I am getting very excited about the publication of my spiritual memoir — Delight in Disorder: Ministry, Madness, Mission which is due for public release in March of 2014. To give you just a taste of the upcoming feast, I thought I’d share an excerpt from the poetic prelude: “To Nineveh (and back) — A Memoir of Faith and Madness.”
To read more, click on the title below –
“Delight in Disorder Preview: Autobiographical Prelude I”
from Montana Gypsy
I feel sick to my stomach. My chest is in a vise grip. My mind is in a fog. All I can think about is a basketball game in December of 1981 against Center Grove. I was on fire — hitting jump shot after jump shot, bringing our team back from a double digit deficit. Suddenly, I felt a sensation rising in my stomach, up to chest, into my throat. I made it to the sidelines and then proceeded to vomit volumes of water on the legs of poor Barb W_____, our head cheerleader.
To read more, clicking on the title below —
“Spewing on the Head Cheerleader”
“Uncle Larry was the first super-hero I ever met in person. As the star of the Nineveh High basketball team, he was revered by the whole town that gathered on Friday and Saturday nights to watch a bunch of teenagers in Chuck Taylors throw an orange globe into a hoop.”
Read more by clicking on the title below…
(image “Chuck Taylor, Converse” from Nadia Deland in Ode to Converse)
When I was born, Nineveh was no longer the capital of an evil Assyrian empire.
It was a small town in the Midwest, straight out of Hoosiers
With a mother seeking comfort, finding passing victory in valium
And a father consumed by work and entangled by emotions unexpressed.
Their friends put beer in my bottle and laughed
At the toddler toddling tipsy to the turf.
A picture in my uncle’s yearbook shows me at 3.
In the crowd at a basketball game,
Eyes riveted on the action; not reacting like the others.
Serious, searching for substance in the orange globe of a ball.
As if God had put it there.
Sports gave structure to my days.
Something to do to escape.
Countless hours at the school playground,
I was Pistol Pete Maravich.
Each shot a last-second buzzer beater,
A ticket to immortality.
When my parents divorced,
I was made to choose where to live.
I chose to live with Dad where I could be free
To eat Braunsweiger and Nacho Cheese Doritoes
Until I made myself sick.
Dad’s buddies came over to drink Budweiser,
One asked, “Do you like to play with yourself?”
I said, “Sure.”
He burst out laughing: spewed beer through his nose.
I moved in with Mom and Dan, my step-father.
He was an EMT and liked to carry guns.
We watched “Emergency” during dinner.
Dan would yell at the TV, shouting instructions.
They argued a lot – Mom and Dan.
One day Dan pulled out his gun and started waving it ar0und.
I felt a sharp stab in my gut and yelled out.
Mom got Dan to look at me.
He decided my appendix had burst, so he called the ambulance,
They called it gastritous.
I think it was the finger of God.
I was driven to succeed in high school
In sports and studies.
My senior year I discovered girls
Pam Murray, in particular –
Her dad was a missionary.
To date her, I had to go to church,
Which I gladly did.
She was looking for more than kisses and cuddles.
I wanted more than her body had to offer.
At 18, I was on top of the world
But it was not such a steady place to stand.
I had mono when I gave the graduation speech.
I talked about the need for faith,
With a runny nose.
I recited the poem “Richard Cory” – which begins,
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.
And ends…
So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
the story continues…
“Sent to Serve: My Life with (and without) God – Part II”
“Prayer, Parenting, Pits, and Pills: My Life with (and without) God – Part III”
“A Clarion Call: My Life with (and without) God – Part IV“
“Alone in a Fog: My Life with (and without) God – Part V“
“On a Teeter-Totter: My Life with (and without) God – Part VI”
“In the Heart of the Finger Lakes: My Life with (and without) God – Part VII”
“Chosen to Adopt: My Life with (and without) God – Part VIII”
“Lost on Long Island: My Life with (and without) God – Part IX”
(image “St. Jonah” from Mauricio Alfonso Naya in Art / Illustration / Etc.)
Hollie from The Queen of Query has nominated me for The Liebster Award.
I am grateful, bemused and bewildered.
According to Hollie’s nomination post –
The Liebster Award is intended for new blogs (particularly those with 200 or less followers) to raise their profile awareness.
But just who was this Liebster anyway?
I imagine some literary agent – Cyrus Brood – who for 40 years took great pleasure in denying the dreams of aspiring authors, flitting query letters in the waste baskets, lining the bottom of his birdcage with manuscript pages. laughing at proposed plots over martinis with a gang of publishers at the local steam room.
Then one day, a woman in a brown skirt comes to him in tears.
“Are you Mr. Brood?”
“Why yes, I am?”
She hands him a manuscript.
“I am Iris Liebster. This was my son Lawrence’s. He shot himself last night. His last request was that I give this to you. Will you read it?”
“Well, I, um… ” he looked into her eyes, “I will.”
And he did. And it was good. Very good. It was a critical success. It became a best seller. A whopping best seller.
With his share of the royalties, he established a trust for “The Liebster Awards”.
With this story in mind, I simply must accept this award and follow its terms, which are –
1) Post 11 random facts about myself (below).
2) Answer 11 questions (further below).
3) Make up 11 more questions (in later post).
4) Nominate 11 more blogs (also in later post).
11 Random Facts:
1) I am a man who cherishes “decency and good order”, seeking out patterns in what others accept as random.
2) I ate “Jambalaya” for supper. It was not only decent. It was very, very good.
3) My youngest daughter was born in New Orleans, home of the “Saints” football team.
4) I’m currently reading Waiting for God by Simone Weil, considered by some to be a secular saint.
5) I just finished reading The Rabbit Hole, a Pulitzer-Prize winning play about a couple grieving the death of their son.
6) I’m writing a trilogy of short stories – “Life”, “Liberty” and “The Pursuit of Happiness” which I hope to publish and adapt into a script soon.
7) I am essentially an unhappy person who nonetheless laughs at life and finds joy in Christ.
8) I just purchased tickets to see the play “Freud’s Last Session” which depicts Freud debating C.S. Lewis on issues of God, sex, death, and life.
9) When I was in high school, I played Eeyore in “The House on Pooh Corner”
10) I wrote a post today about a pre-game prayer my basketball coach said at the sectional tournament that may have cost us the game.
11) I’m participating in a six-week workshop on “Writing Your Spiritual Autobiography”.
11 Questions
(and my answers)
1. What would you say first inspired you to try writing?
Catcher in the Rye by J.D. Salinger.
2. Do you listen to music or other aural ambiance while you write?
Yes. Right now I’m listen to “Artist Radio based on Iris Dement” from Spotify.
3. If you could only visit one more place in the world, where would it be?
Scotland.
4. eBook or printed book?
Both. Whatever I can get conveniently (and free) from the library.
5. Traditional Publishing or Self-publishing?
Undecided. I’m looking at a traditional publisher for my trilogy of shorts and self-publishing my spiritual memoir. But that may change.
6. In two words or less, how would you describe your sense of humor?
Ironic iconoclasm.
7. If your current novel were made into a movie, who would you cast as the lead?
Robert Redford
8. Who is your favorite fictional character?
Owen Meany.
9. Do you dress up for Halloween?
No.
10. What are you reading at the moment?
Waiting for God by Simone Weil, and –
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
11. What is your favorite quote?
… we must feel the reality and presence of God through all external things, without exception, as clearly as our hand feels the substance of paper through the penholder and the nib. – Simone Weil
Before there was March Madness, there was Hoosier Hysteria – the Indiana high school basketball single-class tournament.
It was late February, 1982 in Franklin, Indiana – the first round of the Johnson County sectional. The Greenwood Woodmen versus the Indian Creek Braves. Greenwood had travelled to Indian Creek just two weeks earlier and ended the Braves’ three-year undefeated home streak, but the Braves were perennial favorites, having beaten the Woodmen in two consecutive sectionals on controversial last-minute calls.
The team bus from Greenwood to Franklin was abuzz with eager anticipation. Following the bus was a fan caravan, complete with police escorts, resembling a New Orleans Mardi Gras parade. Directly behind the team bus was a pick up equipped with a toilet in the bed – a flannel-shirted logger dunking a long-haired, dark-skinned man, complete with sound effects and the sign “Woodmen – Flush the Braves”.
I was in a unique position, with ties to both schools. I had grown up in Nineveh (one of the towns within the Indian Creek district), but had moved to Greenwood in 7th grade. I knew all the players and many of the fans on both sides. But now I was firmly enmeshed in the green-and-gold and to the Indian Creek fans, those were the colors of a traitor.
As the bus pulled up to the entrance, a wall of police had to restrain on-rushing fans to make room for the bus. With many of the Greenwood fans following us, the crowd assembled was a sea of red-white-and-blue Braves. They began pointing and making gestures, screaming obscenities and calling us names as we exited the bus. It was a wall of sound, for which I was grateful. I couldn’t detect exactly what was being said, and I didn’t really want to know.
We were escorted to the locker room and quickly changed into our uniforms. Queen’s “We Are the Champions” and “We Will Rock You” had us jumping around, slapping high-fives and pounding the lockers.
Soon, it was time to gather around the coach for pre-game instructions. We were given our defensive assignments and some keys to remember. We were ready to storm out of the locker room and defeat the enemy.
Then, the coach’s voice became really soft. We quieted down to hear what he was saying.
“Guys, I want you to join me now for a prayer.”
We awkwardly huddled together and knelt down, our heads bowed.
“Almighty Father, we know you have already determined the outcome of this game. We just pray that you would help us do our best and accept your will. Amen.”
We raised our heads, and looked at each other. Was this it? A pre-determined outcome? Why bother playing the game? What about defeating the enemy? What about claiming the victory?
We went out that night and played perhaps the most lackluster ball we’d played all season. We were only going through the motions.
We made it close at the end, but we were beaten before it began.
In his book Writing Well, Mark Tredinnick claims that good writing is “half gift and half hard work”. One might debate the percentages. I’ve heard it said that success is 10% inspiration and 90% perspiration. But since writing is a form of art, perhaps it does rely more heavily on giftedness. The point is, though, you can become a much better writer if you just work hard, whether you are gifted or not.
When I was younger, I played basketball. I played a lot. I had aspirations of playing professionally, but I had some significant obstacles – my small stature, inability to jump, and lack of speed. I also had no stamina and occasionally threw up if I ran too much.
But I worked hard and eventually earned a starting position on the varsity team of a mid-size school in the Hoosier state where basketball players are akin to demi-gods.
I played fairly well and contributed to our team’s winning season. The local newspaper reporter often had nice things to say about me in his articles. I’ll never forget, though, one comment he made that never made it into print. He said –
You know, for someone without any talent, that Tony Roberts is a darn good ballplayer.
I was hurt at the time, but I’ve come to view it as a supreme compliment. He recognized that I had worked hard to play as well as I did. He acknowledged that I was contributing to our team’s success as much or perhaps even more than more gifted players.
If your goal in writing is to become the next William Faulkner, you will no doubt become sorely disappointed. But you can write better, serve an audience of readers, maybe even become published and gain a following, if you work hard.
The first area of concern Tredinnick addresses in his book is the writer’s “voice”. There is an intimate relationship between writing and speaking, but this does not mean we should necessarily write exactly how we speak. What if we stutter? What if we struggle to express ourselves when we talk? Tredinnick states the goal this way –
Good writing is the best kind of conversation you never heard.
Good writing captures the essence of believable conversation (whether it be dialogue or narrative), but it also improves the quality of the cadance, the rhythm, and turns the humdrum sound of careless spoken words into carefully crafted music.
Good writing is a transcendent kind of talking.
Whether it be an essay, a love letter, a piece of flash fiction, a nature poem, an article, or a blog post, we should aim to write our words in such a way that, in stringing them together one at a time, they become a song worth singing – a song full of beauty and meaning.
Here’s an exercise –
Listen closely to a conversation going on around you – in a coffee shop or library or office. When you have the opportunity, write up the conversation adapting the language to make it sing.
If you accept the challenge, send me a link in the comments section of this post. In my next post, I’ll show you mine and maybe include some of yours (with your consent).
(picture “Hard at Work” from pangalactic gargleblaster and…, some rights reserved)
A Way With Words 