Monday, November 12, 2012

Really??? They Listened?

This week I had the privilege to talk with a bunch of middle schoolers. The night before I was to face these small monsters I was filled with terror. Scheming for any possible way to get out of it, I thought about feigning sickness. That lie would not have been too far off course noting the way my stomach was feeling. My biggest concern was based simply on my fear for survival. I was worried that a classroom full of middle schoolers would eat me for lunch. My assignment was to speak to 20 – 30 little people at 25 minute intervals nine times throughout the day. The eight graders came first and to my great delight when I looked up, they were listening and full of questions.  
After my introduction, I wanted them to get to know me a bit, so I ask them some true or false questions. I had several outlandish false claims but the true ones seemed to cause their heads to tilt in wonder.  
Which is true or false? (all true)
·  As a boy I was shot in the head with an arrow?
·  I was born into a Mennonite farm community and lived on a potato farm until I was six years old.
·  As a youngster our family did not have enough beds so I slept in the bottom drawer of a chest of drawers until I was four years old.
·  When I was your age I would not kiss a girl because I was afraid the girl would laugh at how silly my kiss was?
·  I have had 20 car accidents, two motorcycle accidents and two of my car accidents happened on the same day fifteen minutes apart.
·  I barely graduated from High School and swore I would never go to college.
I knew I had little to offer the brainiacs in the room. My hope was to offer encouragement to the kids where school came hard. That is a story I know well, even with nearly 50 years separating me from those days the feelings are as close as yesterday. My story, Angel with Wrinkles I hoped would give them a window into the beginning of my story and it did wake up most of the kids.
The crux of my talk laid out a few simple principles I have learned along the way.
o   Everyone is smart at something. Maybe it isn’t school work but that is not evidence you are not smart at something.
o   80% of success is showing up ( I know not very original but still true)
o   Fear is part of the process but push through it and take advantage of scary opportunities.
Who knows if anything said made a difference but I said what I know and I am hopeful. All in all I had more fun than I thought possible and I feel honored that I was allowed to share a bit of myself with some young people.

Saturday, October 6, 2012

An Awesome Saturday

It has been almost two months since my last post. I could make some kind of excuse up but I hate people that do that. I do have some good news. NOOOO….I have great news. Dullsville left the Grayquill property Saturday morning and it was better than great.
There I was sitting drinking my one cup of coffee. Yes, I am now down to one cup of coffee. I know it is very very very sad. I mourn it every morning. I was nearing the half way mark of my one cup and a movement caught my eye. It was a different kind of movement, not like the small birds that gather under my bird feeder to clean up the fallen seed. It was slinky, almost like the ground its self was moving. Raising my gaze it all came into focus. There to my hateful delight was a rat. A rat right there in broad day light. Well you know what that means don’t you? Yip, the hunt is on.   
Heading into my back room, I rummaged around and finally found my old pellet gun. Next, where did I put those pellets? I think they are in the garage. After a few minutes of moving pile A to where pile Z was, and then pile B to where pile A was, it took some doing but I finally came across them under pile T. Soon I was back to my kitchen table where I carefully laid out my battle wares.
In a ghost rat like fashion I smoothly crossed the room and slowly slide the slider open until an eight inch gap appeared. With elegance my sylphlike limbs floated me back to my chair. There I settled down to wait. It wasn’t long before my first shot opportunity raised its self.  Pling…I heard the sound of my pellet whip through the underbrush as the creepy critter skedaddled away to who knows where.  I reloaded but realized my cheap pellet gun with its archaic sights needed a tune up. Out came the felt pen and I soon had three targets made on bright purple paper. Placing them out in the yard about the same distance as my bird feeder; I began what Grayquill would describe as an excellent gun sighting experience.  My first shot did not even hit the target. After way to many shots I had the gun hitting the target but my grouping was less than desirable. Urgency to get back to the hunt helped me decide to stop the adjusting and get back to the whole point of this exercise – KILL A RAT!
Back at the kitchen table, the slider again open to about 8 inches, a perfect view of the ground under my bird feeder in my sight, my gun loaded, I waited. I was hopeful I might now actually hit something. Fifteen minutes went by, nothing.  Twenty minutes went by nothing.  Time for breakfast!
Soon two eggs with two slices of toast were made.  Dipping my toast into the yoke I ate silently, watching, waiting. After my third bite I looked up and there right in my line of sight were two rats that seemed to have just appeared. One was directly under the bird feeder and the other was back by the edge of the brush.  Where did they come from? Moving slowly and quietly as I could I laid my fork down and picked up my gun. The adrenalin was now beginning to pump. My breaths were beginning to come a bit faster helping my vision crisp up. Maybe I should have ordered those eye glasses the doctor thinks I need. Oh well, too late now. Looking down the barrel the rat seemed so much smaller and I kept losing him in the sights. After several checks I had him. Exhaling, I held my breath and slowly squeezed off. Pling….I heard the pellet whip through the underbrush and both rats disappeared – Dang!
Not to be a quitter I sat there most of the day taking a total of nine shots. At the end of the day I could only conclude I was a horrible shot or I had a horrible gun. I did not have a single dead rat to show for my efforts. Darkness was beginning to close in on me and shooting became an impossibility. Putting my gun back into its corner I felt frustrated and the old saying, ‘a machine is only as good as its operator’ haunted me.
Not wanting to accept I am a horrible operator. Straight away I was on my computer searching for a real pellet gun. I soon found out why I had this stupid gun with sights that moved every time you bumped it. The good guns seemed to start at around $250.00. Wow! That’s a lot of money just to shoot a couple of rats. After a brief education and not discouraged, I headed to Craig’s List to see if possibly a used gun was for sale. Sure as shooting I found a Gamo Whisper. Retail price $345.00. The pellet leaves the barrel of this baby at 1100 feet per second, and to top it off it had a scope. That would be perfect to help my stigmatism. My email was soon constructed and off it went to the seller. I waited. I have often wondered why one would put something on line to sell if they weren’t committed to getting back to a prospective buyer? The long and the short of my search three days later I successful acquired the almost new Gamo Whisper for a fraction of the retail price.  
Wednesday, as quitting time drew close. I found myself watching the clock. The feeling was reminiscent of a time that reached back to a 10 year old with his first BB gun. What havoc a young Grayquill could have done with a Gamo Whisper pellet gun instead of that wimpy lever action Daisy BB gun that you could see the BB leave the barrel. It was probably a good thing young Grayquill only had the Daisy because one day he decided he would shoot his brother in the butt. That night my dad took that gun away from me and I never saw it again. That still seems like an overreaction by my father. I will admit I did hit that left butt check dead center and that I am still a bit proud about.
Oh how I digress… The time finally came for work to be over for the day and I rushed to my car. Twenty minutes later with maybe two hours of daylight left the hunt was back on! I felt it, tonight would be awesome. If that furry critter came back into view….well I think you get the idea.
The slider was slid open about eight inches. My view under the bird feeder was unobstructed. My new Gamo was loaded and ready. My wife was working late and I had the house to myself. Distractions always get in the way for this type for work. My dinner sat in front of me and I settled in. I was getting worried as the sun set behind the Olympic Mountains and evening began its journey toward darkness. The beauty of a scope, it seems to make objects lighten up at dusk. It was maybe fate or just luck but with the ability to still see, an unlucky rat came out for an evening snack.  
Yip I was right – it was a great night.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

A Dead Guy's Clothes

Last week my wife came home with a nice Levi Strauss insulated flannel shirt jacket, just my size. NICE! Of course it came from a second hand store, why wouldn’t it? This new addition to my wardrobe had in one of the pockets a left over remnant from the previous owner. NO! It was nothing gross. Why did your mind go there? It was just some spare light bulbs from a Christmas tree string.

These light bulbs took my mind to a place it has gone on many occasions after picking up some used item. Who was the previous owner? What were the circumstances that caused him to give up a perfectly good shirt-jacket? I usually assume the guy died. There really is no other logical conclusion. Well there is the, he got divorced and his ex- took everything he owned to the second hand store. By the way Garage Sales are great places to meet really angry women who will almost pay you to take ex-husbands stuff away. One lady (do I dare call her a lady?) told me she was going to receive great pleasure telling her ex that she sold his $800 Craftsman tool set for $25.00 – hey it worked for me. If I hadn’t bought it someone else would have. First come first serve…right? Okay...I just made all that up. I have never been that fortunate but it could happen.

There is one down side to buying used clothing. You have to try it on at some point to be sure it fits. I always feel a little dirty after those experiences. After all, the guy that had it before me is now dead! What did he die from? Am I going to catch that disease now? See how creepy that can be? No one wants to die just for trying on some unfortunates’ left overs.

After I discovered the Christmas tree light bulbs in the pocket I figured it was safe to try on the shirt/jacket. After all, the guy probably fell off his latter putting up Christmas tree lights and broke his neck. I don’t understand why they didn’t just bury him in the jacket that would have been so much easier than dressing him all up in a suit. But, heck if I can benefit from another’s poor judgment – I guess I will.

Several years back I came upon a literal bonanza at a second hand consignment store. I found a couple suits, a couple pair of shoes, and the shoes were double nice. Italian. Soft. Fit my foot like a glove. I had never had such a nice, expensive pair of shoes before. I spent a lot of time trying to figure out how that poor sucker died. I finally concluded he was a gay guy and died of aids. I am pretty sure it was true because straight guys would never dress that nice and gay guys being pretty much like a woman would never give a way his or her shoes unless he was dead. The only flaw in my conclusion was possibly the way he died. One part of me thinks he was hit by a truck and died instantly. If he had a disease that took his life slowly he probably would have found a friend to give his clothes to. The trouble with that logic, the few gay guys I know would never wear something second hand. You see that last sentence assumes gay guys only have gay friends. (Oh Grayquill broaden your horizons.) Who said that?

I am interested in what you think about how the guy died whose Levi jacket I now own. If you’re willing, I would enjoy reading your morbid thoughts.  Just so you know the jacket is being washed. You can all rest easy; your favorite Grayquill will not be catching any disease from that jacket.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Who Are You Calling a Geezer?

I went fly fishing recently with my brother for 10 days…that was pretty awesome. My brother being much older than me, I suppose should be considered a geezer. I have concluded that there is no way I am a geezer. I don’t even qualify for old people discounts at the state and national parks. That simple fact should be solid proof I have yet to be inducted into the fly fishing geezer club.

One author said if you fall asleep in the middle of a sentence maybe you are a geezer. That makes me wonder if the same logic applies to writing a blog post. I have fallen asleep on more than one occasion in the midst of trying to write a blog post. That has never really bothered me that much, the falling asleep thing. But, the dried drool on my key board really bugs me.  I did a Google search – ‘how to unstick a keyboard  - Google was totally useless on that front but I did find a peculiar group of people out there in Google land that gave me the hibbie-gibbies. It seems there are weirdoes out there that keep dried drool just for the smelling. Who would admit to such a thing? If I had that problem I would keep it a deep deep secret. Many of these drool smellers have a favorite drool spot on their pillow that is nearly sacred. If one was to wash their pillow case the compulsive drool smellers would nearly flip their doodle. What is wrong with those people?  Secret drooler smellers???? Creeeeepy!

The human condition for sure is complicated and there is no shortage of weird things people do. There was a bright side in reading about these drool smellers. I realized that of all my oddities, I can proudly say drool smelling is not one of them. I am bothered some that I have been enjoying the lingering smell of sage brush on the pillow I took fishing. BTW-don't even think about washing that pillow. 

Besides my brother, I spotted more than one geezer on my fishing trip. Geezer number one we deducted was a really really really really rich geezer. At dinner one night we spotted this old fellow.  Once he was ushered/helped to his table and a drink was placed in front of him he didn’t move much except for that frail hand that kept stroking the back of the tall 30 something beauty sitting next to him. She was by far the prettiest female in the establishment and the geezer had his brand clearly on her. I tried not to stare but my self control was useless. She finally caught me staring and the smile she sent my way seemed to say, maybe being rich should have been more important to you.

Geezer number two we found sitting on the river bank muttering to himself after his third unsuccessful attempt to tie a 7X tippet to his fly line. His muttering had something to do with not being able to see or feel the thin line. Oh….wait a minute….that geezer was me.  

Geezer number three was of course my brother he seemed to still be able to tie the 7X tippets. He claimed to out fish me everyday - except for that one day. After all he had no pictures so that pretty much settles it. Big talk without pictures is nothing but self deception.

So, from one who is almost a geezer – may your fly always hit the water softly even when you can't see it.  

Sunday, May 13, 2012

Odd Things You See Fishing....

At one moment you can be completely happy, thinking life can get no better. I was on the shoreline of a renowned trout creek. The sun was out and it was shirtsleeve weather. The day before I had netted a 23 inch fat rainbow trout. It was a beautiful fish. On its side she carried a plethora of red and silver hues.  I was hoping to duplicate yesterday’s experience ten or twenty times. The fish were taking a blue dun fly that was emerging but I was yet to find the fly from my box to mimic the hatch.
A fisherman had just appeared across the creek a mere fifty feet downstream. I wonder if he also felt life could not get any better. He was soon to find out, it could. He was a tall young man, blonde, probably quite handsome, physically fit, decked out in matching tan waders and fly vest. His blonde hair curled out beneath his hat framing a distinct jaw line. He stood confident with a half smile that seemed to never leave his face. On his second cast I saw him set the hook. He soon landed a nice fish larger than the fish I had caught the day before.  Seeing another fisherman catch fish doesn’t discourage me or cause envy. In contrast it lets me know the fish are biting and I know when I send the right combination of fly, depth, and location, I too will soon be catching fish.

Being fishless for the day the contrast could not have been greater. Here I stood almost old, out of shape over weight, bald, shorter than I use to be, never as tall as this young man, and certainly never that kind of handsome. The contrast was soon going to be greater yet. I had just watched him catch his 11th fish. The way he could make music with the fly rod was truly an art form. The fly line glistened in the sun when the line made a perfect arc during his back cast. There was a rhythm between him and the fly. When he started his cast it was effortless. A simple lifting the rod tip and the fly obediently followed its master’s command into a smooth symmetrical arc. The fly entered the current seamless and natural.
My fly could not reach the rift where he was pulling out fish after fish, nor would I have sent my fly there if I could have reached it. There is an etiquette in fly fishing and that would certainly have crossed into the rude uncouth arena.

To get to where he stood took a good mile walk and a bit of effort. She seemed to just appear. Where she had come from I had not observed. But there she was beautiful as he was handsome standing close to the young fisherman. She too was blonde. She wore a white blouse, short blue jean skirt and cowboy boots.  I can say her tanned legs fit the skirt and boots nicely. Muffled talked came from both his and her lips, a giggle from both could be heard coming across the water. After much striving for his attention she stretched onto her tip toes with arms around his neck and pulled him down to whisper something into his ear. A sound of delightful pleasure came from his lips and I could not tell if it was from him setting the hook on fish number 12 or in response to her words. Her distracting presence seemed to only be affecting me because he was flawless in the playing and netting of the fish as she hung onto him through the whole process. Upon releasing the fish the man seemed to now have a new mission. He stowed away his gear and with a big smile pasted on his face they walked down the trail. I wondered who was that guy anyway? Who is it that can catch fish like that? Who is it that has a beauty appear and drag him off to who knows where? This was something I had never seen before. Was this like the mermaid who met the sailor lost at sea? I knew it wasn’t a dream because if it was a dream I wouldn’t have been watching. All I know the smile on that young man’s face came from fishing plus something and that something was not hard to imagine.

That night back at camp I reflected on the oddity of the two lovers and watching her seduce the young fisherman. I have always heard that fly fisherman are sexy, after seeing that I am a believer. And, even though I am almost old I am sticking with fly fishing who knows what could happen. Regardless, I smiled knowing somewhere there was a young fly fisherman who maybe had the two best days ever….all in one. Now that makes a great fish story.  

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Women Authors Hmmm.....

I am beginning to think that Jodi Picoult is one of those really really smart people that bug me way too much. Normally I have an aversion to reading books written by women.

Hmmmm….strange. I suddenly feel a bit of hatred radiating back at me from those of the opposite sex over this super highway?  Hate or no hate, the truth is the truth, I perfer male authors.  
A few weeks back I broke down out of sheer desperation and read a book written by the famous Jodi Picoult. Actually I read two of her books. Okay! It wasn’t out of desperation that I fell in love with Ms Picoult. It was advice from my wife that started the reading.  I so enjoyed Jodi's writing I could not resist doing a bit of stalking…….of course I Googled her – why wouldn’t I? Yip, in likity split time, I had her email address. Well, you know as well as I do getting a response from a celebrity author like Picoult would probably be close to a miracle. I knew I needed something in the subject line to get her attention. I decide to go with me true guttural feelings toward my new love - “Women Authors - Hmmm…..”

Now, those who read my blog now and then realize, I think I am pretty funny. You also know, I have come to understand that it is only the really smart people who don’t fully appreciate how funny I really am. In fact some have argued that I am the only one laughing. Well hum bug to all you cynics.
My email to Ms. Picoult after much effort finally came to completion, which I peppered with several near hysterical lines that normal people would roll off their chairs laughing at. As you can imagine off I sent my brilliant email. In it I told her she was my new favorite woman author. I felt that was quite an honor to bestow on the lovely lady.

As you can imagine I got a response back from Jodi Picoult in a mere five hours. Now here comes the rub. It seems she did not think I was funny at all or she forgot to mention it (that's probably it). Can you believe it? Well that’s all I am going to say about that. Although I did mention in my email to Ms. Picoult that even though I loved her writing and she was now my new favorite woman author, she was unable to bump my favorite all time author Louis L'Amour from the top spot. I felt I had some pretty good logic for keeping him in that high position. You know he did die a mere two decades ago don’t you? It just seems downright rude to bump a dead guy from his lofty perch; after all he isn’t even here to defend himself. Talk about kicking a guy when he is down – that seems so wrong. What do you think?
Lastly - even if Jodi Picoult is a really really smart person - I give her books a full five stars - Go buy five. "The Perfect Match" and the "Plain Truth" are great!

Today I had one of those bad moments. I was at a business affair and apparently when registering, I inadvertently either picked up or was intentionally handed a woman’s name tag instead of my own. The woman’s name tag I was handed is about four pay grades above mine.  Not that that detail matters all that much, but I do think it is worth mentioning and it could add to some of my remorse.  

Gatherings of this type often make me a bit nervous in the first place, so in my hyper focusing for the exact perfect place to pin the name tag, I really did not even look at whose name I was actually pinning on my shirt. About half way through the day, a lady who later laughed hysterically at me, with tears were running down her cheeks, ask me how I pronounced may last name. She tried pronouncing it but the sound coming across her lips was not even close to how my name should sound. I then discovered my shame and error. What makes this story extra bad. A colleague earlier had held my correct name tag up for me to see in an effort to help me out. Well in Grayquill land where the dots often connect a bit differently then say… the average person, I in my brilliance assumed some one thought I should have two name tags, probably because I am so important. Naturally I ignored my helpful friend. Sitting here confessing; I now recall several consistently odd smiles I was given earlier in the day. One etched deep in my memory is that half smile my boss gave me. I wonder if I will have that privileged chair in her office tomorrow.  Oh well, what can I say, I am Grayquill.


Monday, February 20, 2012

A Father's Day

The promise of spring is on the calendar and spring time is certainly a season offering new life, warmer days, and more light. Have I told you lately, I appreciate each and every one of you? I neglect the important.

I am posting a chapter from my book this morning. I have not been in the mood for writing and would certainly have had a tough time writing anything new that would add a smile or encourage. The past several weeks have been full of darkness; a past evil once again requiring time and effort but reaping few results. I believe in the principle, 'What is beyond my control is within my influence.' This round of influence has had a net zero result. That is the thing about a principle, they are not 100% true but they are generally true. I have not given up on the principle for I have many times seen it work. The good news is, my family and myself are well.
I hope you find the following story encouraging and I think it is a great example of what is beyond our control is within our influence. As you read the story, ask yourself who is watching you.
A Fathers Day

It is great to be honored by one’s own children.
Sunday was Father’s Day. My two daughters were out of town, but my son came by to see me. The conversation we had wound around through many subjects and past a few monuments. Along the trail, we came to the monument of his minor fathers, the men who impacted him in his childhood. How grateful I am for these wonderful men.
The many hours my son spent at different friend’s homes resulted in many hours of observing, or at times direct interactions, with these men. Some were good bad examples, but most were good examples. They filled in many holes and blank spots I either was incapable of teaching or just missed. Some examples were reinforcements of lessons I hoped to impart - faithfulness, loyalty, respect of women, trustworthiness, honesty, hard work, and compassion.
He talked about recently attending the celebration of one man’s 35th wedding anniversary and of the toast he gave to the man and his wife for being excellent role models in marriage. My son told me of times he noticed that Joel and Lori had disappeared on a walk, and later, they would return holding hands, smiling and talking.
I can think back to a time a father told me about working alongside his son and my son. They did yard work for many hours, and the man had given my son a compliment for being a good worker. But, I knew the real gift had been the two young boys doing hard work alongside the man, and that day was a step or two closer toward their own manhood. You see, I already knew about the many hours of work because I saw the glow on my son’s young face beaming with pride as he earlier had recounted the affirming words he had been given by the father for his hard work.
Another father was a very good business man and understood investments. Another man treated his wife badly, and my son saw the pain and the shame. Another man was a hard worker but could also play. Most of the men were good examples of living strong moral lives and being men of high character. I am thankful that my son had other men who ingrained into him what real manhood looked like.
He has these images and impressions of what manhood looks like, and now I am so proud of the man he is becoming  has become - a man of high character.
So, to the minor fathers of my son – thank you! You probably did not even know that you were being watched.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

In the Outhouse

“What is funny?”

“Oh…poop is funny! No, really poof is almost always funny!”

Well, poop on your shoe is not funny but poop on your brother’s shoe – that is hilarious.

Years ago when I was board at church I could easily entertain myself and get though any boring service by simply picking up the hymnal, start reading song titles and add to the end of each title the simple phrase, ‘In the outhouse.’

“Joy Everlasting” in the outhouse.

 “Peace like a River” in the outhouse. 

“Blessed Assurance” in the outhouse.

“Made Free” in the outhouse.

“Each Day I’ll Do a Golden Deed” in the outhouse.

“Eternal Peace” in the outhouse.


Just one more….”Trying to get a Glimpse” in the outhouse….”Climbing Higher and Higher” in the outhouse. Sorry, I know that was two but I couldn’t help myself.

As you can see a 10 year old boy and a long boring sermon could be handled easily. I remember giggling and my mother pinching me to be quiet. If she had a clue the depths of depravity her young son had sunk, a much stronger deterrent would be been applied. Now my dad if he knew what I was up to, he would probably have dived right in to my sea of debauchery.

I guess I should apologize for this poopy blog post. It is hard to describe what sewer I pulled this out of but am relieved that it is now over and that it has all worked out.

So, if you are sitting in church and your son or grandson is giggling with his head buried in a song book. Turn a way, ignore him….you don’t really want to go there.

Hmmm....this was way funnier when I wrote it. What happened?

Monday, January 16, 2012

Complication, Develop, Resolution

Studying and learning are completely different. A fellow blogger suggested the book, “Writing for Story” by Jon Franklin. Her post thoroughly convinced me to go forth and buy the book ASAP, which I did.
Excited, when the book arrived, I dove right in. NO!! I did not follow the rules…I read the introduction, and then the last chapter. Discouragement hit me almost from the get go. I did not want to hear how hard it is to become a good writer or how long it takes! Hey I don’t have that much time, I am almost old. I want simple, easy, fast!. Do ABC and presto chango, and instantly I can become Steinbeck or Twain. But NOOOOO, all I hear is, you will be dead before you write anything good and writing something great is you being delusional.  Well delusional comes easy for me so at least I am in familiar territory.

Now that you have had that positive introduction, don’t you just want to jump right up and go beg, borrow or steal the book? Sorry Mr. Franklin…hang in there this can only get better from here.

A bit of truth might be good at this point. Nowhere in the book does it say any of those negative thoughts. Those are all just me being me.  In fact chapter three Jon Franklin reprints the Ballad of Old Man Peters. This short story encouraged me quite a lot. The story is true and demonstrated how learning and improving never need stop. It was one of the most inspiring short stories I have ever read.
Side note: I just looked outside it’s snowing….AWEEEEESOME!!! Mr. Franklin would never have told you about the snow. He says leave out anything that does not add to the story.
In a nut shell Mr. Franklin lays out a simple (I didn’t say easy) structure for writing a good story.   He ought to know a thing or two about writing a good story after all he has won the Pulitzer prize twice. And, I am really doing my best to pay attention and learn from this magical person.

Mr. Franklin says every good story has to have three clear attributes. First the Complication, second the Development or the conflict. Lastly, a resolution to the complication is an absolute requirement.  His book is easy reading and the proof should be in the simple fact that I have made it to page 137.
One interesting point Mr. Franklin makes is how many stories do not have a clear resolution to the complication and that causes the story to be weak. He says, find the resolution first and work backwards, there you will find the complication, and in between lies a great story.

Even though I am only half way through reading Writing for Story, I am convinced this was the best $9.00 I have spent in the past many weeks.  Well, those two fly rods I bought might beat it out but it’s hard to top a new fly rod. 
Now in the beginning of this post, I wrote studying is not learning. The proof of that might be in how this post did not follow Mr. Franklins structure….at least completely, but then I have not finished reading his book yet. With that in mind let’s all have hope Mr. Franklin’s instruction can help Grayquill’s writing improve. If any of you are curious, I did try to follow his structure in writing this post and maybe I did a bit. I am sure several of you will set me straight.

BTW: GQ has left his delusional state and now knows he can get better even though he’s almost old - he is beginning to learn structure…Yahoo!
Complication: GQ is delusional
1.       Age makes learning harder
2.       GQ admits being lazy
3.       GQ fears he can’t learn
4.       The book helps GQ change his thinking
5.       GQ thinks his writing can get better
Resolution: GQ applies Structure