though apropos,

He twists his stick arms avant-garde,

Entombed in sleep until the snow

Shall resurrect him in the yard.

Merry Christmas from Todd

2011-12-24T05:39:00.000-08:00

What a difference a year makes. Here in central Indiana our snowfall has been minimal compared to last year, when we had already received over 8 inches of accumulation before Christmas.

Still, many people are dreaming of a white Christmas . . . why we'll never know.

As I wish everyone, however, a very Merry Christmas, I thought I would whip up a poem about snow. Here's one I created just this morning on a whim . . . a bit of light verse, and not a bad one for fifteen minutes of effort.

Call it my Christmas Eve gift. But you can keep your snowy dreams to yourself.

Snow Co.

I've heard it said that Eskimo
Have literary skills for snow:
Vast words that parse accumulation
Like earthquakes numbered to the Haitian.

However, scholars know Inuit
Assigns no more than we do to it,
Allowing us who hate our snow
To thumb noses at the Eskimo.

TV or Not TV

2011-12-23T06:38:00.000-08:00

It happened on Tuesday, December 20. I was in the kitchen, cooking up a new batch of Hamburger Helper for the family (no joke!) when I heard a loud CRACK! shoot from the television in the living room. And with that retort the television died. The second such electronic death in our house in the past three months.

But I'm not complaining.

Now that we have no easy access to a television, we are actually talking to each other. I'm also writing more, and reading more. Now that I have no History Channel, ESPN, ABC, NBC, CBS, FOX, or Turner Classic Movies--I'm feeling very Amish. Sure, I still have this computer and my blog, but I've always regarded the computer--as well as my junk car, my junk phone, and my heavily-penciled calendar--as tools. Tools help me to accomplish greater ends. Tools are what sets us apart from the apes. Tools are not entertainment--but items that fit the mind and the hand and help to "create" other experiences and means to even greater ends.

Over the years, of course, my wife and kids have chided me for writing on a fifteen-year-old computer or for driving a car with 175,000 miles on the odometer. "When are you going to buy something that looks good?" they ask.

"Looks aren't important when it comes to tools," I tell them. "Tools are utilitarian. Tools are for getting me from one location to another, or from one word to another, one paragraph to another, so that I can create or complete a greater work. Remember this, kids!"

That's why I'm loving this TV-less home. I don't have to worry about wasting my time watching snippets of The Bing Bang Theory or a hockey game on ESPN. I don't have to worry about frittering away valuable pieces of my evenings with a remote, searching for Man Vs. Food or Pawn Stars. I can sit in silence, or the family can listen to me talking to myself while I write a short story or create dialogue. I can recite poetry aloud, or return to the old times when I used to read bed time stories to my kids or allow them to hear my novels-in-progress. I can ask my wife how to spell "hors dourves" and listen to her complain about not having a TV and why, in God's name, I fixed Hamburger Helper for seven consecutive meals and would it hurt me, just once, to cook a lousy piece of chicken!

"So," the kids want to know, "are we getting a new TV for Christmas?"

I'm still wrestling with this one. A husband and father has to put his foot down sometimes and exercise the authority that is rightfully given to him by Almighty God. That, or when the family rebels and threatens to buy a fifty-foot plasma TV with Blu-Ray and Digital Surround-Sound . . . and he caves.

I tell them I'm looking for a TV. I'm hunting. Trying to find the best value. This is what real men do.

But if I don't have a new TV under the tree in two days, look for me in the local cemetery. I'll be the one buried in the freshly dug grave.

Christmas Cards

2011-12-22T04:45:00.000-08:00

As 2011 cinches toward its denouement I am trying to take stock of the writing I've accomplished over the past 12 months. I'm still gathering the stats (will probably blog about these in January) but 2011 is shaping up to be a very prolific year for me. Although I didn't sign contracts for any new books, I did publish quite a bit of shorter material, created some rather remarkable book proposals, and completed hundreds of pages that may yet come to fruition in the new year.

I've also had the opportunity to send out copies of my Christmas Eve story (one of my annual traditions) to other family members and friends and I've been receiving some nice feedback.

Two of the most meaningful came by way of:

1. Miss Wallace, my high school English teacher (Senior Year), who sent me a very nice card thanking me for dedicating my newest Christmas CD to her, and honoring me with her blessing of my Christmas Eve story. Miss Wallace is now in her nineties, still has impeccable handwriting and a sharp mind, and was an enormous influence in my life. Thank you, Miss Wallace, for pushing me toward English in college. What else could I do with an English degree but write stories and love poems to my wife? (You remember Becky? She sat next to me in senior English. I copied from her papers so I could pass your class. She smelled nice back then and was a real hottie. When you weren't looking, I was the one passing the obscene letters to her under the desk. But it's OK. We're married now and she doesn't read my obscene letters any more.)

2. A Calvary family who informed me on Monday night that they read my Christmas Eve story together some minutes before their father died in Terre Haute. Ahh...hope it was hopeful. Hope you all will experience God's peace. Blessings for telling me this.

So, 2011 . . . as we get ready to say goodbye, I begin to look back with both celebration and dejection. Wish I could have written better. Glad I rose before sunrise hundreds of mornings to write, however. It was a very good year. And I've got a nice jump on the new one.

End Game

2011-12-21T05:21:00.000-08:00

Of the three posthumous books published by John Updike's family, his final collection of poetry speaks most intimately of his final days. Endpoint and Other Poems (Knopf, 2009) actually offers the reader both a collection of Updike's considerable output since the publication of his Collected Poems and a long narrative poem ("Endpoint") which consumes nearly a third of the volume and is, for all intents and purposes, a final soliloquy detailing some of Updike's final thoughts and concerns.

The signature poem, written as a series of unrhymed sonnets, features several observations on birthdays, including 2004, 2005 and 2007.  The final seven sonnets are all dated, offering glimpses of Updike's concerns from the time he entered the hospital (11/02/08) had a needle biopsy (12/22/08) and eventually wrote on 12/22/08, just days before his death, waxing poetic of his faith and quoting from the 23rd Psalm: surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life.

Unlike Updike's other posthumous volumes, the cover photo--of Updike standing with his back to the camera in posture of retreating down an autumn lane--is suggestive of his hand in creating the book itself, and the fact that he dedicates the book to his wife, Martha ("who asked for one more book") leaves the reader with the feeling that this is the one Updike regarded as his last.

Endpoint isn't a morbid book, however. It is filled with an array of other poems ranging from travel observations to the saguaro cactus, and another section of sonnets leads to a final chapter of light verse (the genre poetry Updike may be most widely-known for).

In the end, this book is worth the price of admission, and anyone looking for a classic volume on dying well can't go wrong with shelving it beside Joan Didion's, The Year of Magical Thinking and C.S. Lewis's, A Grief Observed.

Thank you, Mr. Updike.

Contacts

2011-12-20T04:40:00.000-08:00

A few months ago my wife and I both lost (nearly simultaneously) the complete list of our varied contacts stored in our electronic calendars. It was as if the fates had a consultation and agreed to send forth a disturbance in the force. We lost names, addresses and phone numbers of hundreds of people--including friends, family, and distant acquaintances.

I also lost a wealth of information in the publishing world . . . my many contacts with various editors, their phone numbers and email addresses. I'm still trying to restore balance to the force, and toward that end I've picked up a light saber . . . just in case.

A couple of years ago, during a telephone conversation with my literary agent, she noted with surprise the number of people I know in the publishing ranks: editors in New York, publishers in Chicago, agents in Colorado, readers in Los Angeles. She wondered how I had amassed such a wide-array of contacts.

I told her this is what comes from failure. That, and the striving after wind. It's not difficult to amass entire phone books littered with contact information when most of it comes in the form of rejection.

Now, I have failed at keeping even these intact . . . and I'm trying to obtain a new heavenly host of information that I can stuff into a paper file . . . no more dependence upon electronic technology for me (or Becky). Computers can crash. Cell phones can go bonkers. Personal electronic devices guaranteed to last a lifetime can fail after the first month. Entire civilizations can be wiped out.

One of these days I'll get back to New York. I'll visit publishers, take the elevators to the top floors, and ask, "Hey, can I get your phone number?"

Should be interesting obtaining all of these contacts.

Kid Stuff

2011-12-19T06:06:00.000-08:00

Here's another page from my (unpublished) children's book: One Strange World. Sorry if this one is beyond strange . . . warped, maybe.

Little Eagle

Little Eagle is an Indian Chief,
The youngest chief in the clan.
He's still a kid at heart, they say,
As he's not yet an Indian man.
Little Eagle giggles and coos,
He cries and kicks a lot,
He dirties his diapers, he pees his pants,
He sleeps and makes tons of snot.
And although Little Eagle has not earned a feather
Nor cured a buffalo hide
He's held in respect by the medicine man
And the elders of his tribe.

Suit Yourself

2011-12-16T05:07:00.000-08:00

In the most recent issue of The New Yorker magazine there is a cartoon featuring a men's tailor holding a tape measure and saying to a male shopper (as if the tailor is airport security): "I'll be passing my hands across your buttocks and bringing the tape measure along the inside of your leg. Is that okay?"

I laughed at this one, but also found myself waxing nostalgic at the demise of a men's store in my hometown--a men's shop that has provided my suits for the past eight years. When I stopped by yesterday to ask the owner about his business closeout he confirmed that casual Fridays and the changing work environment have dampened traditional male attire (suit, dress shirt, tie).

I drove home a bit depressed, put on a new suit, and promptly hashed out a couple of essays about men's clothing . . . some of the best stuff I've written in a long time. And I discovered that I was passionate in my thought--quite a bit more passionate that I've been with my wife lately . . . and the writing hummed quickly through a second and third draft.

I recall reading some years ago about writers like Tom Wolfe and James Mitchner who, as they approached their deadlines, would literally dress to the nines before they sat down to write. Their philosophy: writing was work, hard work, and they were dressing for success. John Updike was also well-known for his fashion sense, and writing for him required a writer's attire.

As I age, I find myself (increasingly) writing in attire that requires a sense of fashion. A couple of weeks ago I wrote a book review (a volume on parenting troubled teenagers) sitting on the couch while posed in an Armani suit, which seemed to help, and a few days back I arrived home from church on a Sunday afternoon, foregoing lunch, and quickly took to the keyboard while I was still shaved, polished, and scented in an effort to push through the final stages of yet another book proposal, hoping that some editor would be able to tell that I was wearing a navy blue suit and pink tie when I wrote it.

Still, I'm not sure which suit I'd like to be buried in. I may let my wife make that decision. She's always using me like a mannequin anyway . . . wanting to take my clothes off under the premise that I'm wearing the wrong attire. She undresses me, and then dresses me again, just like she used to do with her Barbies. Accessorizing, she calls it. She seems to have a necktie fetish and has recently been pushing me to purchase a new brown belt. Why I'll never know!

But me . . . I'm just glad to have her attention. It's the only time she's worried about undressing me. And the only other person to touch me in those certain places has been my clothier.

Thanks for 25 years of service, Steve! You've helped me be a better writer. Or, at least I look my best while I'm failing at it.

Ever Had a Tapeworm?

2011-12-15T04:27:00.000-08:00

My kids remember my strange bedtime stories, and here's another warped offering from one of my (unpublished) children's books that probably gave them nightmares. That, or they learned to always wash their fruit before eating it. A father must defend himself, after all.

This page, taken fresh and squiggling out of One Strange World, is entitled, "Tommy Target's Tapeworm". (Yes, that low rumbling in your stomach could be a living creature! This was a thought that tormented my kids and is, to this day, the primary source of their insomnia! But if you look closely at the drawing, you'll see the tapeworm is smiling. He's happy to be eating licorice whip!)

Tommy Target's Tapeworm

Tommy Target had a tapeworm
That was nearly ten feet long.
It stretched from pancreas and liver
To his duodenum.
No matter what Tommy Target ate
He couldn't get any fatter,
Because the tapeworm ate it first
Before food reached his bladder.

Don's Nine Lives

2011-12-14T03:47:00.000-08:00

Since the departure of John Updike in January of 2009, a fair number of literary critics have crowned Don Dellilo the new king of American letters. Delillo's most recent title, The Angel Esmeralda: Nine Stories (Scribner, 2011) provides the first and only collection of Delillo's short stories, nine total, spanning a thirty-two year vein that runs the gamut of genre and subject matter.

One makes the assumption that these nine stories represent the lifetime output of DeLillo in the short form, and each story demonstrates a nuance of the gifted writer and, perchance, a timeline of his literary development. "Human Moments in World War III", one of the earliest stories published in Esquire in 1983, shows DeLillo in raw fantasy mode exploring a futuristic society where both natural disasters and human hatred have reduced the population to basic animalistic instincts. And "Baader-Meinhof", published in The New Yorker in 2002 nearly twenty years later, combines art appreciation and sexual desire into a single piece that resonates with loneliness and despair.

His signature story, "The Angel Esmeralda", I recall reading in The Best American Short Stories anthology in 1995 and represents DeLillo at his best--a social commentator of some large proportion, reminiscent even in shorter form of his comprehensive, sprawling masterpieces of novel like Libra and White Noise, where DeLillo has made a mastery and a name for himself as a chronicler of key notes in American history.

Unlike Updike, whose prodigious output of short story volumes was second to none (along with novels, poetry, book reviews, and essays of every persuasion), DeLillo's focus has remained steadfast on the longer form of the novel and the stage play--and these, squarely fiction. But one could make the case, I suppose, that he now reigns supreme in the longer forms.

I was glad to read DeLillo's short story collection (and to shelf another first edition), and his lifetime work in the short form is unique, both in brevity and in scope. One would be hard-pressed, I think, to find another short story collection from any writer that would demonstrate, in a lifetime output of nine short tales, such a cornucopia of subject matter and (sur)realism.

But at Don's advancing age, what can we really expect to see from him--from this point on--within the pages of the American magazine?

Pick-up Game

2011-12-13T04:10:00.000-08:00

Last week I received a nice accolade from a magazine editor informing me that one of my published poems had recently been "picked-up" by an anthology. I'm not sure what this means (probably nothing), but I'll admit . . . it's sounds high-falutin.

Whenever an editor says I've been "picked-up", it has to be a good thing, right?

Of course, I've been part of the pick-up scene for decades, man. I was groovin' with pick-up lines long before Hollywood made them a staple in romantic comedies. I picked-up my wife this way and, later, when I tried to pick her up and carry her over the threshold, I banged her head on the door jam. That's why I started lifting weights, so I could carry her heft.

Of course, my pick-up lines worked much better in the 1970s when everyone was groovin' with ZZ-Top and Boston and the Eagles. So keep in mind, I'm not sure how these will sound to modern ears. But listen, dog, these worked way back when:

Pick-up Line # 1: Which one of you pretty ladies has my Buick Regal double-parked outside? I need to get home to give my mother her milk of magnesia!

Pick-up Line # 2: Your name wouldn't happen to be Becky, would it? I know a girl with the same name. What'r the odds a that?

Pick-up Line # 3: Could I buy one of you finely-educated ladies a diet drink? Not that you need to diet, mind you, but I noticed your human anatomy textbooks, and that just happens to be my best subject . . . that, and Greek literature. Kind of a toss-up. But I'll let you decide. What do you think of me so far?

Pick-up Line # 4: Whaazzup! (I was saying this long before Snoop Dog and don't let him kid you.)

Pick-up Line # 5: I'm on my way to church and just wondered if you'd like for me to pray for you? I happen to be on a first-name basis with God and something tells me you've never had a kiss from a real man. Or are you a cross-dresser?

As you can see, I was a real charmer, a true Casanova. And those of you who know me can see what I ended up with. Obviously, my wife has great taste. She picked me up!

Still, I was glad to hear about the poem. I can't wait to see how that one turns out now that some editor has responded to my "pick-up" lines.

To Russia, With Love

2011-12-12T04:08:00.000-08:00

Since mid-November I've noted that over 30% of the daily visitors to this blog live overseas. England is a mainstay, as is India, the Netherlands, and the Philippines. And as the elections in Russia have heated up and the mercury has taken a dive, an increasing number of readers in the former Soviet Union have been needing this blog, evidently, to make it through the winter of discontent.

I thank you for reading. Enjoy your Vodka . . . but all things in moderation! Don't smoke too much (or better yet, trade your Camels for carrot sticks).

For some reason, my readership has been growing through the winter months. Perhaps it is because people need a laugh in order to find a little sunshine.  Or maybe it's other writers. Or perhaps it is because I talk so often about donuts . . . evidently a food staple that people all over the world can identify with. Or, it could be because this blog translates so well through the Universal Translator operated by Lieutenant Uhura.

Regardless, I'm glad to be of service . . . which is the same thing I tell my wife each day. Use me!

Perhaps as you begin a new day--whether in New Delhi, Moscow, London, or that little town in Indiana (U.S.A) where people still think of their 1991 Caprice wagon as a "new car"--you'll enter the fray with a smile on your face and a lucky penny in your pocket.

Eat a jelly donut, kiss your wife, tell your teenage son he's got five months left on his lease.  And on a really cold day, or when you are released from the gulag, visit again.

I plan to be here. Writing.

Stocking Stuffer

2011-12-09T06:44:00.000-08:00

In this season of giving, I've been receiving a lot lately . . . which, of course, fills me with gratitude and provokes me to giving. Or, more specifically, I've become the darling of certain editors who, for whatever reasons, have been grabbing up my writing and sending me (small sums though they be) checks here at year-end. Now I can give some nicer gifts to others in need . . . which I plan to do.

Some years back, I recall an interview with John Updike in which he explained that, as a child of the Depression, he never felt that he could turn down a writing opportunity, even one that promised a small paycheck, and that even though he had earned enough as a writer to sign only the large contracts, he could never bring himself to stop signing the small ones. And in Updike's last book (reviewed in my blog two days ago), he notes in one essay that early in his life the money he earned from writing poems was not insignificant to him as a husband and father. Even the $10 payments in 1950 meant something: an oil change, a sack of groceries, a few gallons of gasoline.

Although I am not a child of the Depression, I am afraid I have inherited my parent's strong work ethic and their insistence that I never turn away any work, even jobs that paid little or nothing. As a kid, I mowed some yards for free (since my parents told me it was my duty to help a poor neighbor or a widow), and later I worked my way through both college and seminary, holding down, at times, three to four jobs at a whack. Sometimes, I would leave one job to go to another, writing my essays or completing homework in the cracks and crevices between these jobs--tired to the bone, but energized with the prospect of writing something that I wanted to write when I found 15-30 minutes of "free" time.

I've kept the pace . . . for forty years now.

Editors who know me know this: I'll write nearly anything. I'll write copious amounts for small sums, and I'll write late at night or in the wee hours of the morning. I'll take a small check. And another. And another. And another.

But even these add up . . . and the small sums have also taught me another valuable lesson as a writer. My well is never dry. I've never experienced "writer's block." I've got diarrhea of the pen. If there's an editor who's buying . . . I'm writing. Heck, I'm writing even if editors are not buying!

Thanks, editors, for making my December a little brighter with those tiny little checks that I can cash out for handfuls of dimes and quarters. Most of these have gone into a pot dangling next to a bell-ringer. Next year, I'll just have you cut the checks to the charities directly and by-pass the writer all-together.

I'm just a stocking stuffer. And I'm glad to be of service.

Marriage 101

2011-12-08T04:40:00.000-08:00

My daughter, Chelsey, will soon be coming home from Ball State . . . for good. Or at least until her wedding day (June 16). And as father of the bride, I've been trying to steer her toward my voluminous output of marriage material in the form of books, CDs, and articles. I've got plenty to chew on.

Before You Say "I Do" was the first book I had published (way back in 1998) and Your Beautiful Wedding on Any Budget is one of those titles any father would love for his daughter to read. I've also written a brief Kindle "pocket" guide for brides that I hope would be helpful in creating a debt-free wedding. (And there are brides who are actually buying it!)

Still, I'm fortunate that my daughter has good taste and good sense. Simplicity and natural beauty are two features my girl has always treasured, and she's creating a very affordable, and incredibly simple and beautiful, wedding.

She's also had the good sense not to listen to my advice on marriage. After all, she's seen me in action and knows that Becky is in charge. My role in the situation is to remain boring, say "Yes, honey!", and fix the toilets. My cooking and cleaning skills are a bonus. But as for advice on relationships, well . . . .

Actually, when it comes to marriage, I don't have a problem quoting from Hogan's Heroes: "I know nothing!" My writings on marriage (now hundreds of thousands of words) is simply an exploration of all the things I would like to know, but am afraid to ask. And, of course, I'm writing from a male perspective . . . which means I am in the dark when it comes to figuring out what a woman is thinking or wanting. I've learned it's better to offer an array of choices in any situation. My role in the mess is to rotate the tires, change the oil, and wax romantic every now and again. I write love poetry so my wife will know I'm no sap and can at least pretend that I've got the ability to express what she wants to hear. Some of these poems actually make sense. To me.

As the wedding day approaches I'll keep offering my advice, of course. A dad has to pretend to know something. Otherwise, he's just a body who mows the grass and cracks walnuts in season.

And he occasionally weeps at weddings. (Just don't ask him why.)

Donut Experiment

2011-12-07T05:21:00.000-08:00

Now here's a wonder. Every time I post a blog about donuts, I have an inordinate number of "hits". Is there really such a robust donut culture out there? Why this insatiable lust for sweet pastry?

Well, but this post is an experiment. I'll see how many visit this blog just because I'm writing about donuts.

In 2012 I also hope to put my donut knowledge and expertise to better use. I've started making outlines of various donut essays I'd like to write: donut history, donut culture, donut recipes, my personal experiences with the donut. Heck, I've even applied for a job at Dunkin' Donuts . . . .

In short, 2012 might be considered the "year of the donut".

I've already started writing one article that is perfect for me. I can't think of anyone more qualified to write it. I'm entitling it: "How to Dunk a Donut".
Believe me, there's more here than meets the palate, and there is an art to dunking that most people miss. I've got all the steps down, and I'd love to share my knowledge with others.

Watch for this article. It will change the future of pastry.

Post-Updike

2011-12-06T04:27:00.000-08:00

Last week I was pleased to pick up a new copy of John Updike's posthumous title, Higher Gossip: Essays and Criticism. This, the final collection of Updike's illuminating book reviews, poems, essays on fiction, and miscellaneous prose, represents the work he was compiling prior to his death in January of 2009.  His estate was gracious enough to provide this collection--a big book littered with Updike's typical menagerie of wide-ranging ideas and subject matter.

I've been reading this book every day since I purchased it, small bits and pieces from an author I already miss terribly. Every time I have five or ten minutes between bites of licorice whip or jelly donut, I break open the book and read. But I'll be reading this one well past Christmas day.

Reading Updike's luminous book reviews and his glowing prose helps me to realize that my book reviews, compared to his, are mud pies. Updike is a thoroughbred; I'm a mule.  He writes. I hack.

I can only hope that my editors don't realize this and fire me. Maybe I can continue to disguise my inadequacies. Perhaps they don't realize that I write my book reviews under the influence of coffee and donuts. Take caffeine and raspberry jelly out of my chemistry equation and I couldn't type.

But until I'm laid off . . . I'll continue with my diet and write as many reviews as the editors seem fit to send my way.

Anybody out there got a book that needs reviewing?

Christmas Shopping

2011-12-05T05:04:00.000-08:00

Weird as it sounds, I went Christmas shopping last week at Barnes & Noble. For myself. I was using a gift card that had been given to me last Christmas, a year ago, but I had stashed it inside a book. I only discovered it last week and realized, "Holy Cow, I'd better get to Barnes & Noble before it closes!"

Glad I went. Most of the inventory was marked way down . . . like going out of business down, which is the fate of most bookstores these days. Waldens has bit the dust. Barnes & Noble stores are closing by the droves. And Amazon recently announced that people buy more Kindle versions of books via Amazon than they do paper editions. Another few years, I'm afraid bookstores may go the way of the Do Do Bird. Wow. It's a changing world.

And changing for writers, too. Publishers are having to adapt so quickly to the new world that they are uncertain, now, of the viability of books or, more specifically, the ability of publisher/editor/writer to make even a marginal profit from a book, especially the electronic versions. On the most recent cover of The New Yorker, a cartoon depicts a gentleman in the new bookstore--a place now stocked with coffee mugs, T-shirts, and electronic readers . . . and one tiny shelf of printed material.

But writers still write.

And, while I'm writing . . . I can read. I walked out of Barnes & Noble last week with an armload of discounted titles, including John Updike's last title (published by his family posthumously), an ACT test book for my son (if, indeed, he has the guts to take the ACT), and a collection of essays.

This is my first Christmas shopping foray of the year. Probably my last. (I hate crowds.) It's just too bad it took a year for me to use that gift card.

The Greek, The Latin, and the Ugly

2011-12-02T05:31:00.000-08:00

Last night, after completing my sermon outline and realizing that Becky would not be home until midnight, I began a five-hour writing odyssey among the Greeks and Romans, bringing out some of my heavy-artillery missals and my Latin grammars, to whip out three essays on the Greek gods, the Greek philosopher Plutarch, and the minor-Roman poet and fabulist, Avianus.

Why? This is the same question that Becky asked me at midnight when she inquired about my stack of books and the open laptop.

I read her some portions:

Unlike many of his contemporaries, Plutarch was remarkably prolific in his own right. He saw himself as standing at the crossroads of the waning Greek culture and the rise of Roman influence. His Parallel Lives--perhaps his greatest literary achievement--contains biographies of Greek and Roman luminaries, including Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar. Plutarch was a Renaissance man before the Renaissance--and he wrote philosophy, literary criticism, religious texts, and even compiled myths, practical handbooks for the commonwealth, and served as a priest and reformer of the classical Greek religion at Delphi.

and

Toward the end of the 4th century A.D., a young Roman poet named Avianus began compiling some of the older Aesop's fables into verse form--many of them rounded into rhyming hexameter couplets and shot through with the poet's wit and humor. As such, the fables took on a new role, and became a staple for teachers of ethics and philosophy (even the Christian religion, though Avianus was a pagan) during the Middle Ages.

Naturally, when I read my evening's essays to my wife (each of which rambles on for another thousand words or so) she was not impressed. "Who's going to buy that crap?" she wondered.

I showed her my translation of a Latin Avianus poem (not a bad poem in its own right if I say so myself) and also the parody of a Mount Olympus meeting of the gods that I'd already written and whipped out to a certain Manhattan magazine--a piece replete with Zeus, Aphrodite, Hermes, Ares, Hades, and Heracles . . . humor among the gods.

"I'm going to bed," she said.

Ah, yes. The snub. For some reason, because I was writing about the Greeks, she considered me a Geek. I guess I'm a Greek Geek. I tried pointing out that I'd also written two incredible love poems (in English) and I'd be happy to regale her with romance.

But once a man turns into a Geek and the woman drops her slipper after the stroke of midnight . . . all hope is lost.

Thank you, Plutarch and Avianus . . . . Hey, were you guys married?

Testimonials

2011-12-01T05:36:00.000-08:00

December always brings me a few fan letters (or, in this modern age, fan emails or fan Facebook entries) . . . and so I thought I'd share a few of the more inspiring ones that I have recently received. That's what this blog is all about, after all: inspiration. That, and a purpose for living. If you have neither, I'm afraid this blog won't be of help to your condition. (See "hopeless" in the dictionary.)

But in the event you want some holiday cheer, here are a few of the testimonials that have brought cheer to me (along with my responses).

Dear Mr. Outcalt, how can I order copies of your books? Sincerely, Edna
You can't. Most of my books are out of print, and the few that are still in print are nearly unreadable. But I don't know why you'd want to read them. Most people find me a bore. But if you must have a copy, Edna, why don't you send me your cash and I'll scrounge around in my closet and send you a dusty copy of something I wrote a decade back. If I can't find one of my books, I'll send you a copy of James Patterson or John Grisham. Thanks for writing.

Dear Mr. Outcalt, just wanted you to know that I enjoy your blog. It's a hoot. Bob
Well, Bob, thanks a heap. As you can see, I put a bunch of work into this thing every day. I'm up most nights just thinking about it. I rise long before dawn to gather my thoughts and make coffee. And then I write the first thing that pops into my head. Like mothballs (just now!) or imperialism (just occurred to me) or why can't they make a good zipper for blue jeans? (I just thought of that one). If you think my blog is a hoot, you should see me in action with my wife. She laughs non-stop.  And I ain't even trying to be funny in the bedroom.

Dear Between Pages Owner: Please change the password setting on your Blogger account as we've reformatted the whole shebang. We've been getting complaints. Blogger.
Who is this? Mom?

Dear Mr. Outcalt: I really enjoy your sense of humor. It brightens my day and has kept me sane for the past year. (Anonymous)
First, I'm glad you have found sanity among my insanity. Kind of an oxymoron isn't it? Do you know this word: oxymoron? I like saying it. Try it. It will keep you sane.

Dear Mr. Outcalt, thanks for reviewing my book on Between Pages. One of the more unique reviews I've run across. Sincerely, (R.W.)
Glad you enjoyed my review of your excellent book. I'm just appreciative of the fact that I can read English and hold a job. I write lots of book reviews, by the way . . . some of them serious. Really serious. So serious that these are usually published in magazines that cater to heart attacks and various liver diseases. Still, it's a difficult job and someone has to do it. Next time I write a book, you can review my copy.  How's that for a trade-off? (You'll also owe me $4.95 for postage and handling.)

The Little Dickens

2011-11-30T04:45:00.000-08:00

Two weeks ago I happened upon a used bookstore that was going out of business. I stopped, entered with a full wallet, and walked out with a giant box of books and no money for dinner. Among the treasures I discovered, all for a mere $1 a pop, was an 1880 edition of The History of England, written by Charles Dickens.

This is a good season for Dickens, as the old master had a tradition of writing a Christmas story every year . . . most of which were published in London newspapers as serial-originals. Dickens isn't necessarily a mentor (I find his novels too plodding, far too expansive, and mostly too depressing) but I have attempted to follow his tradition by writing my own Christmas tales every year.

When my kids were younger, I often wrote (or created on the spot) various Christmas tales for their bedtime enjoyment and nightmares. I enjoyed troubling my kids, striking Christmas fear into their hearts, suggesting they learn to sleep with the lights on. To this day they can't wait for Christmas to pass so they can get some rest. They don't worry about gifts, trees, eggnog, or gingerbread . . . they just want Dad to leave them alone and stop pestering them with tales of mayhem and madness.

Dickens knew all about ghosts and spirits. Most of his Christmas tales were loaded with sinister undertones, warnings, voices, and visions . . . I feel I'm just following in the footsteps of the master.

One of these days I hope to write the perfect Christmas story. But not this year. My kids still need to sleep with the lights on.

Billy's Book

2011-11-29T04:27:00.000-08:00

I don't want to count Billy out, but Nearing Home is very likely his final book. He seems to think so, too. But the book isn't morbid, gentrified, or maudlin in any way . . . it's rather a practical book for younger and older alike, and Billy Graham takes on everything from youthful learning experiences to building a financial future to preparing for life's final passage--whatever that may be.

It is obvious that Billy misses his wife, Ruth. Approaching his mid-90's, Billy has been subdued by Parkinsons and other physical maladies, but he's still witty and insightful in print. Even if a person isn't nearing home, it's a good title. And Billy sets out to help everyone create a better home in the "here and now" also.

I like Billy. And I wonder what the world will do without him now that we have to face the often odd and stilted opinions of his son, Franklin, and a bevy of warped and wilted televangelist preachers who seem to crave the personal attention of the camera and whose followers are more enlightened by charisma than by common sense? I won't see another Billy in my lifetime, and God save me, I hope not to see any more of Pat Robertson or Robert Tilton, either. The gamma rays from all of that television exposure has fried their brains. But, as long as there's a buck from TV, there will be TV preachers, I guess. Too bad most of them don't have actual congregations. But they probably couldn't hold a job.

All of this talk about Billy also makes me pine for The Wittenburg Door . . . a religious satire magazine that I contributed to for nearly two decades. I miss these pages dearly, and if Joe Bob Briggs or Ole Anthony or Bob Darden ever want to revive the magazine . . . give me a call, boys! I'm in. I'll be the first in line for a ten year subscription and you can count on me for a curt and sassy contribution every month. I miss bashing the wild and wacky world of the church or, as Woody Allen once wrote into the script of Hannah and Her Sisters: "If Jesus Christ returned to earth today and saw all of the things that Christians do in his name, He would never stop throwing up!"

Amen! Thanks, Billy, for staying above it all.

Christmas Kindle

2011-11-28T04:46:00.000-08:00

Some months back, when I purchased my Kindle, I converted several of my Christmas stories to Kindle format . . . and they are now available on Amazon (all for a whopping 99 cents). Some good ones for the taking: "The Peddler", "Apartment 218", "The Memory and the Dream", and "Charlie's Chip"--probably my best. I also have a novel on Kindle, too: A Christmas for Joey. Anyway, loved writing these . . . a few that were originally published in magazines and a few others that should have been.

Still, I do get my seasons mixed up.

Yesterday, on the first Sunday of Advent, I found myself writing an Easter story, and I spent the better part of the afternoon and evening editing/rewriting an array of poems that I hope to send off to publishers in the new year.

It will take me some weeks yet to "get into" the Christmas spirit. We have no plans yet for a tree, decorations, food, cookies, gifts, or shopping . . . and all of these will probably be done last minute (and some, perhaps, not at all). One of the benefits, I suppose, of moving past the young child-rearing years into that hazy world of "baby don't care, so daddy don't either."

Any cookies I eat this year will be sponged off the goodwill and grace of others.

As for my Christmas stories, I've got notebooks filled with them . . . outlines, first chapters, dialogue. All I have to do is get into this Christmas spirit and write a few of them before we hit Easter.

That, or I'll find myself in the Christmas spirit next summer, just as soon as the sun shines.

Reading in the Car

2011-11-25T05:34:00.000-08:00

Later today Becky and I will be making a trek to Louisville, KY. We will be leaving our kids in charge of the Christmas shopping, while we will be in charge of taking along interesting reading material.

I don't always read in the car, but with eight hours round-trip drive time staring me in the face, I've got to have something to peruse. I'm taking along a couple of New Yorker magazines, a history book, a newspaper, and perhaps a classic novel. I'll also have an atlas . . . I have a GPS, too, but I've never figured out how to use it (though everybody tells me, "It's easy, just plug it in.")

Actually, my biggest worry on a trip of this distance is getting car sick. I hope I can get some reading accomplished.

And I hope I don't toss my cookies in the ash tray.

Turkey of a Thanksgiving

2011-11-23T04:17:00.000-08:00

The following is a humorous piece I wrote two years ago, but which has never been published . . . so I publish it here for your enjoyment (or anguish).

Thanksgiving: A History

1621

The American Thanksgiving hearkens back to this year, when the colonists at the Plymouth Plantation ate a feast with the Wampanoag Indians—who brought yams and diet sodas. Later that afternoon, the first “football” game was played on the lawn, with the Indians pounding the colonists by a final score of 18-0 (this was before the innovation of “extra points”).

By tradition, this first Thanksgiving meal was a whopper, and several of the colonists complained of bloating and gas, including one woman who later died of diarrhea due to eating too much corn on the cob. However, there are many traditions and ideas surrounding this first Thanksgiving that are simply old wives’ tales: including the notion that Governor William Bradford had a thing for Squanto and that turkeys were sacrificed in some sort of bizarre ritual that featured a powder horn and five musket balls.

Historians have ascertained, however, that many of our most sacred traditions are true. There was turkey at this feast and a large green bean casserole shared by all. It is also true that the women made pumpkin pies and later, the men watched the women folk clear the table and did made snide comments about the Indians.

Of course, we really don’t know where this plantation was located, exactly, nor what it looked like, and some of these colonists were no doubt very homely. But we can thank these colonists for giving us the first doggie bags, and it was Myles Standish who later coined the word “leftovers.”

1863

Nearly 250 years later, President Abraham Lincoln issued the proclamation that a “National Day of Thanksgiving would be observed.” However, Lincoln picked the wrong day, and set Thanksgiving on October 3, which really screwed up the football schedule. A few teams had not even practiced yet and, what with the war and all, some players never made it to training camp.

Lincoln did have good intentions, and a few people followed his advice and cooked hams. One woman in Boston sent him a cream pie.

Historians have since come to the conclusion that Lincoln was actually giving thanks that he was able to send Ulysses S. Grant to the front and be shed of his rancid cigar smoke. And William H. Seward, the Secretary of State, wrote in his diary that Lincoln had gone “off his nut” and was reducing the country to little more than a nation of “tater-lovers.”

Fortunately for us all, Lincoln stuck to his guns and didn’t listen to his cabinet, which was then staffed with southern sympathizers and several underweight advisers who couldn’t eat a chicken liver without getting sick. Mary Todd also baked a pecan pie for the occasion and word has it that Lincoln himself gained three pounds and ate his weight in cranberry sauce.

Later that night, the first lady had a premonition and pleaded with Lincoln not to have second helpings. Seward noted in his diary, however, that Lincoln frequently disregarded his wife’s visions and ate radishes. But the old lawyer from Illinois had grown up on venison and wanted a good excuse to bring meat into the White House.

Lincoln’s final prayer was that “everyone would enjoy the meal and get a little exercise the following day.”

1941

It’s a little-known fact that the current date for our American Thanksgiving—the fourth Thursday of November—was not fixed until President Franklin D. Roosevelt issued his decree on December 26th, 1941. Roosevelt, an avid football fan, understood the implications and wanted to do something with radio. He considered the fourth Thursday an optimal choice for the whole nation—given that many businesses would close down on Friday, too, thereby creating the first “four day weekend”—but a few of his political adversaries considered his mandate presumptuous and opportunistic.

Roosevelt, of course, loved to eat, and Eleanor was known for her apple pie and hot rolls—which were also the pet names that Roosevelt used in the bedroom. White House staff at the time also make mention of overhearing the terms “hot beans and rice”, “savory goose” and “sweet juicy plumbs” emanating from the walls of the Rose bedroom.

In essence, our modern day Thanksgiving traditions were established at this time, and we have FDR to thank. Without a fixed date on the calendar, Thanksgiving would have become a wild assortment of varying traditions and times, with some Americans observing the day on April 19 and others on October 3 or even December 30, when it would be too cold to cut the pie.

Likewise, our American Thanksgiving traditions might have remained back there in Plymouth, and we would have been stuck eating partridge and swan, which those first Pilgrims likely consumed by the gross. No one would be eating the right foods, and it is likely that the TV remote would never have been invented.

THE END

Cutie Pie

2011-11-22T05:30:00.000-08:00

Word selection is everything. Paramount in shorter written works. And especially in love.

Take the word "cute" for instance. I hear women using this word all the time to describe an outfit, a piece of home decor, or even a hairstyle. "That's a cute coat," they'll say. Or, "Oh, your hair looks so cute!" Other expressions I've heard recently are "adorable", "striking", or "becoming."

What these women are "becoming" I'm not sure. But according to the plethora of TV shows and movies on the subject, there are plenty of people becoming zombies.

One of the reasons I write so much love poetry is because I'm still trying to convince my wife that I love her. I tell her this every day, as in "I love you" or "can you bring me another banana!" but she doesn't always hear the love behind the words. That's why I carry a thesaurus. I can use other words and expressions at a moment's notice. As in, "you look delicious this morning," or "you're more scrumptious than a big ol' bag of fresh licorice."

I've tried using the word "cute", but evidently this is a woman's word. I used it once in a women's shoe store while my wife was trying on a pair of sandals, telling the clerk that she had cute eyelashes, but my wife didn't get the discount. When I tell my wife that her new outfit is "cute", she seems miffed, and asks, "Can't you come up with a better word than that?"

"How does humdinger, strike you?" I'll say. "How about jiggy? Arousing? Shakalaka-bing-bong?

Cute never cuts it. And if I don't come up with a fresh vocabulary very soon, my marriage may be in trouble.

I'm running out of words.

The Right Stuff

2011-11-21T04:06:00.000-08:00

Sooner or later published authors run into the queasy questions about rights, and a publishing contract might be regarded as a type of prenuptial agreement. Most publishing contracts read like: "You get this . . . and I get that . . . if this happens."

Years ago, a seasoned writer once told me, "Never sell all your rights to a publisher." I've tried to live by that code, but it's not always possible. Not now. Not with the growing and dizzying array of publishing options available to writers these days.

In more recent years, I've found myself selling all rights to my work. Instances include writing curriculum, writing certain columns, and on occasion, even creative work like essays and poems. I've even written several books for publishing houses--most of which do not have my name on the cover--under this type of arrangement. Although writing these books would add to my total "book count", I don't count them among my twenty-two legit titles, as the publisher owns all the rights, and I was basically a work-for-hire writer cranking out material that could add the publisher's coffers. No royalties.

Not that I mind. Not at all. If a publisher called me today and said, "We've got a book in mind, we want you to write it, and we'll pay you a flat rate to produce it," I'd probably jump if the price was right. And I'd be very willing to do it if I knew I could crank the book out in a week or two (as I have been known to do in the past). A few long evenings, maybe a couple of all-nighters, and Shazam...I'd have a book done.

In the past few months I've also sold all rights to a number of shorter essays and poems. My reasoning (though it could be faulty) is simple: I feel I can always write more of them, like a well that never runs dry. A publisher wants to buy a poem or essay (instead of giving me a subscription or sample copy), I'm usually game for a paycheck instead of another magazine to add to my piles of tear sheets and closeted history.

One caveat, however. There have been times when I've wanted to use an essay or a poem in another book. And then I find that (sometimes) I am writing a check to the publisher to purchase my own work.

Makes me understand what the work of redemption is all about. It's buying back the very thing I created.

Writing and pastoring are a lot alike in that way. Both can be works of redemption.

The StarBuck Stops Here

2011-11-18T04:46:00.000-08:00

Earlier this week I happened upon a used book store that was going "out of business." Naturally, I had to drop in with the intention of taking a few titles off their hands, but I ended up asking for a large box. Among the titles I discovered (all for $1 each) was an 1880 edition of Charles Dickens's A History of England, several first-editions written by E.L. Doctorow, a magnificent volume of children's poetry, and a Booth Tarkington novel published at the turn of the century.

I also absconded with The Starbucks Experience: 5 Principles for Turning Ordinary into Extraordinary, by Joseph A. Michelli. This was a book I intended to read some years back, but didn't. Last night I drank the book in a single sitting. Tasty stuff here. And all pertinent to leadership of any organization, large or small.

Sips of wisdom here include:
Make it Your Own (my words: give your all to your work/effort and demand the same of others!)
Everything Matters (attention to detail is vital, and make the good, great!)
Surprise and Delight (don't settle for average, make the organization spectacular and be excellent at what you do)
Embrace Resistance (learn from criticisms and suggestions, don't bury them)
Leave Your Mark (work long enough, hard enough, and smart enough that your life counts for something in the organization...as everyone is giving his/her life to something...so make it count for something!)

I gained much from reading this book and I hope I can practice these principles in everything I do: pastoring, marriage, parenting, writing . . . .

The only thing missing from the book was a Starbucks gift card. Reading 180 pages in three hours made me thirsty, and I think Starbucks missed a golden opportunity here. Everyone who bought the book should have been given a free tall latte . . . would have sealed the deal and given every reader the true Starbucks experience.

Now that I've written this review, please excuse me. I'm headed for the gym, and afterwards, to Starbucks. My abs are burning, and I'm buying!

Cracking Up

2011-11-17T05:00:00.000-08:00

In the past week this blog has had nearly 1000 "hits". And I wonder: Are there really that many people leading such totally empty lives that they must fill up their existence on my inane blather? Is this blog really becoming so popular that people want to read about my reading and writing habits? Is this blog actually that good?

I guess so.

I'll do my best, therefore, to keep this blog crisp and fresh . . . not like the celery in my fridge that I can tie into a knot. I'll be looking to take this blog up a notch.

And in case there are folks out there (many, it seems, from England, the Netherlands, and Russia) who would prefer to know the coming attractions on this humorous blog, here are a few plans for upcoming posts.

The History of Thanksgiving
    I'll be sharing a humorous essay rejected by many magazines over the past two years . . . my version of Thanksgiving. Tune in here on Turkey Day for a laugh. Lord knows I can't sell this one so I might as well give it away for free right here!

My Dirty Dozen
    At last count I had over 12 books circulating among editors. I'll tell you what these titles are and how these books could change the world as we know it. Any publishes want to buy 'em?

Secret Agent
   I'll give you news from my literary agent (thanks, Cynthia) who is desperately trying to sell me to the highest bidder and turn me into a literary prostitute.

Back to the Future
    Ten years ago I competed in a drug-free bodybuilding competition, wrote several essays about the experience, and have recently discovered new photographic evidence that I was once in tip-top shape. I'll share a photo (or two) and excerpts from my essays about the underbelly of this sport.

And "click-in" in coming weeks, as I will also share thoughts on: Reading Charles Dickens, My Favorite Bible Stories, Navigating the Seedy World of Publishing Rights, Interpreting Publishing Contracts, Writing for Subscriptions, and Much, Much More . . .

See you tomorrow right here! Same batty blog. Same batty channel.

Lessons from Coach K

2011-11-16T04:21:00.000-08:00

Last night I witnessed a bit of basketball history when Coach K (Duke) surpassed Bob Knight for most "wins" in Division 1 BB history. The commentators after the game mentioned that in his early years at Duke, the administration did not give him favorable nods, and there were some voices calling for his resignation. (One of those years, by the way (1982/83), was the year I had season tickets to Cameron Indoor . . . just walked up to the box office window and bought 'em: $60. The team had, as I recall, but 8 wins that season.)

Coach K has written many books and his leadership insights (not just on BB) are now touted by business execs and corporate big-wigs. I've found many of his insights usable in family, church and community. Much of his insight centers on teamwork, hard work, and a family-approach mentality to involving everyone in the success of the organization. Amen!

About a year ago I wrote a poem that I shared as part of a sermon on being attentive to the "little things" in life. Interestingly enough, more people asked me for a copy of this poem than any I've written, and the poem started being circulated among some sports teams in the area, and posted on web sites, and then people started writing me to request a copy. I keep a stack of copies now.

It's a poem that teaches a lesson (I hope) . . . and I thought I'd offer it here under my name so people will know that it originated from this weirdo--not Coach K! But I don't mind if anyone uses it . . . especially Coach K. Just keep my name on the title page . . . or say, "We can't believe a hick from Brownsburg wrote this."

The Little Things (by Todd Outcalt)

There's a lesson in life that is true to form
And it never wavers or fails:
That if we aspire to build an empire
We cannot overlook the details.

There are no shortcuts to summit the top,
So before you grab for the ring
Be certain you've given your all to the small
And to elementary things.

For success isn't built on one giant leap
Nor a quirky luck-of-the-draw,
But the big things are built on the faithfulness
Of attention to all things small.

Each person holds in his or her hands
The tiniest seeds of the great,
But before we're entrusted with magnificent trees
We must plant, and water, and wait.

There is nothing in life that is not built
On attention to the small,
But we must be faithful in tiny things
Before we are given it all.

This lesson we learn in winter years
But quickly forget in the spring:
If we want to be blessed with far more success,
First honor the smallest of things.

Pastor's Report Card 2011

2011-11-15T04:16:00.000-08:00

Each year pastors provide a "state of the church" report to their various charge conferences, outlining the achievements of the year past and goals for the future. Since this pastor seeks to be creative, we are offering this report card. We'll let readers decide if they believe it or not.

TEACHER'S COMMENTS: This pastor, though getting a little old for this classroom, still seems eager to learn. Fortunately, we have placed him in a wonderful classroom filled with remarkable students who help to hide his deficiencies (which are many). This pastor seems to play well in the sandbox and has been overheard bragging about his classmates. If it were not for these other students, this pastor would be eating paste and digging lima beans out of his ears. For this reason and more, we also deem it necessary for this classroom to remain intact for another year and we would be remiss to break up the dynamics of this well-oiled machine.  We hope this pastor will, however, do better work in 2012, but as his knees and shoulders give out, we can see marked improvements, though many in the classroom regard him as "a little odd." We don't recommend remediation, however.

HISTORY                         GRADE: B
This pastor has been in his current classroom for going on eight years, but we don't think we should move him and torture another group of students. This group in the Calvary classroom is used to him now and we say they can have him. In the past year twenty-six new students joined this classroom by profession of faith in Jesus (along with seventeen others who just transferred in) and another seventeen were baptized.

SOCIAL STUDIES             GRADE: A
We've had a problem in 2011 with people wanting to leave this classroom and go to other classrooms like Tanzania, Ghana, Belize, and even to foreign countries like Tennessee. Many other students serve in places like Metro Ministries, Sheltering Wings, Jails, Food Pantries, and Schools. This classroom also tries to clothe, feed, and assist in a variety of needs. This pastor, however, certainly can't have anything to do with it. It's got to be the Holy Spirit and the others who lead the classroom.

SALES & MARKETING         GRADE: B
For some reason, people still want to get into this classroom. Not only is there a waiting list for the Learning Academy and Parent's Day Out (which says something about the quality), there are new people clamoring through the doors every week.  The pastor purchased two news suits recently, and we hope this will help him to be more presentable and his wife is helping him to shave more often.

PHYSICAL EDUCATION      GRADE: A
This kid loves gym. He would probably live in one if he could. He is frequently the first one in the doors when they open at 5 a.m. His classroom offers classes like Yoga and Zumba . . . and we don't even know what these are. We should also note that his wife assists him with his physical education and this student seems to have a grasp of human anatomy.

SEX EDUCATION              GRADE: B
While we're on the subject, we should note that this student has been married to his first wife for twenty-seven years and has not strayed. But it's easy to see why. Who else would have him? And listen, have you seen his wife? She's a major babe and still has her high school cheerleader outfit with pom pons. This pastor is also encouraging his children (including his engaged daughter) to wait until marriage. (Wait for what, we're not sure.) We do, however, believe that after twenty-seven years this pastor has waited long enough. We shall be sending a note home to his wife.

ENGLISH            GRADE: A
This student seems to have a decent understanding of the English language, but writes way too much. We would encourage him not to write six books a year as he can't find people who will read them. He does enjoy writing encouraging notes to people, however, and he continues to be impressed by the ways the other students are talking about their faith. He seems convinced, also, that Jesus has a sense of humor and that people might equate laughter and joy with the gospel.

TEACHER'S SUMMARY
As you can see, this pastor is a decent student and we want to encourage him in his learning. Lord knows he's flunked out of enough endeavors in his life, so we want to keep him in this classroom where he is surrounded by so many gifted and caring students who will help him with crib notes. He loves the people he works with and can pick himself up off the playground when he gets knocked down and scrapes his knees. He rarely cries . . . though we've seen others crying when it was announced he was returning to the classroom for 2012.

For a fuller summation of this student's thoughts, we would recommend people purchase his full slate of book titles (at retail price) or visit http://www.growmychurch.com/ and click on the October 24 interview. He's the student who looks like Lawrence Welk and talks like a hick from Sullivan county.

RECOMMENDATION: PASS (but we're being extremely lenient here).

The Waiting Room

2011-11-14T05:57:00.000-08:00

Right now I'm waiting on so many people, so many projects, and so many expectations that I will never die. I can't. I won't!

I have no less than six books that are being read by editors right now. (Actually, it's more than six, but I've lost count . . . so I'll just say six. But I might have to make a count this week because now I'm intrigued.) And there are also stacks of essays, piles of poems, and a heap of humor floating around in editorial offices around the country, too. But in the publishing world, everything is hurry up and wait.

One editor wrote me last week informing me that I must wait until May of 2012 for a decision on a book manuscript. Seriously? Six months? In another six months, I'll have written six other books. Can't these editors keep up with their reading?

Or how about the editor who informed me that he would indeed be publishing one of my essays, but it would be a year from now before it would appear in the magazine. More waiting . . . .

I'm used to it, though. I wait on my wife, my kids, my slow-moving parents. I'm waiting for the cat to die. I'm waiting for the Colts to score a touchdown. Thank God, they don't play next week.

I would love it if, someday, an editor would be waiting on me for a change . . . waiting on me to deliver that 500-page-manuscript or that carefully-crafted piece about my four-month Hawaiian travel excursion or what it feels like to sleep in until seven-a.m. on a weekend.

But heck, I'd settle for an article on the empty nest syndrome. That would be worth the wait. And my wife might go for it, too.

Exclamation Points

2011-11-11T05:33:00.000-08:00

Last night an editor of a news magazine wrote to inform me that one of my poems (a poem, really?) was receiving a lot of attention from readers and had been the number one page on the magazine web site this past month. Awww, shucks!

I'm actually flabbergasted by this . . . and I rarely use the word "flabbergasted." It's true, I do write a lot of poems (actually too many), but I also write a lot of essays, humor, fiction, and work that simply defies description or categorization. So when an editor sends me word about a poem receiving attention, I have to ask, "Why?"

I'm not used to attention, of course. My kids ignore me. My wife has other interests . . . and most of these do not include me. The cat takes one look in my direction and pukes.

So when an editor writes with a compliment, I'm flabbergasted. (There's that word again!) I begin wondering how I hit upon a combination of words that others would want to read, or perhaps faun over. I wonder if I can repeat the performance, and I try to go back in time and figure out where I was, and what I was doing, and what the circumstances were surrounding the creation of the words. If I could duplicate the effort, I would. But I can't even remember where I was yesterday, and I certainly don't recall writing most of the drivel I churn out. When the editor wrote to say, "I love your poem," I asked, "What poem?" Don't even remember writing it or sending it in. Am I going Alzheimer's?!

But, alas, I realize I don't have any great skill at word-crafting . . . I just have an ability to turn out words like little sausages, lots of little sausages, and I send them out hoping that one of those little sausages will be good enough to catch the eye of an editor who will say, "Very tasty."

Lord knows I'll never garner any attention at home. I've got to look for these small accolades in the wild and wacky world of word-crafting!

I'm flabbergasted!!!!

Dog Food For Thought

2011-11-10T04:39:00.000-08:00

Books about dogs and cats have exploded onto the publishing scene in the past decade, and this despite the one-story-fits all approach that publishers seem to require when it comes to canine tales. However, Susan Orlean has captured both a history and an iconographic image in her book, Rin Tin Tin. It's more than a dog book, as it reads across the decades spanning the origins of the German Shepherd pre-WW1 across the pond to Hollywood and back.

I have faint memories of watching Rin Tin Tin when I was a child, but there's far more to this dog story than the TV show, and Orlean manages to write a history and biography that is at once entertaining and compelling. In short, it's more than another dog book, but is food for thought.

Naturally, people like dog books because we extend some portion of our personalities and existence into our pets . . . which makes me wonder: where are all of my dead dogs now, and what does this say about me?

My list of dogs reads like Grade B horror movie:

DOG         YEAR        DEATH BY

BB            1969        Hit by car
Diego        1975        Hit by car/shot by my dad
Lovey        1997        Squashed under car by my mom
Tippy         1974       Died age 16 with 3 legs, 1 ear, wounded, no teeth
Buster       2010        Eaten by coyotes

As you can see, I wasn't meant to have a dog . . . and I can't wait for our fifteen-year-old cat to die. There's a story here somewhere.

Tired?

2011-11-09T03:24:00.000-08:00

I don't feel tired. In fact, I feel rather energetic. Probably as energetic as a man my age can expect to be . . . and perhaps more energetic than most younger men. I'm usually up early. Sometimes the first in the gym. I work a full day; I write a full day. I eat fewer donuts. I usually cook dinner. I am typically the last to go to bed.

But several friends have recently commented: "You look tired."

Tired? As in Geritol tired? Tired blood? Nahhh!

I point out that I may just be getting old. I woke up a few minutes ago with a pain in my left shoulder that nearly brought tears to my eyes. My wife tells me it's arthritis. But whatever it is--a torn rotator cuff, strained muscle, or uncle arthur--I keep lifting through it. And I write through it, too.

Becky points out that I've been doing the bulk of my late-night writing from the couch. But I'm just relaxed. I write my best love poems from a prone position.

When I really want to get serious about writing, I go vertical.

No, I'm not tired. All it takes is a few conversations with editors, a contract or two, and I'm up all night.

Pass the coffee and Tylenol.

And Here's the Pitch!

2011-11-08T03:57:00.000-08:00

My late-night forays in recent weeks have turned me into a pitcher. I've been throwing essays at some editors, fiction at others, and have chucked a fair number of book proposals, articles, poems, and humor toward the publisher's plate, too. Most have landed in the dirt, but I've thrown some strikes.

Of course, there's always the chance that an editor will shake off a sign and want me to pitch something else. But a guy like me is used to changing it up. After being married for twenty-seven years to a woman who changes her mind every morning, I never say to an editor, "But yesterday you told me you wanted me to be more romantic and cook chicken for dinner . . . what gives?"

No, I just smile, load up another fast ball, and throw again.

Naturally, whenever an editor does give me the nod (like the two who said "Yes" some weeks back and mailed me tiny checks yesterday so I can buy a creme-filled donut) it's a good day. And whenever Becky says "Yes" it's a good month. Heck, it's a good year!

Writers must master the art of the pitch if they are to earn any called strikes. One has to be able to throw an arsenal of pitches in order to get the attention of these deadbeat editors. The curve ball, the change-up, the fast ball, even, occasionally, the spitter . . . it's important to keep chucking pitches toward the home plate. If a writer doesn't pitch, there's no hope for a win. Gotta throw something. Gotta stay warmed up (write every day!). Gotta master at least one or two pitches and keep perfecting them. Stop tossing what doesn't work.

Pitching isn't necessarily fun. But it's necessary.

And I do hope Becky will wear that umpire uniform from time to time. I think the cleats are sexy.

Record Deal

2011-11-07T03:29:00.000-08:00

Over the weekend I had a most unusual request. I was offered a record deal. No, not a record deal (as in cutting an album) . . . but a re-cord deal (as in, "we want you to record yourself reading).

The case, in this instance, was an audio book being produced by a publisher who believes that the future of poetry is "hearing" poems being read rather than reading poems in a book.  OK . . . I get it. This sounds right, smart, and absolutely correct.

But the producer lost me when he said, "Use the settings on your computer to create your audio file and submit [these selected] poems to me by the end of the month." I thank producer Tim for the opportunity to record some of my published work, but I must admit, I don't know anything about these "settings" on my computer than can produce an "audio file". What the heck is an audio file, and how does an idiot like me learn the button sequence without setting off another Cold War?

Naturally, I turned to another expert for these answers. I asked my wife. "How do you create an audio file on the computer?" I wondered.

"Beats me," she said. "Sounds like you know as much about that as you do about making love to an older woman."

"Beat it," I said.

So . . . I'm up early today. Pressing buttons.  But something tells me this older laptop of mine doesn't have a built-in microphone. The only thing I've managed to do so far is start the dishwasher. And I've not yet figured out where I can insert the blank cassette tape!

E-N-C-Y-C-L-O-P-E-D-I-A

2011-11-04T16:14:00.000-07:00

Disney taught me how to spell Encyclopedia. Or, rather, it was Jiminy Cricket singing, "E-N-C-Y-C-L-O-P-E-D-I-A!"

Now I've written an encyclopedia of my own: The Youth Ministry Encyclopedia. Amazon.com has been carrying it for a few months . . . Kindle format. The subtitle of this book points out the obvious: that this is the biggest, baddest, most comprehensive book of youth activities, games and lessons ever assembled. Well, it might actually be. Anyone downloading this monster into his Kindle or iPad is going to eat up some serious hard-drive gigabytes. This is the biggest book I've yet written. It's a MONSTER!

So, all you youth directors, youth pastors, youth workers out there . . . better grab a copy of this one! I started working with teenagers when I was nineteen years old and this book has over forty years of material under the sails. I'm not kidding . . . it's a whopper! If you download it, you might even think the book is never going to end, and you may have trouble finding the last page. But just keep reading, jotting notes, trying some of the hundreds of ideas inside.

How's that for a commercial?

That's why I'm calling it an Encyclopedia. And once YOU learn how to spell it, you'll discover that it's an amazing youth ministry resource.

Ask Jiminy.

Grip It And Rip It

2011-11-03T17:02:00.000-07:00

I always feel that I must read 3-4 science books each year (given that my wife is a science teacher and a real brainiac). My most recent foray into the world of the hard sciences has been Get a Grip on Physics, by John Gribbin. In this old-style science book, Gribbin combines basic history and formulas of physics with art to make this, perhaps the most difficult of sciences, comprehensible to the average layman (like me). But even after reading this book, I'm still in awe of the discipline of physics and the deep science of the universe.

I'm not a science writer, but I have composed my fair share of "science" poetry. Some of these I've attached to my science fiction tales and/or have submitted outright.

Here's a portion of one poem below, entitled "Red Shift".

(And, in case you don't know what the Red Shift is, I'll try to explain: the Red Shift refers to the spectrum of colors from deep space that scientists use to determine the distance and age of various sources of light. As radiation (light) travels through space, it shifts in color, deepening to red the longer (older) it is, much like The Doppler Effect of sound deepens from a passing train.)

Got that? (It's much too simple of an explanation, but here goes.)

Red Shift

Light years from earth, a boomerang
Of radiation--violets, blues--
Glows within the rim of the Big Bang.
The giant stars, like Betelgeuse

Emit a trail of gamma rays
That shift in space and time at speed
Of light. The Doppler Effect gravitates
The purple-violet haze and bleeds

The energy to red . . .

Well, there's much more to this poem, but you get the picture (or not). When I get this figured out, I'll call you. Or I'll ask my wife. She knows everything. And red is her favorite color.

The Donut and Me

2011-11-02T19:20:00.000-07:00

This blog entry might be considered an experiment. For some reason my January blog posting on donuts (the breakfast of champions) continues to get many "hits" each month. What gives? Why the interest in my diet?

Let the record show that I'm going to monitor this posting to see if these same donut fanatics show up on the "hit" list.

As for donuts, have you tried the seasonal pumpkin spice at Dunkin' Donuts? Or how about the Thanksgiving blend coffee at Starbucks? Good stuff.

Donuts, of course, are a great interest of mine. And as I think about it, it's probably time I try to pitch an article on donuts to some unsuspecting editor. Who better to write a donut essay than me? Who better to get free donuts for a taste testing?

As long as I'm writing, I might as well be enjoying my research.

Isn't It Romantic?

2011-11-01T19:10:00.000-07:00

A nice compliment from an editor today. Some weeks back she accepted one of my poems for publication and now she is requesting to see more of my "love poems."

Naturally, since I have no secrets, I told my wife there was another woman interested in my words of love.

Becky's response: "What do you know about love?"

What do I know? Listen, a man doesn't live fifty years without learning something. And if a guy writes hundreds of poems a year, he's bound to write one or two that might make a woman swoon. These are the ones I'm looking to submit to the good graces of this other woman.

Of course, in my younger days, it was poetry that made my courtship. There's not a woman I know who wouldn't love this gem:

Sure as the vine twines 'round the stump
You are my darlin' sugar lump.

Actually, it's easy to write romance. A man only has to stop and think about all the things he didn't say, or wished he had said, and then write these words. Well, that's my secret anyway.

Since I rarely say anything romantic the first time around, I'm glad to be a writer of romance. The poems give me a second chance to get it right.

My Study Group

2011-10-31T18:58:00.000-07:00

For the past decade my wife, Becky, has been in a breast cancer study group. She fills out forms, answers questions, gets free check-ups, and twice a year receives some reimbursement for her participation.

But why can't a guy like me be in a study group? Surely there's a sociologist out there who could create a study focused on the life of the boring 51-year old man. We could be paid in licorice, or laxatives. I could be President of the study group.

It would be easy to get participants. Some TV lawyer could drop an ad, or perhaps a full-page newspaper invitation could be submitted:

Wanted: Boring 51-year old men willing to submit themselves to the derision of others. Must be forgetful, married, and preferably a father to some average children who bear a resemblance to someone else who is successful. Both testicles a must. Should also have a long history of personal struggle coupled with a fair amount of animosity from the wife. Midwesterners preferred for this study, but will also consider derelicts from the streets of New York or throwback hippies from the San Francisco area. Must have own transportation or moped and be willing to pee in a bucket if the wife demands you keep the seat down. Participants will also need to enjoy reading thick, academic-style manuals containing tiny photographic plates of the human body and be willing to admit they have nothing better to do. Four notarized affidavits from female, non-family members will also be required, each swearing that the applicant is one of the most boring men they know and, even in the event of a nuclear tragedy where half the human population is wiped out, they would never consider having the applicant's baby. Serious applicants only! And gosh darn it, we mean it!

Any men want to join me, we'll get in touch with a University very soon. I know there's government money for this! Stay boring, my friends!

Cheerio

2011-10-31T03:31:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I received a query from a young lady in England who had finished a book, had submitted it for publication, and who wanted to know how long she should expect to wait for a reply from the American publisher.

Here's what I told her: Forget-about-it!

The worst thing a writer can do is wait unproductively for a publisher to receive, read, and respond to a manuscript. This could take months-years-lifetimes! I know. I'm still waiting on publishers to respond to submissions I made in 2009 (they tell me they are "thinkin' 'bout it"). I am also expecting the publication of a new book in December that has been in the publication process for nearly four years. FOUR YEARS!

No, make a record of your work, jot down the particulars, and keep writing.

Or, like me, you could just completely forget about what you've written, or when you wrote it, or who you sent it to . . . and when you do get a response it will be like Christmas in July.

"Holy, Guacamole!" I often find myself saying. I don't even recall writing that! When did I do it? How did I find the time?

Last night I spent a few hours perusing my submission note cards (which number in the hundreds . . . yes, hundreds) and I learned a few things. For example, I discovered three short stories I'd forgotten about (don't even remember writing them) and I noted the publishers who are still considering them. I discovered a whole trove of forgotten poems. I also sent out three book proposals that were gathering dust, but which had made the rounds of rejection and were doing me no good sitting in a floppy disk.

Now . . . I can forget-about-it.

Although, if memory serves, I did send one of these proposals to a publisher in Canada. Isn't that the suburb of England where people eat maple syrup with their grits? Or am I just way off in my geography?

Put Up Your Duke

2011-10-28T14:02:00.000-07:00

I shall be submitting a brief bio for the next Duke Alumni magazine, but it's always tough to know what to write. My main goal is to let folks now of the publication of He Said/She Said: Biblical Stories From a Male and Female Perspective (with Michelle). Maybe that's all that needs to be said.

But I could add more.

How about:

. . . Following the publication of the book, the male author intends to have a publication party at his house, which will entice him to pour a fresh coat of white gravel in his driveway.

Or

. . . Unless people buy this book, it won't be in print long.

Or

. . . We know that Duke grads rarely read these bios, they are so busy making millions, but we hope you will share the information about this book with ten of your co-workers. But we warn you not to break the chain, otherwise something very bad will befall you (like losing to UNC, or losing both of your big toes in a tractor-trailer accident). Make sure you write your letters today and send them to ten friends (and be sure to mention the book title). If you do this you will have one year's worth of good luck, including, but not limited to, finding coupons in your Sunday paper that you can actually use, or dousing for an oil well, or getting a raise. We can't guarantee any of these, of course, but you'd better write those letters just in case.

My Duke education . . . a great investment.

The Big Pile

2011-10-26T19:27:00.000-07:00

Three months back I happened into the Brownsburg Public Library to do research on a book project. When I sauntered back to the reference section, expecting to find certain sets of reference books waiting for me on the shelves, I discovered that the entire reference section had been swept clean, digitalized onto disks, and placed in the computer system . . . a newfangled tool I have yet to master and one that I most certainly don't use for research.

However, a friendly librarian came to my rescue and suggested that I purchase most of the "leftover" reference books, which were on display in an anteroom near the front. I was amazed to find some of my sought-after titles there, still gathering dust on the shelves at $1 a hardback pop. I walked out of the library that day with a truck bed full of books, the shocks loaded for bear, the chassis dragging the asphalt. And after unloading the books into my office at home, there they have remained, unchanged, in a great heaping pile on the floor for the past three months.

"When are you going to move these stinking books?" Becky asks me every week as she peeks over the top of the great pile.

"I'm not," I tell her. "I have no more shelf space. The floor is now my new shelving system."

"Are you going to read these?"

"No," I say, "these are reference books: The Encyclopedia of American History, The Annals of America, a ten volume set of Church History, etc. A person doesn't read reference books. A person does research with them."

"Well then," says the good wife, "you'd better by gosh be doing some research. I want these out of here. They are an eyesore."

Eyesore? I don't know what this means. How can three hundred pounds of books be considered an eyesore? Or for that matter, how can the three thousand titles that I've amassed?

Still, I get it . . . from a woman's perspective. A broom and a mop have to go somewhere. An obelisk-sized pile of books doesn't exactly make the home decor issue of Better Homes and Gardens.

There are a lot of reasons to get rid of these books, I know. But I keep reminding her that she will always have something to read.

And somewhere, in those stacks, I might even have a title or two I can no longer find.

Boxing With Myself

2011-10-25T18:58:00.000-07:00

I must be honest. I'm blown away by how many people are reading this blog every month: over 1,000 to be exact. For whatever reasons, I seem to have a growing readership in the Netherlands, Russia, England and South Korea. I've never been to any of these beautiful countries, but I appreciate the loyalty, and I'm encouraged by the thought that there are, perhaps, other weirdos in these places who enjoy my brand of humor.

As of late, I've been spending a lot of time boxing with myself. Please allow me to explain.

Writing is difficult work. It is difficult, in part, because it is so remote, so solitary, so devoid of contact, that a writer literally has to do battle with himself/herself in order to produce anything on the page. There can be many distractions: other voices in other rooms, hunger, thirst, the World Series on TV. A writer has to block all of these temptations out, close a door, and go to battle with the blank page.

I've been punching myself silly of late. Although I have not signed a book contract for going on two years now, I've been throwing hard punches at magazines, journals, web sites and newspapers, and have landed a fair number of uppercuts and worked up a decent scorecard of acceptances in the past month alone.

Today, for example (what is this, Tuesday?), I completed the following:

* Sent poems out to three different magazines
* Wrote a personal bio for a magazine that will soon be publishing my book reviews
* Turned down an early-morning phone call request for an interview this Friday (as I will be out of town and don't like giving interviews anyway)
* Received an email confirmation for a book order
* Wrote a funeral sermon
* Started an outline for my weekend sermon
* Read a magazine that I soon hope to be writing for
* Sent an e-mail to another editor explaining that I am not a photographer and would not be offering any photos for my article that will soon be published in an outdoor magazine
* Wrote this blog

And I did all of this in spite of being in a 7-hour long seminar most of the day. But that's why a 5 a.m. start is important to me . . . and that's why I fall asleep after I've written for two hours before midnight (or during sex).

It rarely happens, but if I don't punch myself . . . Becky can always sock it to me. She's the only one who can keep me awake!

Midlife Crisis

2011-10-24T19:15:00.000-07:00

I've been going through a mid-life crisis of sorts. For a few years now I've been trying to locate a first edition copy of John Updike's Midpoint and Other Poems, a book he published in 1969 to mark what he considered the "midpoint" of his existence. Two weeks ago I located a first edition that had been released from the Cadillac-Wexford Public Library in Cadillac, Michigan.

It's fine copy, and still contains the library card inside the book cover, where I note that my copy was only checked out 5 times: July 26, 1969, June 6, 1970, May 1, 1971, and January 10 & May 2, 1973.

Midpoint contains Updike's longest poem: a 41-page poetic/photographic retrospective of his life, written when he was likely 35 years old. The rest of the volume contains some of his best poems, along with a fair amount of light verse--which was typical of Updike's dichotomy in that he wrote poems of both serious and humorous bent.

I won't quote Updike here, but I'll offer my own rendition of a Mid-life reflection.

When I Was a Younger Man

I once could lift the cow and eat
It afterwards--ribeye and pan--
And run a mile or two complete
When I was a younger man.

My back was trap and lat and delt,
My waist was six-pack, firm and tan,
I squatted with a lifter's belt
When I was a younger man.

My wife did not look back and yearn
For when those younger days began;
We lived life then as moments burned,
When I was a younger man.

And now to get the body back
I shorten my attention span
Still hoping I might yet hijack
A scrap of my younger man.

Analzye This

2011-10-23T18:52:00.000-07:00

In a few days I will be proctoring a psychology test for a friend who is hoping to be ordained. I couldn't help but peek at the packet today, wondering how I would fare if I were taking this test. Naturally, my wife wants to know if my lug nuts are screwed on tight and I wanted to put her at ease as Halloween approaches and I begin dressing more frequently in drag.

So . . . I took a portion of the test. Here are my results and the accompanying analysis.

Tell us what you see in the following ink blots.

#1

Answer: I see a woman, of course. A real beauty, who looks like a ballerina. Could be my wife, though I've never seen Becky in a tutu. Or it could be a man in drag dressed for Halloween. He's got Almond Joys in his candy bag.

#2

Answer: I see a beautiful flower here.  Could be a rose petal, or perhaps a cluster of black-eyed susans, which look like daisies, but the fragrance is entirely different. I only see beautiful things around me.  This is not an ugly ink blot. Whoever made this blot was an artist. I really believe this. You should believe me. I'm not kidding.

Write your thoughts to the following words. Don't think, just write the first thing that comes to your mind.

WORD      ANSWER

Sex          Wife
Wife           Sex
Self            Deprived
Water         Aphrodisiac
Ink Blot      (I can't write these thoughts in public)
Donut         Yuuummmm
Donut Hole (no comment)
Money         Money
Book           Book
Love           Wife
Blog            toddoutcalt.blogspot.com

Analysis: This weirdo exhibits an uncanny knack at masking his psychoses, which are, by the way, legion. As we take a closer look at his answers we are amazed that he can hold a job, drive a car, or operate heavy machinery. We are further amazed that he is not now, nor has he ever, taken medications of any type. Sure, he looks okay, but what can appearance really tell us?  We recommend that this man stay indoors as much as possible and continue blogging.

PS...those who read his blog obviously have problems of their own.

The Search For Stuff

2011-10-21T06:59:00.000-07:00

I'm losing my mind. Well, at least I'm losing a portion of it.

In the past week I've gone in search of two books and have found neither. But I can't recall if I gave the books away, stashed them somewhere inside a book case, or left the books behind (under a car seat, under the basement sofa, etc.).

And last night I was beside myself trying to locate an essay. I'd written a query letter to an editor of an outdoor magazine, touting an article I'd written over a year ago. I knew I had written the piece, that it was not my imagination or a dream, and I thought the article would be perfect for this publication. The editor responded quickly in the affirmative, telling me, "Send your writing pronto, Bub!"

But when I went to find the essay on one of my (three) computers . . . it was not to be found among the thousands of Word.doc files. I panicked. I was pacing the house like a wild animal. I sifted through stacks of essays stashed inside my writer's closet. I searched my two filing cabinets stuffed full of printed work . . . most of it identified by hanging folder tabs.

"What are you looking for?" Becky asked me around 10 p.m. "Why don't you watch the World Series?"

"I'm searching for my brains," I said. "I think I lost them."

"Join the club," she said. "Keep looking."

My anxiety sent me back to my floppy collection . . . hundreds and hundreds of floppy disks that I have crammed into small cardboard boxes atop my writing desk. I must have searched two dozen disks before, Shazam!!!, I discovered the essay in question.

Great essay! All of that digital information, amazingly, still lingering there on the little 3-inch slice of technology. But why, I wondered, had I not saved it onto a hard drive?

Perhaps it doesn't matter now, the essay has safely made the journey into the editor's waiting and able hands. But me . . . they might as well stuff me in a tube and shoot me into space.

My mind is out there somewhere.

In the News

2011-10-20T04:27:00.000-07:00

I'm still old-school. I read a newspaper every morning before sunrise (if the carrier brings it in a timely fashion). I trust print as the source of my news far more than I do the talking heads on TV and the loudmouths on radio. I very rarely watch TV, listen to radio, or read internet news sources. Reading a newspaper keeps a person humble.

First, there's the 120 yard trek out to the mailbox every morning (even on holidays), and if it's raining or snowing, I'm soaked to the bone by the time I get back into the house (paper is soggy, too, but makes for fun reading). That's why I put on a pot of coffee before I make this mailbox journey. I want something scalding hot when I get back with the news. I don't take an umbrella, and since it's dark when I make the trek, I doubt the passing cars can see me in my underwear. I'm still perplexed by why so many honk, however.

Reading news is a great way to start the day. One has to look for the good news among the bad, of course, but that's part of the fun of reading instead of listening to some high-paid idiot recite from a tele-prompt-er. I can read a headline, skim an article, or chuck the whole world in the recycle bin and turn immediately to the obituaries or the sports. My choice.

It's interesting to see how often I'm in the newspaper, too. Take yesterday. You probably heard about me. Here's a few of the headlines.

Wild Animals Loose in Ohio
    Okay, the sources got the wrong state, but I've been on the loose for some time. My wife can attest to it.

Couple Dies Holding Hands
     I asked my wife about this just the other day. "Can I hold your hand while we sleep together?" She told me, "Over my dead body!" The headline is a bit misleading but she would have killed me if I'd touched her during one of her hot flashes.

Lockout Discussions Continue
    I'm always amazed at how quickly news travels and how fast these reporters can gather information. How did they know that in the past week I've been locked out of the church twice and my house once? My wife still won't let me in. I'm writing this from the trunk of my car.

Judge Repeals Lindsay Lohan Parole
     This isn't news. I could have written this one months ago and been spot on. And I don't even know who Lindsay Lohan is. Why is she taking my headline?

Good Morning, Korea

2011-10-19T05:02:00.000-07:00

I'm confused. Amazed, really. In the past month there have been many Koreans reading this blog. Almost as many hits as I get from the Netherlands and from Russia (dozens every week). But I'm not sure why.

Perhaps it is because some Koreans have read the Korean version of my book, Candles in the Dark. When John Wiley & Sons sent me my Korean copies some years back, I promptly gave them away to Korean friends, as I don't read or speak Korean. Someone, I reasoned, should get the benefit.

Then again, maybe it's because Koreans understand my brand of humor. Maybe they like to read. Maybe they enjoy comedy about writing.

Now that my audience is growing overseas, I'll try to maintain the quality of this blog and keep the laughs coming.

That, or perhaps I could rename the blog. How about:
M*A*S*H ing It Up
or
Body, Mind & Seoul

I have to wonder: do puns translate well from English to Korean? Is this blog on anyone's Radar? Regardless, I have to say, "Thanks for reading!"

Finding Forrester

2011-10-18T04:24:00.000-07:00

Last night, after Chelsey and I discussed other aspects of her wedding plans, she asked if I would watch a movie with her. Naturally, I said "yes" and then went in search of a DVD among our voluminous stacks of Andy Griffith Show seasons and my son's many Jackass movies and spin-offs. Back in the dusty side of history I discovered Finding Forrester . . . a DVD that still had the shrink wrap on it.

"What's that about?"

"Well," I said, "as I recall it is about two writers. One older, one younger. One black, one white. One accomplished, one learning. It's about friendship and mentoring."

We watched it. Not as good as I recall first time around at the theatre, but a decent movie, nonetheless.

My favorite quote from the movie was, "Why is it that the words we write for ourselves are so much better than the words we write for others?"

Indeed. It's far more difficult to write for others. And when one sets out to do that there is a kind of self-awareness and loathing that can take over the writing. Seems that way to me, anyway.

I'm still trying to write something that other people will want to read, and I loathe myself for all of the stalled, slow, and weak results I commonly produce.

Perhaps one of these days I'll find myself. That would be an interesting introduction, I think . . . meeting me.

Shel Game

2011-10-17T03:54:00.000-07:00

Who knew that Shel Silverstein, author of such books as Where the Sidewalk Ends, The Giving Tree, and A Giraffe and a Half, had so much unpublished material at the time of his death? And who knew that the publisher was holding onto it?

Regardless, I was elated to read Silverstein's posthumous Every Thing On It . . . a crowning achievement to his children's trilogy of varied line-drawings and poems. The book now graces my bookshelf among his other titles, and I purchased soon enough to garner a first edition to boot.

Call them children's books if you want to, but Silverstein has always spoken to the kid inside me with his eclectic blend of insights about fears, culture, laughter and life's inherent weirdnesses and idiosyncrasies. He's my type of poet and his books are some I return to time and again. He's long since passed beyond where the sidewalk ends, but it's good to know that a writer can still speak from the grave as long as he has an ample supply of unpublished material.

Reading Silverstein again emboldened me to open up some of my own archives. I'm now trying to retool some of my own drawings and poems that I wrote to my kids years ago when they were young, impressionable, and eager to receive my insanity on a silver spoon. I found poems about colonoscopies and hemorrhoids . . . just not sure how impactful these poems were on my kids. I probably scarred them for life. But I'm not sure I can share the drawings.

Goodwill Hunting

2011-10-14T04:05:00.000-07:00

For my birthday I went to Goodwill. I go there every month or so to search through the books for first editions. Some great finds there . . . and all for $1.00.

The place was packed. I could scarcely navigate through the aisles of underwear and T-shirts to get to the book stacks. I also avoided the people who looked to be carrying spores from a cholera epidemic, but eventually I found the books.

Lots of John Grisham back there. Almost picked up a copy of Playing for Pizza, but it was a third printing and that wouldn't do. I also gave a glance toward a copy of The Celestine Prophecy . . . a book that I consider to be one of the worst-written in the English language, but still a mega-ton-million copy seller when it was in its heyday. And, although I'm not a Danielle Steele reader, there were plenty of her titles to choose from.

This time around, I walked out of Goodwill with nothing in my hands. Didn't spend my birthday dollar. If I can't find a decent first edition, I don't pay.

I almost returned, however, to purchase my wife a welcome-home gift. I miss her when she is away. But then I thought better of it and decided to just write her a poem or a letter.

Sometimes those personal gifts work out better for me than a pair of Billy-Buck Teeth from Goodwill. You never know who gummed them first.

Birthday Bash

2011-10-13T04:36:00.000-07:00

They arrived yesterday: a batch of birthday cards. Most of the greetings were from family. My mother even sent me a card. Glad she remembered. She probably wanted to forget.

My in-laws also sent me greetings. They expressed how glad they were to have me as a son-in-law and that, after twenty-seven years of marriage to their daughter, they realize I'm not going anywhere. There were a few undertones suggesting that Becky could have done better had she married that electrical engineer who lived in her dorm at Purdue, but by in-large, they were complimentary and admitted I was showing more promise in these recent years, especially in my wardrobe and my ability to whip out a box of Hamburger Helper. They didn't go so far as to call me a "keeper", but "a decent for a guy from Shelburn" will have to suffice. Perhaps the Hallmark poem summarized how they feel about me, and I'll assume it expresses what they might say to my face when we meet next for Thanksgiving dinner.

I am thankful to all of my family and friends who wrote, and believe me, I've read all of your letters and now have these birthday cards stashed in my underwear drawer where, twice a year, I'll read them when I remove a fresh pair for my semi-annual exchange. Thank you for reminding me that hygiene is important!

As for another year . . . well, my son and I are "batching" it for a few days at home and are living off the fat of Taco Bell and Hardees. Logan even wished me a happy birthday yesterday when he came home from school and invited me to watch a movie with him last night . . . . So, thanks to Logan.

Now that I've partied for twenty-four hours, I've got a double-duty gym session planned this morning. All of that pie has to go somewhere.

Fifty-One

2011-10-12T04:02:00.000-07:00

A little ditty on the B-Day while the wife is in Washington, D.C., the daughter is at Ball State, and the son don't care!

Fifty-One

A guy feels inferior
When he looks in the mirror
And observes that his hair is gray-spun,
And his wife's an old wench
Who must do in a pinch
When he turns, at last, fifty-one.

His kids have outgrown
The advice he has sown
And he rarely has any fun,
But if he is square
With himself, he's aware
It's because he has turned fifty-one.

He isn't that old
And his farm isn't sold
And he's nobody's prodigal son,
Yet he's long past his prime
To be counting on time
To be kind to him past fifty-one.

No, he comes to conclude
As he sees himself nude
That his problems cannot be outrun.
And since the wife's all he's got
He tells her she's hot
And hopes she will do fifty-one.

Nomination

2011-10-11T04:15:00.000-07:00

About five years ago a small literary magazine on the west coast published a number of my short stories. One of these, entitled "Bag of Tricks", was that magazine's nomination for inclusion in The Best American Mystery Stories . . . an annual book series that is published each year around October.

This was the first time one of my stories was nominated for anything--and come to think of it--the only time. As it turns out, the story wasn't selected by the editorial committee as one of the top 100 for the year, but I've never been a top 100 anything . . . I'm not even a top 1 million.

Still, among all of the hundreds of stories I've written over the years, when people ask me, "What do you consider your best?", "Bag of Tricks" often comes to mind.

But for some reason, I continue to hang onto the thought that my best stories have remained unpublished. "Steiner the Violinist", for example, is a story that I wrote nearly 20 years ago, and I submit it anew every year to various magazines . . . but alas, no one seems to want it, although I often get editorial feedback telling me it's a moving tale. And I recently submitted another story, "The Tall Girl's Wedding", to a romance-writers contest . . . holding out the hope that someone will recognize the chutzpa of this quirky love story about a very tall woman. I wrote it nearly a decade ago and love it more every time I re-read it. But then, it might just be fanciful dreaming since I have a munchkin for a wife.

I've got so many short stories completed and in-progress . . . science fiction, mystery, romance, literary, slice-of-life, humorous . . . it's difficult to remember them all. (Actually, I don't remember then all.) Every now and again I complete another and send it forth to stand on its own legs. But most stories, I'm afraid, don't walk.  Though every now and then one of them runs away and doesn't come back until it shows up in the pages of a publication.

As long as my brain and fingers hold out, I'll keep writing them. I keep hoping someone will nominate me for a PERSISTENCE AWARD. After all, I've been writing stories since I was twelve years old--nearly forty years now--and I might as well continue until I die.

Say What?!

2011-10-10T05:38:00.000-07:00

I received word over the weekend that one of my essays about breast cancer is going to be included in an audio book. I didn't realize publishers were still committing books to audio CD, so this came as a pleasant surprise. I was even more pleasantly surprised when the reader, "the voice", contacted me to make certain he could pronounce my name accurately when he recorded in-studio.

I told him it's pronounced "Tod", though my wife calls me "Sweet-heart" or sometimes "Tooshie". I told him I wouldn't mind if he used "Stud" or "Mega-Muffin" either.

Then he informed me he was only interested in accurately pronouncing my last name. I was totally embarrassed.

"So, how do you say your name?" he wanted to know.

I told him I would not be offended by any rendering, that he could have at my name, have fun with it, and just see how it came out on the recording. I've outgrown attachment to my name anyway.

After all, my daughter calls me "Dad", my son calls me "Weirdo" and my friends call me "the nut next door". And you already know what my wife calls me.

Someone says, "Mr. Outcalt" . . . I don't even flinch.

My Survey

2011-10-07T06:48:00.000-07:00

Surveys are all the rage these days. They show up everywhere. In the past week I've taken a survey offered by my insurance company, another via the web to determine my "health quotient", and I even took a survey after receiving a flu shot at Walmart. I've given these surveys my all, and no secrets are hidden now. I'm "male" by the way . . . .

It has been some time since I've offered a survey for this blog, so if you (my faithful reader) will just give me two minutes of your time, I invite you to complete the following so that I can improve the quality of this blog and also put you on my vast mailing list where, once a year, you could receive valuable prizes and/or a phone call from The Fraternal Order of Police.

Between Pages Survey

1. How well does this blog meet your daily humor needs?
a. I laugh until chocolate milk comes out of my nose.
b. I read this blog first thing in the morning and it is a vital part of my day.
c. If you were to quit writing this blog I could do more productive things like raking leaves or making love to my spouse.

2. How helpful are the book reviews on this blog?
a. I immediately buy every book you read and use them to balance the legs on my kitchen table.
b. I don't read books, but I hear there is an app for them.
c. You write book reviews?

3. How impressed are you by the author's vast knowledge of history, psychology, sociology, theology, biography, trigonometry, economics, politics, literature, medicine, ornithology, physics, integral calculus, fine wines, travel, and diet and exercise?
a. The author is an expert in these things and my life hinges on his opinions.
b. Calculus? I don't think so!
c. He don't know squat!

4. What do you think about the type-face change from Arial to Verdana?
a. I no longer have to wear my reading glasses when I read "Between Pages"
b. He's just trying to be a fancy boy.
c. There's no difference.

5. Now that this blog has been in existence for five years (and over 1000 entries), how are you feeling about the quality of the content?
a. It just keeps getting better, just like the author, whose wife continues to ask each day, "Have you got fifteen minutes so I can have my way with you tonight?"
b. The blog is still good, though I wish he would write a bit more about writing.
c. This blog sucks.

Thank you for taking the "Between Pages" survey . . . expect a phone call and watch your mailbox for a packet of free valuable prizes.

Anticipation

2011-10-06T04:26:00.000-07:00

Seems I'm waiting on a great many things these days. I wait on my wife, my kids, and even the cat. I'm waiting to get an iPad and an iPhone . . . even though I'm still learning how to use email and my PC. And my writing file is filled with hundreds of pages of material floating around in editorial offices.

You know the routine. It's like watching ketchup drip from a bottle.

For those writers out there, or anyone who would presume to write, waiting is essential to the process.  In many ways, I've been waiiting for over forty years for some of my writing to come of age. I'm still learning.

My agent is still working New York and Chicago, trying to get my material into the hands of great editors who might actually read a few of my pages.

It's a waiting game.

Makes me hungry for a hot dog just thinking about the slow ebb of ketchup. And while I'm waiting this morning, I write some more.

What are YOU waiting for today?

Type-ology

2011-10-05T10:40:00.000-07:00

Last night I finished reading the bulk of Just My Type: A Book About Fonts, by Simon Garfield. And while the subject of print fonts might be considered boring to many, I found this subject of peculiar interest . . . as I deal in fonts daily, and have spent many hours of my life working in various types of Type. Garfield brings a clever and compelling panache to the history and the telling of type's development and the various background-stories about the people who created them.

Lest you think that font selection doesn't matter, it might be comforting to know that I have chosen to write this blog in Arial, as opposed to say Times New Roman or Verdana.

And lest you don't know the difference on the eyes, try reading the following sentences in the following type faces:

What do you think of this? (Courier)
What do you think of this? (Georgia)
What do you think of this? (Helvetica)
What do you think of this? (Times)
What do you think of this? (Trebuchet)
What do you think of this? (Verdana)

Now that I've written this last sentence in Verdana, you might actually prefer it to Arial. What do you think? Easier on the eyes?

Do the "eyes" have it?

If anyone is interested, I'll be tallying your votes now. Let me know if I'm your TYPE.

Half & Half

2011-10-04T05:28:00.000-07:00

A recent article in National Geographic on the teenage brain may also shed some light on the declining attention spans of Americans when it comes to reading. Fewer and fewer people, it seems, have an ability to read beyond the length of a Tweet. Editors now request shorter articles from writers, and the day of the feature-article may be drawing to a close.

Last month, I had a "longer" poem accepted for publication (a mere 7 stanzas), but the editor informed me it could only be published as a 5 stanza poem. I made the cuts, but if I reprint the poem, I'll restore the 2 lost stanzas.

Today, writing seems to be about half of what it was just a few years ago.

Of course, I'm probably only half the man I used to be. I can't run, can't read without glasses, and have started taking copious amounts of vitamins and minerals to keep the half remaining cartilage in my knees and joints. I also eat half of what I used to eat, but gain twice the weight when I eat it. My wife often tells me I'm half nuts. I don't know what happened to the other bag of cashews, though.

Next week I'm going in search of the other half of me. I'll look everywhere.

And then I'll get back to writing half the article for half the price and only have half the fun I used to have.

Mo' Monday Madness

2011-10-03T04:01:00.000-07:00

Last Monday I gave two a.m. interviews and enjoyed both. One of these should be up-and-running on the internet soon, but like my wife, I always ask: "Does this Skype camera angle make me look fat?"

Answer: Yes. And the camera wasn't shooting me from behind!

I have yet another interview scheduled for this week, but thank God it is an e-mail interview. These are my favorite type of interview, as I get to sit in front of the TV while I type answers to previously posed questions such as: If the world were on the brink of nuclear annihilation and you only had one hour to live, how would you spend it?

I love these type of hypothetical questions, as they are so much more interesting than real-life questions such as: What did you eat for breakfast this morning? or Is it true what we hear about you . . . that you can watch TV, write 2000-word essays, and pretend to have a meaningful conversation with your wife . . . all at the same time? Gosh.

The e-mail interview affords me the time to consider my answers to life's deepest questions. If the interviewer wants to know about my personal life, for example, I can honestly tell her I don't have a personal life.  Most of my life is rather impersonal, and consists of little more than a series of e-mail conversations and Facebook entries along with one or two hard-boiled eggs for breakfast. I don't have anything even resembling a life, and it's always good to get these realities out in the open so the interviewer can move on to more important questions about my hygiene. Most interviewers seem fixated on my deodorant selection, and some want to know if my home is fitted primarily with the new "green" light bulbs or if I'm going to hell because I use the old filament bulbs (60-watters). Regardless, I tell 'em what they want to hear and then I drive over to Walmart and buy the 100-watters.

My next interview will be about marriage. I'll be sharing my expert advice to young couples who are hoping to tie the knot without having to sell a kidney to pay for the ceremony. I have written a book about the debt-free wedding and given it to my daughter in the hope that she might read the book her daddy wrote. (She's probably chucked it in the Muncie landfill by now.) I'm hoping my own advice might save me from having to sell the Encyclopedia Britannica door-to-door in order to afford cake and ice-cream for two hundred ravenous souls who will ask afterwards: "You call this a wedding?"

I'm ready for these questions. I've got answers.

But I doubt anyone is listening.

My New Job

2011-09-30T05:48:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it's this blog, or it may just be that time of the year, but I've got a new job. Or, I should say, another job: Book Reviewer.

Any day now I'll be receiving the first of several books that I will be reviewing for a magazine/web site. Should be fun. I get to read the galleys of books before they are published and offer my thumbs up or thumbs down. I love the power. Makes me feel like Little Caesar at the Colosseum when he ordered his first pizza and condemned the gladiators to death by breadstick. Caesar also forced the women gladiators to carry signs through the red light district in Rome that read: $5 Hot-n Ready. I can't wait to dig into these pages . . . .

Of course, I've been reviewing books on this blog for years. My own reading, anyway. Now I get to review books that I may not otherwise want to read.

Toward that end, it might be a good thing to practice my reviewing skills. I'd like to create some phrases that only I will use. These, I hope, can become a signature or trademark for this Book Reviewer.

My Patented Phrases:

The author is a "nut job".

Woooaaaa, Momma!

This is one humdinger of a book!

The reader would be "nuts" to shell out $19.95 for this in hardback when she could buy it on Kindle format for $9.95.

This book is "nuts".

Am I "nuts" or does this book read like it was written by a drunk?

This book is a "mixed bag" of nuts.

This reviewer's wife has read the book first and she is of the opinion that I would be wasting my time reading it at all, so, although this month's review column was to be about the title--The Old Folks Home, by Jerry Attrick--I'll be reviewing Peering Under the Bleachers, by Seymor Butts.

SPEAK !

2011-09-29T03:38:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it is that time of the year, but I seem to receive a plethora of speaking invitations in September. Although I respectfully decline most of them, there are a few opportunities that always peak my interest . . . at least for a time. I just have to figure out how I can be in two places at once and, through it all, keep a woman happy.

Although there are many "high profile" people out there (even pastors) who seem to enjoy the open road, the accolades, the applause, the screaming girls . . . I find that peace, quiet, and a writing desk are far and away more compelling to me than standing up in front of people and pretending to be an expert. Of course, I am an expert on many subjects. The Andy Griffith Show is one (go ahead, ask me anything about Goober!). I also know a great deal about Gomer Pyle and Hogan's Heroes. And I can hold my own in the world of literature, some sports, and I know a fair amount about coffee. Oh, and women. I know everything there is to know about women!

But I'm not taking this knowledge on the road. My wife needs me too much. In fact, she tells me this every night. "I need you!" she says. "I gotta have you! Now!"

Expertise must stay close to home! I can't be sharing my secrets willy-nilly with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who can pay a cover charge to hear me speak. My son needs my advice on women, too. And I give it for free!

Sure, I'll be accepting a few of these speaking engagements. I've rejected enough of these invitations over the years to build a tidy little nest of people who hate me. Time now to make a few friends. But I'm hopeful that I can speak on subjects I know about. I also hope to build quite a reputation out there on the road. I'd love to start a fan club. Dues would be $19.95 a year. A real bargain! I'd live in an RV while I tour. And naturally there would be thousands of people who would flock to hear me speak. Most of them women.

My wife, of course, would be with me. She's the one who would be writing all my speeches.

Yule Rule

2011-09-28T04:01:00.000-07:00

Sounds odd, but I'm deep in the throes of writing and creating Christmas lore. Got to think ahead.

Yesterday I completed studio recording for my third Christmas CD--this time a collection of fiction, some of which has been published elsewhere the past two years. And I also submitted final proofs for my Christmas Eve story that I'll be giving out the congregation on December 24. Ordered 1000 copies just to be sure I wouldn't run out. Now, all we need are people on Christmas Eve . . . going on faith.

Odd thing about many of these stories . . . I wrote a fair number of them in the middle of summer, two in one day, sweating on the back deck in my underwear in 90+ degree heat.

Becky asked me what I was doing. "Writing Christmas stories," I told her.

"Better get some clothes on," she said. "You're starting to look like Santa Claus with a sunburn."

I'm not ready for Christmas yet. Far from it. I look back and wonder where 2011 has gone . . . and so quickly. And with all of the life changes coming my way in the summer of 2012 (two graduations, a wedding, and hopefully another college placement) I don't even want to think about the heat. I'll be in it.

Now that I've completed my Christmas works, I guess I can move on to other holidays. Isn't there a National Nap Day coming up?

Top Mr.

2011-09-27T04:04:00.000-07:00

I didn't learn anything startling from reading Joe Weider's Mr. Olympia: The History of Bodybuilding's Greatest Contest, but this old title did contain a few "behind the scenes" episodes and conversations I didn't know about. I've followed the Mr. Olympia since the 1970s, when a young Australian bodybuilder named Arnold burst onto the scene and brought bodybuilding out of the dark dungeons and into the mainstream. Now there are gyms everywhere.

For those who don't know (or who might want to know) the Mr. Olympia has been, since the mid 1960s, the pinnacle of bodybuilding competitions . . . though the sport at the top levels is now so saturated with steroids, growth hormones, and diuretics that one has to wonder what the point of the training, diet, and sport is really about.

I competed in a "drug-free" competition almost exactly ten years ago where, over the span of four months of twice-a-day training, dieting, and aerobics, did achieve the best shape of my life. I was forty, and in the months prior to my competition dieting I was doing 350 pound bench presses, 1200 pound leg presses, and 450 pound deadlifts. I was my own trainer, dietitian, instructor, and motivator and I was nearly always the first person at the gym in the morning and the last one to leave at night. But Becky said I would never have a "six pack". I proved her wrong. Might have to dig out some of those old photos to prove it. After the competition, she really seemed to like me. Couldn't keep her hands off me. And my kids looked up to me, too, and didn't think I was a loser. Those were the days.

I also wrote a few essays about my "competition" experiences . . . which I found hilarious (what's not to laugh at when you see a bunch of oily men and women prancing around in G-strings?).

I didn't end up being Mr. Anything . . . I'm just Mister Boring. But I have never stopped pursuing strength, persistence, consistency, and, as Mr. John Wesley would have said . . . the pursuit of perfection. Gotta keep moving. I've actually never stopped training since I was twelve years old and started in my parents' basement (nearly forty years of non-stop training).

Oh . . . and a thousand extra points to anyone who can name the Lebanese bodybuilder, and one-time Mr. Olympia, on the cover of Weider's book. I'd know that back anywhere. (Hint: it ain't Arnold.)

The Occassional Poet

2011-09-26T05:20:00.000-07:00

Over the years I've had a habit of writing poems for occassions and people. When I was a high school sophomore I wrote a poem about every business in town (Shelburn), published my verses, and was promptly either ostracised by the proprieters or given a welcoming pat on the back for my satirical edge. I've written so many poems now for church occassions, birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, and graduations . . . I've just lost count. And most of these verses have ended up in the trash, or lost forever.

In more recent years, however, I've taken to writing poems to people who might need encouragement or a chuckle. Birthdays, anniversaries and holidays are still fodder, but I've also mailed poems to friends and family in grief, or during times of loss. Not everyone appreciates my gifts . . . but, nevertheless, I try to do what I can with words.

Last year I wrote a poem to a friend on the occassion of the first anniversary of his wife's death. I thought this poem might help him in his grief, or articulate what he was feeling, but could not express. Over lunch, he told me how much the poem meant to him . . . and later I submitted it to a west coast literary magazine, Rattle, and it was accepted for publication in the summer 2011 editon (thanks, Tim). In the bio section of the magazine, I wrote about the poem's background and genesis.

This is not a humorous poem . . . but I offer it as a kind of understudy to the breadth of poetry I write, including the wild and wacky stuff that no one will touch, and some of the deeply personal romantic verse that only my wife sees. I do continue to be grateful to all of the editors out there who, in spite of my insanity, do take me seriously from time to time and say "yes' to my submissions. And I'm grateful to the readers who do, occassionally, discover one of my poems in a magazine.

On the First Anniversary of His Wife's Death

He thinks that time will heal. But this is fable.
He tries to call her friends. But is not able.
He wants to venture out. But is not stable.
Her photograph remains upon the table.

Laughing At Cancer

2011-09-23T04:31:00.000-07:00

In the past month, I've had the opportunity to give away a fair number of my cancer-related CDs: Caring Through Cancer. It's an audio collection of essays and articles I wrote about cancer following my wife's breast cancer diagnosis . . . now a full ten years ago. (No more cancer for my gal, thank God!)

The CD touches on caregiving predominantly, but also includes tracts on faith, medical treatment, and attitude as part of the healing equation. And, as many have discovered, humor can play a large role in healing. I've experienced it, and seen it, many times. I wrote some of these essays during my Lilly Renewal some years ago, and a couple of the essays on this CD actually won writing awards . . . including a cash award from the Franciscan order in the Catholic church (given to me, a Methodist, go figure!) and another award from Bell South Corporation, as the company used one of my essays in a corporate newsletter related to employee care and treatment.

I've always been hopeful that this crazy blog could add some laughter or zip to people's experiences (offered through my weird perspective, of course). Laughter can make a writer's life tolerable, and I know humor can help folks overcome a great many dark places in life. My family has always been one to find humor in marriage, sex, work, and leisure . . . and I wish you this kind of laughter, too.

Recently, another writer asked the question on Facebook: What place does humor have in a healthy society?

I wrote back immediately, stating that humor saves me daily from pessimism and nihilism, and, while I couldn't speak for the whole of society, I think that any people devoid of laughter don't stand a chance in hell of being whole, complete, or spirited in a way of life that leads to health and healing and helpfulness. (Cue laugh track here.)

As for faith, I don't want to be a Christian who looks like he's been sucking on a green persimmon. Hate that look. And another writer recently penned a book entitled, Grumpy Old Christians. Don't want to fall into that category either.

Laugher is essential to life . . . that's why I keep writing this man's blog. Have to begin my day with something light. It's at the center of my approach to God (and pastoring and writing). And maybe your's too!

And so I leave you with this joke: What is the definition of a Fundamentalist?

Answer: A Fundamentalist is a person who is deeply troubled by the very idea that someone, somewhere, might be having a good time.

Laugh on! Even through cancer.

More Fan Mail

2011-09-22T04:06:00.000-07:00

My latest piece of fan (e)mail arrived from New Zealand. New Zealand? Aren't these the guys who go ape and make all the scary faces at the Rugby tournaments? But this correspondence was from a lady. Wonder if she has a tattoo?

I get very little fan mail, though, so a letter from New Zealand doesn't bother me. I'm more intrigued by the question of how one of my books ended up in New Zealand. Carrier pigeon? Long slow boat to China? Inside a bottle? And I'm all the more intrigued when foreign women write to me or show me the kind of attention I don't get at home.

I'd like to visit New Zealand some day. I might even take my wife. I hear it's one of the most beautiful places on earth. And, since I have a connection there, I could walk up to women on the street and ask, "Are you the hottie who read my book?" Perhaps I'd get a free dessert.

Naturally, whenever I make connections with women in other countries, I tell my wife about it. She just yawns and says, "Go for it." She knows I don't know how to book a flight through Travelocity.com and that I rarely travel further than a tank of gas will carry me. Sometimes she hides my car keys. I walk a lot.

My wife does say nice things to me, occassionally. Just last night she said, "One of these days I'm going to get up enough nerve to take you some place. Where would you like to go?"

I shared with her my dream of eating at Denny's. She thought we could swing it. We're now trying to locate one of these restaurants in the yellow pages. I hope to enjoy the salad bar. I've heard so much about them.

Of course, I continue to hold out the fantasy that my wife would like to have me for dessert. Heck, I'm that sweet. And she won't even have to fly to New Zealand.

My Million Dollars

2011-09-21T05:02:00.000-07:00

Here's a wonder: I'm a million dollar baby.

How so?

After glancing at my most recent royalty statements, I went back through the years and totalled up the gross earnings on all of my books (the amount my books have made for the publishers). I was astounded to discover that my books have earned more than a million dollars for these publishing firms . . . and probably closer to two million.

Of course, I've only seen a small fraction of these dollars over the past fourteen years, since my books have never sold enough copies to earn me the upper-echelon of royalty percentages, but I have to feel good about what my creativity and work have provided. I've helped to employ editors, printers, publicists, accountants, and even loggers. And when I think about what my books have provided for just one of these publishers in particular, my books have most certainly paid the editor's salary . . . just my work alone.

I don't feel badly about this. I feel blessed to be able to create in this way, and to help make publishers successful. I love the work of writing, and meeting editors, and trying to work out deals and contracts.

Although publishing has changed dramatically in the past five years, and most publishers don't want to work with mid-list authors like me (everyone wants a best-seller and a million dollar baby!) I am still proud of the work I've produced . . . work that has most certainly "turned a profit" for every single publisher who has worked with me.

I'm not a million dollar earner. But I am a writer who has produced a million dollars in revenue for others . . . which gives me some satisfaction as I cash my $40 royalty checks twice a year. And come to think of it, I've written most of my books for free.

Anyone else out there want to publish one of my books? I've got lots of them now. They are stacked up like wood in my closet and saved on a hundred floppy disks.

And who knows, one of them might be the next million dollar book!

Mixed Nuts

2011-09-20T03:44:00.000-07:00

Some random thoughts on a very early Tuesday morning . . . .

Books on my "To Read" shelf now include a biography of Stan Musial, Mornings on Horseback (a biography of Teddy Roosevelt), and Mr. Olympia: A History (history of the top "professional" bodybuilding competition).

If I read Mr. Olympia, will I be inspired to be the first in the gym this morning (although I have never taken steroids)?

I began a new book proposal last night and plan to finish it by week's end. Should top out at 40+ pages . . . not bad for a proposal.

A recent article about publishing informed me that the book publishing industry--quite to the contrary of naysayers--actually grew in the last quarter. Both print books and digital books outsold from the previous quarter. Do people read more when the economy is bad? Might be an interesting study on its own right.

My daughter is receiving the top dean's list award from the Ball State School of Education on Saturday.

My son was one of five seniors chosen to "compete" in the annual Mr. Bulldog competition at Brownsburg High School.

My wife is assuming new responsibilities at her school in October.

I am assuming nothing.

Yesterday I was talking to another writer who informed me that his publisher recently declared bankruptcy. He received a letter informing him that he would not receive royalties due on his book sales. Might the publisher at least have the courtesy to send him the remaining inventory of his books?

I eat a lot of nuts.

Love sunflower seeds.

The Secret of My Success

2011-09-19T03:57:00.000-07:00

Early next month I am slated for another Skype/radio interview, this time to discuss with the host the meaning of "success." Success? I've been giving this some thought lately. What will I say? And what do I know about success, anyway?

The host seems to think I know a great deal about it.

He's convinced I should reveal my secrets to others. When I tried to beg off, explaining that I had a funeral in two weeks, and that his suggested interview time was smack-in-the-middle of the Gomer Pyle rerun festival on TV Land, he wouldn't back down. And when I told him point-blank that I didn't think I had anything to offer on the subject of success, he didn't acquiesce one bit, but pressed on with other possible dates, times, and calendaring options. "Actually," I said at one point, "I really don't want to do this."

"Ahhh," he shot back, "you'll do great. Talk to you in October!"

And so it goes . . . .

But I'm still confused. Should I go on the air and tell the truth: that my wife is the secret to my success and that, since nobody else is married to her, they'll never be able to drive a 1991 Caprice station wagon (like me)? Should I reveal that I saved 15% on my car insurance by switching to Geiko? Would I be telling a lie if I said that (like Thomas Edison discovered) success is just 10% of life, and the rest is experiment and failure?

I'm still working these things out in my mind. Still making notes. But if I don't have anything to add to the discussion on success by October 1, I'm calling this producer back and telling him that I just can't miss this upcoming Gomer Pyle marathon. It's too important for my mental health.

Now . . . what did I do with the producer's phone number? I'm so successful, I can't be bothered to remember the little things.

Johnny Be Good

2011-09-16T04:21:00.000-07:00

Since John Updike's death I've been on an insatiable mission to collect as many first-editions of his work as I can reasonably afford. Earlier in the week I shelved three new titles (actually all old ones!) including his third collection of poetry, Tossing and Turning, which was published in 1977. This collection ranges wide and includes some of Updike's signature light verse and his takes on experiences such as sailing, traveling, and cuisine. Of course, he writes on love and sex, too. Other longer poems take us back to his childhood, including a lengthy poem about "Leaving Church Early".

But I wouldn't know about that, John.

About the only thing I can give my expert opinion on is the donut. (Actually and officially spelled "Doughnut".) But here's a donut poem I wrote some years back. Makes me hungry just reading it.

Doughnuts

Among the sweetest treats of heaven
Are those residing in the leaven
And sweetened in a deep-fried haze
Of starches and syrupy glaze.

The soldiers in the German trenches
First ate these rings served up by wenches
Who donned their aprons at the vats
And served them doughnuts full of fats.

And now we eat them by the score--
And after eating, eat some more.
A holey great American treat
That's found on nearly every street.

My Un-Impending Divorce

2011-09-15T05:41:00.000-07:00

From time to time I have magazine editors who send me complimentary copies of their wares. And in one recent issue of a women's magazine, I perused an article entitled, "The Top Ten Signs that Your Marriage Might be Headed for Divorce". Scary headlines, so I had to read on. Did my marriage exhibit any of these tell-tale signs of impending trouble?

I can't address all ten signs here, so I'll just address the three that offered me a sigh of relief. I've since talked to my wife about my concerns, and she has agreed that our marriage is rock solid. Or, as she noted, "You're deluded if you think another woman would have you!"

Right, but let's get on with the analysis of these signs. (These are the real deal, I'm not making this stuff up.)

Sign #1: Your spouse has a new-found interest in connecting with old high school flames on facebook.

Okay, let me admit from the outset that I love all of my old high school flames. And if you are one of those flames and reading this blog, I still love you . . . always have. That's just the way I am. And if you and I have been swapping facebook entries or re-connecting on some emotional level, it's only natural that, after thirty-plus years, we would want to swap photos to see who has the most gray hairs or who has gained the most weight. But the fact is, my wife was an old high school flame, too (old being the operative word here now) and I get to see her every day. It ain't a pretty sight, believe me, but then that's what my marriage is . . . a series of ugly snapshots taken over the span of three decades. True, I'm on facebook. I banter. But if anyone out there is looking for hot love, try finding your soul mate on Match.com or eHarmony. I hear those services are dynamite and as my wife knows: you can do a lot better than me. Find yourself a plumber or an electrical engineer. They are much handier around the house, and all I know how to do is write love poetry and smooch.

Sign # 2: Your spouse has recently purchased sexy new underwear.

I take offense to this sign. When my mother gave me that new 3-pack of BVDs for Christmas, I was just being nice. And actually, I haven't even opened the pack yet. I'm saving myself for Lent. When I do open the pack and wear one of these new, steam-pressed 100% cotton briefs, my wife will know something is up. She'll have a headache then, and we'll compromise passion and go down to Wendy's for a value sandwich. Afterwards, of course, I will offer to wear the new underwear as a bandanna.

Sign # 3: Your spouse has saved another woman's phone number and stored it on speed dial.

My marriage is secure because, I don't even know how to save a number on my cell phone. How do you operate these things? I'm still listening to voice mail recordings from 2004 and I can't seem to erase them. Yes, I do have a few women's numbers, but a couple of them happen to be my mother and my mechanic. And I don't have affairs with grease monkeys. Although . . . grease . . . But listen, my wife just laughs when she sees me trying to make a call. It's hand-to-hand combat with technology, and I can't press those tiny buttons to send a text message. I want to tell another woman I love her and my text would come out hycm x?eellmtw5 3wmzx. YSWIM? (You see what I mean?) Not very romantic. And I'm sure most women would think I was dyslexic. I'd just end up trying to have an affair, but doing everything backwards. I'd tell my wife I was seeing another woman, and then go looking for one.

So, according to these marriage experts, my marriage is secure. Thank God. If not for this article, I might have assumed the worst.

Then again . . . maybe I'd better check my wife's underwear drawer.

Book Launch

2011-09-14T03:33:00.000-07:00

Last night I mailed the final copy-edited files to the editor . . . and He Said, She Said: Biblical Stories from a Male and Female Perspective is now slated for press in November. Will people know it exists? Will anyone want to read it? Will Congress vote themselves a pay decrease to help balance the budget?

These are the questions.

Naturally, I think this is a unique book. I mean, holy nosebleed, look at the cover art! (In case you don't know, I am, in actuality, Batman . . . and my cohort is Wonder Woman. See the resemblance?)

But listen, you want something different from the Bible . . . not some namby-pamby Bible study that's been strip-mined by seminary professors in California . . . you gotta read this one! Not a sane thought in the whole shebang. Weird stuff here. It will give you a whole new appreciation for the Bible as a work of dialogue. And as for perspective, it all depends on how you read it.

No one's going to miss this book cover. It's bright, folks! It will blind you! You'll see people, like trees, walking . . . . You won't be able to find your way out of the bookstore (if there are any bookstores remaining in November).

And watch for our other upcoming title, too: He Said It First, But She Always Gets the Last Word.

Knockin' On Heaven's Door

2011-09-13T03:51:00.000-07:00

Last week I finished reading Todd Burpo's mega-selling book about his son's three-minute trip to heaven, and wished I could have died, too. Heaven is for Real had that kind of effect on me. But not for the reasons one might think. (Keep reading.)

It's a good enough read, as far as reads go, but the bulk of this book (more than 95% of it) is about events leading up to the heavenly vision, or conversations, or family history rather than heaven itself. And the book is well written (thanks to Lynn Vincent, this veritable ghostwriter of best-sellerdom who seems to be ghostwriting everything on the New York Times best seller list these days). Reading this book may do a lot of things, but it will probably leave you with more questions than answers. Or, if you need a fuller read on the phenomenon of "near-death" experiences, go back forty years and re-read a used copy of Dr. Moody's Life After Life, a book that contains hundreds of "case studies" of people who saw tunnels, bright lights, long-lost loved ones, and felt an overwhelming sense of peace and calm as they floated above the operating table. I have several copies of this book, too, and this week found one copy stuffed next to an old photo of my wife (Freudian wish?).

Ah, but what does it all mean? That's the rub, Jimmy.

My journey actually began when I read the acknowledgments to Heaven is For Real. (Weird, I admit, but I always read the acknowledgments first to see who the writer knows and who the writer needs to thank.)

Here I discovered that in addition to securing Lynn Vincent's significant talents, the Burpos also found the help of a top literary agency in Colorado Springs (which used to represent me) and they thanked their literary agent (yes, a really great fellow who was, up until a few years ago, my agent as well). Reading the acknowledgements was like going home again, hearing the familiar names, seeing those names listed, and being surrounded by the indescribable light of "three million copies in print."

I wonder if that is what heaven is like? Could be.

But I wouldn't know about that. Really.

My 9/11 Book

2011-09-12T03:35:00.000-07:00

The book I consider to be my best, Candles in the Dark: A Treasury of the World's Most Inspiring Parables, was a 9/11 book. Or was. It was originally scheduled to be published in September of 2001.

Of course, it wasn't.

Just a few days after the attack, an editor at John Wiley & Sons, the New York publishing firm that was working with me on this project, called to inform me that the publication of the book had been postponed indefinitely. It would, in fact, be weeks before a new publication release date could be determined.

I understood.

The book had taken nearly two years to research and write, and I had an indescribable amount of time and money wrapped up in it . . . including securing last-minute permissions from publishers in Germany, Spain, and England. I don't now recall what my final tally was for long-distance phone calls (often protracted due to huge language barriers on my part), faxes, letters, forms, and legal fees . . . but I know I went bust before the book was finally published a year later.

Though Candles in the Dark is by far and away my best book (my opinion), it sold only modestly in the U.S., and is now out of print . . . though the Kindle version still sells. John Wiley & Sons also sold the book to publishers in China and Korea, but I have no idea how many copies sold in those versions in those countries. As far as I know, the book could have sold a dozen copies, or could have sold millions . . . either way, I had nothing to show for it other than my name on the cover among the Chinese and Korean letters.

The one takeaway from Candles . . . and it's my one contribution to the 9/11 aftermath . . . is that I was able to have conversations with several editors at Wiley who had lost friends and/or family in the tragedy, and my sacrifices involved in the book felt very meager in relation to those burdened by the uncertainties of job, health, or future.

I still like Candles, and the blend of parables I included from Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Hindu, Native American, and Sufi sources (just to name a few). My prelude to the book . . . eventually published a year later . . . gives testimony 9/11.

Even though the book is out of print, the testimony is still there. The book is still there. And I hope some people are reading it.

Proofreading

2011-09-11T04:14:00.000-07:00

Watch for the book in November. Michelle Knight and I are currently proofreading the editor's manuscript for our upcoming book: He Said, She Said: Biblical Stories from a Male and Female Perspective.

I've always found this proofreading phase of a book manuscript both tedious and enlightening. Tedious because by this time, I'm sick of the book I've written and I want to write something else. Enlightening because enough time has elapsed since I wrote the book, I don't recall writing it, and I'm always surprised to read a book that (purportedly) will have my name on the cover.

Many times, when I'm proofreading one of my books, I find myself asking: "Who is this guy masquerading as the writer?" Couldn't have been me. Wasn't I vacationing in California during the time this book was being written?

Could be . . . but then I don't recall where or when I wrote most of the material I have written. This weekend I've also spent bits and pieces of time sending out manuscripts from my vast backlog of poems, stories, and essays. Most of the university journals and literary mags are now open to submissions, and September is the month to make a first impression. I've just about covered the country in my submissions, and there will be magazines from California to the New York highway to the Gulf Stream waters perusing my material. But I've still got a long way to go, and hundreds more to submit before I sleep. I expect to get many new acceptances, and will have to tell the editors: "Thanks for selecting my work for publication. I'm assuming I wrote it. But, frankly, I don't recall."

In proofreading some of my old files, I discovered material I didn't even know I had. But when I wrote it, and why I wrote it . . . it's all a deep and hazy mystery to me. Some of these pieces actually astound me, and I think: "By golly, I was a pretty good writer back then. This is superb." But the mystery remains.

I guess that's why I need glasses. I can't even read myself without them.

Book Reviews

2011-09-09T04:16:00.000-07:00

Headline Note: If any publisher or author out there wants me to review a book on this blog, send me a copy! I'd be glad to read and comment.

Recently I discovered some new(er) book reviews for some of my titles and was confronted by the realization that most of these are now via social network over the internet rather than through print media. It is rare to read a traditional book review, as many have now sifted to various home pages and blogs (like this one).

No doubt some folks might even regard this blog as a book review site (when I do review the books I'm reading) . . . but I hope that publishers and writers would take my comments with a grain of laughter and not get their panties in a bunch. Reading, if anything, should be a pleasure. And I'm one of those rare birds who would rather read a book than watch TV or scour the internet. In fact, I'd rather spend my time looking at books on a shelf instead of looking at a screen! So . . . send me your tired, your poor, your hungry . . . .

Most of the time, when I discover a review of one of my titles, the reviewer has found something of value in what I've written and seems glad to have a copy in hand. I'm grateful for these small acts of generosity and comment, and would love to return the favor.

And, of course, if there are others out there who would like to read and review what I've written . . . drop me a line. I'll buy a copy and send it your way. It may be the only sale I'll make this month.

$40 Royalty

2011-09-08T05:54:00.000-07:00

I received my first semi-annual royalty check yesterday, which represents six months of book sales. Total check received: $40.42. And this from a book that actually sold some significant copies.

The publisher has done quite well by me, but I've been considering my options for my new-found windfall. At less than a quarter a day earnings, I could save up for a couple of days and buy a gumball from one of those arcade dispensers . . . I think those are still a quarter. (I'd hope for a blue one!) Or I could buy my wife a nice bouquet of flowers. Or I could do what I always do with such filthy lucre and just give it away. The latter always seems to be the best option to me.

My wife, of course, considers that 22 cents per day and always asks, "Why do you continue to write so many books when this is the reward you get?"

Always a good question . . . so let me elucidate here.

I will continue to write for 22 cents per day (or for less than 10 cents per hour) in the hope that I might earn a dollar an hour some day. A dollar an hour is a good round number and would allow me to buy a Wendy's sandwich (value menu) each afternoon. I'd enjoy a bacon cheeseburger, actually, and if I had change left over, I'd be happy to return the change to the publisher so they could re-up or give me a new contract for another book and, hence, send me even still smaller royalty checks.

Or . . . I'd write for nothing (as I do in most cases now). The publishers would know they could put me on a list of "wimps" and could call me up whenever they needed free labor. I'm their man. No one does free better than me.

Or . . . and this is my real motivation . . . I will continue to write because there are editors out there who have not met me yet. They seem to like what I write, and they will believe that this time, they've struck gold. There will be no lack of books for them to choose from . . . I've got dozens on the block. I'll be glad to sign a contract that will earn the publisher millions.

As for this $40 check . . . I'm going to help someone today. I'll give someone my $40 worth one way or another. And then, afterwards, I'm going to write some more.

Down at the bowling alley, there's a gumball with my name on it.