Friday, August 26, 2016

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.

Tuesday, August 23, 2016

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.

Friday, August 19, 2016

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. 

Friday, August 12, 2016

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!

Monday, August 8, 2016

Why My Child Talks to Mittens

I need to be more careful about planning things.

So last week I totally spaced on Family Home Evening until my two-year-old begged for us to have it. Family Home Evening is a tradition in my church where families set aside one night a week just to be together--no staying late at work, no soccer practice, no international espionage (unless your family's into that sort of thing), and there's often an element of spiritual instruction, too. Every family does it differently. In our house, we usually take turns choosing songs to sing, praying, sharing a scripture, teaching a lesson, and picking a board game or some other fun activity.

I believe in Family Home Evening. I'm just not great at it.

So my two-year-old usually has to remind me. And of course I forgot it was my turn to give the lesson last week. But if I gained anything from college that will ever benefit my children, it's my ability to improvise.

"Tonight," I announced at the start of the lesson, "Daddy has invited a special friend to join us!"

"Did you hear that?" said my wife. "Daddy's friend is coming!" As I hurried toward the coat closet, she gave me a look that said I'll play along, but this better be good.

"I just called him," I said. Dig, dig, dig--where is it? "He says he's almost here!"

I grabbed the first object lesson-worthy thing I could find in the dark closet and shut the door.

"Do you hear that? I think he's coming up the stairs!"

I knocked on the closet door. "He's heeeeere!" my son cheered.

I opened the closet again. "Hi!" I said. "I'm so glad you could make it. Come on in; my family's excited to meet you."

My son jumped onto my wife's lap, where I also plopped our special guest: a mitten someone gave my son for Christmas last year.

"Allow me to introduce my friend, Mr. Mitten! Say hello, Mr. Mitten!"

The mitten just sat there. My son stared at it, then looked up at me and giggled the way he always does when Daddy's being silly.

"I said, 'Say hello, Mr. Mitten!'"

Still nothing, except for a slightly harder laugh from my son.

"Can Mr. Mitten talk?" I asked.

"No!"

"Can Mr. Mitten move?"

"No!"

"What does he need?"

If you're LDS--and especially if you've ever taught an LDS children's Sunday School class--you've probably seen this analogy a million times. The glove is the body, but without a hand inside--the spirit--it remains lifeless. I explained this concept to my two-year-old: how our spirits are what make us alive, and that when we die, it's like taking a hand out of a glove. As spirits we leave our bodies on earth, but we return to our Heavenly Father and get to live with Him.

I crammed my thumb and a couple of fingers into the tiny mitten, and it sprung to life--along with my squeaky falsetto voice. "Hello there! Pleased to meet you!"

And then the mitten sang.

I lived in Heaven a long time ago, it is TRUUUUUUUUUUE;
Lived there and loved there with people I know. So did YOOOOOOOOOOU.
Then Heavn'ly Father presented a beautiful PLAAAAAAAAAAN,
All about earth and eternal salvation for MAAAAAAAAAAN.
(Children's Songbook, p. 4)

Both boys rolled with laughter. Even my wife validated me with a little laugh at the end of each line. Mr. Mitten was a hit!

Mr. Mitten: a better entertainer than I will ever be.

He sang a few more songs then took a bow. "Thank you! Thank you!" he said. "I'm here till Thursday!"

Then I chucked him back into the coat closet.

Fast forward to last night. My two-year-old was sitting on his mother's lap when he said, "We're just waiting for Daddy's friend to come over."

"What friend?" my wife asked. "Nathan, we're not expecting anyone tonight, are we?"

I made a mental scan of every conversation I'd had that weekend. "Nnnooooo . . . ?"

"Daddy's friend is coming over!" my son said.

"Who?"

"Mr. Mitten!"

Uh-oh.

"Umm," I said. "I think he forgot. Let me call him."

Look at me: I'm calling a mitten on the phone.

"Hi, Mr. Mitten! How's it going? . . . I'm glad to hear it. Hey, were you coming over tonight? . . . I see. Well, my boys would love to see you again. . . . I'll let them know. They'll be so excited; see you soon!"

I "hung up" the phone. "Guess what, buddy? Mr. Mitten says he has to finish dinner, but then he's coming over!"

And man, I'll tell you, that mitten got a more ecstatic welcome than I ever got coming home from anything. He sang a few songs, made my kids laugh, got the rock star treatment.

And then my son walked around for a couple hours with Mr. Mitten on his hand.

One mitten. Like Michael Jackson.

Next thing I know he'll be telling me to beat it.
Image credit: B@MJ Celebrity Collection

I brought this on myself. Winging things has always gotten me in trouble; I should have just remembered Family Home Evening.

But Mr. Mitten is here to stay. He's part of the family now.

And, Heaven help me, I just called a mitten he.
 
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