Category: job

The Script of our Life

I find myself returning to the question of free will versus predestination, or, if you must be theatrical about it, is the script of our life written by us or Someone else? That begs the subsequent question: if our script is written for us, do we have to perform it as written?

The fires down in Pacific Palisades and other parts of the Los Angeles area certainly weren’t imagined by anyone, other than the gloomy forecasters working for Cal Fire or various insurance companies or whichever crystal ball company out there that spends a little money on R&D or product testing. I mean, who would’ve written a script like that if you’re writing your own script?

I was recently discussing the fires with a co-worker who used to belong to a local volunteer fire company. He said that, when you enter a house fire, it is so unbelievably hot that all of your mind and body bands together and shouts “Run!” But, he went on to say, if you’re part of a team, the psychology of the team effect overpowers that voice and you soldier on.

That’s an interesting metaphor for life. Life isn’t usually as crazy and intense as a whatever-degree fire blowing up in your face. However, the net effect of life can sneak up on you and, before you know it, your body and mind are advising you to run. A strong marriage combined with a healthy relationship with God are your team in that scenario; that’s usually enough to overpower the advice to run.

Hang in there. Keep reading the script, because it’ll end well, particularly if you’ve got your eyes on God. Despite how dark or fiery it might be at the moment.

Speaking of scripts, I’m knee-deep in my secret script project. We’ve been working on this since around March/April of 2024. I’m not allowed to say what it is and who it’s for, but it should hopefully see the green-light of production day sometime in 2025. Hopefully. And then I’ll be free to talk about it. Fantastic project, but it is soaking up most of my limited free time that could be going to other writing projects (notably, a very light-hearted epic fantasy that I’ve been fiddling with for the last five years–almost done, but still needs some work; a humorous series of children’s stories set in modern America [inspired by Daniel Pinkwater’s writing]; a novella set in Tormay, post-Hawk and featuring one of the minor characters from that trilogy-this one’s probably about halfway finished).

What I am free to talk about, though, is Son #2’s music. His latest songs (written and recorded with JB Proof as his nom de guerre) are called Ever After and Leaving. They’re available mostly wherever music is available these days, but you can listen to them for free on Youtube. Pretty darn cool for a 15-year-old! He has about twenty songs out so far, and I’m fascinated by how his songwriting is evolving in terms of arrangement and structure.

Unexpected Absences

My apologies for neglecting this site for so long. Writing is a free-time occupation. Sadly, it takes place in the bits and pieces of hours that are not taken by my higher priorities: family, 8-5 job, church, community obligations.

Those priorities don’t leave a lot of time (I tend to get a lot of writing done when I’m spending untold weeks in the hospital or slowly dying at home–very productive!). However, a further complication these days is that I’ve been making mini-plunges back into the entertainment world. Writing for hire. I’m not at this point willing to say what shows, properties I’m writing for, but I’ll post links here, once the episodes go live.

While writing for hire isn’t as satisfying as writing my own stories, it certainly pays a lot better.

In other news, perhaps I’m way behind the eight ball, but I just read that Disney is doing a live action remake of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves. Except there are no dwarves. They are just…normal people? I’m not sure yet. I’ve read conflicting reports on that, in addition to some choice words from Peter Dinklage on the matter.

I have no real issue with Disney choosing to remake old stories. But…the sheer number of remakes does make me wonder. Is Hollywood running out of ideas? If so, why? And, if it is possible to run out of ideas, what does that say about the nature of the universe in terms of finite vs infinite? If matter is finite, is theoretical scope of creativity also finite?

 

Backyard Tractors

The backyard on a ranch can look a bit different than other backyards. Such as your backyard in Georgetown, downtown Chicago, Manhattan (may I never live in Manhattan), or Santa Monica. May I never live in any of those places. If there are a high number of tractors in the surrounding fifty square miles, then I will probably be good.

Here’s what is currently living in my backyard. Tractors. Pretty big ones. Not that big by Midwest commodity standards, but big enough for coastal California farming. My boys are pleased, that’s for certain. These New Hollands are pretty cool. They also come in a double-tire version which is great if you need to roll over a large battalion of gophers at one time.

In epic fantasy terms, these tractors are the equivalent of ogres, large trolls, small dragons, or even mid-sized giants.

Gotta love these track Cases. They’re cooler than the Challengers that Caterpillar makes, but people around here tend to use Challengers more.

Rearrange Dirt

garbageMy life revolves around farming. It has to, of course, because I certainly don’t make a living from writing books or any other sort of creative pursuit. I live on a ranch, I work on ranches, I drive through and past ranches every day. I have mud all over my car, in my car, in my house (no matter how often we vacuum). Dirt everywhere. The dirt is important, if you haven’t caught my focus yet.

From the dirt we came, from it we were formed, and to it we shall return.

The dirt is where most of our lives originate. At least, in one sense. Food grows from it, whether you are an herbivore or an omnivore. In the case of omnivores, we also eat a plant-based diet, merely one step removed. Building materials, elements for computers, batteries, cars, dishwashers and windmills–it all comes from the dirt.

Dirt is inexorable. That’s not much of a surprise, as different aspects of creation tend to reflect different aspects of the creator.

However, even though this humble refrigerator, which someone so kindly decided to share with us by dumping it on a ranch (along with a bonus suitcase), originated from the dirt, I’m not that happy to see it return. Not to this particular dirt.

I suppose some might wonder if the abandoner was simply an artist creating art. After all, there’s a good argument that this superbly placed refrigerator, with accompanying suitcase, is more artistic than a banana duct-taped to the wall. But then again, there are many crazy people in the world.

One of my favorite winter pastimes is chasing away teenagers who come to go off-roading in their four-wheel drives. They rearrange the dirt a little too aggressively. They dig gouges in the roads. They spray mud all over the place. They also seem clueless, either deliberately or from true ignorance, of private property rights. I’ve caught a few of them, during which I lecture them on the error of their ways, pointing out that the farmer must spend time, labor and fuel (all equating to money, of course) on regrading the roads they’re ripping up.

And would the teenagers like me to come drive around on their front lawn? They usually stare back at me with glazed eyes, mouths slightly ajar, as if some crucial spark exited that door several months ago and never bothered to return.

Dirt. From dirt we come, the dirt we rearrange, and then to the dirt we return. Thank God there’s more to it than that.

Office Window in Winter

The view from my office window in winter is representational of the mildness of California. We are mild in all things except sanity. If you need to enjoy an extreme position or if you simply need to thaw out your frozen extremities due to living in the Dakotas, etc., then California is the state for you.

I’ve been trying to leave for decades, but I’m afraid this place is like a magnet to the recycled iron filings of my soul.