jonathan friesen

Give Them What They Need

Okay, writer's problem. I know what sells.

Shouldn't be a problem. Doesn't sound like a problem. Sounds like a good thing. Every conference I've either taught at or attended is filled with countless people asking me, what do they want? Now they needs clarifying. Sometimes they means agents. Sometimes editors. Sometimes readers. But really, all those people are one in the same. They are "They," and writers want to know what sells.

I presume, this is so that authors can write what sells. They can be a writer. They can achieve their dream, calling, whatever. 

It's a strange thing, impossible I think, to have as your own dream to write something that someone else wants. It's worse than strange. It's sad. So back to me. I know what sells, at least right now. I also know what burns inside me, what must come out. And I'm not certain they match. I'm not certain I care. 

I heard a quote which I will butcher, and worse, will not attribute to its source (because I'm clueless who said it). Here goes. 

Do not ask what the world needs, rather ask what makes you fully alive. Because what the world needs are people who have come fully alive. 

I think that's the thing, I think that's as close to true as I can come, and as wise an answer as I own to the question: "What should I write to get published?" Write what makes you fully alive. Period. End of story. Might not be what the publishing world wants, but it's absolutely what it needs.

Gold and Dust

So I'm watching the news on BBC, and this story comes out. A gentleman, an artist, he takes tiny flecks of gold (we're talking flecks that fit on the tip of a needle) and dust (microscopic). He takes that gold and that dust and fashions 100% realistic sculptures, if you call something you can't see a sculpture. Yep, you cannot see them except beneath a microscope, which is where he works to make them.

The guy puts himself in a trance-like state, so he says, and slows his breathing way down. Then he sculpts between the breaths. The details are amazing. He even paints them with, you ready? A wing off of a fly. That's his paint brush. I kid you not. I have never seen anything like this. He encases his masterpieces in an air sealed glass bubble, you know, like those Christmas globes, and sells them at auctions. 

They showed one of these bidding wars. For a girl riding a leaping horse, he made a whopping $92,000! Yep. One-tenth of a million for a glass bubble globe with a pin in it supporting a sculpture you'll never see because if you open the pressurized globe the bugger will fly away. And this isn't a contact lens we're talking about. You're out $92,000.

The artist is dyslexic and donates most of the money to the Dyslexia Foundation, which is cool. And I think he's on to something. So I've been gearing up for summer. Dead flies for paint brushes? Check. Dust? Plenty. Gold? Um. I think I have a molar that might have some in there. If it doesn't, I'm sure that silver stuff would work. We have pins. We have a microscope. We have everything. . .wait. The main ingredient. Still hands. How is a guy with Tourette Syndrome supposed to stay still for eight hours at a time? There's no way. 

And there goes my chance at $92,000. Well, I give you permission to steal his idea. If you need some fly wings, stop on by.

Farm Tough

This is my admission: I don't really live on a farm. Not really. Not a farmy, moo-filled, silo-graced, big-barned farm. My neighbor does. Barns full of milkers and bails of hay and tractors strewn everywhere. He wears overalls and grunts hello and will live until he's 100. He lives on a farm. He's a farmer.

Me? I have chickens. Nineteen disobedient squawking chickens. I have one disobedient Amish dog, and three barn cats. That's it. Sure, I have land and a cool red barn that next year will hold a horse, but I'm hard pressed to call myself a farmer.

Which is why I can't explain the transformation that happens to me when I step inside a Mills Fleet Farm. If you don't know of these stores, picture a Best Buy filled with farmy stuff--feed troughs and guns and work boots and cattle prods. Today I stopped in for a feed pail, took three steps, and it hit me: I felt rugged. Yes sir, I started my rugged hobble, grunted at the rugged man walking out with some horse tack. I was changed.

My destination had been the feed pails, but when your rugged, you don't hurry. You lope. Kinda like a horse. Forget the canter. A rugged man needs to take his time. Rugged men don't smile much either. Nope. We wipe the expressions from our faces because we mean business, in our lopey way. 

So back and forth I loped. Feeling good. Tough. Rugged. Three aisles down, I had stopped to check out the selection of udder cloths. A rugged man needs to be ready for milking time. Then my cell rang. The old guy grunting beside me grimaced. My cover was blown. There's nothing rugged about a cell phone. My poser feet hustled into the next aisle near the barbed wire. That's where I talked to my wife.

She told me I needed to pick up some green olives on the way home. Well, if the cell phone hadn't blown a hole in my ruggedness, her request sure did. I mean, green olives? Talk about wimpy. Do farmers even know what green olives are?

I hung up and slunk out of the store with my pail. I stopped at WalMart and bought green olives. But when I walked out, I left my jacket hanging wide open, flapping in the frigid air. Yep, it's good to know a little rugged rubbed off, olives and all. 

Good Things

I love Good Things. I love how they feel, how they tingle. I love how they come unexpectedly and knock on the door and keep knocking until you drag yourself out of bed and answer. They do something for the insides--sort of a spring house cleaning. And for an hour or a day if you're blessed you feel light and airy and what comes out of your mouth is surrounded by a smile.

But they are elusive, these Good Things. They tease. They whisper convincing words that are easy to believe until time separates. Then I want another Good Thing. I dream of bigger, better Good Things, and when I don't get them I realize it wasn't a Spring cleaning it was a robbery, and now I'm empty. Dry and empty and already searching for the next Good Thing.

Edmund and his Turkish Delight. Frodo and his ring. Good Things that leave you thirsty and wondering strange thoughts like, wouldn't I have been better off without this fortune? People (and Hobbits) must be the only creatures completely unable to suck the enjoyment out of the present moment without asking for more. This would be an awesome grace, to live so completely in now, that I could bask in it without my mind racing ahead. Unfortunately, I haven't arrived.

That's okay. I'm sure there'll be plenty more chances for me to screw up my Good Things. Next time I know I'll get it right.