SNYDERMANIA: Jun 30, 2013

Sunday, June 30, 2013

Bug Man/Writer?

It's been a little over a month since I last stood before a classroom of teenagers and I've been wrangling for a job as a bug man. I jokingly told my students I was leaving teaching to become a bug man and now here we are. It looks like I may very well be on my way to becoming a bona fide bug man. There just might be a book in this mid-life career change. Make way for the bug man/writer. I'm narrowing my niche. How many bug man/writers who sell their books at auto repair shops and barber shops could there possibly be?

By the way, the mouth parts of insects are divided into four categories: piercing and sucking, siphoning, sponging, and chewing. I know. I'm showing off, but I can't help it.

And you can order my books THE EIGHT-FINGERED CRIMINAL'S SON and THE SPIRIT GUIDE BAR by clicking on this link:
http://www.amazon.com/The-Spirit-Guide-William-Snyder/dp/1483924211

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NORTHERN EXPOSURE

Goethe's final words: "More light." Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry: "More light." Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlight. Neon. Incandescent. Lights that banish the darkness from our caves, to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's field. Little tiny flashlight for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Thy word is a lamp unto my feet. Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Lead, Kindly Light, amid the encircling gloom Lead Thou me on! The night is dark, and I am far from home- Lead Thou me on! Arise, shine, for thy light has come. Light is knowledge. Light is life. Light is light.

FIELD OF DREAMS

Well, you know I... I never got to bat in the major leagues. I would have liked to have had that chance. Just once. To stare down a big league pitcher. To stare him down, and just as he goes into his windup, wink. Make him think you know something he doesn't. That's what I wish for. Chance to squint at a sky so blue that it hurts your eyes just to look at it. To feel the tingling in your arm as you connect with the ball. To run the bases - stretch a double into a triple, and flop face-first into third, wrap your arms around the bag. That's my wish, Ray Kinsella. That's my wish. And is there enough magic out there in the moonlight to make this dream come true?