Of New Orleans, New Books, and New Blogs

Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It's been several months since my last confession . . . and my last blog posting.

Nevertheless, I want to begin by announcing that I have a new book, Indiana Wineries, fresh from the mint.  (Actually, I should say that Becky and I have a new book, as her name is on the cover, too.)

What is this book?  Well, it's a five-year project whereby we visited all of the wineries in the Hoosier state, photographed, interviewed, and profiled each and all.  The book is beautifully illustrated and photographed--by far the most ornate and eye-appealing book I've done to date (thanks to Blue River Press).  The book also contains a history of Indiana vineyards and wineries, wine appreciation, weekend trip suggestions, recipes, tips . . . and so much more.  For those who want to know what's now available on the wine scene from Indiana wineries--this is the book.  

To accompany the book, we also have a new blog:  www.indianawinery.blogspot.com

What's on this blog?  Upcoming interviews, profiles, wineries new and old, and plenty more.  Check it out and check back often to get the latest on Indiana Wineries.

Finally . . . I noted today, after picking up a used hardback copy of my book, Candles in the Dark, that I had obtained the copy once owned by the New Orleans Public Library.  The book was published in 2002, probably stayed in the library in New Orleans for two or three years, and obviously made it out before hurricane Katrina in 2005 . . . ten years ago now.

Anyway, having that copy looking me square in the eye as I write this has set me to thinking about these odd connections.  How did something I wrote fifteen years ago make it from New York (published) to New Orleans and then back to my house?  How many people--now living or dead--read this copy?  

Anyway, I'm still reading, still writing . . . and still waiting.  I also hope to write more often right here--and I won't be waiting until the spirit moves me.

~Todd

All That Jazz

I don't always post news of my writing endeavors . . . but when I do, I use this blog.

Well, but it has been a wild month of conversations, assignments, potentialities.  I'm so grateful to my editor, Sarah, for meeting me in Boulder last week to discuss further marketing ideas for The Other Jesus.  And, of course, it was fun to catch up over a cup of coffee.

And many short assignments completed also in March & April.  Seven published essays on my count, along with three book reviews and a feature article on rainbow trout.  I also received word of two short story acceptances, including one story that I've been trying to find a home for for nearly a decade--a romantic story entitled, "The Tall Girl's Wedding".  

And poems?  By last count I was elated to receive word that one magazine had accepted five and another three.  If I can still do math, that means eight published poems in one month . . . so not too bad.

I'm also elated to have signed on to write a book for InterVarsity Press, a book entitled, The Seven Deadly Virtues. Thank you, Helen and IVPress.  I've been getting my notes together, thoughts clarified, and now I'm ready to set out on this journey.

But I've got to get moving.  Why, just the time it has taken me to write this blog has been time I could have used in these other endeavors.  

That's always the message for writers . . . don't sit and talk about writing.  Get writing.  Don't sit still.  All that jazz . . . .     

Woody and Me

Some three years ago, Becky and I set out on a quest to watch all of Woody Allen's movies.  (He's made more than you might think.)  We are still trying to get to the end of this queue.  

Recently, however, my attention fastened upon a character played by Nick Nolte.  In this one scene Nolte, a painter, was discussing the significance of his painting with a young art student who was threatening to quit.  She asked, "But how do you get inspired to paint?  How do you find the energy to keep doing it?"

The answer came suddenly, with the Nolte blurting out, "One doesn't paint because one wants to.  If a person is a painter, he will paint because he can't do anything else."

I've heard this same line used in ministry . . . but I've also heard it used when it comes to writing.  Writers write because they have to.  At least it's held true for me.

Even now, sitting here watching an NCAA basketball game that I've pulled in through my rabbit ears (and high def no less) . . . I am writing.  In the past two hours I've written three essays to meet a publication deadline.  Last night I wrote five short stories (all less than 1000 words each, but five nonetheless).  And early this morning I finished two poems, wrote eight pages of material for a review, and began writing a new book proposal.  Why?  What else can I do?  What else is there to do in the middle of the night?  (And don't mention sex cause I can't meet that deadline any more.)

No . . . it's writing from here on out.  Writing until my back goes, my knees, my mind.  And besides, I've got too many books, too many stories, too many essays, too many poems--both unpublished and yet to be written--that are waiting in the wings.

An actor acts.  A painter paints. A writer writes.  It's a life sentence. 

Books of the Year

Back in October I traveled to New York to visit editors at several publishing houses, talk shop, and even deliver a book manuscript. I also had drinks with my former literary agent who, at one juncture in our conversation, asked, "So how do you manage to write so many books for so many publishers?"

It was a question I had not pondered before, but my answer leaned into the category of diversity--and the idea that I write different types of books for different publishers:  some are relational, some theological, others are more in the vein of general interest or even academic.  I'm not sure that's a sane answer, but it's one that I've lived with now for some thirty years as I continue to write devotional work, academic, self-help, travel, and fiction in the genres of mystery and science fiction and literary.  

Last week I had a short story accepted for publication that is romance, so I guess I write romantic fiction, too.  (My wife thinks I know nothing about this subject and believes I am a fraud.  But since she doesn't read what I write, what does she know?)

I also had two essays accepted for publication last week on outdoor/sporting related subjects . . . so I guess I write outdoor and recreational work as well.

All of this to say that every day is an adventure.  I never know what I'm going to get into when I wake up at four a.m. to begin my next writing session.  I might write a chapter.  I might write an essay.  I might write a poem.  It could be a short story or a 2000-word essay on some subject I know nothing about (such as Jungian psychology or the chemistry of chicken feed).  If an idea grabs me, I start writing (or I start learning) and I go with it.

Last year (2014) I had four books published and anticipate at least six in 2015.  But It's always fun to look back and give thanks for what can be accomplished through blood, sweat and tears . . . which are a writer's greatest friends.  (There's no such thing as a "muse" . . . only hard work and discipline.)

Gotta feel the gratitude in these . . . and thanks for reading.

A Week in the Life Of . . .

Now and again people ask me, "What are you working on?"  I guess they think I actually work, which is a good sign.  Or perhaps they recognize that writing is work . . . especially the way I have to do it:  late at night or at ungodly hours of the morning when I frequently rise at 3 a.m. or thereabouts.  I'm not complaining, but my goal is that someday (in retirement?) I will actually be able to write in the daylight instead of in the dark.

But in answer to these inquiries:  "Yes, I am always working on something."  In fact, I am always working on somethings (note the plural). 

Last week, for example, was a very productive pipeline despite having the flu for two days.  Before and after the vomiting I had a number of deadlines to meet, producing four essays to be published in March, and I also received word from Poetry Quarterly that they were accepting three of my poems for publication this summer.  (I thank the editors and their kind words about those respective poems.)

In addition, I also proofed an entire book (Common Ground) now in the galley stage, and began working with a designer on another book that will also be released in May of this year.  (Two massive books in one month ain't for the faint of heart or for the sleepy . . . but I figure I'll have time to sleep when I'm dead.)

I also received word that another publisher is interested in one of my books on cancer--or, more accurately, cancer support.  I'll be hot on the trail of that puppy very soon and will have to write that one quickly.

And finally, I received word that my book, The Other Jesus, did not receive a Wilbur Award . . . an accolade given each year to various books in religion (kind of like an academy awards ceremony for nerds).  But hey, it was nice to be considered, though I doubt anyone would want to take a selfie with me.

All in all, a rather memorable week, puking and shakes notwithstanding.  

And, although Becky claims I got sick because I am worn out, I actually don't feel tired at all.  Rather, I feel stoked.  But I'd better be.

With all these pages to write and a short time to get there, I'd better buy some more floppy disks and keep my water bottle near the monitor in case it bursts into flames.  Call me a Luddite if you like, but I doubt there's another writer in America who is still dredging up work from his old Tandy 1000.  

Now excuse me while I catch two hours of sleep.

  

Mona Lisa Moments

It has been some months since I've posted a "Between Pages" blog entry, but much has happened in my world of words since my last post, including a 30th anniversary trip to Europe, publication of The Other Jesus, and a rash of essays and articles.  I've also enjoyed a business trip to New York, where I met with three publishers and a former literary agent (for drinks no less)--making my way through Greenwich Village, the Flatiron building, and midtown bearing gifts from Venice . . . and all the while feeling very much at home in the Big Apple, publishing capital of the world.  (Picture Ma and Pa Kettle in Manhattan and you have some idea of how my two worlds collide.)

One thing though:  my frustration runs deep.  

With dozens of books now in the hopper and in various stages of dress and undress, I set a blazing pace at the keyboard and may soon have to buy more floppy disks to keep up with the deadlines.  Sleep would be a welcome friend as well.

While in Europe, however, I did manage to keep my promise to Becky that I would not write a single word during this anniversary excursion.  I let go of writing completely, but since my return in August I note that I have had one new book released, have written four more book proposals, and have half a dozen others scheduled for release later this year.  I've also written nearly 80 published essays and some fifty poems.  

Among these verses--some of which I consider my best work to date--I've also reflected on some of the lighter moments of Europe . . . including our visit to the Louvre--a destination that has become nearly singularly defined by the mass pilgrimage to see a tiny Da Vinci portrait, otherwise known as the Mona Lisa.  But I personally found the mass-appeal laughable and just had to write about it.  If you've been there and witnessed the pull . . . you'll understand this bit of light verse.

Mona Lisa in the Louvre

We wait in line

            We do our time

                        By centimeters move

Humanity

            That’s come to see

                        The Mona Lisa in the Louvre

You feel the pinch

            As inch-by-inch

                        The line snakes in a groove

Dreaming awhile

            You smile her smile

                        Like Mona Lisa in the Louvre

Then at the last

            You hasten past

                        Great works of art and prove

That you don’t care

            What else is there

                        But Mona Lisa in the Louvre

One final push

            And then you rush

                        A chaos in commove

To glimpse in mass

            Da Vinci’s caste

                        His Mona Lisa in the Louvre

Yes there is art

            Back at the start

                        But none of them behoove

The hours of wait

            Right from the gate

                        As Mona Lisa in the Louvre

Memories of THE DOOR

A few days ago I happened to be looking over a pile of old magazines when I happened upon several copies of The Wittenburg Door.  I miss this magazine very much and began contributing when I was a seminary student back in the mid 1980's.  

A few years before the magazine went defunct, I was told by then editor Bob Darden that, outside of Mike Yaconelli (the founding editor) and one or two others, I had been writing for the magazine for nearly twenty years.  As memory served, I had also contributed one piece about a national Christian conference that had angered one of the featured speakers--Tony Campolo.  So I guess I did my job with the satire.

Looking back, I had written satirical pieces about Christian dating websites (like shooting fish in a barrel), little-known saints, famous theologians, various Christian televangelists of the day, and seminaries.  My last piece, I believe, was about SpongeBob Squarepants--a purely satirical diatribe that elicited several letters to the editor, all from folks who didn't understand why I was attacking a cartoon.

Well . . . I do miss THE DOOR. Wish I could write for that magazine all over again.  A classic.