Running With Scissors

So I’m running down Route 287 just before sunrise and there on the edge of the highway is a pair of nine-inch scissors with a red handle. They looked brand new, so I scooped them up, not thinking how I would look running down the road as all my neighbors were leaving for work. Once the steady stream of cars  started passing me on Spring Lakes Road, I could imagine the conversation inside the vehicles:

“Mommy look! That man is running with scissors!”

“This is too much!” Mommy says. ”Running in the middle of the night–weird, but he’s from back east, what do you expect? Running when it’s minus 22 degrees–crazy, but he’s a writer, they’re all crazy. Running when the wind is 50 mph–insane, but it’s what that Selmer guy does. Now this! Running With Scissors! Totally unacceptable!”

I felt like I should send out an e-mail trying to explain, but I have a suspicion that my reputation is already set in cement and nothing I can say will change it.
I was pretty tired for this run but that was to be expected after the unplanned sort-of tempo run last night. Only nine hours, and no food, between the two runs. If I’d fallen from exhaustion onto the scissors, at least the neighbors could tell their kids, “See! That’s why you don’t run with scissors!”

While I was out on the run,  and before I found the scissors, I realized how incredibly busy I will be over the next four months … five months … oh geez, I’m not sure I’ll ever not be busy again. I think it was one thing that contributed to the tired feeling I had during the run.

“Avenging Angel”, the sequel to “Harvest of the Heart” is just screaming to get out of my head and onto paper. At some point, I have to get moving on the biography I want to write. Then there is the short story collection “Running Scared” that is in the editing phase and will require more work before it goes to the publisher. A book launch party next Thursday; a book tour and DC area launch on January 23; and, on top of it all, I have to train for Boston–I believe I may have bitten off more than I can chew.

This is starting to sound like a whole ‘nother post I need to write. I hope that camel has a strong back, because the straws are piling up.

Small moments

In a year that was memorable for me personally, it’s easy for some moments to become overshadowed by more dramatic and attention-grabbing events. Those headlining memories earned their starring roles by virtue of how they altered my life, or at least my perception of that life. Tracing back through the year, they were:

December 13 – The release of my debut novel – “Harvest of the Heart”

November 25 – My daughter’s first, sudden “attack”, experienced a few weeks after giving birth to her first child. The symptoms were similar to those of a pulmonary embolism. Though it turned out to be caused by gallstones, and surgery has eliminated that cause, the first episode scared me to the core.

November 4 – Being present at the birth of my fifth grandchild. I am forever grateful to my son-in-law, who felt comfortable enough with my wife and I to allow us to help with the delivery. My four children were all born at home and witnessing Chaitan’s birth brought back so many strong memories.

March 11 – Completion of the manuscript for “Harvest of the Heart”. It was then that I knew that I had a chance — after thirty-seven years of biding my time in jobs that I only tolerated — to have a job that I loved.

You can see how these events could overwhelm my perception of this year when I look back from some future date. But there were many other small moments that I wouldn’t want overwhelmed… or lost to a failing memory:

Cutting trees for firewood in the forest by myself and dropping them exactly where I wanted. Then going back again with witnesses and having one blow over in the exact opposite direction from where I wanted it to go. The disconcerted expression on my son-in-laws face during that was likely matched only by my own.

Staying at The Stanley Hotel in Estes Park; it was a surprise gift from my wife for completing “Harvest of the Heart”. Stephen King had stayed in the same hotel and it was there he got the idea for “The Shining”. The entire trip was filed with memorable moments which have already produced a story for me.

So many running memories… porcupine quills and downhill mile intervals at 10,000 feet; doing the Silent Trails pre-run at night with a bunch of guys way faster than me — it felt good to know that there is still a little life in these old legs; qualifying for Boston after once thinking that it might never happen again; the ghost moose run, the Christmas spirit run and so many more. Thanks to Dailymile, I just have to click back to discover those memories.

Snowshoeing during my ten-day fast and my wife coming back to me on the trail and giving me a kiss “to give me energy”. That hike may have been the first she had ever led during our thirty-five years of marriage and she was so careful to choose a path that was easy enough for me to handle.

The looks on grandsons Braden’s and Nathan’s faces while they watched the bull-riding at their first rodeo when they visited in July.

How helpless I felt when confronted by the heartache of someone dear to me who had to endure a painful separation from someone he loved, but who no longer loved him.

Seven-week old Chaitan staring so deeply into my eyes and being moved by the knowledge that those eyes will see so much that is beautiful and horrible in the years to come; hoping that maybe he’ll help preserve the beauty, and eliminate the horrible.

Shopping at the Cross Country Connection in Laramie and my wife trying on a winter hat that framed her face so perfectly. I was stunned by how beautiful she still is; and how much her smile still makes my heart beat faster.

There are certainly many other moments that I haven’t mentioned, or are already forgotten, or at least I cannot call them to mind as I write this post. But it was those small moments, remembered or not, that complemented and filled the spaces between the large ones and made 2011 a truly memorable and happy year.

I wish for you that 2012 will be just as memorable and happy as my 2011.

The sky reflects a troubled spirit

Once again my run turned into an introspective drama. As the day passed into night, the sky spoke to me while I made my through a prairie roiled by relentless wind. I take that back; spoke is too kind a word. Chastised is closer to the truth… berated might be better still.

I have felt out of sorts for the last couple of days and I have avoided trying to pinpoint why. Good things have been happening in my life; a happy new baby in the house, my health on an upswing and a book published. Even the not-so-good things have had silver linings.  Since the birth of my fifth grandchild, my daughter faced a health issue that has allowed me to play a contributing role in our household. I’ve felt needed after a year during which, as a wanna-be writer that wasn’t producing an income, I often didn’t.

I’m certain that my wife and daughter thought I was absorbed in reading books that I had received for Christmas. “Claiming Ground” and “The Hunger Games” I’ve just finished and I’m well into”The Passage”. They are captivating stories, which has helped keep me from facing the cause of a mild depression that is, inexcusably, lying just below the surface of my cheerful facade. The cause for said depression was also close to the surface — easy to reach if I only made the effort. Hence the reason I’ve been burying myself in the pages of one book after another.

But nature and my sub-conscious conspired this evening to force my hand.

Swirls of turbulent gray skittered across the sky, driven by a steadily increasing wind. High above me, an angry presence loomed - the tops of many of the clouds were painted a fierce red by a sun that was already beyond the western mountains. From the very start of my run, it was as though nature itself  was disturbed by and reflected my inner turmoil.

As I followed the narrow trail between rustling stalks of dried switchgrass and needle-and-thread, dodging the gust-driven tumble weeds, I felt buffeted by more than the wind. I was forced to admit the cause of my unsettled state, and that is doubt.

That every author has to face this insidious, tenacious creature doesn’t make it any easier for me. Right now it isn’t doubt about my writing ability, although I worry that will come hand-in-hand with the first negative review. What I doubt is my stamina and commitment for staying the course, for being willing to take my lumps and forge on. The promising early sales have ended and my naive hopes that “Harvest of the Heart” would take off and that sales would become self-sustaining have been dashed. Lots of hard marketing work remains that I, as a self-published author, will need to do myself if I want to succeed.

But I am eager to write, not sell. If I have to personally seek out and make every sale, I don’t know that I can do it. It is a little depressing that I’m feeling this way already. A lot of Indie authors would probably be overjoyed with the positive reviews and over eighty books sold in two weeks. But the truth is, I’m scared that, once my physical launch is over on January 12, that sales will fade away to nothing. How brave they are, the writers that absorb this type of disappointment for years, but stay the course and achieve ultimate success.

I’m not going to quit, I know that much; but I’m mad at myself for letting this doubt take the wind out of my sails; for zapping some of the energy that is needed to talk to bookstore owners and to keep working the social media in the hopes that sales will follow. I’ve been trying to wean myself from checking my sales statistics; I know I should ignore them since looking at them won’t change them… only marketing will do that.

Of course I am using running and this blog as a cheap substitute for a therapist. Running helps me think things through and writing it out helps me to work it out. I’ve set goals, and planned steps to reach them. Here is where I need to act as my own coach and say to myself, “Stop being such a wuss! Get out there and fight for your dreams!”

Ruined on Christmas

On this Christmas morning, I sit alone next to the slumbering iron heat of the wood stove and beneath the towering green sparkle of our Christmas tree and worry that becoming a writer has ruined me.

In the years that have flowed beneath similar trees, a book would be in my hands, the pages turning rapidly as I became lost in the new smell, and words, of another adventure, another mystery… or something darker. All my family and friends knew that a book was the gift certain to bring real pleasure to my Christmas morning.

Now the unfamiliar position I am in this morning is two-fold. For the first time, I am one of the first to creep out of bed to see the unwrapped joy lying about the foot of the tree. This is a change that feels right. I am of an age that sitting quietly and waiting for the world to awaken gives me comfort.

The second difference to this Christmas is not comforting at all. A book is in my lap and the pages are turning; that is how life should be. The words on the page weave their magic and attempt to draw me in.

But I find myself resisting; the new writer in me either looking for flaws — or the secret to this author’s particular brand of wizardry. I’m enjoying the book, but I am not pulled into another world.

Then I am drawn to the keyboard with a need to record these thoughts, all the while jealous of the reader sitting alone under the tree, lost in some wondrous story… the reader I was in years gone by.

Our Silliest Christmas Tradition

Christmas lights pretending to be flowers.

‘Tis the season for tradition — eggnog, candy canes,  a wreath on the front door, a Christmas tree in the living room — these are touchstones of the season,  common constants that help subconsciously prepare us for other, sometimes absurd, customs that are revived every year at this time. In the meals we eat, the decorations we hang, and the clothes we wear, tradition rears its sometimes silly head and makes us do things that are somehow embarrassing and heart-warming at the same time.

I’ve heard of many, shall we say unusual, traditions that rival those in our family: pantyhose stockings hanging on the mantle, deer jerky left for Santa instead of cookies and milk, the Christmas steak and shrimp dinner, immediately putting on any gift that is wearable, watching Die Hard on Christmas Eve; I’m sure your family has at least one odd custom of its own. The comical variations of the “Santa Hat” alone are too numerous to mention. (For those unenlightened masses, a Santa Hat is what the person handing out the gifts must wear. This is often passed from one person to another throughout the process of digging the Christmas tree out from under a mountain of brightly wrapped gifts.)

I’m not exactly sure how all of our own family’s traditions came about, but there are several that I find downright comical.

The first has to do with Christmas stockings. (This came from my wife’s side of the family.) For us, Christmas stockings are used for replenishing all the personal hygiene items that we may have used up during the year. The stockings may be hung from the chimney with care, but we pack those red felt suckers chock-a-block full of toothbrushes, toothpaste, lip balm, tissue packets, soap, foot powder, deodorant, skin lotion, combs, and other assorted items that you usually pick up at the pharmacy when you’re getting low on them during the year. Instead, we use Christmas to stock up on all that stuff. Thrilling isn’t it?

Image via Wikipedia

Of course, one of the neat things about this tradition is the rare occasion when some incredibly special gift is slipped in among the dross. Imagine you’ve opened everything under the tree and been secretly disappointed that your husband hadn’t delivered anything memorable. You go through your stocking gifts opening up all the standard stuff that you could have bought in fifteen minutes at CVS. Suddenly, Christmas is saved! (Along with the aforesaid husband.) When you get to the bottom, you find a ruby and diamond ring wrapped in a piece of tissue paper.

Our second silly tradition is of my own devious creation. Almost every year since we were married in 1976, I am usually involved in some home improvement project or another. That project was usually started long before Christmas and had been dragging on… and on… and on. In those years, I usually will work ridiculous hours trying to finish up some dramatic portion of the project in the wee hours of Christmas morning. Then my wife would wake up and be surprised that the kitchen cabinets finally had doors, or a new light fixture had been installed. This allowed me to get Christmas gift credit for something that I was obligated to do at some point anyway. Believe it or not, the same woman has remained married to me for almost 36 years despite such nonsense.

I get to our family’s final silly tradition with a mild sense of melancholy. Many years ago, when he was in his mid-teens, my eldest son gave my wife a piece paper that listed nine great golf gifts. That’s it, that was the gift. My wife has never played golf, except the miniature kind; neither has my son. It was just a silly joke on his part. The next year, my wife gave it back to him, packaged in a way that made him thing he was getting something special. He gave it back to her the year after, and a tradition was born. That little piece of paper went back and forth for years. One year, my wife stole it back from my son and gave it to him two years in a row. Another Christmas it went missing, only to turn up the next, providing an even bigger surprise for the recipient. For myself and my other children, this annual battle of the nine golf gifts provided an amusing undertone to the annual opening of Christmas gifts. But in recent years we’ve been disappointed, for this tradition has died.

It didn’t expire from any neglect or a lack of desire to continue said tradition. With all the changes and moving that has gone on in all our lives over the past several years, the list of nine great golf gifts has gone missing, apparently for good. We all mourn the loss of that silly piece of paper. It had become, like all good traditions, a bridge to the past, to times that we felt connected to more closely as a result of observing a seemingly ridiculous little custom.

So I want you to celebrate, and revel in, your silly family traditions. No matter what they are, you’ll miss them if they ever go away.

Zapped by the Christmas Spirit

Zapped by the Christmas Spirit

In some years, the spirit of Christmas comes over me gradually. Around Thanksgiving, joy and goodwill accumulate in my heart at about the same rate as the pounds being added to my waistline. During the years of creeping Christmas, I am aware of the change in the same way I notice the extra weight. In the back of my mind, I know they both are growing; the increasingly warm, sweet glow from one lends me an air of contentment that I think is visible to the world; I know the world can see the increasing inches added to my belly. The knowledge that the wonder of the season will fade much faster than my holiday paunch is a bittersweet spice that adds an urgent but undefined taste to the succulent holiday meals, colorful wrappings, and bright lights.

There have been years that I never found that Christmas spirit at all. Work pressures, illness, financial issues; the reasons varied for why, on Christmas day, I would find myself dredging up memories of how that seasonal cheer felt, so that I could present a smiling face to family and friends. The result was like splashing a fresh coat of white paint over a dirty wall. I was certain the imperfections would bleed through; the stain of a forced gaiety more obvious as a result of the contrast with those whose spirit was heartfelt.

A big little reason for Christmas cheer

This year I kept expecting it to come early. Because of the presence of my newest grandchild in the house, early snowfall, the excitement of my book release, and the planned visit of my eldest son, I anticipated a long and jubilant immersion in an ocean of holiday cheer. Day after day, I patiently awaited the magnetic pull of Christmas.

And, day after day, it didn’t come. I did a ten-day fast just before Thanksgiving and afterward, stayed at a proper and consistent weight; that hasn’t changed despite the temptation of holiday treats. I wondered if my lack of Christmas spirit this season was somehow tied to my lack of a growing waistline.

Don’t get me wrong – the late fall and early winter has been among the most exciting, rewarding and joyful periods in my life. Still, until last night, that extra spark that could light my inner Christmas fire had yet to be kindled.

Then, during my run last night, it hit me like a lightning bolt out of a cold and perfectly clear night sky. The electric thrill pushed me in happy anticipation toward home, eager for the happy days ahead. My rushed and sappy Dailymile post was the result of an overdose of Christmas spirit…

White satin was rent and scattered along the shoulder of the road as I ran out into the chilled evening. An unexpected moisture hovered above the ground and tickled my face. Faint embers burned low upon the darkening horizon as the night sky became a blanket of black satin spread with millions of crystal shards. I whisked my way through a dim landscape, entranced by the narrow necklace of gems that sparkled across the northern fringe of the earth; city and sky decorated for the approaching season of joy. An early Merry Christmas to all my DM friends.

I call it the writer’s version of a sugar-rush. Such hyper-flowery prose would likely drive an editor crazy.

Yesterday, we trudged through snow to claim a fresh tree from the flanks of the Snowy Mountains. I danced with my six-week old grandson to the magical sounds of the Trans-Siberian Orchestra while my oldest son performed a different magic in the kitchen. Later in the evening, my wife and I went shopping for a few extra Christmas surprises; little things, but I believe thinking about the want and needs of others, and trying to fill them in any way possible, is part of what makes the season special.

In the wee hours of the morning, while the house absorbed a transcendent stillness from those who lay dreaming within, I sat alone on the sofa beneath the bare tree, reading a book while the crisp, eager, evergreen scent wafted around me, feeding my new-found spirit, and whispering “Merry Christmas”.

If this is your first visit to my blog, WELCOME! I hope you’ll snoop around some. And I would love to have you follow by using the button in the right column.

Why YOU should be proud of running

Unabashedly, I consider myself a runner. But it would be easy enough to substitute cyclist, or swimmer, or something else active in the post that follows. If you’re not a runner, feel free to do so!

Yes, you are an inspiration!

I have a lot of my friends on Dailymile. They come in all sizes, shapes and speeds. Some inspire me with their high mileage (like Jonathan S) or incredible pace (like Susan). I am uplifted by other friends who may not run far or fast, but have faced daunting obstacles and remain runners (like Holly T). If you are one of these groups, I thank you for the motivation and inspiration you provide. You should be proud of what you are accomplishing.

But, if you are among the aforementioned, this post is not about – or dedicated to – you. This post is for the significant percentage who aren’t aware of the inspiration that they have become for me. They are sometimes missed by the Dailymile population at large, since they don’t log long miles, record amazing race times, overcome impossible odds, or carry run streaks that are three and four digits long. For some reason the members of the group I am referring to think what they are achieving is small and unimportant. Just getting out the door every day might be the toughest struggle they face. They don’t always overcome every obstacle; often life gets in the way of their running; their motivation is sometimes weak or non-existent, and inspiration hard to find.

But they don’t quit. They miss a day, or two, or a week… but they keep coming back. Many of them eventually move on to become “hardcore”; they start logging the big miles, adding days and months to streaks. Not all, though. Whether you make that transition or not, you should be proud that you call yourself a runner.

Running, as recreation or exercise, at any speed, anywhere, and under any conditions, is a challenge that you should not underestimate, with rewards you should not undervalue. Despite the “popularity” of running, the running population is still a small percentage of the total. Statistics are hard to come by, and vary from community to community. (In Boulder, Colorado it is the oddball that doesn’t run.) You might think that 50% of the population had run a marathon, based on the talk, the number of new races, and the large crowds. But, according to MarathonGuide.com, less than 2/10 of 1% of the US population recorded a finishing time in the marathon in 2010. If you consider that many of them were people who completed more than one, the number is far less. Stats for shorter races are even harder to find, but I suspect that less than 1% of the people in this country would call themselves runners.

The remaining 99% are becoming obese at an alarming rate. HealthyAmericans.org says in the last 30 years that adult obesity has doubled from 15% of the population, to 30%. Child obesity has tripled. If you are among those fighting this disastrous trend, then you should give yourself a pat on the back.

And I want you to know that you do inspire others, even if you don’t realize it. That 1.5 miles you log tomorrow has value. Those four days you ran last week are important. Keep doing what you do; dragging yourself out the door, feeling guilty when you miss… coming back and starting over. This post is dedicated to you.

A Second Life Begins

Shortly after midnight, in the early morning hours of Tuesday, December 13, 2011, a new phase of my life began. It is nearing two a.m. and I’m unlikely to sleep tonight. In fact, it feels as though I might even be holding my breath well into the morning’s light. My debut novel – Harvest of the Heart – has been released. The world (or as much of it as I can reach) will soon begin to judge whether I have a future as an author. Talk about gut-wrenching… this is worse than the night before the state championship meet when I was coaching high school track.

I might be calling this a “soft” release, but it feels hard to me. While most of the people who I hope will buy my book are probably still sleeping, I’m reviewing in my mind all the steps I’ve taken, and have yet to take, in my publishing journey. All you writing veterans out there will read this post and chuckle. You’ve been there, done that. But this is my first time. I’m as nervous as any virgin bride (or bridegroom) on their wedding night. What will tomorrow bring? A joy-filled, endless honeymoon? Or something else?

There will be highs such as this: a few minutes ago, I got my first e-mail from PayPal telling me that Diane V. had purchased an autographed copy of my book. The first one. My wife is already in bed and I hope my fist pump and exultant “YES!” didn’t wake her. And I’m certain there will be lows, too. Dips in sales, rejections from some brick and mortar bookstores who shy away from self-published authors… signings where I sit self-consciously waiting for at least one person to come up and talk to me.

Don’t worry, I’m determined to see this through. My muse demands nothing less. By the end of 2012, I intend to have at least three more books released. I’ll be an old hand by then. Maybe not a grizzled veteran on the literary scene, but at least not a greenhorn, a newbie holding his breath, waiting for someone to say “yes, you have what it takes… you ARE going to make it.”

A chance to lose myself

“Harvest of the Heart” will be released this Tuesday, December 13 and so I have spent most of my time for the last several weeks trying to establish an internet “presence”, getting reviews, and preparing for a social media effort to support the release. This blog, Facebook, Twitter and other internet time-sinks have monopolized my attention. But, for much of Sunday, December 11, our internet service was down. Our provider is upgrading their service and I guess they ran into some glitches. I should have been bothered by the time that would be lost on marketing efforts with just forty-eight hours before the big day. Instead, I found myself eager to put it behind me and get back to what I love to do, and that is write.

For the first time in many weeks, I had what I consider to be a very productive writing day. Over one thousand words and finally some momentum toward completing a novella that has languished since HotH began its halting strides toward publication. Today reminded me why I have confidence that I will someday (maybe soon!) make it as a novelist. Once my mind reclaimed the thread of the story, I became enmeshed in the characters and scenes. It felt good to know that the ability to let a story flow through me is still there, waiting to be set loose again. During the writing of “Harvest of the Heart” there were days when my muse was so strong that I wrote three thousand words or more for days on end. Not all of it was great, some wasn’t even good; but the bones of the story fell in place and were fleshed out, ready to be molded into a novel.

The loss of internet today was truly a blessing. It reminded me that I love to write… that I need to write. So many great writers have the discipline to do this every day. I want to be one of them and so I must find the determination and self-control that will allow me to ignore the marketing and publicity harpies that snatch away my time, and give my muse the attention she demands, if only for a few hours each day.

Jealousy sneaks in

Jealousy is not at all low, but it catches us humbled and bowed down, at first sight. – Colette

My mind is all a jumble. Amid the frenzy of the approaching release of “Harvest of the Heart”, I struggle with a confidence that sometimes falters. Like a stubborn leak in the roof which no amount of patching can fix,  doubt and insecurity are drip, drip, dripping in the background of my public confidence; eroding the euphoria that should grace the atmosphere around an author on the verge of publication.

The doubts don’t attach to my writing. As I grow closer to seeing them exposed to the public, the confidence I have in my abilities has grown. I look critically at my own work and compare it to that of many “best-selling” authors… and I firmly believe the comparison is favorable.

At the top of my iGoogle home page this morning was a single line of text; an advertisement for a novel. Supposedly some algorithm selected this particular ad based on my browsing and e-mails. (I’m not one of those too concerned about my privacy. I’m about to ask the world to buy my book, I want to be noticed.) I clicked the link and found a book that was released in August. It is self-published. The author is someone with a lot of money, an idea, a marketing plan and a modicum of talent. I read the sample of the book and was not impressed. It wasn’t bad, it just felt as if it was written by a person who took a class on how to put words on paper. This was not a man who has been driven his entire life by a muse that poked and prodded and jabbed until he became a writer.

And so jealousy reared its ugly head. This author has – for his book – things that I want for mine: a Type-A personality driving it to market; a classy, custom website with all the bells and whistles; advertisements across the internet that seek out responsive readers; and the financial backing that opens doors.

Jealousy only adds to my doubt about the chances “Harvest of the Heart” has to find its market; that dripping threatens to become a steady stream. A lot is riding on my book at least showing the potential for success. I’ve done the best I can in a short period to position it to start well. But much of my strategy relies on social media to help create early momentum. I don’t have the money for a publicist to create ads, send out effective press releases, to garner reviews for a self-published author, to whisper in the right people’s ears. The learning curve to do all this myself is steep. The time to do it is hard to find and my muse is angry that I haven’t been writing much while I try to get this book launched.

This morning, I was indeed “humbled and bowed down” by jealousy. But that first sight did not last. The hour I spent with my grandson in my arms restored my spirits. Within days, I will have the proof in my hand. I tell myself that the quality of the book and the marketing efforts I am making will result in success.

The frenzy continues and the fateful day is nigh. Breath, Michael! Breath!