Incredible month, this March. Abnormally high temperatures. Sunshine. Shorts. I even sat out on the back deck one day to write.
Looking back, I can see that March was also a rather productive month, all things considered. I had two pieces published in an outdoor sporting magazine (beavers and bass) in addition to five book reviews, two essays and one longer article on grant writing--all for pay no less. And I also had a couple of essays accepted and slated for publication, as well as two short stories, and on Thursday a publisher wrote to request a look-see at two of my book proposals. All of this in addition to sermons, studies, blogs, and at least forty new poems. Not bad for a month's work before sunrise.
But my best effort won't show up on this stat sheet. I also wrote an entire church catalogue--about thirty pages worth of material--most of it in my sleep. It was plodding work, but somebody had to do it.
I also reviewed some writing that my daughter (Chelsey) had completed, and a couple of essays written by my son (Logan). Holy cheese-puff, Batman! My kids can write. I told them so. I want to instill some confidence in them to pursue some type of a life with words. They should not back away from it.
My son, who is excited about attending Vincennes University next fall, asked me one evening, "Do they test you much in college?"
My response was, "Probably not as much as in high school. Sometimes, you only have one exam for a class, and the final is 100% of the grade."
"I'd hate that," he said. "Too much pressure."
"Maybe," I answered. "Unless it's an essay question. Then you can ace it. Anyone gives you a chance to write . . . let 'er rip."
Mad stuff for a March.
Somewhere in my distant memory I recall reading an interview with John Updike in which he noted that, as a child of the Depression, he rarely turned down a job. And for Updike, that meant a writing job. He went on to say that his peculiar work ethic also precluded that he would write for small sums of money, and that he felt guilty if he turned down a writing opportunity, even if it paid little. His compulsion was to write in order to earn a living . . . and he eked out his existence early, making enough for grocery and oil changes and a small mortgage payment, but little else. This was early 1960's.
I've never come anywhere close to making a living as a writer, but I do know what Updike was talking about. I have always shared this guilt of turning down writing jobs--and so I rarely do. I will write most anything as long as someone is willing to shoot a check in the mail . . . and, in fact, a larger portion of what I write ends up being pro bono. In essence I write for nothing.
There are times, however, when the writing offers some unexpected rewards . . . as when I noted a woman in Starbucks the other day reading one of my books. I didn't say anything . . . although there was a part of me that wanted to walk over and say, "Hey, lady . . . do you want me to sign your book?"
I just smiled. And I probably didn't even do that. I sat and sipped.
But a working writer doesn't have speaking engagements and book signings and guest appearances on high-profile talk shows. A working writer doesn't make money from having others ghost write a book or from being on the speakers circuit. A working writer is a stud who cranks out material every stinking day--barrels of it--and doesn't sleep until he writes his assigned pages. His remuneration is minuscule . . . barely enough to buy a ham sandwich, and he is paid approximately one red penny a page. Someday, he hopes to make a nickel.
A well-meaning fellow once asked me at a book signing: "What do you do with all of your money?" (Supposing that all writers make money.)
I told him I give most of it away, and the rest I keep to buy toner cartridge and paper for the printer. "And sometimes," I added, "I take some of my windfall and have an Arby's night." He flinched, scowled, and strutted away in search of a wealthy writer.
He'll never find one in Indiana.
Of all the books I've read and reviewed over the past six months, Super Sneaky Uses for Everyday Things, by Cy Tymony (Andrews McMeel, 2011) was the most ingenious and fun. Although I've written a formal review of the book, I thought I would offer a few more personal (and warped) insights here.
Essentially, Mr. Tymony is a modern-day Inspector Gadget. His series of books highlights his sweeping knowledge of paper clips, batteries, coins, rubber bands, duct tape, and a catch-all-drawer approach to creating all manner of fun toys and novelties using discarded items from around the house. I love this stuff!
I am, however, much too mechanically-challenged or technologically-deficient to do anything about it. Although I have figured out other uses for rubber bands (binding a bag of potato chips, for example), I have yet to attempt any of the novelties Mr. Tymony outlines.
My wife complains about my lack of handyman skills all the time. I do remind her, however, that I am handy in other ways . . . ways that she, quite frankly, refuses to acknowledge. While I maintain that I am, and will continue to be, her handyman . . . she merely sees a harried Hamburger Helper cook who retreats from the stove to write romance poetry (which I hand over with the romantic pick-up line: "How about them apples, baby?!").
True, I do not know how to relight the pilot light on the water heater (although there is a button that says "Press Here to Light Pilot"). And it is true that I have not changed the oil in a car since I was sixteen years old and nearly suffocated in 40-weight. And it is equally valid that, when it comes time to changing a light bulb, I need to ask the personnel at Lowe's to give me a refresher course on how to do it.
Nevertheless, I recoil at the thought that I am not handy around the house. Mr. Tymony has helped me discover a few new uses for pipe cleaners. And I also maintain that there is something handy about having a man around the house who can write a 1000 word essay about Egg Drop Soup in under 30 minutes.
I'm handy, all right. I'd love to know how long it took Mr. Tymony to write his book. I'll bet I could have written it in 1/3 the time. Sometimes, when I'm in the zone and typing, my fingers are a blur and it takes fifteen minutes for my thoughts to catch up to my hands.
Handy? I'd say so.
Next week, I plan to discover ten new uses for ordinary typing paper. I've already started working on several origami patterns. I've got airplane designs, too. And, if we suddenly ran out of toilet paper . . . .
A writer lives for deadlines . . . those publisher-imposed (or self-imposed) X's on the calendar that loom larger as the day approaches. And a writer is always grateful to have a deadline to meet. Without them, there's no work . . . and unless a writer can self-impose make-believe deadlines, the fire in the belly is often lacking.
Me? I've got several deadlines. And I'm grateful for all of them.
My most pressing deadline each week is writing the weekend sermon. This is a biggie, and I sometimes lose sleep thinking about this one. But by the time Thursday rolls around, I'm hitting it head-on and taking notes, making an outline.
I also have weekly deadlines now (thank God) for book reviews . . . books I must read and comment on. These keep me up nights, too . . . though most of the time it's because I have hundreds of pages to read. I usually sleep on a book after reading it, and write the review first thing in the morning over a cup of coffee.
I also have monthly deadlines. Some of these are imposed by publishers (columns, articles, essays, and now . . . even poems). Gotta get the word out. I also have self-imposed deadlines for books I'm writing (chapters, proposals, sometimes revisions). Short stories and humor also make the cut, too.
Staying on course with a deadline is essential. Otherwise one's lines become dead lines. The life found in writing is born of pressure, of time. And it can also be born of leisure that uses time like a vacuum . . . thoughts and emotions sucked up into the void and then, once the clock begins to tick, are siphoned onto the page. A writer needs them all.
Recently, a friend asked me: "I've got an idea for a story but I can't seem to get going on it. Any suggestions?"
Yeah, I have one: You've got until this Friday to write a first draft . . . and if you don't do it by Friday, forget the story. You've missed the deadline. Otherwise, you'll never write it.
Well, it works for me. I've been doing it every week since I was twelve years old. These deadlines may kill me . . . but not if I kill the story first.
Although I am not "on the road" very often, it always seems that I receive my best and worst news when I am away from home. This is particularly true when it comes to writing.
For example, out of my first three agents (I'm on my fourth--thank you Cynthia!) two of them dumped me via phone call as I was in the car. It's difficult having these types of conversations behind the wheel, but it always seems that when I'm the most vulnerable, that's when these calls arrive. I've never been good at break-ups . . . but come to think of it, I've never broken up with anyone so I wouldn't know what this feels like anyway. Still . . . .
Years ago, when our family was vacationing in Colorado, I was expecting an email from an agent who was going to inform me about a publisher's decision regarding one of my books. I had been waiting for this word for weeks. A word which, I had hoped, would be affirmative, all-systems-go. One afternoon our family (then with two small children) took the narrow-gauge train from Durango to Silverton and, as soon as we de-boarded in Silverton I had a premoniton (is that the word?). "I've got to find an internet cafe," I told Becky.
"Here?" she said. "In Silverton? There's nothing here!"
She was wrong. I actually located a small coffee shop (this was long before Starbucks, baby!) that had two computers. For $5 I was able to log onto the net for 15 minutes. I checked my emails and there it was, just as I expected: total rejection. These publishers don't want your book, my agent wrote. And, by the way, we're through, too. Find yourself another agent and have a nice life.
I did find myself another agent. And I've had a nice life. Thank you very much.
Which brings me to the airport.
Had some fascinating phone conversations sitting in those places (and I don't sit in them often). Laguardia (NY) comes to mind, and Denver, and once in Indianapolis pre-flight. Conversations with editors in far off lands that arrived as I was on my way to some other place, usually offering bad news.
One of the reasons I don't travel often by planes, trains or automobiles is because of the karma. I don't seem to fare well when I'm away from home. Bad news always arrives in these far off places when I have a full bladder, can't find a restroom, and haven't slept well for days. That's usually when my wife picks a fight, too. We are not good travel companions.
For our next vacation, I'm going unplugged. And I plan to meet Becky at the destination. We'll travel separately. And I'm not answering my phone.
My wife was the first to ask about the pile: "What's this stack of books doing in the middle of the living room floor?"
"Oh," I said, "that's my book review pile."
"Well," she countered, "better start reading them and writing the reviews, I'm tired of tripping on them!"
Okay. I get it. I'm slow. But it takes time to read books--and there is a fine art to writing a good book review (especially when one is getting paid . . . which adds another layer of responsibility and obligation). I want to do it right.
I also subscribe to the "if you can't say anything nice" philosophy of book reviewing . . . which is to say, if I don't like the book, I don't write a review. I simply write my editor and tell her I haven't got the stomach to slam someone's blood, sweat and tears. That's not to say that I can't write some pointed critique or analysis of a book I enjoy. No book is pure. A writer expects some give and take. But I'm not going to pan a book entirely. If I have to do that, I opt out.
I've also taken book review tips from my wife, who excels at critiquing me. She is fond of reviewing my attire each morning and often greets me with the unsettling word: "You're not going to wear that, are you?"
Actually, the thought of wearing swimming trunks and a Hawaiian shirt had crossed my mind. I was nearly out the door. But Becky was certain that I should wear my black suit and a white shirt to the funeral. She was probably correct. She usually has a better fashion sense about such matters.
My wife also corrects my cooking miscues. She is quick to point out that I used too much paprika, or that I overcooked the chicken or under-sizzled the fish. In response, I tell her what bus line she can take and where she can get off and where her destination is and we call it a night.
Book reviewing is like a marriage in this regard. I don't want to hurt a writer any more than my wife hurts me. If I've had a bad day in the kitchen, I don't want to take it out on some newbie from Fresno who has just written a first-book entitled, The 60-Day Prune Diet: How to Dump Your Way to a Slimmer You. I can't stand the thought of hurting some recent college-grad who has written a book entitled, How I Turned $150,000 in College Debt into a Low-Paying Job in the Fast-Food Industry.
You see what I mean?
My wife needs to take it easy on me. I'm doing the best I can. And toward that end, I'm leaving those books in the middle of the living room floor. My wife is still nimble. And I know she can jump.
Family travel is tough, and it's made even tougher when one is a writer trying to gather information for travel essays. This was Calvin Trillin's dilemma during the many family trips he chronicles in his humorous title, Travels with Alice. (Alice is Trillin's beloved and late wife.)
I enjoy Trillin very much, and this book reminded me of the many trips I have taken where, while trying to balance family fun, I have also taken the excursion to gather information for magazines. Trillin's travels have carried him much further--even to the coasts of France and England--but his ability to find humor in family dinner conversations and vacation planning knows no borders.
Trillin writes with an eye toward the funny in the mundane, and he can laugh at himself as he hoists a slice of pie or attempts to rent a car while using his limited French vocabulary. And, as he puts it so bluntly, his daughters are not always certain if they are going to be written into his essays or, if in some unsuspecting moment, they will be quoted by their own father. "When, exactly, are we off the record?" they want to know.
I've faced the same questions . . . though not as often.
Years ago, when our family traveled to Hawaii (four islands) I spent the better part of our return trip home turning my notes into essays and our conversations in quotes. I sold a few of these to travel magazines, including an essay on the Island of Molokai' (my favorite island!). And when my wife hiked The Grand Canyon, I sold her down the river and turned her photographs and excursion notes/quotes into a paying gig. More recently, our trip to the Pacific Northwest was another one of my attempts to turn our hikes, our photographs, and our mom-and-pop conversations inside the rental car into publishable forms.
"Why do you always do this?" Becky wanted to know as we were hiking the slopes of Mt. Saint Helens, gasping for air.
"Do what?"
"Try to turn every vacation into a writing opportunity?"
Hey, it's what I do. I'm still turning tricks. Still working the streets. Still looking for angles. I make a mental note of everything my wife says.
And some of our conversations end up in magazines and books. I can't make this stuff up. It's too funny. And with my ragged wardrobe and my wife's nagging . . . there is humor to be found everywhere. Even on vacation.
Ask Calvin.
