Creative Writing – The Latent Man

Urgency in the sound &Power in the Silence

“Nothing strengthens authority so much as silence.”
― Leonardo da Vinci

We wait for the loudest sound before we act. Not much will clear a ball field or a swimming pool quicker than a roll of thunder or a crack of lightning. We all see it coming. The wind picks up, and the gray, angry clouds roll in, but we still sit there, watching the sky, commenting on whether we should pack up or wait it out, and finally we run for cover as the clouds spark.

There is a seeming power in sound. The throaty roll of an engine coming to life or the roar of the crowd as the cheering intensifies. We are drawn to believe that what is loudest holds the greatest power — that volume commands influence. And though there is truth in the thunder, not all strength needs to shout. Sometimes, power moves in silence, and influence flows in barely audible whispers

After the earthquake, there was a fire, but the LORD was not in the fire. And after the fire came a still, small voice. – 1 Kings 19:12

The most powerful forces in nature occur in the vastness of the universe. Exploding stars, massive black holes, and Gamma bursts produce unimaginable forces in absolute silence.

I think we have fallen for the folly that to be successful, you have to have a platform that makes noise. You have the bang your drum and stand before an audience of thousands to have an impact. Those ways can be good, and they have their place, but we must not forget about Betelgeuse.

Betelgeuse is a red super-giant star in the constellation of Orion, and when Betelgeuse goes supernova, it is said it will shine in our night sky brighter than the moon for several months. Everyone on Earth will look up and take notice, and will be impacted by the beauty or just be in awe of the powerful mute death of a star.

A silent hug, or a whisper of encouragement in a friends ear can feel like a supernova inside someone who is hurting. A hand on a shoulder or your best friend showing up in an ER waiting room, without saying a word, can feel indescribable.

For the ones who are hurting, God may have you where your voice is not heard, or you feel like you aren’t seen. You may believe you aren’t impacting much of anything and in those times discouragement can creep in, grip you, and tell you, you are worthless.

Take that time to listen, to look. God maybe moving in silence. Take this blog for instance, it hasn’t blown up with hundreds of followers in over the couple of years I have been posting. When I started, I imagined I’d be answering emails and messages from readers and it would take up so much of my time and I would be connecting with people from all over the world but In fact, I can admit, it only has a handful of people who even know it exists. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t carry weight or have any impact at all. Maybe God didn’t mean this platform for the world, maybe he meant it for me. There are days when I’m discouraged, and I look back and I read one of my posts, and my very own words cheer me up and give me insight. They are old thoughts in a new season, and like the immense events of the heavens, these words on the screen don’t make a sound.

If you must shout, then shout resoundingly with purpose. But if the moment allows, move with quiet intent—
For silence can strike as powerfully as sound. If you have ever witnessed heat lightning then you know the silent flashes that can wink across a summer sky. Does the lightning lose strength for not roaring like the thunder?

In your experience does the squeaky wheel get the grease or is there something to be said for for quiet authority?

Keep developing yourself and to my future self who is reading this, don’t give up, you are loved.

I thought about sharing, the sound of silence, by Simon and Garfunkel (the remake by Disturbed is amazing in my opinion but I thought this fit better, so enjoy some classic Depeche Mode.

Through

You missed it. The signs and arrows warned you but you were engrossed in your podcast or rocking out to Van Halen while playing air drums. Either way, you missed the signs and are traveling in a different direction than you wanted.

Your head is swaying as you frantically look for some way to change lanes. You use the turn signal (probably for the first time in a while) and honk your horn (probably not the first time in a while) and slam your hand on the steering wheel but it changes nothing. Your GPS announces it’s recalculating your route. The feminine British accent holds an inflection of condemnation you swear you’ve never noticed before. There is no way out, no shortcut to getting back to where you need to be. No, the only way, for now, is straight ahead, and whether it will be a ripple or a tsunami on your day is yet to be seen.

When our circumstances change unexpectedly our first response is to find an escape. A concoction of anger, panic, and fear stirs until like a trapped animal we claw and seethe for our freedom from the unknown. Even Jesus in the garden of Gethsemane prayed to not have to go to the cross and though not unknown to Him, his human desire was for his circumstance to change.

And He withdrew about a stone’s throw beyond them, where He knelt down and prayed, 42 “Father if You are willing, take this cup from Me. Yet not My will, but Yours be done – Luke 22:42

The unknowns are scary. Losing a job, a loved one, or a marriage can seem like your world is crashing down around you. Family and friends may stand with you but ultimately it is you who has to stumble blindly through the unknown and though it feels like a nightmare, it’s not always bad.

Take one step back and breathe. If you can do that you are still alive and if you are still alive you have a purpose. Stop looking for a quick way out. Sometimes the quick way out means we miss out.

It’s uncomfortable for me to allow people to critique my writings. Thinking of you critiquing this post right now makes me cringe. A lot of authors claim to be thick-skinned, and whether true or not, I know I am not among them. If I take a shortcut around having my work critiqued, I could miss out on some excellent advice. Without criticism, I will not grow as a writer, a supervisor, or a dad for that matter.

What is the name

of your valley?

The term shortcuts could be interchanged with the word avoidance. Avoiding hard conversations in the present could make a situation worse later on, and if you know me well enough you know that I’m incriminating myself in this statement. Avoidance is fine when it comes to poison ivy, poisonous snakes, and poisonous relationships but when it comes to people you care about, including yourself, hard conversations have to be had and tough calls have to be made. It may not always go well. It may even get downright ugly but by going through it you will learn something about yourself and those around you. God refines us through tough times. Psalms 23:4 says Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death... It doesn’t say, though I walk around, over, or next to the valley but through the valley.

Fill in the blank: Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of_________ I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. What is the name of your valley? bankruptcy, addiction, divorce, or maybe it is death. Sometimes, the best way and the only way is through. How much more deep would our conversations be if instead of asking what are you going through, we asked, what are you avoiding today? Life is beautiful and life is ugly. We all have to go through it. For to side step life is the cruelest thing you could do to yourself, for the reward on the other side could be the best thing you’ve ever experienced. John 14:6 no one comes to the Father but through Me.

Take it from Rocky.

Tai-po

The masterful art of refusing to acknowledge a mistake.

On any given weeknight at our kitchen table, It’s possible to hear my 7-year-old son groan in frustration. “The answer is 10.” He’d say, “Why won’t you let me keep going?” He’ll avert his eyes from the math problem, and slide the homework paper, smeared with eraser marks, away from him. It’s then I’ll take a deep breath to subdue my own frustrations before methodically drawing pips on scratch paper, showing that if you have 6 pips and add 3, the answer is 9. But with the evidence of his error scribbled in graphite, he still struggles to admit his answer is wrong.
Why, when presented with clear evidence of a mistake would he continue to stick with the wrong answer? He is learning the art of Tai-Po (Typo) and to my horror, I am unwittingly his teacher, his Mr. Miyagi.

This summer I built a planter box. I figured it would be good practice and I was wanting to build something I could use. During the process, I made a slight error in one of my cuts. I eyed it for a few minutes, mulling over the idea of having to cut an entirely new piece, which would have only taken a minute or two. Instead, I decided to ignore the mistake and the simple fix. Does this line of reasoning resemble my son and the math problem? The answer is a resounding, yes.

As I continued to construct the planter, I realized the mismeasured piece was throwing everything off to greater degrees. By the time I finished, I had one corner that was out of alignment, and as I stood back to look, the mistake was pretty obvious. Like when you get done with a Lego build and flip back through the yellow instruction booklet to discover the extra piece in your hand was supposed to have been added five pages ago.

If it were anyone else I would have advised them to retrace their steps and undo everything until they got to the initial problem. Everything then would be “square” and line up. If I had done that, I wouldn’t be writing this post. Rather, I began my Tai-Po gyrations, reeling, rolling, and pirouetting to avoid the mistake. I took my orbital sander, hand planer, and wood glue, and went to work. By God, I was going to make this work on my terms!

I should have just gone back and taken the time to fix the issue instead of trying to figure out how to make things right without fixing the problem.

The odd thing about Tai-Po is sometimes you don’t realize you are practicing it. In fact, you can be a master at it and have no clue, and just like you can’t really unlearn how to ride a bike, it’s even harder to unlearn Tai-Po.

For the past month or so I’ve been trying to finish the most recent chapter in my book. I haven’t been thrilled with how It started and I drifted from the plot line, careening my story off into the ether. I told myself I’d fix it in editing and usually, this works but not this time. As I continued to write I kept getting the nagging feeling that something was wrong but in grandmaster Tai-Po form, I ignored it and kept writing. It finally left me with writer’s block and frustrated. I went back and re-read the beginning of the chapter and saw the problem. I had to change a supporting character’s personality and how he engaged with the protagonist, but to do that meant changing almost three pages of dialogue. I didn’t want to. I could make it work by forging ahead, couldn’t I? Just like the wood planter and the math problem. Ignore the problem, and forge ahead. It will turn out okay, right? Maybe, and maybe not. At the root of it all, I was afraid. I was afraid that I had done the best I could. I had done the best I could with the planter box and I had done the best I could in my writing and if I changed it, I’d never get it back.

“It is okay to lose to opponent.

It is never okay to lose to fear. “

-Mr. Miyagi

I took a deep breath and deleted a large swath of writing. As I began to rewrite the chapter I felt better and my fear vanished as I realized, I could do better. Things were lining up and becoming “square”.

What mistakes have you ignored and what was the outcome? Did it smooth itself out or like a splinter, did it fester? Is it still festering? Some of the most powerful words anyone can say is, “I was wrong.” Own it. Correct it if you can, and learn from it.

God bless. Keep up the good work and keep developing yourself.

Suburban Skullduggery

Warren G. Harding warned us about “Soapbox agitation” but I must apologize Mr. President as I dust off this derelict idiom and dive into this rant.

To the mom in the car line at my local elementary school, your car with the skull and cross bones next to the student of the month sticker is not a F-14 Tomcat. Your vehicle may be filled with heathen children that can destroy a house in a matter of minutes, but decorating your car as if it were an engine of death isn’t scaring anyone and in my opinion, looks a bit ridiculous.

Back in the day, dragons were carved on ships, wolves emblazoned on shields, and double-headed eagles stitched on heraldry all to draw upon fear, strength, and power to telegraph a general sense of badassery. Faced with invasion at any moment our ancestors had to scare anyone who thought of leering in their direction. But, in 2022, what is the soccer mom in the Honda Odyssey sporting a bleached skull on the back glass trying to convey?

Why do we use dead things to show strength? Why sew skulls onto our sleeves and ink them into our skin? Wouldn’t something living be more powerful? Wouldn’t it show that we survived what came our way? We go out of our way to create a persona of strength, a vitae of toughness. Are they true emblems of accomplishments or are we trying to scare others, or more importantly, are we afraid?

Let your life show your strength and let your actions speak for themselves. Unless you are planning to commit piracy in your minivan with a toy-strewn back seat, leave the Jolly Roger flags and bullet hole stickers off your car.

I have one caveat to this train of thought. If you are active military or a veteran or a first responder, or someone who risks their life to serve others, wear your patches proudly. You are warriors carrying on the legacy of those who went before you, who carried the dragon banners and wolf-painted shields.

Have you, or are you, putting on a persona to make people see you a certain way? How far did you go with it and why?

Keep developing yourself and enjoy some Danger Zone.

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.

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?

Cardboard Wings

I’ve always loved to write. I just never thought I was any good at it. When my middle school English teacher gave a creative writing assignment my first and only question was, “Does it have to be real?” When the answer was, “No.” I took creative licensing to a whole new level.

Back then I was into war stories. In fact, I still am. I’d take nearly any subject matter and find a way to add gunplay. I’d rummage through my imagination’s armory for laser guns, bows, and arrows, or automatic rifles to arm my characters. After enduring a few of my combat-laden stories, I had a feeling my English teacher was trying to find subject matters I couldn’t turn into combat. Challenge accepted. “I want you to write about a family vacation.” I’d raise my hand and with a sigh of regret the teacher would simply answer, “No, it does not have to be true.” and my unbridled mind launched.

I never figured out why she just didn’t make us write non-fiction. Maybe because she never really wanted to know what some of these kids actually did when not in school. She was a mandated reporter after all.

That was in the early 90s. Can you imagine if my war stories made it across my teacher’s desk today? I’m sure parent-teacher conferences concerning the state of my mental health and safety would be scheduled. All I wanted to do then, is the same thing I want to do now, share the mental movie that played in my head. I wanted to make others as excited about what I was imagining as I was. But back then I grew up in the shadow of my older brother’s talent. He was a few years older and in the English and literature AP classes preparing for college, whereas you guessed it, he majored in English. He kept journals and blogged, wrote thought-provoking essays on culture, and even wrote poetry. How was I going to outshine that and did I even really want to?

My writing recessed as I left high school, even while receiving compliments from peers and teachers alike. I shirked them all as empty platitudes. I Looked for other avenues of interest, for something that was truly mine.

By the end of high school, my boyhood dream of flying A10 Warthogs for the Air Force crashed and burned with an on-set of migraine headaches. So, it was off to college where I earned a degree in Criminal Justice and my creative writing went into a coma

It wasn’t till after college that I decided to put my very expensive piece of paper to work and entered the police force where my creative writing came back to me in an unexpected way. Incident reports and accident reports are the bane of most officers, but it made me write again, and write I did. Armed robberies, murders, assaults, car accidents, and the myriad of other calls you wouldn’t even believe all had to be documented. I learned attention to detail and my typing skills improved. I then realized I had access to an endless well of content to draw from. The craziness that happened in my town every day kept feeding me ideas. The creative writing that had gone to sleep began to twitch.

After the death of my brother, creative writing came to life. Maybe it was my way of mourning his loss, or I realized I didn’t have to be as good or better than him. I just had to be me. Ideas and plots and characters began to jumble and bounce around inside my skull. I’d sit in church parking lots to finish up my daily reports and then allow all the creative ideas to flow. I had no idea about drafting and editing and beta readers and all. I was writing and It felt good.
It’s been several years since then. Add a wife, two children, some animals, and promotions at work and well, something had to be put on the back burner. I’m still married so you can probably figure out what was sacrificed.
Eight years and I haven’t finished the first draft. I have put the pen down and picked it up so many times I can’t count. The number of revisions and changes that have happened are plentiful. Quasi superhero storylines have morphed into high-tech thrillers. Even a wild west story has recently begun to take shape and I don’t know if people even read those anymore. Through all this, though I have learned and applied techniques I wasn’t aware of and learned my own personal style of writing. My ultimate goal is to hold a published copy of one of my stories. It will be a journey and I am inviting you along for the ride.

We all have talents we don’t realize. Maybe we were told we weren’t good enough or it was a waste of time. Someone dumped water on your cardboard wings and now you can’t even get off the ground. If it’s something you are passionate about and God has given you a gift for, develop it. It’s the underlying message of this blog, the core theme that you will find; take what is hidden and develop it into something of value. Whether that is a skill, a hobby, or you as a person. We all have value. Value to those around us, value to ourselves as individuals, and definite value to God.

Do you have any hidden dreams or goals, or ones that aren’t hidden but you are struggling to obtain? Have you finally reached a goal? What did you do to reach it?