"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.