And the Oscar Goes To . . .

I watch little TV, but did catch a few minutes of the Academy Awards on Sunday night. My favorite Oscar was the one given to the old man who wrote the original screenplay for The King's Speech. He began his acceptance speech by saying, "My father told me I was a late bloomer." My wife turned to me and said, "See, there's hope for you yet."

A great line, but one reminding me that the clock is ticking . . . even for writers. Life doesn't afford us unlimited opportunities in which to produce. So . . . I'll keep writing.

To date, my awards have centered more on handpainted cards from my children (when they still cared about their dad) and love notes from my wife (when she felt compelled, twenty years ago, to write them). I have these awards stashed in my writing closet underneath tear sheets from magazines, manuscripts and parts from old computer printers.

I don't display my awards, and I don't tout them. I don't want others to think that I have a big head. Besides, I have no place to display an award anyway, and the only thing I've ever experienced from thinking about an award is a headache. Still, I have my speech ready:

On behalf of all of the losers out there, I am not accepting this award. I'm satisfied with the lack of notoriety, the lousy sales, and the minuscule royalty checks I rarely receive. I'd like to thank the Academy for leaving me in obscurity, which is where I belong. I'm in great company and some of my best friends are perpetual losers, too. So, thank you for ignoring me. (Cue cheesy orchestra music.)

Out of This World

I was elated to read another of Mary Roach's warped science books. This time the treat was her latest: Packing For Mars. In a nutshell, this book details all of the various pitfalls and problems of space exploration, particularly as these challenges involve the human body and NASA's unrelenting pursuit of studying the effects of Zero-Gravity on bodily functions (#1, #2, and also the question: is sex possible in outer space?).

Ah . . . but anyone familiar with Roach's quirky backlist such as Boink (the inner-workings of sex), Stiff (what happens to the human body after death), and Spook (exploring the questions of life after death) know what a treat her books are. However, if you are put-off by frank scientific and humorous explorations about bodily excretions and human sexuality . . . for the love of Mike, don't read Packing for Mars.

This is the kind of book that will offend millions, that will make many people blush or hide the title under their mattress so their kids won't find it. Others will be calling their Senators and librarians requesting that this book be banned. Naturally, I loved it. In fact, I wish I had written Packing for Mars. It's just my type of weird, esoteric, warped brand of science written by a woman who knows her secretions.

It also makes me realize that we are spending millions of our tax dollars on NASA scientific studies that involve human excrements. Every astronaut has been a guinea pig, and no diaper, catheter or condom has gone unturned. (Literally!)

I enjoyed Packing For Mars. I learned a lot from it--scientifically and otherwise. But it's not for the faint of heart or the easily-offended.

I, however, cannot wait for Roach's next book. And I'll likely read it in the bathroom.

Grant Writing

Over the past decade I've written many successful grants for the congregation . . . more than $125,000 all told. It's not a "huge" number, but as far as church goes, a respectable total, as grants associated with religious work are tough to come by.

Evidently, my prowess with the pen has also elicited an interest from others, as I've had three requests in the past month alone to write various grant proposals for other non-profit or religious-based organizations. I'm taking up the pen for one of these, but have respectfully declined the others . . . and I've yet to write a new grant for Calvary this year, but certainly plan to. I'm also anticipating a successful grant-writing expedition on both counts.

I do wish, however, that grant writing could me more straightforward. I'm eager for the day when I can write to a foundation and tell the story simply:

Dear Friends,

We are low on funds. In fact, we are living on peanut butter and stale bread. We'd really like to have a big sweaty pile of your available cash . . . as we understand you are in the business of giving money away to weak-kneed organizations such as our own. Our vision: to spend your money. God knows we need it. I mean, what are you gonna do with it? Invest it in tax free municipal bonds? Purchase pork bellies? Let me tell you, we've got plans over here. (See enclosed crayola drawings which our children created featuring our proposed solar panels and geo-thermal heating units, a project we are calling: Hot for Jesus.)

Wouldn't you like to fund this? God knows we can't. Please, for the love of God and all that is decent, send us some cash.

The Lord bless you today.

Anyone else want to hire me to write their grants?

Speakers

A few weeks ago I was having coffee with a friend who was lamenting the copious number of business presentations he was forced to attend. "The trouble is," he told me, "most of these people are horrible speakers and communicators. I've even seen some speakers who turn their back to the audience and talk to a screen. And many of these speeches are incomprehensible."

I considered this conversation recently when I happened upon an article about a writer who had served as a speech writer for both George W. Bush and, now, President Obama. It was an interesting parallel, given that many public speakers can't speak, and those who do often turn to writers to fill the void. Writers, of course, should be adept at crafting sentences.

Most people, when they consider the work that pastors do, week in and week out, are not easily impressed until they realize that pastors must craft a keynote speech every week. Regardless of the circumstances or the disasters that have been dropped into the pastor's lap, the sermon must happen. People expect it. And it had better be good!

No doubt, some of the best public speakers, bar none, can be found in pulpits every Sunday morning. In fact, I'd stack up the top pastors against the top Fortune 500 speakers any day of the week and twice on Tuesday, and the pastors, I'm sure, would slaughter these high-paid duds on a 1-10 scale for effectiveness and inspiration. In fact, it's easy to motive a captive audience who have paid $300 to attend a seminar. But try motivating a volunteer organization week in and week out and, over the long haul of a ministry, and still have something to say. Most of these gurus move from place to place, from city to city, and only have one speech which they recycle endlessly while they collect their fat-cat checks. (This applies to politicians, former-politicians, wanna-be politicians, celebrities, movie-stars, and countless media moguls . . . few of whom can string together fifty words that would be comprehensible to the average Joe--and nearly all of the above use writers to write their words. They couldn't do it themselves to save their own skins.)

Well . . . but then I'm a writer and no one has called me to write a speech of late. But when they do, I'll be ready. I've got some great speeches already on hand. My rate is $10,000 per hour. A bargain at any price . . . considering.

Bookmarks

Book marks are an enigma. I have collected hundreds of them over the years, but I never have one when I need it. Even though I have book marks of every style and persuasion I usually end up using a piece of scrap paper or a rubber band to mark my page. It's frustrating. My book marks are usually stashed behind shelves or inside shelved books and I am almost always forced to create my own mark with whatever I can find at hand.

Some of my most cherished book marks include: a mark my grandmother crocheted for me before her death; a sterling silver mark with my inscribed initials in gold overlay; a few book marks that editors have sent to me in appreciation of my writing; a book mark from Guatemala that Tom Heaton gave me last year. I possess all of these book marks, but I have no idea where any of them are as I write this. Lost? Hardly. They are nearby. I just can't find them.

Some of my more ingenious book marks include: placing a thinner book inside a thicker book; a DVD or CD; dental floss; toenail clippings. The toenail clippings are classic (I'm not sure they were even mine . . . I found the pile on the top of the bathtub). I was getting ready to take a shower and didn't have a book mark on hand. The clippings marked my place nicely and I later told my wife I cleaned the bathroom. I wasn't lying.

I hear some people actually read a book without a book mark. They "dog ear" their page. Not in my house . . . . This is one of my pet peeves. If I see my daughter or son dog-earing a page, I send them to bed without supper and I withhold parental love for months. They are not allowed to visit my library until they write a five page apology and sign a contract that they will not dog-ear another page in a book under penalty of death.

And I don't want to tell you what I would do to my wife if she dog-eared one of my books. But that's another page.

Thank God for Literary Journals

Thank God for literary journals. These quarterly and semi-annual publications, many of which are published by universities and edited by professors and students, have been a mainstay for writers for decades. I submit to these journals weekly, and a quick glance back through my records show that I've made more than a hundred literary journal submissions in the past year. Without them, even the best and most well-known writers would have diminished venues in which to find readers.

Currently, there are some thirty literary journals that are considering my work: essays, short stories, poems, even memoirs. Most of these submissions will result in rejections, but now and again I get a nod and a publication date is set. I expand my resume of work and a literary journal gets a piece of my mind. It's a fantastic relationship.

I've also developed some nice friendships with certain editors. When I find someone who likes me, I latch on like a leech and don't let go. I look for this affirmation outside of my marriage and some editors of literary journals seem eager to shack up with a guy like me. Rarely does money change hands. We just like each other as friends.

I'd like to thank those editors who appreciate me for who I am. They don't judge me or read my work with preconceived ideas or stereotypes. They've seen me with my pants down. They don't ask me to turn my head and cough. Some of these editors send back nice notes telling me they laughed or cried or they invite me to send more of my work. I do.

Thank you, editors. I appreciate you, too!

Rainy Days and Mondays

Today echoed the old Carpenter's lyrics: "Rainy Days and Mondays always get me down." And I would have been in a funk all day if I hadn't received some good news at the top of the morning.

Fortunately, I received word this morning that my essay, "The Pileated Woodpecker", had been accepted for publication (thanks, Christopher) and later a second e-mail confirmation that a batch of my poems (all about dead authors) would be seeing publication in a spring 2012 journal.

Okay, not a bad way to start the day. "The Pileated Woodpecker" was an essay I wrote some eighteen months ago. It's gone through a lengthy cycle of rejections, probably over a dozen "get losts!" or "drop deads!" before finally landing in print. But I knew when I wrote the essay that it was too good to end up in my closet stashed in a box. It was one of those pieces that spoke to me and the words found their way onto the page quite easily. It's one of those essays that I hope I can use in a book some day . . . part memoir, part ornithological, part poem . . . one of my most creative pieces of writing ever and I'm proud of it.

So . . . Monday. Bring on the rain. I have phone calls to make at home tonight (planning a Good Friday worship service) and then afterwards I'll be hammering away at the keys. I've got more essays inside of me that need a little TLC and I've got a full pot of coffee heating up right now. Let it rain. Tomorrow is Tuesday.