Collectors Item?

I did my final book signing at Riverbend yesterday and sold a lot of books. Although I still have a few copies left, the initial printing of Shiny Spots in the Rust can now be considered a sellout. I don't plan to order a second printing; I sort of like the idea of having a "limited edition" in existence.
Yesterday, a surprising number of people were buying three, six, eight or even twelve copies to use as Christmas gifts. This is extremely gratifying to me and I just want to thank everyone who invested in my first book. I've heard many stories of how the book has blessed people, how it's used as bedtime stories in some families…this is all I could ever have dreamed of. I'll continue to post subsequent columns here, but my "selling" effort is officially over.
I have plans to write another book and have already registered a website for the title, but I haven't written anything yet. It's still percolating. And eventually I will have enough new columns to do another Shiny Spots-type collection…but that will take another year at least.
I have to say that the experience of doing this book was more meaningful that I even imagined, especially the night of the book release party. Reading my own words to that audience was a thrill that will be difficult to top. Thanks for making me feel like a real writer.

(Don't) Wash Me, Please…

Last month we attended something called “Maker Faire” at the Travis County Fairgrounds. It’s an event that’s hard to describe, featuring everything from home-built robots to cars decorated with bizarre objects, a life-size “Mousetrap” game, an amazing demonstration of what happens when you drop Mentos mints into hundreds of bottles of Diet Coke (answer: fountains of fizz forty feet in the air). One of my favorite sights, though, was decidedly low-tech. An artist from San Marcos, Scott Wade, was creating some beautiful artwork in a most unique medium: the dusty windows of his car. He employed his fingers, brushes, popsicle sticks and other tools to draw amazingly-detailed pictures of old Hollywood stars, classic fine art, familiar movie monsters…amazing stuff, all created in the dirt on a windshield. Here's a sample of one of his pictures; you can see many more examples on Scott’s website: dirtycarart.com.
It got me thinking, though. God likes to create in dirt, also. Remember Jesus making mud from dirt and spit…and using to cure a man’s blindness? Remember God forming Adam from the dust of the ground? And when God decided to come down here in human form, He didn’t materialize in a sterile hospital room; he chose a stinky, filthy animal barn. God doesn’t mind dirt.
So why do we often feel so awkward about coming to God when we’ve gotten our hands dirty? Do we think we have to be spotlessly clean to approach Him? We should know better. God loves dirt. It’s the medium He used to make his most prized artistic creation: you. Even in dirt, God sees beauty.
Note: Mike Robertson will be signing his book, Shiny Spots in the Rust, between services today by the Riverbend Bookstore. The book is in limited supply and will likely sell out before Christmas.

One good turn…

For years I’ve been telling people that I knew how I was going to die. Our house is just off Highway 290 outside of Dripping Springs. To turn left into our gate, we have to cross two very busy lanes of traffic coming toward us. Because the gate is just over the crest of a hill, we can’t tell in advance how many cars will be coming. And the same hill makes it impossible to see how many cars are coming from behind. I’ve long been convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of us gets hit from behind while trying to make it home. Many, many times we’ve had to drive right past our gate and turn around, just to approach from the opposite way and avoid the dangerous traffic.
Last week I was heading to the office when I came out of our gate to see an amazing sight: overnight the highway department had marked out a center turn lane. We could now turn into our driveway without flinching and bracing for impact. I found myself singing an old Elton John song: “Someone saved my life tonight, sugar bear.” After years of travelling the same road, the dangerous part had suddenly become safe.
I’ve found that to be true about the path my life has taken, too. Some of the things that once scared me, some of the sirens that once tempted me…they no longer distract me. I’m convinced that the longer we stay on God’s path, the easier the way becomes. He provides us a straight road, a lane of safety where we no longer need to fear. Stay on the path. Someone will save your life, too.

When I was radio active…

I had a radio show once. I had taken a job as the music and youth director at a church in Junction, Texas. When I learned that the manager of the local radio station was a member of the church, I pitched him the idea of having a weekly show featuring the relatively-new-at-the-time genre of contemporary Christian music. The station’s format was already fairly eclectic. Mornings featured all country music. At noon there was an hour of local news, announcements, and want ads. More country music followed until 6:00pm when a young guy would come in and play heavy metal. This smorgasbord was broadcast on a whopping 1000 watts in the daytime; at sunset, the power was reduced to 250 watts. At the time, I had a hair dryer which pulled twelve hundred watts, several times as powerful as my evening broadcasts.
When my show was on, I was the only person at the station. While records played, I had time to explore a room in the station which was filled with shelves of 45s. Hundreds of tiny record companies issued singles, sending copies to radio stations in hope of getting a hit. I found records with political themes, records on colored vinyl of all shades, tributes to Elvis and other deceased celebrities. There were records I had to listen to just because of the title, like “Horror Asparagus Stories” by a group called The Driving Stupid. It was awful.
It’s like the old “if a tree falls in the forest and nobody hears it” problem; if you make a record and it never gets played…did you really make a record? And if your radio show is only reaching a few blocks and nobody ever calls…is it worth doing? If your prayer is never answered, does that mean nobody is listening? If your testimony never influences anyone else, was it wasted?
Well, according to what I’ve read, my 250-watt radio waves are still traveling out there somewhere. Perhaps I’m a big hit on Alpha Centauri. Perhaps not. But faith is the evidence of things you can’t see. I’m not on the radio anymore. But I’m still broadcasting every day that I live.
And occasionally somebody tunes in. Thanks for listening.

Bare-faced truth…

I’ve had a beard for more than 25 years. I like it because I don’t have to shave every day and it gives me the illusion of having a chin. I do have a chin, of course; in fact, I have three or four, which a beard helpfully disguises. Still, sometimes you want to try something different. About a dozen years ago, we were going on a vacation through New Mexico and Colorado. I decided that, on the first night away from home, I would shave off the beard, try some of that Just For Men hair coloring to cover my gray hair, and comb my hair in a different way. My wife had never seen me beardless and neither had my three year old daughter. When I emerged clean-shaven from the bathroom, my little girl promptly burst into tears. It took a day or two before she felt comfortable around me. And as soon as we got back home, I let the beard grow back.
I was as uncomfortable as my daughter with my new look. I looked like someone going into the Witness Protection Program instead of the guy my little girl loved and trusted. That was the last time I tried to disguise my graying (now thinning) hair. And I have never again shaved my beard.
Because…what could be more frightening than not recognizing your father? Not much. That’s why I treasure the fact that my heavenly Father never changes. Oh, there have still been times when I didn’t quite recognize Him—times when I was trying to run things, times when I tried to do it all by myself. But that was because of a change in me, not a change in God. There are several hymns and scriptures which refer to God as our foundation, a solid rock, a supporting place on which we can stand. And when you need that foundation most, the rock does not change into sand or a sponge or a hole in the ground. Now that would be a close shave!

A one-step program…

Since my book became available last month, a few people have said things like, “I hope it’s the first of many,” or “Do you plan to do another book?” Sure, I’d love to write for the rest of my life. I have plenty of ideas for books aside from collecting short pieces like this one. And sometimes I just think of titles for books I know I’ll never get around to writing...like Christian Humor and Other Oxymorons. Or The Complete Guide to Healthy Dishes for Church Potlucks. I once had the idea of writing a musical called The Worst Choir In the World, but I never got anywhere beyond the idea. Then there was I Love Everybody—But That Guy in Row 12 Is Annoying.
The ideas are not the hard part. It’s the writing stage that falters. Whenever I should be writing, there are suddenly a hundred vitally important things that I choose to do instead, like organizing my sock drawer or alphabetizing the DVD collection. But at times when I can’t write—while driving or after going to bed or during church—my mind races with more wonderful ideas that should be captured right then!
I may know a lot of words, but there’s one word I never quite grasped: discipline. The only times I’ve accomplished large things—reading the Bible through, finishing a novel, learning how to love people—were due to getting into a routine and sticking to it. Read this much every day. Write this many pages every day. Do a genuine act of kindness every day. To achieve something wonderful, you’ve gotta start. Do it once. Tomorrow, do it again. And eventually, art happens. Grace ensues. Growth occurs. Doing a mundane chore day after day may seem like a rut. But doing a creative project or an act of grace every day? That just seems like a groove. There’s a fine line between working forever…and working for eternity.

My first review!

Eileen Flynn, the Austin American-Statesman religion writer, has posted a review of Shiny Spots in the Rust on her blog, Of Sacred and Secular. I encourage you to check it out; she covers a wide variety of topics related to faith, Austin and other things divine. Thanks, Eileen!

So low…

When I was six, I always sat in the same spot in the church where my dad was pastor: second row, left side. I sat there by myself, but my mom sat a bit further back. She kept an eye on me from behind; my dad could see me from the pulpit. I behaved. I didn’t mind going to church and I always loved to sing. During a revival meeting one night, the guest music director stopped in mid-hymn and said, “You people need to sing out now! This little boy here on the second row is just singin’ like a bird. I think I’ll ask him to sing a solo for us tomorrow night!” This was like being discovered in a soda shop and given a movie contract…at least to six-year-old me. The music director was probably joking, but after the service I told him I would sing a solo on the following evening. He said okay (hey, my father was the pastor; he couldn’t back out now).
By the next evening, though, I was petrified. The thought of getting up in front of the whole church and singing by myself had turned from a thrill to terror. I couldn’t go through with it, although I cried because I still wanted to do it. Six years and two churches later, I finally made my solo debut as a 12-year-old alto singing Away In a Manger. Since then I’ve probably done a thousand solos. But I missed that first opportunity.
Fortunately, God believes in second chances…and third ones and hundredth ones. Since we don’t always say yes the first time, He keeps asking, keeps pointing the way we should go. Sometimes it takes years before we finally give in. And some people never do. But as long as there’s breath in you, it is not too late. God has planted a seed in you—a talent, a gift—and He keeps saying, “Here’s your chance to use it.” It’s scary. I know.
But it can also start you singing your little heart out.

Doesn't ring a bell…

Anyone here happen to know a Pruitt G. Arises? Or a fella named Algorithm U. Inexcusable? Or is that a woman’s name? I’d like to find these folks because they’ve sent me email recently, along with a host of similarly-named spammers like Thermal J. Alabamans, Placarding H. Phoebe, and—my personal favorite—Finnbogadottir O. Walkmans. Are you hearing from these people[sic]? Either W.C. Fields is communicating from the great beyond (he frequently used pseudonyms like Larson E. Whipsnade in the credits of his movies) or some massive email program selects random words and places them in the “from” line of junk emails. All the names I used in this column are from actual emails I received last week.
I can’t understand why they would use such bizarre names…although I love the fact that there’s always a middle initial. But do the spammers really think I will look at a new email and say, “Hmm, I wonder if that’s the same Tunnels V. Wanderlust I went to high school with?”
See, a name can mean everything…or it can mean nothing. When God commissioned Moses to go back to Egypt and free the Israelites, Moses quite reasonably said, “Whom shall I say sent me?” And God did not reply, “Tell them Incalculable E. Subcontractor is the name.” Instead, He said, “I AM.” None of these fancy-shmancy exotic sounding names for the true creator of the universe. Just “I AM.”
When we receive a message, it’s vitally important to know from whom it came. Whether it’s email, envelopes, tv commercials, magazine ads or billboards, we need to know the source and to be discriminating about the messages we accept and allow to influence us. When God calls, you need to listen. When Spadeful T. Retaliating sends you email, you need to hit “delete.” And, as St. Francis would say, may we have the wisdom to know the difference.

Branded…

I’m standing in the detergent aisle at the grocery store and I’m overwhelmed by the choices. I do a quick count and learn that there are fifteen different varieties…of Tide! Not even counting the other brands, there are fifteen kinds of Tide: liquid, powder, scented, scent-free, color-fast, with bleach, with fabric softener, etc. And et cetera some more. Even in the soda aisle, there is Diet Coke in two sizes of cans and four sizes of bottles, Diet Coke with lemon or lime or black cherry or caffeine-free or with Splenda. Do we really need this much variety?
It doesn’t end there. Take a look in the yellow pages under “churches.” I counted 97 different denominations listed in Austin. That’s not separate congregations; that is separate denominations, some of which have dozens of churches in Austin. There are seventeen differents varieties of Baptists alone.
If it’s so hard to choose the right detergent, how can we ever choose the right church? Which one is going to take care of our dirty laundry? For me, simpler is better. I don’t need the detergent with “spring fresh” scent or fabric softener. I just wanna get my stuff clean. The simple message of Jesus—love God and love other people as much as you love yourself—has been loaded down with endless “new and improved” additives that only serve to confuse and cause division.
But somewhere on that crowded aisle is a plain white box with big letters that say “GRACE.” And on the side panel it says, “Also contains love, forgiveness and peace of mind. No artificial ingredients.” I’ll buy that.

Book Release Party—What a Blast!

The release party for Shiny Spots was held on Sunday evening, September 9th, and it was one of the most memorable moments of my life. Many thanks to all who came out to support me that night; it meant more than I can ever describe. Here are some pictures from this awesome event!
First, my witty and beautiful daughter introduced me...and got big laughs from the audience!





















Then some big, balding guy read some stories.



















The audience was large...and attentive.













Even my mom seemed interested.













Look at that line...to get my autograph!










It was an amazing night I'll never forget.

Asphalty Reasoning…

I think I may have discovered a new “spiritual gift.” I have the ability to find road construction anywhere, any time. Whether I’m travelling across town or across the United States, I have the uncanny knack of always picking the route where the road is torn up or reduced to a single lane. When someone asks, “What’s your sign?” I reply, “Lane closed ahead.” I’ve seen more cones than Baskin-Robbins, but the only flavor seems to be orange.
One day last week I was sitting in traffic (again) and I started thinking. “I wonder if there will ever come a day when all the roads are fixed? A time when there’s nothing left to repair?” I don’t think it’s gonna happen. By the time the last road is fixed, the first one will be in dire need of repair. And what about new roads, roads that don’t even exist yet? As wonderful as it would be, we can’t fix everything at once.
That’s a hard concept for us modern humanoids. And it’s even harder to grasp that our lives are in the same shape as our roads. Every time I start feeling good about one part of my spiritual path, I realize I’ve neglected another part which is now slowing down the flow of traffic. So I begin to concentrate on that needy section … and big potholes develop in the original part. It’s a process that can never be finished. But—just like maintaining the roads—we have to do it. Otherwise, everything slows to a crawl; we can’t move forward at all.
Apparently streets of gold need no such repair. But until we reach the place that has such thoroughfares, we keep patching and paving and painting. Maybe we’re making progress, though. This week, I made it all the way to work without seeing any construction. A little glimpse of heaven. A light unto my (unpaved) path.

Book ends…

We’ve been cleaning house recently. I’m not talking about dusting-the-knick-knacks cleaning. I’m talking about rent-a-dumpster-and-fill-it-up-in-three-days cleaning. I’m talking about half-a-dozen-trips-to-Goodwill cleaning. I’m talking about I-haven’t-seen-that-thing-in-12-years cleaning. Among the many treasures I’ve excavated is a folder containing a sad batch of letters.
About ten years ago, I started writing a story. Although I’d never written anything longer than a school research paper, I set a goal for myself: three pages a day. Whether they were good or bad, I couldn’t stop writing until I had typed three pages full of words. In a few weeks, it was clear that I had a novel on my hands and I was excited. I was often surprised by how my own story was turning out. There were days when I would be teary-eyed over something said by a character I had created!
When I finished the novel, I let lots of friends read it and then I began to try to get it published. What I found while cleaning last week was my folder of rejection letters. Thirty, maybe forty or more notes of negativity. Some were obvious form letters while others were brief hand-written notes. But all said the same thing: we don’t want your book. I guess I saved the rejections so that, when the book was finally published, I could say, “Thirty-seven people rejected my book before it became the best-selling book—soon to be a major motion picture—of the year.” But nobody ever said yes and eventually I stopped trying.
I’m glad to say that last week, I threw away that folder of rejection. And I thought of how we carry around the other rejections we experience in our lives for years and years, wallowing in our unworthiness. Throw them away; your Author loves the story you—and He—are writing together.

Ladies & Gentlemen: We Have BOOKS!

I came back from lunch yesterday, Monday, August 13th, to find eight boxes waiting for me. I borrowed a dolly and made a couple of trips to put them in my office before I ever opened a box up. I was nervous about how the quality of the print job might be, but I'm totally pleased with how the books look. I told my wife, "It looks like an actual book!" which is a goofy thing to say, but she knew what I meant. I couldn't resist showing them around to some of the staff members, but I'm not letting anyone have a copy just yet. I decided a couple of weeks ago that I would have a book release party and even do some readings from the book; inspired by seeing David Sedaris, I suppose. I was very pleased that Dave Haney, the senior pastor, seemed genuinely pleased that I had put this project together, and he's already offered to plug it during the weeks before the release party.
I can't believe they're here, but they are. I'm very proud, even though I paid to publish the book myself. It's a tangible sign that I've actually produced a body of work, work which (I hope) a lot of people will find interesting and inspiring. More info on the release party coming soon!

Self(less) Portrait

I was waiting for the light to change and I glanced into the rearview mirror. In the car behind me, a woman held up her cellphone, turned it around, smiled quickly and obviously snapped a picture of herself. She looked at the screen, apparently was not happy with the results, and went through the process again: hold up phone, smile, click, check the photo. The stoplight turned green and I made a left onto 360, beginning to pick up speed. I looked in the mirror again and she was still behind me … and she was taking another self-portrait … while driving 55 miles an hour. Hold up phone, smile, click, look.
It made me want to know her story. Who would receive the picture of her smile if she ever got it to come out perfectly? Whose workday would begin with a shot of her looking happy? Would she ever admit how many rejected poses she took or would she play it like “Oh, I just snapped this in the car real fast”?
The snapshot that will remain in my memory is of someone attempting to send out a smile, someone actually transmitting happiness to another person.
Movies — “moving pictures” — don’t really move at all; they’re just a series of still photos taken in rapid succession, tiny moments frozen in time. If God decides to snap a picture of you at 8:05 tomorrow morning, what sort of image would be captured? You pounding on the steering wheel? Putting on makeup? Trying to start your heart with a Starbucks transfusion? Cussing out another driver? The pictures God would want for His scrapbook would probably be more like the smiling woman … or the kiss goodbye … or giving money to the homeless person.
He’s focused on you right now, you know.
Smile.

They're almost here…

The books are scheduled to be here sometime between August 7th and August 21st. I'm feeling pretty restless, wishing they would hurry and arrive. And then I start thinking, "What if nobody wants to buy this stupid book?" I'm pretty good at self-doubt, especially toward the end of a project; you should see me on Saturday night when I'm supposed to preach the next day. Suddenly all my good ideas look like lunatic ravings and I wonder what on earth I'm going to do. And what happens then is that God takes my efforts and kicks 'em into high gear. I want to believe the same thing will happen with the book. I pray that it will be helpful to someone, that it can minister to somebody who might never darken the door of a church. "Lord, I believe. Help Thou my unbelief."

The Golden Doesn’t Rule…

For several years I’ve worn these big sunglasses that fit over my regular glasses. I wear ‘em until one of the earpieces snaps in two and then I buy another pair. A few weeks ago, I needed some some new shades, so I stopped at a drugstore. I found a pair, slipped them on to make sure they fit, then paid for them and got in the car. That’s when I noticed I had bought a different type of sunglasses; these were the kind that block out everything blue and give everything a golden hue. Even on cloudy, overcast days, it looks sunny through these glasses. But the whole world seems to be yellow, red or black. No other colors exist.
Looking at the world through gold-colored glasses may seem like a good idea; it’s sunny all the time! But it’s artificial. It reminds me of some people I’ve known who would always say things like, “Well, praise the Lord anyway!” when something bad happened. The same people who say, “It was God’s will” when somebody dies.
Here’s the deal. The world is not always sunny. Sometimes you’re gonna have the blues … and those golden glasses don’t reveal the truth, they only color it. I had to go back to the store a week later and find another pair of shades, some that didn’t try to make everything bright and golden. See, the answer is not in coloring your blues. It’s in seeing them as they are and being able to keep going anyway. Walking in the Light doesn’t make everything beautiful; it makes everything visible and then provides the strength to walk through it.
Silence may be golden. But not everything else is. If you can’t see the blues, the gold isn’t going to mean much. If you try to make everything gold, you won’t be able to see the real gold when it’s in front of you. I long to see things as they are … and then move forward.

One ugly mug…

Every Sunday morning I receive comments and questions on the size of the mug I carry around. It’s filled with Diet Coke (the elixir of life) and holds about 60 ounces, which is apparently more fluid than most people drink in a day. “That thing is huge!” “Do you really drink all that?” “How many times a day do you fill that up?” I’ve grown accustomed to having the biggest cup on the campus.
But last week I drove across the desert, from Austin to Los Angeles, and I made a startling discovery. I was at a convenience store in Phoenix; the temperature outside was 111. I know, it’s a dry heat. But still. I took my mug into the store to get a refill and saw a sign I’d never seen before. Most stores have a sign on the fountain that says something like this: “16 oz—69¢; 32 oz—79¢; 48 oz—89¢.” This sign started out like that, but it continued: “1 gallon— $1.79; 2 gallons—$2.89; 5 gallons—$6.89.”
A five gallon refill! What manner of man could achieve this? How would you even get a five-gallon container to fit on the soda fountain? I realized that my mug had become a pitiful and puny vessel, a demitasse cup compared to the offerings of these desert-dwellers.
Sometimes it takes a trip into the desert to reveal how much more you are capable of receiving. We wander through our spiritual lives, proud of how full our little teacup of grace is. But when the heat is on, we learn that we can receive more…if only our container is big enough.
The day after I stopped in Phoenix, I opened the car door and my mug tumbled onto the parking lot and shattered. The only thing worse than having a cup too small is having no cup at all. See, the fountain never stops flowing; we just forget to drink from it sometimes. Excuse me, I have to go get a new mug.

To think better of it…

We were eating in a restaurant recently and I could overhear the conversation from the table behind me. A mother and her little girl—I’d guess she was around six—were talking about various things and I noticed that the mom was not one of those people who talk down to children. No baby talk, no cutesy voices, no talking slowly while EMPHASIZING certain words. Instead, they conversed like two grownups. That’s why it was so charming when the little girl was talking about a movie they’d seen and managed to say something no adult would. She expressed her opinion of the film and then said, “But people who aren’t very thinkable probably wouldn’t get that part.”
I immediately filed her word away in my memory: thinkable. We talk about unthinkable events, but never about thinkable ones. We understand what “thoughtful” means, but I vote we all add “thinkable” to our vocabulary. Don’t you know people who never seem to think before they act? Don’t you know someone who never thinks of anyone except himself? Don’t you know a person who spends amazing amounts of time thinking about meaningless trivia? Sure you do. You know me, don’t you?
Most of the time, I guess I’m not very “thinkable.” I fill my head with the mental equivalent of a forty-seven pound Hershey bar and then I wonder why there doesn’t seem to be much room in there for something meatier. And then I trip over verses like this one in Philippians 4: “Whatever things are true, whatever things are honest, things which are just, things which are pure, things which are lovely, things of good report; if there be any virtue, and if there be any praise, think on these things.”
I love it when I can learn something from a child. No wonder Jesus liked ‘em so much and wanted them close to him. They’re thinkable. I want to be that way, too, and I think it’s still possible. I may be older now … but I’m still learnable.

Imperfection

I received the proofs from the printer on Friday. They had spotted one page inside where the text went a bit out of the margin. Then I spotted a typo on the back cover where I had typed "quirkly" instead of "quirky." For some reason, knowing about these two mistakes made me feel kinda nauseous. Part of it was that I had hoped everything was perfect...but I oughta know better. Another part was that it struck me that this book is actually about to go on the press and it will be too late to change anything. Did I say anything wrong? Was I too irreverent somewhere? Well, that ship has sailed now, I guess. It's a crisis in confidence that I experience fairly often, especially every time I get the chance to preach on Sunday. I start out excited about my ideas for the message. But about Thursday or Friday, I start thinking: "I got nothing here! What was I thinking? This is gonna be awful." I have to remind myself to trust my first impressions and to let God handle the rest.
So I made the two corrections to the book proofs and sent them off on Tuesday. No turning back now. In just a few weeks I'll be receiving boxes full of Shiny Spots in the Rust. It's still scary.

The Not-So-Magic Marker

When compact discs were the hot new music format, I remember a curious legend making the rounds: If you used a green Magic Marker to color the edge of the CD, you would get a noticeable improvement in the already-awesome digital sound quality. This “insider information” was printed in many music magazines and side-by-side listening tests were conducted to see if the difference was really there. I even recall at least one Austin music store selling specially-packaged green markers just for this purpose. Did I try this on some of my own discs? No comment. But it was the only time in my life I actually had a green thumb.
You’d expect that, by now, CDs would have their edges painted green at the factory, to ensure that increased quality for consumers, right? They don’t, though, and the record stores no longer carry Magic Markers. Know why? Because it was eventually proven with a bevy of upscale machinery that coloring a CD had absolutely no effect on the sound.
When Jesus came to this place, bringing a new message, a new way of life involving loving other people in the same way God loves us, it was pretty exciting. But some people had to grab their green Magic Markers. They had to add lists of rules that a follower of Jesus had to obey. They had to hang up signs to separate the “real” Christians from the “not really” Christians. They had to choose to love some people while clinging to the right to hate some other people.
Compact discs don’t need to be painted up to sound better. And “amazing grace” is already the sweeetest sound in the universe. Don’t mark it up…TURN IT UP!

In the pudding

Got an email which stated that the proofs for the book are on the way to me via FedEx. Proofs are the final opportunity to make changes or corrections before all the books are printed. The proof allows you to see exactly how the cover will look, which can vary considerably from how it looks on your computer screen. Since the inside pages have been pretty thoroughly proofread, it shouldn't take me more than a day to go through the proofs. Then, once I sign off on the proofs, the printing process can begin. It's getting close now. The printer is estimating delivery of the books around the second or third week in August.

Scan this…

I’m that guy. The guy who actually hopes he’ll get stopped by the woman with the clipboard at the mall: “Would you answer a few questions about toothpaste?” The guy who actually listens to the telephone opinion surveys. But what I always wanted was to be…drum roll…a Nielsen family. You know, that fabled group of people whose viewing habits determine the ratings for television programs.
In years past, Nielsen families had to keep a diary of all their TV watching. Now, however, there are other ways to keep track. When we got a Tivo recorder several years ago, I was offered the opportunity to have my Tivo report to the Nielsen company. I said yes. Months later I was offered another opportunity, one which was much more personal. We became one of a legion of families across the country who agreed to report in great detail what we purchased. We were furnished a hand-held scanner and instructed to scan the barcodes on every grocery item, every book, every CD…just about anything that had a UPC code on it. For items like meat or fruit, we had to enter the weight, price per pound, whether the product was organic or not, whether it was prepackaged.
I began the program eagerly, even though it took 20 minutes to scan everything whenever we brought groceries home. We received occasional gifts in the mail and were eligible for prizes each month. But the main incentive for me was the idea that someone was finally listening to my opinion. After eight months of faithfully recording every purchase, I suddenly grew tired of the process. I realized we tended to buy the exact same items every week. I realized I was no longer fascinated by scanning things. I realized that the things I wanted to share with people were more important issues than what brand of granola bars we liked. Why wasn’t I sharing about joy, grace, love? Maybe because they’re not things we can buy. They’re by-products, not “buy” products, gifts that come from the One who truly does value our opinion.

Choosing a publisher…

I did quite a bit of research online to find a publisher for my book. Most of them offered way more services than I needed or wanted (at way more than I wanted to pay). A typical self-publishing company offers a variety of "editorial" helps. They'll gladly correct your manuscript and suggest changes where appropriate…for a fee. They offer a design studio who will come up with a cover for your book…for a fee. They'll do the page layout, assigning page numbers, designing title & copyright pages…for a fee. They'll get your book listed on Amazon.com and post reviews of it on their own site…for a fee.
Since I worked for 15 years as a graphic designer, I already knew that I wanted to design my own cover. I also wanted to layout the inside pages, pick the font I wanted, etc. Most self-published books look very amateurish; first-timers always seem to use a font that's too large. Maybe it's to pad out the length of the book or maybe it's just not looking at a lot of published material to see what size text should be. But I felt confident in doing my own editing, layout and cover design. I just had to find a printer/publisher who didn't insist on doing all the work for me. Lots of Googling led me to Morris Publishing in Kearney, Nebraska. I filled out an online request for info and received a nice packet of material, plus a sample of a book they'd printed. The quality seemed good and they would allow me to design as much of the book as I wanted.
As of today, I've put the finishing touches on the book and I'll be sending it to Morris today or tomorrow. I'm beginning to get excited!

Why I'm self-publishing…

I've frequently been scornful of what used to be called "vanity presses." They've been around forever and the "vanity" part comes from the fact that you can pay someone to publish a book. In fact, anyone can pay someone to publish a book. Once I learned how the vanity biz worked, I was determined that I would never use such a service. To clarify, a traditional publisher does not charge you to publish your work; instead, they actually pay you an advance sum of money because they believe your book will sell a certain number of copies. Anything they publish will go through a lengthy editorial review process and then an art department will design a cover and the promotional department will decide how best to market the book and if it merits some actual advertising. If the book does sell, the author gets a percentage (a rather small percentage) of the sales price once enough copies have been sold to cover the advance already paid out. On the other hand, there's no testing of quality on a self-published book; anyone with the funds can publish their epic poem about antique tractors or their history of the milk carton or their collection of blurry photos found in thrift shops.
So I always told myself that if a "real" publisher didn't want to publish a book I'd written, then it probably wasn't worth publishing at all. A few years ago, I managed to complete a novel. I shopped it around, collecting a plethora of rejection letters from various agents and publishers. I eventually gave up. I didn't have the drive to go back and rewrite the book and I was weary of the constant rejection.
Fast forward. After I took over writing the column in Riverbend's weekly bulletin, I began to get feedback. Good feedback. People I'd never met would stop me on Sunday morning and tell me how they looked forward to reading the column each week. Some told me they sent it to other friends or family. Many asked me if I would eventually assemble them into a book. After a couple of years, I realized I had written enough to fill up a small book. Should I start sending it around to publishers or agents? I was reluctant to do so, because I realized that many of the columns are very Riverbend-specific. I wasn't sure that an audience from outside Austin would find the topics interesting…and they would not have the personal contact with me that has grown through years of singing, preaching and writing for my home church. So I decided I would publish the book myself and only offer it for sale right here where I live and work. I understand there's still a chance that it could be taken on by a real publisher at some point. I've heard that if you can sell a thousand copies of a book on your own that many publishers will at least take a good look at buying it. But that's just a dream at this point. I want to make the book available to the people who encouraged me and appreciated my efforts from the beginning: the Riverbend family.
Next time: how I decided who would print Shiny Spots In The Rust.

Tonight, on a very special blog entry…

Welcome! I've just set up this blog in preparation for the publication of my first book, Shiny Spots in the Rust, which I hope will be available around the time school starts (late August/early September). I'll be talking about the preparation for publication and also using this space to print future columns of mine which are not included in the book. Stick around!