Progress: 1,121 new words; rough stock retrieved

Monday was one heck of a busy day, and starting to write at ten o’clock at night is a certainly not ideal, at least for me. Still, some words were had, and I’ll be sure to start earlier today. I have to if there is any hope of reaching twenty-thousand words by Sunday.

On the construction front, I dug into my wood pile and pulled out enough rough-sawn red oak for the driveway gate. It was, of course, at the bottom of a stack that weighed a ton. I had to move hundreds of board feet of walnut, chesnut oak, hard rock maple, and a few exotic species, then move it all back again once the oak was recovered. I followed that up with going to the gym, so don’t let anyone tell you I’m not crazy.

I don’t have any current pictures of the wood to show, but you’re not missing anything. It’s just a stack of wide planks. Later today will be an opportunity to take before and after pictures, and that should be more interesting (for those who work with wood).

Been home from a long-ass road trip for almost two weeks now. Clothes are washed, the weeds in the yard pulled, the refrigerator restocked, and the daily routine back to normal (such as it is).

Time for a challenge.

To put this in some context, let me confess that I’m not a planner. I’d like to be a person who schedule their day, week, month, and year down to the nearest half-hour. I’ve even tried it now and again. But I can never bring myself to follow little squiggles on a calendar that I know are as arbitrary as waking each day and winging it.

Problem is, lack of focus often means lack of progress in a creative project. At my age, the last thing I need is a lack of progress. I’d like to accomplish a few things before the bell tolls, but I’m not taking the necessary steps. Too many things get in the way. Check that—I allow too many things to get in the way.

Thus, the challenge. I’m going to start off small hoping success in the next few days will give me the motivation to continue in the weeks ahead.

Even when other demands on my time poke their ugly heads out of the muck. Even if I end up traveling (which I will in early November). Even when everything and everybody wants a piece of me.

No pressure.

So here’s is what I’ve promised myself. By the end of this coming Sunday, I will have written twenty-thousand new words. It’s not much (at least by the standards of many), but I want to start small and build. A little under three-thousand words a day should be doable, even for me.

But that’s not all. I’ll also have finish the rough construction of a driveway gate similar to the one in the picture. I don’t know about you, but I’m a creative who likes to use his hands. There’s something calming about working with wood, especially when I’ve taken it from a standing tree to a board. The process takes a few years, so the necessary perseverance exceeds that of producing a novel. At least for me.

Each day this week I’ll post updates on my progress. Words will be counted. Gate preparation and build will be pictured. I’m sure my mental state will find its way into the mix.

Wish me luck.

It’s been one of those days. No sunshine, no focus, no real words. Anxiety out the ying-yang and only a few beers and some pizza to combat it. The only saving grace, if it can be considered such, is that my Detroit Lions beat the dreaded evil empire, New England.

Come to think of it, a great day, indeed!

We’ve been toying with the idea of getting a used cargo van and outfitting it for camping. Maybe even living in it full time.

In other news, I have an appointment with a therapist first thing Monday morning.

I’m kidding, of course. But not about the van. A couple of years ago I built a camper on the frame of a small cargo trailer. But it’s only ten feet long and five feet wide on the inside, just enough to hold a bed, some storage, and a desk that’s fronted by a big picture window. It’s a little cutie, as you can see from the image above.

Turns out, it’s also the doppelgänger of a taco wagon, or so half the people who see it claim. I make no judgments in this matter. All I know is I don’t have to set up a tent. Just roll into a campground, crawl under the covers, and go to sleep.

Still, it would be nice to have more room. Maybe a little refrigerator. Perhaps a bathroom/shower. Something that more closely resembles a true camper and not just a hut on wheels. Thus the idea of a cargo van.

Or, just maybe, a bigger trailer. Not one off a lot. I don’t think I could stand all the plastic and thin sheet metal. I’m a wood person, even to the point of felling my own trees and sawing up the lumber.

Another camper would be a fun project, but time intensive. Doing it would cut into my writing time. Right now, that’s not something I want to contemplate.

So, until I do pick up the hammer, look for me on the roads near you. I’ll be the one pulling a taco wagon. You might even convince me to rustle you up a burrito.

Every Friday I post excerpts from my work-in-progress (WIP for those in the know). These will mostly be rough drafts of chapters, but in some cases I’ll drop in a full short story. Once the full story is completed (or the short story published) the draft will go away, so enjoy it while you can!

---

 

“Hey, baby, I think Smith’s got a hard-on for you.”

Justin slapped Megan’s butt with the ruler as he passed. More than a love tap, but just short of solid smack that could be heard throughout the room. She flinched, but didn’t turn around.

“Go away,” she said, voice barely audible.

“What did you say?” He stopped and leaned over the bench, his face inches from hers, smelling of cigarettes and hair gel. “You want to give me a kiss? Well, I’m not usually that easy, but for you I’ll make an exception.”

Megan stepped back as she removed a beaker from the bunsen burner and placed it in a cooling rack off to her side.

“Please leave me alone.”

“I could, but don’t think I will.” He straightened up, a nasty glint in his eyes. “Not before I win the science fair and keep you from getting the scholarship. Not that the money’s important to me. My father’s paying for everything.”

“Then why do you want the scholarship?” Try as might, Megan couldn’t keep the desperation out of her voice. “Isn’t being quarterback, class president, and homecoming king enough for you?”

Her stomach churned because she knew why he wanted to—in his mind, had to—beat her. Everyone did, which made him all the more determined.

Justin took a step forward, closing the gap Megan had opened. “No, it’s not enough,” he snarled in a low voice that only she could hear. “I want to crush you. Think you have a shot at Servetus? By the time I’m done, you won’t be allowed to graduate high school. Get used to the idea of hooking for a living.”

Megan found herself speechless as she tried to fathom how the situation with Justin had gotten so out of control. He didn’t need her. There were plenty of girls who’d spread for him any day of the week.

Although loathed to do it, she was about to beg for mercy when Katerina—Kat, if you wanted to avoid becoming acquainted with her fist—appeared and slide between them.

“Get lost, jerk-off.” She reached up, put her hand in the middle of his chest, and pushed him away from Megan. “Go back to your loser friends. You know, the ones who talk big to compensate for their lack of equipment.”

Justin face flushed as he balled his fists. He opened his mouth to reply, then at the last moment thought better and closed it. Even the mayor’s son hesitated to tangle with Kat Vinke. She might five foot nothing and slight as a willow twig, but that didn’t prevent her from putting guys on the ground faster than a kick in the nuts. A certain amount of respect was due a mixed martial arts champion, and Kat milked it for all she could.

Then again, maybe Justin thought of her father’s company, Vinke Enterprises. They employed half the town and tens of thousands more across the state. No one succeeded in Stratford, or in the western part of the state, without the Vinke stamp of approval. Justin’s father needed them to support his political ambitions, and if it meant sacrificing his son, town opinon was he’d gladly do it. After all, wasn’t his first name Abraham?

Megan watched as Justin retreated to the far side of the room, his buddies jeering at the surrender. She knew Kat meant well, but now he had another thing to hold against her.

“Why do you bother talking to him?” Kat hopped up and sat on the edge of Megan’s table. “He won’t forgive you, no matter how nice you treat him.”

“He came over. What was I supposed to do?” Megan pulled at a strand from the frizzy red mop that passed for hair during the winter months. “I can’t afford to antagonize Smith, and Justin’s the teacher’s pet.”

“I bet he is.” Kat grabbed an empty test tube and slowly stroked it up and down.

Megan looked like she’d bit into a lemon. “That’s disgusting.”

Kat shrugged. “You’re right, it is—and I hear he’s even smaller.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. I don’t care why Smith likes Justin. I already have two strikes and don’t need a third.”

“Smith doesn’t blame you for the fire. It’s not like you spilled the alcohol on purpose. And besides, it only scorched the wall. It’s concrete, for heaven’s sake. You’d need a bomb to do any real damage.”

“The fire department…”

“It’s next door, and the firemen did nothing. We’re the ones who put it out.”

Megan grabbed a stool from under her table and sat. She looked Kat in the eyes.

“I’m scared. I thought I could win the scholarship, but not with Justin hell-bent on seeing me fail. He’s bright, even if obnoxious as hell.”

“Jesus, Megs, give yourself some credit. You’re the smartest person in school, and I’m counting teachers. Besides, Daddy said if you don’t win he’ll…”

“No!” Megan jumped off the stool. “I’m not taking charity from your family.”

“It’s not charity. Daddy wants someone to keep me on the straight and narrow when I go to Servetus, and he’s more than willing to pay for it.”

“I don’t want to be your nanny.”

“I wouldn’t let you. But I have enough self-awareness to know I make some pretty bad decisions. If we hang in college I might earn something other than tattoos and hangovers.”

Megan took a deep breath and tried to relax. “I have to admit, it’s hard to imagine life after high school without you. But I want to earn my way to Servetus.”

“Suit yourself.” Kat tilted her head to one side. “But maybe there’s a way I can help?”

“Not by using your family’s connections to influence the judges.”

“I wasn’t thinking along those lines, although now you mention it…”

Megan shook her head.

“Dude, there’s no pleasing you.” Kat sighed, then flashed a grin. “Wait, I’ve got an idea. I can be your lab assistant. We’ve always worked well together, and with double the labor you should get more done than anyone else, including Justin. You can have the entire prize when we win.”

“What about your project?”

“It couldn’t win a kindergarten contest, let alone one at the high school level. You know science isn’t my thing. I’m just going through the motions because it’s required.”

“And if Smith doesn’t let us?”

“My mom helped organize the science fair, and she’s been all in on teamwork for years. I’d be shocked if the rules didn’t allow it.”

Megan sat on the stool and picked up a cooled beaker. She held it above her head and, after examining the precipitate that had settled to the bottom, sighed in disappointment and placed it on the bench. She turned to Kat.

“Okay, we’ll enter as a team. But only if Smith approves.”

Kat flipped her blonde curls as she jumped off the table and struck pose worthy of a fashion magazine. “Before I’m done with him, he’ll think it’s the best idea he’s ever had.”

“No, let me…”

“Let you get nervous and stutter your way through the ask?” Kat shed her lab coat, licked her lips until they glistened, and flipped her safety glasses into Megan’s lap. “This calls for a professional. I’ll wait for him in the hall so no one overhears what we’re doing. Wish me luck.”

Megan groaned as Kat walked towards the lab door, a predator in search of its prey.

Some girls are born with a killer instinct. And then there’s me.

A hand moving down her back interrupted the thought. She spun and found Justin again in her face.

“Is your guard dog running off to chase squirrels?”

“What is wrong with you?” Megan tried to move away, but he grabbed her wrists and pulled her into his arms. He held tight as she struggled.

“No girl turns me down and gets away with it,” he hissed in her ear. “You’ll give me what I want, willingly or not—doesn’t matter to me.”

She looked past Justin, eyes wide and pleading, but no one seemed to notice what was happening. Or maybe they didn’t want to get involved. Either way, Megan’s blood ran cold.

Then the thought of being assaulted, in class of all places, caused a tide of anger to rush through her body. She began twisting and squirming with all her strength. She’d have kneed him in the groin if he hadn’t preemptively turned sideways and leaned a hip into her stomach.

“Let go, you asshole—I’ll kill you if you don’t leave me alone.”

Justin held on, chuckling in her ear. No matter how hard she tried, Megan couldn’t break away. With each of his hot breaths her outrage increased, but her ability to fight declined. It only took a few seconds to realize she was no physical match for him. She didn’t have Kat’s skills.

With that thought, her anger collapsed into despair. Nausea followed.

Megan slumped forward as her body went limp, her forehead coming to rest on Justin’s right shoulder. In retrospect, it was precisely the right move.

In 1916 Robert Frost published the poem “The Road Not Taken.” It would cement his legacy and become his most recognized piece of writing. Most people who read it assume that it celebrates the story of American individualism. To support this interpretation, one needs only to look at the concluding stanza:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I —
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Our culture equates taking “the one less traveled by” with fortitude, courage, and daring. These are the classic characteristics associated with the mythos of American individualism. But, as any English major can tell you, that interpretation is wrong, at least according to Frost. In 1961 he stated that the poem is “very tricky” and often misinterpreted. His real aim, or so he implied, was to comment on indecision and the search for meaning in random events.

Listen to the way Frost himself reads the poem:

 

I don’t know about you, but I don’t hear individualism in that reading. There’s no attempt to elicit an emotional response that might lead one to sally forth on a quest for wealth and dragons. In fact, the person deciding between paths seems detached, and the reasons behind their choice are obscure.

So which of these two interpretations of the poem is correct? Can they both be correct?

Poetic interpretation depends on the interpreter. It is a critical thing to keep in mind, especially as we consider the stories that swirl around us. Do we look to confirm our personal biases, or are we interested in learning? Do we want to come closer to knowing the truth, or do we need to reinforce the views we currently hold?

In short, are we open to changing our beliefs when a better story demands it?

I was talking to my son the other day. He attends a liberal arts college and is just tearing the place up. Perfect test scores. Double, and now thinking of triple, majoring. Playing classical guitar concerts before crowds of a thousand people. Embarking on laboratory research that he plans to turn into a career one day.

In this conversation, my son says, “Dad, I just love learning. I want to learn all the things!”

What was my response? I tried to get him to be practical. I talked about the tradeoffs between time and money; about the opportunity costs of staying in college; about the need to focus on the one career that will define his life.

Somewhere in the middle of the conversation I started to realize that I was trying to sell him a story that I believed when I was his age. It was an old story of how you should structure your life and do the things necessary for success. A story of how you must compromise to make it in this world.

It was a story that may have been good forty years ago. Good for the right kind of person, with the right kind of beliefs. If I’m honest, I have to admit that it was a bad story for me. It led me to abandon my passions for a sense of stability and security.

It was a story that took me further from learning truth, not closer.

Why was I trying to put a damper on his excitement for learning when we had spent all those years homeschooling him to love learning? Why was I concerned that he was expanding his horizon when he had the opportunity to do so? Who was this person that was talking to him?

It was at that moment that I realized I had run face first into a rock that he had already flipped to the side. He had found a new story underneath it, one that rang out truth for him. My life had been guided by a shibboleth that did not exist in his reality.

As Frost implied in his poem, we feel the need to choose between independence and safety. It is a hard decision to make because it presents us with a false dichotomy and because we fear regret. We think the choice we make now is important, at least until the next choice comes along. We fail to recognize that choosing never ends. There are many paths that will take us through the woods to the other side. None of them are necessarily better than the other.

I realized at the end of our conversation that my son was writing a better story than the one I had at his stage in life. My story was bad, for him, and could never get him close to the truths he desired. He won’t be taking the well-traveled path, but he won’t regret it later. He will be taking a path less traveled, but perfectly suited for him.

I’ve never been more proud.

Let me begin with two important caveats.

First, that I could ever consider myself enough of an authority to write a tea latte guide. Truth told, I only discovered them on my recent trip to The Faith & Writing Festival at Calvin College.

Second, that what I discovered at the campus Fish House coffee shop is the ultimate of the tea latte world. But if it’s not, then there is a universe of delectable drinks I need to hunt down like a Captain Ahab in pursuit of Moby Dick.

A small diversion—I love coffee shops. From the time I started graduate school I immersed myself in their atmosphere. The sharp, earthy smells of the coffee beans, best experience in a place that roasted them to their own specifications. Murmured conversations that rise to a humming white noise. A tendency for coffee culture to attract writers and readers. My people. My kind of place.

Problem is, coffee now despises me. Some of you know what I’m talking about. For others, you don’t want the details. I’m paying the price of previous overindulgence.

So for years I’ve been flirting with abandoning the coffee shop culture. I’ve yet to stay completely away, from a shop or the delectable dark liquid. I figured one day it would kill me. But if not that, then something else. Stoic of me.

Now I have a whole new chance at life, or at least the part that finds me in a comfortable corner table sipping from a big, ceramic mug. But now the mug exudes the wonderful, flower and spice scented aromas of tea, milk, and various accoutrements.

So, without further delay, here are the recipes I had the pleasure of trying during my stay in Grand Rapids, Michigan. To say they made it easier to handle the cold, snowy mid-April weather is a gross understatement. Watch out Louisiana coffee shops—here I come with my list.

Spanish Infusion—mint verbena tea, vanilla, peppermint, a dash of cinnamon

Le The Paris—Paris tea, caramel

Japanese Sencha—Japanese green tea, honey

South African Medley—Rooibos chai, vanilla, cinnamon

London Fog—Earl Grey supreme tea, vanilla

Moroccan Spice—hot cinnamon spice tea, vanilla, a dash of cinnamon

Hello My Darling—Darjeeling tea, English toffee, nutmeg

My Indulgence—tropical green tea, coconut, a splash of chai

I Love Lucy—chamomile tea, honey, cinnamon, cardamom

The word mindfulness occupies a special place in a world awash with buzzwords and trendy hooks long on promises, but perhaps short on truth. Its core, mindful, means to be aware or conscious of something. Given this definition, mindfulness by itself can never elevate the way you experience and understand your daily life. Whether the goal is a refuge from the incessant noise in our media culture, the ability to focus and concentrate, or develop a sense of peace, mindfulness needs direction to put you on the path towards sanity, if not outright enlightenment.

So how does one cultivate mindfulness in a way that blocks the negative aspects of a harried life while amplifying the positive? The essayist Dinty W. Moore lays out a plan, of sorts, in his 2016 book The Mindful Writer (Wisdom Publications).

Title not withstanding, Moore’s book is useful for considering mindfulness across a wide spectrum of creative pursuits. All artists must, in Moore’s words, develop the skill of “… seeing with fresh eyes, thinking with an open mind, searching the nooks and crannies of any subject to find what has not yet been explored, or what might be explored further to shed some original light and engage…” the audience. If the artist’s job is to “look where you have to look,” no matter how joyous or painful the sight, then it must be accompanied by deliberate intent. Mindfulness, properly cultivated, can enhance a creative’s ability to do so.

Moore takes an unabashed Buddhist approach to mindfulness by referencing the four noble truths. He couches them in terms of the writing profession, but they are also applicable to the wider universe of artists:

1. The creative life is difficult, full of disappointment and dissatisfaction.

2. Much of this dissatisfaction comes from the ego, from our insistence on controlling both the process of creation and how the world reacts to our art.

3. There’s a way to lessen the disappointment and dissatisfaction and to live a more fruitful artistic life.

4. The way to accomplish this is to make both the practice of creation and the work itself less about ourselves. To thrive, we must be mindful of our motives and our attachment to desired outcomes.

A very Buddhist framework to mindfulness. If that was the entire focus, then it would have limited application to most artistic lives. Even if a creative could glimpse the path, the practical signposts are missing. Hence the bulk of the book—quotes from a wide range of writers and reflections on their meaning. It is this latter content that makes the little book worthwhile.

Moore divides the quotations into four sections. Below I’ve reproduced a sampling of the quotes, one from each section.

1. The Writer’s Mind. “A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people,” by Thomas Mann.

2. The Writer’s Desk. “Catch yourself thinking,” by Allen Ginsberg.

3. The Writer’s Vision. “How do I know what I think until I see what I say,” by E.M. Forster.

4. The Writer’s Life. “Writing is a struggle against silence,” by Carlos Fuentes.

From selections like these Moore riffs on what it means to be a creative and guides the reader to a deeper understanding of the four noble truths. His observations, and the quotes themselves, apply to the painter, the sculptor, and the film maker. People in all the arts have chosen a difficult course, one where they know of their inability to articulate the ephemeral visions they catch even as they know they must try. It’s the only way to prevent the world from decaying into silence. 

There’s a reason not everyone is an artist, and it has little to do with ability—except for the ability to survive a deep dive into the human condition and what it means to be not just a created creature, but a creature capable of creation.

The book closes with a short section containing prompts for mindful writing, followed by an afterword. Here Moore restates his purpose and goal.

“The message of this small book is simple enough. First, don’t grasp too hard or you will choke off any creativity. Second, be open to the moment, the surprise, the gift of grace, or enlightenment. If you are not mindful, not attentive, you will fall victim to the first and fail to recognize the second. So be alert. Be deliberate. Take care.”

The words Moore chose for his book go a long way towards helping the artist achieve these goals.

Periodically, I like to mention certain passages from my reading that I find captivating. The following narrative, from Azar Nafisi’s Reading Lolita in Tehran, is the kind of lyrical narrative that I aspire to write. One day I might actually succeed in doing it.

I ask, Who can dance Persian-style? Everyone looks at Sanaz. She is shy and refuses to dance. We start to tease her and goad her on, and form a circle around her. As she begins to move, self-consciously at first, we start to clap and murmur a song. Nassrin cautions us to be quieter. Sanaz begins shyly, taking graceful little steps, moving her waist with a lusty grace. As we laugh and joke more, she becomes bolder; she starts to move her head from side to side, and every part of her body asserts itself, vying for attention with the other parts. Her body quivers as she takes her small steps and dances with her fingers and her hands. A special look has appeared on her face. It is daring and beckoning, designed to attract, to pull in, but at the same time it retracts and refracts with a power she loses as soon as she stops dancing.

I spent the vast majority of my working life as a professional economist. All day, every day, I worked with figures in spreadsheets that were in the millions, if not more. I talked with business owners rich in dollars, but poor in happiness and satisfaction. Interestingly, the entrepreneurs going bankrupt weren’t, on the whole, any less happy.

But I digress. One thing that happens to economists is they get a warped view of money. Maybe it happens to others dealing with large bankrolls, but I can only speak from my experience.

On one end of a spectrum are most economists. They value money a little too much for their own good. It becomes an end, as if having money somehow protects you from the vicissitudes of life. A security blanket made of paper and ink if you will. Money becomes more than a medium of exchange to get the goods and services you require. It becomes something to seek with all the skill and effort you can muster, damn the torpedos or the family. An idol in the Church of Molech.

On the other end of the spectrum, a few economists lose all respect for money. It becomes nothing more than a play token that, while necessary, is not important in their lives. It’s why the saying “a billion here, a billion there, pretty soon you’re talking real money” is such a quintessential economist quip.

This latter approach, toward which I lean, is born of a life-time of luck and privilege. Yes, I budget, tracking the comings and goings of money like a teller at the bank, but it seems so unreal. Like I could just as easily be counting stones or seashells—which, come to think of it, I would if born in another era and culture.

In short, I don’t worry about whether I’ll have enough to live out my life in comfort, even though as it stands I won’t. I trust that more will come my way, probably because it always has as long as I put in the work.

That is why I spend so much time, with no immediate hope of renumeration, at developing the craft of writing. In academics, you learn to invest early and often, hoping somewhere down the line the payoff will come. Most people around me don’t understand this approach. They require a short-term payback, not just as compensation for hours worked, but also as a validation of their effort.

Writers are a different breed, much like the small group of economists who look somewhat askance at money. Sure, they’d like to get paid for their art, but deep down, most know they won’t. At least not now. If enough books are written, then later. When the skills are honed, and the backlist  large enough to think about marketing.

The ability to delay gratification doesn’t make a writing vocation more virtuous than any other. Most writers will pursue other forms of employment to make ends meet, thereby turning their art into an avocation. Maybe that is what it should be, right from the beginning.

It’s what I did, at least until I gained a big enough financial cushion and a wide enough range of experiences to think I might make a go at this thing called “writing for a living.”