Annotated Table of Contents

Somewhere in Colorado, my book is undergoing production. I just got an email from Laura Furney, the assistant director and managing editor with the University of Colorado Press. She wrote to tell me that they are prepping my manuscript for copyediting and adding XML coding for the ebook edition. Around October, copyedited files will fall on my desk for review. The book should come out in April.

The Embodied Playbook: Writing Practices of Student-Athletes will soon be born.

I posted a few weeks back about the book proposal process. Book proposals are unique genres, ones we don’t get much—if any—training on in graduate school. Unlike article or books, they aren’t published; they are a hidden genre that gives rise to a public genre. Kinda odd, right?

I’ll glad some found that helpful.

Below, I’m posting my annotated table of contents. Per the submission guidelines for my press, I needed to send along a proposal, two sample chapters, a cv, and an annotated TOC. I modeled my proposal after Chris Carter’s; I modeled my annotated TOC after Chris’s, too. I even kept the same font and fully justified the text—just like Chris.

I struggle mightily with abstracts, and annotated TOCs are just a bunch of abstracts. This was nasty hard for me. But just like an IRB application, the process helped me better understand my project. It helped me see the throughline of my book, how the sections fit together; the process helped me feel where I was spinning bullsh*t, and where I really knew my plan for the chapter.

Below is the finished doc. Through reader feedback, the chapters changed a bit—especially the title of my book. But this is the original demo (to borrow some music lingo). Final note: my book has five chapters and always has. I’m not sure where the chapter 5 blurb went. Hmm.. Musta been there at some point.

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I’ll glad many found that helpfu

Rhetoric & Comics

For the second time, I am teaching a rhetoric and comics class. It’s officially titled “Rhetoric and the Graphic Novel” to lend some gravitas to our Important Scholarly Work.

It’s not really my area. I got the visual rhetoric theory, which I also bring to bear on my work with scripted sports’ plays and how athletes make sense of the kaleidoscope of images swirling in a play. My first publication, a Composition Forum piece, made work of some of this theory and so do portions of my forthcoming book–The Embodied Playbook: Writing Practices of Student-Athletes.

But comics? Never published here. But I do read a lot of em.

I got into comics as a grad student when I made my way into Atomik Pop on Main Street one  day. I’m not sure what pulled me into that space; I don’t know what I was looking for. But I had a great talk with the dude behind the counter (it’s always a dude behind the counter at our LCS). I think I walked out with an issue of Daredevil, a series I purchased consistently for 15 months or so.

I’m now full-on with DC. I reread Geoff Johns’s wonderful Infinite Crisis over the past two days.

No Marvel for me, please.

But the texts that stay with me the most are the graphic novels, not the serialized paperbacks or the one-shots.

Alan Moore’s From Hell–possibly the most unsettling text I’ve read; and I’ve read Stephen King entire oeuvre.

Jeff Lemire’s Essex County–I teared up when the hockey team tapped their sticks to the ground in a sign of respect.

Grant Morrison’s We3–another one that caused my tear ducts to get to work.

Chris Ware’s Jimmy Corrigan–one I keep finding new areas of exploration in the narrative.

Craig Thompson’s Blankets–evidence that all graphic novels don’t need to be negative, dark, weighty, angsty.

I’ve brought my love of the narratives, the images, the lines, the lettering, the inking to my class this summer. Below is what we are doing–my full syllabus.

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Book proposals

On July 1, 2015, I sent a book proposal to Michael Spooner, the acquisitions editor at Utah State University Press, an imprint of the University Press of Colorado.  The book came with a tentative title: The Literate Practices of Big-Time College Sports. And I included an annotated TOC with my proposal.

I received an advanced contract in mid-August.

After two rounds of reader review, I sent in the complete book (newly titled as The Embodied Playbook: Writing Practices of Student-Athletes; thanks to Michele Eodice for help there) in January 2017.

As I type out these words, the book is undergoing the publication process right now, and I am thankful for an old high school friend who designed my cover.

Below, I include the exact cover letter I send onto Michael. The book proposal format is a tough one: rhetorically tricky that asks for a dash of marketing and salesmanship that many academics feel uncomfortable with. I’m wired as an introvert; so getting me to bang my own drum, shout from the mountain top for recognition in the loud and busy world book publishing–well, that’s tough. And the ego it takes to think someone should publish MANY copies and MANY pages of your writing. Yikes.

Examples are key for thinking through new genres. I am grateful that Chris Carter shared his book proposal with me. His book, Rhetorical Exposures, just came out with the University of Alabama Press. Paying the love forward, I share mine.

One final note: check out William Germano’s From Dissertation to Book and Getting It Published. I could take you to the exact booth at my university’s cafeteria where, when reading From Diss, I realized, I had a book buried and screaming for release from within my dissertation.

Rachel Toor also has a good series of posts on Chronicle.com about writing a book proposal.

I’m keeping things brief here, but if you wanna talk more, then let’s.

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Comedy and Writing

About two years, I interviewed comedian John Crist after his show at the University of North Georgia.

As a writing teacher-researcher, I am fascinated by what writing means for different people and how writing is accomplished for different jobs.

John has developed a strong following with his clean comedy and self-deprecating approach to his Christian upbringing and faith. One of his more watched YouTube bits is titled “Christian Girl Instagram,” a short satirical video of how to post social media content of one’s daily spiritual quiet-time.

My article focused on John was just published by the Journal for the Assembly of Expanded Perspectives on Learning. The full pdf is below. Further down is a link to a Soundcloud clip of my interview with John. Apologies for the 30 second gap near the end; Audacity and I don’t always get along.

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Morning PT at Fort Wainwright

. 0545 HOURS

I’m less than the 200 miles from the Arctic Circle sitting in the passenger seat of an creaky Subaru Outback driven by an Army Major. Major Brian Forester, a West Point and Ranger school graduate, a veteran of three deployments, takes a turn and we pull into the parking lot at Fort Wainwright in Fairbanks, Alaska. I step out into the cool morning. We stretch, chat, wait for another Army officer to show up, and then take off on a 4-mile run snaking our way through the base, across bridges, along sidewalks, over the gently rolling Chena River. We chat about admissions processes at West Point, a UNG graduate who was recently killed in Mosul, Iraq, and the merits of a local golf course. I keep up during the four mile run at an 8.30 pace though I have a hunching suspicious that they lessened their pace for my civilian capabilities.

We shower off, eat breakfast, slurp some coffee. By 0830 hours, we in the office. Forester is behind his standing desk, rapidly sending out emails on his computer, thumbing through his iPhone, swigging coffee from his thermos. In less than a month days, he is responsible for coordinating the arrival and training of hundreds of soldiers in his brigade in the Pacific. As he has many times in the past, he will leave his wife and three kids and head off with the Army. This time, however, he isn’t entering a theater of war and will only be gone for three months. Papers are spread across the table in his office; his dry erase board is covered in time lines complete with five different color dry erase markers.

(Chena River; my own pic)

Through navigating a complex web of literate practices, Forester will plan and execute this three month long international joint training exercise. If all goes well, he tells me on our run, then no one will get credit; if things fall a part, then the burden of guilt falls on his shoulders, not his superior’s.

At 0840 hours, the network goes down. With a shake of his head, Forester leaves his office.

Inside a Brigade Headquarters

I’m sitting in an office at Brigade headquarters.

I’m at Fort Wainwright in Fairbanks, Alaska.

I’m closer to Russia and Japan than I am to my hometown of Atlanta, Georgia.

I’m 200 miles from the Arctic Circle.

With generous funding from my Department, I’ve traveled thousands of miles to learn what writing is and what it accomplishes within the U.S. Army. More specifically, I wanna know how Major Brian Forester, the Brigade S-3, uses writing to accomplish the many planning and operations that cycle through the 1st Brigade 25th Infantry here in Fairbanks. Major Forester reports directly to a Colonel, one of the three 0-6 Colonels overseeing activities at Fort Wainwright. As I sit in Forester’s office, I watch him coordinate current training exercises to Fort Polk in Louisiana, prepare for training exercises in the around the pacific. From his iPhone, he thumbs through email after email and with a few swipes and taps moves the 4500 soldiers at Fort Wainwright from Here to There.

His office is a collection of literate practices; his conference table covered in timelines; his dry erase board covered in timelines; his desk covered in paper-clipped documents; his wall covered in topographical maps of the immediate area.

Fairbanks, Alaska is an outpost. Not a place people pass through and low on the tourist interest level for Alaska. In Fairbanks, the soaring, majestic peaks of the Chugach Mountains are gone; the coast is gone; the glaciers are gone. The President isn’t making publicity stops in Fairbanks nor are senators or generals. But this Fort, like all Army forts scattered in desolate and populated areas alike, fulfills a critical mission of being on high alert, well-trained and well-equipped for deployment to a theater of war at any moment.

With a collective rallying cry of “Arctic Strong,” this Brigade completes the many tasks and orders circulated through its space. And one of the central nodes for this continued circulation of the office is Major Brian Forester.

What does writing mean to him? How does he accomplish writing and how does writing—in a broadly conceived understanding of this noun and verb—help coordinate the movement of thousands of troops from Alaska to Louisiana to Korea to Australia all in the quest of betterment and all in the quest of strengthening our national security?

FYC Annual Report for the University of North Georgia

In my role as Director of First-Year Composition, I believe it is important for me to prepare and disseminate an annual report that captures the dynamic work of our FYC program and of the FYC Committee (Kendra Bryant, Marc DiMaggio, Kathryn Hinds, and Jim Shimkus).

This AY 16-17 annual report is embedded below.

Reading the report, you will learn that we taught 26% of the entire student population in our first-year writing classes during the fall semester and that we taught 8,785 students during the AY. You will also learn that 1,750 students received a 3 on one of the AP  language tests and, therefore, received the optional to exempt 1101.

You will also learn of professional development opportunities for next AY that I am offering at UNG through the FYC Program such as a teaching circle on antiracist writing assessment practices–using Asao Inoue’s book–and a culled list of recent scholarship from the world of writing studies—including a piece by two of my colleagues (Mary Carney and Laura Ng) from the journal Teaching & Learning Inquiry.

In these Dark Times, transparency, commitment to student learning, and engagement with all university stakeholders may the Light which helps us along the way.

I offer transparency, commitment, and engagement in this report.

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Playing With Fiction

When I had world enough and time (and the drive), I arranged some words into two chapter books for elementary age kids. I wrote the first, Jimmy, Grumple, and the Band of Beavers, long-hand, during the long, hot Oklahoma summers. I remember sitting under a tree on a park bench by the playground and moving words across a yellow legal pad with my blue pen.

At night, I would type up the words, rearranging and editing as the words moved from my legal pad to a Word doc on this brand new Apple desktop my wife and I bought.

I wrote for myself and my son, who was about three months away from making his way into the world. After Maddux was born, I self-published Jimmy through Lulu.com. It sits on my bookshelf now.

I turned my attention to another narrative. Driving through the Oklahoma plains, I had this picture of a fifth grader who could not read–but no one knew he couldn’t. Through trickery, he concealed his literacy struggles from parents and teachers. In 2010, I finished The Boy Who Couldn’t Read, a title which sucks now because of the popularity of Girl/Boy/Man Who titles. But a title I liked at the time.

Below is chapter 12 in all of it’s unedited and unpolished joy. This chapter is about 1/4 of the way into the book. It’s the turning point–kinda like the point in the narrative where the kids discover that the wardrobe goes to Narnia, that a Fellowship will band together to destroy the Ring.

Almost a decade later, I still like it, and look back on this story fondly.

Magic, boys, journeys, reading, forests–I still find hope in these things.

_____________________________________________________

Chapter 12

Damian moved down the ladder and into the large hole in the center of the charred forest floor. His hands held tight to the rungs as he descended. When his foot hit the ground, he could feel like soft sand floor.

He bent down and picked up his wooden bat.

Though he couldn’t see anything, Damian could tell the space he was in was large.  He took a deep loud breath and held out his hand. It disappeared in the dark.  He started walking forward with his baseball bat in front on him like a cane. He moved slow, walking on the sandy floor. His BB gun was propped on his shoulder.  He took steps and kept waiting to run into a wall. But on he walked. And walked. And walked.

He had taken roughly a hundred paces when he turned and looked back at the ladder. A ray of sun jumped down the hole and illuminated the ladder. It stood against the wall of the hole like a safe tower waiting for him to return. He was tempted to run up the ladder and back home. At home he was safe. He could work on his project with Liam and listen to Liam read him a Daredevil comic. The new one just came out and Damian was dying to know if Daredevil would still be leading the Hand and what Daredevil planned to do with the evil Bullesye. But, of course, Liam would have to read to him. Again.

Damian was tired of people reading to him. He was tired of not being able to read on his own. He had never really like Daredevil.  Not really. He had always been a Batman fan. What he really wanted Liam or Stuart to read to him was about Batman, Robin and Arkham Asylum. He wanted to learn more about Bruce Wayne’s journey in time and how Dick Grayson was doing as the new Batman.  But no, he always had to listen to Daredevil.

And then there was Peter his pet turtle. Peter died because Damian could not read the instructions on the medicine. Damian still thought about Peter when he was falling asleep. He could picture Peter with his striped body happily floating in the water. Now Peter was in the ground and never coming back. He asked for another turtle, but his parents suggesting getting a fish instead. Damian yelled some bad words and his parents said that maybe he was not responsible enough for a pet. Two years had passed and Damian was the only kid in the neighborhood without a pet.

These thoughts were in his head as he stared at the safe ladder. He turned and began walking to the ladder when something caught his vision. It was a small glowing globe hanging and dancing in the air like a firefly. The light was orange, brown, white. It changed colors as it glowed. Stunned, Damian moved toward it.  He was staring at it and dropped his bat and gun. His mouth was open. As he moved closer the globe changed shape. It molded itself into a turtle and opened its small mouth.

“Keepcoming,” the mouth spoke in a high-pitched voice.

The mouth changed color: orange, brown, white, and darted down into the dark away from the ladder.

Damian chased the mouth into the dark leaving behind his bat and gun.

Damian ran into the dark. He shoes bounced off the soft sand floor.  He forgot about running into a wall and rushed into the dark after the mouth.

“Keepcoming,” the high-pitched voice spoke. “ Keepcoming.  Goodvitaminsthisway.  Justwhatyou needtofeelbetter.”

Damian ran. He was no longer scared. He trusted the mouth.

Smack!

Damian was on his back. He had run into something. He picked himself up.  The mouth was in front on him.

“Keepcoming,” it spoke.

Damian reached out and his hand touched a cool surface.

“Huh?” he mouthed to himself.

The mouth started quivering and began to make a loud hard noise. It sounded like tires screeching on the pavement. The mouth grew larger. The size of a baseball, the size of a basketball, the size of a beach ball.

The noise continued, and then the mouth exploded.

“Keepcoming!”  it yelled as it burst into bright light illuminating the dark passage.

The light bounced off the sandy floor and the walls, and Damian could see all around him.

The walls were closer than he expected and the ceiling was only three feet above his head. Damian looked all around, and it seemed like he was in an old mine shaft.  Behind him, the dark began again. In front of him, the bright glow from the mouth showed a strange silver ball blocking the entire passage.

This is what I ran into, Damian thought.

The silver ball was spinning rapidly and seemed to be covered in water.

Damian wondered why the mouth said “Keepcoming.”

How can I get past this?  Damian thought. He thought of his bat and his gun but remembered he left then behind.

No way I am going back that way.  No way I am going back into the dark.

Damian walked toward the spinning silver ball. It made a soft humming sound. He reached out his hand toward it and touched the hard wet ball. It was cold and hard.  Damian lightly knocked on it and it rang out. He pushed on the ball but nothing happened.  It kept spinning.

Damian sat on the ground unsure of what to do. He wanted to be home with his toys. He wanted to stare at his ceiling and dream of sailing through space. He wanted to catch night crawlers with his dad and feed them to Peter. He wanted to read by himself about Batman and Batman’s supposed son. What was his name?

“Damian” Damian said to himself.  “Batman’s son is named Damian. That Damian would know what to do”

Angrily, Damian jumped to his feet, ran at the silver spinning ball and stretched out his foot to kick. Right when his foot was about to make contact, it slide into the silver ball. All of Damian’s weight was traveling toward the ball and Damian found himself falling into the strange spinning silver ball.

All color was gone. He could only see silver as he spun around and around inside the strange ball. The loud buzzing sound from before returned, as did the squeeze/release of the invisible hand.

Damian was spun around and around. He tried to scream but no words came out. His voice was gone and the water from the spinning ball filled his lungs.  Around and around.  Buzzing. Squeeze/release. He tried to stand but couldn’t.

“Oi!”

Damian heard a quick noise.

“Oi there!”

A little man sailed next to Damian.  He was short and bald.  On his head he had a strange mark that looked like a question mark.

“Oi!  Drink this!” The man said holding out a little vial.  The man was not spinning but seemed to be standing on solid ground.

Spinning around and around Damian tried to grab the vial but couldn’t.

The little man laughed.

“So sorry. Here!”  He tossed the liquid out at Damian. Damian could feel a warm thick liquid cover him. And slowly he stopped spinning

He was lying on his back inside the silver spinning ball. He tried to stand but was still too dizzy. The ball continued to spin but Damian was still.

The inside of the ball grew to life. The wet silver walls turned into trees, houses, paths, people. A whole world opened up inside the ball. Damian closed his eyes and opened them again. There was no sign of the walls of the strange silver spinning ball. Instead Damian seemed to be in strange village.

He looked around and saw the people. They looked like regular people but their heads were large. Some heads were so large that the people were not able to stand but had to crawl around on the ground. All had a strange question mark on their foreheads.

Damian looked at the little bald man in front of him who now held an empty vial.

“Where am I?” Damian asked.

“Oi!  Welcome to Carver City!”

 

 

A Decade with “Thunder Road”

I first listened to Bruce Springsteen in my mother-in-law’s white Mazada Miata as I made the drive from Covington, Georgia to Auburn, Alabama one summer day in 2007. I can’t remember why I was driving her car, but it was planned out in advance. My car at the time didn’t have a CD player, and I remember hitting up my local record store to find something to listen to for the two-hour drive.

I knew Bruce Springsteen; everyone knows Bruce Springsteen. But I never intentionally sought out his stuff and only knew the tracks that bounced around the walls of Waffle House at 2am in the morning as people slopped up their food and headed outside to fire up a heater.

I saw the cover of Bruce’s Nebraska, grabbed it, and paid my $5. I was on I-85 near Newnan when the haunting harmonic and growling lyrics of the opening track, “Nebraska,” hit me. Sweet Jimminy, that’s a powerful track. A powerful album. And nothing like I expected.

Image result for nebraska bruce springsteen cover

I bought Born to Run after Amy and I were planted in Auburn and I was a semester into graduate school. The opening track, “Thunder Road,” haunts me a decade later and forms moments of my life.

A moment: I really started listening to the record on long bike rides around the rural outskirts of Auburn. Amy and I were entering our second year of marriage. No kids, no mortgage, no real commitments except to each other and our cat, Jake. And my attempt at grad school. With Bruce’s opening lines, my mind always turned to Amy on these rides.

The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves
Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays
Roy Orbison singing for the lonely
Hey, that’s me and I want you only
Don’t turn me home again, I just can’t face myself alone again
Don’t run back inside, darling, you know just what I’m here for
So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore

I picture Amy in a sun dress, whirling and dancing. She doesn’t listen much to Roy Orbison, but I could see her swaying in the wind to Otis Redding, to Van Morrison. Amy was my first serious girlfriend in college. I was a withdrawn nerd, focused on school and uninterested in chasing the social scene. I went to class, went home and read, played some Nintendo. I was lonely  and Amy brought me out. We married, moved into the town where her parents lived and where she grew up, and then, just a year later, I convinved her to move to Alabama with me. Amy to Alabama. Amy who had never lived outside of Georgia. We made the journey and would make many more moves.

Well now, I ain’t no hero, that’s understood
All the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood
With a chance to make it good somehow
Hey, what else can we do now?
Except roll down the window and let the wind blow back your hair
Well, the night’s busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere
We got one last chance to make it real
To trade in these wings on some wheels
Climb in back, heaven’s waiting on down the tracks

Oh oh, come take my hand
We’re riding out tonight to case the promised land
Oh oh oh oh, Thunder Road
Oh, Thunder Road, oh, Thunder Road

A moment: When we moved to Oklahoma, we found ourselves in a similar situation. No kids, no mortgage, no real commitments except to each other and our cat, Jake. But things were getting more serious. More Adult. We had a kid on the way; we were looking to buy a house; I was starting a PhD program. Our first summer in Oklahoma was long and hot and lonely. We were about to become parents and were starting to get scared. So I wrote. I went outside, sat by the local playground under the shade and wrote—in longhand with a blue pen—a children’s book about a boy who couldn’t read.

Bruce’s line formed an epigraph:

Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night

This little throw-away line in the opening stanza of the song still hits me and links up with the memory of writing my first children’s book and ideas that ground who I am and how I approach the world: faith, magic, night.

The lined grabbed me then, and still grabs me.

That long hot summer, I felt the magic of the night as I typed up the words I wrote by hand during the day, as a pregnant wife rested on the sofa, as Cardinals’ baseball games played through our speakers.

At night, we would dream about who our soon-to-be-born kid would be, how we would re-make our lives in Oklahoma. Our faith grew strong as we hoped in those still Oklahoma nights.

A moment: two days ago, my wife went to run errands. We are back in Georgia now. We are surrounded by three kids. We got a house, two cars; I got a real job. We are full on Adults, freaky as that may be. And Bruce came into my mind.

My daughter, Darcy, was sitting at the kitchen table. Our little one was asleep, and the big one—the one who inspired my first children’s book—was off somewhere. I was making lunch, and put “Thunder Road” on the Spotify. The soft opening lines, the steady crescendo, and the heartfelt lyrics.

Darcy was digging it.

I shouted the lyrics and she did a little wiggly dance at her seat.

The song doesn’t quit. It doesn’t resort back to a chorus, a bridge, a hook. It just runs through, steadily gaining steam until the cheesy, but powerful, final line:

It’s a town full of losers, I’m pulling out of here to win

Strong narratives connect with us at multiple levels and at multiple points and places in our lives. This song has hit me when I was newly married, with one kid on the way, with three kids here.

And it will hit me in moments soon to come.

Faculty Writing Groups

In a few hours, I will lead the final workshop of AY 2016-2017 under the newly launched Write@UNG intiative. Supported by UNG’s Center for Teaching, Learning, and Leadership and the Office of Research, Economic Development, and Community Engagement, the I led six workshops to encourage and support faculty research and writing.

I operate this initiative through three central goals:

Connect

Cultivate

Create

This is what we do when we write, when we write with others, and when we write for others and ourselves.

Today’s workshop focuses on the importance of writing groups–how to sustain them, how to support them (financially), and why they are helpful.

My material for this workshop is on Slides.com. 

Thanks to my colleague, Dr. Diana Edelman, for joining me. She helped start the writing group WriteIN, which meets every Friday on the Gainesville campus from 1-5. I joined the group a couple of years past. We write, talk, and listen to Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” to end our time together.