In search of a subtitle

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Most people probably don’t pay attention to such things, but anyone who does may have noticed a couple changes to the cover of What I Came to Say since last month when I announced the title of my next book, which is atop the right sidebar if you’re reading on a laptop or down below my bio if you’re on a “smart” phone or tablet.

(Actually, the latest version of the cover is under the subject line, isn’t it?)

I’m a practitioner of “morning pages” in my journal — three pages of more-or-less stream-of-consciousness writing first thing in the morning to stir the creative juices and get my early-morning thoughts out on paper and out of my system. As you might expect if you have followed me for any length of time, some of Tuesday morning’s musing was once again chastising myself for unfinished business.

For example, it’s two weeks since I decided to devote Saturday’s blog to the ongoing story of Allen the Alien. When I made that decision, I had completed Chapters 4 and 5, and my Tuesday morning self-flagellation was how I had not yet produced Chapter 6 for this coming weekend. For what it’s worth, I wrote Chapter 6 before sitting down to write this post.

I also have started another whimsical little bit of fantastical fluff that I am planning to turn into a series of short podcasts to be released once I have written and produced a “Season 1” of 10 episodes. More on that project if I ever write Episode 2 and beyond, which was another round of self-flagellation on Tuesday morning.

“Where does the time go?” I chided the guy in the mirror. “Down the drain, or rather, to the same place it has always gone and never to return, never to be changed, all those present moments squandered. The fruit of the spirit is blah blah blah blah and self-control. Self-control is last on the list but still a fruit of the spirit, and yet I can’t seem to stop myself from having another snack, watching another YouTube video, playing another game of computer solitaire, or catching another episode of whatever I’m binging.”

I reminded myself of the words of my poem and song “I’m Not Done”: “I still have things to say and I don’t know how I’ll say them, but sure as I feel, I feel that I’m not done.” And I reminded myself that I wrote a song called “Refuse to be Afraid” 30 years ago, which became the title of a book 16 years ago, and that I wrote my most well-received short story, “Wildflower Man,” 30 years ago, and I have made precious few attempts to bring those creative efforts to a wider audience in the meantime.

At this point I was about to bemoan my constant tendency to whining and self-flagellation without follow-up, when I caught myself and remembered the whole point of morning pages is to flush out the negativity and put myself in a better place for creative exploration. 

“If I can exorcise these demons, recognize them as the demons they are, and sail past them, maybe I can say what I came to say, figure out how to say them, and build myself what legacy I can build in the time that’s left.”

“Making the most of the time that’s left” — I realized that’s the best candidate for a subtitle I’ve been able to conjure since I settled on a title for the book. And so that became the second tweak to the cover since I unveiled it last month — the first was to pull back the focus of the illustration from the black-eyed Susans to the guy taking the selfie, and the second was to add the subtitle. 

No doubt there will be further tweaks as the project draws nearer to publication, whenever that may be. At this point my publication date is “sometime before Christmas,” and my next goal is to make that a little more specific. 

Here’s how I finished my Tuesday morning pages:

“I have points to make, songs to sing, and stories to tell, and this morning I have the ambition to get started and get going. I so prefer this version of me to the one who struggles with melancholy and indolence. How do I bury that guy and fly with this guy? Probably by acknowledging they are the same guy, bearing with the sad lazy guy and encouraging the whimsical happily driven guy to take the wheel, with God’s help.”

It was a good start to the day. I did mention I wrote “Allen the Alien,” Chapter 6, before I sat down to write this post, didn’t I?

In search of lost whimsy

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I lost my whimsy when I was 16 years old, a little older than many but younger than others. It was in the front seat of my father’s Pontiac, and afterwards I grew philosophical: “I have lost my whimsy, so today I am a man. I don’t feel any different.” But something had shifted inside me.

I went many years telling people sadly that I lost my whimsy to a pretty girl back when I was 16, but in later years I made a remarkable discovery. Although many tokens of childhood are lost in rites of passage and coming-of-age rituals and the like, it seems that whimsy is not something permanently lost.

One day while sitting and reading a book — or was I walking through a field of wildflowers — or was I walking a somewhat insane dog — I don’t recall the particulars, but I firmly remember stumbling over my lost whimsy and exclaiming, “What are YOU doing there?” It didn’t reply at first, it just up and wrapped itself around my heart and dragged me in another direction.

“My mother used to say you must be oh-so-smart or oh-so-pleasant. Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant,” my lost whimsy murmured in a voice that sounded very much like James Stewart being Elwood P. Dowd. “I recommend pleasant, too, you oh-so-smart old man.”

“I’m not an old man,” I protested.

“Look in the mirror,” my whimsy said, and so I did. And lo and behold, I saw an old face full of wrinkles caused by being oh-so-smart. That was the moment I transformed, just like Ebenezer Scrooge or Elwood P. Dowd himself. Of course, deep down, I am still oh-so-smart, but given the choice I realize that oh-so-pleasant keeps me young.

When chaos is wonderful

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This weekend was the fifth anniversary of Choosing Summer Day. The shy golden retriever who inhabits my home and this blog (and co-stars in Dejah & Summer in the Time of Magic) was born July 20, 2021, picked out of the litter on Aug. 29, and taken home to stay on Sept. 11.

The 45 minutes I spent on the floor with 10 five-week-old golden retriever puppies remains one of the highlights of my life. Everyone should have an experience like that one; it would eliminate almost all of the unhappiness in the world.

We had picked the name “Summer” during the two-hour drive to the breeders’ home, where we met Windsor, her magnificent father, and Lady, her sweet mom. Lady had delivered eight female pups and two males, and we had signed up for a girl. All I had to do was dive in and choose. My answer to the question “how do you pick from among eight puppies?” was to get to know them all as best as I could.

I absolutely forget how I decided which puppy was Summer. After 45 minutes she was my pal, somehow. To tell the truth, the puppy who really seemed to want to come home with us was one of the two males, and I had to keep saying, “I’m sorry, buddy, but you can’t,” the poor little guy.

I have no idea which one of the puppies in this photo is the one wearing the yellow collar that I finally chose. Cj and I took a lot of photos that show my delight and more sweet little faces, but this is the one that shows all 10 of them in the midst of the wonderful chaos.