Katdish.net

In case you missed it, I wrote my first and only guest post for What I Learned Today last week, On Writing and Blogging. Over the past seven months or so, I’ve learned much about the business of writing. Fascinating stuff.

More fascinating still is the craft of writing. I’ve never doubted that it is an art form, I just never understood the importance of the rules. Rules that are allowed to be broken, but only if you know what they are in the first place. Clearly, I break the rules without even knowing it. Sometimes I stumble upon writing a decent story, but I think it is exceedingly rare to find a writer with any staying power who is just winging it.

One of the cardinal rules of writing is that a writer must read. Even reading bad writing has its merits, because it reminds us of what not to do. Ah, but good writing? Good writing inspires us and nourishes our souls. It challenges us to be better writers. Or at the very least, a more appreciative audience.

If you are an aspiring writer (and seriously – who isn’t these days?) I would highly recommend On Writing by Stephen King. It is the best book about the craft of writing I’ve ever read. (Note: It is also the only book about the craft of writing I’ve ever read.) This is my blog, and I want to sound as if I know what I’m talking about. Please play along.

The best part of this book? It’s just plain honest. A trait I subscribe to all great writing. Here’s a brief excerpt:

You can approach the act of writing with nervousness, excitement, hopefulness or even despair–the sense that you can never completely put on the page what’s in your mind or heart. You can come to the act with your fist clenched and your eyes narrowed, ready to kick ass and take down names. You can come to it because you want a girl to marry you or because you want to change the world. Come to it any way but lightly. Let me say it again: you must not come lightly to the blank page.

I’m not asking you to come reverently or unquestioningly; I’m not asking you to be politically correct or cast aside your sense of humor (please God you have one). This isn’t a popularity contest, it’s not the moral Olympics, and it’s not church. But it’s writing, damn it, not washing the car or putting on eyeliner. If you can take it seriously, we can do business. If you can’t or won’t, it’s time for you to close the book and do something else.

Wash the car, maybe.

Which only reiterates the point of my guest post for Billy Coffey. I am a blogger who writes. Some day I may venture out into deeper waters, but for now I think I’ll just keep to the shallow end with only the occasional swim out to the deep. Stay tuned.

“I would really like some ice cream.”

My son. Though five, he has already perfected those puppy-dog eyes that he thinks will get him most anything he wants. And it does, mostly. I steal a peek at the peas on his plate. In order to get dessert, the peas must be gone.

“I ate a lot of them,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. (I can’t say anything. I still have peas on my plate, too.)

I grab a bowl from the cupboard, his favorite ice cream from the freezer, measure out a scoop and a half, and place it in front of him.

He eyes it suspiciously.

“I don’t want this,” he says.

“I thought you wanted ice cream.”

“I do.”

“It’s your favorite,” I say.

“I know.”

“So what’s your problem?”

“You gave me the wrong bowl.”

Ah. Huh?

“But it doesn’t matter what bowl it’s in,” I answer, “It’s still ice cream.”

“But I want the blue bowl. This one’s white. I really don’t like the white one, Daddy.”

“Are you going to eat the bowl?” I ask.

“No.”

“Then I don’t see a problem.”

“I do. I have the white bowl.”

“Well,” I answer, “you either eat it out of the white bowl, or you skip your dessert.”

I have him. No way will he pass up a bowl of ice cream. Not even if it’s in the wrong bowl.

“I’ll skip it then,” he says. He gets up to play, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

How many times have I asked God for something and then questioned Him when it was given in the wrong package? I’ve asked Him for love, and it came in a broken heart. I’ve asked him for happiness, and it came in want. I’ve asked Him for peace, and it came in hardship.

I got what I asked God to give me. It just came in the wrong bowl.

What about you? What’s your bowl?

***

To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at at his new website and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.

Psalm 25

1 To you, O LORD, I lift up my soul;
2 in you I trust, O my God.
Do not let me be put to shame,
nor let my enemies triumph over me.

3 No one whose hope is in you
will ever be put to shame,
but they will be put to shame
who are treacherous without excuse.

4 Show me your ways, O LORD,
teach me your paths;

5 guide me in your truth and teach me,
for you are God my Savior,
and my hope is in you all day long.

6 Remember, O LORD, your great mercy and love,
for they are from of old.

7 Remember not the sins of my youth
and my rebellious ways;
according to your love remember me,
for you are good, O LORD.

8 Good and upright is the LORD;
therefore he instructs sinners in his ways.

9 He guides the humble in what is right
and teaches them his way.

10 All the ways of the LORD are loving and faithful
for those who keep the demands of his covenant.

11 For the sake of your name, O LORD,
forgive my iniquity, though it is great.

12 Who, then, is the man that fears the LORD ?
He will instruct him in the way chosen for him.

13 He will spend his days in prosperity,
and his descendants will inherit the land.

14 The LORD confides in those who fear him;
he makes his covenant known to them.

15 My eyes are ever on the LORD,
for only he will release my feet from the snare.

16 Turn to me and be gracious to me,
for I am lonely and afflicted.

17 The troubles of my heart have multiplied;
free me from my anguish.

18 Look upon my affliction and my distress
and take away all my sins.

19 See how my enemies have increased
and how fiercely they hate me!

20 Guard my life and rescue me;
let me not be put to shame,
for I take refuge in you.

21 May integrity and uprightness protect me,
because my hope is in you.

22 Redeem Israel, O God,
from all their troubles!

This week on the twitter, @redclaydiaries kept me highly entertained from NYC with both tweets and DMs, I reached and surpassed 1000 followers and publicly humiliated my dog both on my driveway and on the tweetdeck. Overall, a very good week:

Hmmmm….Just curious why tweetdeck will not allow me to remove @MarilynDoming ‘s butt off my Mentions column. @spam

@br8kthru You’re welcome. Now go shake your moneymaker.

@redclaydiaries The mini ketchups make great stocking stuffers…( in reply to redclaydiaries @katdish Done. Packed all the mini jams that came w room service too. Wondering if they count the pillows…)

@redclaydiaries Dang. Well you can always raid the housekeeping cart for tiny shampoo. (in reply to redclaydiaries @katdish They’re so mean now! They pay attention & charge me if the robe goes missing!)

@redclaydiaries Are you going to buy that robe, or did you bring an extra large suitcase?

@charliewetzel What’s @redclaydiaries doing? More importantly, what is she wearing?

YANKEEEESSSSS!!!!!! WIN!

Oh, I’m calling this one. Yankees win the World Series. (one out away)

Now, I’m trying to watch the Yankees and write a post. Scuse me…

Hey! Somebody follow @Becks_Beer ! Okay? Good.

Always remember that you are unique. Just like everyone else. – Margaret Mead

@redclaydiaries Nekkid animals should not offend you. Animals with clothing should offend you.

@redclaydiaries I’ll have you know that at last check all of my followers were wearing clothes. Well, except for the dogs and cats.

@pagan43 Oh, well now you’re using math. And here I followed you…Although I could have sworn I was already following you.

@redclaydiaries Hey did you hear I have 1000 followers now? I’m breathing down your 4031 follower neck!

@pagan43 Pie? I don’t want no stinkin’ pie! Well, okay…what kind of pie?

@redclaydiaries So am I now “The One who must not be named?”

@makeadiff21 He’s following me. Isn’t that reward enough?

RT @makeadiff21: @Brian_Russell Heehee. Well, I think that @katdish should give you a reward for finding her 1000th follower 🙂

Follow @underfoldfred and go read The Underfold!

@Brian_Russell YAY!!!

I have 999 followers. Who will be #1000? No, not you Brittney.

@pwilson Where have you been hiding him?

@pwilson OMGoogle! I pink fuzzy heart @fakepwilson!

@Helenatrandom my frontsettes are not blogworthy.

@billycoffey Well, I’m working on that, Billy. (in reply to billycoffey@katdish Tell you what. Just have him call me)

@billycoffey Did you need his number? (in reply to billycoffey @katdish I’m gonna call George and tell him to order you a World Series ring.)

@billycoffey Yes. Mojo indeed. You’re welcome, BTW.

@makeadiff21 A very fancy one apparently.

See? http://twitpic.com/o0a7z

The orthodondist office has a private movie theater, built in fish tanks and is professionally decorated. This is going to be expensive.

So there you go. Also? I’m 6 followers short of 1,000 WITHOUT any auto-follow service or whatnot. What does this mean? No idea.

Quiet Dignity http://twitpic.com/nrei2 Just thought I would publicly humiliate my dog one more time before I say goodnight.

@weightwhat No. I don’t want to see a clown stone cold sober, let alone after a few cocktails.

This is one I like to call “Quiet Dignity”. http://twitpic.com/npxtd

Okay. Gotta go try and get Buddy Love the wiener dog in a chicken costume. Pictures to follow…

@CandySteele Sorry. I can’t help myself.

@CandySteele Your p gets stuck? TWSS.

@shrinkingcamel I’m only a part-time social media maven.

@BridgetChumbley I’m all up in subtle…

@redclaydiaries So you did not have a cone bra? Suppose now you’re going to tell me you were never a pole dancer either.

@RachelleGardner Is it a Snow Day? Hey! That would make a great book title!

Yes, yes…Sorry/you’re welcome.

“Talent is a wonderful thing, but it won’t carry a quitter. And there always comes a time–if the work is sincere, if it comes from that magic place where thought, memory, and emotion all merge–when you will want to quit, when you will think that if you put your pencil down your eye will dull, your memory will lapse, and the pain will end.” – Stephen King, Duma Key

Question: Are you a writer who blogs or a blogger who writes?

I invite you to follow me over to What I Learned Today and join in the conversation.

What? Why would Billy Coffey ask me to write a post on his blog? Who says he did?

Having admin rights has its privileges! Mwh, ha ha!

Okay writerly people. I have a very special treat for you today!

The Novel Doctor has agreed to write a guest post for me. If you haven’t read his blog, you totally should. No, really…not kidding. I’ll give you the link at the end of the post as usual. He sent me a “overlong bio” that he suggested I edit, but I’m not such a good editor and I didn’t want to leave any of it out.

So, here’s Stephen in his own words:

Stephen Parolini has been writing pretty much since the womb. But when his first book “The View From Here Is Really Dark,” written in-utero, was rejected by agents because of a lack of something called “platform” he took a break from writing to pursue a greater career as a curious child, then perpetually distracted but surprisingly successful student, then bank teller, then admissions counselor for his alma mater, Aurora University (it’s in Illinois), then Pizza Hut assistant manager, and throughout much of this time, part time youth minister.

About, oh, let’s say 24 years ago, he remembered he liked words and so he got himself hired by Group Publishing, where he learned how to edit stuff. He wrote and published some youth ministry books, then quit to be a stay-at-home dad and full-time freelancer, which he’s been doing ever since, apart from a brief return to cubicle world working for a publisher in Colorado.

He edits novels and non-fiction books for a variety of folks and is paid in kind words and empty promises – which he then passes along to his creditors.

He has two sons – one is recently married, the other will be as soon as he is of legal age since he and his girlfriend are making him a grandfather much sooner than he’d expected. He himself was married for a long time, but now he isn’t. He likes books and movies and music and cookies and romantic idealism and common sense and irony. Not all at the same time.

***

Linus van Pelt.

He’s the philosopher, theologian, believer in Great Pumpkins and keeper of the faith. And he is also the holder of security blanket and sucker of thumb.

Oh Linus, how those who write are just like thee. (Ref: 2 Schulz 9:17, PSV)

While I’m sure some of us can relate to lovable loser Charlie Brown or nicknamed and nameless “Pig-Pen” (shower once in a while, would ya?), writers-who-want-to-matter (isn’t that all of us?) have much more in common with The Kid Who Holds the Blanket.

In my work as an editor, I see all kinds of writers. Mona Lisas and mad hatters, sons of bankers, sons of lawyers. Some are naturally gifted and brilliant storytellers, others are the marketable product of long years of hard work. But across the board, without exception, they are all Linus. They are philosophers, theologians and believers in Great Pumpkins. They are dreamers and thinkers and world-creators who breathe new life into the things we think we know and make up the things that ought to be.

They also suck their thumbs.

Probably not literally, though I can’t be certain of this since I’m not Orwellian enough to have visual access to their writing chambers. But certainly figuratively – they hold tight to whatever secure thing they can because wandering into the wordish wilderness is more than a little unsettling. Once a writer releases his or her words into the world, those words are free game for doubters and detractors and haters and fuss-budgets.

So they hold on to something that gives them comfort.

Some hold onto the tenuous, encouraging words of a spouse or a teacher or an agent or editor. Others pledge allegiance to their day job, just in case the writing thing goes horribly awry. My security blanket is self-effacing humor. Or just self-effacingness, without the humor. Writers need their blankets. If you take away my ability to make light of myself, you take away my ability to write (or perhaps more accurately, you take away the confidence to share my writing with anyone other than the dust bunnies that proliferate under the card table that masquerades as my desk).

The title of this post suggests being a Linus – a writer – is unbearable. It is. To write with intent to share is to bare at least a portion of your soul. Whether you do that in a blog post or a novel or a poem or a Tweet, you’re practically inviting Lucy to tug at your blanket. But this vulnerable space is exactly what we want; it’s what we need, because it’s precisely where the magic lives. It’s where those who read our words might discover something surprising, or something to believe in, or maybe just something that makes them smile.

The vulnerable space is also a reminder that writing is more than an act of the will; it’s an act of faith.

You don’t have to be brilliant to write. You don’t have to have anything particularly unique to say. But you do need more than a little bit of faith if you’re going to share your words with others – faith that your words will matter and faith that you won’t be completely destroyed by readers’ reactions. And by destroyed I mean pumped full of bullets or pumped full of pride. Either can ruin a writer.

I did exhaustive research for this post to make sure all my Peanuts-related information was accurate. (ie: I searched Wikipedia.) As it turns out, Linus eventually grows out of needing his blanket – or at least he doesn’t keep it with him as much as he used to. Apparently, in one comic he also stops sucking his thumb, saying, “It’s a good thumb, but not a great thumb.” I suppose there’s a transferrable lesson in this. But heck if I can figure out what it is. Maybe it’s about how time and experience can grow our writing confidence to the point where we don’t need to hold quite so tightly to those anchors that we once counted on to keep us from completely unraveling when the writing thing teetered toward impossible.

I don’t know, though. I think that whole “act of faith” never goes away for writers. Perhaps over time we suck our thumbs less often, but ultimately, whenever we put words on the page we’re inviting scrutiny by friends and strangers. We’re saying, “this is a piece of me…what do you think?” Whether we do this with great confidence, “You wanna piece of me? Chew on this!” or with high anxiety, “It’s just li’l ol’ me, please be gentle,” it’s a risky act. In fact, it’s practically unbearable.

And yet we keep doing it.

Because we are Linus. We are writers. And we are compelled to write.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to find my blanket. It’s a little chilly here, what with the draft that’s blowing through the rather large holes in this blogpost.

***

To read more from Stephen Parolini, visit him at The Novel Doctor and follow him on the twitter at @noveldoctor.

When I heard the topic for this week’s blog carnival, this song was the first thing that popped into my head and I just couldn’t shake it. I’m not going to pretend this song has any deep, hidden spiritual meaning…

But then again, lyrics can mean different things to different people; may even mean more or less depending on the season of life one happens to be going through. That’s the beauty and power of a well written song.

So what do I take from the song at the moment? I’m reflecting on memories – both sweet and sad. That’s a good thing, I think. Just as long as they don’t prevent us from creating new ones.

Remember yesterday, live for today. Keep your eyes on the Eternal.

I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don’t let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories

I’m so tired but I can’t sleep
Standin’ on the edge of something much too deep
It’s funny how we feel so much but we cannot say a word
We are screaming inside, but we can’t be heard

But I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don’t let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories

I’m so afraid to love you, but more afraid to lose
Clinging to a past that doesn’t let me choose
Once there was a darkness, deep and endless night
You gave me everything you had, oh you gave me light

And I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don’t let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories

And I will remember you
Will you remember me?
Don’t let your life pass you by
Weep not for the memories
Weep not for the memories

***

To read more posts on the topic of “Remembering”, hop on over to the blog carnival hosted by Peter Pollock at Rediscovering the Church.

Halloween night is usually a busy one at my house. From the time the porch light goes on until the time the candy runs out, there will be an average of 160 ghosts, witches, Hannah Montanas, and ninjas walking up the driveway. Not kidding. Kids take Halloween seriously around here.

The rush is generally concentrated between the time we get home from our own trick-or-treating until around 8:30, at which time either all the children’s bags are full or their parents are out of patience. There are always a few stragglers of course, mostly the teenagers who are too old to want to be seen begging for free candy but too young to pass it up.

But even the stragglers are done by 9:30. I’ve never had a trick-or-treater knock on my door past that time. Until Logan, anyway. He knocked on my door twenty hours later.

Wife and kids were gone, which had left me in the enviable position of having both the television and the house to myself. I had just settled in to a riveting football game when I heard footsteps on the porch, followed by a soft knock.

“Trick or treat!”

Standing at the door was a pint-sized T-Rex. Styrofoam teeth jutted out from his head, and a long tail stretched all the way to the steps. Very impressive.

“Trick or treat!” the boy said again. He held out an orange plastic bag and shook it twice for effect.

“It’s not Halloween,” I said.

“I know.”

“Halloween was yesterday.”

“I know.”

This, I decided, was a new low. Not only did I probably give this kid a handful of candy last night, now he was back for more.

“Didn’t you get enough last night?” I asked him.

“Nuh-uh,” he said.

“Little greedy, ain’t ya?”

He wrinkled his brow at that, as if he were trying to decide if that was a compliment.

“What’s your name?” I asked him.

“Logan.”

“Well Logan, I think you probably have enough candy at your house, don’t you?”

“No. I don’t have any.”

“You don’t have any candy?”

“Nuh-uh.” He shook his bag again—please?

“You didn’t go trick-or-treating last night?” I asked.

“No,” Logan said. “I got dressed and went to Granny’s, and then I got sick. I yarked in my bag.”

It was my turn to wrinkle my brow, but he answered my question before it was asked by stating, “No, not this bag.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good.”

“Mommy says I can have a do-over. She says we don’t get much do-overs, but I think they’re the best.”

I glanced out toward the driveway. Mommy stood at the end and rested an elbow on our mailbox. She gave me a wave and a what-was-I-supposed-to-do? shrug.

“Most everybody’s out of candy,” Logan said, “so they gave me cooler stuff.”

He opened his bag for proof—two candy bars, a pencil, some glue, and a five dollar bill.

“Not bad,” I said. “Okay, hang on and I’ll see what I can find.”

The only candy left was the bounty my kids had secured the previous night. While it was entirely within my bounds to confiscate a few pieces here and there for my own use, I didn’t really feel right giving Logan any. In the end I came up with a small spiral notebook, two AA batteries (every boy needs batteries for something), a baseball card, and an arrowhead I had found near the creek.

“There ya go,” I said, emptying it all into his bag.

“Sweet! Thanks.”

“No problem. Happy Halloween.”

Logan the tiny T-Rex bounded back down the driveway to his mother. We exchanged a wave and another shrug, and I stood and watched as he knocked on the door of the house across the road.

Do-overs. Logan was right, they’re the best. A way to erase all the bad and make some good in the process. His mom, however, was wrong. Do-overs are more common than she thought.

Every day is a do-over, I think. A chance to right the wrongs of the day before, to be better and love more and reach higher than the day before. Few things in life have brought me more comfort than that fact.

That no matter how dark my night may be, daybreak will come.

***

To read more from Billy Coffey, visit him at at his new website and follow him on the twitter at @billycoffey.

Reading for November 1st from Oswald Chamber’s My Utmost for His Highest:

YE ARE NOT YOUR OWN

“Know ye not that . . ye are not your own?” 1 Corinthians 6:19

There is no such thing as a private life – “a world within the world” – for a man or woman who is brought into fellowship with Jesus Christ’s sufferings. God breaks up the private life of His saints, and makes it a thoroughfare for the world on the one hand and for Himself on the other. No human being can stand that unless he is identified with Jesus Christ. We are not sanctified for ourselves, we are called into the fellowship of the Gospel, and things happen which have nothing to do with us, God is getting us into fellowship with Himself. Let Him have His way, if you do not, instead of being of the slightest use to God in His Redemptive work in the world, you will be a hindrance and a clog.

The first thing God does with us is to get us based on rugged Reality until we do not care what becomes of us individually as long as He gets His way for the purpose of His Redemption. Why shouldn’t we go through heartbreaks? Through those doorways God is opening up ways of fellowship with His Son. Most of us fall and collapse at the first grip of pain; we sit down on the threshold of God’s purpose and die away of self-pity, and all so called Christian sympathy will aid us to our death bed. But God will not. He comes with the grip of the pierced hand of His Son, and says – “Enter into fellowship with Me; arise and shine.” If through a broken heart God can bring His purposes to pass in the world, then thank Him for breaking your heart.