Reading to Learn

There are two reasons I read: enjoyment & learning. Reading for enjoyment is probably my greatest compulsion, but when there is learning involved too, it's a double-feature.

I enjoy reading any book, on any subject (especially on matters of ignorance) and have always tried to read widely in disciplines ranging from history, science, sociology, psychology, biography, health, business, and leadership . . . among others. I find as I get older, I read less theology and church-related books. I think I had my fill in seminary and besides, the more I read in these areas the more I am inclined to agree with the writer of Ecclesiastes: There is nothing new under the sun and of the making of many books there is no end.

I read very little church-related material that is thought-provoking, edgy, or stirring. (There are, and continue to be exceptions . . . but I find these are rare.) This may be my bias or lack of reading deeply enough into the mix, but I'd rather read a book about the creation of the periodic table than I would a book about Understanding Galatians for Today. Hopefully I understand Galatians enough to read it,but I don't know much about the periodic table. My mind is open and I'm eager to learn new things in new disciplines.

Nevertheless, I'd challenge anyone to read more in those areas that are lacking in their knowledge base. Certainly, if you don't know the books of the Bible, or haven't read it lately, better get crackin' on the Good Book. Read more theology and study guides. Attend a study. Talk about what you've learned.

And if you don't know know much about James K. Polk, or the discovery of helium, or the invention of ice cream, or the composition of fertile farm land . . . I'm sure there are plenty of titles that could elucidate on these matters and a million more.

Excuse me now while I read a bit about John Milton, followed by a few pages of a physics book about momentum, mass, and the employment of safety features in automobiles. I need to learn something new.

The Wave

I'm reading Susan Casey's fascinating book: The Wave. This book was published before the Japan Tsunami, but brings some fascinating science and human interest stories (surfers looking for the "big one" etc.) to bear upon the growing threat of the rising ocean tides. People can continue to debate global warming and the reasons pro/con, but the scientific community and the surfer dudes have known for some time now that the ocean waves are getting larger and more powerful. There are some big waves out there!

Science doesn't understand all of this, but as Casey's book enlightens, the oceans could never be controlled and even with our best technology and ingenuity, we are at a loss (humanly speaking) to stem the tide of these waves that can, and will continue, to wipe out entire coastal towns and maybe even smaller countries. Scientists are doing their best to understand why two ocean liners per week (per week) disappear into the depths without a trace, and what tidal forces beyond on comprehension are taking them under. Last year there were more tropical storms, worldwide, than at any other time in recorded history, and the numbers continue to grow.

I like this book, but it's a frightening read . . . makes me think twice about going on a cruise again, though I'll never have a hankering for surfing after reading about the massive waves of Oahu or the Australian pipeline. This book might do for the beach what JAWS did for ocean resorts . . . make people scared to go back into the water.

From now on, I'm only going to soak in the Jacuzzi tub in our master bedroom. This is enough wave for me. And if my wife wants to join me in the bubbles, I'll inflate a raft. Can't be too careful these days!

Puzzled

I don't know why I had forgotten about this book. Perhaps it was because I wrote it so many years ago, or because it's not the kind of book I wanted to remember. Or then, it could be because my mind just doesn't work like it used to and I actually didn't remember.

But back in 1993 (or was it 1994?) I wrote a small book of crossword puzzles for a game company. It was one of those game books you can find at the supermarket checkout line . . . one of those books your droop-stockin grandmama buys to pass the time while she's watching The Young and the Restless or screamin' at grandpa.

A friend of mine had given me a floppy disk for Christmas that contained software for a crossword puzzle -creating-program. I found it fascinating and, for a couple of months it seemed, I became obsessed with creating crossword puzzles. I eventually gathered together a stack of these things and sent them in to a crossword book publisher. They took the lot (as memory serves) and paid me something like $5 per crossword puzzle (with no by-line). I thought I was rich and would end up making my living as a pastor/crossword puzzler.

Hell's bells. What was I thinking?

Anyway, the book was published, I saw it at the checkout line in the supermarket for some weeks while I was in Evansville. I'd be shopping at the Piggly Wiggly and would sidle up next to an older version of my wife and say, "Hey, lady . . . you wouldn't happen to be lookin' for a little fun tonight would you?"

After being hit in the head with a purse, I would go on to point out that I was actually trying to seduce her into purchasing my book. I'd pick it up off the little rack, the book poised there next to the candy bars and the National Inquirers. "Yeah," I'd say, "I wrote all of those crosswords. Sexy, huh?"

Once I explained myself and my creative gifts, the women always flipped. They shelled out $2.95 for the little book and often asked me to sign their copies, and I liked to imagine them taking me home, them sitting in their squalid little living rooms smoking a cigarello, sipping Jim Beam, and dreaming of the guy who created all of those incredible puzzles.

Well, a writer has to imagine. Otherwise, creating crossword puzzles is much too nerdy.

4 Hours & 100 Pages

On Sunday night I spent four hours navigating 100 pages of writing. My wife was completing her portfolio for her administrative licensing and asked that I read, edit, and comment on 50 pages of material . . . some of the most boring and disinterested material I've read in months. I did my duty and line-edited the entire manuscript, then sent my congratulations to my wife in the other office by yelling, "Great job! When you gonna knock off for the night?"

But I wasn't finished.

I topped off the evening by completing a new book proposal that I'm entitling, Legends to Live By. It's a great work, if I do say so myself, and at fifty pages, it's a rather hefty book proposal as far as proposals go. Surely there's an editor out there who will be impressed by the sheer weight of this proposal. The editors may not like what I've written, but they'll have to be impressed by the quality of the book I hope to write. By the time my wife screamed back, "When you gonna knock off for the night?!" I was already nodding off, long past the residuals of the coffee and black licorice afterburn that had carried me for some hours.

Another Sunday night. 4 hours. 100 pages. 1 60-watt bulb. The sound of computer keys and dripping faucet.

Anyone want to trade places with me and experience a really boring life?

Contact

Over the weekend, while watching some of the exciting NCAA men's BB games, I began making a comprehensive list of my editorial contacts at magazines and publishers. I was astounded. I know more editors "inside" the publishing industry than I first believed.

It was like finding a little black "date" book full of names, addresses and phone numbers of the women I used to date.

(Actually, I never had a little black "date" book full of names. Becky was the only woman for me and the only one I ever actually dated. My "date" book would have been blank, except for some doodles of Becky that I would have drawn on the inside cover. Becky can confirm this in case you have questions about my imaginary "date" book.)

Of course, after I had completed my list of editorial contacts, I had to contact some of them. I did. And lo and behold, I actually received an email yesterday from an editor who immediately accepted one of my satirical pieces for publication. "I love your stuff," he wrote. "Wish you would contact me more often. Call me."

This is exactly what all of those women would have told me before I was married. If had dated them.

The Poetry of Dr. Williams

Last night, during the NCAA men's basketball games, I perused The Collected Poems of William Carlos Williams until 1 a.m.. Williams was a medical doctor his entire career, but became known as one of the premier poets in America soon after the turn of the century. His spare poems on daily observations and household items were, for better or worse, his signature, and his poem on the red wheelbarrow glazed with rain, a classic that most people have read.

A few weeks back I received word from the editor of The Red Wheelbarrow magazine (named after Williams's poem) that they would be publishing some of my work, such as it is. I'm no William Carlos, but I write a fair amount of poetry on domestic life. Here's one I wrote a couple of years ago about refrigerator magnets . . . you probably have these, too, and can identify with my observations.

Refrigerator Magnets

Clinging to the stainless steel

Sides of my refrigerator

The magnets congregate, congeal

In herds of calendars, or

Friends who love their photos taken.

And here my wife sticks odd reminders

Of recipes that I'm to bake in

The oven. My children paste rejoinders

To questions I had posed so long ago

My memory has faded, and all

We share are pizza hotlines and so

Many numbers we don't call.

The coupons hang like flat bananas

In bunches long ago expired,

And concert tickets that my son has

Purchased clutch the steel like tired

Chaperons on boring dates.

And on the tiny blackboard, see:

My wife sends love and contemplates

The strength of our polarity.

Travelin' Man

Some weeks ago I began reading The Best American Travel Writing (2009) edited by Simon Winchester. I enjoy both travel and reading travel, and have written a fair amount of travel writing myself for such magazines as AAA Midwest Travel and Kayaker. Often, I write while I travel, and frequently find myself taking notes in restaurants. I write on the back of napkins or save my receipt and use it as a notepad. I've got enough receipts with notes on the back to write a book.

The travel writing in Best American, however, is another breed. There are great pieces in here about such esoteric experiences as looking for a missing penis in Sudan or observing a corn harvest. (Don't ask me about the missing penis piece, you just have to read it to believe it.)

My travel writing is much tamer by comparison to most of these high-brow artsy-fartsy Winchester selections. I enjoy writing about sunsets and sunrises, trying to describe the beauty of mountains, or offering opinions about the various wines I taste. Obviously, I don't know what I'm doing, but as long as someone out there values my opinion, I'll offer it.

This summer my wife and I plan to travel to the northwest and hike Mt. Saint Helen and Mt. Rainier, as well as drive an extensive wine trail. I'll be writing as I go, carrying notepads and ball point pens in my backpack.

Naturally, we have to be in shape for a trip like this. One of the trails we plan to hike has a high rating for Grizzly Bear sitings, and a few people have actually been eaten while walking this trail in the past decade. I don't plan to get eaten, but I'm sure I could sell a travel article to Outdoor Magazine if I could witness someone else being eaten. I'll keep my eyes peeled for this and other unexpected opportunities for turning out a great travel piece with some gore. I'll be in slightly better shape than my wife so I can outdistance her . . . just in case.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I must get to the gym. If I'm going to be writing all of these travel pieces and running from Grizzly Bears this summer, I'd better do a couple hundred calf raises, five hundred crunches, some squats, and twenty minutes on the elliptical. I'll take notes and make my travel outline while I sweat. I'm also going to buy some pepper spray.

It's a long way from here to Portland.