60 Degrees and Sunny...check

A wise man once said "to feed the body's compulsions is to starve the soul."

Actually, no one ever said that.  I just made that up.  Impressed?  I thought you would be.  So since no wise person (except TravWise) ever said that about feeding the body's compulsions, I'm just going to go ahead and feed one of mine:

List making.  Oh yes, you know how it goes.  That inescapable feeling that your life is a chaotic jumble that can only be relieved by filling pads of paper with lists of to-dos and neatly checking them off one by one.  You know you want to make one, now.  But wait.  Read mine first.  Then when you make your own, you can write "Slake my thirst for the incredibly stimulating written word by reading a delightfully creative blog."

Check.

Travis's Tuesday To-Dos:

Wake up and shower immediately: check.
Sit on the porch and note the cloudless sky: check.
Revel in the fact that it is too chilly for the wasps to be out: check.
Finish a huge project with a much-needed payout: check.
Read some literary agent blogs: check.
Watch elementary school kids get into fight outside my apartment: check.
Note that there is still hope in the world when angry fighting elementary school child spells A-S-S instead of saying it: check.
Watch Jill take a nap: check.
Make a barbecue meatloaf, cheesy garlic mashed potatoes and coleslaw for dinner: check +2 points for the yum factor.
Watch The Biggest Loser: check.
Tear up when Courtney went home: (Private)
Watch Cupcake Wars with Jill: check.
Vocally berate Asian girl who wins Cupcake Wars: check.
Blog: check.

Ahhhh... slaked.

It's a bird... It's a plane...

Jennifer Gresham posted another great article at Copyblogger this morning:

Heretics, Superheroes, and Fighting the Lonely War of the Writer.

Wait, did she just compare writers to Superheroes?  Yes.  Does she know what comparing me to Batman will likely do to my ego?  Probably not.  Is she, regardless, now my most favorite person on the face of this planet?  Yes.

Of course, she also said that writers are sometimes considered heretics... not nearly as glorious a concept.  But hey, if that's what it takes to get my name out there and to get people reading the stuff I come up with, I'll take it.  After all, Batman was misunderstood, yes sir.  So, to boost my confidence (and to feed an incessant desire I have to blur the distinction between myself and The Dark Knight), I've compiled a list of the top 10 reasons why Batman's real identity is probably... me.

1.  Neither of us likes cats.
2.  We both prefer to stay up late and sleep in mornings.
3.  We both wear Batman underwear (hey, if Batman wears underwear, then they are automatically considered "Batman underwear."  Logic, people)
4.  We both use our intellect before our muscles (or in lieu of)
5.  We both prefer brunettes.
6.  We both do most of our day-job work on the top floor (Wayne Enterprises/ My Apartment)
7.  Neither of us wants to live strictly by the rule book.
8.  Batman has Alfred.  My vacuum cleaner is named Alfred.
9.  Both our heart rates accelerate when we see the Bat Symbol.
10. We both want to change the world.

So, yes, I can see her point.  Writers are like superheroes.  We are isolated, moody, often considered heretics, misunderstood, and we walk among you, donning our secret identities because if you knew that we were actually "writers," you'd probably ask to read our work.

And then, you'd hate all over it.

Werewolf Bar Mitzvah...

I've had that stupid/hilarious song from 30 Rock in my head all morning.  You know, the one Tracy Jordan recorded and won an award with:

Werewolf Bar Mitzvah, Spooky, Scary
Boys becoming men, men becoming wolves...

Haha.  My friends Andrea and Caleb gave us the first three seasons of 30 Rock.  They're 30 Rock evangelists, I guess you could say.  And I'm proud to report that I'm a born-again convert.

I resisted watching that blasted show for years because I was determined to hate Alec Baldwin.  I'm not sure why.  I think it was a noble attempt to bring a little balance to my typical obsession with celebrity.  I am far too fascinated with the lives of the A-Listers, and I thought if I could passionately hate one, just one, celebrity, that would balance my life out.

Well, dang you, Alec for making me love you.  Now I have to find another celebrity to loathe so that my life can once again be balanced.  I've been throwing out names all day, but am unable to let go of my admiration for stars such as Bruce Willis, Harrison Ford, Leo D, and Johnny Depp...

Wait, I've got it.  George Clooney.  He ruined Batman, he's shmarmy, his skin is too tan.  Perfect.

I hate you, George Clooney.  Please don't be in a sitcom that I'll love.

The Book Backbone

Late night... writing more chapters of the middle grade novel I hope to have finished by mid-May, and stumbled upon this amazing and very helpful article by award-winning author Karen Weisner.

If you've got a novel idea (ha), a half-finished story, or a feverish case of writer's block, check out this Writer's Digest article here.

Love the part about "story sparks."

Reading In 2011

Ok...

I'm taking a hint from some valued friends and taking my reading schedule for this year into the realm of SERIOUS.  It's not going to work for me this year to just haphazardly pick up whatever's on my shelf and dive right in.  That presents problems, most notably:

THE CURSE OF REREADING.

Anybody else do this?  Pick up a book that you're familiar with because you want to reread a section or check a fact, and before you know it... you've been reading the dang thing for two hours already.  And now you have to finish it.  Again.  For the seventeenth time.

So, here we go.  The list.  I'm including the ones I've already read, just to make my list feel bigger.  And I'm counting on YOU, blogosphere, to help me flesh this thing out:

Completed:
Dracula by Bram Stoker
White Fang by Jack London
Atlas Shrugged by Ayn Rand
The Complete Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy by Douglas Adams
The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver (accidental reread... whoops)

To Be Completed:
On Writing by Stephen King
Les Miserables by Victor Hugo
Anthem by Ayn Rand
Ender's Game by Orson Scott Card (This is a non-negotiable reread. Don't Judge.)
Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach
The Girl who... by Stieg Larsson (All 3)
Water For Elephants by Sara Gruen

That's all I've got on deck so far... any suggestions?

A View From Above

So, Jill and I really love our apartment.  We really, really do.  Most of the features are kind of a double-edged sword.  Pros and cons in a package deal.  For example.

1. The Kitchen: our kitchen is so lovely and small.  Cooking a meal with Jillian is like an elaborate dance.  In fact, we have choreography practices twice a week.  Hopefully, that will prevent me from dumping tomato sauce all over her or accidentally stabbing her with a kitchen knife.

2. The Walls: the walls are delightfully thin.  This way, if there is a national emergency we'll be able to hear the sirens before anyone else.  Or, if Publisher's Clearing House tromps up our stairs, we can greet them smilingly at the door.  It also means that when our neighbor sings made-up jazz songs, we get a front row seat.

3. The Trains: our apartment is nestled right next to what must be the last 18th century iron horse track in the nation.  The companies who own this track have quaintly decided to eschew modern forms of transportation for the nostalgic Americana that is the locomotive.  We love to hear the sound of centuries-old progress as we lie in our beds at four in the morning.

Like I said, we really do love our apartment.  There's one feature, though, that came completely sans-cons: our balcony.  Surrounded by trees, furnished with a perfect table and two chairs, and facing directly west, our balcony is ice-cold lemonade, lightning bugs, and luxury.

Or it will be as soon as this gol-danged cold snap passes.  But I digress...

...where the heart is.

Home.

I'm finally there. Here. Well... at my home on 1262 Ruppel Lane in O'Fallon, Illinois. Home has become a bit muddled as of late. I left a home in Richmond, Texas with Randy and Vicki Roberts, a wonderful couple who housed me for a year. I left a home with the Davis family. I left a home church in Sugar Land, Texas. I left a home in Searcy, Arkansas and left two of my best friends there in the process. I left the Shackelfords in Bolivar, Tennessee after we dropped Jill off at the airport... that was my home for an entire summer... and it still feels like home. And now, I'm here at the home that I love the most. With my family. Finally. It has been way too long.

All these homes, however, remind me of something. Home is not here. None of these places are home to me. Home is a place where you are complete and perfect. Where you lack nothing. Where you want nothing. Where you can exist completely fulfilled. Here in St. Louis, I'm missing my friends. When I'm not here, I miss my family. No matter where I go, no matter where I'm living... my life is never complete. Never whole.

Which is a wonderful truth to discover... because home is not here on this Earth. Home is far beyond. Home is where the heart is. Home is something we will realize one day, but it is not this day. We wait... We hope... We live... We make ourselves at home wherever we are placed, whatever our circumstances, because we know that there is work to do. And we know that God is here.

But we also know that we are never truly at home... and that makes us smile.

Much love to those of you I am missing, those of you who have cared for me, those of you who have made me so at home in a world where we're never at home.