"The Angels May Quote From It..."

I admire William Blake for being both an artist and poet. He illustrated his own texts by engraving copper plates and then finishing each page by hand with watercolors. He claimed to have learned this technique from his dead brother in a vision! My favorite poem of Blake's is his introduction to "Songs of Innocence".

William Blake's illustration for the introduction to "Songs of Innocence" 

William Blake's introduction to "Songs of Innocence"

In case you're having trouble reading from the picture above, here is the same poem:

Introduction to the Songs of Innocence

by William Blake

Piping down the valleys wild 

Piping songs of pleasant glee 

On a cloud I saw a child. 

And he laughing said to me. 

Pipe a song about a Lamb; 

So I piped with merry chear, 

Piper pipe that song again— 

So I piped, he wept to hear.

Drop thy pipe thy happy pipe 

Sing thy songs of happy chear, 

So I sung the same again 

While he wept with joy to hear 

Piper sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read— 

So he vanish'd from my sight. 

And I pluck'd a hollow reed. 

And I made a rural pen,

And I stain'd the water clear,

And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear

This is not the type of poem I'm usually drawn to. I think the reason it resonated with me was because when I first read it in 2001, I had recently become a father. Below is the journal entry I wrote after reading this poem for the first time:

A journal entry I wrote about Blake's introduction from when I was in college in 2001.

I love that there is a sense of progress from selfishness to selflessness in this poem. It begins with the piper playing music only for himself. He progresses from this selfish piping to singing for just the one child. From there he writes his words down so that "every child my joy to hear." There's this sense that the piper finally realizes his talents are meant to be shared for the benefit of everyone.

It's interesting that the child that asks the piper to sing and write his songs comes to him "on a cloud" and later "vanished from [his] sight". We can only assume the child must be an angel, a messenger from God. And it's fitting, isn't it? God wants us to use our talents, the talents He gave us, to serve others. He sends his "angels" to encourage this all the time in the form of family, friends, and church leaders.

The other thing I love about this poem is that the child asks the piper to "pipe a song about a Lamb". The Lamb is, of course, the Lamb of God, Jesus Christ. The child asks the piper not just to pipe any song, but a song about our Savior. I'm not suggesting that everything we write, draw, paint, or sculpt needs be overtly about God. I am, however, suggesting that we should strive to make all of our creative works uplifting and positive in nature. The 13th Article of Faith for the L.D.S. church states, "If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things." If we use that as a standard for the kind of things we try to capture in our work, then we will have, in essence, "piped a song about a Lamb." And maybe, just maybe, when we do it really well, our readers/viewers will "weep [with joy] to hear."

As I mentioned in my journal entry above, this poem is a call to action. The piper is told to write it down "in a book that all may read." Spencer W. Kimball, former president of the L.D.S. church, said, “Get a notebook, my young folks, a journal that will last through all time... Begin today and write in it your goings and comings, your deepest thoughts, your achievements and your failures, your associations and your triumphs, your impressions and your testimonies” (October 1975 New Era). And I would add your sketches, stories, poems, and more. Think about what "songs" you need to write, paint, or draw so that your children, or all of God's children, "may joy to hear." Do this, "and maybe," President Kimball tells us, "the angels may quote from it for eternity."

This is the angel I like to imagine reading from my book.
Sculpture by Roman Shustrov, located in St. Petersburg 

The Homicidal Goats Go Bowling

A spectacular place to fail: Me on Mt. Church, one of Idaho's 12,000 foot peaks. Photo: Gary Davis 

At 3:00am while dodging bowling-ball-sized rocks that mountain goats knocked down on us from above, I thought to myself, “Seriously, why does Gary bother to hang out with me? Is he really that hard up for friends?” I mean, I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to dodge falling rocks while crossing a steep, slippery snowfield in running shoes in the dark, but it’s not particularly fun. Real friends don’t usually lead you to a premature death by mountain goat. Anyone might question their judgment in friends in a situation like this. I was pretty sure that this would be my last climb with my best friend and climbing partner of the last 20 years. And the goats weren’t even the worst of it.

I’m not sure Gary was all that interested in this ridiculous idea of mine in the first place. He was mostly just there to support me. Not that, as a general rule, he didn’t enjoy this sort of thing. Long “runs” in the mountains were right up his alley, but this one was different. My idea was to break the current speed record for climbing all nine peaks in Idaho over 12,000 feet. Climbers refer to them as the “Idaho 12ers”. At the time Gary and I were fleeing homicidal goats, the record was 38 hours and 50 minutes. You’d be surprised how hard it is to find someone willing to go 38 hours straight climbing nine big, hostile, remote peaks. So you can see why Gary might not have been overly excited about it, but he was at least willing to try.

Three peaks later, we pulled the plug. After bushwhacking, snow field climbing, goat dodging, and miles of traversing loose, sharp rock, we gave up. It also didn’t help that it was starting to rain and we were both feeling sick and unable to consume enough calories to keep our bodies going (high altitude and lack of sleep will do that to you). The project that I had been working toward for over a year ended in failure.

This is Gary thinking, "I really hate Dave, I really hate Dave, I really hate Dave."
Mount Idaho is in the background. 

My first novel, The Spiral, also ended in failure. After four years of on and off again effort, I finished it. I sent out query after query to agents only to get rejection after rejection. Two years ago, I decided to enter it in the League of Utah Writers annual writing contest. It came back with a terrible score and a scorching critique. Ouch. It was time to for me to realize that The Spiral was not going to be published.

So what do you do after failures like these? Do you have to just accept that all that time and effort was for nothing? That you wasted your time?

A few weeks after Gary and I bailed in the middle of our Idaho 12ers record attempt, Gary met another runner/climber named Jared Campbell. Jared mentioned that he and Luke Nelson were planning to attempt the 12ers record in a few weeks and Gary volunteered us to “crew” for them. That meant that we would drive the car and make sure they had all the food and gear that they needed ready to go. It also meant that we could share the knowledge and experience we gained from our aborted attempt to help them to do better.

Jared Campbell descending Mount Idaho. Photo: Luke Nelson

To make a long story short, Jared and Luke beat the old record by ten hours! It was such a privilege to play a small part in that record. I think it will stand for a very long time. You can read Jared's write up on it here, and Luke's write up here.

Later that same summer, I used the fitness and skills I had gained training for the Idaho 12ers to run my first 50 mile race, The Skyline Fifty (which Gary won), and my first 100 mile race, The Bear 100. The most rewarding thing, however, was all the hours of running and climbing I did in the beautiful Wasatch Mountains right in my back yard.

This is me "running" in some fine weather 90 miles into the Bear 100.

Hmmm. Maybe my Idaho 12ers attempt wasn’t such a failure. It turned out Gary didn’t quit hanging out with me (thanks, Gary!), I was able to make new friends and support them in achieving a new record, I was able to comfortably run the longest races I’ve ever done, and I got to spend endless hours in beautiful places. That doesn’t sound like a failure at all. In fact, that sounds like the best summer of my life.

But what about The Spiral? It sits in my filing cabinet along with a pile of rejection letters doing nothing. That has to be a failure, right?

Wrong.

The Spiral started out as a short story. The short story kept growing and growing and one day, when it got old enough to speak (they do that, you know), it said to me, “Ahem, uh, author dude. You know I’m supposed to grow up to be a novel, right?” And I was like, “No way. I write poetry and short stories. You’re going to stay a short story whether you like it or not. Now shut up.” (I can be pretty grouchy with my stories sometimes). Then the short story, all snotty and conceited, said, “Whatevs.” I fought with the story for over a year, but it was like arguing with a teenager, you just can’t win.

Finally, I very grudgingly admitted defeat. A frightening and vital paradigm shift happened in my mind when I gave myself permission to write a novel. I was nothing short of terrified when I approached the story and said, “Hey, um, story? You know how you said you wanted to be a novel? Is that still what you want to do?” and the story said, “Uh, yeah, I already told you that like a year ago.” (Stories can be so snobby sometimes).

I decided it was time to take myself seriously as a writer. I wasn’t just fooling around anymore, I was a writer and I needed to start acting like it.

I learned more about writing and revising while working on that book than in all my prior years of writing combined. I joined a critique group, started learning about the publishing industry, and entered contests. I learned how to accept rejection and criticism and move on. I learned grit, determination, and so much more. I was able to use everything I was learning to better teach my Creative Writing and Language Arts students. I learned how to, as Samuel Beckett put it, “fail better”, so that, in the end, it wasn’t a failure at all.

"At the Dark Moment..."

I’ve had some pretty bad habits over the years. One of the worst was an addiction to rock climbing. I’m not kidding. I was like a rock climbing crackhead. I couldn’t get enough. If I had to go more than a day or two without a fix, I would be twitching and tearing at the wall paper. Lucky for me, I got old and out of shape. After that, it quit being as much fun and I was able to recover.

At a certain point, when the addiction was at its worst, I started climbing some of the massive cliffs of Zion National Park. On one particularly memorable climb, I found myself dangling from a tiny metal hook, placed on a tiny sandstone edge, 800 feet up a huge cliff face. My partners and I were moving slower than anticipated and the sun had long since set. I had placed the hook by blindly groping around with my fingers in the deep shadows created by my headlamp until I found something that seemed like it might hold my body weight. Not the most intelligent thing to do, I know, but I was out of options. I remember easing my weight onto the hook a little at a time, first just the weight of one foot, then my leg, then ever so slowly, my whole body. Holy cow, it held. Obviously, I weighed less back then or it might have ended differently.

This is not me, but it is the exact same hook move. Photo: Mountain Project

It’s not that I would go plummeting to my death or anything if the hook blew. I would only drop five or ten feet before the rope caught me. But that’s scary! I would have needed a change of underwear by the time I got done falling. Besides, I was physically and mentally exhausted after 12 hours of non-stop effort. To tell the truth, I wasn’t having fun anymore. I just wanted to get off this stupid wall and remember what it’s like not to be scared. Then maybe I’d take up a new addiction like golf or something.

Using the hook, I moved up enough to find another gear placement. A much more secure one, thank goodness. I breathed for what felt like the first time since weighting the hook. Using this improved gear placement, I climbed up higher to find another one. Then another and another, slowly inching my way up the vertical ocean of rock.

This one actually is me. Before it got dark and I got tired, hungry, and scared. 

Climbers call the cliff face I was on "Prodigal Son". It tops out on Angel's Landing and offers one of the most spectacular views anywhere in the world. The funny thing was, I couldn’t see anything outside the reach of my pitiful headlamp. So even though I knew I was 800 feet off the ground, and that the immense beauty and open space of the canyon was at my back, I could only see the next few feet of rock right in front of my face. When I first made plans to climb this beast, I imagined that I would feel like a bird soaring over all of Zion when I reached this point. Instead, I felt more like I was crawling through a cave like a worm. This was not what I signed up for.

My good friend and climbing partner, Gregg Batt, early in the climb.

Finally, I reached a big sandy ledge. It was the first real ledge since I left the ground. I secured the rope for my climbing partners and collapsed onto the sandy ledge. I sprawled out on my back feeling tired, miserable, and mean. Why did I do this to myself? This wasn’t fun! This was nothing but hard work and fear. As I lay there feeling sorry for myself, it occurred to me that there was no reason to waste the batteries in my headlamp, so I clicked it off.

Pow!

In only a split second, the entire universe opened its arms and embraced me. The light of my headlamp had been like a visually impenetrable bubble preventing me from seeing anything outside of its pathetic reach. With a simple flip of a switch, the bubble burst and I could see the great dome of stars shining overhead. The massive spires of Zion jutted up into the sky all around. Far below, the Virgin River sparkled in the moonlight.

"Celestial Zion" by the immensely talented Jared Warren.
Check out his website, Facebook page, and blog for inspiring photos and insightful writing.

Joseph Campbell said, “The black moment is the moment when the real message of transformation is going to come. At the dark moment comes the light.” And that is exactly what happened. All at once, the 12 hours of hard work, fear, and exhaustion were worth it. Absolutely worth it.

At the time, there weren’t a lot of coherent thoughts making their way through my scrambled mind. Later, however, it made me think of Isaiah 50: 11 which reads, “Behold, all ye that kindle a fire, that compass yourselves about with sparks: walk in the light of your fire, and in the sparks that ye have kindled. This shall ye have of mine hand; ye shall lie down in sorrow.”

That perfectly described what I had been doing ever since the sun went down. I had trusted in “the light of [my own] fire”, my headlamp, and it had limited my perspective, left me feeling trapped and claustrophobic, and made me blind to the inspiring beauty that surrounded me. It made me literally “lie down in sorrow” as I collapsed on that sandy ledge.

On the other hand, Isaiah 50: 10 tells us, “Who is among you that feareth the Lord, that obeyeth the voice of his servant, that walketh in darkness, and hath no light? let him trust in the name of the Lord, and stay upon his God.” This was exactly what happened when I turned off my headlamp. Once I switched that light off, I was able to see truly. My perspective broadened immeasurably, and the beauty of Zion and the light of the moon and stars was finally able to reach me.

We all have moments in our writing, art, and other creative endeavors where we reach a dark moment. We are not having fun anymore. We are exhausted intellectually, emotionally, and even physically. We wonder why we are doing this at all. We are tempted to just give up.

When this happens, and it always does sooner or later, I suggest we need to turn off our light. That is, the part of us that thinks we know it all. Remember, “…cursed be the man that trusteth in man, and maketh flesh his arm, and whose heart departeth from the Lord.”  (Jeremiah 17: 5) We need to have the humility to remind ourselves that our perspective is narrow, but God’s is boundless. Our creativity is finite, God’s is infinite. Our abilities are limited, God’s are limitless. It’s hard to do, but we have to quit thinking that we know better and trust instead in the Spirit to guide us through these dark moments.

Once we turn out our own limiting light and experience that transformative moment, all the hard work and fear will be worth it. Absolutely worth it.

Gustave Dore's "White Rose"

The Cave You Fear to Enter...

I once went to a crowded art opening with my teenage son. I was frustrated because I couldn't really get a good look at the art because there were so many people. When I complained of this to my son, he pointed out that the most interesting thing about an art opening is not the art, it's the people. I looked around. Holy cow! He was absolutely right! The people were fascinating to watch. I had been so busy trying to see the art hanging on the walls that I was missing all the living art walking around the gallery. They all seemed to have such an intriguing story.

Ever since then, I rarely go to an art opening that has art work on the walls more captivating than the people looking at it. However, at the Eccles Community Art Center’s annual statewide art competition last month, I found a painting that managed it beautifully. It was a painting by Mark Goodson called "Mary @ 100". Here it is:

"Mary @ 100" by Mark Goodson

I loved the painting so much, I googled Goodson when I got home. I quickly realized that many of my favorite paintings I'd been seeing around the Ogden area for the past few years were all his. I just didn't realize they were all by the same artist. Like a print of this one hanging at the Queen Bee on 25th Street:

"All Played Out" by Mark Goodson

And this one I'm fairly certain I saw at last year's Eccles statewide competition:

"Tree Thinking" by Mark Goodson

I think what draws me to Goodson's paintings are the expressions on his subject's faces. These expressions tell a story and, as a writer, I'm in the business of stories. That made me wonder a little bit about Goodson's own story. It turns out, he has a pretty interesting one about facing fears. He sold his sign and graphic arts business when he was 49, went back to school, and discovered "unexpectedly" that he had a talent for oil painting. Even his choice of subject matter for his art work is about facing fears. On his website Goodson said:

“It became clear to me, when I took on the subject matter I most feared, with fixed determination to do it as well as I could, my painting improved at an accelerated rate… We all feel fear, especially when taking on something new. It’s okay to feel the fear, the important thing is that we do the thing anyway. With effort and experience our ability increases while the fear decreases and goes away. This cycle repeats, but it becomes a source of stimulating thrill rather than a crippling force.”

Goodson's inspiring perspective reminded me of a doodle I did in my journal based off something Joseph Campbell said that made a similar point:

A pen and colored pencil doodle from my journal. 

So what creative project do you most fear to take on? According to Mark Goodson and Joseph Campbell, that's exactly the one you should start. And, in the process, I suspect you'll make your own story much more interesting.

Boasting of Humility: Part Five

This is kid climbing prodigy, Brooke Raboutou. She climbed her first 5.14 at only 11 years old!
Now 14 years old and under five feet tall, she's still breaking climbing records.
She served as part of the inspiration for my character, Paul Samson. 

Below are the final two pages of chapter one of Paul, Big and Small. Once you're finished reading, I would greatly appreciate it if you took a moment to give me some feedback.

I stepped up to the wall and the man who worked it started helping me buckle into the harness. After a moment he realized the harness was too big, and he had to switch it for a kid sized one that had pictures of monkeys on it. I felt my face heat up with embarrassment. This kind of stuff was always happening to me. The guy must have noticed my face because he whispered, “Don’t worry about it. No one can see that it’s a child’s harness.”

Right then Baldy’s youngest kid who was maybe five or six said, “Look, Mom! His has monkeys on it!”  

The kid didn’t mean it to be cruel. She seemed to really be excited about the monkeys, but then everyone within earshot started laughing, especially old Baldy himself. He burst out with this deep bellowing laugh that sounded like cannon fire and was aimed straight at me. Even my dad cracked the tiniest of smiles. 

The guy putting on my harness moved so that he was between me and the crowd and said, “Look, it’s really not that hard. Everyone thinks rock climbing is all about muscle and strength but it’s not. It’s about finesse and balance.” 

“What?” I said. I had no idea what “finesse” was. It sounded like a word you’d use to describe shampoo not rock climbing. 

“Never mind,” he said as he finished clipping me into the rope. “All you have to do is climb with your feet. Think foot holds not hand holds, think balance not strength, and…” he must have noticed I didn’t understand anything that he was saying because then he said, “Just enjoy yourself and forget about everyone else. Now go.” 

Easy for him to say. He was tall and lean. His tan face had a week’s worth of scruff and his long brown hair was sun bleached. He looked like he just got back from an Everest expedition or something. 

I stepped up to the wall and looked around. There seemed to be plenty of holds to choose from, so I just grabbed one with each hand, looked down and found a hold for each foot and stepped up. So far so good. I looked up and found two more handholds and repeated the process. This wasn’t so bad. In fact, this was pretty easy.  

I did the same thing again only this time, when I stepped up with my feet, I found an even higher foothold. It was bigger and I thought it would help me to make some extra progress. It seemed to work at first, but then I realized I was off balance. I couldn’t let go with either hand or I’d fall. Now what? The sun was beating down on me and my hands were starting to sweat. I had gotten myself into kind of a scrunched up position, and my muscles were starting to feel the strain. I looked down to find that I was only five feet off the ground. How pathetic.  

“Ha! See that? He’s barely off the ground, and he’s already about to fall. Just give up now, shrimp. It’s impossible anyway,” I heard Baldy say.  

A shot of anger coursed through me and I renewed my determination to hang on. I started looking from handhold to handhold but, I couldn’t make up my mind which one to go for. There were three of them only a foot or two from my face, easily within reach, but I just couldn’t let go long enough to grab any of them. 

I was just about to make a hopeless slap for a hold when I heard the guy working the wall say, “Think about your feet.” My feet? My feet weren’t the problem. My feet were fine. It was my hands I couldn’t move and they were starting to sweat off the holds.  

“He’s right, Son,” my dad said. “Your feet are so high up, you’ve gotten yourself off balance. Step back down and you’ll be fine.” 

“Hey!” The wife/girlfriend said. “You can’t help him.” 

“Oh, let ‘em. He’s not going anywhere,” said Baldy. 

Baldy was right. They weren’t helping. What did my dad know anyway? He’d never climbed in his life. He wasn’t the one stuck only five feet up wearing a child’s harness with cartoon monkeys on it in front of everyone. I looked at my handholds again. I rocked my butt to the right and then to the left trying to find a way to get enough weight off my hands to move them. Nothing.  

I finally figured that since I was about to fall anyway, I may as well look down at my feet. I could see an okay-looking hold not far below my right foot. It wasn’t as big as the hold I was on, and it didn’t make any sense to move from a great big nice foot hold up high to a significantly smaller one down low, but I didn’t see any other options.  

I pasted my cheek to the wall, removed my foot, and slowly let it slide down. Once it hit the hold I was shocked to find half my weight was off my hands. I was almost… comfortable. I had enough balance now that I could let go with one hand, wipe the sweat off on my pants, and move it to one of the higher holds. Wow, I didn’t expect that. Now what the guy running the wall said made sense: climb with your feet, use balance and not strength. I still didn’t know what in the world this “finesse” thing was, but at least I was moving again.  

“Nice work, son,” my dad said. 

“That’s it,” the guy running the wall said. “Just keep that up.” 

I started up the wall looking down at my feet more than I was looking up. I always made sure I was balanced before I even thought about moving my hands. Now I understood why the man running the wall had looked at my shoes. So much depended on your feet. If I was in flip-flops or something, there was no way I could have made it this far. 

As I neared the top I heard baldy say, “He just got lucky. He won’t get past my high point.” 

“He’s already higher than you got, Dad,” his son said.

The holds were getting smaller and further apart and I was getting tired. I wasn’t sure if I was going to make it, but I was really starting to enjoy myself. I found that as the holds got smaller I was able to focus more. I know it’s a little corny, but I started to imagine I was some kind of super precise machine like the ones that put cars together on assembly lines, everything exact with no wasted energy. I watched each foot until it landed exactly where I wanted it on each foothold. I found the best possible way to grip each handhold no matter how small. Each time I moved, it was as if the only thing that existed in the whole world was that one hold. I felt almost weightless. Everything disappeared from my mind. I was a single point in the universe. Then suddenly there was a shiny brass bell in my face. I was surprised to see it, and it broke my concentration.  

I heard Baldy and his wife/girlfriend chanting, “Fall! Fall! Fall! Fall!” I looked down at them confused. Why were they yelling at me to fall? Then the strange spell of the climbing lifted, and I remembered the bet and the insults. I smiled. My strength was draining fast and I couldn’t have lasted much longer, but I pretended to yawn and patted my mouth with one hand. 

Then, as casual as I could, I reached out and rang the bell. 

So there it is, chapter one. I hope you enjoyed it. Any input you readers might have would be extremely helpful. Here are a a few questions I have for you, but I'm open to any suggestions at all:

• The first chapter is vital for capturing the attention of readers (and agents and publishers!). So that brings me to the most important question of all: if you had this book in your hands, would you turn the page and keep reading? 
• When I wrote this, I was very tempted to make poor Paul fail on the climbing wall at the fair. I still might (sorry, Paul). What if it ended with him falling just as he was reaching out to ring the bell? Would that make you sympathize with him more and maybe laugh a little, too? Would it make you more or less likely to turn the page and keep reading?
• Does the character of Paul seem like a real person that you're interested in reading more about? 
• Any other comments or suggestions? Do you have any questions for me? 

Boasting of Humility: Part Four

 Since I might have put more like two and a half pages into today's post, I'll spare you any lengthy introductions. Here's part four of Paul, Big and Small:

When school was finally out, I escaped the building as quickly and quietly as possible and walked home. I used to run home, but then I realized running draws people’s attention more than walking. People who like to pull up alongside you in their diesel powered pickups and yell, “Run, Forest, run!” and gun it so that it blows a big cloud of black smoke at you and they tear away laughing. Or they cruise by in their daddy’s shiny black convertible and throw half an Arby’s roast beef sandwich with way too much Horsey Sauce on it at you and it gets all over in your hair. Not that that’s happened to me…recently. 

Anyway, walking kept up my camouflage better. So I walked home despite how much I wanted to run, ditched my books, and hopped a bus into Ogden. My dad doesn’t get home until 6:00 or 7:00 each night, so to “keep me out of trouble” I talked him into getting me a membership at the climbing gym in town. I love rock climbing. Not that I’d ever climbed a real rock before. Just the fake climbing walls that are meant to mimic the real thing. I have to admit, I hadn’t been doing it for very long. Only about a year or so. 

My son making his daddy proud at The Front.
This is the climbing gym that served as inspiration for the one in my book.

The first time I climbed one was at the Weber County Fair. The local climbing gym, The Ogden Climbing Center or OCC as we called it, had a portable wall they set up to promote their gym. It was ten bucks to climb it, but if you made it to the top and rang a bell, you could have your money back. My dad looked up at it and said, “That doesn’t look so hard.” 

I looked at the bald, middle-aged guy with a goatee who was trying to climb it. He was grunting and sweating in the sun while his family cheered him on from below. He swatted for a hold, but as he caught it one foot popped off. He growled and then swore as his kids yelled for him to hang on. The muscles of his arms and shoulders bulged under his black “Harley-Davidson” tee shirt. He struggled to get his foot back onto a hold causing deep, hollow booms each time he kicked blindly at the wall.  

“Looks pretty tough to me,” I said through a bite of a churro. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” my dad said without looking away from the wall. “He’s making it harder than it is. Look, why doesn’t he grab that hold on his left and put his foot on the great big hold by his right knee?” 

The man’s wife or girlfriend or whatever she was must have heard my dad because she turned to him and sneered, “If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you try it, shorty?” 

I felt a surge of anger at the comment about my dad’s height, but he didn’t even flinch. My dad was like some kind of tiny Zen master. Nothing could touch him. I’d never once seen him grow angry at people’s rude comments. He was always calm and in control. “You know, I’d really like to,” he smiled at her, “but unfortunately I’m out of commission.” He held up his right hand. It had a bandage wrapped around it from where he’d burned it a few days earlier while cooking a pot of spaghetti. It had caused quite an impressive series of blisters across the pads of all four of his fingers. Climbing was definitely out of the question for him unless he wanted to smear puss and blood all over the holds.   

“Well isn’t that convenient?” she said. 

There was another loud grunt followed by more swearing and we all looked back up just in time to see the man fall. The rope went taunt at the harness around his waist and he was lowered to the ground shaking his head.   

“This is a total rip-off! That’s impossible,” he said as his feet hit the ground.  

The guy running the wall started unbuckling him from the harness and said, “No it’s not. I’ve had at least half a dozen people make it to the top today.” 

“Yeah, right.” 

“Can I try it, Dad?” what must have been the bald man’s son asked. He looked to be around nine or ten and was almost as tall as me. 

“What? No way! If I can’t do it, there’s no way you can. This whole thing’s a scam. No one can do it.”  

The man working the wall frowned. “I’ll climb it for you right now if you want. If I don’t make it, I’ll give you your money back.” 

“Sure you can,” the bald man said, “You probably know some trick or something. That’s how you scam people out of their money.” 

“Sir, that’s simply not true. It’s quite possible for any halfway decent climber to make it to the top of this wall. We’re not scamming anyone.” His voice sounded strained and he talked through his teeth like he was trying to bite back what he really wanted to say.  

“Alright,” the bald man’s wife/girlfriend said, “if this isn’t a scam, then have this kid do it.” She turned and pointed a long finger with a fake pink nail straight at me. I looked at my dad for some help, but he was still staring up at the wall as if studying his next move in a chess game. 

“Uhh, I don’t think—“  

The bald man said, “Yeah, I’ll tell you what, if this scrawny kid here makes it to the top, we’ll pay you another ten bucks. If he falls, you give us our money back and admit this is a scam.” He squinted at me. “What are you, like ten or eleven?” 

For a moment, I considered lying and telling him that I was eleven. Then he wouldn’t think there was anything abnormal about me. I’ve been known to do that sometimes. Plus, it occasionally got me into movies for a discount. Unfortunately, my dad was standing right there, so lying wasn’t an option. “I’m fifteen,” I mumbled. 

“What?” he asked.  

I wasn’t sure if he really didn’t hear me or if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “I said I’m fifteen.” Then I waited for what was sure to come: the up and down look, the laughter, and the ridicule.  

Baldy didn’t disappoint. Sure enough, he gave me the look, burst out laughing, and said, 

“Like father like son, huh? What are you guys a family of midgets or something?” He turned back to the man running the wall. “Well, do we have a deal?”  

The guy working the wall looked me in the eye, then looked down at my shoes for some reason, shrugged, and said, “Deal. Come on young man.” 

“What? I don’t know how to climb. Dad?” 

Everyone turned and looked at my dad. At first, I wondered if he even heard what was going on, but after a long moment he turned from the wall and said, “Why not? You’ll do fine. If you make it to the top, I’ll buy you dinner.” 

“If you make it to the top,” said the man working the wall, “I’ll buy you both dinner.” 

 “That’s right,” said the bald man with a dirty looking smile. “Give it a shot.” 

“I don’t think so,” I said backing up. 

“Don’t be silly,” my dad said in his usual calm Zen master voice, “get up there and give it a go.” He grabbed what was left of my churro out of my hand and gave me a gentle push forward. 

“I don’t really want to, Dad.” That wasn’t entirely true. I would have enjoyed trying to climb the wall, just not with all the pressure and these people watching. As I mentioned before, I spend almost all my time trying to go unnoticed and here I was being pushed into being a spectacle in front of the whole fair. All kinds of warning lights, developed from years of being bullied and made fun of, started flashing in my mind. 

“You’ll do fine,” my dad said. 

I started to object again, but I saw something beneath the calm surface of my dad’s expression. He raised his eyebrows just a little. He was trying to communicate something through his eyes. There was a kind of cool intensity in them and I suddenly realized that the rude comments of baldy and his wife/girlfriend had not gone unfelt. He nodded toward the wall and it was as if he said right out loud, "Get up there and prove to these brutes that you can do this." 

I'll post part five tomorrow.

Boasting of Humility: Part Three

Page three of Paul, Big and Small is below. As you read today's page, you'll notice that Paul does everything he can to not be noticed. Everyday, his goal is to make it through school without anyone ever knowing he was there. He thinks the only way for someone like him to survive is by staying invisible.

I deeply sympathize with Paul. If I had my way, I would just sit down in my little hole (my office) writing and interact as little as possible with other people.

My dream office! Actually, it's the Phraya Nakhon Cave in Thailand.

That would be dreamy...but it doesn't work and it isn't right.

Here's why it doesn't work: At the League of Utah Writers Conference, I went to a panel discussion in which one of the publishers on the panel said, "Once we find a manuscript that we really like, we research the author. If the author doesn't have any kind of presence on the web via social media or a website or something, we won't publish their book." I raised my hand and said, "Just to be clear, you're saying that even if it's a really good manuscript, if that author isn't doing their best to be all over the internet, you won't pick them up?" He answered, "That's correct."

I felt myself deflate. I have a Facebook account with (wait, hold on a minute while I add them all up...there we go) at least ten friends. I have this blog in which, on a good day, around three people in the whole wide world accidentally click on it (thanks, you three!). And I've never used Twitter in my life. Crap. I have to admit, I was really banking on the idea that if the writing was good enough, the rest would take care of itself. Not so.

At first I was a little mad, but when I tried to see it from the publisher's perspective, and I realized it was just good business. They need more than just a book. They want an author that's going to do their very best to market their book and them self.  They need personality and charisma. They need authors who will stand out in a very big crowd. They need to make money. Come to think of it, I need to make money, too.

More importantly, here's why it isn't morally right to try and stay invisible: As writers and artists, we have something beautiful and uplifting to offer to the world. I believe we have a moral obligation to share our work...even if that means I have to find a six-year-old to explain Instagram to me. In a talk given to Brigham Young University, Elder David A. Bednar of the L.D.S. church said, "Social media channels are global tools that can personally and positively impact large numbers of individuals and families. And I believe the time has come for us as disciples of Christ to use these inspired tools appropriately and more effectively..." I realize that he was referring specifically to gospel messages, but why wouldn't this same idea apply to any of our uplifting or positive works even if they aren't overtly spiritual in nature?

Elder David A. Bednar went on to say, "Beginning this day, I exhort you to sweep the earth with messages filled with righteousness and truth—messages that are authentic, edifying, and praiseworthy—and literally to sweep the earth as with a flood." I have faith that my little trickle-of-a-message will become part of a stream that joins a river that becomes a part of this beautiful flood. And maybe, like my fictional character, Paul Samson, I can learn that sometimes you need to stand out...even if that means I have to figure out how to use Twitter.

Here's page three:

I scrambled over to the wall next to the bathroom door and pasted myself there until the crowd thinned and it was safe to continue. When I finally got to my next class, I was tardy and the only seat left was on the front row. I know it shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but I kind of freak out when I have to sit on the front row. I’m the kind of guy that likes the back row. I’m not a troublemaker or anything. It’s just that I like to stay kind of invisible. In the back, I’m much less likely to be noticed by the teacher or other students. I don’t talk in class either unless absolutely necessary, all my clothes are neutral in both color and style, and my hair is ordinary and unremarkable. I’ve mastered the art of high school camouflage. I’m like the nerd equivalent of those ghillie suit wearing snipers in the army: You don’t even know I’m there until you step on me. Besides, when you’re in the back, you don’t have to worry about some jerk spitting sunflower seeds in the hood of your jacket. 

Anyway, I was tardy and to get to my seat on the front row I had to step over these long, smooth, black legs. Very long, smooth, black legs. I looked up and there was Lily looking at me. She said, “Hey, twerp.” I noticed that, even sitting in a desk, she was still taller than me. 

“Hey,” I said. It came out as kind of a squawk (as I said I don’t talk very much, so when I do, it sometimes comes out a little like I’m choking) and I felt my face heat up again. Lily looked me up and down and gave me an amused smile. I would like to say that she was checking me out in a good way, like she thought I was hot or something, but it wasn’t like that. I’ve grown used to people looking me up and down like she did. Usually it’s when I tell them my age and they’re like, “You’re 15?” and then they look me up and down as if trying to decide if a 15 year old guy would really fit into a body this small. I sat down next to Lily, feeling the eyes of 35 other students giving me the same up and down look. 

I heard someone say, “Who let the 4th grader in?” and then another person say, “Maybe he’s really smart and he skipped a bunch of grades.” The first person was just being a jerk, but the second seemed to be genuinely wondering if I was some kind of ten-year-old prodigy. I wasn’t sure which offended me more. 

The teacher was in the middle of calling roll. “Josh Richmond,” he called out and tilted his head down so that he could scan the class over the top of his glasses. “Here,” a pudgy kid to my left said. The teacher marked his roll book and then said, “Paul Samson.”
“Here,” I said and of course it came out sounding like a choking mouse, so I had to clear my throat and say it again.  

Some jerk in the back of the class said, “Oh, how cute, he’s finally going through puberty. Maybe he’ll even hit a growth spurt.” Everyone laughed. If that were only true I couldn’t have been happier, but the fact is, I’m pretty much through puberty. Body hair: check, voice change: check, hormones off the charts so that I think of virtually nothing but girls 24-7: check, growth spurt: unfortunately, check. As much as I hate to say it, I’m probably done growing. My dad is only 5’2” and my mom was 4’ 9” and I take more after my mom. 

The teacher, Mr. Teller (his name I now noticed was written on the dry erase board in feminine, curly handwriting), said, “Knock it off Castle.” He made another mark in his roll book and then said, “Lily Small.” I let out a snort thinking that the whole class was going to erupt in laughter again. I mean, they must think it’s funny for a girl well over six feet tall to be named “Small.” Anybody could appreciate the irony in that. She was a walking cliché like “Little John” or some giant biker everyone calls “Tiny.” It was funny. But do you think anyone laughed? No. Not a single one. 

Mr. Teller looked over his glasses at me and scowled and the rest of the class stayed dead silent. I didn’t dare look at Lily, but I could feel her looking at me. I mean, there were actual red rays of heat coming from her direction. I spent the rest of the class looking at nothing but the scratched in graffiti on the top of my desk.

I'll post page four tomorrow.

Boasting of Humility: Part Two

"It's ok to brag." This is the slogan for Medal Minder, a company that makes a very slick and very cool way to display the medals people receive for races, sports, or other activities. As soon as I wrote yesterday's post in which I blatantly bragged about winning the young adult category of the League of Utah Writers writing contest, I immediately thought about this company. Maybe I should tell the League of Utah Writers to give out medals instead of certificates, so I can hang it on my Medal Minder display.

This is the Medal Minder logo designed by the very talented Reggie Peterson.
I assume he won't mind me bragging for him!

This is a Medal Minder display customized for HUMR, a Utah trail running club.

Not long ago, I was asked by Medal Minder to rework the copy on their website. When I first took this job, I was turned off by the slogan "It's ok to brag." Despite all the the posts that I've put on this blog that can easily be interpreted as bragging, I don't like the idea of bragging. If someone says to me, "It's okay to brag," my first thought is, "No, it's not."

So I rewrote everything Medal Minder had on their website. I changed the slogan to "Medal Minder: because you never know who you might inspire." I wanted to convince potential Medal Minder customers that they weren't bragging by hanging their medals on the wall, they were inspiring. They would, in fact, be doing a service to their family, friends, and everyone else that might see their medals displayed.

Even as I wrote from this new angle, I felt like I was lying. "It is too bragging!" I kept hearing a voice in the back of my mind scream, but I kept working and tried to focus on the nostalgic, sentimental aspects of medals and avoided the bragging idea entirely.

Some brainstorming I did in my journal as I worked on ideas for the Medal Minder copy.

Once I finished, I felt quite proud of myself. "Ha!" I thought. "Now I have given everyone who buys one of these a way to justify to themselves that they aren't really bragging when, in fact, they are doing exactly that." I met with Reggie at Medal Minder to show him my amazing work, and he promptly told me that everything I'd come up with was crap.

Okay, he didn't actually say it was crap. He's far too nice to do that. What he really did was very politely point out that their slogan actually rocks (because it does!) and that people really don't "brag" enough. He said there's too many of us that have these great talents and abilities and accomplish these really cool things and we never tell anyone else about them for fear of sounding like we're bragging. He did like the idea of inspiring others because that's exactly what he meant by "it's ok to brag". So he challenged me to marry the two ideas together and sent me off to write something that wasn't lame.

After I went home and pouted for awhile, I realized Reggie was absolutely right. It really is okay to work hard at developing our talents and to show off what we accomplish. And it really can inspire others. Why do we listen to that stupid voice in our head that tells us not to share our talents? It's ridiculous. Undoubtedly, there will be people who feel threatened by our talents and accomplishments and will call us braggarts or worse. Who cares? Think about all the others that see what we do and think, "Wow! That's really cool. Maybe I can do something like that, too." So the long version of the Medal Minder slogan became "It's ok to brag, because you never know who you might inspire."

You can see the rest of the copy I did for them at the Medal Minder website. If you don't mind my bragging for a moment, I'd have to say it turned out pretty darn good...thanks to Reggie!


And, without further ado, I will continue to brag, I mean, inspire by giving you page two of "Paul, Big and Small":

That mole was the reason I recognized Lilly now. It had been over eight years, but that punch in the face had lodged the exact size, shape, and location of that little mole into my seven year old mind like a handprint (or in this case a fist-print) in setting cement. That and the fact that she was black. There aren’t too many black kids where I live, so they kind of stand out.  It was my first day of High School, and I was fighting the current in a crowded hall between classes. That’s no easy task when you’re only 4’ 11” and weigh 90 pounds. Almost everyone was taller than me, and everyone outweighed me. I couldn’t see where I was going because I was so much shorter than all the other students. It’s hot, humid, confusing, and very claustrophobic when you’re as short as I am and trapped in a crowd. It was like being lost in a field of corn in the middle of a wind storm and all the stalks are whipping and battering and bumping you except that these corn stalks were made up of shoulders and arms and chests and backs. I tried to cut out to the side and into a doorway where I could wait out the storm. I didn’t care what class it was or if I’d be late, I had to get out of that hall before I was trampled to death. 

When I reached the doorway, I didn’t even have time to feel relieved before I looked up and saw a silver Woman’s bathroom sign. I felt stupid and tried to veer away only to be knocked to the ground by somebody’s chest. Now, I know I’m short and all, but usually my face is still taller than most people’s chests. This guy must have been well over six feet tall. I think I would have been trampled to death if he hadn’t stood over me. The crowd of students divided around him like stampeding cattle around a tree. Lying beneath the shadow of his towering form, I somehow managed not to be crushed. 

“Sorry, man,” I said. 

“Man?” a distinctly female voice said. A distinctly outraged female voice at that.  

In my defense, I generally navigate school hallways with my head down and my eyes on the floor. It’s safer that way. No eye contact means you’re less likely to invoke a confrontation with some rabid teenager. Teenage guys are a lot like dogs that way. Teenage guys are a lot like dogs in a lot of ways, come to think of it, and I’m the runt. So, anyway, I hadn’t actually looked up at whoever I had run into. I just assumed she was a guy due to her height. Now, when I finally looked up, I saw that the lamp post-sized person standing above me was definitely a female, a black female. And that’s when I saw the mole. Even looming over me and looking down with an expression of disgust and her hands on her hips, I couldn’t help but notice she was still kind of cute. But she was huge. “Watch where you’re going, twerp,” Lily said as I struggled to get to my feet. 

“Sorry,” I mumbled with my face burning and then watched as she strolled off down the hall with long, powerful legs.

I'll post page three tomorrow.