Hunting Unicorns

The New Year has arrived. It is often considered a fresh slate, a chance to declare a resolution, a desire to make changes in our lives, move in a new direction, or just to recover from the party the night before.

This month the Christian Writers blog chain has chosen the theme "The Quest". I quickly grabbed January one, more out of the sort of pattern I had developed over the last couple of months of my participation (11/11, 12/12, 1/1). I didn't choose 2/2 for February, however. But that is for another month.

I fondly remember this time year as my Alma Mater, Lake Superior State University, releases its annual Banished Words list (http://www.lssu.edu/banished/current.php). It is a list of words that have been misused, overused and abused during the year.

This tradition was started by the Unicorn Hunters. The organization was a publicity campaign for the then Lake Superior State College. It was started by Bill Rabe and some of the college's English professors, most of which I had the privilege of having as instructors during my time there. My guess is it was conceived at their favorite watering hole.

As well as the banished list, they also were responsible for the LSSU's quarterly literary magazine, The Woods Runner. I had my first (and only) short story published in it.

The other activity which endures from this group is the burning of a paper snowman effigy on the first day of spring. For those of you who have experienced the long northern winters, this was a joyous event. When I attended this event in my college days, people would read poetry denouncing winter and welcoming spring's arrival. People would drink mead (hot chocolate) in public and partied that evening.

Other events the Unicorn Hunters were known for were Thank a Teacher Week, Lizzie Borden Appreciation Day. The International Stone Skipping Championship, Shakespeare on the Veranda on Mackinac Island (Pronounced Mackinaw) and the Hunters Ball, held every November. This was the signal for people to start submitting and considering nominations for the list. Just before midnight on the 31st, Bill Rabe would fax the list to newspapers all over the world.

As a Unicorn Hunter, I had a Questing License and a neat Unicorn Hunter pin. You can still get your license on the Web site. Although bow season is now closed for hunting unicorns, the only time of the year you can't hunt them is on St Agnes' Eve; to give the hares a rest from being trampled by stampeding unicorns. You are also requested not to hunt when the tooth fairy is on her rounds. Apparently she once had an unhappy encounter with a disgruntled unicorn.

Other rules and regulations for unicorn questing can be found on the website. They contain all the information you need to hunt unicorns and where you can hunt them. It even gives instructions on the proper hunting outfit - Gawain green or Mordred red. Apparently Unicorns think they are very stylish colors.

Although the Unicorn Hunters have been defunct for twenty-five years, their legacy lives on. As a writer, and I'm sure many of my writing friends would agree, our writing is a quest. Sometimes our efforts to reach our goals seem as elusive as hunting this alleged mythical creature. But when the quest is successful, there is no feeling like it. We proudly display our catch and brag about the effort it took to win it.

Peter Thomas, Poet in Residence during my tenure at the school and the Chief Herald of the Unicorn Hunters said "The pursuit of the unicorn is a lonely quest, but many more embark upon that journey than teachers or publishers may recognize."

That may have been an accurate assessment of pursuing writing over a quarter of a century ago, and still may hold some validity today. Like questing for unicorns, writing is a very solitary profession. You stare at a blank piece of paper or your word processor fingers poised to start your quest. But I think the interment and social networking has done a lot to make the quest a lot less lonely.

You start out on our own, in search of the unicorn. It can seem like you are all by yourself. Discouragement, defeat and failure become your constant companions. They whisper in your ear that maybe you should stop this quest. Your family and friends don't understand the need you have to go on this quest. There are times when you are tempted to abandon it altogether and return to the safety of your comfort zone.

Then you discover others on the same quest. You share ideas and questing stories; victories and frustrations. You compare notes and encourage each other. New life is breathed into your quest and your resolve picks up. You leave your old companions and continue on, working towards completion of your quest.

So instead of talking about our resolutions goals for the New Year, let's talk about the quest. What dreams do you have this year? Is it to finish that novel that has been sitting in your desk or on the computer for the last five years? Is the quest to have your work published? Is the dream to write your first book?

There is nothing stopping you from commencing on your quest this year. You even have a license to do so. So fellow questers; here's to the hunt. Here is to your dreams. We'll sit around the fire and raise a glass of mead. Happy hunting!

There Should have been at least a balloon...or something

With the click of a button, I sent my newest work out into the world to find its way. Allow me to introduce Xtreme Xianity - (https://www.createspace.com/3495933).

With each new title, I learn more and more about my craft and more importantly myself.
This particular project was born pretty much the same way any writer gets their ideas. I saw an extreme motocross competition and said, "I wonder if..."

Now I'm not saying that I only get ideas watching motorcycles flying through the air, but it started a chain of events that led to this current work. What if I were as committed to Jesus Christ as these athletes were? That is the question I set out to explore.

Xtreme Xianity also marks a milestone in my writing career. It is my tenth publication.

That's right, The big # 10. Is that a big number? I don't know. It feels like is should be a milestone, a marker on the journey I am currently undertaking. Yet, It felt like any other day. I got off work. Did a load of laundry. Practiced for our Sunday School program this weekend and went to choir practice that night. I came home and watch SG1 and fell asleep in the process. Lucky for my it is a DVD and I can re-watch it.

I suppose that is the downside of self-publishing: There is only one person who know there should be a celebration. There is no PR department of a big publishing house to throw a launch party for you.

I'm going to go out and by myself a balloon

Christmas time again!

I think I'm a real Scrooge when it comes to Christmas. Here we are less than two weeks away from Christmas and I haven't even started my Christmas shopping. Well, that is not totally true... I bought a ice scraper for my Wife's new truck. But it is a heated one with the logo of her favorite hockey team on it.

Now you might think that is a tacky-type thing to buy. But when you live in Northern Ontario, Canada, a heated ice scraper is a very thoughtful and useful gift to have; along with a shovel, a bag of salt and a bag of kitty litter or sand and traction grips to help you get out of snowbanks and stuff.

For several years my wife and I have had running debates on what are and are not acceptable Christmas gifts. My wife wants to buy a little something for everyone in the family even though they don't reciprocate. I, on the other hand, feel no guilt not spending money on someone who could not do so for me. I stopped buying my mother-out-er... in-law presents the year she presented us with a microwave potato chip maker. A lot of thought went into that puppy.

My wife wants to prowl every store looking for something. Sometimes she has to prowl several times. I prefer to go to the checkout and stock up on gift cards.My wife considers that the height of tackiness. My argument is why spend all that time picking out a gift for someone who doesn't like it and has to lie to you when you can give them something with which they can go out and get what they want? Makes sense to me.

For a few years, I thought the ideal gift was to bake and make a bunch of Christmas goodies for people. Everyone likes food and eating at Christmas time is a national sport. My wife thinks that is tacky and cheap, although I spend almost as much on supplies as I would on gifts not to mention my time, effort and sweat, which I'm sure dropped into the cookie dough, was a very thoughtful and considerate gift. I still think that is a very thoughtful gift, I would certainly appreciate a tray of goodies.

An extension of that are those gift baskets filled with specialty food items that you can only find in gift baskets at Christmas time. Everyone has to eat; right? Apparently that is another tacky gift. No, I explained to my wife, a tacky gift is to give a fruit cake to someone.

People ask me what I'd like for Christmas. I say, "Cash works for me!"

So, while I have become jaded with the crass commercialism that has become associated with the season, it is important to remember the one reason we celebrate.

That one night, a small baby, born in a stable, reached out his tiny hands and found a cross on which to bear the sins of the world.

Have a blessed Christmas!

My, How Time Flies.

well there are two goals reached this week:

The first is I am over the hump for National Novel Writing Month (nanowrimo). I sailed over the halfway point only a day late. It's all downhill from here.

Well, not really, but getting to that point was a good feeling to say the least.

While in the midst of my personal journey through thirty days and nights of literary abandon, the proofs arrived for my newest book: Xtreme Xianity. It is so tempting to get off the nano roller coaster and start the editing of this book. I must admit, I did sit down with it and pulled out my red pen and went at it for a few pages.

As I was holding this book in my hands and fondly fondled the cover, I had to stop and think for a minute or two. I opened the inside page where I had all the notification stuff listed; copyright notice, no permission, ISBN and all that housekeeping stuff. There was also a list of my published works.

This book, when I finally give it that last bit of spit and polish and send it out into the world will mark my tenth book since I first published in 2006.

Wow... 10 books. That's a lot of words. I'm sure it calls for a celebration of some kind. But what does one do to mark this auspicious occasion? Do I set up a circuit of interviews with broadcasters? Nope. Do I sing happy anniversary or happy birthday? That doesn't sound quite right either. How about standing downtown yelling at the top of my lungs? Well, that will probably at the very least get me a ticket for disturbing the peace.

Perhaps after the rush of Nanowrimo has worn off, then I can sit back and further ponder about this particular milestone. Time flies when you're having fun.

The Month of Nines

I recently heard a story about the old pastor of the church I grew up in.

His Name was Albert V. Clock. I knew him as Dr. Clock. He had earned a Doctor of Theology degree from Dallas Theological Seminary and had come to Northern Ontario to start a Bible College in our very rural community of Goulais River.

I was speaking with a man named Rod. Rod had at one time owned a furniture store in town and Dr. Clock would sometimes drop in to say hello. Rod said that one day they were talking about how God works and was told this following story.

For the sake of brevity, I am going to shorten it up a bit.

"Rod," said Dr. Clock. "I build churches. I go out to the plot of land and lay out the spot for the building and start digging the foundations."

"People would come by and ask what I was doing. I would tell them I was building a church. They would say, "Are you crazy? You don't have the money to build a church."

"I would reply, "The Lord wants me to build a church. If He wants me to stop, then the money will stop coming in.""

Then he said to Rod, "You know, I always had something to do on that building. The money would keep on coming until the church was built, then it would stop."

Now what does this mean to a nine-year old boy? Absolutely nothing.

I was nine-years old when I first met Dr. Clock. It was during Vacation Bible School at the newly formed Northland Bible College campus, which consisted of 70 acres of land, a farm house, a small cabin, a barn and a few utility sheds. There was a hole in the ground where the foundations were being laid for a building that would serve both the college and the new church family that was now meeting in the farm house kitchen.

Dr. Clock stood in the middle of a circle of fidgety children with a smile on his face as he welcomed us that first morning. He was dressed in jeans, plaid shirt and a beat up old straw hat. He called us Mohicans (whatever that was) and we sang John 3:16. Our classroom was in the hay loft in the barn.

Now to a nine year old boy, VBS was something else. We went on hikes, had horseback rides, a hayride, and a treasure hunt on the last day that had us running over half the property.

We heard the Bible stories, memorized Scripture, and were encouraged to bring friends for the contest. At the end of the week, we went home with the wooden matchstick cross we made in craft, a workbook that we had done during the week and an invitation to come to something called Sunday School.

Our Sunday school class was held in the barn until it got too cold and then we spent the winter at one of the member's houses. The chapel building was ready for use the next spring and we moved into it for our Sunday meetings.

It was during the fall in the back corner classroom that my life changed forever. It was there during my Sunday school class that I gave my life to Christ.

What makes the story more poignant is Northland Bible Chapel was the last church Dr. Clock built. During the week it served as the campus for Northland Bible College and on weekends, it was home to the chapel family.

Dr. Clock, led by his commitment to provide quality Bible training, not only to young people to make them able ministers, he also built one last church were he spent the remainder of his life ministering at.

The questioned I asked myself and I am asking you today is this: What is your level of commitment to what you believe?

To a nine-year old boy, that commitment caused a life-changing experience. How many nine-year olds will say the same of you?

Those Aha Moments.

I never really understood the phrase "amber waves of grain." from America the Beautiful until I moved to the Alberta, Canada and lived on the Prairies. I grew up along the north-eastern shores of Lake Superior at the edge of the Canadian Shield where large scale farming was not an industry.

I moved to Alberta to pursue my chosen profession; journalism. I was driving to cover an assignment one fine fall day and I noticed a wheat field along the road. Well several actually. Acres of golden wheat, gently undulating waves as they were caressed by a fall breeze. I thought, "Gee, that looks just like the waves on Lake Superior..."

Aha... Now I understand.

As I am writing this blog entry I am preparing to celebrate our Thanksgiving. Yup, today is Canadian Turkey Day. A day when we recount our blessings and are thankful for what God has provided for us for the coming year.

We will be sitting down to our traditional turkey dinner. The meal consists of traditional family dishes that bring back a harvest of memories. The tomato aspic will remind me of Nanny Hagen. She had to have that at every holiday meal. along with the mashed potatoes and gravy we will have perogies and cabbage rolls, part of my Ukrainian heritage through my father's side. My son will eat his fill of these two dishes as well as steal as much raw dressing as he can get his hands on before I put it into the turkey and the oven.

The pies are already in the oven. Pumpkin, which is dad's favorite. My daughter Kim will have a slice of homemade chocolate pie. For my wife cherry or pumpkin will do.

This thanksgiving is also a bittersweet one. Dad has Alzheimer's disease. He probably won't remember how good the turkey was or that he even had a piece of his favorite pie 10 minutes after he has finished eating it. Every day my family loses a little bit more of him as this disease slowly erases who he was.

So I harvest my memories of how he used to be. How he could fix almost anything. Him pushing me on a log across the Agawa River on a cub scout camping trip when I was ten. Us sitting in a boat for hours, trolling along the eastern shore of Lake Seymo, attempting to entice the trout. to bite on our lures.

Bouncing around in his bush buggy made from old Volkswagons as he took it places no respectful 4x4 or ATV would dare to traverse. The bush tea he would make using a juice can he modified into a kettle when we came ashore for lunch.

Then there was roofing the house, climbing down a well to dig it deeper because the water level dropped. There was working with him when he went to wire a house. Working on cars in the garage or arguing over politics.

I find that I am selective about my harvest. Not all the memories are good ones. But then life is not all fun and sunshine.

But as gather with my family this year, we plant more memories for furture harvests. This year was the warmest Thanksgiving in my memory. So we decide to have a Thanksgiving picnic. Mixed blessings; a rich harvest.

Another Aha moment.

yahoo.. only 2 more chapters to go.

I was sharing with my writing friends that I have to get back to my wip (work in progress). I've been working on it for most of this year in an off/on fashion. I really am not in a hurry as I have already met my writing goals for this year.

However, my book has other plans. As I get closer to the the final chapter, i find myself becoming more and more obsessed with it. Where once I could put it on the shelf for a month or two, I now find myself racing to the computer to finish it.

I barely finished the last chapter when I am outlining the next one. good thing for me; I write Bible study guides, so there is a pattern to creating the outline.

Also in my head is nanowrimo... now only 29:7:13:1 (days:hours:minutes:seconds) according to the official countdown clock. those characters have been telling tantalizing bits and pieces of their stories.

By the way... choir practice starts tonight for our Christmas cantata. November is going to be an interesting month. And October is barely started.