The Latent Man

Project Update

Writer’s block, lack of inspiration, or just being bored with your current project, no matter what you call it, when it came to my writing, I had it. I barely managed a paragraph a week. Before bed, my brain would torment me over why I wasn’t being productive and how I just wasted another day. Remember that post about perfectionism? Yeah, he tried to worm his way back in again with his friend’s self-loathing, and low self-esteem. I’m trying to evict them and figured a good start would be a project update.

I have big dreams for my novel. I want to hold a bound copy in my hands with eye-catching cover art and the caption, New York Times Bestseller in front of my name. Why not? If I don’t shoot for it, I’ll never hit it and If I never let anyone read it, I won’t know if I’m on the right track. I’ve decided to give you a tidbit, a morsel if you will, of some different sections of the novel. I figured if you find those snippets engaging then I am on the right track so the first snippet will be posted at the end of this post. As I finish my first draft of the novel I will start looking for people to read and critique it all the way through.

Woodworking

Here I will follow the old cliche, pictures are worth a thousand words.

By the end of this weekend warrior project, I learned a lot about how to build a table and how not to build a table. I have done some small projects since but the itch to try something big again is creeping up on me. My wife has become a fan of my new hobby asking for things like a coat rack and essential oil holders. It took me by surprise when the little requests culminated into asking for a 7ft dining table with a butterfly leaf. The first thing I did was look up what a butterfly leaf was. After staring at her in disbelief that she thought I could do something like that I began to think, just a few short months ago I had never built a table, now I had one upstairs. Why not give a dining table a shot.

A problem I have with the bigger projects is, that I don’t have the room or many of the tools to make working with larger pieces of lumber easy. So, I took the opportunity to explain that without a table saw, cutting the lumber for a dining table would be difficult. To my surprise she gave me the go ahead to purchase one with in reason. My dreams of a SawStop were burst but I did settle on a Ryobi job site saw. Now, I know it’s not the best of the best but remember, all I had a was Black & Decker circular saw, so I think it’s a step up.

I am now searching for hardwood types and researching builds and design idea on Pintrest before diving into this project. I think it will be fun, I just have to slough off Perfectionism and begin. I will keep ya’ll up to date

So, without further ado and a little nervous trepidation here is the first part of Chapter one to my working novel, Whisper Out Loud. Below the snippet I’ve added a song I listen to to help energize me and put me in a better mood. I hope it does the same for you. Thanks for reading and keep finding ways to develop yourself.

Chapter 1

Olly Olly Oxen Free

Mother Nature slapped Sydney Austin square in the face. She rubbed her cheek while cursing the assaulting limb, determined to keep searching as the hunt dogged on into late afternoon. She drew close to her quarry on several occasions only to have it scamper off again into the woods, a disorienting obstacle course in all directions.

The mature pines were easy enough to maneuver through, but the saplings and thick curtain of foliage slowed her down. It didn’t help that gnarled roots piped along the ground, jutting out in sporadic intervals from the blanketing under growth, inviting her to sprain her ankle with each dubious step.

Hide and seek seemed much more dangerous than when she was as a little girl, some twenty years ago in the suburbs of Atlanta, darting around houses and mailboxes, not along the edge of the Nantahala National Forest.

“Addy!” She cupped her hands around her mouth, only hearing a faint giggle in return. “Come on Addy, it’s getting late. We gotta start heading back. Aunt Steph is expecting us.”

“Nu-uh, just one more time.” The light voice piqued with a giggle, “I bet you can’t find me.”

“Okay, but stop running.” Sydney took a step towards a sprawling shrub. The rustling within hinted where Adalyn, her six-year-old daughter, might be hiding.

Sydney lunged at the foliage arms out like a line backer waiting to scoop up her child, “Gotcha!” A Brown Thrasher kicked out from the shrubbery, eliciting a yelp from Sydney as she ducked. The brown speckled bird skimmed just above her head, squawking as it took flight to the forest canopy. She tracked the bird until it disappeared. Placing a hand on her chest, she regained her composer.

“Okay, you win. Come on out.” The only answer was from the wilderness, its timbre alive with chirps and cheerful whistles.

“Addy?” Still nothing. Sydney felt uneasiness swell inside her like a balloon.

“Adalyn Austin, I’m not playing anymore, come out where I can see you this instant.” Sydney began to walk along the wild hedge row, the balloon inside her nearly bursting as the shrubs ended at the edge of a granite out cropping, falling some twenty five feet to a rock-strewn bed below.

“Addy?” dread pushed sweat out of Sydney’s pores. The stifling air felt heavy in her lungs. She knelt down, leaning over the edge as small bits of debris broke loose. “Adalyn!” her plea echoing down the cliff, trailing off to die between the towering pines below the ridge line. She stood and turned in a circle. Her pulse pounding in her head as her eyes dilated, darting from tree to tree. “Addy!”

She took several deep breaths, squeezing her eyes tight. After a few deep breaths the she calmed down, the scent of pine and honey suckle stirring in her nostrils. With her eyes still closed she thought she could hear something beyond the sounds of the wilderness, away from the cliff, a kind of chortle that accompanies children at play.

The sound stoked her, pushing away the deprecating thoughts invading her mind.

“Addy!” Sydney called with renewed fervor as a rustling of leaves caught her attention. “Addy, com’on we aren’t playing anymore.” Daylight was bleeding away. The dipping sun causing the lofty trunks to reach out, grasping the rugged terrain with long shadowy fingers.

“I win?” the young girl’s voice piqued.

Relief flooded Sydney as a smile grew on her lips, “Yes honey, you win. Now, where are you?”

“Over here mommy, over…” the serious game of Marco Polo ended with a pitched squeal, causing a flock of black birds to take flight from an overhead branch.

“Addy!” The scream was born from the deepest part of her, heralding through the woods like that of a roaring beast. She was a mama bear whose cub who was in trouble.

The woods in the area were thick, unhampered by hikers. The closest trail crawled over the mountain side eight miles to the east. Disorientation was common. Landmarks were swallowed up after only a few steps off any path and sound ricocheted off trees like a pinball off bumpers. Sydney was in full tilt as she tore through the forest in the last direction she heard her daughter.

Her right cheek seared with pain as she burst head long in the midst of an immense overgrown briar patch. She writhed among nature’s barbed wire, the long prickly vines decorated with small white blossoms. Sydney picked at the vines, contorting her body in awkward gestures as not to take anymore brambles to the face, or any other tender areas. Removing spurs with her thumb and fore finger, she forged ahead. It was now more than ever she cursed her fashion sense that had her wearing a sundress to play in the woods.

Her languishing was not solely from the thorns but the swarming mosquitoes as well. They dive bombed any portion of her bare skin that presented itself. Swatting at them became an exercise in futility as the pesky blood suckers were innumerable, and each swat brought with it the bite from the prickly vines that surrounded her.

“Mommy!” The single cry pierced deeper than any of the thorns. Adrenaline erupted, coursing through her veins. She surged through the last few yards of the thicket. The briars brutally snagging at the sleeveless sheer fabric that covered her shoulders, chest, and back, before tapering at her waist and flowing freely from her hips. Large swaths of the material were reduced to frayed ribbons. Red lines were rend across her arms and legs. Fresh blood seeped and stirred with the rivers of sweat that flowed freely from her pores. The wounds were clear but the pain was all but nonexistent.

The sound of her heart drowned out everything except for the cry from her daughter. It consumed her mind. The surrounding forest passed in washed out streaks of greens and browns as she ran with reckless abandon. Sydney never saw the weathered tip of jutting granite that caught the top of her foot. With an awkward lurch, the sky, trees, and earth blended into a wash. Her body tumbled, rolling over and across slick beds of leaves and loose soil. Her plunge down the embankment was halted with a sudden jolt.

Disoriented, she lay on her back with her head propped up. The trees around her climbed toward the darkening sky like imposing ebony spires against the fiery heavens.

Addy, was her last thought as she slipped through the tethers of consciousness and a black ink consumed her. She closed her eyes and her body went limp.

Throwing Powder

Love covers a multitude of sins, theatrics hides the rest. No one knows theatrics better than the parent of a three-year-old girl. Tell her, “No.” and the performance that follows surely would win an academy award but it’s not just small children who, strut and fret their hour on the stage.

We all perform our little plays to one another, performing little dances to get our way, hide our feelings from others or hide the truth from ourselves. In essence, we lie to one another, and ourselves, on a daily basis.

And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in masquerade
-Lord Byron

As a crime scene investigator, I often run into the CSI effect. It’s when the general public indulges in true crime shows and forensic thrillers until they believe everything they have watched is gospel and I, a real-life CSI, should be able to do it all. In those instances the victim does not want to hear, I’m sorry there is nothing I can do. They want it solved in an hour with commercial breaks. Instead of arguing with their delusion about my job, I “throw powder“. I will go through the theatrics of processing a scene, of throwing fingerprint powder around, knowing that I will not recover any evidence for one reason or the other. I lie to make the victim feel as though something more is being done when in reality nothing more, at least at that time, can be done.

A couple of days ago, I watched the movie, Constantine (I like movies that involve the supernatural but aren’t focused on brutal gore) I went on about my life until the following day, during my quiet time, I was reading through the book of Acts where Paul and the other apostles spread the teachings of Christ, healing, and casting out demons. That is when I began thinking about scenes in movies where an exorcist is trying to remove a demon. They need special items like mirrors and holy water, or relics like the bones of a saint, and many times they need a lot of time to do battle with the demon.

Acts 16:18 Finally, Paul became so annoyed that he turned around and said to the spirit, “In the name of Jesus Christ I command you to come out of her!” At that moment the spirit left her.

Paul didn’t need bones, holy water, or a praying montage with music and cut scenes. The demon came out at Paul’s command. How short and boring would movies like the Exorcist be if they portrayed the true power of God?

To tell you the truth, I’m bad at lying and I’m glad about it. Where in your life do you use theatrics, throwing powder even for seemingly good reasons, and do you ever think it’s okay? What are some of your favorite movies that are overly dramatic but you like them anyway?

I hope you have a good week, and keep developing yourself. A project update will be coming soon.

Mercy beyond the Mirror

Do not rejoice when your enemy falls,
and let not your heart be glad when he stumbles,lest the Lord see it and be displeased,
and turn away his anger from him.

-Proverbs 24:17-18

“Payback is a b!t@#.”, you think as the slick state trooper interceptor pounces, its LED lights blistering the air in bursts of brilliant blue, closing the distance on a silver sports car that nearly blew your doors off a half-mile back.

It would be a safe bet that you would be happy, if not ecstatic in that circumstance. “He got what he deserved.” or, “that’ll teach him.” With a show of virtual hands, how many of you would take joy, smile, or even roll down the window and offer up a gesture?

It’s natural to cry out for revenge, for our pound of flesh for the wrongs perpetrated upon us, but the Bible is full of, “turn the other cheek” references. The cop part of me is always looking to catch the bad guy and make him pay. It’s the ‘paying’ part that trips me up. I was told at the start of the police academy that it is not your job to punish, that is for the courts.

I helped to catch a child pornographer a few years back. To simply describe the experience as ‘bad’ would be like saying Niagra falls is a drip of water. I found satisfaction in doing my job even though I delved into depravity that makes me shudder. Ultimately, the suspect took a plea deal which was followed up by the district attorney’s office calling to congratulate me on helping get the conviction. I pretended to be happy but, I wasn’t. You see, he got ten years, serve three. Three years for what he did. I was mad. How could someone so evil, so malignant be allowed to walk in three years? “It’s not enough!” I remember telling God. I am ashamed to admit but I hoped the three years he was incarcerated was a living hell for him. I didn’t want redemption for him, I wanted him to suffer.

God spoke to my heart in the months and years that followed, telling me that when he wants me to forgive, he also means the child pornographer. I didn’t want to, I fought it. No one would blame me if the grudge I held was against him but in the end, who am I to tell God what was fair and what was not. The entire book of Job is a good lesson in that. I asked God to help me forgive. I’m not totally there yet, It’s going to take a while. I doubt I’ll ever get over what I saw, but I’m getting there.

Don’t read me wrong here. I believe in consequences for your actions. Discipline is natural and necessary. It reflects what we as a society hold most valuable. Though the connotation of discipline has gotten a bad rap, it’s not always negative. In fact, discipline means, training that corrects. I discipline my kids when they do wrong, not because I want to be sadistic and see them suffer, but because I love them enough to correct them, just as God corrects his followers when we are disobedient to Him. It can be a loving act that means as much as a hug, it just doesn’t feel as nice.

It’s when we take that extra step turning discipline into vengeance. That is when we begin to take on the form of that which we hate. Not only catching the bad guy but making him pay, and feeling good about it. We are quick to call for the head of the wrongdoer but even quicker to cry for mercy when it is our own head on the chopping block. I believe the only person we truly want complete mercy for is the face in the mirror. We must be taught to extend it to others. We don’t deserve God’s mercy, one iota of a percent but, he pours it out to us.

In writing this I am ousting myself. I yearn for those who hurt others to also hurt, and in the process, I forget about redemption and mercy. The following lyrics of ‘Had Enough‘ by Breaking Benjamin sums up the vengeful feelings:

When all is said and done
I will be the one
To leave you in the misery and hate what you’ve become

When a crime is committed, especially those that are most heinous, the victim and those close to him aren’t the only ones who suffer. When the gavel strikes and the penitence clock ticks, another life is lost too. As the perpetrator is chained and taken away, whether we want to accept it or not, someone will miss him (or her, to be fair). Kids, parents, and spouses are left to wonder where and how it all went wrong, and how do they shoulder what their loved one has become?

We should not take any pleasure in the downfall of our enemy, only find pleasance and comfort that the destruction is over, and while picking up the pieces of shattered lives, we can find reconciliation, repentance, and redemption for everyone.

Now, you may ask, do I really believe this? What about serial killers and men who seem to embody pure evil? What about monsters that molest babies, do I wish redemption for them? What if a drunk driver kills my family, will I not find satisfaction in the punishment of the offender? I know only how my flesh would respond, and in the atmosphere of law enforcement, it’s sevenfold higher; Hunt the criminals down and hang them high, they deserve it.

In writing this entry I can only hope it has given me, and you, a time to pause and think and when I leave the next courtroom or pass by the speeder who just got pulled over, I will say a prayer for them as well, Lord knows it couldn’t hurt.

God bless and keep developing yourself.

Poetic Uncertainty

Creative Writing
Poetry

Poetry is my red-headed stepchild. It’s the relative you send a Christmas card to each year to acknowledge their existence in the family but you quickly send them to voice mail on the occasions they call.

I was introduced to poetry in elementary school. It was lyrical, the sing-song style that every little kid is introduced to, inevitably leading them down the path to discovering that no English word rhymes with Orange. Then poetry tried to get reacquainted with me in high school and college, and he was in full rebellion. Poetry didn’t rhyme or have a fun meter anymore. No, he was free-versing it. But, it just wasn’t the absence of the rhyming, he also had branched out his romantic side into sonnets, become the class clown with limericks, and even traveled abroad, coming home calling himself a Haiku. I couldn’t keep up and I didn’t like it. It was like trying to read the King James Version of the Bible as a child.

I was not poetry’s type either. I didn’t go to coffee shops with a Macbook Pro covered in stickers demanding to free Tibet and polar bears alike while wearing a crocheted beanie and drinking something akin to coffee. We weren’t compatible and I was okay with that.

So, when poetry started knocking on my door like an unannounced Jehovah’s witness, I did what we all have done; muted the TV, told the kids to be quiet, and hid in the kitchen, away from open windows until the knocking stopped. I then sneaked to the upstairs blinds to see if the coast was clear, nervous to part them for fear of being seen.

Why had he come back? We had nothing to talk about. I was fine writing my fiction work and he had his niche among the English Lit students across university campuses. I still don’t know the answer, but this idea wouldn’t leave my head. So I indulged it, manipulated it, and for God’s sake it had to rhyme.

I mentioned a few posts ago that I would be sharing some of my work. When I wrote that, I meant a chapter or two in my developing novel. Instead, I give you the first poem I think I have written since elementary school. I’ll be honest, I ran it past a few friends first. After a friend told me it was good, and he could actually understand it, I felt that I had come to terms with poetry, even if it is on shaky ground. I didn’t even have to wear a beanie or join a cause. I just had to write it the way I wanted. So below is my poem. It may be missing some punctuation here or there but I still think it’s pretty understandable even if it was written on a PC.

Icons

The colossals of the past stood stoic in their stone

Watching us live before fading into bone,

We praised our own hands worshiping what was sown

Still, they stood silent, not even a kindly groan.

We filled shelves and libraries with literary tomes

about the busts we rent, sitting silently in our homes.

Oh, the glory we heap on the marvels of today, our monuments still silent, molded stone and lifeless clay.

So why do we cry, weep when they fall

Aren’t they just lifeless forms, standing rigid and tall?

Maybe it’s the artist and all his toll and torment, or maybe it’s the shape these figures represent.

Some fall by nature, taking back what is hers

Some fall by man, by the anger that it stirs

Whether rage or storm, the assailant does wield

The colossal is reborn, refusing to yield.

M&Ms and Dividends

Standing in line to purchase a pack of peanut M&Ms, I noticed an ATM machine near the front counter. The signage urged anyone who gave it so much as a cursory glance to invest in bitcoin. Color me skeptical. Maybe I’m old-fashioned, or maybe I just don’t know enough about bitcoin to indulge in it. More than likely it’s a bit of both, but for now, I will invest my money in tried and true boring mutual funds.

Money is most certainly the first thing I think of when I hear the word investing, and I wish someone had taught me the good side of compound interest 20 years ago, but my middle-aged self has learned time can be just as valuable an investment and produce just as big of a return if not bigger.

Time investment works just like a financial investment. If you don’t invest your time you won’t get a return. I get mad sometimes when my novel isn’t coming along or my woodworking project looks more like a toppled Jenga tower than a table. Is the time invested producing favorable returns? If not, do I need to invest more time, more money, or is the project becoming a drain and worth continuing?

Just like money can be invested in different areas so can time. You can invest time into your own fund, or you can invest time in other people’s funds. The effect you have on others is the most valuable currency there is. That can be time and money combined. How I manage my finances now will affect those around me, and how much time I pour into my two kids and my marriage will most definitely have an impact, good or bad.

My son takes Karate and class starts before I get off work. There are times I want to just drive home and veg, content to see him when he gets home, but when I go to Karate straight from work and I walk in, his face lights up and he will throw me a little hidden wave and a big smile. I have made an investment in his fund.

When I come in the door after a long day and I just want to change clothes and sit down, my little girl yells, “Daddy” and bounds down the hallway, with our dog in tow, jumping up and down sounding like a skipping record, (google what a record is kids) repeating “play with me, play with me.”, those times I choose to chase her around the coffee table or play CareBears, I have made an investment into her fund.

Love is many times considered an investment but to love someone you must spend the currency of time, so for the sake of this post, time/love are the same. In the two examples, I gave all three of us are getting instant returns and hopefully long-term returns. No matter how tired I am, nothing feels as good as being dog piled on by my kids and basking in their excitement of daddy being home. I hope they will carry those memories with them as they grow up.

Not too long ago, I was feeling dejected about what kind of effect I was having on those around me. I didn’t feel noticed and I felt pretty useless. Notice I said the words, felt. It wasn’t the truth, they were lies and I had started listening to them. Driving into work is when I have little chats with God. This one particular morning, I asked Him straight out, “Am I making a difference?” Remember when I was standing in line to buy those peanut M&M’s? The cashier was a young black woman about a year out of high school. She worked the early morning shift at the convenience store allowing me the opportunity to speak with her on multiple occasions. Before I walked out with my healthy M&M breakfast she said, “Thank you for being a good one.” I must have looked puzzled so she elaborated. She and her mom had grown up in Chicago and had some negative experiences with the police there. She thought we were pretty much all alike, power-hungry and demeaning, but she appreciated me taking the time to ask how she was doing. To ask about her weekend and encourage her. I hadn’t realized I had done all those things. I just stopped and talked with her while she rang up my order. I thought back to my question to God just minutes before. I smirked and thought, Oh, you are good. I made an investment.

I once asked a State Farm insurance representative (Sorry, it wasn’t Jake) how her weekend was and over an hour later we ended the phone call with only 10 minutes worth of the call about insurance. How are you managing your investments? Don’t listen to the lies that you are useless or meaningless. Today, ask the customer service lady how she is doing or talk to the cashier while they are scanning your purchase. Go invest. No act is meaningless that lightens the load of someone else and trust me, we all have heavy loads.

Keep developing yourself and what is your favorite M&M?

Project Updates

Pslams 20:4

May he give you the desire of your heart
and make all your plans succeed.

Procrastination hates updates. How many of us waited till the night before to start that book report, or prepare the PowerPoint presentation for work? I had a supervisor that wanted weekly updates on the status of a project. I hated having to prepare notes and show our progress but, I never forgot about the project, at least not for very long. I know me, and I know I am easily… Squirrel! …..sorry, I am easily distracted. So, here is my project update. Eat your heart out procrastination (such a disturbing declaration.)

40K

No, I’m not referring to Leagues Under the Sea or the cost of a used car nowadays, or even the tabletop dice game. Though writing sometimes makes you feel as if you are stuck in the middle of the grim darkness. (Nod to all the War Hammer enthusiasts out there.)

I have reached the 40,000-word count for my novel. I’ve seen it on the internet (so it must be true) that 40,000 words are the bare minimum to call your story a novel. So, today I revel in my achievement. It’s taken me a long while to get here and I’m excited. If I had to guess, I’d say I’m halfway finished. I have my plot well figured out and I’m trying to get my two protagonists over to Norway to finally meet the antagonist, the man behind the curtain pulling the levers. I have written 12 chapters though chapter 11 is huge and will most likely be split up.

I’m dotting the entire story with Christian concepts. I want them to be apparent without slapping 3:16 on each page and adding a verse concordance in the back. There is murder, gunplay, alcohol, and even…wait for it…lying. How can I even consider writing such dross? These things and much much worse happen every day. I deal with the depravity of the human mind and spirit on a daily basis and it just reinforces my daily need for Christ which is what I want my characters to realize sooner or later in their adventures too.

I am not ready to share my work but when I am, I will share snippets in my posts, ask for feedback and eventually seek alpha and beta readers too.

Along the way, I’ve learned different styles of writing and the habits of successful and unsuccessful authors. I’ve learned that I am a Pantster, a quirky nickname for writers who do little to no planning, writing only by the seat of their pants.

I’ve learned I like ‘Purple Prose’. My descriptions are very ornate and embellished. In some instances, this is good, in my opinion, when it comes to describing a dead body, a crime scene, or the beautiful woman driving a classic Mustang. Where it hurts my writing is when I am building an up-tempo scene, the descriptions can bog down the pace. I will chisel away at these knots when I hit my first edit.

Overall I am pleased with how it’s coming. I have to allow myself some grace through the entire process. I am not a full-time author so writing 3000 words a day is not pragmatic for me. If you have noticed, I do good to post once a month on here. So, though I do get down in the mouth about my lack of writing, I am still moving forward. My goal is to write something every day. Even if it’s just a paragraph and so far I’ve been hitting that goal most weeks.

Woodworking

I am a wood dabbler. The thing is, the more I dabble the more excited I get. I nearly danced in the garage after I made my first slot cut with my router. What is wrong with me? I don’t know but I’m forging ahead. Did you know a 2×4 isn’t really 2″ by 4″? It’s really 3 1/2″ by 1 1/2 “. What?! False advertising! No problem, I ripped two, what Matt Outlaw calls, “tubafours” by half an inch and joined them creating a 3″x3″ board for my table leg. I just need to do that three more times. Yep, I used math.

I actually need to give a big shout-out to Matt Outlaw at 731 Woodworks. I have found so much inspiration from his videos and his story. A former state trooper turned YouTuber, woodworker, and a brother in Christ. Besides his down-to-earth instructional videos, I draw encouragement as he does not hide his mistakes. So when I witness in horror as my saw blade digs out a splintering chunk of wood, I don’t fret. I tell perfectionism to keep his seat and I figure it out and move on.

I linked Matt’s YouTube video where he shows his beginnings. If his first workbench was a red and green tub, then I don’t feel so bad about my dishwasher box workbench.

Thank you for sticking with me. I hope you find inspiration or insight here. If you do, please share http://www.thelatentman.com with others. If you need some encouragement, I’ve added Fires by Jordan St. Cyr below. Thank you for reading and until next time, keep developing yourself.

Creation Crime Scene

Creation Crime Scene

A murderer lives in my head. He has been there, dare I say, most my life and from his vantage point, he can see nearly everything. His name is Perfectionism and he spends most of his days stalking Creativity. He is patient, deliberate, and cunning. He waits to pounce on a poorly written sentence, a stray cut, or an errant brush stroke. Perfectionism jumps from his perch with eager malice slashing at Creativity till it is nothing more than tattered thoughts on the floor while leaving you, the creator wallowing in self-doubt.

I have become more aware of perfectionism the further I plod ahead with writing my novel. When I first began typing, perfectionism started a simple conversation, and it went something like this:

“What ya doing?”

“Writing a story.”

“That’s cute, what’s it about?

“Espionage/thriller kinda thing. I’m still working out the details.”

“Oh.”

“What do you mean, oh?”

“Well, if you don’t know 100% what you are writing, how do you expect it to be any good?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“Look, your first paragraph already has some issues. Leave the writing to the professionals and go do something you’re good at.”

Death by a thousand comments. I had barely started and I was already doubting. I’m a good way through my first draft now but Perfectionism doesn’t give up and to give him credit, he is very convincing.

Even while writing this post, perfectionism has pulled up a chair and is looking over my shoulder spouting off his opinion.

“Taking a break from your novel I see. Probably for the best, the transition in chapter 11 is brutal, and if you don’t nail it, the rest of the book won’t fall into line.” The truth is, it doesn’t have to be perfect, and to be honest, it probably never will be. True perfection is an unattainable goal and not just for you, but for everyone on this Earth. So, if it’s something none of us can obtain why do we give power to perfectionism when he tells us, “It’s all or nothing?”

I’m trying something new, and that statement alone rouses perfectionism. My father had an old wooden chessboard where he taught me to play the game. I hope to teach my son and daughter to play on it as well. It has sat in a closet for years. I want to inlay that chessboard into a tabletop. I’ve never worked with wood like this before. So in preparation, I’ve scrounged around collecting the needed tools, bought the materials, and watched a lot of YouTube.

I haven’t made the first cut yet but I know as soon as I grab my saw, perfectionism will speak up. The thing is, I may mess up but I’m going to have fun trying. I’m even going to let my son help, and since I’m a nice guy, I’m going to share the process with you too. If you happen to know anything about woodworking I’m open to advice.

As for my writing, some of the best advice I received was from successful published authors who instructed me to, write my first draft all the way through. Don’t stop, just finish. It’s not going to be perfect, that’s what the 2nd, then 3rd, and the 4th drafts are for. I am going to strive to make my novel as perfect as I can, but It’s not going to happen the first time around.

As best-selling author John Acuff said, “Perfectionism is creativity tied to fear instead of hope.” If you want to take a deep dive into Perfectionism and the role it plays when trying to achieve your goals, I highly recommend picking up Acuff’s book, Finish, and following his podcasts. https://acuff.me/

What did Perfectionism tell you when you dared to take the first step toward a goal? Did it attack you, or did it look subtly over your shoulder?

Merde! Excuse my French

In the cacophony of f-bombs and mother expletives that permeate daily conversation, one cuss word from me would largely go unnoticed. Except…well except by me. I’ve never liked cussing, even the minor curse words in the hierarchy of profanity, cause me to cringe. Now I could write a post just on profanity and police work but I’m not going to, at least not right here. This post is going to be about profanity in writing.

Several years ago I turned an early draft of my novel over to some critique readers. I wanted to know if what I had written made a lick of sense. One critique I received took me by surprise. He told me my writing reminded him of something from the 1950s. He had noticed the lack of curse words in the dialogue and that people today do not talk that way, especially for the genre I was writing in, action/thriller.

Was this faceless man (or woman) right? Was my writing something from Leave it to Beaver or The Donna Reed show? My story is a thriller for for Gosh sake. So the gears turned and unfortunately I allowed the opinion of one person to take hold. These are my characters speaking, not me. Maybe they could cuss. Maybe I was being too up tight. It would immerse my readers. It would make my characters feel real. After all, Mark Twain said, “under certain circumstances, profanity provides relief denied even to prayer.” And who was I to contradict the venerable Twain?

So, I dabbled. I read through the dialogue, interjecting cuss words where they seemed appropriate, if appropriate cussing is a real thing. Once finished, I read over my work. It was edgy and grit laden, and dagnabbit, I didn’t like it. I scrubbed the profanity from my work like a mother washing out a child’s mouth with soap.

I asked my friend Google, Show me authors that do not use profanity. Google obliged, and son-of-a-motherless-goat, I was surprised by the number of fiction authors who abstained mostly, if not entirely, from profanity in their works. Most notably was Lee Child who writes the Jack Reacher series. Noah Boyd and Terri Blackstock rounded out the list of non-profanity writers in the action/thriller genre. I’m sure their are many more and if you know of any published authors, in any genre, that shun profanity in their books, please let me know. I had a renewed fervor. I was in good company and If these published authors could do it then so could I.

So, as I crack open my laptop and continue on my writing journey I will be leaving out the profanity and one day, Google will tout me as an accomplished ‘clean’ author and a literary genius.

Your bad day is your bad day.

On Mother’s day-night I found myself sleeping on an air mattress in an upstairs bedroom, alone. I know what you are thinking, I must have gotten her a vacuum cleaner or taken her to McDonald’s to celebrate everything she does for our children. Some of you probably think I forgot the entire day completely. Well, you’d be wrong.

I remembered Mother’s Day. In fact, I got her a gift related to one of her current passions. That’s right ladies, I watched and listened to what my wife was doing and gave a gift based on my observations. I’m not one to keep score, but I’d say that is a win in my column, even if the tally marks are heavily skewed in her favor (if you ask her.)

So, how did I end up in solitary confinement? Covid-19. Yep, I’m a statistic, a shade of red ( I hope more Vermilion) in a pie chart. So I stowed away in a non-air-conditioned bonus room on an air mattress. Don’t let me mislead you, I had a full bathroom, a TV, and a computer, it was just hot. I would amble myself downstairs from time to time to raid the fridge or just see what was happening in the rest of the house.

I tried my best to stay away from my family but a six-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl don’t want to be told, “No, you can’t give daddy a hug, or drink after him.”

But as we all know, when it rains it pours, and so on the second day of my Covid journey the fever and body aches set in, and I wanted nothing more than a hot shower. The hot water heater had its own plans and unfortunately, it did not communicate to me that one of the heating elements was bad and would not be providing me with what I so desperately wanted. Two days later it was fixed and I was enjoying a nearly scalding shower while angels sang hallelujah and doves flew by. Okay, there were no doves, but for those two days, I was miserable. I’d walk by a faucet, turn it on, and hoped the hot water heater’s cruel joke was over; that it had found pity on me and would grant me a trickle of warmth. Maybe It was the fever, but I’ll admit I tried this almost as many times as I’d open the fridge thinking maybe I missed something from when I checked fifteen minutes earlier.

I spoke with others who had gotten Covid and each experience was different. I had a mild case. Low-grade fever, body aches, fatigue, and loss of smell and taste. It wasn’t the worst experience of my life but it is not something I’d want to go through again.

One thing I’ve learned is to never compare your bad day or experience with someone else’s bad day. Not long ago I had a friend ask about my day. I unwrapped the day’s events which culminated in the accidental shooting of a child by a neighbor, and how it was a difficult scene to work. I then reciprocated and asked about her day. She said, “Bad, but not as bad as yours.”

Just because my day involved some pretty horrible things shouldn’t diminish what she was going through. Her day was bad for her. Starving children in China or a raging pandemic doesn’t take the bad out of someone’s day. It can, however, give perspective to your life. Your car not starting is seemingly small when compared to the diagnosis of stage four cancer, but does not being diagnosed with a severe illness make your car not starting any less frustrating?

When someone says they had a bad day, listen. To let someone unpack the events of a bad day could be what they need to make it better.

What’s the worst day you’ve ever had? Did you try to share it with someone and did they listen or try to minimize it?

Life doesn’t have a soundtrack

Rocky with out ‘Eye of the Tiger’ or James bond without his famous theme would make these movies very different, very dull. Even cartoons use music to punctuate levity. In our lives we don’t have that epic sound track. When going in for that first kiss, an orchestra isn’t in the next room building the moment. So what are we to do? We plug our ears with little wireless buds and walk, jog, drive, strut, and study to the sound of….everything.

And in our minds’ we become…we become the hero, the struggling underdog, and maybe even sometimes the villain. I mean who hasn’t had thoughts of world domination? But in adding spice to our life are we drowning out life itself? I’m not talking necessarily about missing the sound of the whippoorwill among rustling leaves as the wind blows, (kinda sounds like Disney song) but are we drowning out each other? We are social creatures made to fellowship. That’s tough to say as an introvert who sometime just wants to be alone, but when given the opportunity to meet someone, it’s hard to get past the electronics crammed in their ears. Now don’t get me wrong, I listen to music while doing daily activities as well. At least I like to think I don’t go overboard. Mostly, I listen in the car while I drive and my imagination takes me on a ride with each song. Shouldn’t I be focusing on the road you say? I do, I’m not closing my eyes like Hillsong United just came on the radio.

I’m talking about the people who are grocery shopping jamming out while trying to decide on Kraft or store brand mac & cheese, or the person dance walking across a busy intersection. Or my favorite, the people with headphones on while driving a car. And then their are those that want to share their music with everyone in a five block radius, but that’s a different blog/rant for a different time. Is life that boring? Are we trying to drown out something or have we been conditioned so much by media that every move, every moment should be backed up with a sound track?

What kind of music do you listen to while out and about? Are you trying to drown something out or motivate yourself?