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.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, July 21, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, July 07, 2006
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...
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...
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
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 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.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, April 17, 2006
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...
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...
Thursday, April 13, 2006
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?
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?
Sunday, April 02, 2006
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.
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.
Friday, March 31, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
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?
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?
Thursday, March 23, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 21, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 20, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, March 13, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, March 12, 2006
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.
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.