More than twelve days ago our vacation travels began with a Big Mac eaten in the Indianapolis airport and ended yesterday eating a bag or Ritz crackers in Chicago International over an empty wallet. I also began the ordeal with a full Kindle reading Oscar Hijuelos's memoir, Thoughts Without Cigarettes . . . a rather humble, and at times self-deprecating history of his own Cuban roots and the life which led him to write The Mambo Kings Sing Songs of Love, which won the Pulitzer prize for fiction some twenty years ago. And Hijuelos's Mr. Ives' Christmas is one of the most theological and emotionally moving Yuletide tales one will encounter.
Interestingly enough, as I turned off my Kindle in Indy, and as Becky and I were preparing to board our flight to Denver, I heard a familiar voice and I spent all of five minutes talking to an old singer-songwriter friend who informed me, as he scurried away with his guitar to catch his own flight to Phoenix, that he had written one of his songs using my poem-lyrics.
"Do you remember the poem?" he asked. "I hope you don't mind."
"I'm sure I don't remember," I admitted. "And no, I don't mind."
"I'll send you a CD," he promised (thanks, Jim).
Some time today I'll be listening to the song and trying to recall what, exactly, I wrote for these lyrics (twelve years ago?). I doubt Tim Rice or Bernie Taupin have anything to worry about.
And so began our vacation . . . poems, a loaded Kindle, and Thoughts Without Cigarettes. Hijuelos kept me company most of the way to Denver, but I kept trying to delve into my own past to remember this song writing incident.
"Does altitude effect memory?" I asked Becky as we passed over Limp Biscuit, Iowa.
"Why do you ask?"
"Oh, no reason," I said. "And who are you, lady?"
Doesn't seem possible, but this is the 1000th blog for Between Pages . . . this little experiment in humor centered on my reading and writing habits. Through the years people have asked about Between Pages, wondering if it is intended to be devotional (it's not!), or insightful (no!), or helpful (not unless you need a laugh!). No . . . this blog is about my weird and wacky side. Or, for the people who REALLY know me . . . it's just me writing humor about my reading and writing.
This is also my last blog for a few days (but read on, and I'll explain).
I do have a few insights, however, about writing 1000 blog entries. Here they are:
If I wrote an average of 250 words per blog, I've written 250,000 words just on this blog alone. That's a quarter of a million words, folks! For anyone wondering how you write a book . . . this is the way. One day at a time. I've written what could be three to four BIG books through this blog alone. Write every day (yes, 7 days a week, 365 days a year!) and you'll produce at least one book a year guaranteed! Write 2 pages a day, you have two books . . . three pages, three books, etc. Do the math. I probably write 8-10 books a year, and this is how I do it.
I'm amazed by who reads this weird blog. In a couple of weeks I'll be doing a podcast interview because a producer read one of my wild entries about my marriage and wants to find out how much of my marriage is true. (Answer: all of it, but who would want to live it?)
No, my wife doesn't read this blog. No one in my family does. They live this blog, and they don't want to be reminded that I read and write every day and that, even on my good days, I press the boundaries of sickness and sanity. My wife seems to appreciate my romantic poetry, however . . . and this is usually how I entice her to go to bed with me. It works twice a year. My kids walk away in disgust whenever I tell them, "Daddy can't play right now, I have to write." Actually . . . both of my kids write, too . . . and some day I hope we can write something together. They have suggested working on my Last Will & Testament.
Finally, I'm glad I reached this 1000th blog today. I leave this afternoon for 10 days of R & R in the great Northwest. Look for my next blog entry by, or around, July 19th! I think I've earned a break from this blog for a few days and my wife really needs my advances and my attention. I hope you'll understand. She says she can't wait . . . to read my poems.
Oh, and sincerely . . . THANKS FOR READING!!!!!
After vacation (Lord willin' and the creek don't rise) . . . I've promised to clean my office at home. Becky has given me an ultimatum. "Either you put things in order or I will!"
I don't know what all the fuss is about. I know where everything is located among the piles: two-year old manuscripts, cover letters, pre-addressed envelopes, postage stamps, essays, stories, poems, rejection letters, and more. I can reach into any of the piles, just like little Jack Horner, and pull out the plum I'm looking for.
"Your office looks like it was hit by a tornado." I take exception to this. In fact, I think my office is rather orderly . . . especially compared to other writer's spaces I've seen. My books are neatly stacked two and three deep in the bookshelves, I have my dictionary, thesaurus, Bible, concordance, and file for editorial addresses and phone numbers neatly assigned to a shelf above my old, gray Compaq computer. I have a lateral filing cabinet neatly organized, labeled and choked full of manuscripts, contracts, and royalty statements. I have my royalty stubs of the past fifteen years totalling $165.95 cents. And yes, I do have several piles of paper on the window sill and on the floor, but these are "working" piles, and I dare not disturb them, lest I let air into the interior, expose the "hot spot", and start a fire.
Later this week, while I'm hiking Mt. Rainier and Mt. Saint Helen's, I'll have a chance to explain these things to my wife. I'll woo her. Court her. Sweet talk her to the point where she will relent and say, "You know, I love your office just the way it is. Don't change a thing. Leave those piles strewn around the floor and I'll just vacuum around them, sweetheart. You're such a wonderful man, what was I thinking asking you to clean anything? I should be doing YOU favors . . . and starting as soon as we get back to Brownsburg, God help me, I WILL."
I'm going for this effect. I think I can do it. I have my romantic poems packed--one for each day of our trip--and I also have an ample supply of Rolaids, Ben-Gay, and Extra-Strength Tylenol. I have Motrin, too. And clean underwear.
It's no wonder the woman loves me. She knows I won't change. And if she gives me a headache, I'll just fight it off.
Every now and again and editor will inform me that my work has made "the short list." What this means is that the editor has taken my work out of the "slush" pile and placed it into a narrower pile of work for future consideration to be published. In other words, the short list is work that is being considered for publication.
Naturally, I like making the short list. I used to be a full six-foot two-inches in height, but as I've aged, my body has settled like a cake and I can barely stretch myself to this stature today. When I go in for my yearly physical, I do manage to crack a few vertebrae and stretch up to this height. The nurse always tells me, "Great job." She smiles at me, as if I am an old man who has achieved something spectacular just from being alive. She pats me on the back and says, "Follow me into the examination room down the hall." She takes my blood pressure and is astounded to discover that I have the sitting heart rate of a poodle. When the doctor comes into the room, he always looks as me and says, "Oh, it's you again."
Short lists are wonderful because it means that some of my work might see print before my death (which will likely be from rickets or scurvy). I can also inform my wife that my life has not been in vain, and that, someday soon, an editor might affirm that my existence was productive and might even slap a biographical profile in the back of the magazine. My photo might also be included, giving me the opportunity to use a snapshot that is twenty years old.
I'm hoping that more editors will call me this week before vacation and tell me that they are putting me on their "short list."
"Better hurry," I'll tell them. "My cholesterol could go haywire at any time and I might not be here in a few weeks. If you want me to do any revisions, these should be accomplished before I have a stroke."
Editors never take my advice, however. They just keep shortening their lists, and usually I get short-changed off the list entirely.
By then, I'm long gone.
I spent the better part of the morning of the 4th reading . . . and by afternoon in the Lazy-Boy, I had fallen asleep. That's what happens when one stays up until 1 a.m. playing the board game: Clue. I won the last game: it was Miss Scarlet, with the Knife, in the Lounge.
It's tough going these days in the reading department. I tend to fall asleep very easily now. I even fall asleep when I am home alone with Becky. I look at her and nod off. Perhaps I need Geritol.
During these final days before vacation, I do have my Kindle loaded and I'm looking forward to taking it along on the long flight west. But if the flight attendant hands me a bag of pretzels or some type of complex carb, I may not be able to read past the first chapter before I fall asleep.
One thing for sure, I'm not carting around any works by Washington Irving. Especially not "Rip Van Winkle."
I'll need a lot of coffee to get a book read on this vacation.
It happens every summer. Just as I am making plans to get away on vacation, the phone starts ringing and the offers start coming in. And, although most publishers and magazines "take a break" from submissions during the mid-summer slump, it always feels like my writing load heats up during July.
In the past week I've had three phone calls from folks asking if I would 1) schedule a drive-time radio show to talk about my, now, nearly two year-old wedding planning book 2) schedule a couple of speaking engagements for marketing purposes.
I've already said "no" to the speaking engagements and turned down these high-paying gigs, but I will try to work out the drive-time radio interview, even if I have to do the talk show from my cell phone near the top of Mt. Rainier, where Becky and I are headed next week. It's possible. For the past two years I've done radio interviews from my hotel room while on vacation.
Most of the interviewers want to know, "Where are now, Mr. Alleycat? Do I hear the sound of surf in the background?"
"Oh, that's just the cabana boy bringing me another drink. There's a party going on over here. They just brought in another load of caviar."
I'm ready to do my interview while walking a trail or riding a ferry across the Columbia river. That's the wonder of cell phones. As long as I can get good reception, I'm available. The only thing I'll have to work out is the time difference. But I hate the thought of getting up in the middle of the night. Not for an interview. And certainly not while on vacation.
As the writer of Ecclesiastes observed centuries ago: "for everything there is a season." Indeed . . . and when it comes to the flow of writing, there are high tides and eddies. This week was an interesting one in that I had six poems accepted for publication--all to see the light of page at some future date, but I don't know when.
Oscillating between so many different forms--short story, essay, poetry, non-fiction and novel--I've been on an eclectic and hasty journey of late, setting aside one chapter for another, or returning to half-completed work while brushing the finishing coat of lacquer on the old. As soon as I complete one book, two more rear their ugly heads.
I'm not sure why so much of my poetry received the nod this week . . . but luck has as much to do with it as anything, and I'm grateful to the gods of chance.
I'm beginning to feel like Raymond Carver--the guy who wrote in so many forms and genres--his work not easily defined. Carver become principally known as a short story writer after his untimely death, but he wrote much, much more.
I've been working on dozens of poems about American writers, and here's one on Carver himself. Having read the bulk of Carver's short story collections, he is certainly one of the short form masters. Short . . . just like his life.
Raymond Carver
Reading your words, precise as they are,
I taste each syllable on the tip of my tongue.
You arrived too old to have travelled so far
And departed too late to be so young.
