It's Official

I finally get to put this thing on my website:



I signed up over at the National Novel Writing Month website in preparation for that big undertaking in November. Devin is going along for the ride—anyone else up for the challenge?

I'm putting out the call for your folks to once again post the cruel and unusual things I'll be subjected to if I don't finish the 50,000 words before the deadline. It'll be quite a task—it seems like November is always chock-full of events, and this year is shaping up to be chock-fuller than ever. It's a good day to be signing up, though: pleasantly foggy and chill for us (it's sad when 60 degrees constitutes "chill," but I'll take what I can get here in the desert southwest). Grading is going fairly well these days, thanks to the revelation by Joanna that no matter how I break it up, grading always takes the same amount of time. Of course this is obvious to the majority of humans, but it was a stunning insight for me. Doing a small amount of grading each day actually won't make it take longer than when I do it in a great, mind-destroying rush at the last minute. Weird how reality works, isn't it?

The last thing I leave you with before I get back to work is this, which was linked to from the NaNoWriMo website. It was an entertaining read for us fantasy aficianados, and I'm happy to say that my novel from March only breaks three or four of them that I recognize (numbers 36, 37, 48, and maybe 17 if you stretch it). They recommend abandoning any novel that contains even one, but these are relatively innocuous, I think. And the novel I'm thinking of for November may once again break the name rules, but otherwise I think I'm pretty safe...

And for those who are wondering, yes, I am still working on the March novel. New draft sections are going up even as we speak.

I'm off.

Season of Trials

Man—it seems as though everyone's going through a period of testing these days. Devin is trying to find some balance (though he once again sounds chipper in his most recent post—the man's a bipolar wonder); Christina is struggling through school, single motherhood, and general madness; Slater is working through church issues and bousebuilding difficulties (it's hard to muster up much sympathy for a guy who goes out to breakfast with his wife every week, is indepdendently employed, and is planning a home on his own 10 acres of country paradise, but there you go); Skaggs is making us cry about his poor wee son and the heart-wrenching trials they've been through; Beth has had her head pop off and a giant change of life thrust upon her and her family; and Kathie, though her recent posts have been about humorous bathroom noises, is leaving tear-inducing comments on everyone else's blogs and struggling with her own issues.

Egads.

Makes my petty whining here seem pretty pitiful. Yesterday morning I was all set to post about how miserable I was after another night of not much sleep and grading still left undone, but (a) after whining and moaning and kicking at the goads trying to guess what God wanted from me, He came through in His own way, and (b) everyone else's posts put me in my place.

I'm not sure why this seems to be descending upon us all simultaneously—perhaps together our band is the single greatest threat to the forces of evil in America today, so we have to be kept separate and struggling. In a more serious vein, though, it certainly does point out the need for strong community. I know I wouldn't get through half of what I do without my friends' admonishment, counsel, and encouragement. Devin and I have been recently bemoaning the evil and pointless diversion the internet brings into our homes and lives, but at least in this it is a mighty powerful tool. I'm fairly certain I wouldn't hear from half of you half as often as I do without this—heck, without GoogleTalk I probably would have no clue at all that Slater was even married yet, or that he wasn't a hobo living under an overpass as we all though he would be. The idea that we get to keep up on one another's lives so quickly and easily is a blessing, albeit one that sometimes comes with ads for online gambling and penile enhancement products.

I haven't really found a place to be at peace yet, but knowing that others are going through their own seasons of trial and sharing in mine is a comfort. I'm praying for you all.

Warning: Another Depressing Post Ahead

I cannot express to you how much being generally unable to access the internet after 8pm or so affects my ability to post.

I mentioned before that my "office" has been given over to a playroom (which is really more of a toy storage room and now cat supply room, since the boys don't ever play in there and we have two new cats. Oh, yes) and now the computer is sitting in a corner of our bedroom. Born Dancin's crib is also in the bedroom, so after she's sleeping, I'm out.

It's also surprising how lazy I am--well, surprising to me, anyway. I could access the internet from my laptop, but that requires (a) me unplugging the wires to the DSL box, (b) carrying it to the living room, and (c)re-plugging everything in. It's a laborious process that can take up to five minutes on a bad evening. Yet somehow it seems hard to do (not to mention the fact that I have to put it all away again when I'm done). Setting up the folding table, laying out the machine, and getting everything properly attached to everything else is just too hard.

All this points to a bigger issue: I'm congenitally unable to use small blocks of time. I don't even start a project unless I have a couple of hours to devote to it, free from all other interruption. If I have four hours of grading to do, I don't start it unless I actually have four free hours, which is almost never.

This is madness, I know. I'm trying to break myself of that thought process, using ten and fifteen minutes when they're available. That's why I'm posting this hasty and rambling and dull post now, while I've got a moment or two before heading home. Cramming in whatever I could worked for my "novel-in-a-month" project, mainly because I was concentrated on the results rather than the process. Maybe I could employ a similar system.

Isn't this fascinating? I'm going through one of my endless crises of conscience and focus, trying to figure out how to live life in such a way that I don't feel guilty all the time. I'd love to go to bed some night feeling happy and content about what I'd accomplished that day. To be a good teacher, and to write, and to be a good husband, and to be a good father, and to be a good homeowner, and to be a good servant to Christ... How to manage all these simultaneously is a seeming impossibility. Only He can show me how to get it all done.

I hope I get a few clues soon. I don't want to drown.

And Back Again

I, like Devin, have been paralyzed for a while without posting, daunted by all I'd have to catch up on to do so.

How silly is that? Yet it happens more often than not. So I, like the aforementioned Parker, am throwing responsibility to the wind and posting whatever pops into my head.

In this case, it's pictures!



Tell me that's not the cutest kid in the world. Go ahead--just try. Meanwhile, I'm causing my hand to phase in and out of existence. I'm a magic!











It's Born Dancin', just over 15 months. A bunch of you have not seen her in a long time. She's talking, melting hearts, and walking. As evidence, I offer the following:



Though this may be a rare sighting of Cindy Lou Who.













Meanwhile, the boys at 5 have sprouted into the gangly, long-legged creatures you see here:



They just started preschool and are showing predilictions of being their father's children. The other day, when I asked Poncho if his shirt was on backward, he pulled out the neck, looked down, and exclaimed, "I see no tag!" On a recent camping trip, after visiting a little general store that didn't have what we needed, he asked, "Did it prove too small?" His current ambition when he grows up? To be a knight.

That's my boy.



Here is Poncho, in all his glory:


















Meanwhile, Denver also continues to amuse and amaze with his strange made-up songs (he wants to be a guitarist) and his consistently employed fake laugh. When presented with a belated birthday gift from the great-grandparents, he actually exclaimed wholeheartedly, "Boy oh boy! I'm gonna like this!" It was like standing in an episode of The Little Rascals.



















Amidst all the birthday parties, school functions, the new semester starting at school (almost a month and a half ago now--sheesh), family hijinks, and revising my draft on Slater's orders (for which I am ever grateful), it's been nutty.

I'll attempt to be more postful when I can. Until then, one more image of cuteness to tide you over:



















Two words: En-joy.

The Long Walk

The great journey to the Sierras was a limited success. It was terrific while it lasted. It just lasted too short a time.

Legolas and I made great time up to Mammoth Lakes, flying through the scrubby desert dotted with scrapyards and Joshua trees and spent a pleasant afternoon replacing items we'd forgotten, packing bear-proof canisters with food, and getting Legolas' pack down to approximately 1.7 pounds. Somehow, despite thinning out my gear to near attenuation, it still weighed in at 486 pounds. I credit it to the fact that Legolas' pack was fuscia.

Eventually, Gimli joined us and ate some lunch at perhaps the worst-run Quiznos in the western hemisphere (I'd never been into a sub shop in which the bread was too frozen to be eaten). Upon our return, we found Pippin there and ready to go.

We all made it out to the trailhead as the thunderheads above started to unleash their torrents. The hike began in mixed rain and hail with a cool breeze, still warm enough to travel with just a pack cover and poncho. Lots of folks were fleeing the high country, leaving us as the only travelers uphill. It was like hiking through a Tolkien epic, actually. Great towering monoliths of granite, capped with snow, loomed above us, their heads thrust into the lowering clouds. All around us, huge pines sang in the wind, the ground carpeted with mossy boulders and rushing streams. We made it up to Arrowhead Lake (which Pippin conjectured was connected to all Arrowhead Lakes in the world by secret tunnels, and if we could find the hidden cavern at its depth, we could swim through it to our own Arrowhead Lake. What a delightful scamp he is), then curved up to Skelton Lake, making a few small stream crossings along the way.

By this time the precipitation had trailed off, so we stowed the ponchos and continued in the fresh post-rain breezes scented with pine and damp earth. Barney Lake was idyllic and surrounded by lush green, but we had our eyes on the top of Duck Pass looming to our north up a thousand feet of scree-covered hillside.

There's no better way to mount endless stony switchbacks than while debating religion, so that's what we did. Slowly the lake dropped below us in a basin of primeval talus, and before long we were tromping past icy patches of snow. We made the pass at about 11,500 feet, just before sunset. Duck Lake lay below, four times larger than any of the lakes before—and we were the only people there, which was exactly what we wanted.

However, we were also winded, getting cold, and in need of a spot to set up camp. As Pippin indicated on his blog, we found a spot on a tiny spit of land halfway down a clifflike slope on the south side of the lake. Legolas and I attempted to set up our tarp and tent while Pippin and Gimli headed out for water (a forty-five minute adventure that resulted in four gallons of water and the near destruction of those who went to fetch it). By the time we got the gear stowed and the stoves running, it was full dark. The waxing half-moon shone behind the breaking clouds and the landscape was breathtaking, but we were cold, tired, and worn thin, and the freeze-dried camp food I was so proud of turned out to be of pretty low quality. We finally got everything bear-proofed for the night and retired—Legolas and Pippin in the nearly level tarp and Gimli and I in the severely angled tent (no, really; we spent the first few hours repeatedly sliding down into the foot of the tent and clawing our way back up).

None of us slept much—the others due to their own private demons, and me due to fear of their demons coming to get me. It was clear Gimli wasn't doing well, though: he was breathing heavily and restless. By 2:30am, he was up, out of the tent, and wandering sick. It was kind of creepy to try to follow him around in the dark, unsure of whether he was fully conscious. He was nauseated and muddled headed, even more than usual. We guessed (and later pretty much confirmed) that he had altitude sickness, a malady I should have forseen. But hey—I live at altitude, so it didn't bother me. That's the important thing, right?

Unsure of whether Gimli would make it out okay, we packed up our gear in the darkness. Since the application of medication, warmer clothes, and water seemed to be lifting our comrade's spirits, and since we were deathly afraid of trying to get down the switchbacks in the dark (not to mention trying to get back to the trail from our cliff dwelling), we all sat in the blackness, watiting for sunrise. It turned out to be a great little time—we watched the ten thousand stars that are invisible from civilization wheel overhead, shivered against the cold, and talked about movies, life, and the universe. I sang showtunes, which were appreciated by no one. Philistines.

By 5am, we were up and hiking. Gimli was nearly his old self, but the general mood suggested that getting out of the wilderness was the order of the day. Besides, Pippin was obsessed with getting some Moons over My Hammy into his belly. By 8:30am we made it back to the trailhead. Overall, we hiked about 11 miles in a day, the second half on a couple of hours' sleep. We were manly.

We spent a few hours in town (a third of which was spent trying to get everyone to the same place at the same time), and there was some discussion of staying the night, but the prevailing sentiment was leading most of the Fellowship away, and since Legolas was my ride, I couldn't well stay on my own. We had some coffee, discussed a few more issues, and bade one another farewell. I was home by 6:30pm, thanks to the dedicated automotivemanship of Legolas.

So it was a mixed bag, but mostly good. The scenery and the journey were incredible, the companionship was great, and the spinach and bacon omelet in town was delicious. It was just too short, dang it.

Journeys

Well, I got a chance to explore some of that Pacific Crest Trail I had been longing for. After a couple of preliminary hikes to test out my new gear, I headed off last week for a two-day, 24-mile trek across the Big Bear valley.

My endlessly kind and lovely wife was incredibly generous in giving me the time, what with the Sierra trip with Gimli, Legolas, and Pippin coming up (I'm trying out the LotR names this time out, and you should be able to figure out who's who if you know the players at all. I'd like to think of myself as Aragorn, but I think I'm probably closer to Samwise, or maybe Merry). I was hoping to really give the gear a workout. So on Friday my family dropped me off at Baldwin Lake at around 8:30am, and I didn't see them again until 4pm on Saturday afternoon on the other end of the valley. The road from one end to the other can be seen here, though the trail itself wraps around the back of the ridge to the north of the lake.

I'd never been camping alone before, and certainly never covered so many miles on one hike before (we used to take a Sierra trip with the Boy Scouts every summer--we might have done that distance over the course of a couple of days, but I've blocked it from my mind). It was pretty incredible. The weather was hot but bearable, and I had the trail to myself nearly the entire time. I was passed by one pair of older ladies on horseback as I switchbacked up Gold Mountain (they turned back an hour later when they realized how long the trail was) and passed a pair of older folks resting under a tree before descending into Van Duesen Canyon. I didn't see anyone until I started climbing out of the valley to Fawnskin on the forest road when the jeeps and motocross bikers started buzzing me.

It was a pretty amazing journey. The path passes through a whole series of micro-climates, from the arid, catcti-dotted rocky soil near Baldwin Lake up over Gold Mountain and into conifers and oaks, then down into the valleys thick with pines and ferns. I camped the first night just below Bertha Peak with views both over the lake and the Holcomb Valley.

I was definitely worn thin by the time I limped out into Fawnskin, but it was pretty satisfying. The solitude and being away from civilization (though, sadly, in the valley it's difficult to escape traffic noises and such) was a blessing.

It was really neat, is what I'm saying. I'll go now.

Denver's Joke

The joke my son told me tonight at dinner:

Denver: How many big boys does it take to put in a light bulb?

Me: I don't know. How many?

Denver: Four.

That was it. No explanation. It just takes four.

Kid takes after me.

I had my last summer school class today, so tomorrow I may be coherent enough to put up a real post.

Good night, all.

Thievery Strikes Again!

I didn't share the really exciting news from this week: I was robbed!

And no, I don't mean that in the "sports metaphor, they-won-because-of-a-bad-call" kind of way.

I work in a suite of five offices, outside of which is a balcony running around an open courtyard. Because the Liberal Arts building seems fairly secure and well traveled, those of us with offices often step out without closing the door. Making copies, getting a drink, checking the mail—it's easy to do.

You can already see what's coming, can't you? Clever monkeys.

On Tuesday I stepped out, walked about ten feet outside the suite and another twenty feet to the bathroom. I was gone for about four minutes (I know because I was grading on the fly and I keep a pretty close eye on my time use at such times). I walked back to my office—

No more laptop.

I just stared for a while. It seemed incomprehensible to me that it could be gone in so short a time. I kept looking around, as if somehow I had snagged the computer on my clothes and had pulled it off the desk without realizing it. But it wasn't me—someone had snagged the thing and run off.

It had to be somewhat planned: you can't actually see my office from the courtyard and have to walk into the suite to see within. There was a fellow sitting outside when I went out who was gone when I returned, but I did not observe him closely—I have yet to develop the sufficient level of suspicion to survey everyone I pass on the off chance one of them will commit a crime against me. So I wasn't too helpful to the campus police when they showed up some twenty minutes later.

The good news (of a sort) is that it was the school's computer, not my sweet new machine (on which I type this even now). The bad news is that, of course, that's where all my assignments and grades were stored. It's password protected, so until and unless it finds its way into the hands of a l33t hacker, I should be safe, and I don't keep much personal information on a school computer. I've since changed my internet passwords, and I suppose a desperate but literarily pretentious thief could take the draft of my novel I had on there and publish it before I do, but other than that the danger factor is low. It's just an annoyance, and a wake-up call; a lot more professors will be locking their doors from now on.

One of my coworkers shook his head in disbelief at the story, and said, "Man—I'd be swearing and cursing up and down. You seem so calm." I just shrugged. What would swearing do? After coming down from the shock, I prayed for the guy who took it; what else could I do? He was either desperately messed up, or just desperate: either way, he needs help. I doubt I'll ever see the computer again, but hopefully something good can come of this all.

Back up your files, people. Really.

Excuses, Excuses

So I haven't been on for a while, and I don't know how much time I'll have here, as a boy may wake up at any moment and emerge to poke me.

The main reason for my absence was simple logistics. I've been drowning in grading, and in an attempt to catch up I've been getting up at 4 or 4:30am. This means that I've been crashing at 10 or 11pm, which is far earlier than normal--and if you've ever checked out the time posted for my old entries, you'll see they're mostly 1am-ish. That, and the fact that the baby goes to bed at 8pm or so, cutting me off from our computer, has kept me out of here.

This is fascinating stuff, I know. I wanted to post because--well, heck, everyone else is all post-y these days, what with Slater returned and Parker becoming a revivalist preacher and even Beth putting up stories about tomato plants and old ladies. My own spiritual quest has not stopped, but has felt somewhat stilted by all this work. We've only got three days left of summer school (thank goodness), but between endless grading, family illness, and Kathie about to make her giant move to the Idaho, it's just been a whirlwind of responsibility. Still, the changes in me over the last few weeks have made this bearable, even if I haven't learned to rejoice in it yet.

Okay. Time grows short. Good morning, all, and keep watching this space.

Madness

I am sunk deep into the mire of grading. I could complain about this at length, but you've read that already if you've read this blog at all.

I don't have time to elaborate at great length here (you know—'cause of the grading), but let us say that my inability to grade in a timely manner is the bane of my work. I'm anal-retentive as it is, and trying to walk away from a paper without thoroughly marking it up is a pain. Yet that takes so darn long that I get behind and suffer great pangs of guilt for being so slow. And I do so resent the time I have to put into it.

But that's my problem, I think. I always see it as such a burden and such a drudgery. It's never going to be a joy, but until I can approach it as a challenge and a duty, I'm always going to resent it—so I'll keep putting it off and keep stalling and keep loathing it.

I don't think I'm meant to teach forever, but I think I need to learn to do it well now. For a lot of reasons.

So that's what I'll be doing for a while here. Maybe next time there will be something interesting to read about. No promises, though.

A Long Story

Strap in, folks. This is a long one. The world cried out for my triumphal return to blogging, and here it is. I am not kidding with that title. You Have Been Warned.

Several people have voiced their disapproval over my disappearance from the blogging scene, and I'm grateful for the encouragement. When my mom asked last night, "Why don't you blog anymore?" I knew I was in trouble and had better get back. I had actually been planning to blog for quite a while, but as we know, the line between "blogging" and "planning to blog" is a mighty and powerful one.

The reasons for my absence are far too long and uninteresting to go into here. So as an alternative I thought I'd post a long and more interesting (at least to me) account of a real "God moment" that smacked me upside the head earlier this week.

Two pieces of information are important as background, though:

(1) In a few weeks, I'll be taking a backpacking trip with the Professor, Skipper, and Gilligan in the Sierras, and the prospect of that has electrified and resurrected my old love of camping and backpacking. I don't know why, but since we decided to do it I've been obsessed with getting back out on the trail. I've collected some fine new gear (thank you, Father's Day contributors) and we've been taking the boys hiking a couple of times a week. I'm hoping to take a long trek up in Big Bear sometime this month before the big trip in August.

All this manly outdoorism has also reawakened a very old dream I've squirreled away for a score of years: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. For those outside the loop (and a pretty small loop it is), the PCT is a 2,650-mile trail that wends from Mexico to Canada via the major mountain ranges of the west coast (you can read more on it here). To through-hike the whole thing takes 5-6 months, and I'd love to do it. I amend that—I'm going to do it. I've already secured the blessings of my splendidly generous wife; right now, we're on the 11-Year Plan (I'll be starting off in late April, 2017, if the planet hasn't imploded by then), once the kids are of a manageable age. By then my writing career should be in full swing, and who knows—perhaps I'll swing a deal to write about the experience of the trip.

Part of the trail runs right through our mountains, and I remember as a kid being fascinated by such a mighty journey and imagining making the whole trek. I'd not thought about it much until this new obsession blossomed, and now I'm daydreaming about it with some consistency. I took the boys to Big Bear a few weeks ago and found a forest road where the PCT crosses it; we hiked about 300 feet of it then, so I'm well on my way. Only 13,991,700 feet to go.

(2) Last week I read John Eldredge's Wild at Heart, and it made my head come off. My insightful sister gave me the book over two years ago, and I hadn't gotten into it then, but Skaggs has become all Wild-at-Heart-y recently, and he's a man with some traits I'd like to cultivate, so I gave it another shot.

Holy cow.

I'll probably be yammering on about the book in future posts, so I won't go into depth here. Suffice it to say that the book hit me where I needed to be hit at this particular stage in my journey. A lot of the material is stuff I'd heard before but never quite in that way, and it's made a huge difference in my outlook and my faith. In brief, Eldrege encourages men (at least in this book) to embrace those "manly" virtues that have lost their prominence in recent decades (honor, fierceness, wildness, passion, heroism); he also admonishes that Christian men in particular have lost their way and their hearts, allowing a milquetoast, passive image of Jesus to dominate our thinking rather than the more dynamic, passionate, dangerous picture the Gospels paint of Him. Through scripture, Eldrege argues that God made us the way we are for a reason, and that our passions and longings are part of that design (revolutionary, I know; as I said, it's stuff I've heard before but this is the first time it really stuck). Eldredge outlines an invitation to live a life of risk. He doesn't promise success or achievement, but an adventure, and that spoke so clearly to my soul that it felt like he was inside my heart, kicking at the walls to make a little more room for the Spirit.

Now, for those of you worried, I've not become an Eldredge groupie (though he is dreamy... I bet under all that rugged "man" stuff he's really sweet and would be a fun prom date... Oh! Sorry. I have to put down my Tiger Beat magazine and go paint my toenails now). To paraphrase Max Lucado, it's not the words, but God in the words that makes the difference, and I think God used these to waken something in me that had been long lying dormant.

Okay—on to the story.

In my pursuit of this elusive adventure, I obtained the Wild at Heart Field Manual, a kind of workbook/journal/tool/thing to aid in wrestling with the concepts presented by the book and find ways to explore and apply them personally. The book encourages you to go out into the outdoors somewhere to work on it, and I was more than amenable. On Monday, I journeyed up to Big Bear along Highway 38, the long, winding, and—most importantly—less-traveled road. There were still a lot of tourists for the holiday weekend about, so I was trying to think of a place I could go to get a little solitude.

Forest roads and campgrounds are to be found just off the highway all over back there, but none of them called out to me. I remembered that the PCT passes through Onyx Summit, the high pass before the road descends into Big Bear, and a part of me really, really wanted to find it. "What better place," thought I, "to start this spiritual journey than on the trail that is calling me to a physical journey?"

After a while, though, I got discouraged. Who knew which of the myriad roads actually intersected the trail up there, or how far back that intersection might be? I put the thought from my mind and settled for searching for some back road with a good view.

Boy howdy, did I find it. At the top of the pass there was a forest road that looked like it was blocked off by downed trees, but there was space for the truck to climb through. The road was strewn with a blanket of loose rocks and wound about through gnarled pinyon pines and scrub. I found a turnout wide enough to get the truck off the road a few miles in and a comfy seat among the scree.

Below me opened up the whole vista of the Big Bear valley, and beyond the distant shadows of Wrightwood and Mt. Baldy. To my left, Baldwin Lake was a thousand feet below, and dropping down to the north was the prospect of the desert beyond, stretching into gray-brown haze. To my right the granite cliffs and crags thrust up through the forest, and the vale to to the south was a sea of pines. As if that wasn't enough of a gift, thunderstorms were sweeping the valley, and a dark gray landscape of clouds rumbled across the sky. I could see the rain falling in writing tentacles; though I didn't see lightning, thunder rumbled through every few minutes. I sat in muggy sunlight, but the wind from the north blew chill into my face.

It was a glory.

I alternated watching the display and writing in the journal, answering questions about my walk with God and those things which speak to my soul, the dreams that make my heart come alive. On the theory that what we do in our free time is a window into our heart, it even asked about what I would do if given three months and a large enough bankroll to do whatever I truly wanted. I immediately granted myself an extended leave of six months and wrote about that elemental journey up the PCT.

I continued in that vein for about an hour, taking a short break to sit in the branches of one particularly monstrous pine just down the slope. Then the rain swept up my way, and I decided to take my leave. I had to drive further along to find a spot to turn around before heading back. A few hundred yards further on, I saw an inviting spot, but decided to journey a bit further before I had to return to civilization. Eventually I found a wide space with a view of the next ridge, reluctantly got the truck pointed back the way I had come, and headed out.

But I couldn't resist the call of that inviting spot, so I pulled in on the way back. It was on the edge of a small open space bounded by pines and manzanita. It had clearly been used before—a small cairn of stones stood in the center of the clearing. I stood there in the rain and it occured to me that despite my thinking about God and my place with Him, I hadn't actually prayed. So I did so. Feeling particuarly melodramatic, I knelt down in the clearing and prayed for a good long time. Being in such an awe-inspiring setting, I really wanted to have an overwhelming experience, to be overcome by emotion and a sense of God's presence. The confusion of everyday life was supposed to resolve itself in one mighty moment of clarity and purpose, and all would be made clear to me.

It didn't happen.

It was good to pray, longer than I had done for a great while, but I didn't feel particularly uplifted or enlightened. I tried to be still and just listen, as I had so often been counseled to do but which I have never really achieved. I did manage some semblance of it there in the rain from the heavens and the dry earth beneath my knees, and I decided I'd sit there and wait until some kind of answer came. Some sort of sign would make itself known, even if it was just being struck by lightning for sitting in the middle of an open space on a high ridge during a thunderstorm. I vowed I'd wait and listen.

Only I had to get back. My watch (as the Liliputians would have it, my pocket god) showed me that there would be trouble if I didn't get home. I told God that my family was waiting on me and I should not shirk my responsibility to them. So I vowed to keep listening in the truck on the way home, and in my house all evening, and in the dark of the night. I'd keep looking for that sign.

It still felt like failure, and I was kind of downcast as I climbed back into the truck and backed onto the forest road.

However, as I did so, I saw a sign.

A small wooden sign, actually. I stopped the truck to stare. It was carved with the legend "No Motorized Vehicles Allowed." And at the top, a bit faded and worn, was the spade-like tree-and-logo symbol of the Pacific Crest Trail. I had been sitting almost on top of the trail the entire time.

I laughed out loud for full five minutes, giving way occasionally to tears. I climbed out and walked along the path for a hundred feet, stoppping every few minutes to put my hand on a boulder or a tree and guffaw, shaking my head in wonder at what we see and do not see. If anyone else had been about, they'd have thought I was a loon.

It was so clearly an answer that it seemed supernatural—and I'm sure it was. I'm not positive what the message was, except that I could very nearly see God giving me a slow wink and saying, "You are on the path. It's been here the whole time." I don't know what else is packed in there, but I intend to find out.

It occurred to me when I thought about putting this all down here that anyone who reads this and doesn't know God's goodness and overwhelming love, who doesn't know Christ's generosity and patience, is sure to chalk this up to chance and emotional turmoil, or at best some kind of numinous "fate," to explain and rationalize away the meaning or to ascribe it to my own mental processes. I am sorry for you, truly. It was a moment that marked me and in which God spoke right into my heart. The circumstance was small, but the voice was thunderous. If you don't know Him, find Him out. I am done with doubt.

Now to see where this new path leads...

And the Truth Goes Marching On

An update on the Hungarian corpse-rum drinkers: Reuters has printed something of a retraction here.

I like how they avoid any personal responsibility, myself. Way to go for journalistic integrity! I guess that the "Oddly Enough" beat doesn't have the same fact-checking requirements; after all, half the stories would end up not being printed.

So I have struck the tiniest blow for truth that it may be possible to strike. I think I deserve a government grant and an exemption from having to do anything difficult or morally upright for at least a few weeks. Goodbye, final grading...

I'm in a punchy mood, so forgive the choppy prose. There was little sleep for me last night, and too much time was devoted to filling out an overly long profile on MySpace (I feel geeky just typing that), 'cause Chris said that Devin was over there and some other Rim graduates and even a few folks from the camp we used to counsel at in our younger days. I figured if all the cool kids were doing it, I should, too. I hear that's the way to get really popular. We'll have to see if television is giving me that truth straight.

I'm Famous (Almost)

I know I owe an actual post here, and I intend to put one up soon, but I thought I'd pass on that my astute observation has lead to a minor change on another web page.

I guess that's not famous after all...

In any case, the deal is that I was perusing the Reuter's web service's Oddly Enough news section, and the first story listed today was from a Hungarian online magazine. It reported that workers who were renovating a house drank a cask of rum, but when they finished they found a corpse preserved inside. Read this fun and educational story here.

The only problem with this is that some version of this tale has been floating about for ages, and was reported on another news service (from the same Hungarian rag) a couple of years ago. D'oh!

So I sent word over to the folks at Snopes, sending also a few kind words about how much I enjoy their site. An hour later, Barbara Mikkelson (one of the founders of the site) wrote back with some thanks. And now, patient readers, you can see the update of the story here.

I don't know why this pleases me; it's about as minor a thing as a person could reasonably do. But there you go.

I also sent a note to the Reuters people, but they have not responded. The link to their story may disappear eventually, so read up while you can!

What? Writing? What writing?

Oh, that writing. Yes, it's going on. I'll post on that next time out. Really soon.

Really.

Status Report

Sorry about the delay--it was a crazy weekend, full of family visits, egg coloring, and the seemingly endless cycle of cleaning. Really, I don't know how anyone with kids has time for anything in life other than cleaning. If I quit my job and devoted myself to it full time, I think we could just keep up with those monkeys...

In any case, I've written all of about 3,068 words this month so far, meaning I need to complete some 17,000 words in 13 days. Not a problem, really, but I do need to pick up the pace if I'm going to get done here. I will try my best to get in here daily to keep up the numbers. We're approaching finals, so it's getting a bit hairier to make things work, but I'll do my best.

Our Easter, by the way, was very nice (if a bit cold and rainy--excellent for me, kind of depressing for others). We saw both families over the weekend and the boys received approximately 45.67 pounds of candy each. No idea how that will be shared out in the coming days. Honestly, can't we start a tradition of giving rice cakes and wheat germ shaped into gerbils for some holiday? I hate to put an end to the candy I so loved as a child, but it's insane. Old Man's Syndrome, long a condition I knew I was afflicted with, grows worse each year. It just isn't like when I was a boy, gol durn it...

Oh--wanted to share The Order of the Stick. If you're a fan of roleplaying games at all, this site is for you. It's usually pretty amusing and sometimes downright hilarious, as here, here, and here. Be warned--it's easy to get sucked into reading many, many strips one after another, as each is so simple and goes down smooth. You can waste a lot of time here, especially because it's best to start with the first strip...

I wanna play a homicidal halfling ranger...

Whoops

As might have been predicted, all my grandiose claims about continued scribing have fallen apart. I am full of shame.

For this post, and much else that's appeared here this year, I am indebted to the unceasing badgering of young Chris Slater. He's always poking me about getting off my duff and actually doing something, and he's both straightforward about its execution and not put off by my dodges and whining. I have many of you to thank for encouragement and accountability, but despite how it bugs me when I don't want to hear it, Slater's smack-downs have been instrumental.

So there's a little mash note for you, Chris.

In discussions with said Slater and looking over the wreckage of my claims to further authorship, I've come to realize that I've not yet internalized the "habit" of writing, partly due to the strange, uneven nature of the writing task last month, and partly due to my own really ugly personal faults. I think I'm going to have to keep my attempts public for a while, until I can get myself established in the routine of writing.

I am not asking for the kind of massive encouragement and/or punishment I demanded for the March Writing Project, but I will be keeping tabs of my continued progress here. That doesn't make for thrilling blog entries, but it should keep me honest. And I suppose that means actually posting here both with successes and failures; during March, you'll note the long gaps when I wasn't producing and I didn't post out of shame. Now my shame will be yours.

In that spirit, I'm proposing to write at least 20,000 words in the rest of this month, and the 50,000 standard for the month following. Those are the kinds of minimums I think I have to maintain to make a go of this job.

On that note, I had actually decided a while ago to postpone my next "new-novel-in-a-month" project until June, so if any of you want to take on this zany project with me, you get an extra month (and a little more time for those bound to school schedules). Since I'm already aiming at 50,000 words per month, in June I'm shooting for 60,000.

This all reads like madness as it comes off my keyboard, but what can I do but jump?

The Final Proof

I said I'd provide proof yesterday of the word count. A bit late, but here it is:



So whence from here? I mean, the big number was reached, but the book isn't remotely done. There are a number of short novels of about 50,000 words, some of them quite good--Of Mice and Men and The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy among my favorites--but this isn't one of them. Much still needs to be added to fill in gaps, both in the plot and character development. So I'm planning on adding more writing, trying (after this weekend) to continue to pound out about 2,000 words a day. After all, if this is really a calling and something I'm planning on doing for a living, I'd best get in the habit now.

Once the largest gaps are filled, I'll ask a select group to do me the great good favor of looking the thing over and giving me useful feedback. And we'll see what happens from there.

The book suggested that this is supposed to be a time of intense celebration, when one would be overwhelmed by the great accomplishment one finally achieved. Personally, I have more a sense of free-fall (since the tale has not been fully told) and some quiet contentment--as if I'd finally done the thing I should have been doing all the time. Odd, that.

By the way, I'm planning on taking this on again in May, so any of you nervous Nellies who bowed out on this one, you'll have another chance in a month or so. And if I could get it done during this crazy month, you have no excuses.

Day Thirty-One (Final Word Count: 50,185)

Yes. Yes, indeed.

Booyah!

More later. I just wanted to let you know that the goal was breached with a little time to spare. This is all God's doing, and all praise goes to Him--and many thanks to you all, too. You are, collectively, da bomb of the friendly support world.

The tricky bit now, of course, is that I have proven that I can do it--and it wasn't really all that hard, frankly. I skipped at least a week of days in there and wrote a short entry on other days. I could, theoretically, match Stephen King's output of 2,000 words a day. Now if I could only match his skill, and his success in getting the things published...

Must run now. I'll provide proof later tonight. I'm still basking a bit at the moment, and have kids to see after, too.

Day Twenty-Eight (Word Count: 40,100)

Have you all given up on me? No butt kicking from the peanut gallery?

It's been a rough slog--not the writing, but the life. Everyone seems on the mend, except for Joanna who has come down with something else this morning. Trying to catch up on missed grading from during the break (when I got far less work done than I would have during a normal work week, thanks to snow and sickness) has kept me up late, so there have been a few missed days in there and a few short days, somewhat made up for yesterday (though I learned the valuable lesson that if you type while you are falling asleep, it does not lead to astounding creative insights).

So I've got four days and 9,900 words to go. It's pretty amazing to be down to the four-digit level, and that works out to about 2,475 words a day, which is eminently do-able, provided that God smiles on me and major disasters don't befall. Pray for me, would you?

Day Twenty-Two (Word Count: 34,001)

I was talking with Joanna the other day and mentioned that I must be taking the stages outlined in the No Plot? No Problem! book either more slowly than average, or in reverse order. Week Two, which was meant to be the difficult and dreaded one, proved to be relatively easy; Week Three, during which the clouds are meant to part and the glorious light of fantastic writing should begin to shine down, is the tough slog for me. I'm feeling at loose ends with the story right now, not in the least helped by the fact that I'm not writing in a linear fashion. Random scenes kept the writing easy, I suppose, because I could always duck out of one that wasn't going well and start up a new one, but that's starting to feel lifeless; worse, I'm having a harder time coming up with new scenes, because they don't seem to be building to any conclusion.

Garn.

I'm 68% of the way through this thing, but that seems less important to me than finding the real story in all this. Now's about the time I'd start really hitting the bottle if I was a two-fisted Hemingway-style writer. Curse the luck that I'm generally free of mind-altering addictions; seems like one of those could really help right about now.

Ah, well.

Day Twenty (Word Count: 30,273)

Whoo-hoo! Broke the 30,000 barrier. It's a nice round number, and it's also the minimum that Baty sets for heading into the fourth week. 35,000 would be better--and hopefully I'll get close to that by Wednesday, the start of Week 4.

More snow shoveling and more doctor's visits. My brain is starting to melt. These have been two of the roughest weeks of my married life, I must say. The good aspect of that, from the writing perspective, is that if I can get it done under these circumstances, it bodes well for my getting work done in less stressful times.

To answer Kham's question from a couple of posts ago: don't expect to be reading the manuscript that comes out of this any time soon. This thing is a right royal mess and is going to require some extensive editing to even become coherent--a random collection of scenes does not a novel make. Once it's in some sort of semi-sane shape (and I ditch the clumsier alliteration, as seen here), I plan to follow the advice of Stephen King and a number of other writers: I'll send out the manuscript to a small, select group of readers whose tastes I know and whose judgement (and ability to give that judgment honestly, even if it hurts my easily wounded feelings) I trust and get some feedback from them.

If you're in that group, you are in luck (or out of it, depending on your perspective and willingness to spend large amounts of time critiquing my work and basically pandering to my ever writerly whim); otherwise, you'll just have to wait for the hardbound edition to come out at all the better booksellers.

Day Nineteen (Word Count: 27,675)

Another missed day in there. I'd have to revise the last set of statistics by adding another 3 inches of snow shoveled and another doctor's visit. And we'll be going to the doctor again tomorrow. Whatever has a hold of the boys, it does not want to let go; today was an endless parade of fever and upset stomach, broken by the boys' claiming to feel just fine. The kind of day where nothing at all gets done because you're tending to a kid every five minutes.

I realize these blog entries aren't encouraging any of my single and/or childless friends to jump onto the parenting bandwagon. It has been an ugly couple of weeks, but it's mostly better than this. I'll certainly appreciate illness-free days more now, I must say.

Spring break has not been very springy or break-y so far. Harumph.

Day Seventeen (Word Count: 25,660)

Yes, it has been long and long since I posted here. I was full of shame, for I had not written for several days. I had a really long list of things to post here to explain why that was the case, but you don't have the time in your busy life for such things, nor do you have the stamina or interest to slog through them. So, the short version is this:

Number of sick kids: 3
Number of sick wives: 1
Visits to the doctor in the last week: 3
Feet of snow shoveled: 3 1/2 (5 with berms)
Hours spent shoveling, per day: 127
Number of hours per night baby is sleeping: 3
Number of hours per night parents are sleeping: 1 1/2
Hours available for writing after all else is taken care of, per day: .0046

So it's been tough. Frankly, I was expecting a beat-down from you folks when I wasn't posting--I'm relieved but also a little scared when you're not hounding me, because I tend to hide from trouble and shame when I need to face up to it like a man.

Things look to be improving this week: health is slowly creeping back into my family, and though I have much grading to finish, I have my spring break this week to try to catch up. I'm only slightly off my schedule, and getting out nearly 3,000 words today is a good feeling.

Two weeks and less than halfway to go. God provides a way.

Day Twelve (Word Count: 21,307)

I wrote last night between 3 and 4am while Poncho slept on the couch. Surreal. Sometimes it really is the potential shame that keeps me motivated to produce work even when I don't want to. I spent the day shoveling and blowing snow up to my waist, and my body was not happy. I wouldn't give it up to live in the snowless lands, but it does eat up a person's time.

I've calculated I'll need to crank out 1,500 words a day for the rest of the month to finish on time; if I keep up the 1,700 words a day (which is my intention), I'd finish two days early. Actually, I'm really hoping to rack up some writing over spring break next week. Every time I think that, though, something comes up and it all goes to pieces. So maybe I'll declare that I won't get ahead on my word count; I plan on barely scraping by. Yeah. That'll fool the ineffable forces that stand in my way.

Stupid ineffable forces.

Day Eleven (Word Count: 19,551)

Back on track for Saturday. Given, this day was at least as busy as the last and much more exciting to boot. We took the whole gang down the hill so that Poncho and Born Dancin' could see the doctor. This involved digging out of the 2 feet or so of snow we received and trekking down the hill, which took about an hour (as opposed to the 20 minutes it would normally take). This is the most snow I've seen up here at once in a long time. The roads were sheets of snow and people were, as always when snow arrives, insane. We packed a bag in case we couldn't make it back up the hill, even, because the roads were being shut down (even now, busses and big rigs are not allowed on the mountain).

It turns out the kids have nothing more than bad colds, the the course of treatment was just to continue what we have been doing. That's a lot of work to find out that everything was what you thought it was. We had lunch and then began the even longer trek back home. It had been snowing the whole time we were down the hill, and the snow level dropped to about 1,500 feet--kids in Highland were making snowballs, and even some parts of desert San Bernardino had accidents due to ice. We did thankfully make it home, and now we're looking at closer to 3 1/2 feet of snow, which I'm about to set out to blow away (if my much-more-mechanically-competent neighbor can fix the augur). Sadly, I had to miss my last Voicetrax class, because I just wasn't going to get out there again and leave Joanna with the sick kiddos.

And a good thing, too, because Born Dancin' simply did not sleep last night, waking up every half an hour to scream for the other half, and it's been a strange time. I did sneak into the office between 3 and 4am to add a few more pages; they're probably rambling madness, but they add to the word count, so that's enough for me at this point.

Sorry for the long update about the very exciting weather. I'm just off to get back out into it. Hopefully I'll get to post today's accumulation of words (and snow) while it's still today.

Day Ten (Word Count: 17,885)

That's right, kids: no words written on this Friday. I knew I shouldn't have mentioned the possibility of taking a day off, because then it would (according to the medieval Law of Sympathy) then happen.

The storm hit Friday, catching my sister and I dragging my truck to the mechanic for its much-needed repairs. The rest of the day held shoveling and the blowing of snow, followed by extended periods of tending to very sick children. Not a great deal of fun, and by the time everyone was down and relatively quiet, I crashed.

The good news is that I don't feel nearly as guilty about this as I might have some days ago. The bad news is, well, I don't feel nearly as guilty about this as I might have some days ago. I'm not going to let this stop the momentum, but it does feel like an odd break in the program.

And yes, this is being posted on Sunday--just goes to show you how little time there was on Friday...

Day Nine (Word Count: 17,885)

A little bit low on the count, but not much. I've actually got permission from the book to take a day off here and there--I don't intend to use it, but it's nice to know that being a handful of words under the mark isn't a tragedy at this point.

We're a house full of sick kiddos here; Poncho woke himself up with coughing, and Born Dancin' is clearly getting the same thing. Gargh. I'm only up now because the boy is.

Today holds the exciting prospect of taking the truck to the mechanic and the onset of a massive winte storm: an auspicious beginning to the dreaded Week 2 of the writing, which the book suggests is the killer week, in which I will be attacked by the hobgoblins of my own little mind. I'm doing okay so far, really, but I'm bracing for the fight.

Day Eight (Word Count: 16,470)

Did my writing between 12:35 and 1:25am.

Eyes are burning. Brain is confuzled. Writing probably makes no sense, except for a few good parts that may contain the best individual phrases I've written.

I can see why writers sometimes think getting drunk helps. If you have no conscious control over what pours out of you, every once in a while you find some weird little thing you can latch on to when you're sober again.

Or maybe not. I'm too tired to tell.

But I got the words out, dagnabit.

Day Seven (Word Count: 14,720)

Hah! Take that, Silverback!

Actually, that kind of goading is pretty much exactly what I need--it's why I'm keeping this thing updated on a regular basis. Having a couple of hours to work in is also a big help.

I'm more and more convinced, though, that a lot of what's coming out at the moment is really pretty bad. This thing is going to take some serious revision. I still think the basic idea is valid, but it's pretty unreadable so far.

Weather report: hailing like a Swedish platypus. Which I'm all in favor of, except that the highway down the hill is still closed, necessitating a drive all the way across the ridgeline. Think of me at 4:30am tomorrow when you turn over and go back to sleep; I'll be on the road.

Day Six (Word Count: 11,527)

Yes, that's a pretty anemic word count. There are some sick kiddos at home and a confluence of responsibilities and grading all coming together at once: yesterday was our department meeting, for which I am the secretary, requiring me to type up the minutes from the last meeting; I'm also on the scholarship committee and we're in the heat of scholarship season (and you didn't even know there was such a thing, did you?), so I've got about 125 scholarship applications to get through this week; my last Voicetrax classes are coming up this weekend, and these actually have pre-work; my final class at CCC is ending this week; and so on, and so on, ad nauseum.

I've actually called in today, since Poncho has an amazing cough going on and Born Dancin' has a fever and is just generally a grumpster. I'll help out this morning, and hopefully I'll get a chance to catch up a bit this afternoon. I am a bit ahead of my word count, so I've got a little leeway, but I'd really like to get further ahead if I can.

The weather is cooperating by being foggy and damp, with record cold promised for later in the week. God pats me on the head for no good reason once again.

Day Five (Word Count: 10,885)

I didn't get much time to write today.

Wait. Scratch that.

I didn't use all my time available today. I couldn't get out of the house, so I had to wait until late in the evening to work; I just finished a few moments ago, actually.

The weird part was that I hadn't checked the word count for a while and hadn't been paying much attention. When I tallied it before popping over here, it turns out that I wrote exactly 1,667 words.

This wouldn't necessarily have much significance, except that this is the exact word count per day one is supposed to have to get to the 50,000 words in 30 days. I'd been aiming for 1,700 a day, giving me a 33 word lead (not a lot, but giving me almost 1,000 extra words in a 30-day stretch). Maybe it's just sleep deprivation, but that seemed kind of kooky to me.

I have yet more stuff to report, but it'll have to wait again--I need some sleeps in me if I'm going to get to work tomorrow. Are you guys tired of this strange writing mush that seems to leak from my brain every time I post here now? I mean, I know you want updates as to word count so as to be prepared with your scourges and whips, but do you want to read this rambling about process and random writing trivia?

In any case, it's nice to know that I've got over 20% of this thing done by now. I'm tired and pleased.

Day Four (Word Count: 9,214)

I worked over at my sister's house today. It's always so strange to me to be in homes where there are no toys littered across all the floors and the sounds are mostly of adult conversation, or--glory of glories!--silence. It's kind of disorienting.

Michael's Writing Process Useless Fact #217: I type in Baskerville Old Face font. It's almost exactly the same size as Times but feels more old-timey and writerly. Every little detail counts.

It's late enough that any other thoughts I'm contemplating are slipping away from my frontal lobes faster than I can catch them. I'll try to give some kind of update on life outside the writing (does that pesky old thing still exist?) soon.

Day Three (Word Count: 7,349)

Of course I didn't get more than the average done today (at least, not much more). On the more positive side, I've got something of an embryonic plot developing and the characters are taking a bit more shape.

Over the past days, I've discovered that once I've hit a groove, I can get out about 2,000 words an hour. That seems pretty good--as Baty points out, if your output remained constant each hour, you could finish the novel in less than a week. If only...

The weather here has been terrific; today, as I worked at my parents' place, the wind was roaring around the house, driving sleet and snow into the windows, and the fog rolled in and out all afternoon. Sweet. It only confirms my findings that the atmosphere can make a vast difference in my motivation and output.

It's late and there's much to do tomorrow. One day there will be an interesting post here, I promise.

Day Two (Word Count: 5,118)

The word count for today was adequate but not as high as I would have liked. It wasn't for lack of ideas, thankfully--in fact, I think that today was going better than yesterday. It was lack of time what done me in; I only had about 45 minutes to work. I was hoping to do a little more this evening, but kiddos and cleaning and suchlike ate up the time. I have some ideas of what to start with tomorrow, though, so I'm optimistic. Plus I don't teach tomorrow, so maybe I can eke out a fairly large chunk of time and pump up my count.

I kind of started wondering today if I look very strange as I'm working. So far I've staked out spots in a couple of local Starbucks as writing haunts (I'd love to find an independent coffee shop, but there are a dearth of those in culture-free San Bernardino county), and I realized that when I'm on a roll in typing, I tend to sort of sway, as if I'm riding an invisible roller coaster on a very gentle track. It's possible I may be muttering what I'm writing under my breath--I'm not certain. One day I'll have to set up a video camera and try to capture the scene. I'll let you know.

I had best get some sleep in me if I'm to do any useful work tomorrow. Sorry this is not thrilling stuff; all my good writing is going into the novel, see. Or that's what I tell myself, anyway.

Goodnight, all.

Day One (Word Count: 3,323)

Yesterday began my writing oddyssey, and the good news is that I did exceed my daily quota. I was feeling pretty happy about that, thinking, "Say--this whole writing thing is easy! I'll be done in two weeks!" Then I reread the opening of the NaNoWriMo book, wherein Baty outlines that everybody feels euphoric and powerful when they start, only to crash somewhere in week two. So I'm still optimistic, but trying to be realistic. I'll take Baty's advice and try to get as far out ahead of the minimum as I can this week so I have some breathing space.

I am confused about what I'm writing. I was really excited about the prospect, but I've run into the same bugaboo I usually do: namely, I have what I think are interesting characters and no plot at all. Baty suggests that one will magically appear if I just keep typing, so I'll trust him on that one. Still, he writes as if most people walk in with a plot in mind and just have to find its depth and complexity; it even sounds as though a lot of the writers are writing one chapter after another, which almost never happens with me. I have little vignettes, scenes and images in my head in no particular order. So that's what I'm putting down right now. We'll have to see if they congeal into any useful mass at any point.

I'll try to post today's update on the actual day; piles o' grading and ending a hyperactive, kind of unpleasant evaluation period have kept me hopping. The good news is that I should be granted tenure this semester; the better news (for me) is that I don't feel nearly as trapped by this as I thought I would.

I've got more grading to which to get. Keep the cards and letters coming in--the staff here really appreciate them. More muffin baskets, too. Later I'll tell you about my new writing totem and my promise to get myself my own for-real laptop if I can publish this beast when I'm finished.

Calm Before the Storm

I've been trying to remember the exact wording of the conversation between Gandalf and Pippin in The Return of the King (the movie) in which Pippin says that he doesn't want to fight, but the waiting beforehand is even worse. Actually, I was just looking for Gandalf's line about them being in the long hush before the battle; that's where I feel like I have been yesterday and this morning.

I'm remarkably upbeat for me, really. I'm quite looking forward to starting off (probably this afternoon), and though I'm a little concerned about my recent lack of sleep--a lot of grading sneaking up to attack me these days--I'm pretty excited overall. Plus the punishments for my failure keep pouring in (Joanna will probably put hers up soon, but they include things like making the boys clean up their own room every night for months and sending her off to expensive day spas), so I've got incentive aplenty. Thankfully, my main motivation at the moment is just the desire to succeed; it'll be in the painful later weeks that I need those threats to keep me moving.

One last thought, and a totally unrelated one: I think I figured out the other day a little piece of why God puts up with us and uses us in His plans. Last week I was making waffles and the boys were "helping." It was messy and took a good deal longer than it would have had I made them alone, but they diligently added ingredients as handed to them and stirred the batter with determination.

So why did I let them help? It would have been much faster and simpler if I had just done it myself; there would have been less flour on the walls and the batter would have stayed in the mixing bowl. But I wanted to teach the boys some things, from following directions to a general sense of cookery. And it was also just fun--I enjoyed sharing the process with them.

God could accomplish His will by fiat any time He liked; however, maybe, like me, He both has lessons to impart and simply takes pleasure in sharing His work with us. That's an encouraging thought.

The Month-Long Novelist Agreement and Statement of Understanding*

* This is an actual form taken from the book No Plot? No Problem!, by Chris Baty. If you don't know why I'm posting this here now, read the previous entry first.

I hereby pledge my intent to write a 50,000-word novel in one month's time. By invoking an absurd, month-long deadline on such an enormous undertaking, I understand that the notions of "craft," "brilliance," and "competency" are to be chucked right out the window, where they will remain, ignored, until they are retrieved for the editing process. I understand that I am a talented person, capable of heroic acts of creativity, and I will give myself enough time over the course of the next month to allow my innate gifts to come to the surface, unmolested by self-doubt, self-criticism, and other acts of self-bullying.

During the month ahead, I realize I will produce clunky dialogue, cliched characters, and deeply flawed plots. I agree that all of these things will be left in my rough draft, to be corrected and/or excised at a later point. I understand my right to withhold my manuscript from all readers until I deem it completed. I also acknowledge my right as author to substantially inflate both the quality of the rough draft and the rigors of the writing process should such inflation prove useful in garnering me respect and attention, or freedom from participation in onerous household chores.

I acknowledge that the month-long, 50,000-word deadline I set for myself is absolute and unchangeable, and that any failure to meet the deadline, or any effort on my part to move the deadline once the adventure has begun, will invite well-deserved mockery from my friends and family. I also acknowledge that, upon successful completion of the stated noveling objective, I am entitled to a period of gleeful celebration and revelry, the duration and intensity of which may preclude me from participating fully in workplace activities for days, if not weeks, afterwards.

Michael A. Slusser
27 February 2006

Novel Start Date: Wednesday, March 1, 2006

Novel Deadline: Friday, March 31, 2006

Madness? Maybe.

I am about to undertake something insane. And I need your help.

See, I’m going to write a novel in a month. March, in fact.

No, really.

The other day I was bemoaning for the 1,427,318th time that, while I call myself a writer, I do not actually write. This maddening contradiction has dogged me for years, and as is my usual procedure when I’m feeling particularly down about it, I went in search of something vaguely connected to writing that I could engage in. The important thing about these activities is that under no circumstances should they actually require me to write anything. If I can find a book to read about writing, or one that features someone else’s very good writing, that’s ideal. Finding good soundtrack albums of inspirational music for writing, buying special pens and journals for recording notes, or even engaging in writing preparation activities are all good.

On this track, I found a couple of books that seemed to speak to me where I live. One was Ralph Keyes’ The Courage to Write: How Writers Transcend Fear. This book discusses what keeps people from writing or publishing and the often subconscious fears that destroy our efforts before we’ve even begun. Once I read the following quote—“The trail of literary history is littered with those who fell along the way because the anxiety of trying to write paralyzed their hand. Many nonwriting writers are gifted. The best writers I know teach school and sell real estate. Some still plan to write ‘someday.’ Others have given up altogether. Their block lies not with their ability or skill but with their nerve.”—I knew this book had me in mind. Pastor Dave’s sermon on Sunday about fear of failure and how it paralyzes us only confirmed that there was A Message being hammered into my brain this week (as Devin put it, I was being “bombarded at home”). See? Sometimes reading books actually does help—just not to the exclusion of actual writing.

Because I had also been complaining that I had an easy time with characters and histories but more difficulty with plots, I picked up a second book titled No Plot? No Problem!. Normally this kind of title—which suggests some kind of formula for resolving writing difficulties—would make me toss the thing back on the shelf immediately. The subtitle—A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days—would have made the book’s prospects even bleaker. But I picked it up and checked it out anyway.

I’m rather glad I did. The author, Chris Baty, is the founder of National Novel Writing Month (fondly, NaNoWriMo), which I had vaguely heard of. Stemming from a strange notion he had in the wild dot-com days of 1999, Baty decided that rather than plot, characters, setting, or skill, what a writer really needed was a solid deadline to produce his work. Since the first draft of a novel is generally bad (as conceded by almost all working writers), he figured there was no reason to tie yourself up in knots over it. Our busy lives, our fears, and our desire to see our first work perfectly realized turns writers into “one day” novelists: “As in, ‘One day, I’d really like to write a novel.’ The problem is that that day never seems to come, and so we’re stuck.” Baty suggests that the one-month deadline produces amazing results, and his witty and entertaining tone convinced me. Once he stated, “A deadline is, simply put, optimism in its most ass-kicking form,” I was sold.

Technically, NaNoWriMo is an event held in November (during which writer's groups form and their website tracks progress; in 2004, they had 42,000 participants and "just shy" of 6,000 successes), but the book is essentially a guide for doing the work on your own during any month. Having had years of preparation, I figure my best chance of actually doing this is just to jump in and do it—otherwise too much time might pass and I might chicken out on the whole process. The goal is quantity, not quality--quality comes later.

Baty stresses the importance of public knowledge of this pledge, in order, as he says, to transform friends and loved ones into “effective agents of guilt and terror.” The idea is that the more I brag about the fact that I will accomplish this goal, the more likely I am to stick with it for fear of the consequences. In this effort, the suggestion is that I let as many humans as possible know of my intentions that they may shame me into the work. We all know I react quite well to shame.

The basic outline calls for the writing of 50,000 words in 30 days. That’s about 1,700 words per day (though I may not write every day; the book suggests taking a day or two off from time to time so you don’t become maddened beyond the reach of redemption). Though that’s only a short novel (don’t you dare call it a novella), it’ll be by far the most work I’ve put out for any project, ever. Even the chapters of my Russian dwarf novel for my graduate thesis were not that long, and it was a disjointed collection of vignettes in a very large font.

So my first call is for you guys to keep me accountable. I know that in some endeavors (such as this blog…) the whole “public accountability” thing has not done the job. I mostly blame that on you—you are far too kind and understanding. I won’t be posting my writing here, both because it may not be ready for public consumption and because I’m not giving it away, but I will pop on each day to let you know if I’ve made that day’s quota. The more comments, taunting, encouragement, and poking me with sticks I can get, the better. Even just letting me know here at the beginning if you’ll be able to participate would help me out.

I’ll even give you a topic. Not only does the project demand public knowledge, it also requires consequences besides me attempting to live down a monumental failure for the rest of my life. Baty makes many suggestions about punishments for incomplete work and rewards for success, but the most applicable for those of us far-flung from one another is what he calls “chore-based betting.” Essentially, I am stating here that I will take on any bizarre and outlandish activity you proscribe as a consequence should I fail. I should state that whatever action you demand should not be life-threatening, harm my family, or cause my bankruptcy, but I trust you will think up punishments more humiliating and difficult than dangerous. If you have any irksome jobs you dislike that can be done long-distance, I’ll take them on.

My second call is for anyone willing to join me. Who amongst you is brave enough to put his or her reputation and sanity on the line to try this out? That is, anyone who particularly wants to write a novel. I know some of you are out there, and the book avers that having others to work and check in with, spurring friendly competition and true empathy rather than just sympathy, can be a lifesaver. Baty also states that having an empty schedule is unimportant—in fact, it may be detrimental, and that the busier you are, the more likely you are to turn to the writing as a release rather than a chore. If you’re interested I’d be delighted to have company (though I very strongly suggest getting the book and/or checking out the NaNoWriMo website). If you can’t make it for March, perhaps we can plan on working together in November (which, if this is successful, I’d like to try as well).

So there you go. I feel vulnerable and kind of crazy just for posting this, but what else can I do? Pastor Dave, among others, defined failure not as running into obstacles during the progress of an action, but not even making the attempt. That’s been me for far too long. I throw myself on God’s providence and trust in Him to bring this about if it’s to be. This isn’t exactly a fleece thrown out there for proof, but an attempt on my part to make a move and see if it’s the right one. Beth once advised me that for God to put the wind in your sails, it’s helpful to actually have them unfurled.

I’m all at sea now. The ship is under weigh.

What Breed of Cat Am I?

Sorry about no post yesterday--I was feeling icky and tired, and the computer just did not come out.

I'm still a bit confuzled about what to do regarding voicework. In some ways I'm still in denial. There's a sort of farewell party at Voicetrax in a couple of weeks, and I'll take one more class out there in March, but beyond that is nothing but uncertainty. I'm hoping that a chat or two with a few folks in the industry (and getting in touch with Pat Fraley again) will help me figure out what should happen next. Which is, I suppose, a tacit admission that I do want to continue. I know it probably will not be my life's work, but it would certainly be a world away from teaching and allow me far more brainpower for writing and the suchlike.

In the meantime, I didn't realize that Voicetrax's "Voice Yenta" service was up and running. In essence, this is a casting website for non-union talent. Union talent generally has representation, and other sites simply put up work by anyone who submits it. Voice Yenta pre-screens the talent, so you have to actually be recommended by a voice industry professional and produce a "sampler" (a one-minute mini-demo).

And yours truly is over there.

If you're brave and have 60 seconds to spare, you can hear some faux-commercials voiced with my dulcet tones, with sound effects and everything.

Go to this page and click on the link labled "Michael SR 051009" and prepare to be enchanted.

In the meantime, kind Sir Slater is working on putting together a little website for my personal voiceover page. But I need a logo--something that can be the main artwork for the site and that I can put on the cover of my "real" demo CD. It is supposed to be memorable and interesting, but can't feature my picture (the only memorable and interesting image to be had, really--but I kid). Ideally, it wouldn't just be a random image but something that reflects my style and/or personality.

I'd thought of something like a steam-age robot doing a Vaudeville routine, or a clockwork knight on a mechanical horse, or a dragon smoking a pipe and reading an ancient tome, or something equally strange, but I thought I'd open the floor to suggestions from out there in the Big World.

Also, keep in mind I'll have to con Devin into creating the image for me, so that may be a factor in your decision.

The Wandering Trails of Life

Sometimes God up and answers a prayer in a way you didn't even imagine.

I found out last week that, most likely, Community Christian College won't have a spot for me in the Spring quarter. It's a tiny school and I've been blessed to get the gigs there I have, so I don't begrudge the loss. It's possible they may ask me back in future quarters as they can--they seem to like me for some reason.

But that is the source of my funds to take Voicetrax classes, so for the past several days I've been pondering what will happen with that. I'm signed up for five classes, which I can cover with the pay from this quarter, but after that I was stumped. Some thought and prayer later, I felt pretty okay with it. After all, I felt that God had lead me to Voicetrax and provided me with the funds to pay for the courses in the first place--if He still wanted me to go, there would be another way.

Well, today I found out that there is another way.

Voicetrax Desert Cities is closing down.

Thankfully, it's not like the law finally caught up with them or bankruptcy or anything. Samantha's first business in the Bay Area is much larger than the one down here, and apparently she's really missed being up there for the past five years. They're also expanding their services quite a bit, which means she has to travel up there constantly. So as of March, Voicetrax in Rancho Mirage is no more.

Huh.

I've been kind of in a state of shock all evening. I'm all confusled. It seemed like I have some promise in this line of work, so in some ways it seems worthwhile to pursue other classes in LA. Both Bob Bergen and Pat Fraley teach in LA, as well as some of the other instructors I've had. But the guidance and general support Samantha and the whole Voicetrax operation gave were really terrific, and I'll miss that. I really feel like I'd be flailing about without experienced advisors, though I'm sure Samantha would be more than willing to give me some parting advice on that front. More than that, and cliche as it may be, Voicetrax really was like a second home. I've made several friends down there, and seeing them every month or so, getting to be strange and dramatic and doing pretty well at it was a blessing. It was a release and an ego boost and an adventure all at once.

On the other hand, this transition certainly frees us up to go elsewhere if I choose to walk away. Not that we have any prospects anywhere else at this point, but I had mentioned that my family and Voicetrax were the only real anchors to Southern California at this point. With Kathie moving and the school closed, those tethers are pretty attenuated.

Yet I do still feel that God lead me to the voice work, and I'm not sure where to go on from here.

So who knows. Your prayers are always appreciated, and any words of wisdom will be listened to with care.

Life. Weird.

The End of the Spear

I figured I'd kick off a movie review series in the hopes that such a move will draw me blogward once more.

And, shockingly enough, I'm starting with the above-referenced film, Every Tribe Entertainment's The End of the Spear. We took Joanna's parents to see the film last night for their respective birthdays.

The basic story is as follows: In 1956, a group of five missionaries penetrated the Ecuadorian jungles to bring the gospel to the reclusive Waodoni tribe. The Waodoni were feared by the Ecuadoran government and other natives because of their reputation for fierceness and violence--and, indeed, their culture was defined by a warrior ethos and a constant cycle of revenge killings. The missionaries (Nate Saint, Jim Elliot, Roger Youderian, Pete Fleming, and Ed McCully) made contact, but were killed by the Waodoni. Through some extraodinary examples of forgiveness and surrender, several of the wives of the missionaries went to live among the Waodoni, and through their efforts much of the tribe was eventually converted to Christianity. Nate Saint's son, Steve, was eventually to return to the tribe as an adult and confront his father's killer, giving us yet another remarkable example of forgiveness.

A few words are in order before I go into the film itself. I am in a strange position regarding this film, because my sister works for the organization that the missionaries were part of: Mission Aviation Fellowship, an organization that supplies transportation, supplies, learning resources, and a host of other services, spreading the gospel and humanitarian aid throughout the world. I was familiar with the story before going in both from my sister (the plane the missionaries flew in has been rebuilt and sits in the MAF lobby) and from the documentary Beyond the Gates of Splendor, which is a much fuller treatment of the events. So I do have some attachments to the subject matter and am not fully objective. Just thought you ought to know.

So, did I like it? Yes. Is it a great film? Probably not as great as it could have been, but it is quite good.

I'll get the bad news out of the way first (and I feel bad even typing that, like I'm letting down the team or I'm going to make Kathie sad--sorry, sis). The film is worlds above most direct-to-DVD Christian releases, with good production values and better acting. My major complaint was that large swaths of the story were missing. I know that such a tale has to be edited for length, but some jump cuts were far too quick. It appeared that only a day or two after the slaughter of the men, their wives were ready to move their families into the tribe of their killers. The initial contact, tentative first communications, friendly meetings and attack based on misunderstanding all flew by incredibly quickly; had I not seen the documentary, I would have been somewhat lost. I could have done with far fewer shots of well-oiled tribesmen running endlessly through lush tropical rainforests (beautiful as the scenery was) and a bit more on the story.

The acting is universally just okay. No one really stood out, apart from Louie Leonardo as Mincayani, Nate Saint's killer, who is generally good. Chad Allen, playing both Nate and the adult Steve, tries his best, but he's just not given much script at all to work with--few characters are, and some (like the other missionaries) barely register. Most scenes are set like those in Hallmark specials, with stirring music and broad emoting meant to choke us up rather than relay depth and complexity. Kathie was worried I'd dislike the "emotional manipulation," and I did. The culmination of Steve learning the truth about Mincayani and his reaction slip by in a matter of minutes at the end of the film.

Now the good news: the movie gets better as it progresses and gives the characters some time to come into their own. Interestingly, this is definitely the Waodoni's movie--though the narrator and the missionaries are white Westerners, the conflict among the tribespeople as they are torn both by their own continued violence against one another and the utter confusion the missionaries' sacrificial deaths sows among them is the centerpiece. The tension between the traditional values the warriors (with Mincayani as their leader) hold to, and Kimo, the warrior who begins to adhere to the women's talk of the new message from Waegongi (the Waodoni word for the "Creator god") and refuses to lift a spear against his enemies, is the real conflict of this film.

And manipulative as the film may sometimes be, there's no denying the real power of the story it tells. The elements are mythic: five men laying down their lives for the gospel (one nice quote, from Nate Saint trying to tell his son why they will not defend themselves if the Waodnoi attack: "They're not ready for heaven. We are."). The wives going to live among their husbands' murderers. A people torn apart by a few men refusing to offer them violence. A son confronting his father's killer. It's heady stuff, and the sacrificial heart shown by so many, and the amazing changes their sacrifices wrought is a story you would reject as being too incredible if it were not true.

It was also interesting on at least a couple of sociological levels, neither of which I have the time to get into fully here. But the first thing I thought of was the entire fiction of anthropological relativism, the idea (decried to me by Dan, who knows of what he speaks) that native cultures are sacrosanct, never to be tampered with--unless, of course, they're doing something bad. The modern world criticizes Christianity for destroying native cultures, but saving girls from genital mutilation in Africa, or decrying the mistreatment of women in Middle Eastern cultures is okay. The Waodoni were trapped in a cycle of violence which was decimating them--they are now a thriving community thanks to the missionaries who showed them another way. Not to mention the innovations they've seen in modern medicine, education and--oh, yeah. Salvation. Yes, missionaries (past and present) have been too cavalier about their actions and have stomped over native cultural traditions that perhaps should have been afforded more respect in many cases--but the idea that ever introducing change in a culture as promoted by the modern secular mind is cruel--and hypocritical to boot.

The second thing that struck me was simply the presentation of a non-violence as such a transformative power. In this age of militant Christianity and a sense of "we have to fight to defend our own," the amazing effects produced by those who lay down their lives willingly is amazing. Not that all are called to this, or that defense is never an option, but no other action but self-sacrifice is likely to have gotten through to the Waodoni; after all, Christ's initial sacrifice without resistance changed the world...

So, should you go see The End of the Spear? Most definitely. Go find Beyond the Gates of Splendor, and you'll be further rewarded (in fact, if you can only see one, see Gates). It's just a good film, but it's an amazing story.

ps--There. Was that long enough, Slater? Not funny, but you get quality or quantity these days, not both.

I Fell into a Burning Ring of Fire

So I'm taking another stab at it. I had a post in mind and everything.

Only there's a fire nearby, which always throws off my mental balance further than usual. It's not threatening the town and there's only a precautionary voluntary evacuation of some of the lower streets, but it's still nerve wracking. I can poke about at things, but my mind is always distracted.

I'll keep you updated on the happenings up here in the land of heavy low-moisture fuel as I get the chance. Any prayers are appreciated.

Good night, all.

Supplication

I give in.

In order to avoid the revelation of my most embarassing secrets on Slater's Diametral Pitch, I'm putting up a post. In defiance of his blackmail, however, it won't be a funny one.

Take that, world!

I'm at that point in the evening when my thoughts are not at all clear or useful. It's entertaining to watch in a kind of nauseating, horrifying kind of way. I just spent half an hour thinking, "I ought to go to bed now. Yup. I'm gonna be tired tomorrow, by golly," and so on and so on, ad nauseum. And I was going to avoid this again, but for the aforementioned threats. So I guess blackmail works pretty well.

Still and all, I can't think of too many stories Slater knows that would embarass me. Not that that's an invitation to share, mind you--I just can't think of any tales that might haunt me at this point. My suggestion late one night that Daphne from Scooby Doo was stacked really isn't that shocking a revelation. I once had that rather unfortunate incident with the copy machine and the chicken and the rubber glove, but really, who hasn't had that experience?

Besides, I'm not the one who taught vacation bible school classes for an entire summer playing the part of a girl named Lark...

However, I'm willing to concede that my current mental state is probably not the best for remembering compromising incidents, so I'll keep my mouth shut and plan on more extensive posting in the future.

Your comments, as always, are an encouragement I appreciate. Chime in. Heck--give me something weird to write on and I'll make it a future topic. How's that for audience participation? Yes, you too can be a part of The Sojourner Chronicle; how lucky for you!

I'm going to bed. Probably.

Providing a Distraction

WHAT IN THE WORLD CAN THAT BE?!!???!?

Did you look the other way and completely fail to notice that this is not an actual blog post?

No?

Darn.

In truth, I did have plans to put up a substantial post (mainly to avoid a right royal humiliating from Slater), but I got caught up on an ongoing discussion/debate/saga over at Devin's Mystery Cycles. Click over there and the headline of the latest post (from January 6th) should clue you in as to why it's raised such a ruckus. The good news is that it has instigated a great deal of discussion about some core issues, so be sure to give yourself a few hours and chew through all the comments. My last (and, to date, only substantial) one was something on the order of six pages long.

I submit that in lieu of content here. I've got to get some sleep 'cause I'm all emotionally worn out.

ps--If you think about it carefully, this really is a blog post. It's kind of like that famous painting of a pipe that underneath says, "This is not a pipe."

I just blew your mind, man.

Where Have I Been?

No, really. I'm asking. If anyone knows, clue me in. I feel like I've been lost.

The world has been a whirlwind since my last post in December. If I remember rightly (and there's no guarantee of that these days), it was just at the end of my semester. It was right before the endless cycle of events, visits, and family and friend stuff.

Now, much of that was great. We had a Renaissance Christmas party on the 19th at the in-laws, which was fun and delicious. The next day was the roleplaying joke-fest of the visiting Parker Horde, followed the next day again with the open house for same, both of which were terrific.

Then began the rounds of family visits. Joanna's entire clan was out from their various points around the country, making it a big Polman time. We were either seeing them or my family at all times for two weeks. The Polmans numbered twenty with all kids and adults tallied, and for an introvert like me, that can be a bit hairy. It was good to visit with Tim, my brother-in-law-in-law who is now a pastor out in Georgia and is the kind of guy who takes a sniper's training course so as to dominate paintball games, and I did get in some fine X-Box time with him and my other brother-in-law-in-law, Dave. But getting the kids ready every day and being among so many folk for long hours and ingesting vast quantities of quite tasty but very girth-enhancing food was just draining.

Finally all that came to a close this week, leaving me just time enough to try to take care of a few of the issues that have been piling up in the intervening weeks--like preparing for classes which start on Monday and taking care of the registration tags the DMV fails to send us every year so that we get pulled over at least once per annum for expired tags.

Fascinating stuff, isn't it? It's been a struggle to get back on here because my life seems to be in a strange, shapeless place, floating free from anything I've known before. My many-times-aforementioned secret project fell through completely (though I'm still not telling what it was, as it may come back one day); I've not really written anything in weeks; I'm staying up even later than usual and have no idea why. My motivation seems to have been sapped completely, yet I've never felt like I've wanted to pursue my calling more strongly. I get weepy watching The Chronicles of Narnia or just listening to the dramatization of them on CD.

Kathie mentioned to me in November that she was praying for major changes in my life, which I much appreciate. Perhaps this is some sort of point along the journey, but it seems a pretty low one. Still, blogging again may be a help. I make no promises to reform, as I've failed on that score far too many times to try it again. But something is underway.

I'll stop now before the rambling becomes interminable. Thanks for sticking around this far. All further prayers and thoughts are most welcome.

New Post Appearing Soon

This is a placeholder post. Slater has been bugging me and demanded a "high-quality" post by today. That I cannot provide, for my soul is in turmoil and I'm just sleepy. But I do plan on beginning to post regularly once again, so stay tuned.

Bed now. Writing later.