The Master's Artist

Laying Down the Law

We don’t have a lot of rules in our house. Instead, we like to think of it as a common sense zone. Eating your vegetables, being kind to your siblings, and NOT flushing the checkbook down the toilet are all great ideas. But we've never felt compelled to codify them. That said…I did come up with a new rule last night, one that I plan to enforce with pep, vim, and vigor.

First a caveat…I didn’t make this new rule up. I stole it from Dr. Cramer, the best teacher I ever had, probably the best teacher a lot of people ever had.

Next another caveat…this rule is not to be applied as a motivational, self-help mantra to think or grow rich or artificially win friends or manipulate people. It’s practical and specific.

Third, a little context…the family talent show is around the corner.

And without further ado, here it is in all its simplistic glory: Don’t say can’t; can’t means won’t.

 

storypraxis

Sylvan

Linda always said I needed to get out more, to shut off the cell phone for a few minutes, to breathe something other than exhaust, to stop and smell the roses. Linda spoke in clichés.

She was my high school sweetheart. But we ended up in different colleges, on different career paths, married to different people. Linda’s husband had an aneurysm. My wife slept with my boss, which left me temporarily homeless, jobless, childless, and directionless. Then came Facebook, followed by a handful of emails and a class reunion. Once I sipped enough fermented courage, I aksed Linda to dance. Not long after, we married on the lawn of our old high school.

Food

Maybe you have this problem too. Whenever I read a work of nonfiction, I have this bad habit of taking undue credit for actually having mastered the material. As if simply exposing myself to the words on the page has turned me into a shiny new expert. I’ve read books on prayer and budgeting and golf. But instead of applying all this fresh knowledge, I end up basking in the warm glow of all my newfound wisdom…then asking God to sink all my putts and fill up my accounts with no real effort from me.

 David Allen is the author of Getting Things Done – The Art of Stress Free Productivity. He’s like the world’s foremost guru on getting organized, avoiding procrastination, and well, getting lots of things done. I recently decided to reread his little textbook. But I had to find it first, which I couldn’t. So I ended up buying it again, which stressed me out and wasn’t very productive, both of which made me get less things done. And yet, I still remember feeling like an in-control organizational maven after I read it the first time. I think I even remember lecturing friends about all I had learned.

Ironicalness

Sadly, we don’t see a lot of movies in the theater. It’s expensive and time-consuming and the previews almost always give the kids nightmares. But one of our dozens of nephews wanted to see Ratatouille for his birthday. So we went. A couple of my kids developed an instant love/hate relationship with the film. The story was good, the characters sympathetic and interesting and funny, and it was a really giant screen. But…some of the rats were scary, some of the scenes terrifying to re-imagine long after the credits rolled.

Somehow though, we ended up owning a copy. But it sat on the shelf with all the other DVD’s, unalphabetized, unwatched, unloved.

Until…one fateful Saturday not long ago when my wife mentioned in passing that it was time to watch the movie again. She was certain that all four kiddos would enjoy the film, now that they were all a year older, wiser, and braver.

Humor Dissected*

"Humor can be dissected as a frog can, but the thing dies in the process and the innards are discouraging to any but the pure scientific mind."

E. B. White said that. And although it’s not very funny, it is informative. What it means is this—attempting to explain humor, especially how it pertains to writing prose, is a dumb idea. Apparently that’s why I’m here, attempting to answer the age old question: If a tree slips on a banana peel and falls in the forest, and no one is around to experience it, is it still funny?

The answer, in case you’re short on either time or patience is a resounding maybe.

Best Laid Plans

The thing I like best about writing is the writing part. Which is to say, the parts I like least about writing are all the parts that aren’t writing. 

Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.

For instance, I like thinking about my characters. But I’m not so crazy about planning their lives for them. I love getting to know these people, exploring their brilliant potential in search of surprise and dysfunction and love. But I find it brain-sappingly difficult to muster enthusiasm for their Myers-Briggs designation. If I’m going to spend time describing them, I’ll probably focus more on foraging under their beds or in their medicine cabinets than finding some fancy pants metaphor to describe the color of their eyes. What I truly adore is the process, the getting lost in creativity.

Mowing Again

My lawnmower hates me. And who could blame it? I don’t simply mistreat the miserable machine; I abuse it. I routinely ask it to do things it was not designed to do, then forcibly push it into precarious circumstances, well beyond both its capabilities and its horsepower. When it coughs and sputters under my grip, I tip the front wheels off the ground and allow it to momentarily catch its mechanical breath. Then I drop the wheels and watch it choke on dust and weeds and overly long grass.

Not long ago, I bought a riding mower and parked it next to the beleaguered walk-behind. I change the oil and filters and sparkplugs in the big machine. All I do for the little guy is fill it with gas, but even that’s begrudging. Sometimes I whisper small reminders that maybe it ought to be a little more grateful, that before the big rider came along, I used to bounce its rickety wheels across an entire acre of uneven field, usually once a week.

The end of the world as we know it...

Please watch the entire video, uninterrupted, before reading further. It lasts about 2-and-a-half minutes.

Better Early Than Never

 

Writing-wise, 2009 was the toughest yet. I showed up every day and typed for a couple of hours. Some days my Muse made an appearance, most days not. I resisted the urge to talk about writer’s block because, frankly, I’d been denying its existence for years. My theory was that blocks were for building things or hiding things or cramming into a toy box and ignoring until they end up in the back of the van on the way to the new Goodwill store in the neighborhood. In short, I though it was make-believe, a plaything I could write roughshod over.

Mostly, I was wrong.

Lowering The Bar

In order to satisfy my thrice-daily coffee fix, I frequent a convenience store near my office. Like a good little writer, I spend the half-minute it takes to fill my fancy travel mug with liquefied beans observing the other people in the store. As I make my way to the condiment station, I sometimes have to navigate a maze of protruding backsides. I dump little green tubs of flavored creamer into my coffee as the folks around me hunch and squint at colorful postcard-sized tickets. I wield a long red swizzle stick, they the knurled edges of quarters. I stir vigorously while they rub the tiny gray boxes, filling the air around us with glittery scratch-off shrapnel.