Keeping it Simple

I teach a feature writing class at Yakima Valley Community College.  I tell my students to keep it simple.  I’ve noted, both in my own writing and most students’ work, that as writers, we tend to use too many words.  Sometimes it’s needless modifiers that just jubiantly jumble up our writing.  You know, the descriptive words that squarely plant our profound prose in the ultimate, over-the-top camp.  Sometimes we use too many ifs, likes, buts, little bits, and actuallys.  We often repeat… repeat ourselves using different words, a variety of language, to say the exact same thing, twice, in a single sentence.  At other times, we hedge, we beat around the bush, we describe something or someone too carefully, because we don’t want to come right out and call them fat or ugly.  We don’t want to step on toes or hurt feelings.

It’s been my experience that most writers tend to use 10 to 30 percent more words than they need to get their point across.  When I edit my work, the first thing I do, is look for extra words, extra words that don’t add anything to the meaning of the written piece.  I worry about the technical stuff later.  Next time you write a poem, a letter, a journal entry, a book, a movie script, a memo, a play, a postcard, a facebook entry… oh, you get it, take time to check if you’re using too many words, more than you need to get your intended meaning across to your intended audience at the intended time and the intended place.  If you’re as critical as I am, I bet you’ll be able to eliminate a few words in nearly every other sentence while remaining true to both the message and beauty of the writing. Take this piece for instance.  I’m really, really reluctant to post it.

Rimrock retreat – a day at Ghormley Meadows

For guys who do what I do (church music director), the day after Holy Week is bittersweet. Bitter, because all that the week promises in its wealth of life-giving news and hints of transformation are gone for another year. Sweet, because such a grand narrative is never over. It is always just beginning.

For National Poetry Month and to honor a most delightful day at a local Christian camp, I offer the following:

Rimrock retreat – a day at Ghormley Meadows

 

Rimrock, rustic and real with space

to contain all that’s empty.

The rugged road cast before feet apace

where moon outshines the sun’s identity-

but loses out to one yet brighter.

 

Pillaged, austere and raw this one comes

bent and spent he went round

and there to see tomb unmanned, he’d won

what spillage, spewed, is spared, fixed and found.

I was blind but now have sight, or

 

is all that sees as blind or lost

as one whose eyes are just downcast?

For just to see is not to walk, wind-toss’d

and free from nature’s slighted past.

Between the stones of each one’s road

 

grow wild, still, evidences of strangely new

that mix with voices old to taunt

and vie for the once-free. But they, too

must retreat or be removed like mustard-mount

seeds of faith renewed, of hope, sowed

 

to keep and deepen the promised field

of unswept dreams and unkept pains;

detritus of lesser gods gives way to peals

of forest bells and words and Word unstain’d

This one’s tale of a Tale once and forever told.

 

Excerpt: A Train Called Forgiveness

The following is a short excerpt from my first book, A Train Called Forgiveness: A Novel Based on Reality.  It’s the story of Andy Burden, a young man who’s struggling with his childhood experience of being subjected to a cult.  The following excerpt depicts the beginning of the cult leader’s loyalty ceremony.  For more information about the book, go to http://www.danerickson.net.  The book is now available at http://www.amazon.com.

* * *

In the summer of 1977, Peter held a special meeting.  He came with his bible, a bottle of wine, and a silver chalice.

He preached about Jesus’ disciples.  He spoke tenderly, with a soft, kind voice.  He spoke of the disciples’ love for Jesus, their teacher.

He compared us, his followers, to the disciples.  He compared himself to Jesus.

Suddenly, Peter raised his voice.  He became angry, enraged.  He shouted loudly concerning Judas, the betrayer.  He clenched his fists and shook his hands.  ”In the end,” Peter said, “the betrayer dies.”  He warned us never to betray him.

Peter claimed to be a messenger, sent by God.  He swore his never-ending love to all who’d follow.  He threatened a painful death to those who’d betray.

He raised his arms above his head, palms toward the sky, and claimed he was Michael the Archangel.  He promised paradise to those with patience.  He claimed he was the light in the darkness.

Everyone clung to his words.  Eyes filled with tears.  Their savior had come.

Over Scotland

Originally written as the beginnings of a lyric to a song I was writing to commemorate the same trip, this comes as I gazed out an airplane window at Scotland below us. It was 1988 and my wife, Rae, and I were moving to Edinburgh to live and work for a short time. It is the country and culture closest to my heart as I hope this short poem illustrates.

Over Scotland

High flying, window glass reveals tattered floor-

Pristine heaven greets eyes open to curving planet yonder

Stretching, reaching, sky-borne, we soar.

Place of kings bringing wonder to hearts that wonder.

 

Stipple-green, ground richly steeped in lush, purple hue-

Woven pattern of road-cut scenes moves closer,

Sky meets peripheral sky, horizon’s hazy blue.

Shadows run as daylight comes, chosen.

 

Well-fermented scenes distilled in ancient dreams-

Walls of stone, hearts of flesh, eyes of steel,

Pageantry in motion, all is as it seems.

Like God in man, surreal kisses real.

 

CreateSpace Review

Over the past few days I worked through the process of self-publishing my first book, A Train Called Forgiveness, on CreateSpace.  CreateSpace is Amazon’s website community for those who choose to publish their own books rather than waiting for the slim possibility of finding a major-publishing deal.  And here’s the kicker: for their basic services, it’s free.  In this short article, I’ll review my experience using CreateSpace.

The first step is simple.  You go to http://www.createspace.com and start an account using your email address and a password.  The next step is to simply choose “start a new title” and complete some basic information about your book.

Next, you create your ISBN number.  You can just click one button and CreateSpace will assign one for you, free of charge.  Or you can choose other paid options.  I went with the freebie.

Next, you need to download a PDF file of the interior of your book.  You need to have your book thoroughly edited and in your desired format.  Once it’s in the system, you can’t change it, unless you start over.  You have to make sure your PDF file is in the desired trim size for your book.  Most word processing programs are set at 8.5 x 11, so you have to reset the size and reformat your document before saving it to PDF.  Most paperback books range from 5 x 8 to 6 x 9.  On my next project, I’ll just start out writing in a small-page format.  CreateSpace will help you fix any issues regarding trim and formatting problems.

Next, you create a cover.  CreateSpace has about 25 cover templates that make creating your cover a breeze.  There are also many files of cover photos to choose from, or you can use your own photo.  I found a stock photo that worked well for my title and went with it.

The final step is to submit.  After you submit, you will receive a message within 48 hours as to the status of your file.  CreateSpace will let you know if their are any problems.  In my case, it took 12 hours, and everything was okay.  I did a final proof, clicked, and my book was immediately available on CreateSpace.  It was also available on http://www.amazom.com within 24 hours.  Pretty cool.

Throughout the process it was easy to view my book, so I could see how it would look.  Also, when I had questions, my email was answered within 24 hours.  I was able to price my book at $14.00.  I can buy my own copies for under $4.00.  There are also many paid services provided by CreateSpace if you choose to use them.  Overall, I found the service and experience of using CreateSpace wonderful.  I would recommend their services to anyone interested in self-publishing.  Happy writing.

Edit, Edit, Edit.

Last spring, I wrote my first book.  Officially, although barely, it’s over 40,000 words.  That makes it a novel.  I wrote the entire first draft in about six to eight weeks.  When I get involved in the writing process I tend to spend several hours per day tapping away at the keyboard.  I write pretty fast, about 1000 words per hour.

Most experts and advisors on writing will tell you to write first and edit later.  I break that rule.  I am constantly editing my work as part of the writing process.  I tend to write in short sections that range in length from a couple of paragraphs to a few pages.  After writing each section, I go back and check for errors and make changes.  The chapters in my first book consisted of about five to seven of these smaller sections.  Each time I completed a chapter, I read it, reread it, and edited.  This process works well for me.

However, I don’t disregard the advice of experts.  After I completed my first draft, I set it aside for about three months.  That gave me time to disconnect myself from the emotional excitement that comes with the writing process.  It’s also when the real work begins.  When I pulled my manuscript out of the drawer, I spent several weeks reading, rereading, and editing.  It’s hard labor.  I much prefer the original writing process and have to twist my own arm to get through this first editing phase.

After I completed my editing, I was fortunate enough to have a friend and colleague, with a background in journalism, who was willing to edit the manuscript.  It came back to me with many suggestions for further changes.  Over the past week I did a final edit.  The final edit was actually much easier and more enjoyable than the initial edit.

In the end, I’m certain that I’ve spent more time in the editing mode than in the writing mode.  I’m also certain that my writing is stronger and more concise because I put the effort into editing.  As with most creative individuals, I’m still my own toughest critic, and after editing the manuscript three to five times, I’m not 100 percent convinced my work is the best it could be.  But at some point you have to say, “It is finished,” and move on to the next project.

Cowiche Canyon

“Sweet”! At 8:30 AM and 12 degrees, there is only one other car in the parking lot. Like many Saturday mornings prior, I launch my weekend on the Uplands Trail of the Cowiche Canyon Conservancy (CCC). Although the rules of the trail clearly state: “Dogs need to be on a leash”, when I’m alone (or almost alone) Shasta gets in touch with her wild side and runs with her inner coyote.

To say “trail” is a bit misleading. “Trails” better describes it. The map of this place looks like someone dumped the guts of a cassette tape on a white page and snapped a picture. I’ve discovered a favorite trail, but can’t tell you how many times I’ve misplaced it. No matter. It’s all good. Truly, anywhere I end up is a great hike for me, and near nirvana for the dog. As long as I don’t get lost…Magellan, I’m not.

Situated just five miles from downtown and only 4 minutes from my home, this trailhead could not be more convenient. The parking lot is just off Scenic Drive, on Scenic Extension Road, and is nicely paved and marked for parking. Already located on a hill, the view from the parking lot alone is worthy of note, but it only gets better from there.

The 200 acres of trails range from relatively flat to quite sloped, all with fantastic views, making it possible for almost anyone to enjoy. I’ve seen mountain bikers, runners, walkers, hikers, and evidence of snow-shoers and horseback riders. My only caution is to wear hiking boots if possible, as the rocky terrain can turn an ankle at will, and rain or snow will make a great deal of mud. The shrub-steppe landscape is quite picturesque year-round (in a sagebrush kind of way), and the low-lying flora explode in a fireworks display of miniature blossoms in the spring.

Though so close to civilization, wildlife is plentiful, but not all the friendly type. I avoid the trails in summer because one never knows when you might encounter a rattlesnake or three. (A friend tells me she saw three on a single hike – in September.) No thanks. Shasta has been vaccinated, but I have not. Besides, winter and spring are the best times to enjoy this scene – the visitors are fewer, and with snow on the ground the landscape is breathtaking at times. Coyote markings line the trails, and occasionally you can spot the wily creatures loping about. There are numerous species of birds and varmints – enough to keep a dog’s nose tingly with delight for hours.

The Uplands Trail is just one of three CCC trail systems. It connects to the (lower) Cowiche Canyon trail, which follows Cowiche Creek at the bottom of the canyon for 3.2 miles. On one side of the canyon lies the basalt flow on which the Uplands trails are located, on the other stretches the largest andesite flow in the world. A few miles west, Snow Mountain Ranch is the newest land project, consisting of 1800 acres of trails, one of which leads to Cowiche Mountain. Future ambitions are to partner with the William O. Douglas Trail Foundation to extend a trail all the way from Yakima to Mount Rainier. Now that’s a hike!

To sing or not to sing

I wanted to submit some reflections of a choral workshop I went to in Cannon Beach last summer. I hope you enjoy.

Walking the boardwalk on a sunny, summer evening in a seaside tourist town – alone – feels a little like bicycling with one pedal or being the only kid at the school dance who never has a dance partner. Places like this – Seaside, Oregon, are meant to be shared. It’s not that one cannot enjoyably breath in the heady, highly sensory ocean ethos of such places on one’s own. I’ve done it many times before. An introvert by nature, I rather bask in the relative repose easily gleanable from such experiences. No, it’s quite simply the much deeper joy of cackling like friendly chickens over a reciprocated love.

There’s just something unnamable, almost intangible, in shared experiences like these. To be with others you know and who know you sprinkles a delight and sweetness on the top that magnifies the joy exponentially. C.S Lewis knew this well and alludes to it in the Four Loves. One’s love for someone or thing amplifies in the sharing thereof. The mutuality of “yeah, I get it” is one of life’s greatest gifts. It is, I suppose, a function of our naturally communal human nature. To share is natural when we love something and find it difficult to articulate to ourselves alone.

Either because I am indecisive when it comes to choosing hobbies or because I am not in possession of anything close to a reasonable ability to say ‘no’ to anything remotely interesting, I have a host of varied spheres in which I have lived, moved and shared. One such world is the reason for my brief sojourn to this little Pacific paradise. I am attending a weeklong workshop for choral conductors.

I have had a profound appreciation for the choral tradition and its sublime repertoire my whole life. I recall with some reverie singing in the St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church youth choir as a young elementary school kid. Although a right pain in the ass to the conductor I am forever grateful for her patience in opening the door to music I could never fully describe.

Similar to the annoying guy forever showing pictures of his kids on the subway, I am left with another thing I love to share (foist really) at every opportunity. Even then at around eleven years old I was equally intrigued with Henry Purcell, Johannes Brahms and Palestrina as I was with Simon and Garfunkel, Elvis Presley or Rush. My piano teacher at the time thought it commendable. My parents thought it quaint. To the older kids at school it forever sealed my fate as the tall, geeky brown-noser who perhaps fancied himself a cut above the rest.

Turned up noses meant nothing however as the first notes of some a cappella chamber choir began to nip at the edges of my soul, expanding it to be singed by the burning beauty of voices shared in common cause. For those who have yet to be entranced by such beauty, caught in the choral clutches of grace to which you are a contributor, I pray one day you find it even as I have. We’ll have one more thing whose beauty grows more in the sharing.

Spring on Ash Wednesday

For those of faith, we are on the Lenten journey toward Holy Week and Easter on April 8. We are also on a journey from the mini-death of Winter to the rebirth and hope of Spring. This is my take on the intersection of the two.

Spring on Ash Wednesday (February 22, 2012) 

Begins again this Springward journey;

rebirthing all that once lived.

Trickle again once fickle brook and stream

sickle sighs yet in repose, sleeping still.

Earth, sore and Winter-stiff, seeks, sighs

stretches out skinny arms of want.

Her cold, hard bosom births not what soon will come

e’er the Sun’s hungry mouth suckles,

fills his lusty gut on hopeful barrenness

feasting on milk of timeworn, weary passage.

 

She forgets not the suddenness of late

and sooner dark, splayed upon a fine, greenness

come for to spite the buds of transforming light

bidding death where life has yet to emerge.

Warmly insistent she speaks, sharing her story

poured out over the long-shadowed land.

Bring such bothersome beauty to branchier speech,

fall around us, spilling, foaming such fury

and fermenting our soon-drunk wine of promise;

earthen spirit’s Eucharistic prayer.

 

Hush now, silence yourself bold coldness and spare not

freedom’s great gift only taken this once year’s-life.

Steep instead in warmness, worried not for lack

but bubbling and birthing bold words lightly spoken.

Remind us, refresh and reframe what is still rooting,

routing sad night-hood to don the new, the now, the never again;

only to return, restored and restoring,

regenerated, reborn.

Give us again your beauty for our ashes.

 

Wednesday speaks your secrets.

 

Writing is a journey

Writing is a journey.  As we practice writing, we become better writers.  We learn how to choose words more carefully, perhaps at times, too carefully.  We learn how to construct sentences more concisely.  We learn how to organize paragraphs more sensibly.  We learn the rules.  We learn how to break the rules.  We learn tricks.  We learn to be clever.  We become like children again.  Words and ideas become our building blocks and we spend countless hours designing a variety of structures.  It is a learning process, this art of writing, but the journey goes far beyond the technical aspects of the written word.

As a writer, I learn more about myself and the world around me each time I turn a phrase.  Writing helps me to understand my own ideals and values.  It helps me to understand life.  Writing is a teacher.  Guy Clark, a great songwriter, wrote a song that says, “Some days I write the song, and some days the song writes me.”  I think he nailed it with that line.  Writing is a two-way street.  As writers, we may feel we have ultimate control of what lands on our pages.  Do we really?  I don’t think so.  Yes, we can choose our words, organize our thoughts, and pen a plethora of poetry and prose.  We can be creative, clever, and witty.  Where does it come from?  We were given this ability to write.  It came from somewhere outside of ourselves: parents, teachers, books, God?

Writing is a journey.  It is reflective of our lives.  As writers, we can flesh out our own thoughts about the world around us, our attitudes, values, and beliefs.  We can come to terms with our past, our pain, and our problems.  Writing is not just a technical act of putting words down on paper.  It is a living, learning process, revealing truths about ourselves and the world in which we live.  The practice of writing teaches us to be better writers, but more importantly, it teaches us to be better human beings on this journey through life.