It's sad how the fear of failure can keep us from following our dreams. As school was letting out in May of 2012, I had just bought a new Writer's Market book and sat down at the table to start doing some research. Simply getting to that point was not so easy.
In all the years I had been writing, I had tested the market a few times. All said I had probably sent out a couple hundred queries and book proposals, most of them meeting with impersonal rejections. The rest of them garnered no responses despite the fact that I had provided each with self-addressed, stamped return envelopes. I figure there must be a staff member at most publishing houses whose job it is to gently peel stamps off of the return envelopes of sucky writers for future use.
Anyways, I had gotten used to the idea of rejection, and even started doing the math. If an average publisher receives 500 queries a year and publishes 10 books, the odds aren't exactly in my favor. I was pretty sure I could write a decent elevator pitch at this point and was even pretty marketable, especially with a decent readership through my newspaper articles. Still, I was pretty psyched out. Deep inside I told myself that if I didn't submit, there would still be hope.
Still, my wife kept at me to submit my work. Every now and then I would tell her my newest idea for a book and instead of a, "That sounds promising," I always received, "Why don't you try to find a publisher for the five books you have now?" And I knew she was right. It was time to stop being such a coward and play another hand.
This time, instead of taking the easy way out and spending as little time as possible, I spent the last week in may and the first few weeks of June pouring over all the publishers, highlighting the ones I deemed to be a good fit, and writing remarks in the margins for later. I identified 50 publishers for 3 of my books. Of the other two, one wasn't quite ready, and the other one I just plain don't like. Most of the publishers I sought were for my Christian young adult novel, The Mentor. The Mentor was my 2nd book, and the one I liked the best. I knew I was running out of time on it though because one of the characters was a WWII vet, and unfortunately the "Greatest Generation" is getting to be of an age where there just aren't many left anymore.
Instead of taking the easy way out, I checked out each publisher's website for any insights/clues they might want to share. I found that many printed things on their websites that directly contrasted what was printed in Writer's Market, so I sent out e-mails, received responses, then crafted a plan for each publisher. Some were as easy as sending a query as an e-mail attachment. Others had online forms to fill out. Still some asked for the works, all to be snail mailed. This is how I spent the last five weeks of summer vacation. For each submission, I would write down the publisher, date, and important information like what I sent, how I sent it, and how long it usually took to hear back. Without this master list, it would be impossible to remember who I sent what, and when.
Some publishers I looked at and said something to the effect of, "Well, such-and-such novel sort of fits into this category. If I craft the query to say what they are wanting to hear, maybe they will pick it." Many were pretty good fits, but of all the publishers, there were about five I deemed to be the perfect fit. Martin Sisters Publishing was one of them (http://www.martinsisterspublishing.com/.)
So I waited. Some of the e-mail queries came back immediately with rejections, to which I would go to my master list and mark them off with an unhappy face. Here I see it important to say that in all of the years I had sent stuff off, ALL I HAD EVER RECEIVED IN RETURN WERE IMPERSONAL FORM LETTERS. Then mid-September one publisher gave me some hope. In this rejection letter I was greeted by name, which seldom happened. The editor went into two very-specific paragraphs, explaining how the fantasy novel I sent (not the one I am getting published) was sub-standard. I was elated! Finally somebody was giving me something to chew on. I was so impressed that I used it as a teachable moment in class.
In fact, I was about to rock-and-roll with the changes the editor suggested to the novel when I got the e-mail for which I had been waiting fifteen years. The whole thing went down in a week full of butterflies that led to me signing a contract on Halloween. What a memorable day that was.
Since that day there haven't been many moments when I wasn't thinking about my novel. There has been endless work, first with sending in forms that included a biography, back cover blurb, contact information, and you name it. This is in addition to revising the novel one last time then totally unformatting it to the editor's liking. That took twenty hours total by itself!
Now, for the first time since all of this has happened, I have had a chance to breathe. My wife and I have been talking about marketing ideas, and there's plenty of online creation to be done like creating an official website, facebook fan page, and twitter. All of it is a bit overwhelming, and I've had to take it a day at a time, but something I found the other day reminds me what I should be thinking through this process.
I was unpacking my Christmas fantasy village and I found a note I had left to myself from last year. I don't remember writing it, but it is very appropriate. It runs, "Man, I love Christmas time! Enjoy every minute of December." Just as those words are going to inspire me to enjoy the whole Christmas season, from the day after Thanksgiving (who am I kidding? I've been listening to Christmas CD's since the day after Halloween!) until I put the tree back in the attic, they are also going to serve as a reminder for me to enjoy this process of publishing from signing the contract to the day the book launches, because who knows if it will happen again. I guess only time will tell.
Sunday, November 18, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Publishing, Part III
After I wrote my second novel, I became quite used to the lifestyle of writing a novel a summer. It's such a therapy to leave the real world enter the new world you are creating. It's like daydreaming and writing it down at the same time. Steven King said that the key to writing a novel is to put a few characters in a situation and "watch them work their way out." This would seem to indicate that the writer is part of the action, just a reporter watching it all happen. That's what it felt like.
So in the summertime I would get up at 4:00 in the morning, put on a pot of coffee, and watch the sun rise from over the top of my computer screen. Putting in a half-hearted effort, I sent out quite a few queries, this time paying attention to the publishers' requirements. Still I only sent to those publishers who wanted just a query letter. I also branched out to include presses outside of New York and discovered that so many of them specialized in young adult fiction. I was hopeful, but still received impersonal rejections.
I decided that maybe I was going about the process all wrong. Instead of going straight to the publisher, maybe I should leave the process to the experts. So I started querying agents. I read two books on the topic and quickly found they were a tougher bunch than editors to impress.
At this point I had been writing novels for nearly a decade and had managed to sell only one little article to a hunting magazine. So I focused on writing. It was so addictive to pump out material, and so disheartening to get rejection letters in the mail that I just wrote. I told myself that I could publish whenever I wanted, but in reality I was hiding behind my computer screen instead. On a positive note, I accumulated quite a bit of material. I had written three novels and a non-fiction book before I was introduced to Mark.
Mark D. Williams is a writer from Amarillo that impressed me right from the start. Introduced to me through my sister-in-law, I gave him a call just as he was about to go away to Colorado to fish for a summer. He and his buddy W. Chad McPhail were researching for a book titled Colorado Flyfishing, Where to Eat, Sleep, Fish.
http://www.amazon.com/Colorado-Fly-Fishing-Where-Sleep/dp/1555664423/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352508796&sr=8-1&keywords=Colorado+Flyfishing+Mark+D.+Williams
The two were getting paid to fly fish Colorado for a summer and I was completely jealous! What a great idea! That summer we communicated mostly through e-mail. Whenever he would make it to a wifi zone, he would take care of his book business, but he always had time to talk to me. Here I was this needy guy who knew very little about the business and he was super busy writing his own book. Still he always got back to me.
He introduced me to the sports editor at the Amarillo Globe and hoped I would gain a little confidence by getting some articles in print. So in April of 2010 I sold an article about white bass fishing. I had been kicked to the curb by the industry for over ten years to that point, and just seeing my name in print was a spirit lifter. In the next two years I would publish another ten or so articles. At the same time, Mark taught me how to write a good query letter. So in the summer of 2012, having now written five books, I decided for the first time to make a real, determined effort to get one of them published.
But that's a story for another day.
So in the summertime I would get up at 4:00 in the morning, put on a pot of coffee, and watch the sun rise from over the top of my computer screen. Putting in a half-hearted effort, I sent out quite a few queries, this time paying attention to the publishers' requirements. Still I only sent to those publishers who wanted just a query letter. I also branched out to include presses outside of New York and discovered that so many of them specialized in young adult fiction. I was hopeful, but still received impersonal rejections.
I decided that maybe I was going about the process all wrong. Instead of going straight to the publisher, maybe I should leave the process to the experts. So I started querying agents. I read two books on the topic and quickly found they were a tougher bunch than editors to impress.
At this point I had been writing novels for nearly a decade and had managed to sell only one little article to a hunting magazine. So I focused on writing. It was so addictive to pump out material, and so disheartening to get rejection letters in the mail that I just wrote. I told myself that I could publish whenever I wanted, but in reality I was hiding behind my computer screen instead. On a positive note, I accumulated quite a bit of material. I had written three novels and a non-fiction book before I was introduced to Mark.
Mark D. Williams is a writer from Amarillo that impressed me right from the start. Introduced to me through my sister-in-law, I gave him a call just as he was about to go away to Colorado to fish for a summer. He and his buddy W. Chad McPhail were researching for a book titled Colorado Flyfishing, Where to Eat, Sleep, Fish.
http://www.amazon.com/Colorado-Fly-Fishing-Where-Sleep/dp/1555664423/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1352508796&sr=8-1&keywords=Colorado+Flyfishing+Mark+D.+Williams
He introduced me to the sports editor at the Amarillo Globe and hoped I would gain a little confidence by getting some articles in print. So in April of 2010 I sold an article about white bass fishing. I had been kicked to the curb by the industry for over ten years to that point, and just seeing my name in print was a spirit lifter. In the next two years I would publish another ten or so articles. At the same time, Mark taught me how to write a good query letter. So in the summer of 2012, having now written five books, I decided for the first time to make a real, determined effort to get one of them published.
But that's a story for another day.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Publishing, Part II
Having just completed my first novel in a record time of some five years, I saw the next logical step to be figuring out how to publish. I hadn't put any thought into it before now, so to figure it all out, I headed to the bookstore.
My eyes bulging at the twenty-some "find-a-publisher" titles I had splayed out before me on the floor of the bookstore, I grabbed for the prettiest one I could find. Steven King's On Writing. I read the back of the dust jacket. Half memoir, half writing instruction. I was already a Steven King fan, so it was second-nature to purchase it.
Now if you have never read the book, I highly suggest it. His writing autobiography is downright funny. He gives such stories as being locked in a coat closet by his baby sitter (perhaps explaining his morbidity) and "yarking" in his mothers shoes, and using poison ivy to wipe while out in the woods. When I made it to the second part, he gave all sorts of writing instruction, but only said a few things about publishing. First, find a friend in the business like he did. His friend just happened to be an editor at one of the big publishing houses in New York, and was the reason Carrie got picked up. It was, after all, his third novel, the first two receiving complete rejection. This wasn't very helpful, but his best advice for starving artists such as myself was to buy a copy of Writer's Market. Some of the best advice I've ever received.
I soon learned that Writer's Market is the bible for publishing. It shows the whole process of how to get published, including how to write the query letter. It gives testimonials from other authors. But most importantly it gave listings of reputable publishirs, mostly American. I was set.
So taking King's advice, I located about ten publishers and wrote them letters. Now mind you, each publisher asked for something different. For example, while one publisher may only ask for a query letter, another might ask for a query, marketing plan, summary, and sample chapters. Shooting for the stars, I queried only the publishers who had "New York City" in their address.
My audacity was quite comical, as was my ignorance of just what it took to get published. Actually, it was pure laziness on my part. Maybe some of them wanted just queries, maybe some wanted more. They got poorly-written queries from me. Over the next six months I got my butt handed to me. When King was starting out, he drove a nail into his wall and shoved his rejection letters onto that nail as a reminder to keep trying. The idea stuck, so I drove a nail into the wall above my computer (much to my wife's chagrin) and hung my rejection letters. These responses (the ones who took the time to respond) were about as personal as my queries were.
That next summer, dejected but determined, I put that first novel in my desk drawer and started fresh on a new one. I had a great idea, based on personal experience from getting cut from my Babe Ruth baseball team, despite being one of the best players. Small town politics. Less than three months later I had the first draft of a novel that would one day sell.
But I'll be getting to that shortly.
My eyes bulging at the twenty-some "find-a-publisher" titles I had splayed out before me on the floor of the bookstore, I grabbed for the prettiest one I could find. Steven King's On Writing. I read the back of the dust jacket. Half memoir, half writing instruction. I was already a Steven King fan, so it was second-nature to purchase it.
Now if you have never read the book, I highly suggest it. His writing autobiography is downright funny. He gives such stories as being locked in a coat closet by his baby sitter (perhaps explaining his morbidity) and "yarking" in his mothers shoes, and using poison ivy to wipe while out in the woods. When I made it to the second part, he gave all sorts of writing instruction, but only said a few things about publishing. First, find a friend in the business like he did. His friend just happened to be an editor at one of the big publishing houses in New York, and was the reason Carrie got picked up. It was, after all, his third novel, the first two receiving complete rejection. This wasn't very helpful, but his best advice for starving artists such as myself was to buy a copy of Writer's Market. Some of the best advice I've ever received.
I soon learned that Writer's Market is the bible for publishing. It shows the whole process of how to get published, including how to write the query letter. It gives testimonials from other authors. But most importantly it gave listings of reputable publishirs, mostly American. I was set.
So taking King's advice, I located about ten publishers and wrote them letters. Now mind you, each publisher asked for something different. For example, while one publisher may only ask for a query letter, another might ask for a query, marketing plan, summary, and sample chapters. Shooting for the stars, I queried only the publishers who had "New York City" in their address.
My audacity was quite comical, as was my ignorance of just what it took to get published. Actually, it was pure laziness on my part. Maybe some of them wanted just queries, maybe some wanted more. They got poorly-written queries from me. Over the next six months I got my butt handed to me. When King was starting out, he drove a nail into his wall and shoved his rejection letters onto that nail as a reminder to keep trying. The idea stuck, so I drove a nail into the wall above my computer (much to my wife's chagrin) and hung my rejection letters. These responses (the ones who took the time to respond) were about as personal as my queries were.
That next summer, dejected but determined, I put that first novel in my desk drawer and started fresh on a new one. I had a great idea, based on personal experience from getting cut from my Babe Ruth baseball team, despite being one of the best players. Small town politics. Less than three months later I had the first draft of a novel that would one day sell.
But I'll be getting to that shortly.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Publishing, Part I
I mailed my first book contract today. It took all of 30 seconds and a few dollars for the transaction to take place. I watched the postal worker grab the manilla envelope like it was "just any other parcel" and began to put it in the basket with all the other unimportant mail, and I just had to stop her. She looked sideways at me when I asked her to put it back down on the counter so that I could make the moment last longer. For good measure I took out my camera phone and and took a picture. This really made the lady nervous, so to put her at ease, I said, "This is a watershed moment in my life." And when she didn't respond, I muddied it even further. "My life is about to change with this package." When she was sure I wasn't going to say anymore, she snuck my contract into her bin and I walked out, surprised that theme music wasn't playing in the background, cause it sure seemed like a magical movie moment to me. To quit at these words would be to clarify it for you as much as I did for the lady who obviously thought I was one weird duck. Let me clarify things: this was the final step in a long, arduous journey that started in 1997.
It was a week before Christmas and a few college buddies and I had free access to a timeshare in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. I was about to embark on my first fly-fishing trip ever, but secretly I had another plan. I had spent most of that fall in a coffee shop a block north of Alva, penning what I deemed to be a future world-famous sonnet sequence about a cottonwood tree. Yeah, riviting stuff. That was when a professor of mine told me that poetry doesn't sell. He told me that if I want to make the big bucks, I had better pen the "Great American Novel," whatever that was. So when we got to Pagosa, I planned to fish the San Juan River by day and pen this novel by night. By the time I left Pagosa five days later, I had a paragraph to my name. Quite humble beginnings.
Well, that paragraph turned into a chapter, and that chapter turned into two chapters, and before I knew it, I had 100 pages...FOUR YEARS LATER! The fact that I was typing it on a 1991 Macintosh should have clued me in to the fact that things were going to go wrong. Then one night, the computer died. Picture toast in a toaster. That puppy was smoking before I got it unplugged! I quickly pulled out the floppy disk (remember those?) and saw the metal cover rip right off! I got absolutely no sleep that night.
That next day I took a personal day and called in a favor from a teacher who was more computer-saavy than I. She called in a favor to a former student who in turn took all his fancy equipment and toyed around with my disk, handling it as a paleoentologist would handle a raptor tooth. In six nervous hours he was to recover most of the document. Every twelth page was filled with asteriks instead of words. I still praised God.
One year and a new computer later, I finished my first novel, and the angels sang, and golden light shined forth from my big computer screen. I just knew I was on the way to stardom. I had no idea whatsoever that it would be ten long years before I was going to be able to make a sale.
I'll be getting to that shortly...
It was a week before Christmas and a few college buddies and I had free access to a timeshare in Pagosa Springs, Colorado. I was about to embark on my first fly-fishing trip ever, but secretly I had another plan. I had spent most of that fall in a coffee shop a block north of Alva, penning what I deemed to be a future world-famous sonnet sequence about a cottonwood tree. Yeah, riviting stuff. That was when a professor of mine told me that poetry doesn't sell. He told me that if I want to make the big bucks, I had better pen the "Great American Novel," whatever that was. So when we got to Pagosa, I planned to fish the San Juan River by day and pen this novel by night. By the time I left Pagosa five days later, I had a paragraph to my name. Quite humble beginnings.
Well, that paragraph turned into a chapter, and that chapter turned into two chapters, and before I knew it, I had 100 pages...FOUR YEARS LATER! The fact that I was typing it on a 1991 Macintosh should have clued me in to the fact that things were going to go wrong. Then one night, the computer died. Picture toast in a toaster. That puppy was smoking before I got it unplugged! I quickly pulled out the floppy disk (remember those?) and saw the metal cover rip right off! I got absolutely no sleep that night.
That next day I took a personal day and called in a favor from a teacher who was more computer-saavy than I. She called in a favor to a former student who in turn took all his fancy equipment and toyed around with my disk, handling it as a paleoentologist would handle a raptor tooth. In six nervous hours he was to recover most of the document. Every twelth page was filled with asteriks instead of words. I still praised God.
One year and a new computer later, I finished my first novel, and the angels sang, and golden light shined forth from my big computer screen. I just knew I was on the way to stardom. I had no idea whatsoever that it would be ten long years before I was going to be able to make a sale.
I'll be getting to that shortly...
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Real Anglers
This landlubber couldn’t keep his eyes off the window. Staying at the historic Queen Mary, docked in Long Beach, California, I was enjoying a nice meal with a window seat to the bay when the behavior of the birds caught my attention and gave me quite a show. Seagulls and pelicans were hunting a school of fish that was working its way through the area, and their techniques couldn’t have varied more drastically.
First, let’s take the gull. Pure white with a black streak on top of the wings, sleek, and graceful, she will fly over the water no more than ten feet from the surface, her head cocked down, her intense eyes fixed past the sheen glare of the sun off the ocean’s surface at what lies just beneath. She half-cocks her wings as she soars, tilting her head to veer right or left the way a motorcycle racer leans into a turn. Suddenly she spots her prey. Now here’s the fun part.
At that very moment she will do what at first I thought resembled what a combat pilot would refer to as a “Split S.” Except where the combat fighter is trying to disengage from battle, for the gull, the battle is just beginning. The wings come out, the ailerons come down, and the bird’s velocity is slowed by her rocket climb straight into the sky a good five feet. When the stall gives out, gravity takes over. The head, which must contain the engine, tilts down, the wings cock totally back, and the bird falls head-first like a suicide bomber aimed at a battleship. On the way down she tilts her head left or right to make any last-second adjustments, never taking her eyes off her moving target until she plunges head-first into the water, vanishing for a second. Her splash is graceful enough to resemble an Olympic diver.
At the moment the bird resurfaces, the wings beat wildly and she takes whatever she’s caught back up to cruising altitude. In four days aboard the Queen Mary, I’ve yet to see her rewards, which leads me to a few conclusions. Either she swallows her fish underwater, the fish is minnow in size, or she’s just a very bad hunter. I’m sure it must be the first. From acquisition of target to eventual flight again, the whole process takes about 2.5 seconds. Talk about quick on the trigger.
Now if the gull is the Greg Louganis of the maritime community, then the pelican is the fat kid who does a cannon ball off the diving board. Don’t get me wrong. The pelican can too be very graceful. At any moment of the day one can be seen skimming the surface of the ocean, his wing tips tickling the water. But this grace is not the case with his hunting method.
The pelican sits on top of the water, minding his own business. Suddenly he gets an urge and takes to flight with its massive wings beating hard to lift his fat belly from the water. Once airborne, he beats his heavy wings harshly until he spots his target. Whereas the gull dives straight down, making her spectators marvel at her gracefulness, the pelican, seemingly out of boredom, decides to take a forty-five degree angle to the water. He keeps his wings half-out to the side as if he’s too lazy to pull them all the way in, then he plunges into the sea with a boulder’s splash.
At this point in the gull’s method, she would get right back out of the water as if a shark were after her, but not the pelican. He keeps his body afloat, his butt protruding up in the air while his head searches around underwater for a good five seconds. He then emerges victoriously, a gullet with at least one fish. His head points to the sky and the fish then slides right down his throat. It may take two or three gulps to clear the bulge from his neck, but he eventually swallows the fish whole. While dining on the sun deck one evening I watched one bird with the tail of a good twelve-inch fish sticking out of its mouth. It slapped the pelican in the face many times before falling victim.
I’ve never seen the gull emerge victorious, just as I’ve never seen the pelican come out of the water without a catch. The human angler would be proud to have the catch rate of the pelican. What it lacks in style, it makes up for in efficiency. If the bottom line is the object then the pelican wins hands down. A rot gut whiskey will get you drunker much faster than a fine wine. But in angling, the bottom line isn’t always the target. I must say that as a gentleman, I prefer the style of the gull over the sloppy nature of the pelican. Style does count for something. The gull does what it can with what it’s got and never gives up, holding its graceful head never in shame for its shortcomings. The pelican merely takes advantage of what God gave him, the whole time smiling over at the gull as if to say, “Top that!” So it is in my angling practices that I strive to adopt the stylistic approach of the gull. That is until I become hungry enough.
First, let’s take the gull. Pure white with a black streak on top of the wings, sleek, and graceful, she will fly over the water no more than ten feet from the surface, her head cocked down, her intense eyes fixed past the sheen glare of the sun off the ocean’s surface at what lies just beneath. She half-cocks her wings as she soars, tilting her head to veer right or left the way a motorcycle racer leans into a turn. Suddenly she spots her prey. Now here’s the fun part.
At that very moment she will do what at first I thought resembled what a combat pilot would refer to as a “Split S.” Except where the combat fighter is trying to disengage from battle, for the gull, the battle is just beginning. The wings come out, the ailerons come down, and the bird’s velocity is slowed by her rocket climb straight into the sky a good five feet. When the stall gives out, gravity takes over. The head, which must contain the engine, tilts down, the wings cock totally back, and the bird falls head-first like a suicide bomber aimed at a battleship. On the way down she tilts her head left or right to make any last-second adjustments, never taking her eyes off her moving target until she plunges head-first into the water, vanishing for a second. Her splash is graceful enough to resemble an Olympic diver.
At the moment the bird resurfaces, the wings beat wildly and she takes whatever she’s caught back up to cruising altitude. In four days aboard the Queen Mary, I’ve yet to see her rewards, which leads me to a few conclusions. Either she swallows her fish underwater, the fish is minnow in size, or she’s just a very bad hunter. I’m sure it must be the first. From acquisition of target to eventual flight again, the whole process takes about 2.5 seconds. Talk about quick on the trigger.
Now if the gull is the Greg Louganis of the maritime community, then the pelican is the fat kid who does a cannon ball off the diving board. Don’t get me wrong. The pelican can too be very graceful. At any moment of the day one can be seen skimming the surface of the ocean, his wing tips tickling the water. But this grace is not the case with his hunting method.
The pelican sits on top of the water, minding his own business. Suddenly he gets an urge and takes to flight with its massive wings beating hard to lift his fat belly from the water. Once airborne, he beats his heavy wings harshly until he spots his target. Whereas the gull dives straight down, making her spectators marvel at her gracefulness, the pelican, seemingly out of boredom, decides to take a forty-five degree angle to the water. He keeps his wings half-out to the side as if he’s too lazy to pull them all the way in, then he plunges into the sea with a boulder’s splash.
At this point in the gull’s method, she would get right back out of the water as if a shark were after her, but not the pelican. He keeps his body afloat, his butt protruding up in the air while his head searches around underwater for a good five seconds. He then emerges victoriously, a gullet with at least one fish. His head points to the sky and the fish then slides right down his throat. It may take two or three gulps to clear the bulge from his neck, but he eventually swallows the fish whole. While dining on the sun deck one evening I watched one bird with the tail of a good twelve-inch fish sticking out of its mouth. It slapped the pelican in the face many times before falling victim.
I’ve never seen the gull emerge victorious, just as I’ve never seen the pelican come out of the water without a catch. The human angler would be proud to have the catch rate of the pelican. What it lacks in style, it makes up for in efficiency. If the bottom line is the object then the pelican wins hands down. A rot gut whiskey will get you drunker much faster than a fine wine. But in angling, the bottom line isn’t always the target. I must say that as a gentleman, I prefer the style of the gull over the sloppy nature of the pelican. Style does count for something. The gull does what it can with what it’s got and never gives up, holding its graceful head never in shame for its shortcomings. The pelican merely takes advantage of what God gave him, the whole time smiling over at the gull as if to say, “Top that!” So it is in my angling practices that I strive to adopt the stylistic approach of the gull. That is until I become hungry enough.
Monday, May 28, 2012
Memorial Day
There's nothing like taps played on a bugle in a cemetery. I've been witness to the event twice in my young life now, and I will remember both times forever.
Back in 2004 my wife's grandpa passed away. He was part of the Greatest Generation that answered the call when the world needed him the most. He had fought bravely during WWII on a B-26 which made bombing runs into Nazi-occupied France and deeper into the heart of Germany.
Last September my own father passed away. He was enlisted in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam conflict and spent his time in the Army National Guards. Thankfully his number was never called or I might not be here. He spent the better part of fifteen years in the reserves before retiring.
At both funerals, amidst the grief, I took time to study the faces of the two young men who handed my wife's grandma and my mom the folded American flag. It was evident that both were extremely honored to be where they were, giving thanks to these brave wives who let us borrow their husbands for a great call.
These were two of the greatest men I have ever known and I dare say will ever know. I remember them every day, but on this Memorial Day I wish to say thank you not only to Grandpa and Dad, but to everyone who proudly swears to defend this great nation.
Back in 2004 my wife's grandpa passed away. He was part of the Greatest Generation that answered the call when the world needed him the most. He had fought bravely during WWII on a B-26 which made bombing runs into Nazi-occupied France and deeper into the heart of Germany.
Last September my own father passed away. He was enlisted in the U.S. Army during the Vietnam conflict and spent his time in the Army National Guards. Thankfully his number was never called or I might not be here. He spent the better part of fifteen years in the reserves before retiring.
At both funerals, amidst the grief, I took time to study the faces of the two young men who handed my wife's grandma and my mom the folded American flag. It was evident that both were extremely honored to be where they were, giving thanks to these brave wives who let us borrow their husbands for a great call.
These were two of the greatest men I have ever known and I dare say will ever know. I remember them every day, but on this Memorial Day I wish to say thank you not only to Grandpa and Dad, but to everyone who proudly swears to defend this great nation.
Sunday, April 1, 2012
True Happiness
So my beloved Jayhawks have made it to the championship game? Seems to be a miracle if one looks at where they came from. This is a team who lost four starters off a great squad last year that many considered to be the best team in college basketball. Returning only one starter, KU relied on backups from last year to turn into leaders, which they did, culminating in national player-of-the-year candidate Thomas Robinson, a man who only saw the floor for 13 minutes a game last year. Their 6th man, a guy they rely on to shoot the critical three-pointer, was originally a walk-on. On top of all of this, KU's top three freshmen were declared ineligible just before the season. All three were expected to make immediate contributions. All this begs the question:
How on earth is this team playing for a national championship Monday night?
If you listen to the talking heads on TV, nobody is giving KU a chance. But then KU relishes this underdog role. They weren't supposed to beat UNC in the regional championship game. They weren't supposed to beat OSU in the final four last night. This squad who lost to Davidson of all teams earlier in the season just keeps defying the odds. Monday's matchup will be no different.
KU is playing a Kentucky team that was expected to win it all from the beginning of the season, and really hasn't been tested in this tournament so far. With the exception of two nights they forgot to show up this year, they have been steamrolling their competition, KU included (early-season 75-65 at MSG,) and expect this rematch to go their way again. It's nearly a foregone conclusion.
One of two scenerios are going to come to fruition Monday night.
1. Kentucky beats Kansas as expected.
2. Kansas upsets them, and give the talking heads something to blabber about Tuesday.
Here's where it gets tricky.
Either way, it's not going to make me happy.
That's the kicker. True happiness doesn't come from the outcome of a game. Quick, without googling it, who was the NCAA Champion in 1980? Maybe a couple might be able to come up with the answer right off the top of their heads (especially the Louisville fans who are all bummed this morning) but the point is that the spotlight fades. Teams make their mark, and a few years later are forgotten. It's just like that line from Tin Cup where Roy McAvoy's girlfriend, after Roy blows a certain US Open win with his pride then inexplicably nails an impossible shot, trys to console him. "No one's going to remember the Open 10 years from now, who won...but they'll remember your 12!"
Tomorrow night if Kansas somehow finds a way to upset Kentucky, I will be happy, but for how long? I use KU's 2008 championship season as bragging rights, but KU's championship doesn't make me truly happy. Just like Boston breaking the dreaded Curse of the Bambino in 2004 didn't truly make me happy. The word is euphoria. Too often we mistake euphoria with happiness.
True happiness can only come from a relationship with Jesus Christ. It's been preached for a long time and many try to ignore it for American dreams, out of pride, or just to not be "religious." But just like love, happiness comes from our loving God, and for this, not tomorrow night's outcome, will I be truly happy.
How on earth is this team playing for a national championship Monday night?
If you listen to the talking heads on TV, nobody is giving KU a chance. But then KU relishes this underdog role. They weren't supposed to beat UNC in the regional championship game. They weren't supposed to beat OSU in the final four last night. This squad who lost to Davidson of all teams earlier in the season just keeps defying the odds. Monday's matchup will be no different.
KU is playing a Kentucky team that was expected to win it all from the beginning of the season, and really hasn't been tested in this tournament so far. With the exception of two nights they forgot to show up this year, they have been steamrolling their competition, KU included (early-season 75-65 at MSG,) and expect this rematch to go their way again. It's nearly a foregone conclusion.
One of two scenerios are going to come to fruition Monday night.
1. Kentucky beats Kansas as expected.
2. Kansas upsets them, and give the talking heads something to blabber about Tuesday.
Here's where it gets tricky.
Either way, it's not going to make me happy.
That's the kicker. True happiness doesn't come from the outcome of a game. Quick, without googling it, who was the NCAA Champion in 1980? Maybe a couple might be able to come up with the answer right off the top of their heads (especially the Louisville fans who are all bummed this morning) but the point is that the spotlight fades. Teams make their mark, and a few years later are forgotten. It's just like that line from Tin Cup where Roy McAvoy's girlfriend, after Roy blows a certain US Open win with his pride then inexplicably nails an impossible shot, trys to console him. "No one's going to remember the Open 10 years from now, who won...but they'll remember your 12!"
Tomorrow night if Kansas somehow finds a way to upset Kentucky, I will be happy, but for how long? I use KU's 2008 championship season as bragging rights, but KU's championship doesn't make me truly happy. Just like Boston breaking the dreaded Curse of the Bambino in 2004 didn't truly make me happy. The word is euphoria. Too often we mistake euphoria with happiness.
True happiness can only come from a relationship with Jesus Christ. It's been preached for a long time and many try to ignore it for American dreams, out of pride, or just to not be "religious." But just like love, happiness comes from our loving God, and for this, not tomorrow night's outcome, will I be truly happy.
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