This week I read a fascinating little pamphlet taken from the Buster Brown Museum in New York. I've known for a long time that one of my ancestors was none other than R.F. (Richard Felton) Outcault--the father of the American Comic strip.
Outcault was the first to create a serial comic called "The Yellow Kid" that was first published in a paper owned by Pulitzer in 1901. But Randolph Hearst managed to lure Outcault to his newspaper along with many others on the Pulitzer staff. What followed was "yellow journalism", as Pulitzer hired somone else to continue creating The Yellow Kid strip, and it ran concurrently in two papers (but by different creators). Lawsuits followed. Outcault won the rights to his creation.
Later, he created his most famous comic strip: Buster Brown. The comic with the sappy little kid and the black pug (our pug is named "Buster" by the way). The shoe company came later and bought the rights to the characters.
About four months back I also talked to a gentleman in Louisiana via telephone who has one of the largest personal collections of Yellow Kid memorabilia in the world. He said no one has written a biography of Outcault. (A rather important figure in American letters/journalism, don't you think?)
Should I try writing it? I guess I do have a rather personal connection.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
The Big Book
A few weeks ago I happened to open a cardboard box in the hallway closet and discovered a very thick manuscript. I recognized it immediately and I broke out in a cold sweat. Why?
Because the manuscript has occupied an ongoing chunk of my life for nearly twenty-five years. And I thought I had buried the sucker deep enough this time that I would never resurrect it. But there it was again, staring back at me, beckoning me to work on it once again.
The history?
I was a twenty-four year old grad student who had just been released from the prison of seminary, a kid who now had an open slate of possibilities before him, no longer having to work on the required thirty page theological papers and those dry Biblical exegesis theses. I wanted to write a novel. So I set down and began writing, and some five hundred pages and ten months later I had a massive novel on my hands--a kind of "religious thriller" if you will--about a Notre Dame Biblical scholar who is hounded by a mystical figure who claims to have discovered an artifact that will shatter the historical and theological foundations of the church. (Sounds so familiar now, doesn't it?)
I very quickly managed to find a literary agent in NY who was gaga for the book, and who proceded to instruct me through a series of "re-writes" and revisions. A year later, I'd put another 100,000 to 200,000 additional words into the book, and when I printed the manuscript, it was more than ream of paper and had to be shipped in a wooden crate. The agent shopped the book around NY for a year or so, had me rewrite the thing again (another 100,000 words, maybe?) and then told me he was tired of it and "could I write anything else, or was this all I had inside of me?"
Later, in my thirties (as in, I was thirty years old!) I rewrote the book yet again, giving it an entirely different plot, more twists, a full slate of mayhem and romance, and found enough willing editors to look at the book, but alas, no takers. In my early forties I rewrote the book yet again, changing some of the characters and the plot (improvements I hoped) and changed the title for a third time. Lots of interest in NY, but no takers.
At any rate, I'm sure I have something approaching a million words wrapped up in this single manuscript and it's been the one huge and brilliant disappointment among all of the books I have written or attempted to write. It's still there, and every now and again I find myself thinking: Could I rewrite it yet again and give it another try?
God help me! Why won't this book leave me alone?
Because the manuscript has occupied an ongoing chunk of my life for nearly twenty-five years. And I thought I had buried the sucker deep enough this time that I would never resurrect it. But there it was again, staring back at me, beckoning me to work on it once again.
The history?
I was a twenty-four year old grad student who had just been released from the prison of seminary, a kid who now had an open slate of possibilities before him, no longer having to work on the required thirty page theological papers and those dry Biblical exegesis theses. I wanted to write a novel. So I set down and began writing, and some five hundred pages and ten months later I had a massive novel on my hands--a kind of "religious thriller" if you will--about a Notre Dame Biblical scholar who is hounded by a mystical figure who claims to have discovered an artifact that will shatter the historical and theological foundations of the church. (Sounds so familiar now, doesn't it?)
I very quickly managed to find a literary agent in NY who was gaga for the book, and who proceded to instruct me through a series of "re-writes" and revisions. A year later, I'd put another 100,000 to 200,000 additional words into the book, and when I printed the manuscript, it was more than ream of paper and had to be shipped in a wooden crate. The agent shopped the book around NY for a year or so, had me rewrite the thing again (another 100,000 words, maybe?) and then told me he was tired of it and "could I write anything else, or was this all I had inside of me?"
Later, in my thirties (as in, I was thirty years old!) I rewrote the book yet again, giving it an entirely different plot, more twists, a full slate of mayhem and romance, and found enough willing editors to look at the book, but alas, no takers. In my early forties I rewrote the book yet again, changing some of the characters and the plot (improvements I hoped) and changed the title for a third time. Lots of interest in NY, but no takers.
At any rate, I'm sure I have something approaching a million words wrapped up in this single manuscript and it's been the one huge and brilliant disappointment among all of the books I have written or attempted to write. It's still there, and every now and again I find myself thinking: Could I rewrite it yet again and give it another try?
God help me! Why won't this book leave me alone?
Dog Meat
It seems that everyone has a dog story these days. A few days back I noted an entire table in the bookstore devoted to dog stories. I even have a few of these on my shelves, including one of the best: My Dog Skip.
I've been considering writing about my childhood dog, Tippy.
Here's a summary of his brief little Rat Terrier life:
Tippy was my first birthday present (when I turned one). The dog was three at the time (so he was always two years older than I. The dog ran away many times when I was a child and my dad had to pay to get him out of the pound (remember the dog catcher?).
After we moved to Indiana when I was five, Tippy became increasingly mischevious, getting into scraps with larger dogs. Over the years, he had his side ripped apart by a German Shepherd, got caught in a rabbit trap and showed up three days later with one leg gnawed down to the bone, and had his left ear cut off when one of my friends accidently caught him with the pruning shears.
I found Tippy in the barn when I returned home from school one fall afternoon. I was fourteen, the dog was sixteen. I buried him myself in a hole I dug near the garden.
He's stayed there. Good dog.
I've been considering writing about my childhood dog, Tippy.
Here's a summary of his brief little Rat Terrier life:
Tippy was my first birthday present (when I turned one). The dog was three at the time (so he was always two years older than I. The dog ran away many times when I was a child and my dad had to pay to get him out of the pound (remember the dog catcher?).
After we moved to Indiana when I was five, Tippy became increasingly mischevious, getting into scraps with larger dogs. Over the years, he had his side ripped apart by a German Shepherd, got caught in a rabbit trap and showed up three days later with one leg gnawed down to the bone, and had his left ear cut off when one of my friends accidently caught him with the pruning shears.
I found Tippy in the barn when I returned home from school one fall afternoon. I was fourteen, the dog was sixteen. I buried him myself in a hole I dug near the garden.
He's stayed there. Good dog.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Editorial Hot Potato
Last week I received a most interesting series of emails.
The first email came from an editor who has been looking at one of my book proposals. I had sent him the proposal about three months ago and the proposal had, as usual, disappeared into the black sinkhole of silence. Then, suddenly, I discovered his email one morning that went something like this:
I lost your proposal, but I do want to look at it. Could you send it to me again? Oh, and by the way, I'm going to pass it along to another editor. I'm not the editor you want, anyway.
No problem.
A few days later I get a second email that read something like this:
Editor #1 passed your proposal along to me, but I'm going to send it to editor #3, since he is clearly more passionate about these kinds of projects than I am and wouldn't mind working with a loser like you. Editor #3 will likely be in touch soon, unless, of course, I (editor #2) have second thoughts or pass it back to editor #1 (where it might get lost in the slush pile again). But please check back with me (editor #2) if you want to make sure that editor #3 did receive your proposal, in which case you can rest assured that editor #1 did receive the updated version of your proposal and considered it good enough to pass along to me. Our best wishes for your continued success. (Oh, and in case you are wondering, there is no editor #4.)
The first email came from an editor who has been looking at one of my book proposals. I had sent him the proposal about three months ago and the proposal had, as usual, disappeared into the black sinkhole of silence. Then, suddenly, I discovered his email one morning that went something like this:
I lost your proposal, but I do want to look at it. Could you send it to me again? Oh, and by the way, I'm going to pass it along to another editor. I'm not the editor you want, anyway.
No problem.
A few days later I get a second email that read something like this:
Editor #1 passed your proposal along to me, but I'm going to send it to editor #3, since he is clearly more passionate about these kinds of projects than I am and wouldn't mind working with a loser like you. Editor #3 will likely be in touch soon, unless, of course, I (editor #2) have second thoughts or pass it back to editor #1 (where it might get lost in the slush pile again). But please check back with me (editor #2) if you want to make sure that editor #3 did receive your proposal, in which case you can rest assured that editor #1 did receive the updated version of your proposal and considered it good enough to pass along to me. Our best wishes for your continued success. (Oh, and in case you are wondering, there is no editor #4.)
Friday, May 23, 2008
Reading Prescriptions
As I write this, I can barely swallow. My throat feels like someone has rubbed sandpaper over it. And as the old song says, I didn't sleep at all last night.
The culprit? Who knows. But Becky and I are both walking sickos.
Now that I'm popping pills legally, I couldn't help but read the prescription labels. It's funny how some medications are suppossed to be taken on an empty stomach, and others can be taken with anything except alcohol or grapefruit juice; and still others don't mention combinations at all. The only thing I care about are results. Then again, this is a good way to lose that ten pounds I've set as a goal this summer. I'm not eating, so maybe the pills will help.
I also started reading another of Mary Roach's quirky books: Spook, How Science Searches for the Afterlife.
If these pills don't help, I may be joining the ranks of the glorified very soon. But I'm ready, Jesus . . . Glory Hallellujiah!
The culprit? Who knows. But Becky and I are both walking sickos.
Now that I'm popping pills legally, I couldn't help but read the prescription labels. It's funny how some medications are suppossed to be taken on an empty stomach, and others can be taken with anything except alcohol or grapefruit juice; and still others don't mention combinations at all. The only thing I care about are results. Then again, this is a good way to lose that ten pounds I've set as a goal this summer. I'm not eating, so maybe the pills will help.
I also started reading another of Mary Roach's quirky books: Spook, How Science Searches for the Afterlife.
If these pills don't help, I may be joining the ranks of the glorified very soon. But I'm ready, Jesus . . . Glory Hallellujiah!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Writing Graduation
This past week Becky and I have both become miserably ill. She has been to the doctor twice to procur medications strong enough to stun a cow, and this morning I woke up to a throat so sore that I can scarcely talk. Our daughter graduates from high school this Friday.
Is there a connection? Probably.
A few days ago, at the greeting card aisle, I realized that Hallmark needed a section for sick parents (old folks whose bodies fall apart when they have to plan enormous parties for graduating seniors). So, I thought I'd give Hallmark a leg up and offer this option for consideration a new "Heartsick" line of greeting cards.
Me, all dried up like a popped cork . . .
You, lying in bed with your mouth propped open,
wheezing like a broken ceiling fan . . .
A couple of parents waiting for their little girl
to graduate.
Since no one else will send their love . . .
I'm sending you mine, dear,
Along with this generous sampling of antiobiotics.
Here, take the water of my broken heart.
Take two and call me in the morning.
We've got to get dressed and fix a pot of meatballs.
Is that the doorbell I hear . . .
Or just you, groaning?
(c) Heartsick is a Trademark of Todd Outcalt enterprises and may not be used in conjunction with any other illnesses, spouses, or graduates. For a full transcript of his other Heartsick line of greeting cards, drop him a blog or two ibuprophen.
Is there a connection? Probably.
A few days ago, at the greeting card aisle, I realized that Hallmark needed a section for sick parents (old folks whose bodies fall apart when they have to plan enormous parties for graduating seniors). So, I thought I'd give Hallmark a leg up and offer this option for consideration a new "Heartsick" line of greeting cards.
Me, all dried up like a popped cork . . .
You, lying in bed with your mouth propped open,
wheezing like a broken ceiling fan . . .
A couple of parents waiting for their little girl
to graduate.
Since no one else will send their love . . .
I'm sending you mine, dear,
Along with this generous sampling of antiobiotics.
Here, take the water of my broken heart.
Take two and call me in the morning.
We've got to get dressed and fix a pot of meatballs.
Is that the doorbell I hear . . .
Or just you, groaning?
(c) Heartsick is a Trademark of Todd Outcalt enterprises and may not be used in conjunction with any other illnesses, spouses, or graduates. For a full transcript of his other Heartsick line of greeting cards, drop him a blog or two ibuprophen.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Church Popping
Last week I read a book written by Tim Stevens (the Exective Pastor at Granger Church in South Bend, Indiana). Tim's book is Pop Goes the Church. Essentially, it's a guide that can help congregations use popular culture, trends, images, movies, books, and catch phrases as a way of reaching people with the gospel. It is obvious that this method has worked well at Granger, as they are one of the most high-tech, pop culture-savvy congregations I've seen anywhere, with over 10,000 people worshipping with them on weekends.
When I got to the back of the book, though, I was astounded to read about some of the churches that have used pop culture images and trends to produce spectacular growth, including one congregation that went from 0 to 2,900 people in worship in less than two years.
These congregations make our 10% growth here at Calvary look rather insignificant, but we do what we can. But hey, I don't look like Tim Stevens, either. He's hip, has a shaved head, and a little VanDyke-style beard. Me--I'm a guy rapidly approaching fifty with a double chin and a growing paunch of a belly. About the only thing "hip" or "pop" about me is that I still have 25,000 baseball cards stashed away in the closet and I drink Starbucks coffee about three times a week.
I have a feeling that my best attempt to capture "pop" culture in worship is when I show a video clip from a movie that has was formerly in Video format and was recently converted to DVD. (I still can't get the "12:00" to stop flashing on my VCR.)
I ain't gettin' any younger. Anybody wanna buy some baseball cards?
When I got to the back of the book, though, I was astounded to read about some of the churches that have used pop culture images and trends to produce spectacular growth, including one congregation that went from 0 to 2,900 people in worship in less than two years.
These congregations make our 10% growth here at Calvary look rather insignificant, but we do what we can. But hey, I don't look like Tim Stevens, either. He's hip, has a shaved head, and a little VanDyke-style beard. Me--I'm a guy rapidly approaching fifty with a double chin and a growing paunch of a belly. About the only thing "hip" or "pop" about me is that I still have 25,000 baseball cards stashed away in the closet and I drink Starbucks coffee about three times a week.
I have a feeling that my best attempt to capture "pop" culture in worship is when I show a video clip from a movie that has was formerly in Video format and was recently converted to DVD. (I still can't get the "12:00" to stop flashing on my VCR.)
I ain't gettin' any younger. Anybody wanna buy some baseball cards?
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