Kickstarter Day One in the Books!

Click the image to be taken to the campaign page!

 

I PROMISE I will not be journaling every day of this Kickstarter campaign. Well, at least not publicly. However, as we reach the 24-hour mark of the campaign, I thought I’d share some beautiful words from my friend S.D. Smith that in the way that only he can, express what the past season in my life has been. It’s a wonderful metaphor for the sort of “daring greatly” which I wrote about a bit last week in the lead up to the campaign. I’m thoroughly grateful for all the support and love Tumbleweed has been shown. For now, though, here are some words from Sam. Here’s the link to the full post.

Give us a chance, and we will give you our hearts. We will expose our hearts to be shot at. It is a brave thing to stick your neck out in a world full of flashing swords. Few are brave enough to stick out their soft, supple necks, but everyone has a sword. Everyone loves to use their swords. Swords are easy to use. It’s easy to go around chop, chop, chopping.

 

He’s exactly right, you know. And if there’s one truth that this experience has taught me so far is that exposing your heart to the world, as Sam puts it, is  dangerous and stupid and necessary in making anything that matters.

But it’s also so, so beautiful.

So, thanks for Day One. And here’s to a lot more to get where we’re going on this crazy journey together.

 

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Daring Greatly, Part Two: Waking Up on Mars

 

Note: In the days leading up to the launch of the Kickstarter campaign for my middle grade frontier adventure novel The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson on Tuesday, April 17, I’m sharing my story of how I ended up here. You can read the introductory post here, and Part One, “Into the Mist” here. Find out more about the Kickstarter campaign here. 

“I opened my eyes upon a strange and weird landscape.”

So opens Chapter 3 of The Princess of Mars, Edgar Rice Burroughs’ fantastic tale of John Carter, a Civil War soldier who staggers into a cave and awakens to find himself inexplicably transported across the galaxy to the planet Barsoom, also known as Mars.

It’s a helpful reference point for me these days. Because, if I’m being honest, the past season of life, I’ve felt a lot like our friend Captain Carter.

Yesterday, I wrote about the inspiration provided by a cloud of witnesses who nudged me out into the open waters of daring greatly as an independent artist. Today, I want to explain what that season of preparation has been like.

There are seasons in life when you awaken on Mars. You find yourself transported to a new galaxy, where the landscape is alien and you’ve got no idea where to go next. Home and the familiar seem a long way off. Sometimes, those experiences are not of our own making. We’re thrust into them like John Carter, blindsided by the transporting moments of disease or tragedy. Other times, we make choices which, though we don’t know it at the time, lead us to the cliff. 

But whether it’s a decision of our own making or not, we reach the precipice just the same, and realize that we’ve been transported to a strange land, and the only acceptable action is to embrace the change and accept the challenges afforded by the new surroundings.

And that’s where I find myself today.

I believe there is an Author to the story, the One whom, if we listen carefully enough, we can hear and see working through the people, places, and situations of our own experiences. The Author shapes and moves, and when we reflect and commune with Him, we gain valuable wisdom and perspective on our story, and our place in the Big Story. So it’s through contemplation and conversation with friends about the twists and turns of my own story that I see more clearly the significance of how I got here. 

Though it was more gradual than John Carter, I woke up on Mars just the same. I made the decision to strike out on the path of an independent artist, or entrepreneur, or both, which in a lot of ways is a life lived on an alien planet. I’ve got a “day job,” a family, friends, responsibilities to church and community. But I’ve also got this other life. Yep, just like Bruce Wayne, I’m walking around as a “normal guy” most of the time. But when the Bat Signal of obligation to this artistic life shines in the skies, it’s time to go to work.

After the decision to go indie came, many other realizations followed, dark, scary realizations. How does this story get Out There? What about the connections needed to make it travel? What about resources? And, the one I feel most keenly – what happens after I take the plunge? What happens after I dare greatly?

“Jump off the cliff, and learn how to make wings on the way down,” said Ray Bradbury.

I feel ya, Ray. As launch time beckons, I’m realizing there’s no way to anticipate what will happen after the plunge off the cliff.

Which brings me back to John Carter. Fortunately, blessedly, there’s one key difference between me and Captain Carter:

I’m not waking up on Mars alone.

That’s because, also this past year, friends have come out of the woodwork to join hands and wrap their arms around me in encouragement. They believe this story should be shared. They believe in what I’m doing. And, most importantly, they believe in me. Win or lose, they’re with me. That means a lot.

But isn’t one of the hardest things a person can do is to accept the affirmation and belief of another person during a time when they don’t feel it themselves? Even if it’s a belief in a gifting that I believe in myself. When it comes to leaping off the cliff and waiting for the wing-building, no amount of self-confidence or self-belief is going to suffice. Because the voices, the Resistance, whatever you want to call them, are relentless and hungry. They never stop picking you apart. But this blessed community is also relentless. And I’m choosing to let them stand in the gap for me.

That’s the difference. Daring greatly solo? Dead in the water. Daring greatly with your people around you? That’s the wind in the sails.

Here’s one final picture:

A spindly, wide-eyed 10-year old version of me falls asleep tingling with anticipation for the next day’s trip to Disney World. He’s in a bed approximately 20 miles from the front gates, and at the sheer nearness of the park, the wonders the next day will hold, he’s rendered an insomniac. Finally, blessedly, just as it seems his eyes have only the previous moment fluttered shut, he’s awakened by a whispered voice in his ear – “It’s time. Let’s go.” His dad shakes him on the shoulder, and his eyes flip open.

He remembers.

It’s time.

Let’s go.

These are the whispered words I’ve heard in my ear. The Spirit has awakened this slumbering dreamer to a vision of a new season of calling and creativity.

I didn’t go looking for Mars. But I found it.

And I’m ready to go.

Daring Greatly, Part One: Into the Mist

Note: In the days leading up to the Kickstarter campaign for my middle grade frontier adventure novel The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson, I’m sharing my story of how I ended up here. You can read yesterday’s introductory post here, and find out more about the Kickstarter campaign here. 

I’m not sure when the story really begins, but probably the best place to start would be a bluegrass concert at a small church in suburban Nashville five years ago this fall. I was in town for a conference, and at dinner that Thursday night, I’d struck up a conversation with a kindred spirit (there were a lot of those at that conference, as I recall) named Chris. He was an English teacher from Chattanooga, a songwriter, and a self-described “old soul” with a kind face and a willingness to gush along with me over The Great Gatsby and Huckleberry Finn.

Two kids, bookish, thirty-something. In a lot of ways, Chris was just like me. But, there was one key difference. Chris had just released his second album, this one a collection of six songs which he financed himself, released himself, and was marketing himself through a grueling series of “house-concert” tours which saw Chris traverse the nation in his Honda. He was all in.

When I heard more of Chris’ story as we kept in contact over the months that followed, I came to understand just how seriously he was taking this pursuit. He seemed to exist in a third space, somewhere between the world of the casual dabbler and the corporate mainstream artist. It was a space I didn’t really know existed, or at least, didn’t have a face to associate with.

This third space, I soon learned, was the space of the indie artist. But Chris wasn’t the only one. Soon, I met others, like recording artists Eric Peters and Randall Goodgame, author Sam Smith, and potter Eddy Eefaw. Some were, like me, writing books, others making pottery. Some were graphic designers, others illustrators. Some were making it their sole revenue stream. Others had “day jobs.” The one thing they had in common was their passion for their craft and a desire to connect with people, to incarnate their values and ship their art. And, at some point, they’ve felt a sense of calling so keen it’s led them to step inside the arena, to dare greatly by moving forward on a path fraught with risk and take their work out to the larger world, assuming all the psychological and financial risks associated with it.

A bit of background: prior to meeting Chris, I’d gone the “non-indie” route. For the better part of a decade I’d chased publication through traditional models to no avail. It was some gnarly combination of bad luck, bad timing, and – I’ll be honest – bad writing that left me feeling cold to the whole process. Nothing will erode your sense of vision and self-worth faster than rejection from the almighty Gate-Keepers. They’re necessary to the process, but man, can they vacuum the wind out of your sails in a hurry. I’ve no willingness to begrudge anyone their choices, but for me, that path had become a dead end.

And that’s where the tension arose. Like Chris, I had a passion for my craft and a passion for my audience. I wanted to share stories with readers who hungered for truth, goodness, and beauty. And I knew, or at least had a strong suspicion, that I was good enough, that I had the chops to make a go at it.

But what next?

Fast forward to about a year ago. I’ve got a finished novel, a wild and woolly middle grade yarn about two boys growing up in frontier America. The feedback has been good. Folks are even asking when the novel’s going to be published. And I’m feeling this itch, strengthened by my continued interactions with those indie artists who have dared greatly, that the time for action is approaching. 

There’s a line from a song in the brilliant musical drama Sing Street: “You’re never going to go if you never go now/you’re never going to know if you don’t find out.”

And that’s where I was. I had to find out. Everything was packed for the journey, but like Bilbo, I had to allow my Tookish side to win the debate in order to set out on the open road. So, last June, I made the first arrangements for the journey. And the past 10 months have meant moving further into liminal space

Have you done any reading about the concept of liminal space? It’s a “place-between-places,” when the lines have been cut and the boat is heading out into open waters. What makes liminal space so uncertain is losing sight of the land, any reference point. It’s by its nature uncertain and frightening. But it can also be exciting. Remember, Bilbo left home, but he got to see mountains. And wear really cool armor.

I don’t know the outcome of this journey. But as a believer in a God who has revealed Himself to me through the grace of faithful friends and family, I move forward in strict confidence that I will not be left or forsaken. My little coracle is sailing out into open waters. My baggage is tucked safely inside. I have everything I need with me. 

It’s time to dare greatly.

In Part Two I want to focus a bit on my story of living with the aftermath of making this decision to walk into the arena. It’s a bit like waking up on Mars. I’ll explain more tomorrow. 

I hope you’ll join me.

 

Daring Greatly: An Introduction

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Maybe you’ve heard of this speech or read it before. It was delivered by Teddy Roosevelt in April, 1910 in France, and is often called “The Man in the Arena” speech. Powerful stuff. Until recently, when reading this speech, I’d focused mostly on the first sentence, the one which begins, “It is not the critic who counts…” and read these remarks as an attempt to dismiss criticism as unimportant because the critic is not the one in the fight.

But after reading Brene Brown’s remarkable book Daring Greatly last month, I’ve found much more in common with the end of this passage. And that’s what I want to focus on today. The second sentence begins with this phrase:

“the credit belongs to the [person] … who strives valiantly … who at the best knows … the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly…”

If he fails, he at least fails while daring greatly.

In Brown’s book, she applies the idea of “daring greatly” to a whole number of scenarios in life. But in the context of making something, producing a good or service, following a personal calling, this idea was powerful for me.

You may have heard that next week, I’m launching a Kickstarter campaign for my middle grade novel The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson, a frontier adventure book for young readers that’s part Tom and Huck, part Homer Price, and hopefully a real hoot.

I thought it might be interesting to share a bit of explanation about the process leading to this decision. So, over the next couple of days, I’ll be posting a bit about why this season in my life finds me daring greatly, how I got here, and what perils and questions are part of the process.

I hope in some way these posts will help to encourage you on your path of making things, whatever those things are. Maybe you’ll discover, like I have, that you’re more capable of daring greatly, of striking out in pursuit of something you’ve always dreamed of doing. Wouldn’t that be cool?

This is my story. Maybe in some measure, it’s yours.

Cover Reveal: The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson

Here it is – the cover for The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson, a middle grade frontier adventure novel that’s part Tom and Huck, part Homer Price, and hopefully a whole lot of fun! That insanely awesome cover painting is courtesy of Joe Sutphin. If you haven’t already, check out some of the other awesome books he’s illustrated, or follow him on Kickstarter. The equally-insanely talented designer Brannon McAllister pulled the whole thing together, and honestly, I’m gobsmacked by the beauty of it.

I hope really soon to share with you the story of how this cover came together. It’s a great story. But, for now, I hope you’ll enjoy seeing this little taste of the novel you’ll be able to pre-order really soon.

About that – your chance to pre-order The Misadventured Summer of Tumbleweed Thompson begins Tuesday, April 17, when our Kickstarter campaign launches. If you haven’t already, sign up for my newsletter to stay informed on the latest with Tumbleweed!

And here’s a fun video announcing the cover reveal I made last week: