Do You Speak in Parent Code?

Christmas time brings out the best in parents' secret-keeping skills. We downplay the degree to which we help St. Nick deliver presents. We venture into the least attended corners of our closets, drawers, and sheds to hide things we don't want our kids to find. We put on elaborate performances to trick our children into good behavior--performances that lose their power if the kids find out it's all a sham.

Image credit: Mike Roberson

My parents were expert secret keepers. If they had to discuss anything in front of us kids we weren't supposed to know about, they did it in Spanish. And that wasn't just a Christmas thing; they used their foreign language skills for everything from birthday plans to whether we should eat at McDonald's. Because once a child hears you even mention something he might like to do, you're stuck until you do it.

(This is also true of dogs. To prevent hyper rampages through our living room, we learned to never say the words walk and dog in the same sentence; we used the French marcher and chien.)

Image credit: Debi Downer

My parents' secret code evolved as we grew older. When my siblings and I got into junior high and started taking foreign language classes, my mom still spoke to my dad in Spanish but my dad responded in French. That way, no matter what language we studied, none of us caught more than half of our parents' conversations.

Pretty smart.

Now that I have children of my own, I understand more every day why parents need a special code. Saying the wrong thing--or rather, the right thing at the wrong time--can have some awful consequences when you're dealing with a child.

The Parent Code can take at least as many forms as there are children in the world.

My wife and I aren't ready to use foreign language on our kids the way my parents did. She can usually get the gist of my Spanish, but her French is worlds beyond my own. Instead, we've developed code names for our toddlers' common triggers. So, for example, if we're not ready to go yet we don't say we're going to the library; we say "book depository."

We don't verbally consider popping popcorn after dinner. We "prepare a salty, buttery refreshment."

We don't plan on watching a movie when the boys go to bed. We "enjoy visual entertainment."

The iPad is not an iPad. It's an "infernal device."

We've had to get creative, but that's the fun part of the Parent Code: inventing diverse ways to keep things from our children.

They will do it with their own kids someday. The Parent Code may change, but it always gets passed down.

Last week my mom described to me in Spanish what she bought my two-year-old for Christmas. I am now officially in the club.

Why I Suddenly Love Oatmeal

The Uinta Mountains, June 2003.

I groan and writhe inside my sleeping bag when the Scoutmaster's voice booms through camp. "Everybody up--let's go!"

My heart sinks. My whole body aches. I feel heavy and I don't remember dreaming.

I pry apart my eyelids and brush snow off of my sleeping bag. Filtered sunlight pokes in through a gap between two tarps I used for cover. I cram numb feet into wet hiking boots and join the other boys around the campfire.

Melting snow drips from the pines surrounding us as our small fire brings a pot of water to a boil. Tin cups and spoons rattle in our shaking hands, and fog rises from our mouths and nostrils while we wait for a hot breakfast.

We each get one small portion before we tear down camp and hit the trail. Each boy carries five paper oatmeal packets in his backpack--one for every day of camp. Wally, our leader, distributed them at random before we left the city; if you're lucky, you'll find something with a bit of flavor in your rations, like apple and cinnamon or maple.

I am not lucky.

I don't like oatmeal anyway, but this morning I get to choke down the flavorless "original" variety. 

Gag.

Just... no.
Image credit: CityWideSuperSlow

It's day two of my first fifty-mile hike with Wally Rupp. 

I'm cold. 

I'm wet. 

I'm smaller than my pack. 

Yesterday I threw up all along the trail.

I have never endured a worse ordeal than this hike. 

And yet, despite oatmeal for breakfast every morning, despite the aches and dirt and blisters, something will possess me to do it again. 

And again.

And again, until I look back on my teenage years and relish those hard summers with my Scout troop in the High Uinta Mountains. 

The Fifty-miler will become a highlight of each year--something I look forward to as school gets out and days grow long.

And I have Wally Rupp to thank for that.

He has led thirty-six long hikes over more than forty years as Scoutmaster. He's in his seventies when I first hike with him, and he's stronger than anyone. Through his leadership, friendship, and example, Wally will shape me throughout my adolescence into the very best version of myself.

And not just me; Wally will have more than 200 Eagle Scouts to his name before he retires from Scouting.

Now, thirteen years after that first Fifty-miler, I'm all grown up.

And much of the man I have become is thanks to Wally Rupp.

With all the training I've received in words and how to use them, I have no words to say how much I love my dear friend Wally. I'll never know how to describe my gratitude and joy at having known a man like him.

Almost three months have passed now since he died.

And dang if that wasn't the most awesome funeral I've attended. You had to show up early just to get a seat. Blue Eagle neckerchiefs all over the place. Old friends reunited--a whole roomful!

And naturally lots of tears . . . but even more laughter as we remembered our good, hard-working, generous, sometimes inappropriate, hilarious friend.

As one fellow Boy Scout put it, Wally put the fun in funeral.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

But I know you're dying to ask: what about the oatmeal?

That's why I'm writing this now.

Because, you see, the story doesn't end at Wally's funeral.

He's following me.

In packs of oatmeal.

Oatmeal reminds me of cold mornings, stiff legs, and interrupted sleep. I've never liked it. Ever since my last fifty-mile hike I've avoided any kind of oatmeal not in cookie form. 

And yet, just a little while ago, my grocery store had oatmeal on sale and I bought myself four boxes.

I don't know what came over me.

But it gets worse . . .

. . . because I ate it!

I willingly ate oatmeal. In my house. After a warm, soapy shower.

Savage.

And I loved it.

Granted, it wasn't that nasty plain stuff. But still--I loved it.

I eat oatmeal for breakfast at least once or twice a week now. Because as soon as that sweet maple flavor hits my tongue, for just a moment I can see a troop of tired Boy Scouts huddled around a fire, shivering with tin cups in hand before another long day on the trail.

And Wally's with them.

The people we love live on in how we use the things they taught us. But they also live on when we do nothing more than think of them.

When we take that drive through the old neighborhood.

When we tell our kids those stories.

When we have that bowl of oatmeal.

Oatmeal reminds me now that some of my most difficult experiences were also some of my happiest. It reminds me that the greatest destinations sometimes require the longest journeys. It reminds me that I can push myself, that I can grow, that I can be better and better every day. 

One of my favorite pictures. I worked hard to get it.

Oatmeal reminds me of Wally, who taught me all those things.

So I'll help myself to a nice hot bowl the next time I might need a boost.

Mmm . . . oatmeal.

6 Unsettling Reasons Not to Live in Lego City

As a lifelong Lego fan, I have many fond memories of friendly tabletop towns and little yellow people with perpetually smiling faces. I think most of us do.

How many of us have dreamed of shrinking down to minifigure size and inhabiting our toy utopia? 

I sure have. 

Lego is happy. Lego is safe. Who wouldn't want to live in a world like that?

Well, take those rose-colored glasses off, because here's some real talk: moving to a place like Lego City is pretty much the worst thing you can do.

Don't believe me? Here are six reasons you should stay away from the alleged plastic paradise:

1. Crime in Lego City is Sky High

Chris Malloy describes Lego City as "the world's most crime-ridden city." Indeed, of the seventeen Lego City sets revealed so far for 2017, eight feature police locked in intense, improbable chases--just a few to add to a list of Lego police sets already pages long.

I have no problem with police. But why does Lego City need so many?

To manage a gigantic population of bold, resourceful criminals, that's why.

In 2017 alone, we'll see an ATM blown apart with dynamite, a bulldozer busting out the wall of a bank, and a tow truck driver making off with a giant safe. And that's only the start.

Just a day in the life of a Lego citizen.

This seriously happens every single day here.
Image credit: The Brothers Brick

And here's something else that should trouble you about these miscreants: they're all wearing jailbird stripes.

As in, they've all broken out of jail. Every one of them.

But that's not hard when the city police station comes built with easy escapes: trapdoors, collapsing walls, and probably a police mole or two. And don't expect anyone to do anything about it. This has been a problem at least since 1995, when Lego police chased a minifig officially named Jailbreak Joe.

You don't get a name like that without a reputation.

Too easy.
Image credit: The Brothers Brick

But if you don't mind the high crime rate, you should at least consider that:

2. Chances Are Your House Will Burn Down

Next to law enforcement, firefighting is the most common profession in Lego City. Either minifigs can't turn off the dang stove, or there's a serious problem with arson.

"This is our third fire today. Let's take a group photo in front of it!"
Image credit: Brickset

Based on the crime rate, I'd say arson. Minifigs are horrible, horrible people.

3. Construction Will Drive You Insane

Every city has construction. And everybody hates it.

In Lego City, construction never stops (probably due, in part, to all the fires). Construction Lego sets are nearly as constant as police and fire sets.

For Lego locals, that means a life full of stopped traffic, closed sidewalks, and hard hats.

Arson keeps these guys in a job.
Image credit: Brickset

4. Lego City Sorely Undervalues Education

If you want to send your kids to a good school--or any school--Lego City is not the place to do it. Locals have precious few options for education: either they can travel to the high school in neighboring Heartlake City, open an interdimensional portal to the Elvendale School of Dragons, or take a literal dive and enroll in Mrs. Puff's Boating School.

Is it any wonder, then, that out of a sample population of 121 minifigs over the course of seven years, only one graduated from an accredited institution? That's an embarrassing 0.8% graduation rate.

This guy has an amazing resume just for showing up.
Image credit: Lego Asia

And museums? There isn't a single museum in Lego City that isn't either getting robbed or under investigation by the gang from Scooby Doo.

Stay in school, kids. Don't move to Lego City.

5. You'll Probably Have a Heart Attack and Die

Burgers and pizza have reigned supreme in Lego City ever since the Hamburger Stand set up shop in 1983. Pizza even became such an iconic part of the Lego universe that the plot of the 1997 computer game Lego Island revolved around using the delicious plastic pies to recapture an escaped convict.

In hindsight, this game made zero sense.
Image credit: Reddit

Lego citizens never saw their first apple until 1997. But pizza still goes strong: in 2017, Lego City will be getting a brand new pizza van.

What can I say? Minifigs love their greasy food. It's just too bad they probably won't get any medical attention: only four viable Lego hospitals have been released since the 1970's.

"Maybe you should lay off the pizza."
"Maybe you should shut up."
Image credit: Brickset

6. Everyone Wants to Leave

If there's one thing Lego City knows how to do, it's aviation.

They've got airports for days.

They've got more airports than hospitals.

They've got more airports than schools.

It would make you think Lego City was some kind of tourism hot spot. And you would think wrong.

Lego City needs a lot of airports because everybody wants to leave.

Just look at the box art for any old airplane Lego set. Any plane that's in the air is taking off.

Check it out:

These lucky folks are leaving.
Image credit: Brickset

These ones, too!
Image credit: Brickset

Away they go!
Image credit: Brickset

You don't see this so much in newer sets. Most new Lego airplanes are shown on the ground, loading and unloading passengers and cargo.

Don't believe it for a second. It's propaganda.

Because the powers that reign over Lego City don't want you to leave.

They want to lull you into thinking all is well in their town.

But once you set foot there, nothing will be well for you ever again.

Why Finishing My Novel Scares Me

Confession time:

I've spent over half my life writing the same novel.

Of course by now I suppose it's not really the same novel. I think the only things I haven't changed are the first names of the main protagonist and, like, one minor character. And maybe a little bit of background information.

But essentially it's been the same project.

For sixteen years.

And would you believe it all started with one tiny Lego piece?

I'm not even exaggerating here.

One piece. Sixteen years of writing.

You did this to me, little Lego piece!
Image credit: eBay

When I was eleven I stuck a keypad to the gate of my Lego Night Lord's Castle (still a favorite) and got a story idea: What if two warring factions traveled back in time to give their past selves advanced technology and the upper hand?

This story had everything: two vastly different time periods, a stolen time machine, spaceships, castles, Tolkien-scale armies, gods and goddesses, a giant cannon that blows up the planet. Everything. I even started animating a movie because you just can't hold so much epicness in a book.

Looking back, it was pretty bad. But my story evolved as I evolved. Year by year, little by little, the story changed as I adjusted details--added a character here, dropped a scene there.

Ironically, time travel was one of the first things cut from the story. The plot shifted its focus from my original idea to the rise of a charismatic, vengeful clone super soldier; then to a war over monopolized energy; then to government-regulated life expectancy and reincarnation (which I may revisit eventually).

Needless to say, it's been a wild ride.

Now my story follows a disillusioned government agent who joins a movement to restore humanity to an abandoned world.

It looks nothing like what I started with. But this is the version I will finish. This is the version I want to publish.

It has to be. If I want to write books for a living, I simply can't spend half a lifetime on just one story anymore. And I have so many other ideas I want to play with, too!

So I took a month off of blogging to participate in NaNoWriMo and finally push this story all the way out.

And I didn't write a single page of my millionth rough draft.

I spent my November differently than other WriMo participants. While some of my writer friends stressed about daily word counts and overdosed on caffeine, I opened up a spreadsheet and broke my story down scene by scene until I had a final, detailed outline--another milestone I'd never reached before.

It really helped me to spend November focused on planning. Now I'm ready.

I'm ready to get this story out, once and for all.

I'm ready to flesh out my childhood dream and finish the adventure of a lifetime.

. . . But I can't help but be a little scared.

I can't help but ask what if.

What if I keep getting new ideas for this story?

What if my characters have something else to do?

What if I don't know how to write an ending?

I've retreated into this story's world practically every day since I was eleven. Though their names and roles have changed, I've known these characters longer than I've known the vast majority of my real friends.

How can I let my story out into the world? How will I know it's finished?

Image credit: You Know You're a Writer When...

I think fear of finishing freezes most writers at some point. We want to publish perfection. We edit and edit and edit some more, and some of us never take the plunge and push "Submit."

I don't have a cure for that.

But I can remind myself to determine which ideas make my story better and which ones only make it different.

I can flesh my characters out the best I know how, build momentum through the beginning and middle of the story, and burst into the finale with guns blazing.

I have to tell myself every single day that now is the time. No one's going to read the book I never write. This is what that story idea was born to do.

And I'm excited--because now is the time.

Are Realistic Dinosaur Pajamas Too Much to Ask?

Sometimes when I dress the baby, I choose clothes I know my two-year-old will like.

That means dinosaurs. Lots and lots of dinosaurs.

My son loves it when I bring his baby brother out in something covered with cute pictures of ancient murder beasts.

I blame Don Bluth. Ever since we first watched The Land Before Time, the only movies we get to see anymore must have dinosaurs.

The kid's obsessed.

And he can school most adults in paleontology. Most days, he'll tell you his favorite dinosaur is Brachiosaurus. He won't go to sleep at night without his stuffed Tyrannosaurus rex. And he can make a seriously legit Spinosaurus out of Play-Doh.

The only thing he doesn't know about dinosaurs is not to look so happy with a Spinosaurus in the room.

But for all he knows about dinosaurs, my son still can't identify some species on his little brother's pajamas.

I'll give him a break, though; they didn't exactly make it easy. Like, what the Cretaceous is this thing?

Or this thing?

I want to believe that last one is some kind of Saurolophus, but I don't have enough faith in the clothing designers to think it's actually anything more than a huggy T. rex with an overbite and tumors on its back.

And really, did an Apatosaurus and a Stegosaurus have a baby, or something?

What is going on?

I probably shouldn't care so much, but my child expects me to have answers. If I can't tell him what kind of dinosaur is on his brother's pajamas, he might not come to me with the important questions later.

These adorable, irresponsible designs make me look inept in front of my toddler. Are realistic dinosaur pajamas too much to ask?

My son watches Thomas the Tank Engine. I'm sure he can handle an accurate scene of Jurassic carnage printed on pajamas.

But then . . . there is Carnotaurus. . . .

Latin for "Holy snowballs, I've soiled myself."
Image credit: Primal Carnage Wiki

On second thought, cute is nice. I'll go with cute.

What I Love About Childbirth

In case it wasn't obvious, I haven't posted in a while. I'm trying to get back into the swing of writing, but it'll likely take some time.

In other words, I can't promise frequent blog posts right away. I will try, though.

But I owe it to you at least to share a little bit of what's been keeping me so busy.

So, this happened:

Babies = busy.

But we adore this little guy. To everyone's surprise, we ended up going with something normal and named him Andrew. Not even I saw that one coming. But hey, maybe next time I'll get my little Azog?  

I'm kidding, dear. When you reach for that kitchen knife, I'm kidding. 

Anyway, minus the extreme pain and discomfort for my wife, and the drive to the hospital, and waiting all night for anything to happen, and the feeling, as a man, of being utterly, utterly useless, I love childbirth. I've witnessed it three times now, and I'm always awestruck by the magic of the moment.

I've watched a person come into the world.

And my wife is so dang awesome. She just brought a person into the world. I can't even do that with a d20 of Summoning. 

Though it inevitably happens by the time the little person turns two.
Image credit: Meme Generator

It's all I can do to keep my head from exploding when the nurse first puts that tiny baby in my arms. Once I build myself back up from the initial cuteness overload, my erratic internal dialogue goes something like this:

Hello there, little person! Welcome to your life! 

I'm Dad and I'll be your guide on this adventure. Man, I can't wait to give you chocolate! It will blow your mind. 

And there are so many other things I'm excited to show you! Like, we've got this thing called music here. We're going to listen to so much of it! 

And then there's pizza. Oh my goodness, pizza. You will thank me.

Ooh, the doctor was from Houston. The first hands that touched you were Texan hands! I'll have to take you to Texas sometime, too. But not Houston. Noooo, not Houston.

So, I didn't print a syllabus or anything, but we've got a lot to cover later on. You'll learn how to walk, and use a spoon, and poop in a toilet. Trust me, those are all important things. We can't skip them.

Gosh, I love you so much!

And now your mother wants you. Okay, baby, have fun! We'll cuddle again soon!

Seriously, I love being a dad. My boys are my whole world.

And every time another one is born, that moment when Heaven touches Earth gives me the chance to really think and ask myself how I am doing as a father, as a husband, as a man.

That moment, when I first hold my newborn child, always makes me want to be a better version of myself.

In that moment I promise my baby I will never let him down.

I promise him I will always be there.

That we'll read books together, play catch in the backyard, go swimming in the summer.

I promise him the world, and everything I am.

I promise him I'll exercise and eat more healthy foods, so he will never have to worry about losing me.

I promise him a happy home where he can always feel safe.

And as much as I can try, I inevitably fall short on most the promises I make.

That's part of being human.

But when I stand in that delivery room, I make those promises again.

That's the other thing I love about childbirth: the way it makes me want to be a better man.

And maybe it's a subtle difference. Maybe no one else can see it through my poop-stained shirt and five-day stubble.

But I wouldn't be the man I am if it weren't for my rowdy, wonderful boys. I wouldn't trade them for the world.

Even if it means I have to set aside my writing.

So, I'll try to keep the blog updated. But in case I don't, you'll know where I am.

Here's a funny video about childbirth:

Harry Potter Taught Me Magic Really Does Exist

I used to think Harry Potter was so dumb.

Because I can't be an adult and take responsibility for my failings, I blame my elementary school librarian. Try as she might, her description of this "great new book" just didn't sell me.

A young boy lives with his abusive aunt and uncle in England and then finds out he's a wizard. Then he goes to a school where he learns how to use his newly discovered magic powers.

Yawn.

I didn't want to read about some dorky-looking boy in England.

I certainly didn't want to read a story about going to school.

And what kind of name was Harry Potter?!

"You know what this cover needs? A kid morphing into an animal." --Ten-year-old me
Image credit: Wikipedia

I sneered over the top of my Goosebumps book at the kids in my class who pulled out Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone during silent reading time.

They wouldn't know good literature if it latched onto their faces.

Ha.
Image credit: Wikipedia

Luckily, I had the world's best fifth-grade teacher.

The best.

Before I could get too big-headed about my classmates' poor taste in books, she made the first Harry Potter novel assigned reading.

I groaned.

But I was hooked before the second chapter.

Harry and I grew up together. The release of every new installment in the series lined right up with my July birthday. Spending time with my best literary friend became a highlight of my summers.

I truly saw him as a friend.

He felt so real to me. His world, his friends, his teachers--when I escaped into those books, I jumped into another life.

Before I realized sharing spoilers made a person worse than Voldemort, I rehearsed entire plots to my ever-patient mother.

I gave her play-by-plays of Harry's Quidditch victories.

I reported the latest doings of Peeves the poltergeist.

I complained about Dolores Umbridge as if she were my own oppressive teacher and had given me detention.

I still shudder.
Image credit: Harry Potter Wiki

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was released the day before my eighteenth birthday. After all the memories we made together, Harry and I were finally all grown up.

It hurt to say goodbye.

Love for Harry Potter sounds so cliché I rarely mention it when I am asked about my favorite books.

But that series made a difference in my life. It taught me so much about friendship, diversity, trust, the list goes on. I learned that even the best people aren't completely good--and that the worst people, too, can be redeemed.

I am a better person because I read Harry Potter.

Nine years have passed since I last held a brand new Harry Potter book. But earlier this month, when I picked up the latest Harry Potter story at my library, that familiar electricity returned.

Image credit: Pottermore

I don't know how long I held onto Harry Potter and the Cursed Child before I opened it. I drank in the anticipation, the magic that had occupied my birthdays through my teenage years and shone like starlight every summer.

I couldn't rush that moment.

My heart pounded like it would if I were actually meeting a dear friend I hadn't seen in ages.

That's a lot of pressure to put on a book. Expectations can be dangerous . . . and perhaps that's also why I couldn't bring myself to open it.

But I finally did.

And for a while there, I got to be a kid again. Got to catch the train at Platform Nine and Three Quarters, got to explore the sprawling Hogwarts grounds, got to ooh and ahh once more at magic spells--not just the kind that shoot from wands, but the kind, too, that shoot from writers' pens.

That's why I love reading.

That's why I love writing.

Because there is a real magic in this world: the way a letter joins others to create a word; the way a word, once read or spoken, births a thought; the way a thousand words inspire depths of feeling that, ironically, no words exist to illustrate.

J.K. Rowling is a great magician.

She is one of many.

And, if I keep practicing, perhaps someday I'll wield magic just as well as they do.

A Tribute to a Muddy River

Utah is a great place for creative minds.

Whether it's our high mountains in the east, our desert in the west, our red rock in the south, or our abundant forests, lakes, and streams, there's something here for every mood.

West Desert, 2008

Ever since I was a kid, my writing and the Utahn landscape have had a spiritual connection. My best ideas come wrapped in the stillness of a forest, the fire of a desert sunset, the whispered notes of mountain winds.

Henry's Fork Basin, 2007

You could say growing up in Utah is a reason I'm a writer.

And I have lots of favorite places here.

Some Salt Lake natives might not feel the way I do about it, but I especially love the Jordan River.

Like its namesake in Israel, Utah's Jordan River connects a large freshwater lake and a salty inland sea. It runs right up the middle of the Salt Lake Valley--and, conveniently, just beyond the fence of my apartment complex.

An urban park and trail system roughly forty miles long makes the Jordan River an ideal place to break away from city life even for just minutes at a time.

Jordan River, 2016

I fell in love with it in high school, thanks to brilliant teachers who knew how to turn the land into a classroom. The mile walk to get there from the school rewarded us with lessons much more real than a lecture.

A creative writing teacher used to take my class down to the river. He scattered us along the bank and for the rest of the class period we wrote poetry beneath the trees.

Since then I can't go to the river without taking inspiration home with me. It fuels my writing like the mountains do, and I'm glad I live so close.

Yet even though the Jordan River gives me words, I don't have words to write a worthy tribute to it. This little blog post is too short for what I really want to say.

But I still think about that river every time I say God dropped me into Utah so I could be a writer.

That Time I Drove My Car into a Wendy's

Fast food chic has taken my hometown by storm.

Almost every restaurant around here now has updated its look. Arby's, Burger King, and even KFC feel more like hip cafés than greasy fast food joints.

Nice try, KFC. I can see right through you!
Image credit: Obllique

I took my family out for lunch at a classy restaurant last week then realized we'd walked into McDonald's. That was embarrassing.

I'm not against the redesigns. I actually appreciate the new elegance of fast dining; at the very least, I don't feel gross now until after I've eaten.

But do you really need a table by a granite fireplace? You're eating Taco Bell.

Last year the local Wendy's jumped onto the bandwagon. They changed everything: swapped out cushy booths for minimalist tables, added flat screen TVs, replaced the outside bricks with windows. It looks nice.

Image credit: Business Insider

I picked up dinner there on my way home the other night. Amid the host of restaurant updates, thankfully the Jr. Bacon Cheeseburger remains its same delicious self. I couldn't wait to dig in as the takeout bag filled my car with its warm, inviting scent.

Eeeeeat meeeee.

But I couldn't keep away my sadness in the drive-through as I stopped to look at Wendy's' new glass walls.

Windows where red brick once stood. And on the brick--only in my memory now--a streak of paint.

My paint.

Years ago I drove a beat-up Mitsubishi without air conditioning or cup holders. We called it the Sly Pig car, because it bore my nickname on its license plate (immortalized here on the blog).

That car had some personality. I got into all sorts of trouble in that thing, and when it died it left this world in a glorious, raging fireball (but that's a story for another day).

I ate more fast food then than I do now. My daily afternoon commute typically involved a pickup window somewhere.

One day I chose Wendy's for my post-work freedom celebration. I'd had a rough shift at the warehouse where I shipped small kitchen appliance orders, and I approached the Wendy's drive-through thinking about everything that had gone wrong.

I had so much on my mind that I forgot I had no cup holders.

I ordered a large root beer.

I paid for my meal and proceeded with a giant cup clenched between my legs. But I didn't get far before the trade-off between my clutch foot and my gas foot tipped the drink onto its side. Reflex forced my eyes down to the root beer pooling in my seat.

Ahhh!

I grabbed the cup just as the car lurched over the curb.

AHHH!!

I jerked the steering wheel to the left--too far--and sent the car across the drive and past the other curb. With a thud and a crunch, the car wedged itself between a bush and the restaurant's outer wall.

Well, great.

My face went hot. The engine screamed as I shifted to reverse and tapped, then floored, the gas. The car didn't budge.

Seeing no escape unless she helped me out of my predicament, the person coming out of the drive-through behind me got out of her car and pushed with me. Two onlookers jumped in, too. But even the four of us together couldn't move my car.

Time to face the public.

By the time the door swung closed behind me in the Wendy's dining room, a crowd had gathered at the counter to complain. The drive-through hasn't moved in fifteen minutes! If they just had looked outside they'd understand.

Here went nothing.

I cleared my throat and shouted over the commotion, "DOES ANYBODY HAVE A TOW ROPE?"

Every eye in Wendy's fell on me. Then, as one, they looked outside and saw my car. I don't know how anyone could have missed the red sedan with its nose pushed practically against the window. But I won a little bit of sympathy.

A big guy in a cowboy hat approached me from his table. He looked the type I should be grateful didn't end up stuck behind my car in line. "I've got a tow rope," he said, pulling keys out of his pocket. With the power of his pickup truck and my first three volunteers assisting, we finally pulled my car away.

I thanked my rescuers then drove home and changed my pants. I didn't go near that Wendy's again for months.

Several years passed before I let my parents know what happened. By then the humiliation had worn off and I was happy to point out the streak of paint I left.

Every time I saw that mark I smiled. For years the Wendy's drive-through bore the symbol of my wild youth, whispering to all who passed that Nathan Cunningham was here.

A small piece of me died with the remodel. I still search for my old paint mark when I visit.

I'll have to be more careful now the walls are made of glass.

Desire Plus Danger Equals Drama: a Bedtime Story

The most compelling fiction follows Murphy's law: if anything can go wrong, it will.

One of my favorite parts of writing is the challenge to make my characters' lives worse with every chapter. Who wants to read a novel about the cheerful folks of Happy Town? 

Unless Happy Town is actually kind of creepy.
Image credit: Lindsay Koch

That's precisely why I'd never want to jump into the world of even my most beloved story. I'd likely die within a week.

Compared to characters like Mo LoBeau or Jimmy Kudo, I'm a total softy. While they're out there solving crimes and having drama, I max out on suspense just putting my kids to bed.   

In my defense, though, bedtime can get seriously intense. And, like any novel, it can also illustrate the useful "3D" writing technique: Desire plus Danger equals Drama.

For example:

After yesterday's Labor Day activities, my wife and kids and I got home in time to rush into pajamas and set alarm clocks extra early. My wife had a meeting to attend this morning, so we hoped everyone could fall asleep quickly.

Except the boys fell asleep in the car.

The frustrating thing about toddlers is that no matter how exhausted they may seem before they fall asleep, they get more energy back in a ten-minute nap than I get in an entire night. If you wake them up, it's all over.

So you can understand the threat this situation posed to our plan.

Image credit: James Valeii

Unfortunately the local bomb squad told us to stop calling them, so we had to extricate our sleeping children from the car ourselves.

My wife took the two-year-old. I took the one-year-old.

The car seat buckle clicked free. One strap over--don't catch those fingers--good. Next strap. Slide it off slowly . . . no, no, no, stop squirming! I'm not here! I'm not here!

Good.

At our front doorstep I fumbled in my pocket as the one-year-old crinkled his forehead against the cold breeze. Don't wake up. Don't wake up. 

My fingers trembled on the key ring then let go, sending the keys to the ground with a clatter. I stooped to pick them up again. The child flailed his arms.

Don't wake up. Don't wake up.

The boys remained asleep as we shed shoes inside the house and sneaked back toward their room. I lowered the little one into his crib and waited.

Waited.

Just when I thought we had succeeded and could finally retreat, the two-year-old whimpered.

He begged for a drink.

He demanded a story.

He insisted on brushing his teeth.

Then he screamed.

The one-year-old jerked awake. Red alert. Red alert. Red alert. I rubbed his back and did my best impression of sea waves. I sang. I bartered with the Universe.

But it was too late.

The boys didn't sleep again for hours.

Image credit: Bundoo

Of course, since I can't turn off my writing brain, I mentioned to my wife at some point during this ordeal that the tension there could go into a book. I thought specifically of the 3D formula: our desire to get to bed on time was endangered by the boys' transition from the car.

And that's all the drama I can handle right now, thank you very much.

I'm just glad I don't live in a book.

You Probably Don't Want Your Own Entrance Music

After next month, my wife and I will have three children under three. 

Which will basically make us hermits. One of us might slip out now and then to go to work or buy some food, but you won't see all of us out in public any time soon.

So we have to change some things. Like our activity in the community orchestra--because we just can't do that to a babysitter every week, you know?

Image credit: Meme Generator

Our short-term solution for the orchestra, at least, is to trade off concerts. I get the fall concert, my wife gets Christmas, etc. It stinks not going together, but it's a small price to pay to keep ourselves in practice and in the company of adults. 

I always love returning to the orchestra after our summer break. Another concert season brings fresh faces and new music to our group. It's fun to see what we end up with.

I hate being late for the first rehearsal, though. Especially if I'm alone. And as fate would have it, I did a terrible job planning dinner last night, so I walked in half an hour after we were supposed to start. 

I wondered what music would already be traveling down the hallway as I entered the school where we rehearse. The fall concert can be difficult to predict; in the past we've played a wide variety of pieces, from Mussorgsky's Night on Bald Mountain and Saint-Saëns' Danse Macabre to Ralph Vaughan Williams' English Folk Song Suite. There's usually some kind of Halloween theme, but not always.

As much as I didn't know what to expect, what I heard . . . wasn't what I expected.

I made my entrance at the height of Wagner's majestic Bridal Chorus. You know the song.

Here comes the bride,

All dressed in white,

Sweetly serene in the soft glowing light. . . .

My seat was clear across the room.

Awkward.

Image credit: pak101.com

Luckily everyone else was busy reading music, so pretty much only the violin sections took any notice of my arrival. And I might have gotten a look from the flute section. But it had nothing to do with Wagner. 

Even still, I've changed my mind about entrance music. It's definitely not for me.

5 Liberating Reasons to Feel Better About Your Messy House

A clean home is a matter of pride for me. If I know someone's coming over, I'll spend the entire week getting ready because my guests deserve the best and if so-and-so says one more word about my kitchen/living room/etc., I'm gonna flip my lid. 

When my house isn't tidy, I can't concentrate. I can hardly even breathe.

I guess you could call me a clean freak.

Unfortunately, between kids and a debilitating chronic illness, I usually end up with more of a crime scene than a Better Homes and Gardens cover. The house doesn't even move and I still can never keep up with it.

Image credit: Leanne Cooke

But you know, it's not all bad. If you have the same problem I do, here are five things you can feel better about the next time you want to burn your house down and start from scratch (or go live in the woods--whatever):

1. A Messy House Can Save You Money

Nothing keeps you on a budget better than knowing you have to find a place for everything you buy.

When you think of stores as clutter factories, you can put more cash away for a vacation far away from all those piles of laundry and stacks of dishes.

2. Your Mess Can Keep You Safe

Speaking of saving money, how does free home security sound to you?

I'd never tell them this, but I love it when my children leave their toys out when they go to bed. No one makes a louder entry than an intruder who lands on Duplo pieces scattered underneath a window. And why buy an alarm when anyone who opens the front door will nudge to life that obnoxious singing school bus?

3. Your Mess Can Get You Out of Hosting Stuff

Don't get me wrong: I love having people over. I've spent enough time in the South to learn a thing or two about hospitality.

But social gatherings can be exhausting enough without playing host. Sometimes it's just easier to admit what a disaster zone your house is and go somewhere else.

Get creative so your friends appreciate your effort to flake out of hosting. You might say a Sharknado came through. Or that the aurora borealis appeared at this time of year, at this time of day, in this part of the country, localized entirely within your kitchen. There's really no wrong way about it.

Image credit: Michelle

4. You Can Make Your Friends Feel Better About Their Own Messy Houses

I can't tell you how many times I've visited friends who apologized for their messes. I usually tell them, "That's okay; you should see my place!"

Of course what I really mean is, "I'm glad we're here where I can walk in a straight line without breaking something and for the love of all that is holy do not come see my place."

In any case, it's nice to help friends feel better about themselves.

5. Your Kids Will Grow Up

It's easy to complain and joke about cleaning. There will always be dishes to clean, floors to mop, clothes to put away. It will never end.

But children don't stay small forever.

Someday they'll stop getting into everything. They'll stop leaving fingerprints on windows, coloring on walls, throwing gobs of food.

And someday they won't want to cuddle. They won't need another story or another song. They'll be too big to hold your hand, or get excited about wrapping paper, or watch the shows they got you hooked on in the first place.

My heart feels empty just thinking about it.

I know kids need a safe, clean place to live. And of course I want to keep my home as clean as possible. I work hard for that each day, even when I fall behind.

But as much as I want to someday welcome guests without rushing a pile of laundry from the couch to my bedroom, I want even more for my children to remember what I did with them. I want to read them stories, play pretend, and rock them to sleep in my arms as long as they will let me. I want them to remember that I always had time for them.

I want them to remember how much love was in our home.

When they grow up, I'll still have a house to clean.

At least that's what I tell myself when--yet again--I trip on that dang singing school bus.

Why Two Years of Extreme Blogging Inspire Me to Keep a Journal

Ten years ago I created a monster.

It was two weeks before my senior year of high school. I drove my dad's white pickup truck. Verizon Wireless had just released the LG Chocolate, a cutting-edge phone that could play MP3s. Gamers eagerly awaited the revolutionary Nintendo Wii. And MSN Messenger was the place to hang out when you couldn't hang out.

Back then, in the days before Facebook, blogging was the medium of choice for many who wanted to share their lives with the world. A bunch of kids I went to school with had blogs. Folks I'd met on message boards had blogs. Everybody had a blog.

Everyone except me.

But I didn't really want a blog. What would I even write about? The Lego blogosphere was already saturated, and I didn't have the kinds of interesting ideas friends like Chris Thatcher constantly thought up.

If I started a blog, it probably wouldn't last a week.

Ha.

I tried to resist, but eventually the sense of community and exchange of ideas drew me in. Ten years ago this week, I wrote my first blog post:

Well, I finally caved... I got my own blog. I never thought I'd do it, but here I am. Senior year is starting soon, and I want to remember everything about it... well, almost everything. That's the biggest reason behind this blog. Based on a True Story really is based on the true story of an average guy--me--trying to survive in this world. It'll make you laugh, it'll make you cry, and some parts will make you vote Republican. In any case, I sincerely hope you enjoy reading my thoughts as I put them here, and that you check back often. Feel free to comment on anything and everything I say using the comment option at the bottom of each post; I do care what you think, after all, and it'd be pretty cool for yourself to make your voice heard.

Welcome to my blog!

~Nathan Cunningham--The Great Sly Pig

Oh, and anyone who lives in my area and has a blog, or anyone in general with a Lego blog, please let me know so we can put each other in our links.

I posted three times that first day.

Six hundred times in two years.

The Internet wasn't ready. I became a blogging machine.

My blog got so big so fast I had to close it to the public after I left home to serve an LDS mission. Even though I made no posts there as a missionary, I found myself using too much of my weekly hour of computer time managing new comments from Google-borne strangers. I was distracted. The commenters were often nosy or creepy or contentious. It was just a mess.

But I still treasure that blog nearly a decade later. Out of all my blogs--and I've had a lot--that one's my favorite. I learned a lot about myself and my ideas through that blog. I met some of my dearest friends through that blog. And it's the most detailed, consistent journal I've ever had.

Those memories are such precious things.

Image credit: Your Dictionary

I've changed a lot since I wrote on that old blog. I've achieved so many of the things I used to dream about there: a college education, a family, a career I love (even if I am just starting). Young Nathan would be proud.

But if I have just one regret about my life since then, it would be not writing things down. Hardly any journal entries exist from my courtship with my wife, our marriage, or any of our children's lives.

Young Nathan would be devastated. And maybe someday old Nathan will be, too.

I have a lot to learn from the obsessive record keeper I used to be. And I'm sure my adolescent self can teach me even more than how to write a journal.

So I'm doing something fun for myself and reading through my old blog posts, ten years after they were written. I'm following them the way my readers did, one day at a time, as if it were all happening again.

Of course there's the high school writing to deal with, and I shake my head at some of my ideas. But more than anything, I've truly enjoyed the time I've spent so far getting to know myself again. I look forward to what's to come.

Image credit: Chris Graham

At the very least, I have an all-access pass into a teenage brain should I ever want to write a YA novel.

At best, though, I hope to rediscover some good habits I may have lost over the past few years. I also hope to find some memories I can share with friends to reconnect with them.

And, hopefully, I may figure out how my younger self found so much dang time to write. 

Nine Weird Things Writers Do

I'll just come out and say it: writers are weird. Who else would take the time to play God to imaginary universes and put it all on paper? In the age of Netflix?!

Writing is certainly a labor of love. We have to love it, or we wouldn't do it. But it does make us do some truly abnormal things--like these nine head scratchers:

We Spy on People

We're not trying to be creepers. Honest. It's just a credibility thing: how can we write realistic action or dialogue if we don't know how real people move and talk?

The next time you read a stilted conversation in a novel, I want you to imagine how much better it would have been if that author had done a bit more eavesdropping.

Then go ahead and talk a little louder in the restaurant. A writer will thank you.

We Talk to Ourselves

Here's one of the top five questions writers constantly ask themselves: Does this sound stupid?

Thinking out loud sometimes helps us resolve tricky plot issues, test dialogue, or create timelines. Reading a manuscript out loud helps us catch subtle errors and reword awkward phrases.

My two-year-old is looking at me funny right now as I read this blog post out loud. He's not the first.

We Talk to People Who Don't Exist

Crafting multi-dimensional characters can take at least as much effort as plotting and world building. Every author has his or her own strategy to accomplish this, but many like to personally interview their characters.

As for me, there's an imaginary café I like to take my characters to for lunch. We get a table by an open window with a planter box and lots of foot traffic outside. Whether or not these things appear directly in my story, I can learn a lot about my characters by what they say about people walking by and what they order from the menu.

The lead female protagonist of my current project, Em, likes to get the fettuccine Alfredo. Her male counterpart, Roy, is more of a Hasselback potato kind of guy, which surprised me at first but totally works.

Image credit: Pinterest

We Edit Everything

It's a curse, really: I can't read anything without mentally correcting the grammar or rearranging the words to flow better. Doesn't matter if it's the Bible or the local news.

On my first date with my wife, I took a pencil to a sign to reflect the proper use of Your/You're. The sign bothered my date as much as it bothered me, because she's a writer, too.

Please send help. And while you're at it, fix all these.

We Look Up Words We Already Know

If you saw my search history on Dictionary.com, you'd probably think I was some kind of moron. Who has to look up words like forward, between, wind, or rough? A writer overly obsessed with precision, that's who.

While it's easy to understand needing to double check the exact difference between, say, bucolic and pastoral, one might raise an eyebrow if they caught me comparing the definitions of smile, grin, and smirk. But it's worth it if I can replace something like "smiled mischievously" with a single, specific verb!

And even though I once got especially anxious and looked up then, there, and for, I end up being right anyway at least 95 percent of the time. The dictionary just makes me feel better.

We Study Everything

When people ask me what I studied in college, I sometimes answer, "Everything!"

That's not far from the truth. For a short story I wrote in a fiction class, I researched America's most dangerous highways and how much fuel NASA rockets use for takeoff (3,821,722 pounds, by the way).

In a playwriting course, I looked at the different types of marimba mallets, as well as statistics on music store closures, just to get to know a couple of my characters.

While writing an essay on an experience I had at Scout camp, I read an entire book on the geologic history of the Uinta Mountains. I only used one or two small details from the book, but it was worth my time for the extra authenticity it breathed into my writing--not to mention the sheer joy of learning.

Writers are like sponges; we soak up everything we can about the world around us so we can present it in creative ways. Even fantasy authors dabble in real-world subjects like geography, history, and herpetology.

That's a step up from the common notion of hipster-bearded academics analyzing Shakespeare.

Image credit: Pinterest

We Plan Crimes We Don't Commit

Speaking of research, sometimes writers take an interest in matters of questionable legality. All for the story, of course.

Think about it: why write a totally unrealistic explosion when you could learn how bombs actually work?

Why should you make a fool of yourself by guessing at the price of cocaine, or how fast anthrax could spread in New York City?

Readers love authenticity. And in this line of work, the surest way to maintain credibility is to get the NSA breathing down your neck.

Image credit: imgur

We Work Naked

Okay, only some of us work naked. I haven't. But how many jobs can you think of where that's even allowed?

As a writer, I can work wherever, whenever, and wearing whatever I want to get the creative juices flowing. I can flop barefoot into my living room recliner wearing basketball shorts, and I am at work. And my setup isn't even interesting compared to other writers'. Shoot, Tom Wolfe used to use the top of his refrigerator as his desk and write standing. No judgments here.

We Write Even When We're Not Writing

Everything we do eventually winds up in our writing. We may overhear a bit of conversation and file it away for dialogue. We may find a new character in a stranger on the bus. A hike in the mountains could inspire a whole new plot.

You know what my current novel started with? Lego sets and Final Fantasy VII. I may not look like it, but everywhere I go I'm working.

Everywhere I go, I'm writing.

Inspiration comes in every form--which gives me the perfect excuse to go play laser tag.


There are as many writerly quirks as there are writers. Do you have something to add to this list? Let's hear it in the comments!