My Grammy

I've never been a song writer, but I did read with some curiosity, this week, an essay that asked the penetrating question: "Does a Grammy matter anymore?"

Well, I can't speak for others out there, but my Grammy has always mattered to me. I've had my Grammy since 1960.

Currently, my Grammy is sitting in Robinson, Illinois. She's 95 years old, still beautiful, but deaf as a post.

My Grammy doesn't read my blog, which is a good thing. Reading this blog, no doubt she would wonder: "Where did I go wrong?"

Catching Up

Sunday afternoon and evening I played catch up to some reading and writing . . . books and work I have wanted to complete for a long time.

On the reading front, I'm finally out of the gate reading Niall Ferguson's massive history of the economy: The Ascent of Money: A Financial History of the World. Ferguson is one of those world -renowned historians whose work has been at the top of my reading list for a long time. I'm glad to finally get started on this one.

And I was also able to find a start to a short story that I've been wanting to write for over two years. I've had the story in my head for months, mulling it over, composing entire paragraphs and strings of dialogue from memory, and it was nice to finally get around to committing it to a floppy disk before Alzheimers sets in and removes my ability to remember where I live.

I didn't get the nap I was wanting, but I was able to take a nice walk with Becky and admire all of the houses that are still for sale. Not a bad Sunday when I think about it.

The Write Stuff

In the past couple of months I've received several emails and a couple of phone calls from friends and colleagues who essentially want to know: "I've got an idea for a book or an article: how can I get it published?"

Now, as far as my own experience when I was nineteen years old, say, or twenty-five, and was posing these same questions to more experienced writers, I would always get the brush off. Most everyone I approached--authors, agents, editors, publishers . . .anyone who was actually "inside" the publishing world--brushed me aside. I can think of a few exceptions, but for the most part, the attitude was: "If you don't know how to do it, leave me the flip alone!"

I hope I've fared much better than this when it comes to helping and giving what little advice I have. And so I'm writing this blog for all of those who have written to me.

In fact, I've learned that this is one of my greatest pleasures: helping someone find a successful outlet for his/her work, or reviewing a manuscript, or just talking on the telephone with someone who is frustrated for lack of response from an editor. I've been there many times. I'm still there. And I love supporting people who are out there trying to write for enjoyment or for money.

I really don't have much successful advice to give to people (especially for someone who needs income), but after eighteen books and a few hundred published articles and essays, I know I've learned a few things about what works, and what doesn't work, and what publishing involves . . . and I really don't want to keep those experiences to myself. Everything in the publishing world is changing very rapidly now, and I'm still learning, too. In fact, a writer must continually reinvent himself/herself constantly. A writer must find the new idea, the new voice, the new slant . . . and then work like hell to make it the best.

And that's why I always begin with that bit of advice first, and these questions: How hard are you willing to work? Because writing is work. And it's going to take a lot of time, concentration, and energy. And writing is a solitary pursuit. How secure are you within your own skin? Can you work while everyone else is asleep? Can you rise before everyone else is awake? Can you sit in silence for hours on end and just listen to your own heart beat? Can you work on something for weeks, months, even years without the slightest possibility of success and still sit down over a pot of coffee and write even more? Can you do this year after year after year? Is it your life?

If you can do these things . . . then YOU are a writer, my friend. And eventually, count on it . . . if you perfect your craft, you will succeed. Because one thing I've learned, too. There is still a demand for writers in a world where most people cannot write well. And believe me, most people cannot write well. Most people can scarcely write at all. So just keep writing, and working, and the chips will fall.

And don't forget this definition of a writer: A writer is someone who WRITES!

Another Wow Day

As I write this, it's closing in on midnight (Wed.) regardless of what the time says on this blog (which is always wrong). This is the first chance I've had today to check my voice mails, my emails, and to open mail . . . and, wow . . . more writing than I can shake a stick at.

First, I open a letter from the Upper Room informing me that they are going to publish two of my little devotions. That's nice. The editor even wrote me a handwritten note that says, "It's been ten years since you submitted last. Don't wait so long next time. Write more . . . like very soon!" Thanks, Lynn . . .that's very inviting.

Then I open an email from some dude I've never heard of (almost deleted it, actually). He informs me that he is the lawyer who handles the subsidiary and publishing rights for Health Communications, Inc. in Florida. It seems that a magazine wants to publish a quote from my book, The Healing Touch (why, I'll never know!) and he wrote to ask: "Are you okay with that? Want to grant permission?" Quote away, I tell him. They can have as much of my stuff as they can stomach. Though why anyone would find anything I've written to be quotable . . . a real mystery.

Finally, I get both a voice mail and an email from GROUP publishing in Loveland, CO informing me that, yes, I'm going to be under a very tight deadline very soon to finish a youth ministry book that is to be titled: Youth Ministry For Tough Times. I now know who my senior editor is, who my layout artist is, and who will be working up a contract (which I still don't have).

All in all, not a bad night. Kind of makes me sad to go to sleep. Like, I might just stay right here and write for a couple of hours to meet that blasted deadline . . . .

The Blog As Personal Journal

For many years I kept a personal journal. It was a little flowery book with a locket on the side and I kept it under my mattress next to my Barbie dolls. (No, wait, that was the diary I found on the playground when I was eight.)

But lots of writers do keep personal journals. There are actually some famous ones out there. For example, The Journals of John Cheever was published some twenty years ago to both critical and commercial acclaim. Cheever's journals were given even greater cult status after they showed up in a Seinfeld episode. More recently, I noted that the Journals of Joyce Carol Oates were scheduled for publication. Obviously, a massive tome that will chronicle her entire life and thoughts about writing.

Now, my journals have been nothing along this scope, but as I've thought about journaling more recently, I've come to the conclusion that my blogs have become something akin to my journals. They possess the same kind of rapier wit (?) and cynicism that my journals might reveal.

Anyway...enjoy my journals.

Limericks

There was a time when I wrote limericks by the hundreds. I have a vast supply of them. But since the limerick of the bathroom wall is no longer appropriate, I've taken to writing "religious" limericks. Last night I took ten minutes and scrawled these on the back of a napkin. Hope you enjoy them.

A bishop from Saskatoon
Ordered drink in a forlorn saloon,
As he stretched out his ring
He was called on to sing
But his voice couldn’t carry a tune.

There once was a priest from Vermont
Who spoke in a long, flowing font
When asked if he’d try
To make apple pie
Said, I vood iv I cood but I kan’t.

There once were two deacons from Drew
Who sat every week in their pew
And heckled the priest
Who said, “Well at least
There aren’t any more than the two.”

A pastor from downtown French Lick
Developed a sporadic tick.
When she preached in her jeans
Some commented, “She seems
To be just like the rest of us hicks.”

Two brothers—a priest and liar—
Became tangled in a strand of barbed wire,
The liar tried prayer
And the priest cursed the air,
And between them they started a fire.

There once was a pastor named Todd
Who feasted on donuts and cod
But the church read his blog
And said, “He’s slipped his cog.
For a pastor he’s incredibly odd.”

Super Bowl Reading

Last year, I remember that I read Jeff Yeager's book, The Cheapskate's Guide to Saving Money, in its entirety, during the Super Bowl. Last night, during the game, I finished reading The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill, by Mark Bittner. I have realized for years that I don't have enough attention span to watch any game from beginning to end, so I have to read or write to keep my sanity. I enjoyed this book, and for several reasons.

Last spring, when our family traveled to San Francisco on vacation, we rode the cable cars several times. Each time we passed the sign for Telegraph Hill, I would say, "Look, kids, that's the hill where the wild parrots gather."

"Dad, what are you talking about?"

"You know," I'd say, "the story about the man who adopted all of the wild parrots. They made a movie about him, a documentary that won an Academy Award last year. And there's a book, too. And I want to read it."

"Dad, you are so lame. A real loser," Chelsey told me.

"Take me Chinatown," Logan insisted. "I want to eat large, heaping portions of rice, pounds of it, along with two whole chickens and a rooster!"

"Don't you want to see the parrots? Don't you want to learn something from the lovely man?"

"Just buy your book and read it," my wife insisted. "Leave us alone."

I did. And I did. During the Super Bowl. Thank you very much.