"Love the earth and sun and animals, Despise riches, give alms to everyone that asks, Stand up for the stupid and crazy, Devote your income and labor to others... And your very flesh shall be a great poem." Walt Whitman

I can't top that.

A few days ago, a fellow on the radio claimed Michelangelo spent his last thirty years trying to win his salvation with his art. I thought, hmm, maybe that's one reason contemporary Christianity is hardly known as a breeding ground for great artists: most of the believers believe their salvation is assured.

I'm not about to engage in any debates about salvation. But here's a thought worth pondering: writing to win our salvation may be the ticket, whether or not we believe in in eternal life or salvation. Such a motive ought to propel us, keep us on track, steer us away from the blind pursuit of dubious goals like wealth or popularity, alert us when we're writing shallow or dishonest words. 

I read long ago that Anthony Burgess got a diagnosis of a terminal disease and began writing like crazy to make money for his family. Sure, I'm naive. But I think my kids will do all right financially. My concern is that they, and some other people,  live well and fully and in accord with the truth they discover. 

Since I would like to help them discover, I'm going to try to live like Michelangelo and write as if my salvation depends upon it. Which means I had best consider what I'm going to write about.

One particular story needs to get told, and soon, in case I get run over by a street sweeper or conked in the temple by an errant golf ball, or some gun toting reader takes offense and decides I'm the devil.

And then, maybe  I'll grapple more consciously with a theme that has hounded me since forever, which involves two simple questions:

• why are so many professing Christians such apparently wicked people?

• how can anyone believe in a faith that so many apparently wicked people claim as their own?

If I could answer here in a few words, I would. But one of my phobias is the fear of simplistic answers. I suppose that's a reason I write novels. 

In a Publisher's Weekly article, the CEO of scholastic books sent out a call for the promotion of worldwide literacy. The same day, an article in the chronicle of higher education told of a study that indicated students retain more of what they read in on paper than of what they read online.

Now, at the risk of being an optimist, I'll extrapolate some potentially excellent news for us book writers. Global literacy will lead to more book readers, so if the book reading within the currently literate population diminishes, but at the same time gets replaced with reading among the newly literate populations, we stay in business. Maybe even prosper.

With this happy thought in mind, let us all run out and support global literacy.

I wonder, would it be inappropriate to suggest extending generosity to Perelandra College.

In a book called Made to Stick, I paused while reading this passage: "To make our communication more effective, we need to shift our thinking from 'What information do I need to convey?' to 'What questions do I want my audience to ask?'"

I used to have SIMPLIFY on the bulletin board above my desk. Today, I posted MAKE READERS ASK QUESTIONS up there.

At a video conference on leadership, hosted by churches,  I listened to a slew of lectures mostly by folks whose books were for sale in the lobby. Though I had sworn off buying books until my to read stack got shorter, I bought Made to Stick. Meaning the authors' pitch stuck.

I placed the book about halfway down my stack. There it laid until some months passed and I attended a college president's conference (I'm president of the world's smallest college) and a speaker raved about Made to Stick.

The authors, Chip and Dan Heath, I would call business gurus. The book is about effective communication for the purpose of selling people on whatever, be it a doctrine or a widget. Or a book?  I wonder.

Last week I got an idea for a class or maybe a book about writing novels. It will present a plan to take the beast from conception to fruition and in the process give the writer some handy tools they can use thereafter.

We novelists generally hate to be asked, "What's your book about?" Summarizing a novel in few enough words so anybody will listen without yawning is a wicked challenge. I hear that Hollywood folks call this summary an elevator pitch, meaning you're riding in an elevator with Spielberg and have a few floors to sell him on your story.

As I pondered how to assist writers in drafting a cool elevator pitch, I thought, Hey, these Heath brothers are giving me stuff that might help.

The idea of a novelist learning a writing craft from a business guru might seem rather ignoble. But  editors, agents, publicists and such keep telling us, "Writing is a business." 

Oh, Lord, I'm going to go take an Advil or two.

Having beat the headache, I'll conclude this post with a teaser: The Heath brothers posit a six point scheme about what makes a catchy idea.  Those who don't care to read the whole book should return here next week. 

I've been reading Michael Connelly's Nine Dragons.

A certain passage made me think of the many times I've heard people ask writers if they begin with character or plot. 

And, it made me think of a talk I had with the person who's representing my books to films. She said major filmmakers aren't much concerned with character.

And I thought about some years ago when I was teaching at the University of Arizona and another writing prof mentioned that he considered our task as novelist in this era might be to accomplish what couldn't be done in film, which is write with close attention to character.

Nine Dragons is mostly police procedural, a genre I don't find all that gripping. Mike's a gifted storyteller, so he keeps me reading even through the police details. But when I fell for the book, when I really started caring what happens to Bosch, was in one certain paragraph . . . I'll take the liberty of quoting.

"All his life Harry Bosch believed he had a mission. And to carry out that mission he needed to be bulletproof. He needed to build himself and his life so that he was invulnerable, so that nothing and no one could ever get to him. All of that changed the day he was introduced to the daughter he didn't know he had. In that moment, he knew he was both save and lost. He would forever be connected to the world in the way only a father knew. But he would also be lost because he knew the dark forces he faced would one day find her. It didn't matter if an entire ocean was between them. He knew one day it would come to this . . ."

If you'd like to know what "this" is, read the book. 

But my point is, one paragraph, half way through the book, and I'm invested. Completely hooked at last, because now I can feel with Bosch. Without going beneath the surface of character, novels are just paper. Better to watch the movie.

Having spent two of the last three weeks gone for meetings and conferences, and missing my Zoe all the while, I've pondered a lot about being her dad. Then somebody remarked that I should encourage my girl to become something more financially secure than an artist and to consider, when she's ready to decide upon a husband, the fellow's projected earnings. In a moment, I knew how I want to raise my daughter.

She can become whatever she wants. She can marry (or choose not to) whomever she pleases to.  I'm fine with her running her own life.  I'll tell her everything I believe but won't demand that she believe the same. And I'll try to help her stay resilient enough so she doesn't have to live in a self-defense posture, so she can always perceive the world with child-like clarity and wonder.

Most of us adults are so busy defending our emotions we miss most of what goes on in this world that should astonish us every new moment. We need self-help gurus to remind us to simply be aware.

Raymond Carver wrote (I think he was quoting another writer) that a writer doesn't need to be particularly smart but only to be able to look at a leaf or an old shoe in amazement. I want Zoe, at twenty, thirty, fifty, eighty, to still be able to experience that way. If that means she'll become an artist of humble means, she's got my blessing, and may God bless her too.

Novel Journey: Forgotten Beauty

This is the first time I have linked to another person's blog post. It's by Athol Dickson, on beauty, and why authors need to write with beauty as a goal.

I have an amazing seven-year-old daughter. You might want to read what I wrote for the San Diego Reader when she was born. 

In too many ways, this past year hasn't been good to her. Her mother left last July, contending she couldn't handle being part of a family while trying to take care of herself and getting her work (college teaching) done. Well, no matter how hard she tried to explain herself to Zoe, no matter that our girl is a wonder of deep and keen intelligence, Zoe couldn't understand.

I think she still can't. And a few days ago, her gecko died. She cried and told me it was her fault, that she hadn't been a good gecko mommy. So I asked what she might've done that she didn't do. She couldn't think of anything. Then she cried again. 

The thing is, although I can't protect her from death and separation, I want to defend her innocence. Some days she comes home from school upset because one friend has been mean to another. And I know, from experience and from watching my big kids grow, we can only witness so much meanness or death, or suffer so much separation, before we drop our open arms and assume a more cautious stance. 

Zoe may become an artist. Everywhere she goes, she finds paper and leaves drawings behind. After only a few months, she can make real music on her violin. 

My life as an artist, and as a seeker of loving happiness, could be viewed as an ongoing struggle to throw off caution and open my arms. I can't abide the thought of Zoe repeating that struggle. Insofar as I have any power, I mean to help her become strong enough so she doesn't need much caution, and to love so deeply she can overcome fear. 

I want her to remain the kind of person Jesus referred to when he advised that those who enter the kingdom of heaven are like children.

A student recently asked what she needed to do to get 100% on an assignment.

Here’s my response:

“I don't  know. I don’t think I ever have given one. For quite a few years, I practiced Tae Kwon Do. The master was an international judge and a military academy instructor. He was ninth degree.  In traditional Tae Kwon Do, nobody, repeat nobody, became tenth degree,  because that would indicate perfection, with no room for improvement. I might give Feodor Dostoyevski a 99 for certain chapters of Crime and Punishment or The Brothers Karamazov. Maybe.”

Long ago, a student told me that the instructor in a beginning Creative Writing class had remarked, “If you get an A, you can be a successful writer. Get a B, you might have a chance, but it’s not likely. Get a C, forget it.”

Unless this fellow gave everyone A’s, that was not only a heartless remark, it was also patently false. I’ve known plenty of student writers who weren’t in the least impressive but who have, through patience and dedication, become masterful.

Grades are perhaps a necessary evil of education. Evil because: behind every grade lies the question, “Compared to what?”

According to traditional Tae Kwon Do, our quest should not be for perfection, but to achieve a patient and indomitable spirit, and to always do our best.

Master Jeong would make that advice into a chant, “Do your best. Do your best.”

My friend and sometime antagonist Don Merritt advised me quite a while ago that when seeking more readership for a blog, we need to strictly define our topic. He, for instance, has split his blog in two. One blog is on writing. The other is where he tackles anything that's not about writing.

As yet, I haven't followed his advice, because I  don't see a distinction between writing and engaging the spirit. I see writing, and living as a writer or I suppose any sort of artist, as spiritual exercise. Any artist will admit to at times slipping or plunging into a condition wherein we seem to receive the story, image, character or whatever. And all who have experienced this condition find it far more pleasant, and more likely to produce quality work, than laboring with the mind.

If someone contends that what I call inspiration is no more than a connection to a different part or function of the brain, I won't argue. I'm not trying to define or explain, only to get inspired more often and perhaps more deeply. 

William Blake felt so inspired, he claimed everything he wrote came straight from God. Writers of what we call scripture probably felt the same. Maybe they were nuts. Maybe not. 

Robert Pirsig, in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, argued that Quality is real, absolute and elemental. In my approach to the world, Quality and God are the same, and to truly seek Quality in art (or in life) is to seek God. I thought of italicizing truly, but decided that might feel preachy.

Anyway, I'm not ready to spilt my thoughts or my blog in two. 

About a year ago, a voice in my mind advised, "Play more golf." Since it came so clear and I liked the message, I decided the speaker was God. If you think I'm crazy, that's okay.

So I asked, "Yeah? Then where do I get the time and the money? " All that came was a whispery chuckle. 

The past year, things have gotten ever busier, and money has found ever more means of escape. If I play golf once a month, I feel extravagant, though golf has long been a kind of therapy. At least it's the best means I've found for allowing my mind a break from all other pursuits, ambitions, trials, concerns, and tribulations. Which is why, I presumed, God would suggest I play more.

But the obvious answer isn't always correct. Here's my latest answer:

Golf is largely a mind game. The attitude with which we approach a round, or a shot, decides its success. One part of attitude is setting a goal. At least a hundred times I've asked myself, should I attempt to shoot par and measure my performance against that standard, even though I'm bound to fall short? Or, should I attempt to shoot bogies (one over par)?

An eighth grade teacher must've thought I was troubled by the pressure of having a mother who taught in our school. She took me aside and gave this peculiar advice: "Don't worry about getting A's. B's are fine. They'll get you wherever you want to go." 

B's are like bogies. All through high school and college, until graduate school, I aimed for B's and rarely got disappointed. And I've gone through life as a bogie golfer. I come home from games feeling slightly uplifted if I scored an 87 (three under bogie), and slightly dismayed if I shot 93 (three over). That, I'm finding, is a lousy attitude. A fellow who has played the game for as many years as I have shouldn't settle for bogies. 

Since each new hole is a new game, I can choose to address each one as a potential par or as likely bogie. If I choose the former, I get dismayed more often. Choose the latter, I get uplifted more often. And each of those conditions translates into better or worse concentration, meaning more or less tension, the primary mental elements of the golf swing.

But yesterday, the voice came back, with such clarity that I decided it was feeding me the reason it told me to play more golf. This time it said, "Go for birdies." 

For those who avoid the game I'll explain. A par three hole is short enough so you should be able to reach the green in one shot, where you can finish with two putts. A par four hole, you should be able to reach in two and finish with two putts. But if you hit the right shot to the green, and use only one putt, you score birdie.

"If I always go for birdies," I asked, "won't I be discouraged most of the time?" God knows, a discouraged golfer gets tense and loses concentration.

"That depends," I heard. "Why get discouraged unless it's the last hole you'll ever play?"

Those, I believe, are words to live by. There is always, or most always, the next hole. 

I'm no longer the following the advice of my eighth grade math teacher. Every hole I play, I'm going for birdie, even though I know I probably won't get one. But I'll be choosing optimism. And making that choice eighteen times a round will affect my attitude about other pursuits.

My dad was an optimist, or he tried to be. But his ventures usually landed him in a mess. He went broke plenty of times. Which made my mom, of the Great Depression generation, ever more pessimistic. She was a fervent believer in Murphy's law, and advised me, in ways both subtle and blunt, to prepare for the worst. Hence my affinity for bogies. 

Should I live long enough, and should I play enough golf with this new dedication, and should I succeed in bringing new optimism to each hole, no matter what I suffered on the last one, I'll begin to see optimism overcome the less productive attitudes. And we all know optimism is healthier and more likely to prompt creativity and inspiration. Right?

One of my bad habits is assessing the value of each day as it passes by what tasks I've accomplished. Someday I may kick the habit entirely. For now, though, I'm  going to alter it, on account of a realization. 

I realized that the tasks don't matter so much as the good ideas that come. 

When we analyze stories, we're wise to consider the climax, (the turning point upon which the success or failure of the character's quest depends), not as an action but as the thought or decision that propels the character toward the necessary action. 

Likewise, a valuable accomplishment won't happen unless a good idea sets it into motion.

Now, a good idea isn't worth much unless it's somehow acted upon. Lots of folks are flooded with good ideas and intentions to bring the ideas to life but never find the motivation to proceed.

But for those of us obsessed with carrying out what good ideas we're given, if we don't accomplish a single task, so what? We're not drones. What we're about isn't tasks but good ideas. The tasks will get done by and by.

Besides, this outlook makes me feel lighter.

1-11-10

To conclude this discussion on becoming a bestseller, let's return to the comment that sparked this discussion, which, in case you're just tuning in, began with the November 27 post:

"A Perelandra College writing student recently commented she wants to be a bestselling author so she can enlighten or awaken people."

In the film Citizen Kane, Kane's oldest friend comments that getting rich is no big trick; all it takes is to want money more than anything in the world.

What that means for this discussion is, the more passionately you want to succeed and are willing and able to sacrifice, the better your chances. Nothing can guarantee you'll become a bestseller. But your odds will increase to the degree that you:

• prioritize writing above all other pursuits

• study the craft

• study the elements of the bestsellers you most admire or want to emulate

• find a genre with whose priorities and essential themes you agree

• determine what draws readers to that genre and use that knowledge in planning and composing your stories

• pinpoint the readers you believe will become fans of your work, and discover ways to reach them

• find time and energy to study book marketing and apply what you learn

• diligently seek the right agent and publisher

Or, you could just sit down and write what comes naturally and get lucky. It happens. I've heard at least a dozen bestselling authors attribute their success largely to luck. But they may only say that to sound humble. When you hear fiction writers talk, keep in mind we're professional liars.

My wife and a friend have a thriller idea they want to explore. Neither of them have written any long fiction. They talked about their chances of making a fortune with this story, and her friend remarked, "I mean, it's not rocket science."

When she passed that remark on to me, I said, "Yeah. He's right. It's probably harder."

Most of us aren't going to become bestsellers, but that's no tragedy unless that ambition is the only reason we write.

I could list a number of reasons I've spent my adult life as a novelist. You've got your own reasons you might want to list. That way, you won't be disappointed if you don't succeed in reaching some goal you never even set as a goal.

If you hope to write a bestseller, it's wise to create a story people claim they couldn't put down, or that it kept them up reading all night. A page-turner.

Here are some clues about writing a page-turner, from Kurt Vonnegut, Michael Connelly, Robert Crais and Raymond Chandler.  

Mike Connelly gave a talk in which he mentioned that he tried to put a question on every page of his novels. If we ponder the kinds of questions we can offer, we can recognize a whole world of possibilities. Plot questions major and minor: Did the butler do the murder? Is the fellow in the beret an accomplice?  Character questions: Why does Joe sneer when referring to his ex? Questions prompted by detail: Where did Myrna get the scar?

Someone dedicated to breaking the best-seller code might go to one of Connelly's novels and compile a list of the questions that arise page by page. 

Last year at Murder in the Grove, a swell conference in Boise, Idaho, Robert Crais gave a keynote talk and informed us that he had learned from Raymond Chandler's letters that Chandler attempted to put something interesting on every page. And, according to Crais, Chandler wrote in longhand on steno pads so that the small pages would force him to include more interesting stuff. As what's interesting and what's not is mighty subjective, I won't expand on this technique except to suggest that we'd be wise to consider what interests the type of reader we're seeking. Some enjoy literary allusions, while others would rather read about autopsies or the firing range of a certain gun. 

Recently at the Men of Mystery luncheon in Irvine, California, Mike Connelly talked about a method Kurt Vonnegut proposed. I recalled Vonnegut's visit to the University of Iowa. Three times, in a class, at an open lecture, and again at a party after the lecture, he stressed that the most important factor in creating dramatic tension was building a character with whom we can sympathize and showing that the character desperately wants something he can't readily obtain.

That's sound and standard advice. But Mike added a twist. He said Vonnegut proposed that on every page a character should want something.

Let's say on page 32, Maurice wants a hamburger. Page 33, he wants a kiss from his mother. Page 34, he wants to stop in a liquor store for a lottery ticket.  As the story proceeds and the wants add up, not only do the questions (will he get what he wants) build and sustain tension, we also come to know Maurice darned well.