The ‘Freshly Pressed’ Fallout

Most WordPress writers hope to be Freshly Pressed someday. Back in June, when my post “Confessions of a Former Worship Leader” was chosen and featured, I danced a jig and nearly sprained my ankle. It was great, and now I bear the mark.

But don’t let those pesky WordPress editors fool you. It isn’t all daisies and sunshine. There’s fallout, baby. Aftermath. Radiation with no radioactive suit. I grew an extra eyeball on my elbow. True story.

Here’s what happened to me:

The Freshly Pressed Post-Press-Process 

Euphoria (I’m the best blogger ever!)

Addiction (It just feels so good…)

Depression (My stats are going down… )

Desperation (Just give me one more hit…)

Replication (I must recapture my former glory!)

While enduring this terrible Post-Press-Process, I trapped myself in a rabbit cage called Christian Today and labeled my name tag as the “Go-to church-criticism guy.”

(Just one more hit…)

See, there’s this inherent blogosphere rule that says the better you focus your blog towards capturing one audience, the faster your readership grows. After having a taste of sweet, sweet mass readership, I was hooked. Crystal Blue Persuasion had me, and I was damn well sure I’d corner the Christian blogger market any day with my product.

History is so Passé 

Before FP (because initials are cool), I was an average blogger, and I wrote whatever I wanted. Sure, I didn’t have a solid focus or steady readership but that was alright. I just wanted to write and get better at it. Sometimes, I wrote about being a Christian; other times, I wrote about Mexican food or getting my butt stuck in a car seat.

“Confessions…” was different. It was the most honest thing I’d ever written; my heart was entirely in it. I spent a year formulating drafts in my head, searching for the right words, finding ways to elucidate my complicated and awkward spiritual journey. It meant a lot to me to get it right. After a week or two of editing the actual draft, it finally worked. I clicked “Publish” (the button was heavier than normal that day).

What I’m getting at is that “Confessions” wasn’t normal nor was it ever meant to be a flagship. It was just a process that gave me healing, what I needed at the time. I hoped for it to resonate with one or two others.

But when “Confessions..” hit, everything changed. I was no longer just another average, over-churched burn-out. I was a Freshly Pressed over-churched burn-out! (Big difference okay).

I was given an audience who redefined my writing identity. I became one of those dumb cool-young-hip Christian bloggers.

First World-Blogger Problems

After the traffic died down and I was left with my wonderfully old (and new) subscribers, I noticed interesting stat patterns. The blogs I wrote about life, travel, and every-day-faith earned me decent traffic (better than before but not the consistency I was hoping for). The blogs I wrote about church-criticism nearly always doubled my traffic.

So as any red-blooded blogger would, I (fracked for crack) wrote more and more about the church even when it didn’t feel natural. Oddly enough, when the impulse was sincere, I usually talked myself out of it in favor of trying to “Grow.”

It’s like being stuck in some sort of.. Post-Pressed-Pressure…

IMG_3015

The awkward “Post-Pressed-Pressure-Pose”

My first thought: “Hey, maybe I should focus all my energies on church reform. People obviously want to hear what I have to say. And I do have more to say!”

My second thought: “Didn’t I leave the church?”

Then, after a root beer, my third thought: “Does this mean I have to join a church to stay current for my audience?”

Then, after a slice of pizza and an hour of Netflix, my fourth thought: “If I don’t write about the church then am I shooting my writing career in the foot?”

My fifth thought: Who do I write for, my audience or me?

Kevin’s Final Thought on Friday Show: Is this how one-hit wonders feel? “I want to play the new stuff.” But they like the old stuff. Give ‘em the old stuff. Old stuff or die. 

Old stuff or die.

Old stuff and die.

Epilogue/Backsliding

Christian-blogger is a stupid term. I think so, any way. C.S. Lewis wrote in an essay about how people shouldn’t look for labels to promote their faith, or book, or ideology, that what people cling to are the natural outputs. I’ve always felt that there’s nothing sincere about labels and agendas. It’s why American evangelism sucks. Instead of reaching out to serve and be sincere, we seek others only when philosophy conversion is possible or at least part of the conversation (as if people aren’t worth our time otherwise).

This is where I find myself today, with a reminder for you (but mostly for me): Be sincere, good people. Be sincere.

Mexican Food, Oh How I Miss Thee

My wife and I moved to Rochester, New York this Fall. We have yet to come across any good Mexican food. I’m sure it exist here in Western New York; it’s got to, right? In California, mexican food is ubiquitous. It’s a mass supply that begets demand in the most intrinsic, snobbish way. I’m damn proud of it.

Any southern Californian will tell you: Good mexican food is not created equal.

Want to know my review process for mexican restaurants? Of course you do! What else do you have going on anyway?

Kevin’s 5 Step Check Method

1. Do you remember the name of the business? In the world of Mexican dining, answering “yes” here is a bad sign. You should never, ever remember the name, only the food: “That taco truck on 4th,” or “Fatty Mexican burrito place on 7th.” If you do remember the name of the business, it’s because they’re selling you an image and a brand. Good mexican food needs neither.

2. Is the atmosphere authentic? Have you ever heard a Top 40s radio station in an ethnic restaurant? Isn’t it totally lame? Lady Gaga in a Mexican restaurant; Justin Bieber in an Italian bistro… Once, I ate at a Chinese restaurant and heard country music over the speakers (I wrote my congressman). For me, atmosphere is (almost) everything. Mariachi or bust.

3. Are you insecure when you order?  If there’s no awkwardness when your order, then it’s not authentic: “Polo… Poyo.. adob…” The menu should read in spanish, and those behind the counter should speak little or no english. Can a white man can make a good Mexican meal? Why not? But let’s be honest, who do you want making your torta, Abejundio? Or Larry?

4. How does the salsa/hot sauce/pico de gallo rate? The pico can make or break a restaurant for me; it can even upgrade a sub-par meal to “Great.” (After all, mexican food is about simplicity). A really good test for a new restaurant is to order the most basic Mexican meal ever: the bean and cheese burrito. Pour some pico or hot sauce on top and see what happens.

5. Are you afraid you might get sick? If you answered “yes,” then you are probably in the right place. Being afraid to sit down is a very, very good sign. In my experience, the more I worry about my safety and health, the better the food turns out. Here’s my advice: Find a decent middle ground to start in; you might have to build up your immune system up a bit.

What do you think? What do you look for in a good mexican restaurant? Any suggestions for Mexican food in Rochester?

The Best Writer in the Room (Give or Take 30 English Students)

As many of you know, I just started my Junior year here at the University of Rochester, NY. I’m studying entrepreneurship but also creative writing, as a minor. I’m a transfer student which means I came from a community college.

In the first week of school, my playwright professor led the class in a writing “Impulse” exercise. Basically, it goes like this:

You close your eyes and relax. A detailed scene is spoken before you and after a few quiet moments, you write non-stop for fifteen-minutes.

I’ve done these exercises before but have never really appreciated them. Often, other writers tell me the importance of writing a first draft non-stop without editing. Personally, I hate doing that. I don’t know why. I stop and read and edit. I’m positive it’s why my blog posts take so damn long.

Regardless, I did the impulse-exercise and the results came out as expected: a jumbled mess of words and a decent start. Nothing to write home about.

I was ignorant because I assumed everyone around me had a similar situation. A complete mess. But I was wrong. The professor asked students to read their work. Out-loud. Yes. I was wrong.

I listened to my classmates read their work, and it was absolutely amazing. I’m surrounded by wonderful, talented writers. In the fifteen minutes of writing, most (if not all) managed wonderful characters, detailed settings, and accomplished word-usage. I looked down at my work:

The cat go meow. Dog chase it on park. Cow go moo. 

Crap. I have some work to do.

Chicken Scratch

For most of my academic career, I’ve been the best writer in the room. That reads kind of cocky, but it’s true. Students in community college just don’t care. I put actual effort into my papers and found it really easy to impress my instructors and fellow students. Scholarships, literary journals, 4.0, etc.

At Rochester, the tables have turned. I’m no longer the best writer in the room. It turns out, everybody in the room is a good writer and often better.

Wait. Don’t Go! I’m not fishing for compliments (I promise).

As tempted as I was to drop-out and reenroll in community-chicken-college to satisfy my comfort zone, I know it would do me no good. It hurts when you learn you’re not the best at what you thought you were. I’m a decent writer; I know that, but I need to grow. That’s okay. I can always get better.

Despite the gross sense of intimidation and inadequacy I’ve faced this last week, I’m absolutely positive I’m in the right place. Every writer needs a push, and I’ve been pushed. In fact, since that first class, I’ve been working on my writing more than I ever have. Thank God for that. 

(I know it’s healthy because it stings).

Ever find yourself in a similar situation? Any advice? How do you write a first draft?

Relook: The Perils of Landscaping (Kevin Claud Van Damn it!)

You know that awesome, cliché action-movie sequence where the hero jumps out of a car right before it shoots off a cliff? I’m sure you know what I mean.

I’ve always wanted to do that!

Today was going to be an easy day. You know… day off from my main job at the market, do a little side-job yard-work, get a little sunshine. I didn’t realize I’d be jumping off a riding lawnmower as it plunged downhill.

I should explain.

On Wednesdays, I landscape for a really nice lady named Lois. She lives outside of Coeur d’Alene in the “fancy home overlooking the lake on a hill” district. Every summer she rents her house (or yard I should say) for weddings.

She has a nice riding mow, and I genuinely love the job. It’s outside and beautiful and even fun. That said, every landscaper who works a riding mow will mention a turn that makes their teeth grind. My “turn,” happens to have a hill next to it that dramatically declines into wilderness. No problem.

Today, the grass was wet.

Moments

It’s funny how time seems to slow down in radical moments. Looking back, I felt like I could’ve prepped a tuna salad sandwich with the time I had before the fall, which was really only two or three seconds.

I better Titanic off of this thing!

I jumped and hit the ground, soon hearing the mower make a ‘crunch’ sound. I stood up, as slowly as I could muster, and turned my head towards the direction of the renegade-riding mower. God, I didn’t want to look.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. “It’s fine!”

There, downhill, the mower rested in a safe net of bushes. In fact, it couldn’t have had a softer landing. Laughing, I ran down the hill and jumped on the dusty mower and started the engine. I threw the gear in reverse but it wouldn’t go. It tried, I tried, the wheels turned and all, but it wouldn’t go. After a good ten minutes of this back and forth gear shifting, manually lifting the mower, and pushing and pulling in ridiculous helplessness, I rested.

Prayer

I thought about calling some friends, but everyone I knew lived roughly twenty-hours away in California. Lois was gone for a few hours, the only good thing.

“Lord,” I pleaded, “You gotta get me out of this, you gotta send me somebody!”

The hill looks bigger in person, okay?

During the summer, Lois turns her guest room into a bed and breakfast. I thought the house was empty, but I forgot about the B&B guests! Suddenly, I heard a door open.

“Hey! Hey!” I rushed up the hill to the guest’s door with my arms waving. Flustered and bewildered, the man stepped back and threw his fists into a fighting stance (protecting his wife).

“Do you… I… well…” I was out of breathe and apparently lost my vocabulary on the fall. It wasn’t helping my case that the stranger thought me a lunatic. Thankfully, his eyes looked down and saw the green on my clothes and (eventually) the mower in the bushes.

“Did you ride that down the hill?” He asked.

“No… It rolled down by itself.”

His eyes widened and he made the hand gesture of a rolling car. “It rolled?”

“Well no, it roooollllled.” I made the gesture of a smooth downward drift with my hand. I must’ve looked insane. Crazy or not, this answered prayer of a man helped me pull, push, and lift the mower out of the bushes.

It turned out this guy was a saint.

Fin.

Getting out of the bushes was only half the battle, but I will spare you the rest of that crazy story (it included ‘off roading’ further down). All in all, the mower was fine. I even got it back in the yard and finished mowing before Lois came home. I wasn’t sure how to bring it up. “Hey, I took your expensive (brand new) riding mow on a joy ride to the lake.”

I didn’t say that.

My conscious got the best of me, and I did tell her. She took it great and actually laughed when I gave her the story. She felt bad for me, could you believe that?

Epilogue

What’s the moral to this tale? Hmmmmm…

Watch out for wet grass?

Don’t cut too close to the edge?

God answers prayer?

Before I left, I took one more glance at the spot where it all went down. The soft breeze was blowing and the sun was finally shining. Down the hill, the bushes were tromped and a freshly made ‘mower size’ trail existed, showing my fateful path. I stood and looked, both triumphant and stupid, gazing with astonishment, and thinking only “Man, that was bad ass.”

[NOTE: This blog post came from 7/28/2011. It has been slightly edited and reworked. I hope to get back on track next week and share some new thoughts. Until then, I hope you enjoy some of my older (odder) tales.]

ReLook: Numero Hill & The Sinking City
It’s my first week at the University of Rochester. Since I’m adjusting to my new schedule (and homework-work-load), I thought I’d revisit some old blog posts. Some stories deserve a second telling. Some deserve a better telling. In a happy (yet horrid) affair, I edited, cut, and rehashed this post. I hope you enjoy! 

Numero Hill & The Sinking City

Think about this: You live in a small town; you’ve been there your whole life. One day, it just disappears, vanishes (maybe “Vanish” is too much; how about this: “It drowns”). The city drowns.

The waters rise. All you can do is head uphill.

WASHington

Last weekend, I was asked to lead worship in Entiat, Washington by my friend Gar Mickelson who was guest speaking. The church’s usual “worship-person” was on a retreat. I’m not sure who he was retreating from; they didn’t tell me.

Gar gave me advice to keep it simple: “It’s a small church in a small town.”

On the three-hour drive to Entiat, Gar spoke to us—us includes my wife; Josh Hardy, the guitar and piano accompaniment; and myself—about some of the history of Entiat, WA, a tiny town along the Columbia River, near Wenatchee. “In 1960, most of the town had to move and relocate to higher ground, due to the Rocky Reach Dam, built just a few miles north on the river. This dam would be so powerful and so important, it would provide power all the way to Coeur D’Alene and beyond.”

The dam fulfilled its purpose and benefited many towns, unfortunately, at the cost of Entiat. The waters rose and she was of covered. The locals who stayed had to resettle uphill.

The Number Entiat

Pulling into the church parking lot, we noticed a steep and flat cliff on the side of a big hill which overlooked the town. “Numero Hill,” said a local. (more…)

Dancing with Confidence, Tripping Over the Shoes of Fear

Upon walking out of a Wegmans the other night—a Rochester based grocer Megan and I have come to fall in love with—we observed ferocious, grey clouds pouring into town from every direction, pari passu, slowly and ominously withering the last of our daylight. Directly above us were some stars, a few clouds, a slight breeze, but nothing more. It was peaceful.

That’s how I feel now. I’m entering “Calm before the storm” mode. That’s what I’m choosing to call it, anyway. Right now, life is serotinally peaceful; I know it wont last long, and that’s okay. Classes will start and homework will pile. It’s what I signed up for.

Around me are weathered students, all of whom waiting for the storm to begin. As a Junior, I’ve seen some weather too; however, I still doubt myself. I don’t know why.

Like an iced-kicker, I psych myself out of the confidence I know I possess.

Philosophy Steve

The other day, over the telephone, my uncle said something that stuck with me. He said “Kevin, the unknown fools us.”

I stopped him in the middle of his next sentence: “Steve, that was deep, man.”

It’s true, isn’t it? The unknown fools us. It grabs ahold of our fears and lies to us; it calls us names and exploits our insecurities. Call it what you want—a lack of control, a lack of confidence, whatever the insecurity may be—the unknown seeps in and plants fear.

My confidence moved me to the other side of the North American continent in pursuit of the best education I could attain. So yes, I possess confidence. I’m no Ron Burgandy, but you know, I’m getting there. (It’s all in the mustache?)

Yet, truth be told, my doubts creep in. Butterflies show up from time to time. They fly around in my stomach, sometimes regressing into caterpillars, causing me to cowardly hide underneath fallen leaves.

Three Important Reminders

  1. Insecurities are not concrete, but a fluid which evaporates with wisdom and experience. Don’t define yourself by your temporal troubles.
  2. Fear is a great motivator and a terrible bed-mate. Keep her off the pillow and away from your dreams.
  3. “The unknown fools us,” but only if you let it. Lead the dance and kick off the shoes of fear.

Whether we want it to or not, most major decisions (changes) require a little uncertainty, a toe-to-toe dance with the unknown. What if, instead of running away, we tried to lead the dance?

I’ve never been a good dancer, but I guess I can give it a shot.

How about you?