On Endings (Observations of the Week)

1. A Bit of Hard-Earned Writing Advice

I am a writer, and not just of books with my name on the cover. I’m a co-writer and editor, the kind of pen-wielder who helps authors and publishers breathe life into their books.

Several years ago, I labored on a handful of books, each which had a clear beginning (with rising tension), a clear middle (with harrowing climax), but no clear ending. And so, in each instance, we created aspirational endings, endings which attempted to project some future resolution (some future business, some future geographic relocation, some future non-profit, whatever). These books left me unsatisfied, and it’s only now that I see why: Literature, like life, demands resolution, a satisfactory conclusion marked with a final period and followed by plenty of white space. So, if you’re a writer, hold off on publishing stories until you’re satisfied with the white space following The End.

2. Marcus Aurelius and the Power of Examination

This weekend, I read portions of Marcus Aurelius Meditations. There, I stumbled across this passage: “Nothing is so conducive to greatness of mind as the ability to subject each element of our experience in life to methodical and truthful examination…”

Examining my writing experiences truthfully led me to examine my dissatisfaction with the books mentioned above. Those stories ended in limbo or, in a very Catholic sense, purgatory. As emotional creatures, creatures who need our villains punished (often to death) and our heroes rewarded (or occasionally tortured), we want stories ending in heaven (comedy) or hell (tragedy). Anything less is lukewarm at best, and we all know what the holy books say about lukewarm endings.

3. True Masters Understand the Need for Closure

There are exceptions to every universal rule, even writing rules. But the grand masters of both literature and life write toward clear resolution. (Even Marcus Aurelius.) Why? Because writers, as observers of humanity, understand the universal human need for closure. Completion. The end of all things.

The end.

The Best Laid Plans COVID (And the Books I've Found Time to Read)

The best laid plans of mice and men, they say, are wrecked by COVID. This is not really what they say of course, but times being what they are, a little modification is in order.

I’d planned to drop another weekly update here on Monday, but Amber came down with that wicked virus. She immediately quarantined, holed up in our bedroom where she’s been left in relative peace (if anything about COVID can be peaceful). This has left me with a bit fuller plate than normal—boys and business and school and dinner and all the rest—which accounts for the delay.

Even in the pandemic pandelerium, there’s been a fair amount of beauty, though. Friends have shared flowers and food. I’ve carved out a little extra time to make the final edits to a novel I’ve been writing for over 8 years (you can read it in serial fashion by signing up here). And I’ve caught up on some nightly reading, particularly two books which I’d like to recommend.

Book the First: Shirt of Flame

Heather King is the kind of writer I’d like to be when I grow up. She’s a lawyer, a recovered alcoholic, a Catholic with a penchant for a fine twist of phrase. We have a good bit in common. For Lent, I began her book Shirt of Flame: A Year with Saint Therese of Lisieux. In it, she draws parallels between her life and the life of a cloistered nun from 19th century France. But like all great writers, King’s writing is not so myopic as to represent a conflation of her life and St. Therese’s. It’s far more universal than that. This is a book that allows you to find yourself in the pages. Over and over. And to make it all the more savory, she drops dimes like this:

“Love is the wild card that gives us the incandescent drive to subvert all power systems. Desire is the unpredictable x that throws off all bets.”

Book the Second: Learning to Pray

I also picked up a copy of Fr. James Martin, SJ’s new book, Learning to Pray: A Guide for Everyone. The title is self-explanatory. The reason I picked it might not be.

I’ve been asked lately about prayer and God and faith by those who don’t believe or can’t believe or choose not to believe for whatever reason (some of them very profound). In fact, one asked me whether there were good “beginner books” on things of faith, and when the algorithms on Amazon recommended Learning to Pray a few days later, I took it as a sign. I’ve only made my way through the first few chapters, but I can confirm: If you’re a beginner (or novice or expert) in the art of prayer, you’ll find something in these pages. It’d be a great book to round out your Lenten season (or simply your March).

I hope you’ll grab a copy of these books. And while we’re on the topic of books, shoot me an email and tell me: What are you reading?

Writing as the Art of Connection

Why write? Why create? Artist, authors, and actors have given hundreds of words to the topic, but last week, I laid hands on a copy of Jeff Tweedy’s new book, How to Write One Song. In it, he writes,

“At the core of any creative act is an impulse to make manifest our powerful desire to connect—with others, with ourselves, with the sacred, with God? We all want to feel less alone, and I believe that a song being sung is one of the clearest views we ever have to witness how humans reach out for warmth with our art.”

Truer words I’ve not read on the process of writing. This is why I’ve written and published two books and am working my way through a redraft of a novel. It’s why I pen a regular newsletter and why I marry prose with photography.

Every effort of writing is an effort toward creating connection, whether with a friend, yourself, or the Divine. In that way, every effort of writing is an effort toward formation—of relationship, community, or Divine communion.

I’ll share more about the act of creation as connection with the Divine tomorrow, but in the meantime, tell me: Is there some method or mode of art, some creative effort you use to connect with others, yourself, and God? Drop me an email and let me know.


DON’T GO JUST YET

If there’s one regret I have about The Book of Waking Up, it’s that I didn’t realize just how addicted we are to politics at the time of its writing. I suppose I understood it at a macro level, but this election cycle has exposed a much deeper addiction. If you haven’t picked up a copy, please do, and consider just how the framework of waking up applies to our political addictions.


My Creativity is Broken. Is Yours?

I’ve broken from my own conventions. After writing and publishing every day for several months, after building an entire routine around the practice, I found myself in a pandemic rut. COVID came and with it a by-God dry spell set in.

This is not to say I didn’t write. I pecked out words here and there, words about the pandemic and the election and what it means to be sober in it all. I shared both depth and pith on Instagram, Twitter, and in Newsletters. But that marvelous streak of daily writing died. I held no funerals. I said no eulogies.

I’m clawing back some attempt to come back to the page more with more regularity, particularly in light of the fact that the election is—cross your fingers and hope-to-God—over. In the first spate of writing, I hope to explore why creating (something, anything) is important in this age of burn-it-down insanity. I hope you’ll join me. I hope you’ll invite others to join. More than anything, I hope you’ll set your mind to creating regularly.

Expect to see new pieces on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. In this week’s series, I’ll explore the power of creativity, particularly in an age of deconstruction. I hope you’ll join me.

DON’T GO JUST YET

If there’s one regret I have about The Book of Waking Up, it’s that I didn’t realize just how addicted we are to politics at the time of its writing. I suppose I understood it at a macro level, but this election cycle has exposed a much deeper addiction. If you haven’t picked up a copy, please do, and consider just how the framework of waking up applies to our political addictions. Then, chart a course for true political sobriety.

Recovering Routine (In the Insanity That is 2020)

If you haven’t heard, it’s National Recovery Month, so I’m zoning in. Recovery is about regaining control, choosing the outcomes you want for your life. And as I’ve written before, during this pandemic season (and the insanity that’s been 2020), my routines have fallen by the wayside. I’ve been overworked and less given to creative work. I’ve indulged in more social media consumption than I’d like, too. So now, I’m aiming to fix that through:

  1. Capturing the first hour of the day to create, meditate, and contemplate;

  2. Using the screen-time tracker Moment to stay below two hours of phone use a day;

  3. Moving my body 5-6 times a week (if you do this right, you can’t be attached to your phone);

  4. Diving into the creative process of re-writing an eight-year-old novel (the first installment of Bears in the Yard went out yesterday to Substack subscribers).

Have you lost track of your routines in the Pandemic? What are you doing to restore them? Feel free to shoot me an email and let me know.

Need to walk through steps of recovery this National Recovery Month (whether from alcohol, food, shopping, porn, social media, whatever)? Grab The Book of Waking Up: Experiencing the Divine Love that Reorders a Life.

I Might be Insane, But I'm Inviting You Along for the Ride

I’m writing this update from my office, and one story below me, a concrete saw and jackhammer offer alternating distractions. One moment screeches. The next quakes. I am not living my best writing life. It is par for the course of 2020.

Writing has been difficult in this insane milieu. But it’s not just writing. Just about everything takes more effort in 2020 than in previous years--eating healthfully, exercising, spiritual disciplines, fighting smartphone addiction. If this year were to be tagged with an adjective, it’d be disruptive.

Many of my routines--particularly around creative disciplines--have fallen by the wayside this year, but I’m determined to rediscover them. It’s creativity that makes us human, after all, and I’m feeling less human by the day. Today, I’m inviting you to keep me accountable to creativity. How? 

Eight years ago, I wrote a novel, Bears in the Yard. I scrawled it three-quarters drunk during an impossible time, a time I felt my own life might be unraveling. It was an exploration of something, though I couldn’t say what at the time (drunk as I was). But as I’ve considered the story over the years, and I’ve come to see it for what it is. It’s a story about what it means to live a good and weathering life. 

The story follows Wesley, a World War II veteran who’s confined to a hospice bed. He examines the scope of his life, the ways he’s been deconstructed and reformed, all while wrestling with anthropomorphic dream images of bears and mountain goats and geese (oh my). It’s a southern gothic story with a trace of magical realism. Still, it is unfinished, and I’d like to finish it.

I’d like you to follow along as I revised and complete this novel. If you follow this link to my Substack page and become a paying subscriber, you’ll begin receiving excerpts every week or two. You’ll also have access to an archive where you can catch up on the story in its entirety if you miss an installment. And yes, it’ll set you back a few bucks a month, but the buy-in will keep you honest (I hope), and it’ll keep me motivated (I assure you). And if this goes well, I hope to begin working on a second novel next year, one which will borrow from Bears in some small way, though with a sort of futurist twist. 

Please signup to follow along and I’ll send the first installment TONIGHT. Also, consider sharing this with a friend or two, asking them to follow along (just change the email address).

Finally, I’d love to hear from you. What are you doing to stay creative in this season of insanity? 

It’s National Recovery Month. Have you read this book yet?



What is the Streak: How to Form a Habit That Sticks

It’s a popular piece of productivity urban legend shared by Brad Isaacs, popularized by LifeHacker, and now found in every habit-formation book known to man. (I’ve read some version of the story in three books in the last year alone.) Isaacs, a young comedian working the open-mic scene, bumped into Jerry Seinfeld and asked him for the recipe to his secret sauce. How’d he become a better comedian? “Write jokes every day,” Seinfeld said, but he didn’t stop there. He offered Isaacs some productivity gold: 

“He told me to get a big wall calendar that has a whole year on one page and hang it on a prominent wall. The next step was to get a big red magic marker. He said for each day that I do my task of writing, I get to put a big red X over that day. After a few days you'll have a chain. Just keep at it and the chain will grow longer every day. You'll like seeing that chain, especially when you get a few weeks under your belt. Your only job next is to not break the chain.”

This is why I published my piece yesterday evening. I’ve been writing every day (and publishing every weekday) for months, and breaking the chain was not an option, even if it meant staying into the stretch hours to crank out something worth publishing. The streak—it was motivation enough.

In the coming days, I’m hoping to take hold of this sort of streak theory in a new way of limited application. I’ve strayed from poetry over the last year, much to my chagrin. I’ve struggled to nail pieces down in the midst of so much other writing. Poetry, though, stretches me creatively and causes me to think in images and metaphors. It stretches my brain. So, beginning this Friday, I’m pushing into a new sort of streak. Each Friday, I’ll drop a new poem here. I hope those poems will relate to our examination themes, but the Muse might take me on a tangent on occasion. In any event, I hope you’ll join me. 

What’s the streak you’d like to create? Is it a creative habit like writing every day? Maybe it’s a healthy habit like working out or drinking enough water throughout the week. Do you want to create better spiritual habits, like carving out spaces for silence and solitude? Is the habit a one-day-a-week sort of thing, like scratching out poems on Fridays? Set a goal, create a calendar system, and start logging your streak. See what happens. 

***THE BOOK IS HERE! ORDER AND FORWARD***

THE BOOK OF WAKING UP —a book on addiction, attachment, and the Divine Love—launched TUESDAY so order a copy or ten at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Bookish (my favorite indie bookseller). Then, forward this post to a friend and ask them to read along.