What are we reading?

Since posting The Reading Habit on Feb. 23, I’ve decided to post on a monthly basis about what we’re all reading. Please share, won’t you?

As I mentioned previously, I’m usually reading at least three books at a time, from different genres and for different times of the day. Presently:

Devotional/spiritual – Still working on Hans Schwartz’s Christology, begun for the Lenten season. I’m over halfway through Christology, taking a long time not because the book is heavy or hard, but because I’ve read infrequently due to other early morning priorities. Recently, in this book that, according to Carl E. Braaten, “tells us what Christians have believed about Jesus from the beginning” to the present, I learned about the “Johannine Comma,” extra words in 1 John 5:7-8 in some early printed editions of the Greek New Testament. The import of these words regards the then-developing doctrine of the Trinity. A comma or a few extra words may seem trivial in our present age, but there were times when believers died over these controversies. Here’s what Rose Harris, a believer but not a dogmatist regarding the Trinity, said in Sunday by Sunday I:

How would I have fared as a person of faith in the days when professing what you believed could be a matter of life or death? In light of modern thought and contemporary ecclesiastical/religious culture, the Trinity hardly seems worth dying over. So, if a stern, squinty-eyed inquisitor had asked me, “Do you believe in the Holy Trinity as ultimate Truth?” I would have looked him straight in the eye and said, “Youbetcha.” I can see the headline:  “Hypocrite Heretic Not Burned at Stake.”

Fiction – A self-published novella I plucked off the local author exhibit at the library. Started out pretty good with a compelling story and articulate language but didn’t go the distance. I have to think the author made the common mistake of foregoing an editor.

(Auto)Biography – Population 385: Meeting Your Neighbors One Siren at a Time. Have you discovered Michael Perry yet? Funny, charming writing about his experiences as volunteer in a small town in Wisconsin. I think I love it a lot because it reminds me so much of Ringwood IL, my hometown. “Population 250, counting the dogs,” I always heard.

What are you reading? I eagerly anticipate receiving some responses. Don’t forget:  The name of any of you who comment between now and June 30 will be put in a drawing for a Sunday by Sunday gift set, lovely for your bookshelf or as a special gift. So, tell us what you’re reading today…     

War veterans I have known and loved

       My dad, Gordon Fossum – Dad would cajole us kids into scratching his back and would figuratively divide his back into a tic-tac-toe board of nine squares numbered across and then direct us to his itches. “Right in the middle of 2,” he’d say, or “Right on the line between 7 and 8.” I think his Purple Heart scar was in the lower right corner of square # 6. Many times I scratched it, fingered it, rubbed it, and had questions I couldn’t even find words for. Like so many, he didn’t talk about the war much. During one conversation I found out that it was flying shrapnel that had wounded him during a confrontation with the enemy in the Pacific arena of WW II. I sure wish I’d captured that conversation because I think he went into details, most of which I’ve forgotten. I was older by then, and I do remember us talking about the sheer terror he felt.

Years later, 1968, to be exact, in the middle of the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, we had another war-related conversation, this time by phone. I was in the city, and he was ranting against Vietnam War protesters. When I told him I was one of them, he hung up on me. Upset and hungry for reconciliation, I took the next commuter train out to my hometown, to him. We did our best, but it wasn’t pretty.

I’ve always felt like Dad’s war experience killed something in his soul. I wonder how much it fueled his alcoholism. Maybe not that much, considering that his father was alcoholic, too. Of course, Grandpa Fossum fought in WW I...

My maternal grandfather, Kenneth Cristy – Grandpa Cristy and I never talked about his war experiences in France in WW I, but I have copies of letters that he wrote to Clara Nelson, his sweetheart back in Wisconsin.  He wrote something like, “Don’t forget me while I’m gone. If you find someone else, I’ll be in a hard place.” She didn’t. She became my Grandma Cristy.

John – I knew this delightful man in rural Chester County, Pennsylvania in the 1980s. I had moved there, and we went to church together. On a visit to his home on church business, he told me about being among the first troops to enter Nagasaki (or was it Hiroshima?) after the atomic bomb blast. Unimaginable. He shook his head a lot. I remember him talking about sitting safely in his nice home nearly 40 years later telling about such horror, incredulous that it ever could have happened.

A guy in the waiting room – Again in PA, another WW II vet. My toddler and I spent most of a morning with him while our cars were being worked on. He talked his head off about his war experiences. When the manager told him his car was ready, we said goodbye, but after paying, he came back to us and took my hand in his, tearfully thanking me for listening; he said h'ed never told anyone else those stories. He pressed a $10 bill in my hand and told me to go get some lunch for me and my baby.

Bob – Recently returned from combat duty in Vietnam. I can’t remember how we got connected, through a bulletin board notice, I think, but he gave me a ride from Waverly IA where I was in college, to home, Ringwood IL on a cold winter night in 1968. Side by side in his Jeep, we drove through the dark for hours. This was our first meeting, and yet, before long, detailed, sickening horrors of his time in Nam poured forth. I was strongly opposed to the war by this time, radicalized at Wartburg College, but did not fully admit to that. How I felt for him and admired him…and deeply regretted that his courage and service seemed to be spent  for a lost cause.

What veterans are special to you?   

Savoring marketing and promoting

Self-promotion and marketing is the bane of many writers’ existences, but I’ve decided I like that aspect. Being somewhat of an extrovert helps, and I really do feel for those who just want to write and are stretched uncomfortably by tooting their own horns, public speaking, technology, and all the rest. Here are my top 5 thoughts (or “brain droppings,” as George Carlin would say) about marketing and promotion at this point in time:

# 1 – Acceptance. Most of us authors have to market, particularly those of us who are self-published. Happily, I’ve moved beyond lamenting and railing against this situation in the constantly evolving world of books and publishing. “You get what you get, and don’t pitch a fit,” to quote the line my little grandson heard everyday in daycare until he accepted that he might get a blue one when he really wanted red.

# 2 – Humility. Simply declaring myself a writer was a journey, and I well remember feeling that promoting my work was arrogant and involved too much vulnerability. I have grown in that regard by praying for “true humility, the humility of Jesus and Mary.” In this understanding, my purpose is to be God’s child, using the gifts I have been given with neither timidity nor conceit.

# 3 – Challenge. Technology skills—lack thereof—is the single biggest hurdle for me in promoting and marketing. I have been able to pay professionals on occasion but have mostly had to learn, learn, learn. The learning is usually fun and satisfying with “how-to” resources readily available. Hard to believe how far I’ve come technologically—and hard to imagine how far I have to go!

# 4 – Persistence. I love the balance I’ve reached of not giving up on my writing enterprises but not fretting over how they are developing.  I keep plugging joyfully on, in the midst of being overwhelmed by technology, fits of low self esteem, and low-to-no book sales. Generally, I am peaceful even on those days when I just can’t do it, for whatever reason. Probably tomorrow things will happen.

# 5 – Rewards. And things do happen, big things like speaking engagements, little things like selling a book out of my trunk to somebody next to me in line in a store. Every time I venture, something is gained.

And here is a new venture, through which you could gain. Now that I’ve finally learned to process comments (not difficult, just a readiness thing), I want to encourage comments and dialogue on my blog. To that end, I will be giving away a boxed gift set of the Sunday by Sunday series. Each time you enter a comment between now and June 30, your name will be entered into a drawing for the gift set. And on we go…

    

Surrounded by happy people talking in other tongues

My friend, a young man of the Montagnard tribe of Vietnam, graduated yesterday from an ESL program, and I was honored to be among the guests. English was the order of the day, of course, but after receiving their well-earned certificates of achievement, the students narrated PowerPoints showing the flags, foods, weather, cities, natural beauty and resources, and so forth of their native lands, and native words and expressions came forth.

Speaking more than one language strikes me as a wondrous accomplishment. My two years of high school Latin provided a linguistic foundation I continue to enjoy, and I went fairly far with French in h.s. and college, but “if you don’t use it…” Acquiring a second language is on my sure-would-like-to-if-I-had-the-time list, but since there has been no necessity to do so, I never have. And so, I am especially impressed by those who have worked hard and applied their intelligence to master this feat. And I was surrounded by them yesterday.

After the presentations in the auditorium, we celebrated in the cafeteria, with their colorful folk costumes, singing, dancing, and conversation. The room was alive with joy, gratitude and—what’s the other word I’m looking for here? Ambition, I think. I loved talking with a civil engineer from Ecuador who was born in China; with George from Georgia, whose hero is Ronald Reagan because of his part in breaking up the Soviet Union; with a Chinese woman describing stands by the side of the road in her country where people sell “tea eggs,” hard-boiled in tea with anise, a quick breakfast for many on their way to work or school; with my Vietnamese friend, who scored 100% on his naturalization test a couple years ago and whose next goal is earning his GED, then on to college.

Oh, and the food! Don’t forget the food, an important and yummy part of the cultural bridge, served with pride and eaten with delight. Borsch with sour cream, shrimp rolls, chocolate bread and black bread and tortillas and blini, peanut soup and carrot soup, thin and silvery noodles, little zucchini pancake-like treats, tea eggs (described above), guacamole, rice pudding, and many more dishes.

Heavens, I think back to my 1950s elementary education and being entranced by the story and pictures of Pimwe, the jungle boy of the Amazon in our social studies book. We’ve come a long way from those times, when such stories were other worldly and exotic to being able to hear and see people from faraway places on pretty much any street corner. I love it.  

Preparing to write--by reading

Tuesday last was heavenly, truly a day off. I had to report to neither of my day jobs, the weather was a sunny 80˚ with blue sky and no humidity, and I read several hours away. The next book I will write is in the conceptualization stage (in that “mental crockpot,” as I recently heard someone describe), and reading is a fine and fun way to move that process along. The Gendarme by Mark Mustian (2010, Amy Einhorn Books/Putnam. Available everywhere) is serving well to stimulate and inspire—and help me keep in mind what good writing is.

How can I develop a character like Mustian’s Emmett Conn/Ahmet Kahn, who is immediately intriguing, human, entertaining, and sympathy-inducing despite—even because of—his flaws? How can I develop a story that is this electrifying and filled with mystery, even for the main character himself? How can I change scenes and travel back and forth through time crisply and clearly like this? How can I write dialogue that sounds this natural as it crackles with meaning?

At the 2010 Lutheran Festival of Writing, Mustian recounted “the making of” The Gendarme, drawing us into the horrible history of the annihilation of one million Armenians in Turkey at the beginning of World War I. His Armenian ancestry was part of his reason for writing the book, though none of his immediate forebears were directly involved, having immigrated to the United States long before. Again, in response, I entertain the possibility of using other times and places and perhaps my own ancestry in my novel. Right now, I don’t think I will do that; nevertheless, I appreciate being opened to bigger, broader vistas. I also prize this model of compelling composition that is bold to tell the truth, even the hard and ugly truth. And, most importantly, perhaps, I am affirmed in my passion for using humor and surprise and artistry to weave bright threads of redemption throughout. Thank you, Mark--and all other writers. Each of us has something to teach.

Phantasmagorical surprises at volunteer appreciation day

I halfway didn’t want to go to the volunteer appreciation breakfast at the senior retirement center, expecting the event to be dry and perfunctory. My expectations were undeniably shaped by a reading I had given there the week before. I had to fight the giggles at one point when I looked around the circle and seven of eleven of my audience were asleep. I maintained composure and focused on the four lively, interested listeners, but couldn’t help asking myself, “What in the world am I doing here? Surely this is a poor use of my time.” So when the breakfast began with a Bloody Mary and ended with an eye witness story about Janis Joplin, I was surprised, delightfully so.

The main delight was fun with the three other volunteers at my table. Our little group was graced with that rare moment when all present are as interested in each other as they are in themselves. And so, we enjoyed scintillating conversation balanced equally among us. Over scrumptious veggie quiche and homemade biscuits, connections sparked and popped. Hardy is involved through his church in collecting gently-used children’s books and distributing them to schools along South Carolina’s infamous Corridor of Shame. Shelley is employed by the public library system to deliver reading materials to people whose mobility is limited. Marvin helped establish Columbia’s Jewish Community Center and has lived all over the country, working in community organization. They were interested in my writing enterprises. Hardy is going to recommend me to the activities director of his congregation. Shelley accepted a set of Sunday by Sunday in large print with confidence that some of her readers would like them a lot. Very cool.

The program was cool, too. The Life Enrichment staff presented each of us with a certificate and then invited us to describe what we do. The descriptions were straight from the heart and humorously humble, and then staff members added appreciative and often amusing comments and anecdotes. A dear friend I have made there gave a fine endorsement of the Sunday by Sunday series. This amazing woman is herself a volunteer and shared the moving information that she sings, upon request, for people who are dying, 21 people so far. Another resident volunteer serves as librarian for the center, and I happily contributed an LP set--and she wanted to know where people could purchase them, if so desired. Great connections.

And then, there was icing on top of all that cake. As I said, Marvin has been around and told this story that occurred in California in 1967 at a camp for kids he was directing:

He had worked with Peter, leader of Big Brother and the Holding Company which was featuring Janis Joplin at the time. He gave the group a week of room and board at the camp in exchange for them giving a concert. After hours one night, the musicians were swimming in the pool. When Marvin and his wife got there, Janis was the only one still swimming, and his wife asked if she could take her picture. Janis hopped out of the pool in the buff, shook the water off, and said, “No. I don’t think my agent would allow it.”

Wow, what a story—and what a good adventure, this volunteer appreciation occasion. Hard to believe that I actually considered skipping it!