Interviews

So far, a fun and fascinating week off. I've kayaked, hiked, read, and written lots of new material. And I've also given some telephone interviews.


My favorite was an interview with a journalist in L.A. who called to tell me how much she enjoyed my blog (this one!). "It's unique. Not like any other. Kind of warped."


"That's good," I said. "I hate stereotypes. But since the blog is warped, I'll try harder to move into the insane category."


She then proceeded to ask me some stereotypical questions and I gave stereotypical answers for the stereotypical article in the stereotypical magazine. The only thing was, when she called, she told me she wanted to do the interview because she needed some "quotes from an expert!"


Me? An expert? In what? Still . . . I hope I gave her some great insights. I did tell her:


"You know, nostalgia was so much better years ago."
"I only pay with cash . . . which is just as good as real money."
"Are you taping this interview? I hate the sound of my own voice when it shows up in print."


I'm not sure she got me at all. She didn't even laugh.

Book Lovers

Here's an intriguing book: The Man Who Loved Books Too Much--The True Story of a Thief, a Detective, and a World of Literary Obsession. Written by Allison Hoover Bartlett, this fascinating true-story reads like a detective novel and relates the cat-and-mouse story of a famous book thief, John Gilkey, and the Book Detective, Ken Sanders, who follows him around the world trying to catch the guy who uses phony identities, credit card numbers, and stories to get his hands on valuable first-edition books.

Reading Bartlett's journalistic foray into the obsessive world of book collectors helped me to realize that it would be so easy for me to fall headlong into this obsession, too. But my collecting fever was cooled early by the poverties of being a seminary student. Thank God.

I do remember one lapse, however. It was in the summer of 1983, and I frequently drove to downtown Asheville, N.C. in the evenings to visit the incredible array of used and rare bookshops that littered the town. What little money I was making through my Duke Summer Internship I was spending on books. I hunted for rare first-editions that I could afford (and bought a few I could not afford), but in the end I realized that book collecting was for wealthy folks who also had money for food, clothing, and other assorted necessities. My obsession ended abruptly when I found that I could not afford a hot dog one afternoon. And if a seminary student can't live on wieners . . . heck, what's he gonna eat?

I went cold turkey and steered clear of the old bookshops after that. No more 1873 editions of Aesop's Fables; no more 1895 editions of Uncle Tom's Cabin; no more Romantic Poetry Collections . . . though I still have all of these on my shelves, along with dozens of other first-edition prizes that I will never relinquish to Half Priced Books.

Sure, I still collect . . . and from time to time I do find and purchase some incredible volumes. But I'm not obsessive about it. I save my obsessions for other things these days: writing late at night, drinking protein shakes, making love to my wife twice a year.

Some things you just gotta have.

Books, Boats, Barbells & Basketball

I took a day of vacation Monday and found myself enjoying as many "Bs" as possible. First, I enjoyed a long relaxing morning coffee on the back deck, with newspaper and books. After reading for an hour or so, it was on to the Whitelick creek, where Becky and I kayaked a couple of miles, ending up back in our front yard in the afternoon. It was a great two hour trip.

Then, to the gym, where I hit the barbells hard and tried to shed a pound of Easter candy. Not many in the gym yesterday, so I had the whole place, practically, to myself.

Then, to Goodwill, where I managed to locate two excellent first-editions for a song ($1.99 each). I found E.L. Doctorow's, City of God, and Calvin Trillin's, Deadline Poet. As for Trillin, I've read a fair number of his books and always enjoy his New Yorker writing. And E.L. Doctorow is certainly regarded as one of the best American writers, and two of his books, Ragtime and The Book of Daniel, are regarded as two of the top 100 American novels of the past century. I have read most of Doctorow's books through the years and he's one of my favorites.

By the time I settled in to watch the NCAA basketball final, I had read a short stack of books and had another smaller stack next to the chair. During the game I managed to swallow Raymond Carver's 2nd collection of short stories, What We Talk About When We Talk About Love, during the time outs and commercial breaks leading up to another Duke championship. This book was timely, as Becky and I never talk about love when we talk about love, and, in fact, I'm not sure what we talked about yesterday come to think of it.

The only thing I can remember saying to her all day was, "Look out for that rock up ahead!"

The Pile

Yes, I have a pile at home. It's in my office . . . growing, multiplying, expanding. It's a pile of files (research), essays and stories and proposals (various stages of revision) and book manuscripts (fat ones, skinny ones, even books with chicken pox).

Naturally, Becky doesn't like my pile. "When are you going to clean this up?" she asks.

"Never," I tell her. "Everything is just where I can reach it."

"How do you know where to find what you're looking for?"

"Ask me for something," I answer, "and I can reach in and pull it out. I know where everything is located, right down to the last centimeter. Or, I can just sense it."

"Are you sensing what I'm feeling right now?"

Of course, I would never dream of trying to interpret a woman's feelings and thoughts. That would be miraculous. Wouldn't it?

Happy Birthday Jesus . . . and Becky

In many respects we might consider Easter to be the real birthday of Jesus. Starting a new eternal life after death is truly a birth. Easter also happens to be my wife's birthday. I've written her a few poems to celebrate the 49th occasion, but here's one I can actually place on the blog . . . perhaps others can identify with this one.

Waking Up

One day a guy like me wakes up

And finds he's sleeping with a dame

Who still can make his heart rate jump

(But, Lord, he can't recall her name).

She looks familiar, so he asks

If she was with him through the night.

She's looking older, though the masks

She plasters on give him a fright.

And he reminds her of a man

She used to know, and made her leap,

And gave her children, passions, and

Some lovely moments in her sleep.

And by and by, as life goes on,

The man accepts this oddity

And she accepts what's come and gone

And they, in forgetfulness, agree.

The Big Burn

After several weeks I finally finished reading Tim Eagan's account of the largest fire in American history: The Big Burn. The Burn destroyed 3.2 million acres of forest in the U.S. (not including Canadian forest figures), leveled towns, killed hundreds, and changed the face of America when Teddy Roosevelt was president.

For all of the hype around the book, and in spite of Tim Eagan's Pulitzer Prize-National Book Award Style Writing, I just found the narrative a bit soggy and slow. But otherwise the guy did a commendable job of telling the story of those who committed their lives and futures to fighting the Big Burn. The aftermath was harrowing, and it's a wonder more towns and lives weren't lost to such catastrophic winds of heat and fate.

I'm not much on fires. About the biggest fire I've seen are some I have started in the front yard, but then, only to roast wieners.

I'll slip The Big Burn back on the shelf and maybe read a book about water next. This one made me thirsty.

We Need to Talk

Sometimes, in the midst of the craziness, we learn things about ourselves . . . and others. It happened to me the other night.

I had been writing for several hours, churning out great material, work that, I knew, was some of the best writing I'd done in years. It was writing so astounding that any editor would swoon over it and write me a check on the spot. But it was approaching midnight, and my wife was also bringing her eighteen hour work day to a close.

"Hey," I yelled from my office, "we need talk. Are you going to finish that term paper you wanted me to read? I've got some time now."

Becky screamed back. "I know I need to write it, but I can't seem to get motivated," she said. "I'm not like you. I can't just plop down in a chair and crank out twenty pages a night."

"But you're a good writer," I hollered back. "Your term papers are always insightful."

"Listen," Becky said, "You're a writer. But I'm just a person who can write."

Bazinga! Wow, I'd never heard it said that way before, but the old lady is probably onto something here. Writers . . . and people who can write. That's a rather insightful distinction, I think. Most people can write (at least something, or some of the time) but not all people are writers.

In fact, I think it was Truman Capote who once remarked that writing could not be taught, and that writers were not made, but born. He made the bold assertion that writers were those whose essence, whose being, was centered in the production and constant outpouring of words on the page. He may have been onto something, too.

In the broadest definition of my life, I guess that's who I am. I can't recall a time since learning how to write, when I haven't been engaged in writing. Even as a "hobby writer" I've found that I out-write most full-time writers (those who are blessed with being able to write during the daylight hours when the sun is shining).

But who knows . . . some day I might be able join the ranks of these full-timers and actually be able to write ten, twelve, sixteen, even twenty hours a day . . . even if that's in retirement. And I know I'll be called a writer then.