Speaking of Speaking

It's that time of the year again when I begin receiving a multitude of invitations to speak, or lead a workshop, or be a guest speaker at a luncheon, dinner or retreat. Some are out of state and would require travel.

I've come to realize, however, that guest speaking or keynote speaking just isn't for me. Sure, I can do it, but truthfully, I'd rather be at home and speak to my son and my dog. Communicating with them actually requires more skill, and I have to hone my speeches with precision and delicate word selection if I am to get the most response from them.

And so, for these and other reasons (including the fact that I only have one set of travel underwear, or will be driving a car that might break down at the end of my driveway, or that I'm being invited to speak at a location that doesn't have a Starbucks nearby) I turn down 95% of the invitations I'm offered. I'd rather stay at home and let Becky scream at me. I'd rather write something than "say" something. And if I do speak, I'll hold out for the really big bucks with an option in the contract for a new package of underwear.

Having written all of this for your understanding and enjoyment, however, I do feel that it's only fair to let others know why I can't accept their invitations to speak at the next bar mitzvah or the opening ceremony at the Hendricks County Insecticide Convention. For those who are planning these events and had me in mind as the keynote speaker, I do hope you'll understand. I'm just not cut out for the limelight and the fame. The fact is, I can barely tie my own shoe laces (and frequently don't) and my wife would tell you that I can't communicate worth a fart anyway.

No, I'm certain there is someone out there who is far more qualified than I to speak at the Cake Bakers Annual Frosting Festival. I'll just save you the trouble and say "no" at this time.

Thanks for your understanding.

Under Construction

For the past two weeks our house has been under repair (new siding and painting). And for the past two weeks I've been startled by pounding, hammering and screams outside the window. Believe me, it's tough to concentrate on writing and romance when someone is looking through an upstairs window in the twilight.

A few days ago I was zoned into writing a great piece when, suddenly, there was a hard knock on the door. One of the workers were there with a question: "Hey, Mr. Alleycat, do you mind if we leave our trailer in your driveway over the weekend? It's filled with junk and will look very unsightly."

"No, I don't mind," I said, pointing to the four junk cars I own. "Join the club."

I had just sat down to a new paragraph when, again, the door bell rang. "Hey," another worker said, "could you give me a glass of water?"

Water? I think we have plenty of that.

With these many interruptions, I'm not sure which type of construction is more difficult: constructing sentences or constructing a house. I am sure that the sentence construction, however, is woefully under-rated.

Vacation Writing

For the past twenty years or so, I've tried to combine summer family vacation and writing. It's not easy, but somebody has to do it.

Here's how it usually works:

During the planning stages I allow my wife (and now two children) to determine the final destination. I have no say in the vacation venue or itinerary, I just bring the necessary cash for gasoline and Almond Joys. I am the lightest packer and only bring along one change of underwear (I can use my swim trunks in a pinch).

Once the destination and itinerary has been established I then begin to plan a writing scheme that might net some travel writing assignments or human-interest stories for magazines, or pieces I might be able to use in future books. For example, in the past ten years I've written pieces on the following (not all published):

A trip to Hawaii netted me two nice articles for AAA Midwest Magazine on the island of Molokai and Kayaking the Na'Pali' cost of Kawaii.

Another trip to Galena, Illinois netted me some background information on Ronald Reagan.

And last year, during a trip to California wine country, I wrote two pieces on various boutique wineries and smaller wine regions around Clear Lake.

This year, with a trip planned to Michigan once again, I am really struggling to think of some connection points. Some article titles that I'm working on include:

"Boring Vacations: How to Recognize One After You've Planned It"

"Old Foggie Romance: Ten Possibilities for Nookie While the Teenagers are Watching a DVD"

"Gas Mileage Made Easy: How to Lighten the Load by Dumping a Youngest Child at a Rest Stop"

"Writing on Vacation: One Dad's Personal Struggle to Find the Meaning of Existence While Eating Fast Food on a Cross-Country Journey to Nowhere"

Eight Ball Moments

Every writer has his/her odd moments, and for me, most of those have revolved around rejections and conversations with agents. Three of the strangest involve:

Taking the narrow-gauge train from Durango to Silverton, Colorado during the height of a large forest fire. I'm not sure why the brains didn't cancel the train, but they didn't. Our family rode the train through the mountains where great flames were shooting into the sky and airplanes would swoop down and drop tons of water into the inferno. When we arrived at Silverton, my first order of business was finding an internet cafe where, after quickly checking my emails, I learned from my New York agent that the publisher was passing on my follow-up title to Candles in the Dark and, also, that my agent was dumping me. It was a longer ride back to Durango through the flames and I felt like Dante in the seventh ring of hell.

Conducting an early-morning radio interview from a hotel room while my wife and I were on an anniversary vacation. Becky couldn't keep her hands off me and I was trying to talk to the radio host about The Best Things in Life Are Free.

After picking up Logan at the high school, I had just pulled into our driveway when my cell phone rang and I learned that my agent (my fourth in seven years) was "cutting me loose". I've been cut loose many times, but at least my wife hasn't said she was cutting me loose (yet) and, so far, I've been able to find other agents who will work with a loser like me.

Which leads me to wonder: Am I the eight ball in this mix?

Self Consciousness

A couple of weeks ago I received a supply of books via the mail. Most of these were used, hardbound copies of books written by John Updike, including his 1989, and solitary memoir, entitled, Self Consciousness. Having now read the work through once, I was struck by a quote near the end of the work where Updike writes:

So writing is my sole remaining vice. It is an addiction, an illusory release, a presumptuous taming of reality, a way of expressing lightly the unbearable.

Of course, although I feel an affinity to Updike's insistence upon the place of writing in his own life, I could never have written these lines. That is why Updike is Updike (and, oh, how I miss seeing his name in the pages of The New Yorker already!) and why I am just a slack-jawed hack who continues to turn out pages each day that don't go anywhere or say anything of import or weight. I still have my 20+ unpublished novels stacked like chord wood in my closet, mounds of unpublished stories and essays, hundreds of floppy disks loaded with articles, book proposals, manuscripts, sermons, studies and writing ideas. I had never thought about it in Updikian terms before, but I guess I could call this writing an addiction and a vice. But then, I suppose if these are the terms of the game, then most anyone who is devoted to producing a work every day without fail could be deemed an addict.

I suppose I could regard writing as a vice since there have been times I've spent most of my vacation sitting in a hotel room writing while the rest of the family combed the beach, or I've spent hours writing inside a hot car while the rest of the family walked the mall, or why I have, for years now, risen before the birds to begin a day of writing or why I have persisted through the night on cups of coffee, head spinning, while hoping that "the next one" will actually be a hit and sell some copies. Okay, Mr. Updike, I get it. My name is Todd and I'm an addict. No, I've never snorted cocaine or drained a reefer to the smoldering end of the roach, and I drink only sparingly just to take the edge of off reality . . . but I do have to write. I admit it now. I must.

And I thank Mr. Updike for saying it so well . . . a guy who worked for many years in an overhead apartment, chain-smoking as he typed page after page of excruciatingly beautiful prose and gave his books to the world.

The Lineup

Yesterday I was standing in line when it happened: a woman turned to me and asked, "Don't you write books?"

Now, this is something of a first for me. I had no idea where this was heading. Did she need a loan? Was she mistaking me for a well-known author?

I nodded.

"I thought I recognized your picture," she said. I didn't ask her to explain. Perhaps she had seen my photo on the WANTED board in the post office. I wasn't taking any chances. I just thanked her. And she didn't comment on whether or not she actually liked my books, if she had read a couple.

Thankfully, my last book didn't include an author photo. I like that about publishers, when they don't worry about photographs. My name is embarrassing enough.

At least she didn't ask, "So, how do you pronounce your name?"

I would have told her, "Alleycat," just to be safe.

Premature Rejection

I will remember Monday, June 21. That's the day I received my quickest rejection . . . ever! Late in the afternoon I had sent a humor submission to The New Yorker's "Shouts & Murmurs" via email. Less than five minutes later the editors sent me notification of rejection.

Not that I'm complaining. In fact, it's rather refreshing to get feedback in minutes rather than months, or even years. And now I can move the piece along to another magazine, which I already have. Two submissions of the same piece in under ten minutes. Not bad.

Many things in life are, of course, much better in quick time. Fast food wouldn't be nearly as good if it were slow food. Ever eaten a cold slider? Or how about those phone conversations with sales reps? I'm always appreciative when the voice on the other end of the line strikes quickly, and tells me exactly why they've called, instead of opening the conversation with, "Have you got a couple of hours to spare so I can tell you about a little product that will change your life?" Well, actually, I don't . . . and what makes you think my life could be any better? I always tell these reps, "Actually nothing can improve my life. It's that bad. There's no product that can keep me from going gray worrying over a 16-year-old nincompoop, no product that can improve my already stellar love life with a woman who is now taking motorcycle-riding lessons, no product that can improve my memory or keep me from falling into a deep chasm of depression.

No . . . just give me the facts. Make it quick! Let's pretend this is Dragnet and I'm packing heat. I love role-playing!