Yesterday I discovered a "fan letter" that I had, evidently, overlooked. It was written by a woman of some adoring qualities who, apparently, liked what I wrote and how I wrote it. In particular, she wrote to tell me she enjoyed my humor.
Now, there happen to be a lot of women who tell me they enjoy my humor (which is to say, "I think you look funny" or "you smell like humus" or "are your ears supposed to stick out that much and produce that much wax?"). But when the woman signed her letter she also included a return address at the bottom, and I happened to notice that she lived in Terhune, Indiana.
Terhune? So there really is such a place?!
The Terhune I happen to know comes from the movie, Hoosiers. And one of the lines I recall from the movie went something like this:
"Hell, if Jimmy jumps ship and goes over to play for Terhune, we're screwed!" (Hence, the PG rating.)
Terhune was also the school that Hickory beat in the sectional tournament--the one game where all the players on the opposing team appeared to be in their mid-twenties, with lots of facial hair and a snide attitude. But they were, after all, from Terhune, reigning sectional champs, and they knew they were hot stuff with their fancy uniforms and their dolled-up cheerleaders, all of whom were probably hookers. That's the Terhune I remember.
But I mean no disrespect. I am, after all, from a small town myself. A town that had a main street comprised of four stores and a primary industry that featured a salt-packing plant. I come from Terhune stock, shooting hoops in the backyard for twelve hours a day or until my fingers bled. With my background, I know how devastating it would have been to have seen Jimmy go over to Terhune. I would have felt screwed, too.
I want to thank my fan from Terhune. It's good to know that my junk plays in small town America and that there are readers out there who weep for Jimmy, just like me, and feel that they are getting screwed by the neighboring town.
But let me tell you, this fella will never go over to Terhune. He'll continue writing on his home court. After all, no town this small has ever made it this far. Which ain't sayin' much.
But he is grateful for the chance to play. Just call me Ollie.
Later this month I will be "guest blogging" on a number of breast-cancer related sites. But I always feel a sense of pressure whenever I am, so to speak, being invited into another person's living room. I don't want to spill my drink or step on the sleeping dog. I'd hate to say something that is out of turn or offend my host. I would prefer to enjoy the caviar. And I don't need to stay long. I'll take my leave quickly.
Guest blogging also fills me with a sense of trepidation . . . and if I ever do experience anything resembling "writer's block" it might occur when I'm asked to encroach upon another writer's space. Writing a magazine article, or even a book, is quite a different matter. It's a clean slate on those pages. But a blog has a history. And some blogs have large readerships. I'm inside someone's personal space and I know it.
So, now I write. But what do I write? And how do I write it slant?
These are the questions I shall be mulling over the weekend, perhaps writing my blog posts early on Saturday morning or late Sunday night, maybe with donut in hand.
I deserve a donut for these blog posts. It's a frightening thing, after all, to appear at someone's front door without a gift. I can't bring any bread, or wine, or a cake. All I have are the words. And sometimes these seem so inadequate.
It's a dictum I've tried to live by since I was twelve years old. That is: A writer must have goals.
I first said this to myself when I was a seventh grade student while taking a creative writing class with Mrs. McGee. I says to myself: "Self! You must have goals!" My goal that semester was to ask my parents for a typewriter (manual, Smith Corona) and then to write science fiction stories for the class. I achieved both, perhaps much to the chagrin of my parents and teachers. But I was on my way.
One thing I do each year is set writing goals in January for the year ahead. This past January, one goal I had set for myself was to strive for 100 published essays/articles this year. (Not 100 written, but published. I can write 100 essays every year in my sleep, but to have 100 published, some of which actually pay cold hard cash . . . well, that's a different story entirely, Aunt Bertha.)
Now, as I approach mid-November, I've begun to calculate my efforts toward this one goal and, by golly Miss Molly, I might just achieve it. I'm having a tough time accounting for every one of my published pieces (after all, I forget essays, and even entire books, as soon as I've written them), but as I use the touch pad on my handy-dandy pocket calculator and try to use the basic math I learned from Mrs. Allison in second grade, I'm gonna come pretty darn close to the goal if I don't surpass it.
I'm including in this calculation all of my various columns and regular pieces for magazines, my book reviews, magazine and journal articles, published commentary, and a few devotions. The 100 essays would include subject matter ranging from theology to antique lure collecting, from personal memoir, to humor, to poetical comment, to the wild and wacky world of the bent synapses in my demented mind. I'm also including my published fiction . . . and now that I think about that fiction . . . I'm sure I reached my goal of 100. I surpassed it.
Well, but what about 2014? Shall I do it again? Or shall I up the ante to 150?
I gotta have a goal. Mrs. McGee taught me that. And I write by mathematics. It's all about how many words I can produce each day, multiplied by weeks, multiplied by twelve months . . . and that tells me how far and how fast I have to stretch to get to the goal line. The goal tells me how early I have to rise. And how late I have to work into the night. The goal dictates if I have to write while I'm on vacation, or while I'm driving. The goal also tells me how many pounds of coffee and black licorice I'll have to budget for and how many pots I gotta drink. Somewhere in the mix, I'll also account for the twenty-five minutes of conversation I can give to my wife, and I dole out these minutes to her by the week via a conversation chart I have tacked to the refrigerator door. She's a good sport, and it's amazing how quickly she can talk in 15-second increments so as to allow me time to get back to the keyboard.
But I've never had 100 published essays in a single year before. That's a milestone for me. And you know what, it doesn't feel heavy at all. Feels rather freeing, actually. I like 100. It's a good ROUND number.
~Todd
As my wife and I are planning a 30th wedding anniversary trip to Europe next summer, beginning in Ireland and England, I've been foraging for the best deals, the top sights, the workable itinerary. But I'm also going back to England to write.
Last week I received word from an editor in London (thanks, Adam!) that he's going to publish yet another of my science fiction stories. This chap has been good to me and seems to like what I write.
And the day after I received this word, I learned that I'll be writing as a guest blogger for an English publication, this time writing about breast cancer-related themes to correspond with the publication of Husband's Guide to Breast Cancer.
It's a small world.
A short decade ago, writing for publications in England while living in the States would have been, at best, a lengthy and frustrating exchange. But now it's achievable with the click of a mouse or a Skype conversation.
These long-distance conversations are no longer science fiction, but reality. And it's amazing how a guy sitting in a dark office in Brownsburg, hunkered at a keyboard illuminated by a 40-watt bulb, can write a piece at 3 a.m. and have it in England, ready for publication, by mid-afternoon Brit time.
Not exactly "Beam me up, Scotty" material . . . but it'll do.
Question: Why do you write?
Answer: Why not?
(Really, that's my answer, so why are you looking for more way down here?)
Question: Where do you write?
Answer: This is not being flippant, but I write on the computer. I have been writing on the computer since 1985, when I purchased a Tandy 1000 (Radio Shack) with dual floppy drives and a green monochrome monitor for $1000.00. Let me tell you, that was big money back then . . . my full time salary as a pastor in those days was $13,800, so I shelled out nearly 1/13 of my annual salary for the purchase. I never regretted it. (I'd still be writing on that Tandy if that system was compatible with Microsoft Word, and I still have the system stuffed into my closet along with dozens of those 6 inch floppy drives loaded with novels, short stories, and essays.)
There were a couple of computers since, but in 1999 I purchased a Compaq computer with the latest version of Microsoft Word loaded on it ('98) and updated the software on this machine a bit later. This computer sits in my office at home, along with hundreds of 3 1/2 inch floppy drives . . . and I'm still using it. I don't write so much on this machine any more, as it often sparks into flame and I have to blow it out . . . but I've been told that this computer, with its three fans inside, will never die.
I do write on this computer from time to time when I need to find material that I've been working on for, say, over a decade. Often, it takes me hours to find this material (I don't have my floppies labeled very well).
I typically write now on a Dell laptop that is six years old. I write in my office at home. I write on the couch (say, while I'm watching a Colt's game on TV as I did Sunday night). I also write in bed (occasionally) and I write at a smaller desk in my home office that sits next to some built-in bookshelves that hold, now, nearly 1500 books. I have also been known to write in the car, on airplanes, on buses, and while on vacation.
I also write online (blogs) and I write for several magazines . . . that's another WHERE. I currently write for book publishers in New York, Boston, Chicago, Florida, and Indianapolis. And I write for magazines that are published in Nashville, Chicago, and Indianapolis.
And as of this week, I just learned that I'm going to be writing (as a guest blogger) for several other folks in other cities around the country.
If you need to know "what" I write or "when" I write . . . see my previous blogs. And if you need to know "why" I write . . . that's my next post.
Until then . . . let me get back to this old keyboard. Most of the letters are worn off the pad. But that's okay. After all these years, I just write by feel.
~Todd
Today I'll attempt to address the question: When do you have time to write?
Answer: I suppose people ask this question because they are wondering . . . don't you have another job? Of course I do. In fact, I work around 60 hours a week as a pastor. But as I've charted my writing hours beyond this I've learned that I work an additional 40 hours a week writing.
But when? Well, let's begin with several observations. First, I don't have a life. There's little on TV that I watch (in fact, I only have "rabbit ear" reception in our house . . . no U-Verse, no cable, no satellite.) And as the average American watches something like 90 hours of TV a week, well . . . I use this time to write instead. Sure, I'll occasionally watch a rerun of The Andy Griffith Show, or I might watch a football game like I did last night, but I also write while I watch, and when the TV goes off, I write some more.
Most days I also write long before the sun comes up (that's very early a.m boys-n-girls!) and when I come home from a day at the church office for example, even if it's 9:30 p.m., I usually hit the writing trail again for a few hours.
I also write on those occasions when I have a day off. Some of these days, I write all day. I'm not talking part of the day (like 3-4 hours), but I'm saying I might write all day. All day means that I might write from 6 a.m. to midnight. What's that . . . something like 18 hours? That's a lot of numb-butt writing let me tell you. But I do it.
I write when I'm driving. Can't explain it, but I have a great many pieces that I've written in "my head" while traveling from one appointment to the next. I write on airplanes. I write on buses. I write on the computer. I write on scraps of paper. I write on the back of my hand.
Recently I wrote a piece entitled: "Writing in the Dark." That's when I do most of my writing. Some day I hope to write in the daylight. That would be a wonderful treat, to be able to have fun in the mornings and evenings. I might even do more more with my wife at those hours.
When do I write? Well . . . perhaps a better question is--when do I not write?
I have to keep writing to meet all the deadlines . . . and sometimes it's the writing that is keeping me alive.
