My Grandfather’s Face

I used to stare at my grandfather’s whiskered face as he slept.  His breathing labored and shallow as he lay nearly motionless in his weathered rocking chair.  He would often spend his afternoons like this out on the screen porch looking out over the farmyard he loved so much.  Some days a baseball game would crackle on the am radio in the background and somedays it would be silent.  The smell of stale cigarette smoke mingled with the fresh country air forming the bouquet that was my grandfathers porch.

My hand would rest on the smooth wooden arm rest of his chair and I would stare at the white whiskers that graced his face.  They were too short to be considered a beard and too long to be considered five o’clock shadow. As I stared at his weatherbeaten face I would imagine myself shrinking down to a microscopic size and running around his face.  I would hide amongst the whiskers, although they were no longer whisker but large white birch tree trunks on the forest of his face.

I’d run through the forest, evading monsters, fighting evil, saving the fair maiden from the clutches of the evil king.  The forest would become my home, my grandfather’s nose a cave where the monsters lived.  A cave I would stand at the entrance to, gathering my courage before running in to slay the evil that lies within.

I would exit the cave victorious, climb to the top of the nose and proclaim to all the mythical residents of my grandfather’s face that the world is once again safe.  Cheers would rise up in tandem with my grandfather’s breath.  Hip hip hooray, hip hip hooray.

Birds would land on the window sill of the porch and my attention would turn to their small feathered faces.  “What’s it like to fly?” I’d ask the bird.  “What’s it like to run?” the bird would reply.

My grandfather stirred in his chair, raising a finger to his nose to resolve a deep seeded itch. A snort and a brief turn in the chair and he was back to sleep.  The bird on the window ledge, startled by the sudden movement, flapped his wings and was soon perched safely at the top of the large cedar tree that grew next to the house.

The mid afternoon sun, shone through the smoked stained windows illuminating the small dust particles floating through air.  Dust particles that acted like meteors hurling through space towards an unknown destination. I reached out trying to catch a meteor in my hand, the movement sending the meteors on a collision course with the window.

With each passing minute the sun crawled ever closer to my grandfather’s face.  When it reached his eyes, he gently woke from his mid afternoon nap.  A smile crossed his face when his eyes catch mine.

“Hey kiddo, what do you say we go fishing?”  The sun casting an angelic glow upon my grandfather’s whiskered face.

It’s Hammer Time!!!

His name is Lars Olenfuld the third.  He is the type of guy who will steal your girlfriend when you’re not looking and make you feel good about it.  His boom box is always rocking a intense guitar solo accompanied by the hypnotizing beat of the base drum.  He sports an epic mullet, a mullet of which there have been written many epic stories.  Stories involving pirates, sea monsters and riding horses backwards whilst juggling chainsaws.  Men want to be him and women want to be seen with him.

I first met Lars on a warm summer afternoon.  I was out on a training ride, heading into a stiff north wind and no matter how much I shifted I couldn’t find a gear capable of ending the burning in my legs.  I rounded a corner and there sitting upon the the wooden guardrail of a two lane country bridge sat Lars. He was listening to Simple Man and shining up his pair of aviator sunglasses.  I rolled to a stop pulling up next to Lars, looking like an awkward middle school boy standing next to the coolest kid in the high school.

“Hey there,” I said trying to be as cool and collected as I could dressed head to toe in spandex.

“You like riding that thing?” Lars pointed to my bike.  He reached over and cranked his boom box up to 11 just as the guitar solo began.

“Yep,” I said over the wailing guitar.

“No you don’t.” Lars spat at the ground near my shaking legs.  “You’re weak, you hate that bike right now.  In fact your secretly hoping I’ll give you a ride home in my sweet pick up truck.”  Lars’ mullet glistened in the mid-afternoon sun.

“No I don’t.  I love riding my bike. It’s well…awesome.” I said in protest. “I’m getting faster everyday.”

“Stop lying to me boy.” Lars stood up and moved towards my bike he placed his hand upon the hoods of my bike and gave it a shake. “Want to know the secret to riding fast?”  Lars said.

“Getting more aero?” I replied.

Lars reached into the back pocket of his tightly fitting Levis and pulled out a rusty ball pean hammer.  “This is the secret to riding faster.”

“You’ve been out here too long.” I said laughing. “No way a hammer makes you faster.”

“Oh but it does,” Lars calmly replied.  “If you want to ride faster, every now and again you must visit the man with the hammer and guess what? I’m yours.”  He raised the hammer high into the air above his head.  The rust on the head of the hammer glistening like rich man’s gold.  Lars dropped the hammer upon my quivering exhausted quads and a pain like I had never felt before shot through my entire body.  I hopped back onto my bike as Lars continued to reign hammer blows down upon my legs.  I began to pedal, gears I couldn’t push before I was now able to spin.

My pulse quickened, sweat dripped from my brow.  The average speed on my computer slowly rose. Lars followed along all the while beating me mercilessly with the hammer.  I rode faster than I ever had in my life that day.

Yes Lars Olenfuld the Third is my man with the hammer and if you want to ride your bike faster you must find your own.  Because as Lars says, if you want to ride faster you must visit the man with the hammer.

Dedicated to Lars Olenfuld the Third

 

Good Friday

“Crucifixion, seen from the Cross” by James Tissot

Have a tall glass of Kryptonite

I don’t like milk, in fact it is my kryptonite.  My wife knows this and when she wants to gross me out, she’ll leave a cup of milk on the table a bit too long and as the milk reaches room temperature my skin begins to crawl.

My hatred of milk started many moons ago when I was forced to dump out gallons of rotten milk down a slop drain at the grocery store I used to work at.  I used to plug my nose as chunks of curdled and sour milk glugged out of the jug and headed down the drain. Needless to say this wasn’t my favorite job assignment.

One day I was pouring two gallons of sour whole milk down the drain when I noticed the drain not fully draining anymore.  The curdled milk was starting to spread out across the floor.  Hmmm I thought to myself must be something wrong with the drain and when a sour milk drain stops draining, the only thing to do is to continue pouring milk down in hopes that it will eventually start to work.

I poured the remaining milk down the drain and hoped it would unclog. Alas it did not and now I had a pool of sour milk spreading across the floor.  Whoops better grab a mop.  I headed over to grab a mop and in the process caught my manager’s eye.

“Hey Undem, something spill?” my manager said.

“Nope, just need to mop up some sour milk that won’t go down the drain,” I grabbed the mop bucket and made my way back to the drain.

“That thing stop working again eh?  Well you best figure out how to get it cleaned out.” he said returning to his inventory report.

Oh crap, I need to clean out the milk drain.  The thought of the milk drain made me throw up a little in my mouth.  It was the probably the one job at the store I feared the most.  I’d rather clean toilets or pick up cigarette butts with my bare hands than clean out the milk drain.  That thing was absolutely disgusting, but there was work to do.  I rolled up the sleeves on my white dress shirt and hung my tie up in the break room.

Thankfully, I don’t remember much about cleaning out the drain.  My brain has blocked most of the images out of my head in an attempt at self preservation.  All i do remember is that it was probably the most disgusting thing I have ever done in my life and it has since soured me on my desire to drink milk.

Recently I thought I would make an attempt at drinking milk again.  So one evening I poured myself a nice talk glass of Kryptonite and took a small sip, and by small I mean a very small sip.  The milk made its way across my taste buds, who in turn lit up like a Christmas tree alerting my brain that milk had breached the system defenses and evasive actions where needed.  That one small sip was all I needed to confirm to myself that I still hated milk.

The next day i decided to try milk again, this time I would try while on my lunch break at work.  I figured since I was no longer at home and in a new environment that maybe, just maybe milk would taste better.  One tiny sip later and it was confirmed that I hated milk while at work too.  It doesn’t matter where I am I don’t like milk.

As I ponder my recent milk experiment and it’s bearing on my life I can’t help but call to mind part of the Lord’s prayer, “Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven”.  We all struggle at one time or another in our lives with God’s will.  We fail to do what He asks of us or simply don’t like what He wants for us to do.  Truth of the matter is if we don’t like God’s will here on earth, we aren’t going to like it heaven, just like if I found out if I don’ t like milk at home I’m not going to like it at work

If we truly desire heaven we must first learn how to do God’s will here on earth.  I just hope God doesn’t desire me to like milk that may be kind of hard for me to swallow.

God Bless.

Happy Feast of Saint Francis de Sales

Today is the feast day of Saint Francis de Sales, patron saint of Catholic publishers and writers.  Since he is one of my favorite saint’s I’d like to share a brief bit of his writing.  I’ll admit his writing are a little easier to read than some of mine.

Check back next week for the next installments of “Forgive me Father”  I should have a bunch of chapter ready to go, been a tab bit busy as of late.  God Bless

From the Introduction to the Devout Life by Saint Francis de Sales, bishop
Devotion must be practiced in different ways

When God the Creator made all things, he commanded the plants to bring forth fruit each according to its own kind; he has likewise commanded Christians, who are the living plants of his Church, to bring forth the fruits of devotion, each one in accord with his character, his station and his calling.

 

I say that devotion must be practiced in different ways by the nobleman and by the working man, by the servant and by the prince, by the widow, by the unmarried girl and by the married woman. But even this distinction is not sufficient; for the practice of devotion must be adapted to the strength, to the occupation and to the duties of each one in particular.

 

Tell me, please, my Philothea, whether it is proper for a bishop to want to lead a solitary life like a Carthusian; or for married people to be no more concerned than a Capuchin about increasing their income; or for a working man to spend his whole day in church like a religious; or on the other hand for a religious to be constantly exposed like a bishop to all the events and circumstances that bear on the needs of our neighbor. Is not this sort of devotion ridiculous, unorganized and intolerable? Yet this absurd error occurs very frequently, but in no way does true devotion, my Philothea, destroy anything at all. On the contrary, it perfects and fulfills all things. In fact if it ever works against, or is inimical to, anyone’s legitimate station and calling, then it is very definitely false devotion.

The bee collects honey from flowers in such a way as to do the least damage or destruction to them, and he leaves them whole, undamaged and fresh, just as he found them. True devotion does still better. Not only does it not injure any sort of calling or occupation, it even embellishes and enhances it.

 

Moreover, just as every sort of gem, cast in honey, becomes brighter and more sparkling, each according to its color, so each person becomes more acceptable and fitting in his own vocation when he sets his vocation in the context of devotion. Through devotion your family cares become more peaceful, mutual love between husband and wife becomes more sincere, the service we owe to the prince becomes more faithful, and our work, no matter what it is, becomes more pleasant and agreeable.

 

It is therefore an error and even a heresy to wish to exclude the exercise of devotion from military divisions, from the artisans’ shops, from the courts of princes, from family households. I acknowledge, my dear Philothea, that the type of devotion which is purely contemplative, monastic and religious can certainly not be exercised in these sorts of stations and occupations, but besides this threefold type of devotion, there are many others fit for perfecting those who live in a secular state.

 

Therefore, in whatever situations we happen to be, we can and we must aspire to the life of perfection.

 

God Bless

I’ve got some work to do.

We are now three weeks into the Year of Awesome and so far the year has been just that awesome.  Even the weather has been awesome, but not in the traditional sense of the word, I mean awesome in the fact that I can now say I’ve survived a polar vortex, whatever that is. I just know they are awesome.

So in an effort to keep up with my year awesome, I decided it was time to see if my cycling skills were as awesome as I remembered them being.  This year I’ve taken some time off the bike, not a lot mind you, but I’ve taken some time off.  It’s been nice, I’ve used my extra time to take up knitting, (not really), basket making (not really,) and have donated some of my time to the rescue of dust bunnies from being killed by brooms (it’s a very worthy cause as brooms kill more dust bunnies in one year than any other cause).

What should my return to serious cycling look like? I thought as I looked upon my bike locked in to the clutches of a trainer.  I fancy myself in pretty good shape so I decided take on one of the workouts I was doing while I was nearing peak form last season. I couldn’t have lost all that much fitness, I mean I’m walking a ton in my work for the dust bunnies and I have been riding at small amount.  This has to account for something right?

The workout I chose to do was a Sufferfest video.  I love these videos combinations of pro race footage, snarky onscreen comments, and good music make the hours fly by while on the trainer.   Which for those who have ridden trainers know this is no small feat.

I was barely through the warm up when I realized the grave error in my ways.  I mean I was still reading the workout instructions and my legs were already aching. Oh well I’m committed now soldier on there Danny Boy, Soldier on.

Before launching into the workout I had informed my wife and daughter that they might hear some “noises” coming from the trainer room.  My daughter describes these “noises” as puking sounds and she’ll often ask how many times I threw up during a workout.  While my family thinks these noises are of me vomiting, I like to think of the as grunts of awesomeness.

I was about 10 seconds in to the first interval when the first grunt of awesomeness exploded from my lips.  I was gasping for air, legs burning, sweat running down my face and I’d only being riding for 10 minutes. I had another 52 minutes of this to endure….AWESOME!!

I stopped at minute 15 to adjust my bike’s seat.  Comfort is key after all when suffering.  I nearly bailed out at this point, but for some reason thoughts of my former glory forced me to once again throw my leg over the bar and climb aboard to resume the agony.

This workout features a 20 minute interval where that is does it’s best to mimic a hill climb.  Now in the summer I love a good hill, they are some of my favorite things as a cyclist.  Something about reaching me top makes me want to sing out like Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music.  Simulated indoor hills, however, stink.  You can climb and climb all day long and not end up at the top of the hill, No you end up exactly where you started. Not Awesome.

So I was about 4 minutes or so into my fake climb to nowhere when my water bottle escaped from my death clutch and landed just out of reach on the floor. Now I realize that during a race there is no stoping for a dropped bottle, but this wasn’t a race this was survival and survival dictates that one must be hydrated so I decided to retrieve the bottle as soon as the interval was over.  An agonizing 16 minutes later my throat was as dry as the Sahara and I was grunting awesomeness every 2 seconds.  I was miserable, but loving every second of it.

I got off the bike and headed out to fill up my bottle.  When I reached the kitchen, my wife and daughter both looked at me with strange looks.  I vaguely remember making conversation with them as I filled my bottle, but as it turns out instead of speaking intelligently I was merely mumbling and grunting loudly.  Henceforth the strange looks and the cause of my daughter’s next three nights of nightmare.

I don’t remember the second half of the workout.  All I remember is waking up on my bike as the credits rolled.  My lungs were burning and my legs felt as it they had just seen a very large man with a hammer.  A large smile spread across my face as I realized it was over.

It was in that moment I realized something very important.  If I want to improve as a cyclist I have work to do and for me that’s AWESOME.  Time to punch the clock.

God Bless.

My 13.5 Resolutions for the Year of AWESOME!!

Ahh New Years Day, my 245th favorite day of the year falling between March 15 and November 19.  Simply Magical.  This year to celebrate the arrival of my 245th favorite day of the year, I’ve decided to write a list of of the top 13.5 things I hope to accomplish in the upcoming year which I have dubbed the Year of AWESOME!!

Why 13.5 things? Well the answer is simple. I first took all the numbers in 2014 and added the together to get 7 then I multiplied by 4 to get 28 divided by pie (because it’s delicious) ending up with 8.917 since this a silly number I simply picked 13.5 out of a hat.

These resolutions/accomplishments appear in no particular order of accomplishment.

Number 13.5  Find a rock that looks like Abraham Lincoln.

I think it would be super neat to find a rock that looks like Lincoln. When I find this rock this year, I will build a special display case and proudly show my Lincoln rock to all those who visit my house.

Number 13.  Wear this hat more.

Simply because it’s an awesome hat and it will look really good with a pair of mirrored sunglasses and a glass of lemonade.

Number 12.  Run a 5k while wearing a cape.

Not enough people run wearing capes.  Bonus, the flapping of the cape makes you appear faster

Number 11.  Find out the true meaning of this saying.

Number 10:  Plant a garden containing the following vegetables:

English: Heirloom Tomatoes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Carrots, heirloom tomatoes (so I can tell all my friends they are heirloom quality), peas, okra (cause I have no idea what it is), kale, and sweet corn.

Number 9:  Spend more time dressed doing this:

Because coffee always tastes better while wearing spandex!!!

Number 8:  Memorize the Nicene Creed

Number 7: Spend more time climbing hills on my bike. 

Hills are awesome and when you get to the top you get go back down and climb it all over again.

Number 6:  Build a bird house.  They need shelter too.

Number 5:  Figure out once and for all if soy sauce is effective at replacing lost sodium while racing.

Would finally allow me to use the stack of soy sauce packets living in my fridge.

Number 4: Dance more.

My current dancing style needs a little work.  Although, my choice in dancing apparel is second to none.

Number 3:  Eat more Raisin Bran

Number 2:  Watch the sunrise while sitting on this seat.

Number 1: Work on becoming the person God desires me to be.

(This one may take a while)

 

 

 

 

(But don’t worry, I have help)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

God Bless and Happy Year of AWESOME!!!

My relationship with Bran and Jesus

Last year, one of favorite New Years resolutions I undertook was to eat more donuts.  I know this time of year is typically reserved for weight loss and other healthy resolutions, but I felt sorry for those who make donuts and other tasty treats for a living. January must be a bad month for them so to help stimulate the economy I made the resolution to eat more donuts.  To which I lasted about 4 days before I was off the donut wagon.  Turns out I don’t really like donuts all that much.  Every once in a while they are awesome, but day in and day out…..ish.

So this year I’m making a very simple resolution.  Try to eat breakfast more and this new resolution has lead me back to one of my favorite childhood cereals, raisin bran.  Oh man how to I love raisin bran.  I could literally eat this every day as it is absolutely delicious.  Pour a little milk on the bran and the sugar coated raisins and I’m in breakfast heaven.

However, I must admit that I’m a big fan of the raisins and not as a big of a fan of the bran. Don’t get me wrong I still love the bran flakes, but given my choice I’d rather eat the raisins.  I always smile when my spoon lifts from the milk filled with raisins and only a few bran flakes.  Those are spoonfuls I remember.

Through my many spoonfuls of deliciousness, I’ve discovered there is a symbiotic relationship that exists between the bran and the raisins.  Take away the raisins and no way am I eating a cereal consisting of only bran.  I don’t care how backed up I am, I’m not touching a bran only cereal.  On the other hand throw a bunch of raisins into a bowl of milk and hand me a spoon and I’d be running towards the front door of my house screaming like a tween at a New Directions concert.  Gross raisins and milk. (I just threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it.) But when you put them together they are perfection.

I’m now going to do something to a bowl of raisin bran that will blow your mind.  In fact, you might to sit down as you read this. Oh and be sure you check your watch as well as your grandchildren will ask you where you where when you read this.

So here it is.  The Church is a bowl of raisin bran.  There you have it mind blown….right?  Just let that sink in for a moment. I realized this connection the other day when i was eating my raisin bran.  When the bulb went off I sprang up from the table and a did a quick little dance, ran around the house twice and then sat back down to finish my bowl of deliciousness.

When I converted there were many aspects of the Catholic Faith that I absolutely loved.  These were the teachings that drew me into Faith and started me on the my journey towards being Catholic.  These are my raisins.  They were the teachings that kept popping up in my daily life that made me smile, made be glad to be on my way to being Catholic.

On the other hand, there were a lot of Church teachings that I struggled with and man did I struggle with some of the Church’s teachings.  At first I kind of thought, if I just focus on what I like about the the Church I’ll be okay and those teachings that I struggle with well just ignore them and you’ll be okay.  Turns out I need those teachings I struggled with more than I first anticipated.  These struggles I had and still have are the bran in my faith.  I need them way more than I ever thought.  It is through my struggles with my faith that I have learned more about my faith and have grown more and deeper into my faith.  They have brought me a deeper love and understanding of the raisins in my faith.

If one fills their bowl with only raisins the result is too gross for words and if one fills their bowl only with bran, the same things happen.  However if you fill your faith bowl with the right blend of raisins and bran the result is so magical so inspiring so wonderful, you might just find yourself eating breakfast everyday and smiling the entire time.

God Bless

Life’s little annoyances

My car has developed a personality as of late, despite the fact that popular science has shown that inanimate objects are incapable of developing personalities, my car has developed one.  I blame it one the fact that it’s been hanging around with a bunch of other cars in local parking lots after dark.  Nothing good ever comes of hanging out in parking lots after dark.

It used to be such a sweet car.  It always listened to what I told it to do.  It accelerated when I hit the gas and slowed down when I hit the brakes.  When I was cold, it provided heat, when I was hot it filled the passenger compartment with icy cold air.  Even when I left it alone in parking lots and locked it to keep it safe, I was greeted with friendly honk of the horn.  It was as it the car was saying “So long Danny, see you in a bit. I’m just going to rest here for a while.”

Oh I’m still greeted with a honk of the horn when I lock it, but the horn has changed tones.  It sounds more defiant.  Now, instead of the “So long Danny” sound, I hear a “get out of here, leave me alone to hang out with my friends” attitude filled beep.  This has been going on for weeks now and I’m not sure I like the change in my car’s tone.

There is another part of my cars attitude shift that has developed, the car has randomly started flashing the brake lights and emitting a warning tone so loud it would end up on the decibel scale somewhere between a running washing machine running filled with rocks and a jet air plane taking off.  The first time this light and sound show happened I nearly spit coffee all over the windshield.  I was driving down a dark country road early one morning and to see a flashing brake light and a jet engine toned beeping that early was a little concerning.  I gently applied the brakes to ensure they were working and then the light went off.

False alarm I thought to myself, no need to panic just keep driving.  Then 10 minutes later another beep loud enough to wake the dead and the flashing brake light.  The brakes were once again verified and as I applied them I swore I heard the engine laugh a bit.  Was my car simply playing around with me?

Well this has now been happening for weeks now and each time it happens my blood pressure rises and I get madder and madder at this phantom problem. In other words, my car is winning.  If it’s goal is to annoy me, it is doing a fantastic job of it.

The beeping is driving me nuts!!

I’ve been complaining of this to my wife pretty incessantly since it started, yet she has never heard it.  That is until yesterday.  We were out running a few errands, when my car messed up, it forgot that I wasn’t the only one in the car when it launched into it’s screaming light show.  The first beep caused my blood pressure to rise, the second nearly blew out my ear drum and the third forced me to emit a loud blast of frustration.  To which my lovely bride turned to me and said “Is that the noise that’s been causing you such problems?  That’s nothing.”

“Nothing,” I muttered back “Did you hear how loud that thing is and it does it all the time.”

“Simple fix,” she said. “Next time you hear it say Father Son and Holy Spirit and then offer a quick prayer for someone.”

“Wait, what?” I said in protest. “You did hear that right?  That loud, annoying, random beeping. I’m not just hearing things am I?”

“Just pray the next time you hear it.”

The simplicity of her statement struck me. Take this horribly annoying thing my car was doing to drive me batty and turn it into a positive.  My wife’s idea was put to the test moments later.  Beep Beep Beep…prayer.  Five minutes later beep…beep…beep…prayer.

For the rest of the journey I took my wife’s advice and every time that silly brake light came on, I said a simple prayer. By the end of the day’s journey I was no longer annoyed by the noise, but rather enjoyed hearing the ear piercing scream fill the car.  I had become like Pavlov’s dogs only I prayed rather than salivated when I heard a beep.  Take that car, bested by a human.  Who says German engineering is superior to American ingenuity?

In fact I’m going to start looking for other little annoyances in my life as opportunities to pray.  Stub my toe, say a prayer, dog won’t come home when called, pray. Stuck in traffic, pray.  Take all those little moments in life where there exists an opportunity to move further away from God and turn it around and use them as moments to grow in your faith.

Thanks to my wife, I’m no longer angry at my car for developing a personality. Instead I’m rather thankful, although I’m still banning it from hanging out with other cars after dark.  Nothing good happens in parking lots after dark after all and we’re still going to have a talk about the tone of it’s horn.

Always keep praying.

Editing…A Novel Idea

I’ve driven exactly one high end sports car in my life.  It was a mid 80’s Porsche something or other.  It was red, it was a five speed, and it was fast.  I drove it  exactly 10 miles on a errand for a friend of mine and it was probably the funnest 10 miles I have ever had driving in my life. As I sped (never going above the posted speed limit) down the windy country road the car handled as if on rails.  It leaned into each corner and shot itself back onto the straights as if being thrust out of a high powered cannon.  Even when the car sat idle in the parking lot as my friend ran his errand I felt cool. People going about their daily business slowed down and stared at the young 20 something sitting behind the wheel of a sports car.  As the people stared I simply adjusted my sunglasses and gave a nonchalant head nod back, acting as if I was in fact cool enough to occupy this car.

Writing a novel is lot like driving a Porsche.  The process in and of itself is fun. It is one full of twists and turns.  Your in complete control of the creative process.  You are directing the characters in your story, deciding who they are, who they will become and even what they will  have for breakfast.  People are drawn to the writing process, just like they are drawn to sports cars sitting in parking lots. Even distant acquaintances will come over and strike up a conversation with you when they catch word you are writing a novel.  There is a mystique about the process and it draws people in like a Porsche sitting in a parking lot.

Dodge Mini Van (Photo credit: ehpien)

If the writing is like driving a Porsche, editing, on the other hand, is like driving a mini van and I’m not talking about one of those new fangled mini vans with under seat storage and a built in movie theater.  No sir, the mini van I’m referring to is rusted out wood panel mid 90’s model that is full of screaming kids and smells of stale drive through and the gas of passed burritos.  People leave you alone when you’re editing, just like they leave you alone when driving a rusted out mini van.  Oh sure you may get a passing glance from someone walking by, but gone are the days of conversations with strangers and nonchalant head nods from behind a pair of Ray Bans.

When you start editing you feel that the story is now driving you.  You have a van full of kids each with it’s own stop to make and all along the way they are fighting each other.  They cross imaginary lines in the back and make you take on a UN Peacekeepers role to restore the peace that was lost.  Not unlike when one dons the editing hat and tries to separate out two subplots in a novel, subplots where at the time they were written were both fantastic ideas, but somewhere in the story they crossed paths and now they sit in direct conflict.  Put on the blue helmet and grab the red pen.

Then there’s the whole who needs to go where problem.  When one drives a van full of children to all of their various activities it is imperative to remember who gets out where and who gets picked up when.  Don’t want to leave a wee one at dance or karate now do we.  Same thing happens when editing.  You now have to remember all of those characters you created, when they came into the story, their backstory and so and so forth.

In my own writing career I’ve spent more time driving the Porsche than the mini van and I hate to admit but I think I need to grab the keys to the Chrysler and hit the road.  I have on my desk a completed manuscript in need of edits.  It’s a mini van full of children waiting to be driven around town. There are characters who need to be dropped off at dance and then there is the main character I left in the woods, (probably should have wrapped that up a little better).  So with this in mind, I’m taking the battery out of the Porsche, putting it under a cover and tucking it in the garage for a while.  There is a small tear running down my cheek as I type this, I really love my metaphorical Porsche after all.

In the upcoming months I’ll be publishing the edited chapters of my second novel (working title “Forgive me Father”) on my blog. I’ll plan on publishing a chapter or two a week for my readers to enjoy.  These won’t be the final edited chapters mind you, so you’ll have to forgive an errant spelling mistake or two, but the story I have written is one that desperately needs to be told so starting next week look for the first installment of Forgive Me Father.

I have decided, however, that if I’m driving a stinky mini van full of screaming metaphorical children for the near future. I’m at least buying an air freshener.  Wish me luck.