Category: Personal

Writing comes from writing. Have you heard that, before? At the core of decent writing is experience. Here’s another euphemism: “To write well, you must listen well.” By that I mean, listen to your heart and your mind, and do not let thoughts escape into Netherland – capture them while they are fresh. They are bits of inspiration to build upon.

Before I go any further, I must make one thing clear – Writing has very little to do with age! True, your experience in life can inform your writing, but you are never too old to string words together, to convey thoughts, ideas and love. So, I say it again: You are never too old! Continue reading

I was a freshman in college when I first “got the bug.” I was committed to being a different person than I was in high school, so when I saw an announcement for play try-outs, I stepped forward. To my surprise and both amazement and apprehension, I landed a speaking role in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night.  Being part of the drama group was exciting, and I learned so much more than just my lines in the play. From the talented group of upperclassmen, I learned ballet moves, about dramatic use of my body, and about how diction does more than communicate words. I got the bug.

Another Shakespeare play where I nailed one of the leads, and still another production written by one of the seniors. And my addiction to the stage grew, as did a bit of my ego. Not only that, but people knew me on campus! That invisible me from high school was gone!

When I finished college, I still had the bug, But I had to earn a living and support my family, and so I carried on.  First as a teacher, then as a counselor, then as a professor of psychology and then, shockingly, a college and university administrator.  But the bug was always there, in the back of my mind.

Civic theaters were everywhere, first in Muncie, then in Bloomington. Later, in Cincinnati. I had leads or roles, or was an extra in seven different productions including A Christmas Carol, Our Town, and an obscure production of the Seven Sins of Sarah. The critics said I was great as Bo Decker in the production of Bus Stop, and my dreams were elevated to a different stage, on the Great White Way.

But then, the blink of an eye.  I auditioned for Hello Dolly! and, of course, landed one of the principle male leads. My ego was at capacity!  Rehearsals were a breeze. The dress rehearsal went like clockwork. Some of my fellow actors stumbled, forgot their lines, but not yours truly. What is that saying about pride? Oh, yeah, now I remember, “Pride comes before the fall.” Should have taken that to heart.

Opening night. Packed house. My wife, my father and mother and a few friends were in the audience. Curtain up! Play begins. I am in the wings ready for my cue. There it is! My feet rush out carrying me onto center stage, my face, my body and my arms are all doing their part. My mouth is open as if I am speaking loudly, but…no words! None, not even an anguished screech! My mouth is empty. My brain is empty, except for the image of my family sitting out there. I could not come up with my lines.

Got the picture. Me, the Master Thespian, standing center stage, frozen in the image of one making a dramatic proclamation…and no sound. Not from me, nor the audience, nor from the prompter. Finally, in a whispered voice, the actor next to me fed me my lines until I became, once again, animated, and Hello Dolly continued.

A career changing moment, a blink of an eye. No Broadway, no silver screen, just the same old me. Oh, sure, we had three more productions of the play and I was…shall we say, adequate, but the ghost of opening night was always there. The blink of an eye and everything changed, yet nothing changed.

Here’s the crazy part, I still have that bug, but now I have that blink. Sadly, the blink has veto power. Break a leg? That would have been better than the blink.

-30-

I always wonder about that. Is it ever too late to follow a thought, an inspiration, a dream? How about those ideas that are thrust before your eyes from unexpected places, or those even expected, but surprising places?  How about a fortune cookie? Ever take those seriously? I am addicted to Dove dark chocolate minis with the foil inspiration wrap. Here’s one: “Don’t talk about it, just be about it.” Here’s another: “Don’t stop until you are proud.”  But this is the one that keeps me going, “You are never too old, and it is never too late.” Yeah!

It was inspiration that led me into biblical research that resulted in my first published book, A Life for Barabbas. It was in that story that my psychology background joined my faith in imagining a continuing life for Barabbas, touching historic facts in Christian history.

What about all that? This is how I would describe the process of writing my book, Middle of Nowhere: Continue reading

As a child growing up in a neighborhood filled with children, where I was one of the youngest and the smallest, I came to have strong negative feelings about my name, Stanley. The bully-boys in the neighborhood would always say it in a whiny tone, Stannnnleee, oh little stannnnnleee. I hated that, oh I did not like that at all. Why could I not have a name like Bill, or Tom, or even Joe, you know, something strong. But, no, I was Stanley.

The only thing worse than Stanley was George, the other small boy in our neighborhood. George and I became fast friends. For the bullies, it was always Georgie-porgie. He didn’t like his name either, but, what was even worse for him, he was George Junior. We both knew that if that got out he would be “Junior” and that would have scarred him for life.

Continue reading

It was an absolutely beautiful fall day. The hollow behind our church and down the trail, was ablaze with brilliant colors: Reds and oranges and yellows.

I had followed the trail down to the creek below, but always with my father or one of my sisters. This time, it was just my friend George and I, poised at the top of the trail. Both of us were eight years old and had been told never to go down the trail alone. But we weren’t alone, we had each other, and the trail, under the canopy of all those pretty leaves, was calling us. Continue reading